The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Forming an Interesting Collection of Original and Select Literary Productions in Prose and Verse (part 3 of 5)

The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Forming an Interesting Collection of Original and Select Literary Productions in Prose and Verse (part 3 of 5)

This lenient judgment was not sufficient to cure the Duke of his delusion; although his confidence in the Irishman was very strong, yet his patience was very weak, and my reasoning against Hiermanfor began to make him uneasy. Several times was he going to make public inquiries after him, but the apprehension of offending him without being able to find him out always prevented him from doing it. At last, when the Irishman did not appear after a long and fruitless expectation, my friend took it in his head to inquire after the Count de Clairval and in case he should discover him, to seize him either by force or art, because he expected to receive from him some information of Hiermanfor. Alumbrado desired the Duke to give him a description of the Count. “He is almost of my size,” my friend replied, “but fair, of an interesting countenance, and a tranquil, gentle seriousness, generally characterizes his mien, which however, frequently bespeaks the most jovial humour; his nose is rather of the aquiline kind, his mouth almost woman like handsome, and his chin falls a little back, yet without disfiguring him.” “If you wish to get him in your power,” Alumbrado replied, “I will endeavour to spell-bind him; but then I shall want his picture; could you delineate it on a piece of paper?” The Duke, who as little as myself knew what to think of this offer, looked alternately at me and at Alumbrado. “Indeed,” the latter continued, “I wish to possess the picture of the Count; leave the consequence to me.”

“If you really wish to possess it,” my friend replied. “you shall have it.”

Possessing a great skill in drawing striking likenesses, he finished the portrait the day following, assisted by his imagination, and gave it to Alumbrado. We were impatient to learn what he was going to do with it; however, he visited the Duke four days without mentioning the picture; but on the fifth day informed him in what hotel he would find the Count. We were looking at him in dumb astonishment, when he added, “Make haste, now you can surprise him and if he should refuse to follow you, you only need to tell him that the guard is waiting for your order to seize him.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

_Anecdote of an Earl of Portland, Lord Treasurer. From a Manuscript in the British Museum._

When the Earl of Portland was Lord Treasurer of England (1634) he had, like other great statesmen, a crowd of suitors; among others was Mr. Cæsar, Master of the Rolls, who had been soliciting the place of one of the six clerks in Chancery for his son, Mr. Robt. Cæsar, in the room of Mr. D’Ewes, but was disappointed in his expectations; the Lord Treasurer, although he had promised it to Mr. Cæsar, having given it to Mr. Keene; but promised to urge his Majesty in favour of Mr. Cæsar the next vacancy. That happened---the Treasurer was as negligent as formerly; when Ld. Tillibarne eagerly solicited for Mr. Cæsar, and was promised. Tired with useless application, he desired the Treasurer to declare his intentions;---he answered his intentions were for Mr. Cæsar but that he might not forget in future, he desired a token of remembrance; which the other readily complied with, and wrote on a paper “Remember Cæsar!”---In the hurry of the Earl’s business, even this was forgot. Some time after, while he was looking over some loose papers, he observed one, having written on it “Remember Cæsar!” The former circumstances had escaped his recollection; therefore, alarmed, he summoned his friends, to have their opinion upon it; who all agreed, an attempt on his life was in agitation, and desired him to use every precaution---In consequence of this, his house was barricadoed, guards were placed around, and all had the appearance of danger and apprehension, when Ld. Tillibarne waited upon him again, but could not gain admittance, till he informed one of the Treasurer’s friends of the circumstances of the note, which brought the whole to the Earl’s recollection, and he complied with Lord Tillibarne’s request; Mr. Cæsar being appointed one of the Six Clerks.

* * * * * * * * *

ABSTRACT of the ABBE BERTHOLON’s PAPER on FIRES, and the MEANS of extinguishing them.

Published in the Lausanne Memoirs.

This subject is important and interesting, although the Abbé has rather collected the observations and experiments made by others, than conveyed any new and original information. He ascribes the inflammability of bodies to the inflammable gas which they contain, and which, on their decomposition by heat, is let loose, and coming into contact with the atmosphere is ignited, and bursts out into flame. The principal part of the memoir is devoted to a detail of the means of preventing and extinguishing fires; and here the author’s chief advice, which is “in the construction of buildings, to employ as little as possible of those materials which yield inflammable air on their decomposition,” will be allowed to be perfectly just in theory, but will probably be little followed in practice: nor is the security resulting from brick floors likely to compensate, in this age of affected elegance, for their appearance. He informs us, however, that M. Ango, an architect of Paris, has contrived a method of constructing a floor with iron bars, instead of timber joists, which is even less expensive than the common mode. The wood used in buildings may be rendered uninflammable, by being steeped in a saline solution, and by being prepared with allum, even canvass and paper hangings may be made to burn without flame.

Many other precautions are mentioned by the Abbé, which we shall not detail, as they are universally known, and we believe pretty generally adopted. After describing the inventions of Mr. Hartly and Lord Mahon, together with a preparation similar to that of Lord Mahon’s recommended by M. Frederic, of Vienna, the Abbé gives an account of a substance, which he calls paper stone, invented by Dr. Faye, physician to the Swedish admiralty: its composition is not known, but from a chemical analysis it appears to consist of two parts of an earthly basis, and one of animal oil, mixed up with two parts of some vegetable substance. At Carlscrone a hut was built of dry wood, covered with this paper, which is not more than two lines in thickness, it was then filled with combustibles, which were set on fire and consumed without burning the building: the paper, which had been pasted on boards, was reduced to a cinder, and formed a kind of incrustation, which preserved them from the effects of the flame. As this paper readily takes any colour, it may be rendered ornamental as well as useful.

In his directions for extinguishing fires, the Abbé observes, that water, in which a small quantity of potash has been dissolved, is more efficacious than any other; he also recommends an engine called an hydraulic ventilator, invented by M. Castelli, which is worked by vanes instead of pistions, and may be managed by one person. The advantages ascribed by our author to this machine are very considerable, but we cannot suppress our astonishment on being told, that with a cylinder of only three inches in diameter, it will throw up more water than the largest fire engine; however, it certainly appears to be less expensive and more portable than the common forcing pumps, and may be of use in extinguishing a fire, before it has made any great progress. The utility of garden mould with wet sand in this respect, is well known, but it can seldom be applied, and we doubt the efficacy of the kind of catapult which the author recommends, for throwing it so any distance.

The remainder of the memoir contains some very just and obvious remarks on the necessity of a regular discipline among firemen, and it concludes with a description of the engines, cisterns and pipes at the opera house in Paris, the construction and arrangement of which the Abbé recommends to be adopted in every public theatre.

* * * * *

SPECIMENS OF SPEECH OR SPEAKINGS. Imprimis. Oratio Floridensis.

GENTLEMEN,

Though tautology is allowable in practice, I don’t approve on’t theoretically; therefore I shall plainly, fully, openly, and concisely, I hope, acquit myself, without being critical, or political, or satyrical, or mystical, or rhetorical, or schismatical, or chimerical, or whimsical.--I’ll give no utterance to any arrogance, with dissonance of deliverance, nor countenance any exorbitance of intemperance, ignorance, or extravagance: what I communicate I shall authenticate, and I beg you’ll compassionate: I will not exaggerate, nor contaminate, nor depreciate, nor discriminate, an intemperate candidate, at any rate. But I prognosticate he must be a profligate, reprobate, and illiterate, apt to prevaricate, hesitate, and degenerate.--I’ll use no eloquence in this conference, in confidence, the consequence of my diligence will evidence the excellence of my innocence, with reference to your preference.

Let others, by a flourish of words, fancy it an accomplishment or an embellishment, by the tongue’s blandishment, it is an astonishment that some speakers are so impertinent to the detriment of every eminent fundament of rudiment.

I take this opportunity without ambiguity, void of incongruity, with perspicuity by narrative, to assert my prerogative without preparative, or provocative.

I shall now conclude without a multitude of solicitude; for the aptitude of men to ingratitude is too plain, so I’ll insist that Shakespeare, and Milton, were sophistical scribblers, and bad luck to the man, who invented the alphabet; oratory is composed of two parts, weeds and flowers; the weeds of metaphor are the roots of Rhetorick; and the flowers of phrase compose the nosegay of Eloquence. A set of Philosophers are like a bundle of brushwood, when they are lighted up by the fire of dispute, and put into the oven of altercation; then out comes the crum and crust of fair argument.

* * * * *

LIFE.

In considering the impatient ardour of the passions in youth, we might be led to suppose that life was to last but for a day; but the precautions of the aged seem to be such as if it was eternal.

* * * * * * * * *

Interesting History Of THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated COUNT PULASKI, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate KING of POLAND, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 190.)

Pulaski now communicates to us the design which he had formed of taking refuge in Turkey. He hoped to be employed in a situation equal to his rank and his abilities, in the armies of the grand signior, who had for the two last years with some difficulty sustained a disastrous war against the Russians.

Lodoiska did not appear in the least affrighted at the long journey which we had to make; and as she could neither be known nor sought after, she insisted upon going out to reconnoitre the adjacent country, and at the same time charged herself with the fatiguing but important task of bringing us the provisions which we stood in need of.

As soon as the day appeared, we retired into the wood: hid either in the trunks of trees, or in the thick groves of pines, we waited impatiently for the return of night, on purpose to continue our march. It was thus that, during several weeks, we were enabled to escape from the search of a multitude of different bodies of Russian troops, who were sent out on purpose to discover us, and who pursued us like so many blood-hounds, animated with the passions of hatred and revenge.

One day as Lodoiska, still disguised as a peasant, returned from a neighbouring hamlet, where she had gone on purpose to purchase the provisions which she was now conveying to us, two Russian marauders attached her at the entry of the forest in which we were concealed.

After having robbed, they prepared to strip her. At the shrieks which she uttered we hasten from our retreat, and the two ruffians immediately betake themselves to flight upon our appearance; but we were greatly alarmed lest they should recount this adventure to their companions, whose suspicions aroused by this singular rencounter, might induce them to come and drag us from our asylum.

After a most fatiguing journey, we enter Polesia*. Pulaski wept at leaving his native country.

[* Polesia is a name given to the palatinate of Breste in Lithuania; Breste, Briescia, or Bressici, is situated upon the banks of the river Bog. T.]

“At least,” exclaims he with a mournful accent---“at least I have faithfully served you, and I now only go into exile that I may be enabled to serve you again.”

So many fatigues had exhausted the strength of Lodoiska. Arrived at Novogorod†, we resolve to stop there on purpose to give her time to recover her strength. It was our design to remain some days, but some of the country people whom we questioned, frankly informed us, that a number of troops were in motion in that neighbourhood, on purpose to arrest a certain person of the name of Pulaski, who had occasioned the king of Poland to be taken prisoner, and carried off from the midst of his own capital.

[† There are several towns of this name in Russia. This seems to have been Novogorod Welicki, or Great Novogorod, the capital of a duchy of the same name. T.]

Justly alarmed at this intelligence, we remain but a few hours in this town, where we, however, found means to purchase some horses without being discovered.

We then pass the Desna above Czernicove*; and following the banks of the Sula, we cross that river at Perevoloczna, where we learn that Pulaski, who had been traced to Novogorod, had escaped as it were by miracle, and that the Russian soldiers, indefatigable in their pursuit, were still searching after him, and were in hopes of making him prisoner.

[* Czernicove, or Czernikou, is a considerable town, and is the capital of the duchy of the same name. It is situate on the river Desna, 75 miles north-east of Kiow. T.]

It was now again become necessary to fly once more, and once more to change our route; we therefore instantly made for the immense forests which cover the face of the country between the Sula and the Zem, in the dark retreats of which we hoped to find shelter from our foes.

We at length discover a cavern, in which we were reduced to the necessity of taking up our abode. A she-bear disputes with us the entrance into this asylum equally solitary and frightful: we assail, we kill her, and devour her young.

Pulaski was wounded in this encounter: Lodoiska, worn out with fatigue and distress, was scarcely able to support her existence: the winter was approaching, and the cold was already excessive.

Pursued by the Russians in the inhabited parts; menaced by wild and ferocious animals in this vast desart; destitute of any arms but our swords; reduced in a short time to eat our very horses; what was to become of us?

The danger of the situation to which my father-in-law and my wife were reduced, had become so pressing, that no other fear any longer alarmed me. My personal safety, hitherto so dear to me, did not now suggest itself once to my mind: I felt only for theirs. I resolved, therefore, to procure to them at any rate those succours which their situation required, which was still more deplorable than my own; and leaving them both with the promise of rejoining them in a short time, I take a few of the diamonds belonging to Lodoiska, and follow the stream of the Warsklo.

It is well known that a traveller, bewildered amidst those vast countries, and reduced to the necessity of wandering about without a compass, and without a guide, is obliged to follow the course of a river, because it is upon its banks that the habitations of mankind are most commonly to be met with.

It was necessary that I should gain, as soon at possible, some considerable town in which a few merchants resided: I therefore journeyed along the banks of the Warsklo, and travelling day and night, found myself at Pultava* at the end of four days. During my residence in this place, I pass for a trader belonging to Bielgorod. I there learn that the Russian troops were still roaming about in pursuit of Pulaski, and that the Empress had sent an exact description of his person every where, with orders to seize him either dead or alive, wherever he might be found.

[* Pultoway, Pultowa, or Pultava, is a fortified town in the Ukraine, famous for a battle fought in its neighbourhood between Charles XII. of Sweden and Peter the Great of Russia. It is 100 miles south-west of Bielgorod from which Lovzinski pretended to have come on purpose to purchase merchandize, &c. T.]

I make haste to sell my diamonds, to purchase powder, arms, and provisions of all kinds, different utensils, and some coarse and necessary furniture; every thing, in fine, which I judged most proper to relieve our misery, and soften our misfortunes.---With these I load a waggon, drawn by four good horses, of which I was the only conductor.

My return was equally tedious and difficult; no less than eight whole days expired before I arrived at the entrance of the forest.

It was there that, terminating my disagreeable and dangerous journey, I was about to succour my father-in-law and my wife; that I was about to revisit all that was most dear to me in the world; and yet I felt none of those transports of joy which such an event seemed likely to inspire.

Philosophers have no belief in forebodings.

Certain it is, however, that I experienced an involuntary uneasiness: my mind became dispirited, dismayed, and something, I know not what, seemed to whisper to me, that the most unhappy moment of my whole life was fast approaching.

On my departure, I had placed several flint-stones at certain distances, on purpose to enable me to retrace my road; but I could not now discover them. I had also cut off with my sabre large pieces of the bark of several trees, which I could not now perceive. I enter the forest, however: I hollow with all my strength: I discharge my gun from time to time, but nobody answers me. I dared not trust myself among the trees and shrubs for fear of losing my way back again; neither could I wander too far from my waggon, which was stored with provisions so necessary to Pulaski, his daughter, and myself.

The night, which now approached, obliged me to give over my search, and I pass it in the same manner as the former. Rolled up in my cloak, I lay down beneath my waggon, which I had carefully surrounded with my larger moveables, and which thus served me as a rampart against the wild beasts.

I could not sleep; the cold was extremely intense; the snow fell in great abundance; at break of day I looked around, and found all the ground covered with it. From that moment I formed the most horrible and the most sinister presages: the stones which might have pointed out the path I was to have taken, were all buried, and it appeared impossible I should ever be able to discover my father-in-law and my wife.

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

FRIENDSHIP.

There are few subjects which have been more written upon, and less understood, than that of Friendship. To follow the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of being the assuager of pain, becomes the source of every inconvenience. Such speculatists, by expecting too much from friendship, dissolve the connexion; and, by drawing the bands too closely, at length break them. Almost all our romance and novel-writers are of this kind; they persuade us to friendships, which we find impossible to sustain to the last; so that this sweetener of life, under proper regulations, is, by their means, rendered inaccessible or uneasy.

Friendship is like a debt of honour: the moment it is talked of, it loses its real name, and assumes the more ungrateful form of obligation. From hence we find, that those who regularly undertake to cultivate friendship, find ingratitude generally repays their endeavours. That circle of beings, which dependence gathers round us, is almost ever unfriendly; they secretly wish the term of their connexions more nearly equal; and, where they even have the most virtue, are prepared to reserve all their affections for their patron, only in the hour of his decline. Increasing the obligations which are laid upon such minds, only increases their burthen; they feel themselves unable to repay the immensity of their debt, and their bankrupt hearts are taught a latent resentment at the hand that is stretched out with offers of service and relief.

Plautinus was a man who thought that every good was bought from riches; and as he was possessed of great wealth, and had a mind naturally formed for virtue, he resolved to gather a circle of the best men round him. Among the number of his dependents was Musidorus, with a mind just as fond of virtue, yet not less proud than his patron. His circumstances, however, were such as forced him to stoop to the good offices of his superior, and he saw himself daily among a number of others loaded with benefits and protections of friendship. These, in the usual course of the world, he thought it prudent to accept; but, while he gave his esteem, he could not give his heart. A want of affection breaks out in the most trifling instances, and Plautinus had skill enough so observe the minutest actions of the man he wished to make his friend. In these he ever found his aim disappointed; for Musidorus claimed an exchange of hearts, which Plautinus, solicited by a variety of claims, could never think of bestowing.

It may be easily supposed, that the reserve of our poor proud man, was soon construed into ingratitude; and such, indeed, in the common acceptation of the world it was. Wherever Musidorus appeared, he was remarked as the ungrateful man; he had accepted favours, it was said, and had still the insolence to pretend to independence. The event, however, justified his conduct. Plautinus, by misplaced liberality, at length became poor; and it was then that Musidorus first thought of making a friend of him. He flew to the man of fallen fortune with an offer of all he had; wrought under his direction with assiduity; and by uniting their talents, both were at length placed in that state of life from which one of them had formerly fallen.

* * * * *

NATURE.

An happy sensibility to the beauties of Nature should be cherished in young persons. It engages them to contemplate the Creator in his wonderful works; it purifies and harmonizes the soul, and prepares it for moral and intellectual discipline; it supplies an endless source of amusement; it contributes even to bodily health; and as a strict analogy subsists between material and mortal beauty, it leads the heart by an easy transition from the one to the other; and thus recommends virtue for its transcendent loveliness and makes vice appear the object of contempt and abomination.

* * * * *

AFFECTION.

From the impassioned feelings of the mother, to him who stands joyless on the verge of apathy, the tide of affection flows in a long and devious course. Clear, full and vehement, it descends into the vale of life, where, after a short time, becoming tranquil and serene, it separates into many branches; and these, again dividing, wander in a thousand streams, dispensing, as they move along, the sweets of health and happiness. That no felicity exists independent of a susceptibility for these emotions is a certain fact; for to the heart of him who hath been cold to filial or fraternal duty, the soothing charm of friendship and of love will ever be unknown. It is therefore evident, that to be happy, man must invariably consult the well being of others; to his fellow-creatures he must attribute the bliss which he enjoys; it is a reward proportional to the exertion of his philanthropy. Abstract the man of virtue and benevolence from society, and you cut off the prime source of his happiness; he has no proper object on which to place his affection, or exercise his humanity; the sudden rapture of the grateful heart, the tender tones of friendship, and the melting sweetness of expressive love, no longer thrill upon his ear, or swell his softened soul; all is an aching void, a cheerless and almost unproductive waste: yet even in this situation, barren as it is, where none are found to pour the balm of pity, or listen to the plaint of sorrow, even here some enjoyment is derived from letting loose our affections upon inanimate nature. “Where in a desert (says Sterne) I could not do better, I would fasten them on some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to. I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection. I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desert. If their leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them.”

* * * * * * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Monday the 28th ult. at Smith Town (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Hart, Mr. ELKANAH SMITH, merchant, of this city, to Miss MARY ARTHUR, of that place.

On Tuesday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. JAMES PARKIN, to Mrs. REBECCA CLARKSON, both of this city.

At Boston, on the 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Thacher, EZEKIEL BRUSH, Esq. merchant of New-York, to Miss SALLY SHATTUCK, daughter of Wm. Shattuck, Esq. of that place.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 20th ult. to the 10th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Nov. 20 54 75 55 ne. do. cloudy high wind rain 21 48 50 52 25 e. do. foggy light wind do. do. 22 46 50 45 ne. do. cloudy rain do. 23 36 36 50 nw. do. clear lt. wind do. high wd. 24 30 50 35 50 nw. do. clear lt. wind do. do. 25 28 50 32 w. do. clear lt. wind do. do. 26 22 50 29 w. do. clear lt. wind do. do. 27 21 50 27 w. nw. clear high wind do. do. 28 25 33 75 w. sw. clear lt. wind cloudy do. 29 27 50 37 n. nw. clear lt. wind do. high do. 30 33 40 50 sw. nw. clear high wind do. do. Dec. 1 29 75 29 50 sw. nw. cloudy light wind do. do. 2 22 50 32 50 n. do. cloudy light wind do. do. 3 30 75 37 n. w. clear light wind clear do. 4 32 37 50 sw. w. cr. h. wd. cloudy lt. wind 5 36 44 w. do. clear high wd. do. do. 6 36 45 75 w. do. rain light wind do. do. 7 35 50 34 nw. se. snow 3 inches deep 8 28 50 31 nw. do. clear light wind do. do. 9 26 50 33 nw. do. clear light wind do. do. 10 29 34 w. do. cloudy light wind do. do.

* * *

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. * * * FOR NOVEMBER 1796.

Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 38 74 Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 45 60 Do. do. for the whole month 42 34 Greatest monthly range between the 19th and 27th 35 25 Do. do. in 24 hours the 17 21 50 Warmest day the 19 56 75 Coldest do. the 27 21 5

It rained a little, or rather misted four days. 14 Days it was clear at sun-rise, and 3 o’clock 8 Do. it was cloudy at do. do. Two days it was foggy 16 Do. the wind was light at do do. 4 Do. the do. was high at do. do. 23 Do. the wind was to the Westward of north and south. 7 Do. the do. was to the Eastward of do. do.

The 9th, 10th, and 11th, the Atmosphere was darkened, with apparently thick smoke, which for most of the time, obscured almost the sun, and caused the sky to be very dark, a very uncommon phenomenon, and 8 days the Mercury at sunrise, was below the freezing point.

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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

LINES ON THE LATE SCOTCH POET.

* * *

“Full many a gem of purest ray serene, “The dark, unfathom’d caves of ocean bear; “Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen, “And waste its sweetness on the desart air.”

GRAY.

* * *

The brightest rays of genius fail To guard its sons from earthly grief, Wisdom alas! can naught avail, Or to the suff’rer yield relief.

The sons of Genius hapless race, To often are the sons of woe; The dreary path of want they trace, Or to the grave unheeded go.

Such, BURNS, was thy unhappy fate, Such the reward of worth like thine; The muse deplores thine humble state, Which thy bright talents could confine.

Offspring of nature--self-taught Bard, Thy memory respect commands: And though on earth thy lot was hard, Thy shade th’ applauding lay demands.

To thee, the muses lov’d to bring, The sweets of Poetry refin’d; ’Twas thine in humble strains to sing, The mild effusions of thy mind.

Seduc’d by nature’s pleasing sway, Her influence fashion’d ev’ry line-- Her beauties shone throughout thy lay, Her beauties made the lay divine.

But many a gem, both rich and bright, Th’unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: And dark seclusion hides from sight Full many a flow’ret, sweet and fair.

ALEXIS.

New-York, Dec. 6, 1796.

* * * * *

To a Gentleman who attempted drawing the Picture of a beautiful Young Lady:

Vain the attempt of Phœbus’ darling boy, To guide the flaming chariot of the sky; Vain the attempt of Dædalus’ favourite care, With artificial wing to cleave the air; But vainer still thy fond attempt to trace, The matchless beauties of that heavenly face: Where every grace, and every charm combin’d, Confess an angel’s form, an angel’s mind; How couldst thou then a likeness hope to strike? The task requires a Reubens or Vandyke!

* * * * * * * * *

MORAL VERSES, ADDRESSED TO YOUTH.

Whilst early youth spreads smiling skies, While yet the golden prospects rise, Which glowing fancy forms: And yet your bark is seen to glide Down pleasure’s smoothly passing tide, Nor fears impending storms.

Attend a while the moral lay, Be wise, if possible, TO-DAY; No FUTURE period trust. TO-MORROW is beyond your pow’r; Perhaps the fondly-promis’d hour May lay you in the dust.

If now with health your pulse beats high, And joy sits sparkling in your eye, Yet be the flame represt; Your sails, while fav’ring zephyrs kiss, With moderation taste the bliss, That warms your swelling breast.

Nor deem fair virtue’s rules severe, Ill habits make them so appear, Learn timely sloth to shun. Be then the shining track pursu’d, Nor follow the rash multitude, That rush to be undone.

Where mad excess leads forth her hand, Think Circe waves her direful wand; Her poison’d cup beware; Still shun the insolently vain, And where you see the crew profane, Avoid the fatal snare.

Be all your thoughts by conscience try’d; Let purity your actions guide; Fly ribaldry obscene. When ardent passion claims her sway, And to enjoyments points the way, Let Reason mark the mean.

Dare to be good without a boast; The substance oft in forms is lost; Let truth direct your plan. The vaunt of Pride, while you disdain, In your deportment yet maintain THE DIGNITY OF MAN.

* * * * *

AN EPIGRAM.

[By Dr. Byrom.]

What is more tender than a Mother’s love To the sweet Infant fondling in her arms? What arguments need her compassion move, To hear its cries, and help it in its harms? Now, if the tenderest Mother was possest Of all the love, within her single breast, Of all the Mothers, since the world began, ’Tis nothing to the Love of God to Man.

NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.

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UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, December 28, 1796.+ [+No. 78.+

+Lamentations Of Panthea Over The Body Of Abradates.+*

Be the garland of hope withered by the sigh of disappointment; be the lute of gladness no more responsive to the fingers of melody. What hast thou to do with dreams of rapture, with scenes of visionary transport, with the whispers of fancy that mock the ear of attention? Thou hast nothing to do with them. O ill-fated Panthea! thy peace, thy loves, thy joys are at an end: the howl of calamity has chased thy slumbers of happiness, and doomed sorrow and solitude to be thy hapless handmaids. How terrific is the brow of anguish to the eye of complaisance! to the children of festivity how convulsive is the cup of astonishment! My heart is as the heart of a babe that weeps bitterly; I have all the weakness of childhood, and all the sorrows of age. As the patient whose malady scoffs at physic, I am hopeless without a cure, I am disconsolate as the ghost of midnight among the tombs of my forefathers. Why, O thou nurse of my infancy, didst thou reserve me to such a date? why was I ever lulled upon the lap of tenderness? Would that ere the dawning irradiations of reason I had died, in the morning of existence thy Panthea had died; thou hadst wept over her urn with less mortal anguish. But cease, O thou nurse of my infancy, for the fault was not thine: thy imagination was enraptured with the fictions of fondness, and painted fairer prospects for thy much-loved Panthea: thy love reared around her the pavilions of ease, plucked the thorns of adversity from the garden of pleasure, and perfumed her paths with the incense of roses. It was not thine to descend to the recesses of thought, and chase honour from its abode as the assassin of peace. It was thy charm, O inhuman honour! that made captive my discretion, and seduced me from the waters of consolation to the precipices of despair. Why did I soar after thee on the wings of ambition, and spurn at contentment for deriding thy deceit? My fancy thought thee fairer than a studded diadem; more splendid than the gold in the waves of Pactolus. Thou art fair, I said, and beautiful beyond the visions of rapture; and the youth who holds my heart I will endeavour to possess thee. I will enlarge upon thy glories that his soul may catch thy fire; I will urge him to the plains of conquest; but, lo! he bleeds beneath the spear.--Ye virgin daughters of Bactria, you have seen the youth of my love: my love was foremost among the candidates for honour, he was a hero without pre-eminence. His heart never fainted at the clang of war; when the oriflamb of battle was erected in his view, he stood strong as the gate of Susa, and immoveable as its battlements. In the conflict he was dreadful as a host sheathed in terrors; rough and terrible as a wave conflicting with the spirit of the blast. No force dared oppose the burning flames of his wrath; he curbed the fury of the sons of thunder in their midnight career, and waved the faulchion of conquest over the heads of potentates. But when the Poeans of victory have dismissed him from the plain, ye virgin daughters of Bactria, you have seen him hasten to my arms, all placid as the smile of virginity in the morning of youth; meek and gentle as a bride conducting to the bowers of her bridegroom. When shall he exult at the voice of fame above the shield of his might, and bear the wreath of glory from his warring compeers? Alas! can the tear of evening resuscitate the broken primrose of the vale, or shall the poplar once fallen grace the banks of Zenderhoud; his shield of might is defenceless, his wreath of glory is decayed, and the trumpet of fame has no music for his ear. Fool that I was, why did I urge him to the fight? why did I arm his fortitude against unequal slaughter! The burden of calamity presses heavy on my soul---my spirit faints within me---I die, I die!---Is there no kind consoler of another’s anguish, in the tenderness of sympathy, to speak peace to my grief?---Thou weepest in the bitterness of affliction, O thou, whose hand dried the tear in the eye of infancy; but that infancy in vain matured by youth, waits the offices of age---soon thy charity shall accomplish what thy tenderness has begun, when the breast that now heaves shall throb no more, and the breath that now murmers shall be silent forever!

[* See Xenophon’s Cyropedia, or Life of Cyrus, in M. Rollin’s Ancient History.]

* * * * *

HAPPINESS.

There are happy days, but no happy lives; this would be an enchanting dream, without once wakening to sorrow.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 195.)

Alumbrado had spoken the truth; the Duke found the Count in his apartment. The latter was at first incapable of uttering a word, but having recovered from his astonishment, he declined in a faltering accent to accept the invitation of my friend. But when he heard the Duke talk of the guard, and saw that he was a prisoner, he submitted to his fate. The Duke ordered his trunk to be carried to his coach, and then drove with him to his palace.

Apprehending that the Count would be reserved in the presence of a third person, he had previously requested me to retire with Alumbrado to a closet, where we could hear and see them without being observed. The introduction to their discourse had already been finished in the carriage, consequently we heard only the continuation. As soon as they had entered the room, the Duke desired the Count to give him the key of his trunk, which was delivered to him without hesitation. While he was opening the trunk and searching for papers which he could not find, the Count took his letter-case out of his pocket and threw it in the chimney fire.

Although the Duke hastened to save it, yet a great part of it had already been consumed by the flames. The rest he locked up in his writing desk.

“Why have you done this?” he said to the Count with rising anger.

“Because I do not like to have my secrets wrested from me by force.”

The Duke took several turns in his apartment in order to recover his equanimity, and then rung the bell. “Wine,” he called to the servant, who brought it immediately and retired.

“Count,” said the Duke in a mild accent, “the wine possesses the virtue of rendering people communicative and sincere. Let us drink.”

“You shall draw my secrets from me neither by force nor artifice. I shall at least have the merit of confessing voluntarily, what I can, and dare confess.”

“Very well. However, wine possesses also the virtue of dispelling animosity and perplexity. Come, let us drink.”

The Count consented to it.

“First of all,” said the Duke, after they had been seated, “tell me where is Hiermanfor? He promised to pay me a visit as soon as Por***al should be delivered from the Spa**sh yoke, but has not been as good as his word.”

“He could not. Affairs of the greatest importance have called him to Brasil, where he very probably is at present.”

“Do you think that he will fulfil his promise after his return?”

“Undoubtedly! but why do you wish for his visit?”

“He has promised to initiate me in the mysteries of an occult philosophy. You are perhaps capable of supplying his place.”

“No, my Lord.”

“But you will be able to afford me some information with respect to those illusions by which I have been put to the test?”

“Yes!” the Count replied, after a pause.

“I only desire you to explain to me the more intricate and most important deceptions, for the rest I hope to unfold without your assistance.”

“Most of them you have already discovered by the papers which you have ta--- found in my trunk.”

“How do you know that?” The Duke asked with astonishment.

“I know it from Hiermanfor.”

“And by whom has he been informed of it?”

“By your Grace.”

“By me? I do not recollect to have discovered to him any thing.”

“Not directly; however, you have betrayed yourself.”

“On what occasion?”

“When he paid you a visit at **ubia. Do you not recollect to have asked him whether he had discovered to Amelia that your real father had not been the murderer of her Lord? This you could not have known if you had not seen my papers.”

“It is true,” the Duke replied after a short silence, “however, those papers did not extend farther than to the time when Hiermanfor was taken up in your and my tutor’s presence. I was then going to descend into the subterraneous vaults of a ruinous building, in order to take a brilliant pin out of the hair of a sleeping virgin.”

“I know it; but you would have found neither the sleeping virgin nor any of those things which Hiermanfor told you you would meet with.”

“Is it possible; should he have risked a fraud in which I so easily could have found him out?”

“He knew before-hand that you would not get to the bottom of the staircase, for it was settled previously that I should appear in time with the officers of the police, and recall your Grace by firing a pistol.”

“Indeed!” said the Duke with astonishment, “now I recollect another very strange incident. I should perhaps not have descended without your interference, for I was seized with an uncommon anxiety, which increased every step I proceeded. I cannot conceive what was the reason of it; however it seemed as if an invisible power pushed me back.”

“This I will explain to you. Don’t you recollect that a thick smoke ascended from the abyss? A stupifying incense which possessed the power of straitening the breast, and creating anxiety, was burning at the bottom of the stair-case.”

“I cannot but confess,” the Duke said, after a short pause, “that the execution was not less cautious than the plan has been artful. I had indeed been impelled, at that time, to believe Hiermanfor was not only possessed of the knowledge of subterraneous treasures, but also of the power and the inclination of affording me a share of them, and that it had been merely my fault to have returned empty handed. His cursory account of the wonderful things I should meet with in the abyss had contributed to set my imagination at work, and I was more desirous to see those miraculous things, than to get possession of the jewels.”

“Your Grace resented it very much that I had interrupted that adventure by the seizure of Hiermanfor.”

“Indeed I did, but what view had you in doing it?”

“It was of great consequence to me, to prove myself to you and your tutor, in an incontestible manner, an implacable enemy of Hiermanfor. How could I have effected it better than by seizing him? the magistrate was an intimate friend of mine, and the whole farce pre-concerted with him.”

“Then the Irishman has not been taken up seriously?”

“The officers of the police had been ordered to set him at liberty as soon as he should be out of your sight.”

“Now I can comprehend why you so obstinately opposed me when I intreated my tutor to make an attempt at delivering Hiermanfor.----But what would you have done, if I had persisted in my resolution of taking that step?”

“Then you should certainly not have done it alone; I would have accompanied you to the magistrate, who undoubtedly would have found means of consoling you with respect to Hiermanfor’s fate. It seemed, nevertheless, not to be advisable to suffer you to remain any longer in the neighbourhood of the theatre where that scene had been performed. You might have peeped behind the curtain without our knowledge, and your tutor could have made secret enquiries. An accident might easily have betrayed to you that the process against Hiermanfor was a fiction; in short, we could not have acted with safety and liberty while you should have been near the scene of action, and for that reason the magistrate was suborned to endeavour to persuade you to a speedy flight, in which he succeeded to our greatest satisfaction.”

“Now it is evident how Hiermanfor could shew so much tranquility and unconcern when he was taken up, how he could promise to see me at **n, and make good his promise.”

“The latter was indeed an easy matter; however he wanted to render his re-appearance interesting by concomitant extraordinary circumstances. A lamentable incident procured him the means of effecting his purpose. You will recollect the execution of Franciska, the too late discovery of her innocence, and the nocturnal funeral to which I invited you.---Hiermanfor could not have re-appeared to you on a more remarkable opportunity. At that period, when your soul was thrilled with gloomy melancholy and chilling sensations, the sight of a man whom you supposed to languish in a dungeon, or perhaps to have finished already his career on the stake, could not but make the deepest impression on you. You know that he omitted nothing that promised to enforce that impression.”

“But how could he then already know that I had been raised to the ducal dignity?”

“He had received early intelligence of it by a letter from a friend, who was intimate with the secretary of your father.”

“Let us drop the discourse on the scene of that night, it is accompanied with too horrid and painful ideas. Let us repair to the retired cell of the royal hermit, where no inferior miracles are crowding upon us. First of all, tell me whether you really think him to be the old banished King?”

“I do, indeed, not only because Hiermanfor has told me so, but also because his whole form resembles in a most striking manner, the picture of the real King.”

“But when do you think he will ascend the throne of Port**al?”

“I suppose, very soon!”

“Do you, indeed? I can see, as yet, no preparations for it. They even do not talk of the old King; every one believes him to be dead; I think it would be time to spread the news of his being still alive.”

“I must confess that I have neither heard nor seen any thing of him since we left him in his cell. I hope Hiermanfor’s return will be the period of his taking possession of the throne. Perhaps he intends to introduce him in triumph in Port**al.”

“It seems, at least, that they are very intimately connected. Do you recollect how Hiermanfor appeared at night, in a manner equally mysterious and surprizing, when he was summoned by the royal Hermit?”

“O! as for that juggling trick---”

The Duke started from his chair. “A juggling trick---this too should have been a juggling trick?”

“How can you be surprized at this discovery?”

“The incident was indeed wonderful enough for giving reason to think it supernatural.”

“You are right. That artifice could not but produce an astonishing effect on an uninformed spectator. The Hermit pronounces some unintelligible words while he kisses the picture three times; the lamp is extinguished and lighted again, as if it were by an invisible hand; a sudden noise is heard, and a flame flashes over the picture. All this is very surprising. However, if one knows that the altar, on which the picture is placed, conceals a machine, that the Hermit’s finger touches a secret spring, and this puts the wheels of the machine in motion, that the wick in the lamp is connected with it, and pulled down and up again through the tube in which it is fixed; if one knows how Hiermanfor entered the cell, then the whole incident will be divested of its supernatural appearance.”

“But this very appearance of Hiermanfor is entirely mysterious to me.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

THE STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. Taken from a Byzantine Historian.

Athens, long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learning, which avaricious governors had monopolized.

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow students together; the one, the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum; the other, the most eloquent speaker in the academic grove. Mutual admiration soon begot friendship. Their fortunes were nearly equal, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world; for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome.

In this state of harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the busy world; and, as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed; the previous ceremonies were performed; and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom.

Alcander’s exultation in his own happiness, or being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce Hypatia to his fellow-student; which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friendship and love. But this was an interview fatal to the future peace of both; for Septimius no sooner saw her, but he was smitten with an involuntary passion; and, though he used every effort to suppress desires at once so imprudent and unjust, the emotions of his mind in a short time became so strong, that they brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incurable.

During this illness, Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by these means, soon discovered that the cause of their patient’s disorder was love; and Alcander being apprised of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover.

It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion; it is enough to say, that the Athenians were at that time arrived at such refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance, and this unlooked for change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents which he was so eminently possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city judge, or prætor.

In the mean time, Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a prosecution was also commenced against him, by the relations of Hypatia, for having basely given up his bride, as was suggested, for money. His innocence of the crime laid to his charge, and even his eloquence in his own defence, were not able to withstand the influence of a powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. However, being unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, he himself was stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed as a slave in the market-place, and sold to the highest bidder.

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master, and his success in hunting was all that was allowed him so supply his precarious subsistence. Every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. After some years of bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered; he embraced it with ardour; so that, travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in Rome. The same day on which Alcander arrived, Septimius sat administering justice in the forum, whither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and publicly acknowledged, by his former friend. Here he stood the whole day amongst the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but he was so much altered by a long succession of hardships, that he continued unnoticed among the rest; and, in the evening, when he was going up to the prætor’s chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; for night coming on, he now found himself under the necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and in rags, as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness; and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger: in short, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, and despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in sleep; and found, on his flinty couch, more ease than beds of down can supply to the guilty.

As he continued here, about midnight, two robbers came to make this their retreat; but, happening to disagree about the division of their plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was found next morning, dead, at the mouth of the vault. This naturally inducing a further enquiry, an alarm was spread; the cave was examined, and Alcander being found, was immediately apprehended, and accused of robbery and murder. The circumstances against him were strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty; he was determined to make no defence; and thus, lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. As the proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when the attention of the multitude was soon divided by another object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Alcander’s innocence therefore appeared, but the sullen rashness of his conduct remained a wonder to the surrounding multitude; but their astonishment was still further increased, when they saw their judge start from his tribunal to embrace the supposed criminal. Septimius recollected his friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and of joy. Need the sequel be related? Alcander was acquitted; shared the friendship and honours of the principal citizens of Rome; lived afterwards in happiness and ease; and left it to be engraved on his tomb, That no circumstances are so desperate, which Providence may not relieve.

* * * * *

Interesting History Of THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated COUNT PULASKI, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate KING of POLAND, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 198.)

Had the horse, which I had left with them at my departure, afforded them sufficient sustenance ever since? Had not hunger, cruel hunger, obliged them to fly from their retreat? Were they still concealed in those frightful deserts? If they were not there, where should I be able to find them? Where, without them, should I drag out my miserable existence? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But could I believe that Pulaski had abandoned his son-in-law? that Lodoiska had consented to separate herself from her husband? No---undoubtedly not. They were still confined within the circle of this frightful solitude; and if I abandoned them, they must die with famine and cold! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

These desperate reflections at length determined my conduct, and I no longer examined whether or not, in removing at a distance from my waggon, I was in danger of never finding it again. To carry some provisions to my father-in-law and wife, to succour Pulaski and Lodoiska---these were now the only sentiments that occupied my mind.

I accordingly seize my fowling-piece, take some powder and shot, and load one of my horses with necessaries: I pierce into the woods much farther than during the former evening; I again hollow with all my strength; I again make frequent discharges with my gun. The most melancholy silence reigned all around me.

I now find myself in a part of the forest where the trees were so extremely thick, that there was no longer any passage for my horse: I, therefore, tie him to a tree, and my despair getting the better of every other consideration, I still continue to advance with my gun, and part of my provisions. I had now wandered about for two hours more, my inquietude forcing me every moment to redouble my pace, when at length I perceive human footsteps imprinted on the snow.

Hope gives me new strength, and I therefore instantly follow the traces which were still fresh. Soon after I discover Pulaski almost naked, emaciated with hunger, and so changed as scarce to be known even by me!

He makes all the efforts in his power to drag his limbs towards me, and to reply to my enquiries. The moment that I had rejoined him, he seizes, with avidity, on the victuals that I present to him, and devours them in an instant. I then demand of him where Lodoiska is.

“Alas!” says he, “you will see her there!” The tone of voice in which he pronounced these words made me tremble. I run to, I arrive at, the cavern, but too well prepared for the melancholy spectacle that awaited me. Lodoiska, wrapped up in her own clothes, and covered with those of her father, was extended upon a bed of half rotten leaves!

She raises, with some difficulty, her weary head, and refusing the aliments which I now offer her, addresses me as follows:---“I am not hungry! The death of my children; the loss of Dorliska; our journeys, so long, so laborious, so difficult; your dangers, which seemed to increase daily---these have killed me! I was unable to resist fatigue and sorrow. My friend, I am dying---I heard thy voice, and my soul was stopped in its flight. We shall meet again! Lodoiska ought to die in the arms of a husband whom she adores!---Assist my father! May he live! Live both of you---console yourselves, and forget me! . . . . . . . . ---Search every where for my dear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .”

She was unable to pronounce the name of her daughter, and instantly expired! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Her father digs a grave for her at a little distance from the cavern; and I behold the earth enclose all that I loved in this world! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

What a trying moment! Pulaski alone prevented me from becoming the victim of despair: he forces me to survive Lodoiska! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Pulaski, whose courage never abandoned him, and whose strength was by this time restored, obliges me to occupy myself jointly with him, in the business of procuring our subsistence.

By following along the snow the prints of my footsteps, we arrive at length at the place where I had left my waggon, which we immediately unload, and burn soon after, on purpose to withhold from our enemies the most distant suspicion of the place of our retreat.

By the aid of our horses, for which we procure a passage, by making a circuitous journey, instead of attempting to bring them straight to the place of our retreat, we were at length able to transport those provisions and moveables to our cavern, which it was so necessary for us to procure, and to husband, if we resolved to remain much longer in this solitude. We soon after killed our horses, which we were unable to supply with food. We lived upon their flesh, which the rigour of the season preserved for a considerable time; it corrupted, however, at length; and our fire-arms being unable to procure us any other than a scanty supply of game, we were obliged to have recourse to our provisions; which at the end of three months, were entirely consumed.

Some gold, and the greater part of Lodoiska’s diamonds still remained. Should I make a second voyage to Pultava? Or should we both run the hazard of such an undertaking, and quit our retreat in company? We had already suffered so much, and so cruelly in this forest, that we resolved to embrace the latter resolution.

We accordingly sally forth; we pass the Sem near Rylks; we purchase a boat there, and, disguising ourselves in the dress of fishermen, we descend that river, and enter the Desna.

Our boat was visited at Czernicove, but misery had so disfigured Pulaski, that it was impossible any longer to recognize him. We then enter the Dnieper; we cross from Kiof* to Krylow. There we were obliged to receive into our boat, and carry to the other side, several Russian soldiers who were on their march to join a small army employed against Pugatchew.

[* Kiof, or Kiow, is a palatinate, in which it situated a town of the same name, which is reckoned the capital of the Ukraine. It is built on the banks of the river Nieper, or Dnieper, as it is sometimes called. T.]

At Zoporiskaia we heard of the capture of Bender and Oczakow, the conquest of the Crimea, the defeat and subsequent death of the Vizir Oglou.

Pulaski, reduced to a state of desperation, was anxious to traverse the vast deserts that separated him from Pugatchew, on purpose to join himself to that enemy of the Russians; but the excess of our fatigues obliged us to remain at Zaporiskaia.

The peace, which was soon after concluded between Russia and the Porte, at length afforded us the means of entering Turkey.

On foot, and still disguised, we crossed the Boudziac, part of Moldavia and Wallachia, and after a thousand unforeseen and unexpected difficulties and fatigues, we at length arrive at Adrianople.

Having remained for some time at this place, on purpose to repair our exhausted forces, we prepare to depart: but we are arrested, and being carried before the Cadi, are accused of having sold several diamonds in the course of our journey, which we had apparently stolen. The miserable clothes with which we were covered, had given rise to this suspicion.

Pulaski discovers himself to the mussulman judge, and he sends us immediately to Constantinople.

We are admitted shortly after to an audience of the grand signior. He orders apartments to be prepared for us, and assigns us a liberal pension upon his treasury.

I then write to my sisters, and to Boleslas: we learn, by their answers, that all the property of Pulaski had been confiscated, that he was degraded from his rank, and condemned to lose his head.

My father-in-law is in the utmost consternation on receiving this intelligence: he is filled with indignation at being accused as a regicide: he writes home in his own justification.

Constantly animated, and devoured as it were with the love of his country, continually influenced by the mortal hatred which he had sworn against its enemies, he never ceased, during the four whole years that we remained in Turkey, to endeavour, by his intrigues, to oblige the Porte to declare war against Russia.

In 1774, amidst a transport of rage, he receives intelligence of the triple invasion,* which bereaved the republic of one third of its possessions.

[* The dismemberment of Poland, by the Empress of Russia, the emperor of Germany, and the king of Prussia. This event, which took place by the agreement of three royal robbers, is one of the most disgraceful actions that ever stained the page of humanity. T.]

It was in the spring of 1776, that the patriots of America, fearful of the tyranny of an island which once boasted of its own liberties, resolved to redeem their violated rights by force of arms. My country hath lost her freedom, says Pulaski to me one day: but, ah, let us still fight for that of a new people!

We pass into Spain, we embark on board a vessel bound for the Havannah, from whence we repair to Philadelphia. The congress instantly presents us with commissions, and employs us in the army of General Washington.

(To be concluded in our next.)

* * * * * * * * *

EXTRAORDINARY RECOMPENCE ACCORDED TO MERIT.

* * *

From a London News-paper of the 17th of last October, the following paragraph is extracted:

“We cannot refuse ourselves the happiness of recording a striking instance of her Majesty’s munificence. When Madame D’Arblay, ci-devant Miss Burney, presented CAMILLA to her Royal Mistress--the Queen sent her one thousand pounds!”

When it is considered that previous to the publication of a work, it always undergoes the investigation of the person to whom it is dedicated, it must be obvious that from the extraordinary merits of this performance alone, the Queen could be induced to make so liberal a display of approbation. Indeed, when the style, language, and general object of the work is considered, no one will envy the writer the just meed deservedly due to so inimitable a piece of composition. In this work, the astonishing variety of characters, admirably supported, discover a genius in the writer rarely to be met with. The reader is by turns moved to tears, paled by apprehension, joyful at fortunate events, or merry by the most ludicrous representations. Every passion is wrought upon, every feeling is aroused to the most exquisite sensations. Vice and wickedness do not alone undergo the lash of her pen, folly, levity, thoughtlessness, inattention, and a numerous train of what are generally termed venial improprieties are represented in their true and baneful colours. The ills arising from these errors are often fatal; here youth, in a picture drawn in the most masterly manner, are taught to avoid those quicksands, on which the best constructed hearts have been too often wrecked.

⁂ This very interesting work is now publishing by subscription, at the office of J. BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street.

* * * * *

SOCIETY.

Every day’s experience must convince the man of observation, that our happiness depends upon the cultivation of our social duties, upon the nurture of humanity and benevolence; that our crimes often proceed from the want of domestic harmony, and that the flagitious deeds which glare upon us with so horrid an aspect, are generally the consequences of a deviation from the still small voice of duty and of love. He, who has been accustomed to despise the feelings of the son, the husband, and the friend, will not often be found proof again all the allurements of interest and of vice. He, who (unless driven by hunger and despair) lifts up his daring arm to arrest the property or the life of his fellow-creature, never felt those soft sensations which arise from the consciousness of being beloved; for let no man be called wretched who has this in reserve, let no man be called poor who has a friend to consult.

* * * * * * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Saturday se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. PHILIP GORRALL, late of Dublin, to the very agreeable Miss ELIZA SHREEVE, daughter of the Rev. Thomas Shreeve, late of this city.

On the 27th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, the Rev. ABEL ROE, of Woodbridge, N.J. to Mrs. BARRETT, relict of Nathaniel Barrett, Esq. of Boston, late American Consul, at Rouen, in France.

On Wednesday evening, the 14th inst. at Aurora, in the county of Onondaga, GLEN CUYLER, Esq. Attorney at Law, to Miss MARY F. LEDYARD, daughter of Benjamin Ledyard, Esq. Clerk of that County.

A few weeks since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. ALEXANDER P. WALDRON, to Miss HANNAH ROBERTSON, both of this city.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 11th to the 24th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 6, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3._ 100 100 Dec. 11 29 75 35 w. do. clear do. high wind do. 12 31 38 50 w. do. cloudy clear, lt. wind do. 13 30 50 39 50 w. e. clear cloudy, lt. wind do. 14 36 38 50 n. w. cloudy sm. rn. lt. wd. do. 15 35 25 39 w. sw. clear do. lt. wind do. 16 33 39 50 w. se. clear cloudy, lt. wd. h. wd. 17 35 25 40 nw. n. sm. rn. at ni. cr. do. h. wd. 18 36 40 ne. do. rain do. high wind do. 19 36 75 43 50 ne. nw. rain clear, high wind do. 20 22 25 27 nw. do. clear do. high wind do. 21 25 31 nw. w. cloudy do. light wind do. 22 21 22 w. nw. snow cloudy, lt. wd. h. wd. 23 11 15 75 w. do. clear do. high wind do. 24 10 50 16 75 w. do. cr. very sm. sn. h. wd. do.

* * * * *

SONNET.

* * *

Woman, thou sweet urbanity to guile Life’s tedious course away--I love thy smile, Thy brow soft animated sweet to please, Thy full-bright-eye at vestal fire so chaste, Thy cheek like Hebe’s bloom, and littling waist, With native movement, elegance and ease. Of these, the fair, from nature genuine boast, Whose charms replete with wonder strike the host, Yet when she meets my gaze, to sigh I’m prone, That peerless beauty, in a Paphian form, Like summer rose is tribute to the worm, Short boast that once inimitably shone. But truth predominating points the meed All here is short, whilst endless scenes succeed.

* * * * * * * * *

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

SONG.

How shall the simple-hearted maid Escape the treacherous wiles, By vain unfaithful man outspread, How shun the fatal toils?

When ev’ry guile and ev’ry art Stand forth in readiness, T’ ensnare the unsuspecting heart, And leave it to distress.

Coldness or scorn ensures their love They sigh---they are undone; But oh, what pangs that heart must prove, Which owns it has been won!

Then cease, ye gentle beings cease The insidious sex to trust, For ah, ye sacrifice your peace, When you believe them just.

ANNA.

NEW-YORK, DEC. 22, 1796.

* * * * *

ON LOSING A FRIEND.

The pangs I felt at parting thee my friend, May be conceiv’d but cannot well be penn’d; On this deceitful world’s precarious stage, You stood my friend from youth to hoary age; Upright, and firm, steady to thy trust, The actions keen, but still correctly just; The critic’s malice, peace has oft destroy’d, But you well tempered, could not be annoy’d; Within thy mansion, peace and plenty dwelt, Your guests when pleas’d, what pleasure then you felt; A friend so rare to meet with now a days, All wish to know to whom is due such praise; ’Tis due to one whose loss I’ll long deplore, My friend’s a TOOTH, alas just gone before.

* * * * *

SONNET.

Man stalks gigantic, lord in proud extreme, O’er all creations wond’rous scope can give, Bow’d by no yoke, scarce to the great supreme, Whose sanction bad mortality to live.

Yet what pursues he? Lucre’s molten pelf, Or pleaure’s silken chain of visions dear, Of knowledge boasting, while unknown himself And loudly cavils at existence here.

To be, and yet to be, is but the small demand, Seek then religion’s purifying glow, It tranquilizes time, with stubborn hand, Whilst hoary age hopes endless life to know.

Our utmost here fills but a requiem page, Poor, frail memorial of the passing age.

* * * * * * * * *

The Bachelor’s Soliloquy. In imitation of a celebrated Speech.

To wed, or not to wed--That is the question; Whether ’tis happier in the mind to stifle The heats and tumults of outrageous passion, Or with some prudent fair in solemn contract Of matrimony join---to have---to hold--- No more---and by that have to say we end The heart-ach, and the thousand love-sick pangs Of celibacy---’twere a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d.----In nuptial band To join till death dissolves;---Ay, there’s the rub; For in that space what dull remorse may come, When we have taken our solemn leave of liberty, Must give us pause.----There’s the respect That slacks our speed in suing for a change. Else---who would bear the scorns and sneers which bachelors When aged feel, the pains and flatt’ring fevers Which each new face must give to roving fancy, When he might rid himself at once of all By a bare Yes. Who would with patience bear To fret and linger out a single life, But that the dread of something yet untry’d, Some hazard in a state from whose strict bond Death only can release, puzzles the will, And makes us rather chuse those ills we have, Than fly to others which we fancy greater! This last reflection makes us slow and wary, Filling the dubious mind with dreadful thoughts Of curtain-lectures, jealousies, and cares Extravagantly great, entail’d on wedlock, Which to avoid the lover checks his passion, And, miserable, dies a BACHELOR.

* * * * *

EPITAPH.

Entomb’d beneath this lofty tree A mortal lies of low degree. A strict observer from his youth Of that important virtue, truth. He never with a selfish view Was known to speak a word untrue. His temper lively, yet as mild And harmless as a new-born child. He never slandered friend or foe, Nor triumph’d in another’s woe; And tho’, when young, he us’d to roam, For years he lov’d his little home: Securely there he laid him down, Nor fear’d the world’s ill-natur’d frown; No wild ambitious thoughts possest His quiet, unaspiring breast. He envied neither wealth nor power, Enjoying still the present hour; Contented with his daily bread, Each night he sought his peaceful bed: Stranger to vice he knew no fear, As life’s important end drew near; He breath’d his last without a sigh, And shew’d how Innocence shou’d die Blush, reader, while these lines you scan Here lies a MONKEY, not a man.

NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, January 4, 1797.+ [+No. 79.+

THE NETTLE AND THE ROSE: An Essay.

Our bane and physic the same earth bestows, And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose.

We may consider human life as a garden, in which Roses and Nettles are promiscuously scattered, and in which we as often feel the sting of the wounding Nettle, as we enjoy the fragrance of the blooming Rose. Those bowers of delight, entwined with the woodbine and jessamine, under whose friendly umbrage we seek shelter from the noon-day sun, sometimes are the abode of snakes, adders, and other venomous creatures, which wound us in those unguarded scenes of delight. As the year has its seasons, and winter and summer are constantly in pursuit of each other, so changeable likewise is the condition of mortals; and as the elements are frequently disturbed by storms, hurricanes, and tempests, so is the mind of man frequently ruffled and discomposed, till the sunshine of reason and philosophy bursts forth and dispels the gloom. Murmering brooks, purling streams, and sequestered groves, whatever the fictions of a poetical imagination may have advanced, are not always the seat of unmingled pleasure, nor the abode of uninterrupted happiness.

The hapless Florio pined away some months on the delightful banks of the Severn: he complained of the cruelty of the lovely Annabella, and told his fond tale to the waters of that impetuous stream, which hurried along regardless of his plaints. He gathered the lilies of the field: but the lilies were not so fair as his Annabella, nor the fragrance of the blushing rose so sweet as her breath; the lambs were not so innocent, nor the sound of the tabour on the green half so melodious as her voice. Time, however, has joined Florio and Annabella in the fetters of wedlock, and the plaints of the swain are now changed. The delusion of the enchantment is now vanished, and what he but lately considered as the only object worthy of his sublunary pursuit, he now contemplates with coolness, indifference, and disgust: enjoyment has metamorphosed the Rose into a Nettle.

Ernestus, contrary to his inclination, was compelled by his parents to marry the amiable Clara, whose sense, tenderness, and virtues, soon fixed the heart of the roving Ernestus; and what at first gave him pain and disgust, by degrees became familiar, pleasing, and delightful: the Nettle was here changed to the Rose.

The wandering libertine, who pursues the Rose thro’ the unlawful paths of love, who tramples under foot every tender plant that comes within his reach, and who roves from flower to flower, like the bee, only to rob it of its sweets, will at last lose his way, and, when benighted, be compelled to repose on the restless bed of wounding Nettles.

The blooming Rose is an utter stranger to the wilds of ambition, where gloomy clouds perpetually obscure the beams of the joyful sun, where the gentle zephyrs never waft thro’ the groves, but discordant blasts are perpetually howling, and where the climate produces only Thorns and Nettles.

The Rose reaches its highest perfection in the garden of industry, where the soil is neither too luxuriant, nor too much impoverished. Temperance fans it with the gentlest zephyrs, and health and contentment sport around it. Here the Nettle no sooner makes its appearance, than the watchful eye of prudence espies it, and, though it may not be possible totally to eradicate it, it is never suffered to reach to any height of perfection.

Since then human life is but a garden, in which weeds and flowers promiscuously shoot up and thrive, let us do what we can to encourage the culture of the Rose, and guard against the spreading Nettle. However barren may be the soil that falls to our lot, yet a careful and assiduous culture will contribute not a little to make the garden, at least, pleasing and cheerful.

* * * * *

DISINTERESTED ACTION.

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by justice, is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The expences of society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other helps to chearfulness, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our superfluities; but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous disposition of our circumstances.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 203.)

“And yet it has been affected in a very simple manner. A moveable board, which could be pushed to and fro without the least noise, was concealed among those of which the cell was composed. Hiermanfor stole through that hidden avenue as soon as he saw from without, through a small hole, the lamp extinguished. He could enter without the least danger of detection, because you have turned your back towards him, and fixed your attention entirely on the altar.”

“Then every thing had been previously prepared and pre-concerted with the King?”

“Certainly!”

“And the whole conduct of the King has been regulated by Hiermanfor?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“The incident,” the Duke replied, after a pause, “now ceases, indeed, to appear miraculous to me; however, the behaviour of the king seems to me so much the more mysterious. How is it possible that this reverend old man could consent to deceive me in so degrading a manner?”

“It was no easy task to perswade him to it. However, after Hiermanfor had exhorted his eloquence in vain, he declared at length proudly, that no other choice was left him, than either leaving his crown forever in the possession of an usurper, or to consent to that innocent artifice. The King thought he was bound to choose the latter, for the benefit of the empire and his private happiness.”

A long silence on both sides. At length the Duke resumed: “Hiermanfor showed me the ghost of my tutor at the church-yard; by what means has that been effected?”

“Your Grace will allow me to leave this question unanswered!”

“For what reason?” the Duke asked with seeming coolness.

“Because my answer would explain nothing to you.”

“Why do you think so? the explanations which you have given me, as yet, have been very satisfactory to me.”

“They concerned only things which you were able to comprehend.”

“Indeed! you pay me a very bad compliment!”

“My Lord, do not misunderstand me, you have been telling me a little while ago, that you have not yet been initiated by Hiermanfor in the last mysteries of his philosophy!”

“I did, but what follows thence?”

“That you are still in want of the knowledge which will be requisite, if you are to be capable of comprehending the appearance of your tutor.”

“Don’t pretend to persuade me that this apparition has been effected by supernatural means.”

“I will persuade you to nothing, I only tell you what I know.”

“And I tell you only what I do not believe. All the other incidents should have been effected by delusive arts, and Antonio’s appearance only be excepted?”

“The appearance of Antonio was no deception.”

“You will never make me believe it.”

“I cannot blame you for it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have forfeited the right of deserving credit.”

The Duke was silent, viewing the Count attentively. The latter resumed: “Besides, it is very indifferent to me what you think of the matter. Hiermanfor may set you right.”

“How far are you connected with Hiermanfor?”

“Very much like you. He has made himself my master, and I am subservient to him.”

“Do you serve him with reluctance?”

“With devotion.”

“Then you will know to whom you are devoted?”

“I don’t know much more of him than your Grace.”

“Even that little which you know of him would be remarkable to me, if authentic.”

“I should tire your patience if I were to repeat to you all the improbable stories which are related of him. There are, however, very few credible accounts of him.”

“I protest I should see glad to know them.”

“Even the true family name of Hiermanfor is not known to me. He is said to have been born in Ireland, of plebeian parents. A near relation who professed astrology, had observed the stars on his birth, and prophesied great things of him. The same man persuaded his parents to give him a learned education, which they afterwards repented so much the less, when they perceived the astonishing progress in learning which he made. When he had attained the years of adolescence, his relation instructed him in mathematics and astronomy. The fame of Hiermanfor’s great learning procured him the place of governor in a noble family. The eldest daughter fell in love with him, and the language of her eyes soon betrayed to him the impression he had made on her heart. She was a blooming beauty, who had attracted by her uncommon charms, and rejected many woers of high rank. It had been reserved for Hiermanfor to kindle in her heart the first spark of love, and yet he appeared insensible of his good fortune. But he was not. He entertained a high sense of the preference given to him: honesty and prudence commanded him, however, to conceal his sentiments for a person who was so far superior to him in point of rank. Yet youthful age is not always capable of maintaining the rigorous dictates of reason against the seducing voice of the passions, and thus Hiermanfor betrayed, in an unguarded moment, the secret of his heart, which was received with rapture by the young lady, and carefully concealed in her bosom. But from that moment he resolved to endeavour to rise to a situation which would permit him to woo the hand of his mistress without blushing. This bold idea had no sooner taken place in the soul of the resolute youth, than he began to delineate a plan for the execution of it. Hiermanfor thought the naval service would be the shortest way of attaining a splendid fortune, and instantly navigation became the chief object of his study. He found very soon an opportunity of putting his acquired knowledge in practice, which he chiefly owed to the support of the family in which he had been tutor. The proofs of uncommon skill which he gave in naval matters, soon raised him to the rank of a captain, when his mistress died. Hiermanfor resigned his place in the navy, and was received as lay brother in the order of the Carmelites. Having performed his vow he was sent to Rome, where he got acquainted with a priest of the same order, whose name was Father Gabriel, and who was famed for his great skill in physic and natural knowledge. Instructed by that learned man, he improved rapidly, and acquired at the same time great knowledge in natural magic, in which his relation had already instructed him.

“A genius like his could not, however, confine himself for a length of time to cloistered retirement and a speculative life. His superiors sent a mission to the Indies, and Hiermanfor got leave to make that journey with the missionaries. There he is said to have acquired among the Bramins the knowledge of the occult sciences, in the mysteries of which he has promised to initiate your Grace. I do not know what prompted him to leave the order afterwards. His superiors parting with him reluctantly, rendered it very difficult for him to procure dispensation from his vows. At length he got leave to retire, under the condition never to be inimical to the order.---This is all that I know of his life.”

“Then every thing the Magistrate and the hermit have related of him is a fictition?” the Duke enquired after a short silence.

“Not at all!” the Count replied, “almost all those accounts are founded on facts, though they have been embellished by fictitious episodes. The surprising feats of Hiermanfor, of which you have been informed, were however effected merely by means of natural magic.”

“For instance, the delivery of the old King from the castle of St. Lukar---how has it been effected?”

“It certainly has been performed by Hiermanfor’s accuteness, though not through him alone.”

“And the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard---”

“Has been effected by his supernatural power.”

“Count! by all that is dear to you, by Hiermanfor’s friendship, by our reconciliation, what is your real opinion of that apparition?”

“That it was affected by his supernatural power!”

The Duke rose and pressed the Count’s hand. “Have you any secret wish which I could satisfy? speak freely, and I will satisfy it, cost it what it will, only make a frank and candid confession.”

“I have confessed every thing already.”

“If you, perhaps, hesitate to discover your real sentiments here, you may fix some other place, and I pledge my honour, that no man living shall be made acquainted with your secret.”

“My dear Duke! I have indeed told you what I think.”

“Count, I conjure you, by every thing sacred, by the horrors of eternity!” here the Duke encircled him with his arms, “by Amelia’s spirit, tell we what do you think of that apparition?”

“I believe that apparition to have been effected by Hiermanfor’s supernatural power,” replied the Count after a short silence.

The Duke stepped a few paces back, and having viewed him some time with a stern look, said, “You are my prisoner, do you know that I can send you to the dungeon?”

“I am in your power.”

“Where you will not be entreated to speak the truth?”

“Even on the rack I shall not contradict what I have said.”

“Come,” said the Duke, after he had walked up and down the room in silent meditation; “Come, I will give you some time for consideration.”---So saying, he led the Count into another room where he locked him up.

“What shall I do with that fellow?” he said to me when he returned to us, “believe what he has said and set him at liberty; or mistrust and retain him?”

“Retain him,” my reply was: “if he sees that you are in earnest, he certainly will confess.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

DIGNITY OF MAN.

Strength and majesty belong to the man; grace and softness are the peculiar embellishments of the other sex. In both, every part of their form declares their sovereignity over other creatures. Man supports his body erect; his attitude is that of command; and his face, which is turned towards the heavens, displays the dignity of his station. The image of his soul is painted in his vissage; and the excellence of his nature penetrates through the material form in which it is inclosed. His majestic port, his sedate and resolute step, announce the nobleness of his rank. He touches the earth only with his extremity, and beholds it as if at a disdainful distance. His arms are not given him, as to other creatures, for pillars of support; nor does he lose, by rendering them callous against the ground, that delicacy of touch which furnishes him with so many of his enjoyments.

* * * * * * * * *

Interesting History Of THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated COUNT PULASKI, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate KING of POLAND, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 206, and concluded.)

Pulaski, consumed with a black melancholy, exposes his life like a man to whom life had become insupportable, is always to be found at the most dangerous posts, and, towards the end of the fourth campaign, is mortally wounded by my side. Being carried to his tent, I instantly repair thither to console him.

“I find that my end approaches,” says he, addressing himself to me. “Ah! it is but too true, that I shall never see my native country again!

“Cruel, fantastical destiny! Pulaski falls a martyr to American liberty, and the Poles still continue slaves! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My friend, my death would be indeed horrible, if a ray of hope did not remain to cheer me! Ah! I hope I do not deceive myself----No, I am not mistaken,” adds he in a firmer accent.

“A consoling Deity discloses in my last thoughts a futurity, a happier futurity which approaches!

“I behold one of the first nations in the world awakening from a long and deep slumber, and re-demanding of its proud oppressors its violated honours, and its ancient rights; its sacred, imprescriptible rights, the rights of humanity.

“I behold in an immense capital, long dishonoured by every species of servility, a crowd of soldiers discovering themselves to be citizens, and millions of citizens becoming soldiers.

“Beneath their redoubled blows, the Bastille shall be overturned; the signal is already given from one extremity of the empire to another;---the reign of tyrants is no more!

“A neighbouring people, sometimes an enemy, but always generous, always worthy of deciding upon great actions, shall applaud those unexpected efforts, crowned with such a speedy success!

“Ah, may a reciprocal esteem commence and strengthen between these two nations an unalterable friendship! May that horrible science of trick, imposture, and treason, which courts denominate politics, hold out no obstacle to prevent this fraternal re-union!

“Noble rivals, in talents and philosophy, Frenchmen! Englishmen! suspend at length, and suspend for ever, those bloody discords, the fury of which has but too often extended over the two hemispheres;---no longer decide between you the empire of the universe, but by the force of your example, and the ascendancy of your genius. Instead of the cruel advantage of affrighting and subduing the nations around you, dispute between yourselves the more solid glory of enlightening their ignorance, and breaking their chains.

“Approach,” adds Pulaski, “behold at a little distance from, and in the midst of the carnage that surrounds us, among such a crowd of famous warriors, a warrior celebrated even in the midst of them, by his masculine courage, his early talents, and his virtues truly republican. He is the heir of a name long illustrious; but he had no occasion for the glory of his ancestors, to render himself celebrated.

“It is young FAYETTE, already an honour to France, and a scourge to tyrants: but he has scarce begun his immortal labours!

“Envy his fate, Lovzinski; endeavour to imitate his virtues, and follow as near as possible the steps of so great a man. He, the worthy pupil of a Washington, shall soon be the Washington of his own country. It is almost at the same time, my friend, it is at that memorable epoch of the regeneration of nations, that the eternal justice shall also present to our fellow-citizens, the days of vengeance and of liberty.

“Then Lovzinski, in whatever place thou mayest be, let thy hate re-kindle! Again combat gloriously on the side of Poland.

“Let the remembrance of our injuries, and of our successes, call forth thy courage! May thy sword, so many times empurpled with the blood of our enemies, be still turned against those oppressors. May they tremble while thinking on thy exploits! May they tremble in recalling the name of Pulaski!

“They have ravished from us our property; they have assassinated thy wife; they have robbed thee of thy daughter; they have dishonoured my memory!

“The barbarians! They have dismembered our provinces! Lovzinski, these are injuries which you ought never to forget.

“When our persecutors are those also of our country, vengeance becomes at once sacred and indispensible.

“You owe to the Russians an eternal hatred! You owe to Poland the last drop of your blood!”

Saying this he expires.*

[* Pulaski was killed at the siege of Savannah, in 1779.]

Death, in snatching him from me, bereaved me of my last consolation.

I fought for the United States of America, until the happy peace which ensured their independence. M. de C***, who had served along with me, and who was attached to the corps commanded by the Marquis de la Fayette--- M. de C*** gave me letters of recommendation, to his friends in Paris, and this capital I have chosen for my retreat in the meridian of life, from the bustle of politics, and the clangor of arms.

Having informed my sisters, of the place of my residence, they collected the small remains of my fortune, formerly immense, and hastened to solace me after the distressing scenes I had unfortunately witnessed. * * * * * * * * * *

The affecting history of the Baron Lovzinski, which he relates to a friend, breaks off, without giving any account of Dorliska, his darling daughter, whom the Russians carried off, in one of their engagements with Pulaski. It appears, from more recent accounts, given by an acquaintance of the Baron’s, that she fell into the hands of Count Gorlitz, a German Nobleman, who placed her in a suitable seminary, where she acquired every necessary accomplishment, and was by accident restored to her father, and united to a branch of a very distinguished family.

* * * * *

The candid acknowledgment of an Old Batchelor.

I am that insulated being called an Old Batchelor. A creature wearisome to myself and beloved by no one, I have spent the noon of my days in a single state, from the dread of incurring the expences incident to a married life with a woman who had nothing, and now surely do I repent that I had not generosity enough to overlook this consideration in favour of a charming girl that I truly loved, and who wanted nothing but fortune to recommend her. I was formerly clerk to her father, then a mechanic of great respectability, but some years after greatly reduced by the unfortunate turn of affairs in his business, incidents to many. When he failed, I was settled in the world, and might have saved his amiable girl from many a year of fatigue and distress into which their poverty immersed them. But with sang froid, for which I now detest myself, I then stood aloof, tore my thoughts from the sweet Eliza, and driving forward into the heart of the city, determined to lose myself in the recesses of counting-houses, and the accumulation of money. Thus avoiding all the plagues and expences of a family, for which I deemed the society of an elegant and affectionate woman by no means an equivalent. Alas! I now see how I miscalculated; how much such a partnership would have been for my advantage in the long run. I now put the mutual participation of pleasure and pain, the endearments of our children, that flattering interest which Eliza would have taken in me (for whom by the way nobody now cares a straw,) I put all these on the credit side of the ledger, and find in the opposite page, only such a portion of expences as I have actually brought upon myself, by being drawn in to give tavern dinners, and a thousand other extravagancies that young men know not how to avoid. You will easily see, when a just account is made out, what I have gained, or rather what I have lost. Instead of the bright hearth and smiling faces of my family, instead of sitting down in the midst of beings who owe life to me, and portioning out their little meal with the delicious sensations of a father, I take my solitary chop at a coffee-house and afterwards saunter to the theatre, where venal beauty spreads her net and I am caught! Alas! here is no mind, here is no modesty to make sentiment interesting. After having seen a public entertainment with Eliza, with what delight might we have passed the remainder of the evening. Her taste and sensibility would have made us live the hours over again with additional pleasure. Her bosom would have been my harbour in the storms of life, and there I should have found resources from ennui in the calm season of prosperity. In the day of sickness her voice could have whispered comfort, and in my dying hour the pure invocations of my children might have availed me at the throne of grace. What a sad reckoner have I been, I am now as grey as a badger, and have not a single relative in the world. I have long retired from business, but my fortune brings me no enjoyment, my dog leads nearly as rational a life: I eat and drink and sleep alternately as he does, for I now fear to become the prey of some indigent dame, who would overlook my grey hairs and infirmities in consideration of coming in for a third of my wealth, and therefore avoid much commerce with the sex, from which, though I might once have derived happiness, I can now only expect trick, or at best ridicule. But what can a man do who has let avarice run away with him in his youth, when all the social affections should have been at their out-posts to prevent it? All that remains for such a man (after the example of a culprit going to execution) is to warn the multitude how they fall into this error. To assure them that the good which is not participated is not half enjoyed, and that those who abandon a young woman from motives like mine, as they do not deserve happiness so they never will obtain it. And moreover, if you print this, pause to add, that an equal mixture of love and prudence forms the only, and most delicious conserve they will have the faculty of relishing all their life long. Either, taken separately, is prejudicial; one being too austere, and the other too sweet. They must be blended to render them happily effective, and if any persons have skill enough to make up the composition after my recipe, I shall not have bemoaned myself, nor you have inserted this in vain.

STEPHEN SORROWFUL.

* * * * *

REMARKS.

Custom regulates our ideas of shame. In China, the emperor orders the bastinado to be given to a minister or a mandarin; and afterward these persons continue in their employments, without thinking themselves dishonoured or degraded. They are like scholars who return to their places after having been whipped.

The idea of virtue is become so effaced, that scarcely do we hear the name of it pronounced. The usual expression now is, an honest man, which contains but negative qualities; or sometimes qualities are mentioned, as bravery, fidelity, &c. but a collective word which expresses them all is seldom made use of.

* * * * * * * * *

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

CANDIDUS.

No. I.

In an age when supernatural influence was universally acknowledged, in a country where temples innumerable rose to the fancied deities of every department of nature and of art; where even the different and opposite combinations of accident and exertion were reverenced as the decrees of a being divine and irresistable; convinced no less perhaps by self experience than observation on others, discarding the prejudices of his nation and his times, an historian published to the world and to posterity, the opinion: “Fabrum esse suæ quemque fortunæ.” Whatever then might have been the case, it would now perhaps be impossible to extend universally this proposition, and denying at once the influence of accident and chance, to prove the power of man to accomplish his wishes in every circumstance of situation and in every sphere of action. The partiality of favours and the crash of unforeseen misfortune too often expose neglected merit and ruined industry, as warning monitors in the road to honour and to riches. While sudden unlooked for prosperity not unfrequently demonstrates the best grounded fears of men unjustified by events. But, however incompetent may be our power at all times to acquire and confirm extraneous and adventitious greatness, or however limited and erroneous our views of distant consequences in the common affairs of life, as it respects the endowments of mind, it may with no little propriety be averred, Fabrum else suæ quemque fortunæ. By the great philosophers of nature, Newton and Buffon, genius was defined only a superior degree of patience and perseverence, and at the present day the advocates of this doctrine are not inconsiderable either in numbers or in talents. True indeed it is, that they incur no disgrace by entering the lists with many of their opponents. On the subject of genius three distinct opinions appear to be entertained. By some it is held to be an innate superiority of aptitude to knowledge, independent of the labours of its possessor and unsubjected to the influence of circumstance or situation. Others rejecting altogether the idea of original difference in capacity, ascribe it to the co-operation of accident and tuition confirming after years of infancy a greater or less degree of comprehension. A third set denying at once innate distinction and the agency of chance, give all the credit to assiduity and allow to the mind no other wealth than the requisitions of its industry. Of these opinions the first has long been upon the decline, and the sentiments of the generality of speculative men, are now divided between the second and the last. But on which ever side of this question we enlist our conviction, we shall find an investigation, that so much is owing to their own exertions as to afford to the present demonstration sufficient for a moral proposition. Pity that a truth so grateful to the friend of humanity, so encouraging to the aspiring mind, should be so seldom and so feebly inculcated. Ardent in pursuit, sanguine in expectation, with this impression what obstacles would obstruct what difficulties dishearten the youthful devotee of science. On the improvement of mind much has been written to enlarge its stores and strengthen its capacity, many and different methods have been recommended; but if want of attention to rules of acknowledged necessity can warrant a repetition, a few hints on this subject will need no excuse. In nothing probably are the generality of men more deceived than in the opinion they form of the mental progress of different individuals. To the lifeless soul whose diseased eyes bespeak his labours over the midnight lamp--who, secluded from society in the solitude of a study, loses his vivacity beneath a ponderous load of immethodized undigested matter; duped by specious appearance they give without examination the palm of learning. But in the hour of exigence, when the intellectual host is summoned to the field; when profit to ourselves and benefit to mankind stand the criterions of useful acquisitions, then will it uniformly be proved that reading well is infinitely better than reading much. In many who have formed a taste for reading, that taste so productive of benefit and delight; curiosity active and aspiring, still urging on even to flights beyond its sketch, hurries attention over the field of view. The different objects are but transiently inspected, and a mass of faint and indistinct impressions are mixed in the brain, of which each in succession makes the last less clear. With far less rapidity must he travel who would explore with advantage the land of knowledge. Selecting from the multitude of objects those most worthy of examination, he should with persevering care investigate their principles and structure and leave them not till satisfied he possesses all the information they can give. To read as we ought, we must read with attention and with thought. Many there are who read with attention, but few with thought. Simply to comprehend the meaning and keep in mind the connection of an author’s arguments is not sufficient, we must see and feel their force. Never to take upon trust the sentiments of another, to examine with minuteness his principles and his deductions, and to be assured of the justness of the former and the accuracy of the latter, before he adopts them as his own, should be the constant practice of him who would read with real and permanent utility. In order to this, it is necessary to form in youth a habit of deep severe persevering thought. To form this habit is at first indeed difficult, nay painful. Inclined to ease, the mind especially in early life, averts from the labour of reflection; but when confirmed, it finds in it a never ending treasure: every surrounding object affords it employment; the man who possesses it discovers in the worlds of sentiment, of manners, of science and of art, sources of continual unbounded improvement. An eminent instance of this was the celebrated Gibbon, “I have been led by a novel (says that elegant historian) into a deep and instructive train of thinking.”

(To be concluded in our next.)

[[Notes:

“an historian published to the world and to posterity”: Sallust, quoting Appius]]

* * * * * * * * *

ANECDOTE.

When Guido and Domenichino had each of them painted a picture in the church of Saint Andrew, Annibal Carrache, their master, was pressed to declare, or give his opinion, which of his two pupils had excelled. The picture of Guido represented St. Andrew on his knees before the cross; that of Domenichino represented the flagellation of the same Apostle. Both of them in their different kinds were capital pieces, and were painted in fresco, opposite each other, to eternize, as it were, their rivalship and contention. ‘Guido,’ said Carrache, ‘has performed as a master, and Domenichino as a scholar. But,’ added he, ‘the work of the scholar is more valuable than that of the master.’ In truth, one may perceive faults in the picture of Domenichino that Guido has avoided; but then there are noble strokes, not to be found in that of his rival. It was easy to discern a genius that promised to produce beauties, to which the sweet, the gentle, and the graceful Guido would never aspire.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

[->] The Subscribers and Public in general are respectfully informed, that JOHN BULL, late Editor and Publisher of this MAGAZINE, has disposed of the establishment to Mr. THOMAS BURLING, Jun. from the 1st day of January, 1797. In committing this publication to other hands J. Bull feels assured, that the talents which are in future to be employed in conducting it, are such as cannot fail to afford the fullest satisfaction to its patrons, and must ensure an accession of that celebrity which it has hitherto enjoyed.

At the moment of relinquishing so arduous a task, the grateful recollection of the steady support and kindnesses of my numerous friends in this undertaking, demand the warmest thanks. To those who have favoured me with the productions of their pens, I beg leave to recommend my successor; and to entreat for him a continuance of that friendship, the remembrance of which can never be effaced from my mind.

In order fully to close the Accounts to this period, I must intreat, that the bills for the small arrearages due to the 1st of January, 1797, may be punctually honoured--each distinct sum is but trifling, while the aggregate amounts to some hundred pounds; an exact compliance will add to the obligations already heaped on

The Public’s obliged,

Humble Servant,

JOHN BULL.

P.S. Printing as usual executed by me at the Office No. 115, Cherry-street. I have now in the press, publishing by subscription, CAMILLA; or a Picture of Youth: by the author of Evelina and Cecilia.

* * * * * * * * *

TO THE PUBLIC, AND PATRONS of The New-York Weekly Magazine.

In becoming the Editor of so valuable a publication as The NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE, I cannot but feel sensations of gratitude to its generous patronizers for the liberal encouragement it has heretofore been favoured with; without which, there would not have been so great a stimulus to my undertaking this arduous task.

Sensibly feeling the duty that is incumbent on me in conducting this Repository of Literary and Useful Knowledge, all the attention and assiduous circumspection which is requisite to make it useful, entertaining and edifying to every capacity, may be relied on by a generous public.

It would be useless for me to enlarge upon the merits of a work which has so long received the approbation of an enlightened people.--Certain it is, that every attentive and candid reader will confess, or at least acknowledge the utility of this production, as the vehicle of refined ideas and engaging principles; contributing to disseminate and establish the most virtuous sentiments, while it stimulates to noble and generous actions.

I humbly solicit the literary abilities of those kind Correspondents who have hitherto come forward in support of this publication; and, shall always gratefully acknowledge the productions of the candid and sentimental writer.

Relying on the liberal support of my friends and a generous public, in prosecuting this my undertaking to their general satisfaction and entertainment,

I am, with profound respect,

Their Obedient, Humble Servant,

+THOMAS BURLING, Jun.+

New-York, Jan. 2, 1797.

* * * * *

MARRIED,

On Thursday the 22d ult. by the Rev. Mr. Miller, Mr. THOMAS LOUTETTE, to Miss CATHARINE M‘KENZIE, both of this city.

* * * * *

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

[->] The new Editor thankfully acknowledges the pieces of CLARA and A. D. He is sorry they arrived too late for this publication, in the next, however, they shall have a place.

* * * * * * * * *

WINTER; AN ODE.

No more the morn, with tepid rays, Unfolds the flower of various hue; Noon spreads no more the genial blaze, Nor gentle eve distils the dew.

The lingering hours prolong the night, Usurping darkness shares the day; Her mists restrain the force of light, And Phœbus holds a doubtful sway.

By gloomy twilight half reveal’d, With sighs we view the hoary hill, The leafless wood, the naked field, The snow topt cot, the frozen rill.

No musick warbles thro’ the grove, No vivid colours paint the plain; No more with devious steps I rove Thro’ verdant paths now sought in vain.

Aloud the driving tempest roars, Congeal’d, impetuous showers descend; Haste, close the window, bar the doors, Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

In nature’s aid let art supply With light and heat my little sphere; Rouze, rouze the fire, and pile it high, Light up a constellation here.

Let musick sound the voice of joy! Or mirth repeat the jocund tale; Let love his wanton wiles employ, And o’er the season wine prevail.

Yet time life’s dreary winter brings, When mirth’s gay tale shall please no more; Nor musick charm--tho’ Stella sings; Nor love, nor wine, the Spring restore.

Catch then, O! catch the transient hour, Improve each moment as it flies; Life’s a short summer--man a flower, He dies--alas! How soon he dies!

* * * * *

DESPAIR.

Condemn’d to nourish hope in vain, My breast shall never peace regain; The fair my soul ador’d the most, Is to my love for ever lost.

Another--yes--and must we part?--- Another triumphs in her heart: He tastes those humid lips, which I To taste, would gladly yield to die.

Distraction---she---of all possest, He sinks upon her snowy breast: He clasps her in his eager arms;--- He revels in her sweetest charms.

I hear each soft extatic sigh, I see her rapture closing eye; She meets---she crowns his fierce desire, My brain, despair and madness fire!

* * * * * * * * *

ODE TO CONTEMPLATION.

Come, contemplation! with celestial fire Warm the young bard, who drives thy heights to gain; So shall his muse obsequious strike the lyre, To sound thy bounty in his ardent strain.

Thou lov’st to dwell where solemn, silent night Divests the mind of folly’s frantic dream; Where heaven’s grand canopy attracts the sight, And whispering breezes keep the soul serene.

Ah! how I feel thy welcome power supreme, Whene’er I wander aged Humber’s shore, Pensive beneath the moon’s indulgent beam, At tir’d creation’s universal snore.

If I extend my views to distant skies, What sure conviction dawns upon my soul? Borne on a cherub’s plume, it seems to rise, Seeking its destin’d reign, unconscious of controul.

And not alone amazement finds employ; Here, pure devotion lends her awful ray, Without whose light proves lifeless ev’ry joy That decks the night, or ornaments the day.

“But when I drop mine eye and look on man,” I see strong outlines of eternal peace; A Being form’d of intricate, nice plan, Spurning the confines or of time or place.

Fain would I now retire from busy life, Sequester’d in some solitary cell, Alike unknown to envy and to strife, And bid all noisy scenes a long farewell.

There no ambition should possess my mind, Or pleasure’s gilded baits my heart betray; But, to religion perfectly resign’d, I’d pass my moments usefully away.

How oft, directed by the friendly care, Silent, I’d range the church yard’s awful gloom, Musing the fatal stroke I once must share, A wither’d victim to the cheerless tomb.

“There weigh my dust:” prepare for that grand scene, When life’s last blaze shall quiver to decay: Then I’d exult in thee, my sacred theme, And sure companion thro’ the trackless way.

E’en now with secret rapture I survey, When my freed soul shall break her chain, and rise Up to the regions of eternal day, From finite being to its native skies:

With thee review with perspicacious eye, The long, long chain of Providence design; Conceive the attributes of deity, And hymn his praise ineffably divine.

But cease my song! I hear the muse complain, How she has strove, and still may strive in vain, To tell the heart-felt pleasures of thy reign.

* * * * *

+Epigram on a false mistress.+

My heart still hovering round about you, I thought I could not live WITHOUT you; Now we have been two months asunder, How I liv’d WITH you--is the wonder!

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, No. 115, Cherry-street+--where Subscriptions for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, January 11, 1797.+ [+No. 80.+

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

ESSAY.

No. I.

“Variety we still pursue, “In pleasure seek for something new.”

SWIFT.

In man there is a natural love of change and variety: the mind is wearied by continual succession of similar objects, those pleasures which at first were capable of inspiring emotions of delight; which once filled the heart with rapture and enthusiasm; as they become familiar, fade by degrees, they lose their brilliancy, the charm of novelty is gone, and soon they please no more. The sublimer works of nature, which have roused the attention of the traveller, excite not similar sensations in the bosoms of those who have been long acquainted with their beauties: the lofty mountain “with its robe of mist,” the stupenduous cliff that overlooks the torrent, and the loud sounding waters of the tremendous cataract, neither strike them with veneration nor with awe. Their eyes wander with languor and indifference, over those scenes in which nature has been most lavish of its beauties. The mind is attracted by diversity, we follow with avidity any object which appears fascinating and pleasing, until some fresh pursuit which fancy has furnished with superior charms captivates the imagination. This love of variety is predominant in the breast of every individual, it alike exists in the lowly cottage and the splendid palace, in the circles of business and in the vortex of pleasure, in the obscure paths of folly and ignorance, and in the exalted walks of literature and science: and although those objects which at a distance appeared dazling and beautiful, may lose their brightness on a nearer approach, still the acquirements which have cost us much labor and pain, have something in them peculiarly grateful. Man has ever been considered as a fickle and inconstant being, rarely content with his present situation, but continually looking out for brighter and fairer prospects. This restlessness of the human mind has been considered by some rigid moralists, as a source of trouble and vexation to those who are under its influence, but it is also a source of our greatest enjoyments: cold must be that heart, which is insensible to all the charms of variety, and but little calculated to partake of present joys, or to anticipate the more sublime and exalted pleasures which are hid behind the impenetrable veil of futurity.

A. D.

DECEMBER 31, 1796.

[[Notes:

The reference to “the lofty mountain ‘with its robe of mist’,” may be from an article on Ossian in the New-York Magazine, Vol. 5, 1791.]]

* * * * *

JUSTICE.

Justice may be defined that virtue which impels us to give to every person what is his due. In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes, or society should expect. Our duty to our Maker, to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all the rest have their origin in it.

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generosity, for instance, are not in their own nature virtues: and, if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to justice, which impels and directs them. Without such a moderator, candour might become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion.

* * * * *

+DEATH of a PHILOSOPHER.+

Let others bestrew the hearses of the great with panegyric. When a philosopher dies, I consider myself as losing a patron, an instructor, and a friend; I consider the world as losing one who might serve to console her amidst the desolations of war and ambition. Nature every day produces in abundance men capable of filling all the requisite duties of authority; but she is a niggard in the birth of an exalted mind, scarcely producing in a century a single genius to bless and enlighten a degenerate age. Prodigal in the production of kings, governors, mandarines, chams, and courtiers, she seems to have forgotten, for more than three thousand years, the manner in which she once formed the brain of a Confucius; and well it is she has forgotten, when a bad world gave him so very bad a reception.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 211.)

Alumbrado was of the same opinion, our advice was however neglected, for the next morning when I went to see the Duke, I found the Count had already been liberated. The matter happened in the following manner:

The Duke had paid him one more visit at night, in order to get some explanation of Amelia’s history, asking the Count whether his account of Amelia’s adventures had been strictly true, or intermixed with fiction? The Count confessed frankly that he had not been very conscientious in his relation, but had added to his picture many fictitious strokes; nay, that he had disfigured even the principal incidents by interpolation, in order to encrease by his adventrous tale, the Duke’s propensity to wonderful incidents, and thus to render Amelia more interesting to him. The Duke asked him how he could have risked a fraud which the first meeting with the Countess could have laid open to him. “I was well aware,” the Count replied, “that you as well as Amelia would be prompted by the tender harmony which made your hearts beat in unison, to avoid speaking of incidents which would have introduced Amelia’s late Lord and her love for him.” The Duke asked him whether the Irishman had not acted in concert with Lady Delier? “Only as far as he made use of her to direct the love that had taken place between your Grace and Amelia,” the Count answered; “the conditions and reflections under which the Baroness was to assist in forwarding your mutual union are unknown to me.” The Count being asked, whether that wonderful note by which Amelia had been released from her vow of eternal fidelity to her deceased Lord, had been a contrivance of Hiermanfor’s natural skill, or the effect of supernatural power; the Count replied, the latter had been the case. The Duke had been affected so much by the repeated mention of his Amelia, that he began to melt in tears. The Count thought this state of mind very propitious for regaining his liberty, and obtained it without difficulty. What could the Duke have refused in that situation to Amelia’s brother-in-law?

Alumbrado seemed to be not less displeased with this event than myself. My hope that the Count would entirely destroy, by an ample discovery of the juggling tricks of the Irishman, the Duke’s belief in the supernatural skill of the latter was now utterly destroyed, for he had not unfolded the most important mystery; the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard. Yet I derived some consolation from the papers of Clairval, which were still in the hands of the Duke, and proposed to throw some light on that extraordinary incident. My friend himself seemed to entertain the same hope, and although the papers had been partly consumed by the fire, yet he was not discouraged, and undertook the laborious task of decyphering them. We retired lest we should disturb him.

The next morning Alumbrado came to my palace, informing me that he went to pay a visit to the Duke, but had not been admitted. We concluded from this, that he had not yet finished decyphering of the papers.

The Duke joined us about an hour after with gloomy looks, he gave me some writings and said, “that is all that I could make out; read it and edify yourself.”---

I began to read aloud, “Beloved and trusty---” the Duke interrupted me--“It is a letter to Hiermanfor, written by the Lady of the late Duke of B----a, at a time when he had little hope of ascending the royal throne of P--------l.”

“Beloved and trusty! I have read all your letters to our Privy Secretary, along with the note by which you acquaint him with your intention of introducing Miguel to the Hermit. I always read your letters with admiration, yet I cannot but confess that I have great reason to suspect you have it more at heart to be admired, than to gain Miguel over to our party. I should think Miguel could have been secured to us in a safer, easier, and more expeditious manner, and you would have saved yourself a great deal of time and trouble if you had attempted it. Why those superfluous machinations, why those expensive, intricate, artificial, and give me leave to add, those fragile machines which so easily may be destroyed? You could certainly have ensnared Miguel in a more simple and a less precarious manner. Machineries like those which you have made use of are always liable to the danger of being discovered by accident, which may ruin the whole plan.

“You will perhaps reply, that, if he should make such a discovery, it would be of little consequence; that you know this Miguel too well, are too sensible of your superiority, that he cannot do without you, and that you keep him in chains which he will not be able to shake off, though your whole miraculous web should be dissolved in smoke. But, if so, wherefore those needless artifices? What benefit will arise from your miracles and ghosts? The love intrigue with Amelia, and the charm of your eloquence would have been sufficient for gaining Miguel over to our party.

“I may be mistaken, your proceedings are however riddles to me, if I do not suppose that an arrogant activity has prompted you to contrive extraordinary intrigues, and to have recourse to marvellous machineries. People of your genius are wont to do so. You despise the ways of common men, force new roads through insurmountable rocks, entangle your man in numberless magic fetters, with no other view, than to have the pleasure of seeing your prisoner insnare himself deeper and deeper by his attempts to regain his liberty. The simple, artless turn of a play, does not suit a genius like your’s, which delights only in knitting and dissolving intricate knots, and in having recourse to artificial, complicated machines; obstacles and dangers serve only to give additional energy to your activity. Miguel was, perhaps, only an object which was to serve you for trying your skill and art, in order to see how far you could rely on your capacities for more important opportunities.

“But however it be, I am rather bound to thank you for your zeal to serve our cause, than to criticise the choice of the means you have made use of. Accomplish what you have begun, and you may be sure of my favour and active gratitude.”

While I had been reading, the Duke walked up and down the room with hasty strides. He now stopped. “Well, Marquis! well, Alumbrado!” said he, “do I not act a charming part in this letter?”

We remained silent, became we saw that he was violently agitated.

“They treat me as a simpleton, as a blockhead. Is it not true?”

“How you exaggerate it!” said I. “They ascribe to you want of experience, and that is all.”

“O Marquis, don’t you see in what a tone, and with how much contempt the proud woman speaks of me?”

“She is a woman who mistakes you.”

“Heavens and earth! and I should brook her injuries without taking revenge?”

“My Lord!” Alumbrado said, “in what relation have you been to the Dutchess? I cannot see the connection of the whole affair?”

The Duke explained this connection to him, by discovering the share he had had in the revolution.

Alumbrado was all attention during this account, and when it was finished seemed to be absorbed in profound meditation.

“Friend!” said I to the Duke, “there are some more written leaves”--------

“It is Hiermanfor’s answer to the letter you have been reading.”

I read the letter aloud.

“It is with no I small astonishment that I find myself called to an account, in the letter which your Grace did me the honour of writing to me, for a point which I sincerely wish never had been mentioned. The remarks you have made on it redound as much to the honour of your Grace’s penetration and sagacity, as they tend to mortify me by betraying me into a confession, which I would have refused to make to any mortal living, except to so noble a challenger.

“My second letter to your Privy Secretary, explaining sufficiently the motives which have prompted me to gain Miguel over to our party by the arts of natural magic, I think I need not add new arguments to those contained in that letter, if your Grace will take the trouble to re-peruse and to ponder them attentively. Besides the reprehension of your Grace is directed less against the means which I have made use of, than against the manner of their application. You ask in your letter, why I have had recourse to such superfluous machinations, to such expensive, intricate, artificial, and fragile machines? Indeed you think too contemptibly of Miguel. His penetration, as well as his great knowledge, raise him far above the common men of his age; his understanding, which has been improved under the tuition of an Antonio de Galvez, is not to be imposed upon so easily as you think. Besides, you will have the goodness to consider that he was not the only person I had to deal with, and that his tutor, who never stirred from his side, was always ready to cut asunder the magical bonds in which I had entangled him, but why do I hesitate any longer to tell you the plain truth? My design was not directed against Miguel alone, but on his tutor too. It was the most ardent wish of my heart to gain this man to our party by my magical arts, and that it was which forced me to have recourse to so many machinations, and such expensive and complicated machines. If my design upon him had been crowned with success, Miguel too would have been an easy and certain conquest.

“If your Grace should ask what has prompted me to form so daring a plan, and what reasons I had to hope for success? I beg you will condescend to ponder the following points: Count Galvez was an insurmountable obstacle in my way to Miguel, which rendered it necessary either to draw him in our interest, or to remove him from his pupil. It will be obvious to you for what reason I resolved to attempt the former, if you will consider how much advantage our affairs would have derived from so valuable a conquest. If we could have made sure of Antonio, we then should also have drawn the court of Rome in our interest by his intercession. Before the present Pope was raised to the papal throne, he and a number of persons of the highest rank were intimately connected with him. We could, therefore, have expected to interest for our cause by his influence a court, which will become our most dangerous enemy, if it should not take our part; and I apprehend this will be the case.”*

[* On the margin of the manuscript, the following note was written by an unknown hand: “The Irishman has not been mistaken, for nine years are now past since the revolution has taken place, and the new king of Port***l has not yet been acknowledged by the court of Rome.”]

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

ANECDOTE OF VOLTAIRE.

This extraordinary genius, in his younger life, wrote a very biting satire against a man of considerable influence in France. The injured gentleman, on meeting the poet one day in a narrow lane where it was impossible to escape, gave him a severe drubbing. The enraged author immediately made his complaint to the Regent, who very shrewdly replied---“What would you have me do? justice certainly has been done already,”

* * * * * * * * *

OSMIR. An Original Essay.

The predecessors of Osmir were ignoble and obscure. For a race of generations they wept the conflicts of indigence, nor could the toils of application crown their efforts with advantage, nor the utmost frugality secure their labours from distress; the importance of command never owned their authority, and the radiance of splendour never shone on their dwelling. They eat of the bread of industry, they drank the waters of perseverence, they lived unnoticed and undistinguished among the children of poverty, as one atom in the sun-beam is undistinguished from another, and as the ebullitions of a current which float for a moment on its surface and die, even so they disappeared and were remembered no more.

But the tempest of malediction began at length to subside, and the severity of fortune to abate her resentment. Malevolence was wearied with undeserved persecution, and prosperity beheld the cot of wretchedness with an auspicious smile, and determined to lavish upon Osmir what she had withheld from his ancestors. He was addicted to industry, to perseverance and toil; his principles were therefore the surest basis whereon time was to erect the superstructure of gilded affluence. In a few years Osmir contemplated the fruits of his application, which animated his endeavours to advance with more hasty strides in the road of progressive grandeur; riches were accumulated, possessions were established, his habitation surpassed the pomp of oriental magnificence, and the report of his opulence was the talk of every mouth, and wafted through every region on the pinions of fame. In order to subdue the murmurs of repining adversity, and establish a position, which though it was probable was yet untrue, that the bounties of Heaven were bestowed upon deserving virtue alone, he resolved to cover his imperfections with the mantle of devotion, by which more liberty was allowed to the passions which lay lurking in secret within the chambers of his heart. Confirmed in this disposition, he was impartial and correct in his dealings with all men; the venom of slander had no influence on his character; for he trod the paths of moral rectitude with exact scrupulosity. Was propitiation ordained to avert the wrath of omnipotence?--his head was covered with the ashes of Bethulia, and his loins were mortified with the sack-cloth of Ninevah; his piety refused the sustenance which human fragility demands for her functions, and thrice a day he fell prostrate at the shrine of the God of nature. Whenever Osmir walked the streets for the purpose of recreation, he was begirt with attendants who showered gold on the multitude, and whom he exhorted in their liberality to more extensive profusion. The widow and the orphan, the desolate and the indigent, all looked for succour from the bounty of his hand, and all felt the influence of his generous condescension. Not an act that was performed escaped the voice of applause, for if Osmir was liberal, compassionate or just, his merit was instantly registered in the chronicles of fame, who with her trump of seven thunders, blew a blast round the world which was echoed through the universe.

Such was the life of a mortal whom prosperity delighted to elevate; such was his journey through the vales of desolation, uninfested with the thorns of accident or bitterness, and perfumed with the fragrance of the rose-buds fortune scattered in his way. But whilst Osmir thus employed the happy tenor of his days, now feasting on delicacies at the banquet of plenty, now dancing to the song of happiness in the bowers of ease, the iron hand of time laid its pressure on his temples, the frost of old age was expanded through his veins, and the powers of animation hastened quick to decline. It was in vain to bribe with riches the dreaded minister of death; it was in vain to protract a moment the awful period of dissolution. Summoned at the report of sickness his friends assembled in his chamber, where stretched on the bed of sorrows, human nature was to be dignified, and human weakness was to be confirmed by an illustrious portrait of expiring virtue. But how great was the excess of disappointment and surprize, when, instead of the tranquility of hope, and ejaculations of charity, their ears were assaulted with the shrieks of despair, and their eyes were affrighted with terrific wretchedness. Osmir, whose visage was deformed with terrors, as the brow of heaven with a tempest, was long unable to hearken to the remonstrances of his friends; at length, however, collecting the feeble breath, which, like the flame of a midnight taper, sat quivering on his lips, he uttered these last accents with emphatic efforts, whilst every voice was suspended in silence, and every ear was attention.

“Ye, whom vanity has influenced in the operation of good works, and whom earthly approbation has taught to exult in their merit, let the example of dying disquietudes abate the security of your confidence. Like you, I have floated on the ocean of glory, I have felt my senses enraptured with the melody of praise, and suffered my heart to receive plaudits which my conscience condemned. Like you, I was liberal, because to be liberal was to be eminent, and like you also, I estimated the advantages of heaven by terrestial enjoyments. Prosperity shed around me the partial beams of her favour, nor harboured a doubt, nor hesitated to reflect, if the object of her veneration deserved contempt or esteem. Avarice and vain glory were raging passions of my soul, to heat the furnace of these desires was the sole object of my aim; by the one I was rendered odious to the great dispenser of gifts, and by the other detrimental to the sons and daughters of men. This, by the malignity of its turpitude, which withheld what it had received with the rapacious grasp of a vulture, effaced the character of the Deity imprinted by nature in my soul; and the other by a cruelty more inhuman than murder, has awakened passions in the breast of indigence, which had slept for ever undisturbed, and for the mercenary tribute of undeserved approbation has elevated for a moment to magnificence and state, only to plunge with keener anguish into the gulphs of despair, the wretch whose heart had never sickened for the splendours of pomp, and whose days had moved calm in inglorious obscurity. Yet weak-sighted mortals viewed my actions and admired, whilst the piercing eye of the everlasting beheld their motives and abhorred. Happy should I be to amend the past by the present, or to mitigate the fury of the indignation to come. But the scymetar of vengeance hangs suspended in my view, I hear the sentence of malediction which sounds as thunder in my ears, and I feel the last horrors of agonizing despair. Insulting vanities of a faithless world! why was my heart enamoured of the graces of thy deceit? Only to look with pleasure on thy allurements, is to assume the chains of thy bondage; to seek thy gratifications is to follow pain without profit, and to persevere in thy pursuits is reprobation without hope. A few moments space will evince the dreadful truth, for a few moments space and the life of Osmir is no more. Happy shall you be, my friends, whose errors are corrected by my fatal mistake, and whose minds shall be imprinted with this important remembrance, that no action however splendid can secure the favour of the Deity, unless it correspond with good designs, which can alone stamp its value, and that though you mislead the erring judgment of man by fallacious appearances, ’tis impossible to mislead the unerring judgment of God.”

The hand of the omnipotent sealed his lips at these words, and a convulsive agony announced the approach of dissolution; his eyes were averted with horror from the flying javelin of death, and expiring his last groan, he slept the sleep of his fathers in the tomb of Mahaleel.

* * * * *

SELECT REFLECTIONS ON EDUCATION.

A fortune acquired by commerce, when it is discreetly expended in advancing learning, acquires a grace and elegance, which a life devoted to the accumulation of money, for its own sake, can seldom possess.

Few of us are so improved by philosophy, though we study and admire it, as not to feel the influence of interested motives. This insensibly blinds the understanding, and often impels the judgment to decide unjustly, without the guilt of intention.

Not only the taste, but the religion, the virtue, and even the liberties of our country, greatly depend upon that discipline which lays the foundation of improvement in ancient learning. True patriotism and true valour, originate from that enlargement of mind, which the well-regulated study of philosophy, poetry, and history, tends to produce; and if we can recal the ancient discipline we may perhaps recal the generous spirit of ancient virtue. He who is conversant with the best Greek and Roman writers, with a Plato, a Xenophon, and a Cicero, must imbibe, if he be not deficient in the powers of intellect, sentiments no less liberal and enlarged than ingenious and elegant.

A certain enlargement, refinement, and embellishment of the mind, is the best and noblest effect of classical instruction. It is not only desirable, as it qualifies the mind for this or that profession, but as it opens the source of pure pleasures, unknown to the vulgar. Its tendency is to adorn and improve human nature, and to give the ideas a noble elevation.

The possession of an elegant mind is greatly superior to the possession of a fortune, and the enjoyment of a good conscience is far superior to both.

The passions will sometimes ruffle the stream of happiness in every man; but they are least likely to discompose him, who spends his time in letters, and who at the same time studies virtue and innocence, which indeed have a natural connexion with true learning.

He who has caught the spirit of the polite writers of the politest ages and cities, must possess a peculiar degree of polish and comprehension of mind.

The best kind of education is that which endeavours to improve the powers of understanding for their own sake; for the sake of exalting the endowments of human nature, and becoming capable of sublime and refined contemplation. This furnishes a power of finding satisfactory amusement for those hours of solitude, which every man must sometimes know in the busiest walks of life; and it constitutes one of the best supports of old age, as well as the most graceful ornament of manhood. Even in the commercial department it is most desirable; for besides that it gives a grace to the man in the active stage of life, and in the midst of his negociations, it ‘enables him to enjoy his retreat with elegance,’ when his industry has accumulated the object of his endeavours.

If taste, which classical learning immediately tends to produce, have no influence in amending the heart, or in promoting virtuous affections; if it contribute not to render men more humane, and more likely to be disgusted with improper behaviour, as a deformed object, and pleased with rectitude of conduct, as beautiful in itself; if it be merely an ornamental appendage; it must be owned, that life is indeed too short to admit of long attention to mere embellishment. Polite learning, on the contrary, is found to be friendly to all that is amiable and laudible in social intercourse; friendly to morality. It has a secret but powerful influence in softening and meliorating the disposition. True and correct taste directly tends to restrain the extravagancies of passion, by regulating that nurse of passion, a discorded imagination.

To be completely skilled in ancient learning is by no means a work of such insuperable pains. The very progress itself is attended with delight, and resembles a journey through some pleasant country, where every mile we advance new charms arise. It is certainly as easy to be a scholar, as a gamester, or many other characters equally illiberal and low. The same application, the same quantity of habit, will fit us for one as well as for the other. As to those who tell us with an air of seeming wisdom, that it is by men, not books, that we must study to become knowing; repeated experience teaches this to be the common consolation and language of dunces.

[[Source:

The article is a paraphrase of Vicesimus Knox, “Liberal Education”. The phrase ‘enables him to enjoy his retreat with elegance’ is a direct quotation.]]

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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

CANDIDUS.

No. I.

(Concluded from page 214.)

He that would rise superior to the common level of mankind, exalted in knowledge, useful to himself and to mankind, must keep attention ever on the watch to seize some subject worthy of reflection with a spirit of investigation, which no difficulties can damp; he must suffer no proposition, however obscure and intricate, to escape the grasp of his mind till perseverance hath effected its solution: If any thing more than another occasions man to differ more from man than man from beast, it is this; and I have been often led to doubt, whether it will not alone account for all that difference in mind which is commonly ascribed to superiority in capacity. True indeed it is, that this improvement is not always accompanied with delight. “Those reflections (says Burke) are melancholy enough which carry us beyond the mere surface of things.” The world exhibits too much evil to the mind to permit its reflections to be uniformly pleasant. But as the same author again observes, the same philosophy which causes the grief, will administer the comfort; and would not he or any other, who possesses this most valuable attainment, prefer it, with all its sorrows, to a state of thoughtless inattention? Of all the complaints of studious men, want of memory is the greatest and the most frequent. So universal indeed is the expression of sorrow for deficiency in retentive capacity, that this faculty would seem a gift most sparingly bestowed: the distinguishing characteristic of a few, the happy favorites of nature. But without favour and without respect, nature holds the balance of being with impartial hand, and with very few exceptions, every member of humanity is equal in the scale.

Man was endowed with the seeds of his faculties to be matured by his cultivation and memory; not the least of those faculties is in the least subject to his power. That men, when placed in similar circumstances, will receive through the senses similar impressions, I trust will be universally admitted. It appears to me no less evident, that such impressions may be in all equally lasting. It is not then the want of capacity in any to retain, but the want of exertion in most to imprint, that occasions the former; and Man, not Nature, is deficient in duty. Yet, this charge is not universally incurred; many there are who employ much of their time in endeavouring to improve the faculty of recollection, but in spite of their efforts, they still find ample cause for complaint. If men (generally speaking) are equally fitted both to receive and to retain, the charge must still revert upon themselves, with the aggravation of time mispent in injudicious exertions. The method generally pursued among young men to assist the memory, is to enter into a common place book the most material observations and events in the course of their reading; this, though stamped with the approbation and deriving credit from the recommendation of the philosophic Locke, is not without its imperfections. The practice betrays the student into a prejudicial confidence, trusting to his notes, he neglects to make the first impressions firm and lasting; and in his recurrences to his book he distracts his attention with a vast collection of heterogeneous matter; the different parts of which hold a place in his recollection no longer than he reads them, each being driven out by that which succeeds. “What is twice read (says the judicious author of the Idler,) is commonly better remembered than what is described:” and no little credit is due to this opinion, when delivered by a man, the value and extent of whose literary acquisitions deservedly gained him the appellation of the walking library. As the impression made by one body on another is stronger or weaker in proportion to the time of pressure, so the firmness with which an idea is fixed in the memory, is in proportion to the weight applied by the continuance of thought. Let the reader, before he changes his subjects, revolve with patient attention in his mind the sentiments he would imbibe, or the events he would remember, until he has thoroughly stamped them with all the principles and consequences of the former, and the causes, connections and effects of the latter. Let him in the solitary hour when books are not near, and company do not interrupt by continued reflection, firmly imprint spontaneous associations, and by studious recollection renew and confirm the past. The knowledge so gained will be far more solid and lasting than that for which we depend upon a few uncorrected transcriptions. Conversation has with justice been called the soul of society. Man must, in intercourse with his fellow creatures, exercise and refine those passions and affections with which he is endowed, and of which they are the subjects: and in the worlds of business and of pleasure, the convenience and happiness of each state, depends upon the united endeavours of the whole; so in the world of literature, a mutual communication of ideas increases the stock of individual knowledge. While the student disdains not to converse with men in every rank, let him choose for his intimates the ingenious and the learned. One great impediment in the way of mental improvement, is the neglect of opportunities for study. Carpe diem, is an advice as generally unattended to as its goodness is admitted. The state of the mind is no more than that of the body is uniform and regular. Various as the atmospheric changes, it is now dull, inapprehensive and listless; now flighty and impatient, again in happier hour, fitted to imbibe with avidity, comprehend with clearness, and retain with exactness. How often in this vigorous and active state are its impulses neglected. How often when disgust succeeds enjoyment, when satiated with pleasure, and fatigued with the tumults of society, the mind is disengaged and vacant; with an appetite whetted for the variety of solid entertainment, do we instead of gratifying its propensity, seat ourselves down to indulge idle regret, or to form still more idle schemes of future dissipation. To seize such, and every opportune moment, we should be ever on the watch, they will frequently occur, and if improved will always produce present delight and permanent advantage. To complain of nature when ourselves are in the fault, and to ascribe to deficiency of capacity, what is the result of want of industry, is the common practice of idleness in every condition of life. But in spite of the clamours of men, it will ever remain an axiom in morals, that want of judgment in acting, is the cause of embarrassment and confusion; and cessation from labour, the death of body and mind.

* * * * *

INDUSTRY.

Diligence, and proper improvement of time, are material duties of the young. To no purpose are they endued with the best abilities, if they want activity for exerting them. In youth the habits of industry are most easily acquired.--In youth the incentives to it are the strongest; from ambition and from duty, from emulation and hope, all the prospects which the beginning of life affords.

Industry is not only the instrument of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. He who is a stranger to it may possess, but cannot enjoy; for it is labour only which gives relish to pleasure.--It is the indispensible condition of our possessing a sound mind in a sound body.

We should seek to fill our time with employments which may be reviewed with satisfaction. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honourable occupations of youth. The desire of it discovers a liberal mind, and is connected with many accomplishments, and many virtues. But though our train of life should not lead us to study, the course of education always furnishes proper employments to a well-disposed mind. Whatever we pursue, we should be emulous to excel.

Generous ambition and sensibility to praise, are, especially at the youthful period, among the marks of virtue. We never ought to think that any affluence of fortune, or any elevation of rank, exempts us from the duties of application and industry: industry is the law of our being; it is the demand of nature, of reason, and of God.

* * * * *

SINCERITY.

How often is debility of mind, and even badness of heart, concealed under a splendid exterior! The fairest of the species, and of the sex, often want sincerity; and without it every other qualification is rather a blemish than a virtue or excellence. Sincerity operates in the moral, somewhat like the sun in the natural world; and produces nearly the same effects on the dispositions of the human heart, which he does on inanimate objects. Wherever sincerity prevails, and is felt, all the smiling and benevolent virtues flourish most, disclose their sweetest lustre, and diffuse their richest fragrance.

* * * * * * * * *

OBSERVATION.

The possession of knowledge, and an happy talent of communicating knowledge, are qualifications seldom united in the same person; nor is it altogether easy to determine from which of them, separately, a reader would chuse to accept, with preference, a treatise upon any subject. From the one we receive even little information with much satisfaction; while any improvement extracted from the other is obtained with labour, and, perhaps too, even with disgust.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Peters, Captain THOMAS BARNARD, of Boston, to Miss LOUISA HINCKLEY, of Konny-brook.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Foster, Mr. PETER UTT, to the amiable Miss AMELIA FAIRLEY, both of this city.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 25th ult. to the 7th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3._ 100 100 Dec. 25 23 35 w. nw. clear do. lt. wind do. 26 20 50 33 n. w. cloudy, do. lt. wind do. 27 26 35 sw. do. clear do. lt. wind do. 28 26 32 75 w. do. clear do. lt. wind do. 29 32 36 75 w. do. clear do. lt. wind do. 30 25 75 36 ne. se. cloudy, lt. wd. snow h. do. 31 36 40 50 sw. w. sn. 2 in. deep. sm. rn. at nt. cloudy, lt. wd. clear do. Jan. 1 27 33 w. do. clear light wind do do. 2 23 28 nw. w. clear h. wind do. lt. do. 3 22 26 nw. do. cloudy lt. wd. snow do. half 4 19 50 30 nw. sw. inch of snow on a level. clear 5 23 50 28 50 w. do. lt. wd. cloudy h. do. clear 6 27 75 39 25 sw. w. lt. wd. do. h. do clear lt. do. 7 17 22 50 n. w. cloudy lt. wd. clear do.

* * *

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. * * * FOR DECEMBER 1796.

Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 28 6 Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 43 62 Do. do. for the whole month 30 34 Greatest monthly range between the 6th and 24th 35 25 Do. do. in 24 hours, between the 19th and 20th 21 30 Warmest day the 6th 45 75 Coldest do. the 24th 20 50

5 Days it rained, and a considerable quantity has fallen. 4 Do. it snowed, and nearly 6 inches has fallen. 25 Do. the wind was at the observation hours, to the Westward of north and south. 6 Do. the do. do. Eastward of do. 13 Do. it was clear at the observation hours. 10 Do. it was cloudy at the do. do. 21 Do. the Mercury was at or below freezing at sun-rise.

N.B. On the 6th inst. there was a plentifull rain, the first of any consequence, since the 3d of October.

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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

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TO THE SETTING SUN.

I.

Ah! whither fli’est thou, fair retiring light-- Why fade those rays that shone ’ere while so bright? Now o’er the wave thy sinking glories stream, And now---ah now!---we lose thy latest beam.

II.

Dost thou to Neptune’s pearly courts repair, And view the lovely Nereids sporting there; With thy fair beams illume the coral groves, Where Triton’s wander and where Thetis roves.

III.

Or dost thou shed in other worlds thy ray, And give to other climes a new-born day? What joy, what transports wait thy glad return, When thro’ the clouds of Night breaks forth the Morn.

IV.

Yet those there are who hate thy cheering beam--- In whose dark breasts no rays of pleasure gleam: Who, from thy bright approach unwelcome run, “And sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun.”

V.

Thus once was I, with heavy grief opprest, The morn no pleasure gave, the night no rest; Till cheering Friendship lent her beaming ray, And all was pleasure with the opening day.

CLARA.

New-York, Oct. 12, 1796.

[[The quoted line “And sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun” is from Shenstone, Elegy 26 (“I sigh in...”).]]

* * * * *

THE ADIEU--TO A FAVOURITE GROVE.

Whilst dreary Winter clothes the Landscape round, And sober Eve her dusky mantle veers; Here let me studious on this rising mound Recline, and give to yonder stream my tears.

Yon pleasing plain, yon sweetly swelling hill, Which oft with rapture did my eyes invite; Yon dale irriguous, and yon purling rill Shall soon be vanish’d to my ravish’d sight.

Yon shady bow’rs wherein I oft was wont, With sportive youths to spend some votive hours, Yon splendid mansion, and yon lovely font, No more are cheer’d by Sol’s refulgent pow’rs.

This lovely dome, this academic shade, This pleasing grove, O! I must bid adieu; But still each image shall be bright pourtray’d, Rush on the Muse in pleasing fancied view;

Yes, yes, tho’ to those scenes I bid farewel, In ocular sight perchance to view no more; Yet the mind’s eye shall ever pleasing dwell, And paint each beauty with extatic lore.

* * * * * * * * *

An Elegy to the Memory of a Friend.

When worthless grandeur swells the trump of fame, And venal titles on the marble shine, To breathe its tribute to a worthy name, Should not the task, O, generous muse, be thine.

If e’er the breast with pity prone to bleed, The gentle feelings, or the judgment strong, Deserv’d, sweet maid, the tribute of thy meed; ’Tis due to him to whom these lines belong.

Lamented shade! by thee was once possest Whate’er has genius on her sons bestow’d; The smoothest manners, and the tend’rest breast, The tonge, whence wisdom’s purest dictates flow’d!

’Twas thine, the seeds of modest worth to rear, And from misfortune’s brow the cloud to chace, Of poverty the lonely cot to cheer. And to the troubled spirit whisper peace.

Of truth thou boldly strove to spread the reign, Of superstition’s night disperse the gloom, To virtue’s noblest exercises train, And for a brighter world the soul to plume.

But ah! full fast our sickly comforts fade, The brightest prospects bloom but to decay: Too soon for us heaven bade disease invade, And call’d to its bless’d scenes thy soul away.

No more we hear thy voice, with comfort fraught, Nor in thy harmless wit soft pleasure find: Mule is that tongue, the noblest truths that taught, And cold the breast that warm’d for human kind.

Yet ne’er shall time thy fond remembrance raze, Thy worth shall live in ev’ry virtuous breast; The spotless purity that mark’d thy days, A lasting epitaph hath there imprest.

Full oft at eve, while social circles meet, And cheat with various lore the passing hour; With pensive eyes we mark thy vacant seat, And thy lost converse fruitlessly deplore.

Tho’ thy instructive voice no more we hear, Thy blameless life shall not unuseful teach; Thy gentle virtues, in remembrance dear, Shall yet thro’ many a day persuasive preach.

* * * * *

SONNET.--TO THE MOON.

Regent of night, thy presence must I love, When from between the lowering clouds array’d, In mild effulgence, o’er the silver cove Thou spread’st a dubious light, and chequer’d shade:

At such a time my visionary mind Thro’ Fancy’s glass sees forms ærial rise; ’Tis then the breathings of the passing wind Seem to my listening ear Misfortune’s sighs;--

Nor only seem: for tho’ at dead of night Labour recruits his strength in deepest sleep, And rosy Youth enjoys his slumbers light, Desponding Penury still wakes to weep.

Regent of night! thy softest influence shed; Ye rising storms, oh! spare her houseless head!

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+-- where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+.

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UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, January 18, 1797.+ [+No. 81.+

HUMANITY.

Gentleness, which belongs to virtue, is to be carefully distinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and the fawning assent of sycophants.--It renounces no just right from fear:---it gives up no important truth from flattery:--it is indeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily requires a manly spirit and a fixed principle in order to give it any real value.

It stands opposed to harshness and severity--to pride and arrogance--to violence and oppression:--it is, properly, that part of the real virtue charity, which makes us unwilling to give pain to any of our brethren.----It corrects whatever is offensive in our manners, and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alleviate the burden of common misery;--Its office is therefore extensive; it is continually in action, when we are engaged in intercourse with men.--It ought to form our address, to regulate our speech, and to diffuse itself over our whole behaviour.

That gentleness which is a characteristic of a good man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart.----In that unaffected civility which springs from a gentle mind, there is a charm infinitely more powerful than in all the studied manners of the most finished courtier.

It 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 duty of man.---It is native feeling heightened and improved by principle. It is the heart which easily resents; 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 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 care 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 dissention and restore peace.---It neither intermeddles 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 shine and dazzle, and conceals with care that superiority, either of talents or of rank, which are oppressive to those who are beneath it.---It is a great avenue to mutual enjoyment: amidst the strife of interfering interests, it tempers the violence of contention, and keeps alive the seeds of harmony.---It softens animosities, renews endearments, and renders the countenance of a man a refreshment to man.---It prepossesses and wins every heart.---It persuades when every other argument fails; often disarms the fierce, and melts the stubborn.

To the man of humanity the world is generally disposed to ascribe every other good quality; of its influence all in some degree partake, therefore all love it.

The man of this character rises in the world without struggle, and flourishes without envy; his misfortunes are universally lamented, and his failings are easily forgiven. The inward tranquility which it promotes is the first requisite of every pleasurable feeling. It is the calm and clear atmosphere, the serenity and sunshine of the mind.

Attacked by great injuries, the man of mild and gentle spirit will feel what human nature feels; and will defend and resent as his duty allows him: but to slight provocations he is happily superior. Inspired with noble sentiments, taught to regard, with an indulgent eye, the frailties of men, the omissions of the careless, the follies of the imprudent, and the levity of the fickle; he retreats into the calmness of his spirit, as into an undisturbed sanctuary, and quietly allows the usual current of life to hold its course.

* * * * *

FAITH, PIETY, AND ACTIVE VIRTUE.

Life passed under the influence of such dispositions naturally leads to a happy end. It is not enough to say, faith and piety joined with active virtue constitute the requisite preperation for heaven. They in truth begin the enjoyment of heaven. In every state of our existence they form the chief ingredients of felicity.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 219.)

“What a triumph would it have proved to me, if I had succeeded in my attempt to subdue this man through my magical operations, and to catch in one snare two persons of so great an importance to our cause. The idea of ensnaring the Count by means of miracles and ghosts, was indeed, a very bold one, but not so inconsiderate as it may appear at first sight. Antonio has spent the earlier years of his youth in a monastery at Rome. It was not unknown to me, that experience and meditation have enabled him afterwards to divest himself of the prejudices which there have been instilled in his mind; I was, however, at the same time, well aware that the impressions we receive in our juvenile days, are re-produced with vivacity on certain occasions. I also knew that his philosophy does not deny the existence of spirits, and the hope of futurity which he defended with enthusiasm, renders the human mind but too prone to give credit to the apparitions of spirits, if they have the appearance of reality. Even his propensity to speculation, his fondness of solitude, the interest he took in supersensitive objects, his melancholy temper, prompted me to expect that my artifices would find access to his heart; and if the heart is but interested for something, then the understanding too is generally half gained. However, he who intends to gain it entirely, must take care not to expose his blind side to a keen-sighted and pert genius, and for that reason I was obliged to endeavour to carry the illusion to the highest degree of probability; I was under the necessity of attempting to make it impossible to Count Galvez to penetrate my delusions. This will convince your Grace that my plan, how bold soever it might have been, has not been formed without probability of success. However, when Count Clairval began to cultivate a more intimate connexion with Antonio, I was made sensible that my expectations have been too sanguine.

“He entreated me to give up a design that never could succeed. Prudence commanded me to follow his advice, though it mortified my ambition extremely. No other expedient was now left than to remove Count Galvez from his pupil, because I apprehended that he would ruin my design on Miguel. Your Grace knows how successfully this was executed.

“Perhaps you will ask, whether it would not have been possible to gain Count Galvez for our cause by some other means? I must reply in the negative. Miguel could indeed have been ensnared by other meant, but not more expeditiously; (and every thing depended upon dispatch) but his tutor never. The latter is attached to the King of Sp**n with unshaken loyalty, because he thinks it his duty to be loyal; and a man of fifty years, of so firm and rooted principles, cannot be enticed from what he thinks to be his duty, before it ceases to be duty to him. But what power upon earth could absolve from a duty such a man? Here supernatural powers must interfere and absolve him, beings from another world must appear as bails.

“I can scarcely think that the failure of this plan has originated from a fault of mine, for I have tried every means of exhibiting my miracles and ghosts in a shape of probability. Yet this has entangled me on the other side in a very disagreeable dilemma. Miguel, to whom his tutor has rendered suspected even my most consummate artifices, must be kept steady in the course he once has taken. I shall, perhaps, be necessitated to perform something quite extraordinary in order to fix the mind of this wavering young man who is constantly pressing forwards. Thus I think to have given a satisfactory answer to the question why I have introduced so expensive, complicated and artificial machines.

“If your Grace should ask why I have kept my design on Miguel’s tutor so secret, then I must tell you, that I concealed it so carefully because I intended to surprise the confederates unexpectedly by my valuable acquisition, if I should have succeeded; and if not to spare myself the mortification of having it said that I had undertaken a task to which my powers were not equal. I hope your Grace will reward my frank and plain confession by burying it in eternal secrecy.”

I returned the letter to the Duke, and a long silence ensued. He broke it first.

“My friend, you know my adventures with this Irishman, what do you think of him?”

“How can you ask that question after all the discoveries we have already made?”

“I wish to have it answered by you.”

“I think,” said I in a pathetic accent, “that Irishman must be a supernatural being.”

“Ridicule me as long as you please--I cannot but confess that he is, nevertheless, incomprehensible to me.”

“My dear Duke, I know what I am to think of the Irishman, but I scarcely know what to think of you.”

“You disapprove of my connection with that man.”

“Very much.”

“Tell me your sentiments without reserve; I know you have had a strong desire for some time to come to an explanation with me.”

“You have been ill, and I wish to spare you.”

“I don’t want your forbearance. Speak.”

“At another time, my friend, at another time.”

“No delay. Alumbrado is no stranger to my history, and consequently may hear your observation on it.”

“If you insist upon if, then I must tell you that I am extremely vexed at the idea that the fellow, who dared to sport with your understanding has enjoyed the triumph of guiding you in leading-strings whithersoever he chose. I am glad that you have rendered his magical labours so toilsome; I am rejoiced at the resistance which you have opposed to his attacks; but it grieves me that he has conquered you so dishonestly and artfully. I cannot but confess that the artifice to which your penetration yielded, has been enormous; however, I am angry with you because the man whom you really had discovered to be a cheat, succeeded a second time in gaining your confidence.”

“Do you then imagine that the Irishman has imposed on me in the latter period of our connection as well as in the beginning of it?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“That this occult science consists merely in juggling tricks?”

“In natural arts of all kind.”

“By what natural means could he have affected the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard?”

“I cannot tell; however, we should probably have learned it from the Count if he had not been suffered to escape.”

“I am glad you remind me of the Count. Why did he refuse so obstinately to explain that incident in spite of my prayers and menaces, declaring solemnly that it had been effected by supernatural means, although he has candidly discovered the rest of the delusions of the Irishman. What benefit could he expect from deceiving me any longer, the revolution being established, and consequently his end attained?”

“Has he not confessed that he is in the service of the Irishman? Can you know what orders he has received from his employer? Was not the veil of mystery which the Count has thrown over that incident, the only remaining mean of supporting the authority of his lord and master? Who knows what he would have confessed if you had shown a firm resolution to enforce your menaces?”

“I confess I acted very weakly and rashly, in suffering him to escape so soon.”

“At bottom it matters very little. What confidence could you have reposed in the confession of a man, who on a former occasion has imposed on you in so shameless and daring a manner? And what will you say if I prove to you that he has belied you the last time too?”

“You astonish me.”

“Don’t you recollect that he pretended the note through which Amelia has been absolved from her vow by her late Lord, to have been the effect of Hiermanfor’s supernatural power?”

“Not only the Count, Hiermanfor too has made me believe it.”

“Both of them has told you a barefaced lie.”

“Friend, how will you be able to make good your charge?”

“By proving that pretended miracle to be a juggling trick.”

“You have raised my expectation to the highest pitch.”

“I have learned that trick of a juggler, and I am sure that which the Irishman has made use of is the same. He gave Amelia a blank slip of paper, and directed her to write the question on the upper part of it. Here you must regard three points; first of all, that he himself gave the paper, to Amelia; secondly, that he desired the question to be written on the upper part of it; and thirdly, that he dictated the question to her; he then put the paper on the table, fumigated the apartment with an incense of his own composition, and requested the Countess to look at the paper in the morning. It was very natural that the answer to the question was seen beneath it, having been previously written with sympathetic ink the preceding evening, but first rendered visible in the night by the fumigation. Very likely it had been written by the Count, who could imitate the hand-writing of his brother.”

The Duke gazed at me along while, seized with dumb astonishment. At length he clapped his hands joyfully, exclaiming, “O! my friend, what a light have you cast upon that dark mysterious affair.”

“A light,” my reply was, “that will assist you to see clearly how dishonestly the Irishman and the Count have dealt with you to the last. They endeavoured to persuade you that you had been deceived at first, merely for the sake of probation, and that you had been paid with sterling truth after Paleski’s discovery. Poor deceived man; you have always been beset with lies and delusions; the sole point in which they differed from each other, consisting merely in the superior art which the latter impositions were contrived with.”

“Then you believe that the apparition at the church-yard has also been a deception, like the incident with the miraculous note.”

“Yes, I have every reason to think so. When I have once caught a person in the act of committing a fraud, I then have the greatest right to suppose that he has repeatedly imposed upon me; and when I am convinced that he has frequently deceived me, I then have the greatest reason to conclude that he has cheated me the last time also.”

“Then you think a real apparition of a ghost to be impossible.”

“Why do you ask that question? All that we have to decide at present, is, whether the Irishman or any man living can effect such an apparition.”

“You want to evade my question.”

“Indeed not!”

“Then tell me, do you think apparitions of ghosts to be possible?”

“Tell me, does not this question imply, that, are men capable of seeing ghosts?”

“Certainly.”

“That I deny.”

“You think that no man living has that capacity.”

“And not without reason. We can see only those objects which throw an image on the retina of the eye, and consequently only expanded things; a spirit has no expansion, and therefore cannot be seen by us.”

“You cut it very short.”

“My argument is valid.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

[[For sources, see the end of the e-text.]]

+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+ [By Herself.]

I shall not regret tracing the sorrows which marked the morning of my life. If I can inspire suffering virtue with confidence in heaven, and a gentle hope that when chastened in the school of adversity, the hand of happiness will amply recompense those who have patiently sustained its rough discipline.

At the tender age of sixteen I was deprived of a mother, whose loss I had every reason to deplore, as her precepts instilled into my inexperienced heart wisdom, and her example taught me to persevere in the path of virtue; though crossed with sorrows and perplexed with difficulties, she was prepared for that hour which so unexpectedly arrived, and launched her spotless into eternity. My father, Sir George Blandford, ah! how different from her in every respect, nobly descended, and possessed of an affluent fortune, he thought himself superior to the world; his soul was filled with pride, and he looked down with haughtiness on the rest of mankind. He had a son five years older than me; gentle, generous, and like his departed mother, susceptible of every soft impression; he was abroad at her death, which happened in London, and from which place Sir George determined immediately to bring me to his seat in the country. With melancholy hearts, we commenced our journey, the second day crossing a little stream, we found ourselves in imminent danger, owing to a violent fall of rain, which had rendered the current so rapid, the horses vainly struggled against it--in a few moments we should inevitably have perished, but for the interposition of a young man, who standing on the opposite bank, perceived our situation, and with wonderful presence of mind rushed into the water and assisted the men in bringing the carriage to shore. I had fainted from terror, a small cottage stood at a little distance to which they conveyed me, after a few remedies I revived. My apprehensions being over, I had an opportunity of contemplating the figure of my generous deliverer, whose resolution excited my warmest gratitude. He was just at that period of life when youth loses itself in manhood; his person strikingly elegant, his face expressive of the greatest sensibility, and his fine eyes beaming with a soft melancholy which seemed to announce him the son of sorrow. My father thanked him with as much warmth as he could assume, but a nobler gratitude rose in my soul, for from that hour I loved. With pain I heard the carriage announced, and entered it, I durst not talk of him, the rigidity of Sir George’s disposition, prevented me.

The estate to which we were going I had never been at, but its castle was held in wonderful estimation by my father. He confirmed it as an honourable memorial of the antiquity of his ancestors. At our arrival I was struck with horror; the ravages of all-conquering time were in several places displayed; a dark wood surrounded it, impenetrable to the chearing rays of the resplendant luminary; thro’ vistas cut amidst the thick boughs of old oaks, a cataract was espied foaming with impetuous fury down the side of a stupenduous mountain, from which a muddy stream took its course in hoarse murmurings through the wood. What an habitation for a mind already depressed, it filled mine with gloomy sadness, which I durst not manifest, for to dislike my father’s favourite mansion would have incurred his severest displeasure. A fortnight after my arrival, I obtained with difficulty, permission to spend some time with a young lady whom I had known from my infancy, and loved with the tenderest affection. We spent our days delightfully; happy in each other’s society, they glided insensibly away. Riding early one morning with her, my horse, alarmed by the shouting of some thoughtless boys going to school, notwithstanding all my efforts, flew off at a rate that terrified me with the idea of every moment being dashed off.

From those fears I was relieved by a man springing from behind a hedge, who catching the bridle, stopt my rapid career--but what were my emotions on perceiving he was the generous deliverer who had before saved me? More overcome by my sensations than fright, I sunk half fainting in his arms, he appeared equally affected. “Great Heaven!” cried he, “what transport! twice to have saved this precious life!” My friend here arrived--she congratulated me on my escape---our horses were given to the servants; she asked the charming stranger to accompany us to her house. I would have prest him to accept her invitation, but shame withheld my faultering accents. My conversation now wholly ran on this adventure. Miss Rivers, (the name of my friend) frequently rallied me upon it; I would blush, perhaps be silent, but quickly again begin the pleasing topic. A mandate now arrived from Sir George for me to return home. I obeyed, though with pain. As usual he received me with haughty coldness.---At night, my maid whom I had left at home, began to relate the occurrences which happened during my absence, and at length ended her narrative by saying the old gardener was discharged, and a new one hired in his place, the sweetest prettiest fellow she ever beheld. Indeed he was a little melancholy, but certainly it was owing to his situation which he appeared not designed for. I laughed and said I fancied he had made a conquest of her, she foolishly tittered, as if the idea was very pleasant. The next morning, as was my usual custom, I rose early and entered the garden. I directed my steps to a little walk shaded by poplars. At a distance I discerned a man busily employed, whom I conjectured to be the new accomplished gardener. As I approached nearer I perceived him start, and with precipitation hurry from the spot in his eagerness to avoid me. His foot stumbled and he fell. I was just beginning an involuntary exclamation of are you hurt? when raising his head, I perceived my preserver. Amazement seized me, I had not power to move, the deepest confusion tinged his cheek, he could not raise his eyes, he attempted to speak, but his tremulous voice was unintelligible. I could not stir till the appearance of my father roused me; I started and hurried from the spot.

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

An Essay ON PITY AND BENEVOLENCE.

Pity has been generally considered as the passion of gentle, benevolent, and virtuous minds; although it is acknowledged to produce only such a participation of the calamity of others, as upon the whole is pleasing to ourselves.

As a tender participation of foreign distress, it has been urged to prove, that man is endowed with social affections, which, however forcible, are wholly disinterested: and as a pleasing sensation, it has been deemed an example of unmixed selfishness and malignity. It has been resolved into that power of imagination by which we apply the misfortunes of others to ourselves: we have been said to pity, no longer than we fancy ourselves to suffer; and to be pleased, only by reflecting that our sufferings are not real; thus indulging a dream of distress from which we can awake whenever we please, to exult in our security, and enjoy the comparison of the fiction with truth.

Pity is generally understood to be that passion, which is excited by the sufferings of persons with whom we have no tender connection, and with whose welfare the stronger passions have not united our felicity; for no man would call the anguish of a mother, whose infant was torn from her breast and left to be devoured in a desart, by the name of pity; although the sentiments of a stranger, who should drop a silent tear at the relation, which yet might the next hour be forgotten, could not otherwise be justly denominated.

If pity, therefore, is absorbed in another passion, when our love of those that suffer is strong; pity is rather an evidence of the weakness than the strength of that general philanthropy for which some have so eagerly contended, with which they have flattered the pride and veiled the vices of mankind, and which they have affirmed to be alone sufficient to recommend them to the favour of Heaven, to atone for the indulgence of every appetite, and the neglect of every duty.

If human benevolence was absolutely pure and social, it would not be necessary to relate the ravages of a pestilence or a famine with minute and discriminating circumstances to rouse our sensibility: we should certainly deplore irremediable calamity, and participate temporary distress, without any mixture of delight. That deceitful sorrow, in which pleasure is so well known to be predominant, that invention has been busied for ages in contriving tales of fictitious sufferings for no other end than to excite it, would be changed into honest commiseration in which pain would be unmixed, and which, therefore, we should wish to lose.

Soon after the fatal battle of Fontenoy, a young gentleman, who came over with the officer that brought the express, being expected at the house of a friend, a numerous company of gentlemen and ladies were assembled to hear an account of the action from an eye-witness.

The gentleman, as every man is flattered by commanding attention, was easily prevailed upon to gratify the company, as soon as they were seated, and the first ceremonies past. He described the march of many thousands of their countrymen into the field, where batteries had been concealed on each side, which in a moment strewed the ground with mangled limbs and carcasses that almost floated in blood, and obstructed the path of those who followed to the slaughter. He related, how often the decreasing multitude returned to the cannon; how suddenly they were rallied, and how suddenly broken; he repeated the list of officers who had fallen undistinguished in the carnage, men whose eminence rendered their names universally known, their influence extensive, and their attachments numerous; and he hinted the fatal effects which this defeat might produce to the nation, by turning the success of the war against us. But the company, however amused by the relation, appeared not to be affected by the event: they were still attentive to every trifling punctilio of ceremony, usual among well bred persons; they bowed with a graceful simper to a lady who sneezed, mutually presented each other with snuff, shook their heads and changed their posture at proper intervals, asked some questions which tended to produce a more minute detail of such circumstances of horror as had been lightly touched, and having at last remarked that the Roman patriot regretted the brave could die but once, the conversation soon became general, and a motion was made to divide into parties at whist. But just as they were about to comply, the gentleman again engaged their attention. I forgot (said he) to relate one particular; which, however, deserves to be remembered. The captain of a company, whose name I cannot now recollect, had, just before his corps was ordered to embark, married a young lady to whom he had been long tenderly attached, and who, contrary to the advice of friends, and the expostulations, persuasion and entreaty of her husband, insisted to go abroad with him, and share his fortune at all events. If he should be wounded, she said, that she might hasten his recovery, and alleviate his pain, by such attendance as strangers cannot be hired to pay; if he should be taken prisoner, she might, perhaps, be permitted to shorten the tedious hours of captivity, which solitude would protract; and if he should die, that it would be better for her to know it with certainty and speed, than to wait at a distance in anxiety and suspense, tormented by doubtful and contradictory reports, and at last believing it possible, that if she had been present, her assiduity and tenderness might have preserved his life. The captain, though he was not convinced by her reasoning, was yet overcome by the importunate eloquence of her love: he consented to her request, and they embarked together.

The head quarters of the duke of Cumberland were at Brussoel, from whence they removed the evening before the battle to Monbray, a village within musket shot of the enemy’s lines, where the captain who commanded in the left wing, was encamped.

Their parting in the morning was short. She looked after him, till he could no longer be distinguished from others; and as soon as the firing began she went back pale and trembling, and sat down expecting the event in an agony of impatience, anxiety and terror. She soon learned from stragglers and fugitives, that the slaughter was dreadful, and the victory hopeless. She did not, however, yet despair; she hoped that the captain might return among the few that should remain: But soon after the retreat, this hope was cut off, and she was informed that he fell in the first charge, and was left among the dead. She was restrained by those about her, from rushing in the phrenzy of desperation to the field of battle, of which the enemy was still possessed; but the tumult of her mind having abated, and her grief become more calm during the night, she ordered a servant to attend her at break of day; and as leave had been given to bury the dead, she went herself to seek the remains of her husband, that she might honour them with the last rites, and pour the tears of conjugal affection upon his grave. They wandered about among the dying and the dead, gazing on every distorted countenance, and looked round with irresolution and amazement on a scene, which those who stripped had left tenfold more a sight of horror than those who had slain. From this sight she was at last turning with confusion and despair, but was stopped by the cries of a favourite spaniel, who had followed her without being perceived. He was standing at some distance in the field; and the moment she saw him, she conceived the strongest assurance that he had found his master. She hasted instantly to the place without regarding any other object; and stooping over the corps by which he stood, she found it so disfigured with wounds and besmeared with blood, that the features were not to be known: But, as she was weeping in the anguish of suspence, she discovered hanging on the wrist the remains of a ruffle, round which there was a slight border of her own work. Thus suddenly to have discovered, and in such dreadful circumstances, that which she had sought, quite overwhelmed her, and she sunk down on the body. By the assistance of the servant, she was recovered to sensibility, but not to reason; she was seized at once with convulsions and madness; and a few hours after she was carried back to the village she expired.

Those who had heard the fate of whole battalions without pity, and the loss of a battle, by which their country would probably suffer irreparable damage, without concern, listened to a tale of private distress with uninterrupted attention. All regard to each other was for a while suspended; tears by degrees overflowed every eye, and every bosom became susceptible of pity: But the whole circle paused with evident regret, when the narrative was at an end: and would have been glad that such another could have been told, to continue their entertainment.--Such was the benevolence of pity! But a lady who had taken the opportunity of a very slight acquaintance to satisfy her curiosity, was touched with much deeper distress; and fainting in the struggle to conceal the emotions of her mind, fell back in her chair. An accident which was not sooner discovered, because every eye had been fixed upon the speaker, and all attention monopolized by the story. Every one, however, was ready to afford her assistance; and it was soon discovered, that she was mother to the lady whose distress had afforded so much virtuous pleasure to the company. It was not possible to tell her another story, which would revive the same sensations; and if it had, the world could not have bribed her to have heard it. Her affection to the sufferer was too strong to permit her, on this occasion, to enjoy the luxury of pity, and applaud her benevolence for sensations which shewed its defects. It would, indeed, be happy for us, if we were to exist only in this state of imperfection, that a greater share of sensibility is not allowed us; but if the mole, in the kindness of unerring Wisdom, is permitted scarce to distinguish light from darkness, the mole should not surely, be praised for the perspicuity of its sight.

Let us distinguish that malignity, which others confound with benevolence, and applaud as virtue, let the imperfection of nature, which is adapted to this imperfect state, teach us humility; and fix our dependence upon Him, who has promised to “create in us a new heart and a right spirit,” and to receive us to that place, where our love of others, however ardent, can only increase our felicity; because, in that place, there will be no object, but such as perfect benevolence can contemplate with delight.

* * * * *

REMARKABLE OCCURRENCE.

Mr. Cecil, assuming the name of Jones, some years since, purchased a small piece of land, and built on it a neat house on the edge of a common in Wiltshire. Here he long resided, unknowing, and almost unknown, by the neighbourhood. Various conjectures were formed respecting this solitary and singular stranger; at length a clergyman took some notice of him, and occasionally inviting him to his house, he found him possessed of intelligence and manners, which evidently indicated his origin to have been in the higher stations of life. Returning one day from a visit at this clergyman’s, he passed the house of a farmer, at the door of which was the daughter employed at the washing-tub. He looked at the girl a moment, and thus accosted her.--“My girl, would you like to be married?” “Sir!” exclaimed the girl.---“I asked you, young woman, whether you would wish to be married; because, if you would, I will marry you,” “Lord, Sir! these are strange questions from a man I never saw in my life before.” “Very likely,” replied Mr. Jones; “but, however, I am serious, and will leave you till ten o’clock to-morrow to consider of it; I will then call on you again, and if I have your and your father’s consent, we will be married the following day.”

He kept his appointment, and meeting with the father, he thus addressed him: “Sir, I have seen your daughter; I should like her for a wife; and I am come to ask your consent.” “This proposal,” answered the old man, “is very extraordinary from a perfect stranger: Pray, sir, who are you? and what are you?” “Sir,” replied Mr. J. “you have a right to ask these questions: my name is Jones; the new house on the edge of the common is mine, and if it be necessary, I can purchase your house and farm, and half the neighbourhood.”

Another hour’s conversation, brought all parties into one mind, and the friendly clergyman aforementioned united the happy pair. Three or four years they lived in this retirement, and were blessed with two children. Mr. J. employed great part of his time in improving his wife’s mind, but never disclosing his own origin. At length, upon taking a journey of pleasure with her, while remarking the beauties of the country, he noticed and named the different gentlemen’s seats as they passed; and coming to a very magnificent one, “This, my dear,” said he, “is Burleigh house, the seat of the earl of Exeter, and, if you please, we will go in and ask leave to look at it: it is an elegant house, and probably will amuse you.”

The nobleman who possessed this mansion was lately dead. He once had a nephew, who, in the gaities of his youth, had incurred some debts, on account of which he had retired from fashionable life on about 200l. per annum, and had not been heard of for some years. This nephew was the identical Mr. Jones, the hero of our story, who now took possession of the house, title, and estate, and is the present earl of Exeter!

* * * * *

A PLEASING REVERIE.

Conducted by Contemplation, I found myself in the fertile regions of Imagination; Genius and Education had dispersed those mists which are the offspring of Prejudice. My soul, seized with the fire of Enthusiasm, took her flight to scenes which mortals have not yet dared to explore. I penetrated the inmost recesses of the temple of that Virtue, by the exercise of whose attributes mortals are almost elevated to the mighty inhabitants of heaven. At the porch of this edifice stood blooming Temperance, and meek Religion with uplifted eye. At the feet of Temperance laid grovelling Austerity, accompanied with the meagre crowd of penitential Fasts. Cloathed in black, at the feet of Religion, appeared Superstition, with her attendants, Folly, Enthusiasm, and Hypocrisy. In vain they endeavoured to enter the temple of Virtue; Temperance and Religion united, stood the shock of their numberless hosts! Having passed the porch, my divine guide left me to the care of Liberality of Mind: “You heed not my advice; follow her dictates and they will assuredly conduct thee to Virtue.” As we proceeded, Liberality of Mind made me acquainted with the names of these moral virtues by whose aid the throne of the goddess is ascended. “He who perpetually points to the divine throne, is Philosophy. He unfolds the various secrets of nature, which are hid from the ignorant. Before him is Contemplation; and behind him, Imagination, who has given birth to so many hypotheses. See Fortitude, with her eye of fire, disdaining every allurement the earth affords: after whom follows Resignation to the will of Providence; and here, behold----” I now saw Virtue enthroned; with Benevolence one side, and on the other that celestial power who teaches men to controul their mortal passions. Virtue’s glory did not blaze forth; her fire was that which burnt continually the same equal flame; unlike the glare of vice, which greatly blazes forth for the moment, but soon leaves us in eternal darkness!

* * * * *

SATIRE.

General satyrists are usually tinctured with a degree of misanthropy; they dislike the species for the faults of individuals, and they attribute to the whole, what is due only to a small portion of mankind. This talent of prying into the infirmities of human nature, is frequently useful to the public; it is always inconvenient to the possessor; it corrects the vanity, the affectation, and the vices of other men, but it breeds conceit, pride, obstinacy and peevishness in the mind of the owner. Though it maybe founded on good sense, it destroys the best fruits of that invaluable blessing---self-happiness. One cannot declaim against the world without dreading some retribution; the satirist in the full career of triumph, trembles at the thoughts of being hated by those he pretends to despise, and he commonly meets with that contempt which he so liberally bestows.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Tuesday the 27th ult. at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Hart, Mr. PHENEAS SILLS, of Cow-Harbour, to Mrs. REBECCA WHITE, of Crab-Meadow.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. CHARLES CORNELL, of Long Island, to Miss SALLY BUXTON, of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Nesbit, Mr. HENRY DAWSON, jun. of Brooklyn (L.I.) to Miss MARIAH HICKS, daughter of Mr. Jacob Hicks of that place.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 8th to the 14th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Jan. 8 3 50 15 n. ne. clear, light wind. 9 0 16 n. do. clear high wd. clear lt. wd. 10 3 50 24 25 nw. sw. frost, clear lt. wd. clear do. 11 23 36 e. se. cloudy lt. wd. much rain. 12 32 50 38 w. do. clear lt. wind, clear h. wd. 13 31 40 50 nw. w. clear lt. wd. do. do. 14 30 33 25 sw. ne. cloudy lt. wd. much rain

* * * * * * * * *

A CHARM FOR ENNUI.

A MATRIMONIAL BALLAD.

Ye couples, who meet under Love’s smiling star, Too gentle to skirmish, too soft e’er to jar; Though cover’d with roses from Joy’s richest tree, Near the couch of Delight lurks the dæmon Ennui.

Let the Muses gay lyre, like Ithuriel’s bright spear, Keep this fiend, ye sweet brides, from approaching your ear; Since you know the squat toad’s infernal esprit, Never listen, like Eve, to the devil Ennui.

Let no gloom of your hall, no shade of your bower, Make you think you behold this malevolent power: Like a child in the dark, what you fear you will see; Take courage, away flies the phantom Ennui.

O trust me, the powers both of person and mind, To defeat this sly foe full sufficient you’ll find; Should your eyes fail to kill him, with keen repartee, You can sink the flat boat of th’invader Ennui.

If a cool non-chalance o’er your sposa should spread, (For vapours will rise e’en on Jupiter’s head,) O ever believe it, from jealousy free, A thin passing cloud, not the fog of Ennui.

Of tender complainings tho’ Love be the theme, O beware, my sweet friends, ’tis a dangerous scheme; And tho’ often ’tis tried, mark the pauvre mari Thus by kindness inclos’d in the coop of Ennui.

Let Confidence, rising such meanness above, Drown the discord of doubt in the music of Love; Your duette shall thus charm in the natural key, No sharps from vexation, no flats from Ennui.

But to you, happy husbands, in matters more nice, The Muse, though a maiden, now offers advice; O drink not too keenly your bumper of glee, E’en extasy’s cup has some dregs of Ennui.

Tho’ Love for your lips fill with nectar his bowl, Tho’ his warm bath of blessings inspirit your soul; O swim not too far on Rapture’s high sea, Lest you sink unawares in the gulph of Ennui.

Impatient of law, Passion oft will reply-- Against limitations I’ll plead till I die! But chief-justice Nature rejects the vain plea, And such culprits are doom’d to the gaol of Ennui.

When husband and wife are of honey too fond, They’re like poison’d carp at the top of a pond; Together they gape o’er a cold dish of tea, Two muddy-sick fish in the net of Ennui.

Of indolence most, ye mild couples, beware, For the myrtles of Love often hide her soft snare; The fond doves in their net, from his pounce cannot flee, But the lark in the morn ’scapes the dæmon Ennui.

Let cheerful good-humour, that sunshine of life, Which smiles in the maiden, illumine the wife; And mutual attention, in equal degree, Keep Hymen’s bright chain from the rust of Ennui.

To the graces together, O fail not to bend, And both to the voice of the Muses attend; So Minerva, for you shall with Cupid agree, And preserve your chaste flame from the smoke of Ennui.

* * * * * * * * *

ELEGY.

Chill JANUARY waves his wither’d hand, With magic touch he rifles Nature’s charms; He speaks and frowns--Earth hears the hoarse command, And sinks obedient to his icy arms.

With paler lustre now the distant sun, On every branch from fretted hoar frost gleams; Enchain’d and barr’d their former course to run, In icy bonds are held the chrystal streams.

Each fairest work of lib’ral Nature dies, Whene’er the proud imperious tempest bids; With clouds becapt, to prop the lowering skies, The snow-clad mountains lift their hoary heads.

Their leafy honours shed, the naked trees, Stretch helpless forth their bare unshelter’d arms; Imploring Spring, on wings of tepid breeze, To wake once more to life their native charms.

Ah! ponder well, my soul, th’ instructive scene-- Scarce four short months the circling year has run, Since blooming nature smil’d a chearful green, And infant flow’rets drank the early sun.

Thus childhood smiles serene---the spring of life One fleeting hour---and all its joys are past;--- Youth next, ’tween hope and fear eternal strife, Like Summer, sunshine now, and now with clouds o’ercast.

Next manhood comes---like Autum comes---is fled, And age like hoary Winter, gloomy, grave, Now silvers o’er sage Wisdom’s sacred head, And o’er his bosom spreads the blossoms of the grave.

Now comes the last most awful scene of all--- Life’s glimmering landscape dim before the sight; Death’s sable hand outspreads his sooty pall; We humble---breathe a prayer---then sink in night!

Prepare, thou fluttering soul, prepare for death--- With dauntless foot to tread the beaten road; And oh! when this frail clay resigns its fleeting breath, Exulting spring unfetter’d to thy God.

Ne’er dies the soul---the grave not ends its being; A ray divine will pierce the awful gloom; Eternal there shall smile a living Spring! The soul eternal blossom in the tomb!

* * * * *

VERSES To a Young Lady, on the Death of a Companion.

When beats your heart with young desire, May love a mutual glow inspire; And when at Hymen’s shrine you bow, May innocence smile on your vow; And Joy and Peace illume your way, As thro’ life’s varying scenes you stray: So may you never, never, know the tear, That now a lover pours o’er his Amelia’s bier!

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+-- where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, January 25, 1797.+ [+No. 82.+

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

ESSAYIST. No. II.

“To give reflection time, with lenient art, “Each fond delusion from her soul to steal.”

MASON.

To review the transactions of former days, the many sportive hours which have long been past, and to recall the pleasures of innocence and virtue, is both pleasing and instructive; pleasing, because it delights the heart with joys it once participated, and of which, while animated with the prospect, tho’ only the delusive paintings of imagination, it seems even now to partake; instructive, because it presents our progress in happiness and virtue, or the mournful reverse our deviation from innocence and rectitude. But it is particularly pleasing to look back on the scenes of youth and childhood; we review those seasons of life with the greatest partiality and delight. ’Twas then health and beauty bloomed upon the cheek, and every object was decked with the charms of fascination. ’Twas then the heart ignorant of vice and unacquainted with sorrow or misfortune, enjoyed every pleasure without alloy. There are likewise other parts of life which occupy the moment of reflection: the learned dwell with rapture on the hours spent in the acquirement of knowledge and instruction, the ambitious on their gradual progression to wealth and fame, and the brave on the many dangers and hardships they have undergone in the field of battle. Reflection is especially the attendant of age, it assists to enliven the many vacant hours which are common at this period. The aged almost feel their strength renewed in recounting their former seats of activity, and their hearts are animated by the virtuous deeds they have performed.

Happy then is he who having spent his days in the practice of every public and social virtue, reviews the past actions of his life with chearfulness and content: the pleasures of reflection shall chear the listless moments of decrepitude and age, and shall convey peace and comfort to his bosom in those moments when present enjoyments have lost their relish. Tho’ he no more can perceive the splendour of the sun, and the various beauties of creation: tho’ incapable of hearing the most harmonious music, and of enjoying the choicest delicacies; still shall the power of his mind survive the general ruin, and reflection chear him in the evening of his days.

A. D.

Jan. 15, 1797.

* * * * *

FELICITY EQUALLY DISTRIBUTED.

Among the different conditions and ranks of men, the balance of happiness is preserved in a great measure equal; and the high and low, the rich and the poor, approach in point of real enjoyment much nearer to each other than is commonly imagined. Providence never intended that any state here should either be completely happy, or entirely miserable.

If the feelings of pleasure are more numerous and more lively, in the higher departments of life, such also are those of pain. If greatness flatters our vanity, it multiplies our dangers.--If opulence increases our gratifications, it increases in the same proportion our desires and demands.--If the poor are confined to a more narrow circle, yet within that circle lie most of those natural satisfactions, which, after all the refinements of art, are found to be the most genuine and true. For the happiness of every man depends more upon the state of his own mind than upon any one external circumstance; nay, more than upon all external things put together.

Inordinate passions are the great disturbers of life; and unless we possess a good conscience, and a well governed mind, discontent will blast every enjoyment, and the highest prosperity will only prove disgusted misery. This conclusion then would be fixed in the mind: The destruction of virtue is the destruction of peace. In no station---in no period are we secure from the dangers which spring from our passions. Every age, and every station they beset, from youth to grey hairs, and from the peasant to the prince.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 227.)

“Yet you have demonstrated nothing else but that we cannot see pure spirits; we may, nevertheless, be capable of seeing spirits in bodily clothing.”

“This I grant without the least hesitation, for daily experience proves it. We see men, of course we see spirits in bodily clothing.”

“You fancy to escape me by this turn; but you are mistaken. You allow that we can see spirits if clothed in a bodily covering.”

“What we see is always nothing but the bodily covering; but we must conclude by other marks and circumstances, whether it be inhabited by a spirit. Besides, there is in the whole dominion of our sensible knowledge not one being that answers our idea of a spirit; this idea has been produced merely by reasoning, and therefore a spirit never can become an object of our perception.”

“Very strange!” the Duke replied, shaking his head; “the Irishman has said much the same, and nevertheless, he hit upon an expedient of proving to me the possibility of apparitions.”

“I have read that argument; it is taken from the dialectic. This circumstance alone ought to have made you suspect it. Or are you such a novice in that science that you should not know how pliable it is to accommodate itself to all opinions? Those philosophers who fancy all the beings of the whole creation to be spirits, as well as those who deny the existence of God, draw their arguments from that source. Is there any absurdity that could not be fitted to that baseless philosophy?”

“You are carrying matters too far. The Irishman did indeed propound several positions, which by their evidence enforce their claim to truth.”

“That I do not deny. A great deal of philosophical penetration is however required, if one shall be able to discern the truth and falsehood, which its assertion imply in a strange and m One feels indeed, frequently, the falsehood of sophistical subtilities without being able to refute them.”

“I should be glad to know what you have to object against the doctrine of the Irishman concerning the possibility of apparitions?”

“In order to do this, it will be necessary previously to abstract his doctrine.

“When a spirit, the Irishman says, operates on mine, then he is present to me. If I were a mere rational being, I then should be satisfied with imagining the presence of the spirit, without myself; but since I am a sensible being, by virtue of my nature, my imagination forms a corporeal idea of the object which my understanding thinks; that is, it forms an image of it. The presence of a spirit, therefore, puts my inferior intellectual powers in motion by means of the superior ones; I do not only imagine it merely without myself, but I perceive, at the same time, a shape answerable to it; I not only collect the ideas which he produces in my mind, but, at the same time, shape them in words. In short, I see the spirit and hear him speak.--Do you think, my friend, that I have comprehended the doctrine of the Irishman?”

“Perfectly!”

“The shape in which I see the spirit is, consequently, no real substance, but only the product of my sensitive power of perception, of my imagination.”

“Very right.”

“Consequently, the seeing of a spirit is, indeed, founded on a spiritual influx, which, however, is formed and shaped at pleasure by our imagination; therefore, on every apparition of spirits truth would be intermixed with illusion, and the notions which have been instilled in our mind by our education, and all the prejudices we have imbibed in our infancy, would act an important part on every occasion of that kind?”

“I perceive what you are aiming at.”

“Then tell me, what would the gift of seeing spirits and ghosts benefit us, since the spiritual effect could not but be interwoven so closely with the phantoms of our imagination, that it would be impossible to discern reality from the gross illusions which it is surrounded with?”

The Duke was absorbed in silent meditation, and I continued:---

“Don’t you see that superstition thus would be at full liberty to exercise its sway over us, because we would be led to believe that even the most absurd delusions of our imagination could possibly be founded on a spiritual influx?”

The Duke continued to be silent, and I resumed.--

“And don’t you see that it would be impossible to discern a ghost-seer from a lunatic?”

The Duke started up: “How, from a lunatic?”

“Undoubtedly. The characteristic of lunacy consists in mistaking mere objects of the imagination for real substances, existing without ourselves, the original cause of which is a convulsion of the vessels of our brain, which are put out of their equilibrium. This suspension of the equilibrium can arise either from weakness of nerves, or from too strong a pressure of the blood towards the head, and mere phantoms of our imagination then appear to us, even while awake, to be real objects without ourselves. Although such an image should be but faint at first, yet the consternation at such an apparition, so contrary to the natural order of things, would soon excite the attention, and impart to the phantom a vivacity that would not suffer the deluded person to doubt its reality. It is therefore very natural; for the visionary fancies he sees and hears very plainly, what no person besides him perceives, or imagines he sees such phantoms appear and disappear suddenly, when they are gamboling only before one sense that of sight, without being perceived through another sense; for example, that of feeling, and therefore appear to be penetrable. The distemper of the visionary does not affect the understanding immediately, but only the senses; in consequence of which the unhappy wretch cannot remove the delusion by arguments of reason, because the real or supposed perception through the senses, always antecedes the judgment of the understanding, and possesses an immediate evidence which surpasses all reflection. For which reason I can blame no person who treats the ghost-seers as candidates for the lunatic hospital, instead of looking upon them as people belonging, partly, to another world.”

“Marquis, Marquis!” the Duke said, smiling, “you use the ghost-seers very ill. I should leave them entirely at your mercy, if the Irishman had not promised to communicate to me a criterion by which one can discern real apparitions from vain phantoms of the imagination.”

“It is a pity he has only promised it, it being probable that this promise will not be performed with greater punctuality than the rest of his engagements.”

“The event will prove how much you wrong him.”

“But what would you say, if I could prove that he can communicate to you no criterion of that nature?”

“If you could do this---”

“Nothing is easier. The criterion whereby a real apparition of a ghost could be discerned from an illusion, must be either external or internal: that is, you must be able to ascertain the presence of a ghost, either by means of your senses, or by conclusions deduced from the impression your mind receives. Don’t you think so?”

“It would be much safer if these two criterions co-existed.”

“It would be sufficient if only one of these two criterions were possible. However, you shall soon be convinced that neither can be proved. Whatever you perceive, or suppose you perceive by means of your senses, in case of an apparition, is either a real material object, whereby perhaps an impostor, perhaps nature, who is so inexhaustable in her effects, or an accidental meeting of uncommon incidents surprises you; or it is an object that exists no where but in your heated imagination; what you perceive through your senses never can be the spirit himself, because spirits are incorporeal beings, and therefore neither can be seen, heard, nor felt; it is, consequently, evident that no external criterion of the reality of an apparition can exist.”

“This, I think, cannot be disputed.”

“But there exists perhaps an internal criterion. In order to decide this question, let us consider what passes in the human mind when a ghost appears. First of all, a lively idea of the presence of a ghost takes place, and sensations of terror, astonishment and awe arise---however, this idea and these sensations may be nothing else but the consequence of an uncommon, though natural external impression of a feverish fancy, and consequently never can be indubitable proofs of the presence of spirits. But perhaps the presence of spirits is ascertained by the co-existence of certain extraordinary notions, sensations, and cognitions! This too cannot be, for we must be convinced that they could not arise in our soul in a natural manner, if we shall be able to ascertain their having been produced by the influence of a spirit. In that case it would be requisite we should know the whole store of our clear and obscure ideas, all their reciprocal relations, and all possible compositions which our imagination can form of them, a knowledge that is reserved only for the omniscient Ruler of the world. If we happen sometimes, in our dreams, to have the most wonderful visions, to reason in the most sensible manner, to discover new truths, and to predict incidents which afterwards really happen; why should not the same faculty of the soul which produces such uncommon effects in our dreams, surprise us sometimes with similar operations while we are awake, when it is agitated in a violent manner? In short, my friend, there exists neither an internal nor an external criterion whereby we could ascertain the reality of an apparition.”

“O how insufficient is human reason!” the Duke groaned, “how ambiguous the faculty through which we fancy we resemble the Godhead, and that guides us much unsafer than instinct directs brutes. But a short time since I thought it to be consonant with reason to believe in apparitions of ghosts, and now I am convinced of the contrary. Your arguments have pulled down what those of the Irishman have constructed, and thus I am constantly driven from one belief to the opposite one. Where shall I find, at length, a fixed point to rest upon? O! how happy is he, who undisturbed by the restless instinct of thinking, and of investigating the nature of things, rests in the lap of faith!”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

REASON.

O Reason; Heaven-born Reason; image of Supreme Intelligence which created the world, never will I forsake thy altars; but to continue faithful to thee, will disdain alike the hatred of some, the ingratitude of others, and the injustice of all. Reason, whose empire is so congenial and so pleasing to souls of feeling, and hearts of true elevation: Reason, celestial Reason, our guide and support in the labyrinth of life; alas! whither wilt thou fly in this season of discord and maddening fury? The oppressors will have nothing to say to thee, and thou art rejected by the oppressed. Come then, since the world abandons thee, to inhabit the retreat of the sage; dwell there protected by his vigilance, and honoured by the expressive silence of his worship. One day thou wilt appear again attired in all thy glory, while imposition and deceit shall vanish into nothing. At that period perhaps I shall be no more; yet permit the shade of thy departed advocate to rest in full assurance of thy pre-eminence and glorious reign:---The hope, the pleasing anticipation of the happiness that will then be diffused through the world, affords me consolations of the most soothing and satisfactory nature.

* * * * * * * * *

[[For sources, see the end of the second installment.]]

+The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,+ A Story, Founded on Facts.

If the heart hitherto satisfied and happy in the long-preserved ideas of rectitude and honour, rational enjoyment, and the sweets of domestic felicity, should now, strongly tempted by the fatal fascinations of vice, be meditating a departure from virtue, and this relation prove the means of preserving its owner from error and delusion, the wishes of the writer will be accomplished: or if those already engaged in pursuits that, however brilliant and alluring to the giddy votaries of false enjoyment, must eventually terminate in confusion, and the loss of every thing that ought to be held dear, become, from this story convinced of the necessity of an altered conduct, well repaid, indeed, will be the recorder of scenes, which, for the sake of society at large, he hopes will be found less and less frequent in the present age of true refinement and unaffected sensibility.

Mr. Alton, once amply possessed of the gifts of fortune, and surrounded with every earthly blessing, suddenly left his weeping lady, then pregnant, and an infant son, and fled from the pursuit of justice.

He had violated the laws of religion, honour and his country, by seducing from her duty the wife of his friend; a duel was the consequence, and the injured husband lost his life in the fatal rencounter.

Immediate flight was Mr. Alton’s only resource; therefore, regardless of every feeling but such as arose for his own safety, he precipitately left his native country, completely wretched, and loaded with all the horrors of guilt and dismay.

A short time after his arrival in Italy, his means of support failed; extravagance and dissipation had ruined his fortunes, and he must soon have fled from importunate creditors, had not this still more dreadful cause forced him from his wretched family.

As he had acquired the art of becoming fortunate at play, his talents that way were now brought forward, and an uncommon run of success soon enabled him to shine forth again in a foreign country with the same splendour he once displayed in his own.

Again engaged in frivolous pursuits of expence and pleasure, his light and worthless heart soon dismissed every trace of remorse for the distress and anguish he had occasioned in the family of his murdered friend, and the utter ruin brought on his deserted wife and children.

Possessing every art of genteel address, an elegant person, assisted with all the powers of soft persuasion, he soon (under the name of Freeman, not daring to use his real one) won upon the heart of a young lady of exalted birth, whom he privately married.

Her friends at first forbade them their presence, but the young and beautiful Italian being a much-loved and only child, they soon yielded to excuses and professions which he too well knew how to frame, and at length received them to favour and protection.

Many years passed on without a returning thought of former connections he had heard long since, by private means, that his first lady had fallen a victim to a broken heart, leaving the care of a son and daughter to her afflicted father, who had little remaining to support them, the necessities of the unprincipled and unfeeling Alton having almost drained his once ample fortune.

And here it is necessary to inform the reader, that the poor old gentleman did not long survive the loss of his child. But heaven raised up a friend to her offspring: this friend, who delighted in acts of mercy, adopted the two innocents, as his own, making over to them his estate and his name.

A young gentleman of the name of Easton, often visited at Mr. Freeman’s, whose house was always open to people of fashion; and though their years did not correspond, yet the former still carried an appearance of youth and gaiety, assisted by an uncommon share of health, and a heart feelingly alive to every call of pleasure.

Alike dissolute in manners and inclination, an intimacy soon commenced between them. The present Mrs. Freeman, who, before her marriage, experienced every indulgence and attention from parents who adored her, had too early an occasion to lament her misplaced love, and unhappy choice.

Never, but in the hours of inebriation, did she experience any thing like attention and kindness from the man who owed every thing to her. Then, indeed, he would utter rhapsodies of affection, alike destitute of sincerity as of reason.

And now, their only child (a beautiful young lady who had just attained her 13th year, the only companion of her pensive mother, to whom she was indeed a real comfort, dutiful affection and endearing sensibility having lightened many a painful day) was visited by a fever, which robbed her afflicted parent of her sole remaining blessing. This calamity deeply affected them both. The impression made on Mrs. Freeman brought on a decline, which proved fatal--bereft of every earthly happiness, she looked up to that heaven she had been long preparing for, and in a short time obtained dismission from a world, from which she had been weaned by trouble, and the unkind neglect of a husband she had loved but too well.

Mr. Freeman put on the outward “trappings and the suits of woe”--but wanted “that within,” which goes beyond every external appearance.

Pomp and parade, indeed, attended her remains to the silent tomb; but these were not accompanied with the husband’s tear. The monument was raised on which his sorrows were recorded, but, cold and senseless as the marble which received that record, his heart was a stranger to those feelings that dignify the husband, the father, and the man.

(To be concluded in our next.)

* * * * * * * * *

+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+ [Written by Herself.]

(Continued from our last.)

The first instant I could retire, I retreated to my chamber, my mind embarrassed with the cruelest sensations: grief and astonishment at his mean situation. I wished, yet durst not go to the garden; unconscious of art, I feared I might betray unguardedly the too fond sentiments of my soul. The next day my maid brought me a beautious bouquet; she said the gardener had culled it from the choicest of his flowers---a sigh heaved my bosom at this present---I dismist her---a paper was rolled round, a presentiment struck me it might contain something interesting==I hastily tore it from the flowers, and read the following lines:

“Will the loveliest of her sex pardon the presumption of an unfortunate man, the early victim of calamity?==will she deign to peruse a relation of those woes which have reduced him to the disgraceful station he now fills==an irresistible impulse prompts this request; if ’tis granted, write a line and drop it in the garden==in expectation of such a favour, I will keep in sight, and then by the first opportunity transmit my narrative to you.”

Tears gushed from me on perusing this note, heavens! what anguish rent my breast at my inability to succour him. Without the smallest hesitation, I complied with his request, and instantly wrote the note he desired. The next day, concealed in a basket of fruit which he sent me, I found the ardently desired paquet, containing the history of his life.

“Prompted by an inclination not to be supprest, I sit down to relate a tale full of woe to her, whose gentle heart will yield the soft tribute of sensibility.

“Early in life fortune loured on my parents, and their misfortunes are, I fear, entailed upon their wretched offspring. My father’s name was Harland, he was descended from a noble family, whose possessions tho’ large, could keep no pace with unbounded prodigality; the fortune was so dissipated, that but a residue remained sufficient to purchase him a commission. Courage glowed in his breast and he distinguished himself by many a gallant action in a tedious war which England undertook against France. At the expiration of it he married a woman, rich only in rectitude and beauty, and retired from a profession which had but ill rewarded his activity. For some time they struggled against adversity---the fell adversary at length overcame. Two children of whom I was the eldest, aggravated the horrors of their condition; he could scarcely support them, as his half-pay afforded but a few of even the necessaries of life. In this situation he was discovered by a friend, possessed of affluence, who was single; as he had always exprest an aversion to matrimony, he inherited pride enough however to wish his name might be continued. Actuated by this wish, he made a proposal to my parents which they gladly embraced---it was adopting me for his heir. I was then five years old, he shortly brought me to his estate for he had only made an occasional visit to the shire where my father resided; his understanding was rather weak, his chief foible a credulous susceptibility to flattery; he treated me however, with tenderness, and I was considered by every one as his future heir. At a proper age, he sent me to Oxford to complete my studies; I made a proficiency there that pleased him, and he declared I should be indulged in chusing a profession. Every vacation I spent with him. In one, ere I was an hour arrived, he mentioned with peculiar pleasure an acquisition his neighbourhood had lately received from a most agreeable family settling in it. Mr. and Mrs. Wilford with their two sons, he affirmed, I should like; but he was mistaken, a servility ran thro’ the family highly disgusting to a liberal mind; I found them all replete with flattery and meanness. A domestic who had ever evinced the strongest partiality for me, cautioned me against them; he said he was acquainted with their arts, and bid me beware, as they were almost continually with his master, wheedling and indulging his favourite foible. Unskilled in the treachery of man, I neglected this caution, I judged of them by myself, I imagined them all as free from guile. Fatal experience however, that school of wisdom, undeceived me. I thought also it was impossible any person could be so perfidious, as after promising protection, to withdraw it without cause. Mr. T---- convinced me such perfidy existed. By the next vacation my studies were completed, and I returned full of pleasing expectations, that my adopted father would now indulge me in chusing a profession, which of all others I admired--a military life, for like Douglas, I longed to follow to the field some warlike lord.

“Mr. T----’s reception surprized me, it was cold and reserved; whenever his eyes met mine, a guilty confusion covered his face. Base, worthless man! no wonder. Two days after my arrival, he sent for me to his library, for some moments he was silent, then in hesitating accents began a long preamble of his generosity to my father, in so long supporting me, and giving me an education suitable to the first man in the kingdom, of which he supposed I must be sensible; an assenting bow was my only reply: and he continued: his relations, he said, began with justice to murmer, at the intention he had conceived of bequeathing me his fortune, to whom no tie connected him, that he had discarded the idle idea of adopting me, and added, my education was such as to inspire me with hopes of a speedy establishment; to forward which, he would give two hundred pounds, and on every occasion I might depend upon his friendly interest. He stopt; amazement harrowed my soul, and indignation tied my tongue. But on repeating his words, and offering me the money, I dashed it from his hand, and in a phrenzy of fury rushed from the house. I guessed full well the authors of my misery, the vile Wilfords, who, in my absence, by the most servile arts, ingratiated themselves with Mr. T----. He abandoned me for their sons. Hours I continued walking about his demesne almost unconscious of my being; the insult I had received, the disappointment of all my hopes was too much for a naturally impetuous temper. When reason a little calmed my passion, I resolved immediately to repair to my parents. I had not seen them since my infancy, though my wishes to behold them were great. Mr. T---- always prevented my gratifying them, as they lived at an extreme distance from him. Nothing will intimidate a youthful mind when bent on executing a favourite project; on foot, therefore, without consideration, I began my journey; no pleasing thoughts soothed my breast or beguiled the tedious way. The third day I conjectured I must be pretty near their habitation; filial piety sprung in my breast and quickened my steps at the idea; a pleasing calm diffused itself over my soul in anticipating the rapture of the paternal embrace---a dusky hue was beginning to steal along the expanse, and sober evening had taken ‘her wonted station in the middle air.’

“A Church-yard lay on one side of the road, and the only separation between them was a slight broom hedge. I thought I heard the plaintive voice of woe. I looked and discerned a venerable man, whose figure must have moved even the sullen apathy of the stoic. He was seated on a new-made grave--his grey locks displayed his age, and he appeared bending beneath the pressure of misfortune--his eyes were now watering the grave, now cast up to heaven, with a settled look of despair. I could not pass him unnoticed--I entered this mournful receptacle of death--too much absorbed, he had not heeded me, till a sigh burst from my oppressed heart. Without starting, he raised his head, and cried, who seeks this dreary spot?--One, I replied, pierced by adversity, who is hastening to a parent’s bosom, where his wounds may receive the balm of consolation. Struck by your distress, I could not pass you, a secret impulse rose in my soul, I wished to hear your woes. Alas! young man, he answered, my woes are of the severest kind. I indulged hope, I listened to its idle prattle, I thought to have spent the remnant of my days in peace--but the shafts of affliction were let loose against me--they pierced this aged breast---it once had courage, resolution---I now can boast of none---grief has subdued it---yesterday’s sun beheld the darling of my age consigned to the earth---the worm will soon begin to feast upon the beautious cheek I have so often kist with all the idolizing warmth of a parent; but she is happy, an angel---his voice faultered---Nature demands those tears from me as her just tribute---the virtues of my child too--he could not proceed, a sob stifled his words---after an interval, he continued. I have a wife, she is dying, blest release from misery, yet frail fortitude would not enable me to see her depart. She raved for her child---I wept---she called for food---I shuddered---I had none---I crawled from the house to this grave---it has been watered with my tears. Unhappy man! ill-fated Harland--------Harland! repeated I with emotion---Great God! pardon me, had you a son?---Yes, the hopes of his happiness mitigates my despair. A friend adopted him, and promised to shelter his youthful head from the misery I feel. Since the five first years of his life I have not beheld him. Now, cried I, catching him in my arms, you behold him ---blasted his ardent expectations, returned a beggar to you. For a moment he was silent, then raising his hands to heaven, exclaimed, thy will be done, Almighty Father! this is the final stroke. How fallacious are the promises of men. Well does the holy book of infinite wisdom advise---Put not your trust in princes or the children of men.

“Come, my child, my poor deceived son, let us hasten to your mother, perhaps she lives, you may receive her blessing. But why should I minutely dwell on this melancholy subject? No, amiable Miss Blandford, I will not pain your generously susceptible heart. In a fortnight I paid the last mournful tribute to both my parents. Half insensible of existence, I continued till a happy destiny conducted me to the spot where so providentially I assisted in saving you---again I was the instrument of preserving a life so infinitely precious. Oh, Miss Blandford! at your sight sensations unknown before rose in my breast! Pardon my presumption. My mind open to each soft impression---such a form, such sweetness, no wonder. The keenest distress reduced me to my present situation. I had no friends to whom I could apply for assistance. In my tranquil days I had taken pleasure in cultivating small spots of ground, and rearing

All the lowly children of the vale.

In this situation I mix not with the other domestics---that indeed I could not bear. Fortune in degrading my rank has left my spirit unsubdued. Pardon me, Madam, for having engrossed so much of your time. I could not resist the wish of acquainting you with the occurrences that have reduced me to this station. Farewell, most amiable of women, may smiling peace ever hover round you, prays

E. H.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

ANECDOTES OF THE LATE EMPEROR OF GERMANY.

The Emperor being at supper at Paris, with Count de Vergennes, the French minister, and discoursing of French affairs, he advised the Count to announce a national bankruptcy, in order to clear France of all her debts: to this he was answered---“Should such an event take place, your Majesty’s own subjects in Brabant would lose more than eighty millions.” “Do not let that deter you (answered Joseph,) give me half that sum, and you shall have my assent.”

At the time of the affair with the Dutch concerning the Schelt, which terminated so shamefully for Joseph, talking with his head gardner, the gardner asked permission to write to Haarlem for a few slips of flowers, which he wanted. The Emperor started from his seat; his eyes flashing fire==“No, said he, you shall not write. Within six weeks I will fetch them myself from Haarlem, at the head of my army.” Within that time the affair was finished with disgrace. So positive was he of success, and so sure always to fail.

* * * * * * * * *

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

ORIGINAL OBSERVATION.

Though some giddy girls are silly enough to delight in panegyric, unrestrained compliments, yet all women of sense do heartily despise the wanton effusions of an indiscreet and excessive complaisance.---And whoever is much in the world will find, that most ladies are more apt to regard the man of plain sense and unaffected behaviour, who speak as they think, and appear just what they are, than the most specious, insinuating hypocrite, or the most noisy pretender.

E.

* * * * *

At the request of a Correspondent, we give the following LETTER a place:--- It is extracted from a London periodical publication--- and, notwithstanding the errors in the orthography and diction of it, the author had the pleasure of making a conquest.

* * *

My dear charmin Cratur,

If your brite eies have had the same efet upon others, they have been after havin upon me, you must already, like Samson, have slain your Tousands, though not with the same sort of weepor. For I had no sooner beheld you tother nite at Rennela, than your two little percers darted their poysen quite thro my hart, and killed me on the spot. So that I immediately determined to find you out, that I may he revenged of you. So havin done so, as sed before, I now write to tell you my situashon; and to begg that you woud have compashon on a lover that lies bleedin at your fete.

If you have not the hart of a she tygres, you will admit me to your presance, most adorable cratur, that I may have the plashure of dyin in your beloved site. And if you shall be after bein so kind as to relent of your crewelty, and rais your expirin lover, I will lay my fortun and my honers in the same place where I laid myself, and raise you in your turn to be Lady O’----l. For I vow by the great Shant Patrick, that I love you better than ever I loved any women except yourself.

And I further vow by the holy shrine of Shant Patrick aforesed, that I will not outliv the fatal anser you send me. But as you are as far above all your sex in buty, as the glorius sun is above the palfaced moon and the little twinklin stars, I dout not but you exced them as much in goodness. Therfore I will not dispare, but hope that you will send me word by your confidante, at what hower I shall have the plashure of waitin upon you, to receve from your own pretty mouth my destinny. Till when, I remane, most enchantin and angelic cratur,

Your’s whether livin or dyin,

Sir ROUKE O’----L, Barrownite.

P.S. Pray let me kno when I shall call for an anser, as I do not chuse to send any boddy else but myself.

* * * * * * * * *

ANECDOTE.

When Peter the Great visited Paris, he was conducted to the Sorbonne, where they shewed him the famous mausoleum of Cardinal Richelieu. He asked whose statue it was, and they told him: the view of this grand object threw him into an enthusiastic rapture, which he always felt on the like occasion, so that he immediately ran to embrace the statue, saying, “Oh! that thou wert but still living; I would give thee one half my empire to govern the other.”

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Roberts, Mr. PETER CUTLER, to Miss ESTHER JACOBS, both of this city.

Same evening, at Hempsted, by the Rev. Mr. Moore, Mr. VAN WYCK, of Flushing, (L.I.) to Miss THORNE, daughter of Capt. Thorne, of that place.

On Thursday evening the 12th inst. Mr. JOHN ROE, merchant, of this city, to Miss SUSANNAH R. STEVENS, of Perth-Amboy, (N.J.)

On Sunday the 15th inst. at East-Chester, by the Rev. Mr. Bartow, Capt. DAVID CARGILL, of this city, to Miss MARY SHUTE, daughter of Mr. Thomas Shute of that place.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 15th to the 21st inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Jan. 15 33 75 41 nw. w. clear light wd. clear do. 16 32 41 sw. nw. snow cr. lt. wd. clear do. 17 26 31 nw. do. clear high wd. clear h. wd. 18 23 50 32 se. s. sn. lt. wd. sn. 3 in. deep. 19 27 28 nw. n. clear lt. wd. clear lt. wd. 20 18 50 28 ne. do. cloudy lt. wd. cloudy do. 21 24 28 ne. do. sn. 4 in. deep, light wind.

* * * * *

ELEGIAC SONNET.

Ye worldly, hence! that have not drank the stream Of deep affliction at the fountain head; That have not fondly gaz’d the dying---dead! ’Till the set eye refus’d the conscious gleam That fed Affection with its parting beam; Nor kiss’d the cold lips, whence the spirit fled, Of her you lov’d beyond a poets dream: And who but lately blest your genial bed!---

This, has the mourner at Amelia’s tomb; And but one star illumes his night of gloom:--- As from its parent dust the phœnix soar’d, Her infant self surviving seems to say--- The LORD has giv’n---the LORD has ta’en away; For ever blessed be his name,---the LORD!

* * * * * * * * *

+To the Editor,+

The following STANZA’S were recently written by that celebrated Genius and Traveller Governor HENRY ELLIS, on seeing an infirm old Man treated by a young rabble with indecent mockery in the Street at PISA in Italy--a country where every inanimate vestage of antiquity is viewed with so much veneration.

The mould’ring Tower, the antique bust, The ruin’d temple’s sacred dust, Are view’d with rev’rence and delight; But man decay’d and sunk with years And sad infirmities, appears An object of neglect and slight.

Ah, thoughtless race! in youthful prime, You mock the ravages of time, As if you could elude its rage; That piteous form which you despise, With wrinkled front and beamless eyes; That form, alas! you’ll take with age.

Some vital sparks that every day, Time’s rapid pinion sweeps away, Prepare you for that hapless state; When left and slighted in your turn, Your former levities you’ll mourn, And own the justice of your fate.

* * * * *

AN ELEGY.

[by the same.]

Near yon lone pile, with ivy overspread, Fast by the riv’let’s peace-persuading sound; Where sleeps the moonlight on yon verdant bed, O, humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does EDMUND rest--the learned swain! And there his pale-ey’d phantom loves to rove: Young EDMUND, fam’d for each harmonious strain, And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, And loads the zephyr with its soft perfume; His manhood blossom’d ere the faithless pride Of fair LUCINDA sunk him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heav’n her crime pursue, Where’er with wilder’d steps she wander’d pale; Still EDMUND’s image rose to blast her view--- Still EDMUND’s voice accus’d her in each gale.

With keen remorse, and tortur’d guilt’s alarm, Amid the pomp of affluence she pin’d; Nor all that lur’d her faith from EDMUND’s arms, Could sooth the conscious horrors of her mind.

Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught, Some lovely maid perchance, or blooming youth, May hold it in remembrance and be taught, That riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

* * * * * * * * *

ODE TO REFLECTION.

’Twas when Nature’s darling child, Flora, fan’d by zephyrs mild, Th’ gorgeous canopy outspread O’er the sun’s declining head, Wending from the buz of day, Thus a bard attun’d his lay:

Bright Reflection, child of heav’n, Noblest gift to mortals given, Goddess of the pensive eye, Glancing thro’ eternity, Rob’d in intellectual light, Come, with all thy charms bedight.

Tho’ nor fame, nor splendid worth, Mark’d thy humble vot’ry’s birth, Snatch’d by thee from cank’ring care, I defy the fiend Despair; All the joys that Bacchus loves, All inglorious pleasure proves; All the fleeting modish toys. Buoy’d by Folly’s frantic noise; All, except the sacred lore, Flowing from thy boundless store! For when thy bright form appears, Even wild Confusion hears, Chaos glows, impervious night Shrinks from thy all-piercing sight; Yet, alas! what vain extremes Mortals prove in Error’s schemes Sunk profound in torpor’s trance, Or with levity they dance, Or, in murmers deep, the soul Thinks it bliss beyond the pole; Bounding swift o’er time and place, Vacant still thro’ boundless space, Leaving happiness at home, Thus the mental vagrants roam But when thou with sober mien, Deign’st to bless this wayward scene, Like Aurora shining clear O’er the mental hemisphere; Who but hears a soothing strain Warbling “Heaven’s ways are plain!” Who but hears the charmer say,

“These obscure the living ray:---- “Self-love, the foulest fiend of night “That ever stain’d the virgin-light, “Coward, wretch, who shuns to share, “Or sooth the woes that others bear; “Envy with an eagle’s eye; “Scandal’s tales that never die; “Int’rest vile, with countless tongues, “Trembling for ideal wrongs; “Flatt’ry base, with supple knee, “Cringing low servility: “Prejudice, with eyes askew, “Still suspecting ought that’s new,-- “Would but men from these refrain, “Eden’s bow’rs would bloom again, “Doubts in embryo melt away, “Truth’s eternal sun-beams play!”

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+-- where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, February 1, 1797.+ [+No. 83.+

THE PIEDMONTESE SHARPER.

In the year 1695, a Piedmontese, who stiled himself Count Caraffa, came to Vienna, and privately waited on the prime minister, pretending he was sent by the duke of Savoy on a very important affair, which they two were to negotiate without the privity of the French court. At the same time he produced his credentials, in which the duke’s seal and signature were very exactly imitated. He met with a very favourable reception, and, without affecting any privacy, took upon him the title of envoy extraordinary from the court of Savoy. He had several conferences with the imperial council, and made so great a figure in the most distinguished assemblies, that once at a private concert at court, the captain of the guard, denying him admittance, he demanded satisfaction in his master’s name, and the officer was obliged to ask his pardon. His first care was to ingratiate himself with the jesuits, who at that time bore a great sway at court; and in order to this, he went to visit their church, which remained unfinished, they pretended from the low circumstances of the society, he asked them how much money would complete it. An estimate to the amount of two thousand louis-d’ors being laid before him, Caraffa assured them of his constant attachment to their order; that he had gladly embraced such a public opportunity of shewing his esteem for them, and that they might immediately proceed to finishing their church. In consequence of his promise, he sent that very day the two thousand louis-d’ors, at which sum the charge had been computed.

He was very sensible this was a part he could not act long without being detected; and that this piece of generosity might not be at his own expence, he invited a great number of ladies of the first rank to supper and a ball. Every one of the guests had promised to be there; but he complained to them all of the ill returns made to his civilities, adding, that he had been often disappointed, as the ladies made no scruple of breaking their word on such occasions, and, in a jocular way, insisted on a pledge from every lady for their appearance at the time appointed. One gave him a ring, another a pearl necklace, a third a pair of earings, a fourth a gold watch, and several such trinkets, to the amount of twelve thousand dollars. On the evening appointed not one of the guests were missing; but it may easily be conceived, what a damp it struck upon the whole assembly, when it was at last found that the gay Piedmontese was a sharper, and had disappeared. Nor had the jesuits any great reason to applaud themselves on the success of their dissimulation; for a few days before his departure, the pretended count, putting on an air of deep concern, placed himself in the way of the emperor’s confessor, who inquiring into the cause of his apparent melancholy, he intrusted him with the important secret, that he was short of money at a juncture when eight thousand louis-d’ors were immediately wanted for his master’s affairs, to be distributed at the imperial court. The jesuits, to whom he had given a recent instance of his liberality by so large a donation, immediately furnished him with the sum he wanted; and with this acquisition, and the ladies pledges, he thought he had carried his jests far enough, and very prudently withdrew from Vienna.

* * * * *

ALMANZOR, THE ARABIAN.

The great Almanzor, as he is called, to distinguish him from some other Arabian princes of his name, was king of Cordova, in Spain. He was no less famous for his wisdom than for his courage; he wrote a book of maxims, from which these that follow are taken.

“If hungry beggars are whipt through the streets, beggars in fine cloaths have a right to their proportion of notice, and should be sent to the gallies.

“Pride is as true a beggar, very often, as poverty can be, but a good deal more saucy.

“A prince who resolves to do no good, unless he can do every thing, teaches his people to see that they are slaves, and they have a right to do whatever they have a mind to.

“Power and liberty are like heat and moisture; when they are well mixed, every thing prospers; when they are single, they ever do mischief.

“I believe the least useful part of the people have the most credit with the prince. Men will conclude therefore, that to get every thing, it is necessary to be good for nothing.”

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 235.)

I had not yet recovered from my astonishment at the speech of the Duke, when Alumbrado asked me, after a short pause:

“Then you think it absurd to believe in the possibility of apparitions?”

“A belief that has no firm foundation is absurd.”

“You then think every apparition, however it be shaped--”

“Is delusion, the source of which arises either from external natural causes, or flows from our bewildered imagination, or from both at once.”

“One question more!” the Duke said, “What do you think of the occult wisdom which Hiermanfor is said to have learnt from the Bramins?”

“That it consists in a profound knowledge of physic and natural history.”

“And the supernatural power he is boasting of--?”

“Is nothing but a skilful application of that knowledge!”

The Duke remained silent for some time, and then resumed:

“You think it impossible for mortals to acquire a supernatural power?”

I smiled.

“It seems you deny also the possibility of miracles?” Alumbrado said with a dreadful look, which he however soon sweetened again.

“I am convinced of the possibility of miracles,” I replied, “because it is self-evident that God, who is the author of the laws of nature, can alter and suspend them; but this only the Creator can do; man, consequently, is not capable of working miracles.”

“But men can become instruments in the hand of God,” Alumbrado continued, “whereby Providence performs miracles!”

“Undoubtedly, but no wretches like the Irishman. The eternal source of truth and holiness can never employ, as an immediate instrument, an impostor who deals in lies and artifice.”

“Where will you find a mortal without fault?” the Duke said, “indeed you are too much prejudiced against the Irishman. He did not deceive me out of malice or selfishness, but only for the sake of a just and noble purpose.”

“Actions that are in themselves immoral, like imposition and lies, never can be rendered moral by the justness of their end, and an organ of the Godhead never can employ means of so culpable a nature. But, my friend, if you really are persuaded the furtherance of the revolution to have been a noble and just action, why has the Irishman been obliged to exert all his arts to prevail on you to assist in the execution of that undertaking?”

The Duke cast his eyes to the ground, and Alumbrado left us. Miguel seemed to be penetrated with shame and confusion, and continued for some time to keep his eyes rivetted to the ground without uttering a word.

I took him affectionately by the hand: “It was not my intention to tell you my opinion of your adventures with the Irishman in Alumbrado’s presence; you have forced me to do it, and I could not help telling my mind freely.”

“I thank you for it.”

“Your obstinacy and my frankness may prove fatal to me.”

“How so?”

“It will perhaps cost me my life and liberty.”

“I do not comprehend you.”

“I have declared myself against the belief in apparitions, and Alumbrado is perhaps at present on the road to the inquisition, in order to inform against me.”

“Have you not yet conquered your prejudices against him? Don’t be uneasy, and cease judging unjustly of a man against whom you have no reason of complaint, except a countenance you do not like.”

“You did not observe the fiend-like look he darted at me. O my friend, whatever may befall me, I will submit willingly to it, if I have succeeded in recalling you from your errors!”

“I thank you for your love, but I apprehend very much I am one of those unhappy men of whom you have been saying, that no arguments of reason can remove their delusion. I am sensible that my sensations has an immediate evidence, which overpowers every persuasion of the understanding---this I am sensible of, as often as I recall to my mind the apparition at the church-yard.”

“You view me with looks of pity,” the Duke continued, after a short pause, “I divine your thoughts. However, if you had seen what I have witnessed---”

“Then I should have been astonished at the artful delusion, and the dexterity of the Irishman.”

“And at the same time would not have been able to conceive, as well as myself, how it could have been performed in a natural manner.”

“I grant it; but I never conclude that any thing has been performed by supernatural means, because I cannot comprehend how it could have been effected in a natural manner. These was a time when you fancied the apparition in Amelia’s apartment to have been effected by supernatural means, and yet it was not so. Who would have the childish arrogance to fancy his intellectual faculties to be the scale of the powers of nature, and his knowledge the limit of human art? However, the apparition of the church-yard has some defects, which its author could not efface in spite of his dexterity, and which easily would have dispelled the delusion before the eyes of a cool observer. The Irishman could not give to the phantom the accent of Antonio’s voice, how skilfully soever he imitated his features. That the apparition did not move his eyes and lips, nor any limb, is also a suspicious circumstance, that proves the limits of the artificer’s skill. But what renders the reality of the apparition most suspicious is, undoubtedly, your friend’s ignorance of what his pretended spirit (consequently his proper self) told you at the church-yard; for if he had known any thing of it, he would not have concealed it from the Prince of Braganza, in whose arms he died, much less from you, in his farewell letter. Finally, if you consider what your tutor has told the Prince about his statue, which has been cut in wood during his imprisonment, you will find it very probable that the Irishman has made use of it in some manner or other for effecting that delusion.”

The Duke stared at me like a person suddenly roused from a profound sleep.--“Marquis!” he said, at length, “you have opened my eyes; but my unwont looks are unable to penetrate another fact I cannot expel from my memory.”

“Again, an apparition--?”

“Which, however, did not happen to me, but to my father.”

“You mean the apparition of Count San*?”

“The very same.”

“Your father has related to me all the particulars of it; I have reflected upon it, and imagine I am capable of explaining it in a natural manner. Your father received, two days before the ghost appeared to him, a letter, by which he was informed that the Count was dangerously ill, and that his life was despaired of on account of his advanced age. This intelligence affected him violently, and the idea of the impending dissolution of his dearest friend, prevailed in his mind from that moment. The melancholy of your father seemed to encrease hourly, reduced him in the day to the state of a dreaming person, and disturbed his rest at night. As often us he awoke in the second night, he fancied he heard somebody groan, yet the groaning person was undoubtedly nobody but himself, and the cause of his groans originated from the pressure of the blood against the breast. This pressure awakened him once more, early in the morning, with some violence; he fell again asleep a few minutes after, and it was very natural that the object of the dream that stole upon him should be no other but Count San*. Your father mistook that dream for a real apparition, and nothing is more pardonable than this self-deceit. The only circumstance that renders this incident remarkable, is, that the Count really expired in that very hour. However, I ask you whether it be so very strange, if our imagination, which deceives us so many thousand times by its delusions, should at length coincide once accidentally with the truth?”

“One rather ought to wonder,” the Duke replied, “that this is so rarely the case.”

“Here you have two instances of apparitions,” I resumed, “which agree in their being delusions, only with that difference, that one of them which happened at the church-yard originated from external causes, and the other from the imagination of your father. We are not always so fortunate as to be able to explain apparitions in so natural a manner; our incapacity and ignorance gives us, however, no right to think that they are supernatural.”

“You think then that the belief in apparitions and the influence of spirits originates merely from ignorance?”

“Certainly; when man was yet in his unpolished state, and ignorant of the laws of nature and of thinking, the uncivilized mortals could not but observe many external phenomena which they could not explain, their stock of experimental knowledge not being equal to that task. Necessitated by the law of reason to search for the cause of every effect, they substituted unknown causes, when unable to find out any that were known to them, and mistook these powers for spirits, because they were invisible to them, though they perceived their effects.”

“I do not deny, my friend, that the original source of the belief in apparitions, and the influence of spirits, has taken its rise from an evidently false conclusion. It has however been frequently the fate of truth, that its discovery was founded on erroneous premises; consequently the manner in which an idea is generated cannot render its internal truth suspected, provided it be supported by other valid arguments.”

“Your remark is very just and true, yet it cannot be applied to the present case, for I have already proved that we possess neither an external nor an internal criterion by which we could discern the influence and apparition of those invisible beings, and that we consequently have no sufficient reason to believe in their existence. This too I will not contest. You have, however, proved only the impossibility of finding out a criterion by which we could discern the real influence of spirits, but not the impossibility of that influence itself. It may yet be supposed that these beings can produce apparitions without, and effects within ourselves, and that we are connected with them in an effectual and secret manner. While this internal impossibility is not proved, it will not be absurd to imagine that men who mortify their sensuality, who are entirely absorbed in meditation, and fix their looks merely on super-terrestial things, may be favoured more frequently with the influence of spiritual beings, and a more intimate connection with them.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

ANECDOTE OF MR. FERGUSON.

The following story Mr. Ferguson used frequently to repeat: He had finished the picture of a handsome young lady, whose numerous friends, though they commended the piece, found each some small faults, they thought might be corrected, which would render the likeness complete. Mr. Ferguson, when informed of it, desired they all might meet him at a certain hour, and being properly placed, with his pallet and brushes in his hand, the picture before him, and the lady sitting in a just light, he begged to be favoured with the opinions and objections of the company present, one by one; he acquiesced with them all, and put himself in a posture to remedy the defects, pointed out. When he had gone through the whole he turned the picture towards them, and every one pronounced it so finished a piece, and so perfect a likeness, that it could not be improved. He then requested them to examine both the pencils and canvass, which had been all along perfectly dry, and left them to draw their own conclusions.

* * * * * * * * *

+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+ [Written by Herself.]

(Continued from our last.)

As I mean to banish prolixity from my narrative, I shall not mention the emotions this tale excited when next we met. I could not help lamenting my utter inability to aid his distress. A glow of grateful feelings brightened his countenance. He caught my hand. Angelic sweetness, he cried---your face, how true an index of your mind. In short, both strangers to dissimulation, we soon perceived a passion, ardent, sincere, and reciprocal. We loved with all the romantic enthusiasm of youth, forgetting the insuperable barriers between us. We indulged our tenderness till it grew too great to be subdued. Sitting together one afternoon, planning future days of bliss, my hand locked in his, my soul beaming from my eyes, we suddenly heard a rustling among some trees behind us, and my father instantly rushed out, rage flashing from every glance. Frantic, he tore me from Harland, and bid him begone, as he durst not answer for what he might be tempted to do. Harland hesitated. I saw passion kindling in his eyes. Terrified at the consequences which might ensue, I had just power to articulate, obey him, oh obey him. My father loaded me with every violent invective rage could suggest. To exculpate myself from the meanness he accused me of, I divulged Harland’s history, but he believed it not. He said it was a vile, artful tale, calculated to deceive my unsuspecting youth, and lead me into a connection which he would eternally have cursed me for. Good heaven! how my soul shuddered at these words. For three days I gave myself up to immoderate grief; the fourth, walking in an avenue cut through the wood, I saw a little boy playing before me, I heeded him not, till I perceived him drop a piece of paper, give me a significant sign, and run off. I flew forward hastily, snatched it up, and retired to a chamber, where I read the following lines from my unfortunate Harland:

“Oh, my Julia! what a cruel separation! Thus torn from thee, it fills me with anguish--my only comfort thy society, deprived of that too---merciless fortune! I am incoherent---I hardly know what I write. Julia, to quit this spot, without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support. Meet me if possible I beseech you at night, in the wood. One parting interview---to meet perhaps; I can’t go on---Oh Julia! grant my last request.”

I determined to comply, but could not without my maid’s assistance. I entrusted her, and she promised to assist me. When the family were retired to rest, she conducted me down stairs, and opening a little door which led into the wood, said she would there watch my return.

Gently the moon dispers’d her pleasing light And silver’d o’er the trembling lucid wave, Fair was the view, that hail’d the wond’ring sight, And soft the pleasure midnight silence gave.

Harland was impatiently waiting for me; at my approach he sprung forward, oh my Julia, he cried, what goodness, what condescension, but you are all complying sweetness. He regretted his separation; lamented his want of fortune; now bid me for ever forget him; then assured me, without the chearing idea of my love, life would be unsupportable. I wept, assured him it was unalterable, that only with existence it would cease. The moment arrived to separate. He sunk upon his knees, besought eternal blessings on my head, tenderly embraced me, while his voice was stifled with the emotions of his soul, and tore himself away. I tottered home, and leaning on my maid, retired to my chamber, where I past the remainder of the night in tears, and all the pangs of hopeless love. Shortly after this, a gentleman arrived at the castle who was son to a deceased friend of my father’s, his birth and fortune noble, but his manners tainted with arrogance and ill-nature. He conceived a partiality for me. Just powers, what has it not caused me! Sir George still dreading the unfortunate Harland, encouraged it. He was also really desirous of having me advantageously married. He compelled me to listen to Mordaunt; and in short, not to dwell longer on this painful subject, notwithstanding my prayers, my tears, my declaration of passion for another, I was forced the altar. The horror of that moment I can’t express; the image of Harland was continually before me; my broken vows; his sufferings; his love; they almost bereft me of reason. Three days after the fatal ceremony, sitting alone in my dressing-room, as the gentlemen were out, I heard a carriage drive hastily to the door. I imagined it was some obtrusive visitors who came to pay their unwelcome compliments, when in an instant the door was thrown open, and Harland entered, the smile of anticipating pleasure on his face. He attempted to clasp me in his arms, but shrinking from them, I endeavoured to fly from the room; he caught my hand and forcibly withheld me; he looked amazed at my agitation. Speak to me, my adored Julia, he cried, Oh why this distress?---heaven has at length removed my sufferings---Mr. T. has at last done justice to me. I am come to claim your hand. Sir George cannot deny me now. What bliss! what happiness in store for us. I could hear no more; I broke from him, and in agony of soul rending misery, wrung my hands together. We are ruined, exclaimed I, for ever wretched. Oh Harland! forgive me. I am miserable, compulsive power has undone me. I am, oh detest me not, already married. I might have gone on for ever---his senses seemed annihilated, a deadly paleness overspread his face; I was terrified; I flew to him; I attempted to take his hand; my touch revived him. He started from me; base faithless woman; his lips quivered, and in a phrenzy of disappointed passion he rushed out of the house. He left me on the verge of distraction, but when a little composed, I revolved my conduct: I considered it improper; I was now married; those tender sensations for another man were criminal; my virtue was strong, I determined to exert it; the lessons of my beloved mother recurred to me. She often said, affliction was the purifier of our passions, it refined the soul, and lifted to that infinite Almighty power in whose hands the balm was held for healing the wounds received on this spot.

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

+The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,+ A Story, Founded on Facts.

(Continued from our last.)

As the family of his late consort were rich and powerful Mr. Freeman checked his libertine pursuits for a time; but the strength of habit soon overcame the dictates of prudence, and again he listened to the powerful calls of vice and dissipation.

A few months after Mrs. Freeman’s death he informed his friend Easton that he would introduce him to a young creature, lovely as imagination could form. He owned that the connection between them, being only that of sentiment, became rather troublesome; that she had denied him the most distant favour, and, in tears, regretted her ever giving way to a hopeless passion which had driven her from home, and subjected her to dangers of every kind.

“I first saw,” he continued, “this foolish girl at the neighbouring convent---Her beauty charmed me; I gained her attention, and held many conversations at the grate, in the course of which she informed me that, disappointed in a love affair, and to avoid a forced marriage, she had fled from her guardian, and sought refuge in the convent.

“I need not tell you, Easton, how love-sick girls are wrought upon. I found more sensibility than prudence--her sorrows subsided as I artfully dropped an answering tear, accompanied with a well-feigned emotion. I used every means which is common with us fellows of intrigue, and at length gained her consent to suffer me to procure her enlargement, on my promise of protection and friendship.

“Her remove from the convent was, with some difficulty and no small degree of danger, effected; when, expecting my reward and urging her to be kind, she wept, said I had deceived her, and thus addressed me:----‘Cease, Sir, to alarm, with professions of love, a poor young creature that knows not where to fly. Ask me for my friendship and esteem, and honour me with your’s, and I shall be as happy as my fortunes will permit. I wished to cast myself on your protection, from a confidence in your honour--I have done it--betray not then, oh! betray not the trust reposed in you. If you take a violent and cruel advantage of my situation, short will be your pleasure--but lasting your pain. You will at once lose all the respect I now bear you, and render me completely wretched: it is too true I am in your power, but do not, oh! do not abuse that power, by plunging a wretch, already almost lost, into infamy and perdition.’

“I give you her own words, Easton, for you will find her romantic in the extreme, with all the airs of dignity and virtue about her. I endeavoured all I could to comfort and compose her spirits, and offered to write home to her guardian; but to this she would not consent, as in such a case her name would be exposed. ‘If,’ said she, ‘imputed guilt is to be my portion, let me, with life, lament the effects of my imprudent flight--but there are, whom, my folly might disgrace, should an unfeeling world cast a stigma upon me--know me, therefore, only as--the wretched Julia!’

“Upon this I left her, fool enough to be somewhat affected, and what she means to do I cannot tell; I had procured her an apartment in a private part of the city, with a servant to attend her; but not finding in me the father she expected, I have a strong idea that she means to play me the slip and steal away without my knowledge, which would prove a disappointment to both of us.

“For, Easton, as you are a fine fellow, and withal somewhat younger than myself, as I cannot succeed, I think you might venture a trial upon your own account.”

“A friendly proposal,” exclaimed Easton, “convey me to her, and what love, gallantry, and fine speeches can effect, depend on.”

The agreement made, they proceeded to pay a visit to the unfortunate young lady.

The servant having given in Mr. Freeman’s name, they were conducted to her apartment. But oh! heaven! what horror seized the heart of Easton on beholding--his sister! He had left her during his travels, which had detained him two years, under the protection of her guardian, a man of sordid ideas, little principle, and still less humanity---but who had cunning sufficient to carry the appearance of every good quality, and, by the deepest dissimulation, had prevailed on the worthy Mr. Easton, the gentleman who had given these unhappy children his name and fortune, in his last moments to submit to him the management of the estate bequeathed them till the youth became of age, and his sister was disposed of in marriage.

How he had performed the will of his dying friend, respecting the young lady, the reader has, in part, been made acquainted with---it remains only to say, that, by his forbidding the addresses of Mr. Harcourt, a young soldier, whose heart was as honourable as his profession, and who sincerely loved her, and encouraging the hopes of a wretch, worn out with infirmities and a diseased mind, he forced the unhappy Julia to determine on flight. Her Harcourt had been called to the field, where, by protecting his country at the hazard of his life, it was not then in his power to defend her he held dearer than his own existence.

For a time, overcome with mutual astonishment, they both remained silent! At length Easton, relieved by tears, embracing the sister of his heart, exclaiming, “And have bad principles and bad men brought me to the brink of such perdition? But Heaven is just, and at the same moment converts my erring heart, and restores me to an almost-lost sister, whom my future care and affection shall protect from every snare of deep-laid villany.”

Then turning to the confounded and abashed Freeman, he uttered, “As for you, be warned by this interposition of Providence in favour of your undeserving friend.--- Your years and your principles do not correspond. I had a father, gay and volatile like yourself, whose wretched story I have heard, but whose guilt has divided his children and him--perhaps---forever! Mournful, no doubt, has been his existence, and, if no more, miserable his end.---But wherever he may wander, if yet alive, oh! my sister! would not you rejoice with me in comforting his suffering heart, and in return receive the blessings of our nameless and interdicted parent?”

Hearing, with trembling limbs, this passionate address, Mr. Freeman exclaims, “Who, who was your father?”

“Oh!” returned Easton, “he has lost his name in his crimes, which drove him from his family and country---an outlawed murderer!”

For the first time, powerful conviction rushed on the heart of Freeman! “Oh!” he exclaimed, “be more explicit, surely my children are now before me---nor fear nor fate shall longer hide my name---’Tis Alton! the miserable Alton, now casts his wretched load of existence before you.”--------They both ran towards him, and owning an interposing providence with tears of joy and gratitude, raised their long-lost parent! who at once reclaimed, at once thankful to mysterious Heaven, embraced his children!

It only remains to inform the reader, that the father, with his son and daughter, took shipping for England. An honourable peace soon brought home to love and fortune the generous Harcourt, who was at length united to his faithful Julia.

The old guardian had paid the debt of nature, and, struck with a check of conscience, he not only left the whole estate of the late Mr. Easton, unimpaired, to the brother and sister, but added thereto a large portion of his own. Application was made to an earthly throne for mercy to the repentant father; it was extended towards him, and being now a sincere penitent, it is to be wished and hoped that he may experience the same mercy from a still higher power.

[[Sources:

Original: “A School for Libertines. A Story, Founded on Facts” by Thomas Bellamy. Possible sources include “The general magazine and impartial review ...” (Vol. 1, July 1787); “Walker’s Hibernian Magazine” (Sept. 1787, 483ff., appearing immediately after “Alphonso and Marina)”; The New-York Magazine, 1795 pg. 688ff

Link: http://books.google.com/books?id=T7oRAAAAYAAJ]]

* * * * *

THE TEMPLE OF HOPE, A Vision.

Reading one summer’s eve in a grove, by which ran a most beautiful translucent rivulet, I was, by its murmurs, mingled with the sighs of Zephyr, lulled into an agreeable slumber. Somnus had no sooner laid me on his couch of poppies, than I thought myself transported to a dreary waste, where Nature sits on her heath-blossom’d throne, dispensing the seeds of furze, broom, brambles, and thistles around her.

The sight of this barren scene would have awakened me with dismay, had not my sight been immediately charmed, and my mind astonished with the rising of a most superb Temple. Multitudes were repairing thither. Misery sat on their wan cheek---but I was pleased to see, at the same time, expectation glisten in their eye. Around the Temple spontaneously rose, in their most perfect, fragrant, and variegated bloom, the most beautiful parterres. Amidst the flowering shrubs and ever-greens, were playing charming infants of both sexes, whose talk was as melodious as the vesper of the nightingale, and as gay as the matin of the lark. Their countenances were as blithe and as beauteous as Flora, blushing with the kiss of Spring. I was informed, that they were the children of Arts, Sciences, Peace, Plenty, and Pleasure. Rills murmured through the walks. Fountains scattered over the beds of perennial blossoms, their pearls of liquid crystal, and Zephyrs, with Æolian harps, caused every leaf to dance to their delightful harmony.

The style of the Temple itself united every order of architecture to denote that it was free to the access and devotion of every country. The Gothic, Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite were there displayed. The walls were supported by a foundation, that, I learned, was dug from the sand-pit of Expectation and the quarry of Enterprise. The walls themselves were formed of one entire crystal, taken from the mountain of promise. I presume the goddess chose them to be formed of this material, to denote that her various devotees might here be delighted with the most charming prospects which the magic of fancy could create for their allurement and entertainment. It had no roof, that nothing might impede their incessant view of the etherial throne of Providence. Instead of pillars, the portico was supported with anchors, which had been formerly the salvation of thousands sailing in the bark of human misery, from being shipwrecked against the rocks of despair. In varied festoons, hung around every apartment, cables in the style of the most exquisite and elegant fancy. They were likewise, wreathed with flowers of various sorts, which appeared to be always changing, but never losing their bloom.

The innumerable persons of all ages, ranks, and descriptions, which were going to this Fane, having gained admittance, the Temple rose most majestically to the regions of bliss. Every votary knelt around the shrine, and sung hallelujahs whilst it ascended.

I followed it with admiration, satisfaction, and astonishment, until it disappeared; and the chorusses of the happy mortals, thus transported, left my listening sense to taste in silence that ecstasy in which so delightful a scene of human enjoyment had enwrapped my sensibility.

I awoke, and was sorry to find the happiness of so many of my fellow creatures, was only the delusive prospect of a vision.

* * * * *

EXTRACT.

Nature gives us talents, it is education that applies them right or wrong. Nature bestows propensities and affections, which may be directed to good, either public or private. It is culture that improves or prevents them.

* * * * * * * * *

ON WEALTH.

Among the many advantages of wealth, that of being able to relieve the necessaries and indigencies of others is of the greatest value, and most to be prized. In what class of men shall we place the hard-hearted, ungenerous rich man? Upon examination of human nature, avarice is no part of it; and so we shall be forced to list the covetous man among the monsters of this world.

Let the rich man indulge his appetites, and pursue his expences and superfluities, if he will; and let him enable his family to indulge themselves in the same way, if they are so inclined. But surely, then, he ought to make as many other people easy and comfortable as he can.

I am not, it is certain, obliged to pinch myself to remove other peoples pinchings; but if a ring on my little finger has charms enough in and about it to keep half a hundred families from starving, can I hesitate a single moment, whether or no I shall part with this useless bauble for that end? If a hundred or five hundred pounds will not make me retrench in any thing, nor interfere with the figure and circumstances of life that are proper for my family now, or when I am dead and gone, what can I do better than give it to some other person or family, who are obliged to live entirely below those circumstances they are born or bred to? How can I better employ it, than in raising the spirits, and rejoicing the heart of some melancholy, depressed poor man? I am mistaken, if the application of a few hundred pounds this way, would not give a truer sensation of joy and pleasure than fifty other things, which are often purchased at a very dear rate.

Be persuaded, then, ye rich and powerful, ye honourable and great, to do honourable things with the superfluity of your wealth.

Search after ingenious persons, root them out of obscurity, and obscurity out of them, and call the long-banished muses back to their antient habitation.

* * * * *

TRUE MEEKNESS.

Meekness, like most other virtues, has certain limits, which it no sooner exceeds than it becomes criminal. She who hears innocence maligned without vindicating it---falsehood asserted without contradicting it,--or religion profaned without resenting it, is not gentle, but wicked.

Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active and passive; if it will not enable us to subdue our own passions and resentments, as well as qualify us to bear patiently the passions and resentments of others. If it were only for mere human reasons, it would turn to a profitable account to be patient; nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like the spirit of forbearance; the return of rage for rage cannot be so effectually provoking.

True gentleness, like an impenetrable armour, repels the most pointed shafts of malice: they cannot pierce through this invulnerable shield, but either fall hurtless to the ground, or return to wound the hand that shot them.

A meek spirit will not look out of itself for happiness, because it finds a constant banquet at home; yet, by a sort of divine alchemy, it will convert all external events to its own profit; and be able to deduce some good, even from the most unpromising; it will extract comfort and satisfaction, from the most barren circumstances; “it will suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock.”

Meekness may be called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels every obstruction, and smooths every difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their progress. Honours and dignities are transient;---beauty and riches frail and fugacious;---but this amiable virtue, is permanent. And surely the truly wise would wish to have some one possession, which they might call their own in the severest exigencies. This can only be accomplished by acquiring and maintaining that calm and absolute self-possession, which, as the world had no hand in giving, so it cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power, take away.

[[Source:

“True and False Meekness” in Hannah More, Essays Principally Designed for Young Ladies (1777). “Compassion” (p. 401, no. 103) is from the same source.]]

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Editor thankfully acknowledges the receipt of the third excellent Essay of A. D.

The Acrostic of V. E. displays some merit, but the author cannot, with propriety, expect its insertion without some correction: The effusions of the Muse will ever find a hearty welcome attending their reception, when indiscriminately adapted for instruction, or not too pointedly addressed with extatic strains to an individual.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 22d to the 28th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Jan. 22 23 29 ne. nw. snow light wd. snow 23 27 50 37 sw. do. cloudy do. clear lt. wd. 24 26 41 w. do. clear light wind do. do. 25 20 27 nw. se. clear high wind do. lt. wd. 26 28 42 s. do. cloudy lt. wd. clear do. 27 36 45 50 sw. do. clear lt. wind, do. do. 28 39 46 sw. do. clear lt. wd. cloudy do.

* * * * *

FRIENDSHIP.

What greater blessing can kind Heav’n send Than a sincere, indulgent, tender friend! What greater blessing can we ask than this? The greatest, surely, of all earthly bliss. What comfort is it, when the mind’s depress’d, To lodge our sorrows in a faithful breast!

* * * * * * * * *

TO A LADY, On her too great Affectation of Ornament.

Dear Mira, whence of late this studious care, As fashion bids, to braid thy flowing hair; With costly veils to shade thy snowy breast, And load with gorgeous fringe the sumptuous vest? Why these perfumes that scent the ambient air? Alas! all art must render thee less fair.

Each ornament from that celestial face Detracts a charm, and banishes a grace: Who on the violet can sweets bestow? Or needs the rose with borrow’d colours glow? Great Nature’s beauties ever reach the heart, And spurn the trivial aids of needless art. No art directs the vernal bloom to blow, No art assists the murmering streams to flow, And the sweet songsters of the vocal grove, By art unaided, swell their throats to love.

Phœbe and Elaira charm’d of old Fair Helen’s brothers, not with gems or gold; Idas with Phœbus for Marpessa vied, But for her beauties, not her wealth he sigh’d, When godlike Pelops Hippodamia won, He panted for her virgin charms alone. With native grace these nymphs inflam’d the heart, Unskill’d in ornament, devoid of art; In the sweet blush of modesty alone, And smiles of innocence attir’d, they shone.

Then needless artifice, dear maid, forbear What charms the lover best, adorns the fair.

* * * * *

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

Haste, pallid nymph, forego thy moss-crown’d cell, Clad in thy milk-white vest, By Nature woven, by the Graces drest: Come seek the adust retreat of these lone groves, Where Shenstone breath’d, ere Fate had rung his knell, And join the requium of confederate loves.

Can you forget how oft in wooing you, He artless led the passions in a throng? No suppliant ever felt a flame more true, And wit and beauty mingled in his song.

Tho’ Nepthe blaz’d, her brows with myrtle twin’d, Not all her loveliness could shake his constant mind.

In the meridian of his quiet day, When gentle Reason had matur’d his youth; The relatives of Onus bless that lay He gave to you, and gave it with his truth.

Pure were his morals as the Patriarchs thought, And heaven approv’d the dogma Fancy taught.

Ah me, that breast which glow’d with patriot fire, Beneath this grass-green mantle lies entom’d! Cold is that nerve which harmoniz’d the lyre, And all his bright’ning faculties consum’d: Come then, such fallen excellence deplore, His harp’s unstrung, his minstrelsy is o’er.

* * * * * * * * *

ODE TO HAPPINESS.

Tho’ all men aim at happiness, And some their boasted schemes profess, Yet few, alas! too few we find, Take the right course, by nature blind.

Th’ ambitious man directs his way Thro’ title, honours, night and day: The miser hovers o’er his gold, With heaps on heaps, each farthing told:

But sooner or later they’ll perceive, These trifling things the mind bereave Of ev’ry solid, dear delight, The soul o’erspread with gloom of night;

That envied titles, honours, fame, Are but a sounding, empty name: That riches fly on wings away; The brightest name will soon decay:

Yet riches ne’er will satisfy, } Tho’ e’er so certain, still they cloy } The dupe, that on them doth rely. } Still surer doth the sensualist His pleasures, and his good resist; With loss of health, misfortunes rues The man, who sensual paths pursues:

For pleasures dissipate the mind, Bring on diseases, death unkind; Ruin his fortune, robs his soul Of all true joy, without controul.

The philosophic sage also, Unless the fear of God he know, Unless his Maker’s works he scan, } Is but a poor bewilder’d man; } Much knowledge will more sorrows gain. }

But he who would true pleasure find, Delight of a superior kind, Must firmly virtue’s steps pursue, To worldly folly bid adieu; Dispos’d, all heav’n’s decrees to meet With fortitude, or harsh, or sweet;

If fortune blows in prosp’rous gales, Or adverse wind his skiff assails, Still he is happy, pleas’d, content, With what kind heav’n, not him hath sent;

Nor pines with grief, himself alone } Bears all the shock of fortune’s frown, } Untouch’d, resign’d, God’s will his own: } In patience tastes a greater joy, Than all the world’s variety.

Religion doth a good afford, To all, with gladsome pleasure stor’d, Such as the world to give in vain } May boast for all its pleasures pain, } Compar’d with virtue’s smiling train, } Of joy refin’d, of peace and health, The greatest good, the best of wealth.

For there’s that sweetness, and that peace In virtue’s blessed, wholesome ways, Which no disaster can defeat, Its transports so divinely great.

Who would not then this course pursue, Which only leads to bliss, and pleasures ever new?

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+-- where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, February 8, 1797.+ [+No. 84.+

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

ESSAYIST. No. III.

“Fav’rite of heaven and friend of earth! Philanthropy, benignant power! Whose sons display no doubtful worth, The pageant of the passing hour.”

HALEY’s ode to HOWARD.

In man there appears to be a natural affection for his fellow creatures, this as a general remark is evident, when the whole bulk of mankind is considered; but if we descend to particulars and examine how his affection exists, with regard to individuals, how often do we find him defective. Some under the smiling aspect of friendship conceal the envenomed sting of hatred, while others openly declare their enmity. But philanthropy extends its kindness to all whether friend or foe. It encircles in the arms of love, alike the rich and poor--the bondman and the free. Anger, revenge, and all the rougher passions which divest the mind of its serenity, and immerse it in gloom and despondence, as if driven by supernatural power, fly at its approach. It delights to assist the distressed and infuse hope and comfort into the heart almost broken by misfortune. The soul that is warmed by the genial sparks of philanthropy and benevolence, looks with pleasure on his companions, feels himself interested in all their transactions, and participates in their prosperity. The persecuted are ever sure to find in him a protector, and the wretched a friend. He exposes himself to the breath of contagion, that he may bring assistance to those who are sinking under the accumulated load of poverty and disease. He explores the gloomy dungeon and softens the bonds of the captive: his whole life presents a series of benevolent and worthy actions. Such is the philanthropist; justly admired by the world at large, and sincerely beloved by the small circle of his friends.

And such was Howard---the benevolent, the philanthropic Howard--more worthy of our admiration and more deserving of our envy, while imbibing the deadly vapours of the lazaretto, or exposing his constitution to the chill damps of the subterranean dungeon, than pompous royalty clothed with the ensigns of power and encircled with all the splendors of a court.

A. D.

JANUARY 26.

* * * * * * * * *

ON AMBITION.

The best of all good things, says M. Retz, is repose. All the pleasures which nature can bestow, become insipid to him who is agitated by ambition, who is tormented by vanity, or torn by envy. You shall see a man on whom fortune has been prodigal of her choicest favours, to whom nature has given a sound and vigorous body; who is beloved by his wife and his children, whom he cherishes; whose presence spreads pleasure and joy in his family, where he is only an apparition; who, if he lived on his own domains, would enjoy the pleasure of doing good to a set of vassals, but he there makes his appearance only three or four times in a year; and is then scarcely seen till he is gone again. This man does not feel the value of health; he does not enjoy his fortune. His life which might flow on in that kind of animated leisure, which results from the exercise of acts of beneficence, is consumed in agitation and in fear. Independent by his riches, he devotes himself to servitude, and is tormented by chagrin. His sleep, which ought to be pleasing, is troubled by envy and disquietude. He writes, he cringes, he solicits, he tears himself from pleasures, and gives himself up to occupations that are not suited to his taste; he in a measure refuses to live during forty years of his life, in order that he may obtain employment, dignities, marks of distinction, which, when he obtains them, he cannot enjoy.

* * * * *

TRUE VIRTUE AND HONOUR.

Men possessed of these, value not themselves upon any regard to inferior obligations, and yet violate that which is the most sacred and ancient of all---religion.

They should consider such violation as a severe reproach in the most enlightened state of human nature; and under the purest dispensation of religion, it appears to have extinguished the sense of gratitude to Heaven, and to slight all acknowledgment of the great and true God. Such conduct implies either an entire want, or a wilful suppression of some of the best and most generous affections belonging to human nature.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 243.)

“I will not pretend to say that this class of men qualify themselves for ghost-seers by the mortifications you have been mentioning; it is however certain, that they are in a fair way of becoming fanatics and madmen. At the same time, I think it very imprudent to sacrifice every earthly pleasure, to neglect the duties we owe to human society, on account of the possibility of a matter, the reality of which is founded on no arguments whatever. It is no absolute impossibility that I should one time be made a Mandarin of China, yet the bare possibility of it will certainly not induce me to trouble my head with the study of the Chinese state-politics in order to qualify myself for that dignity. Moreover, it is not only possible, nay, it is probable that the moon is inhabited by rational beings, I shall nevertheless certainly not be anxious to give any offence to the man in the moon by my actions. But to be serious, my friend, the point of your question is not, whether it be possible spirits should have an influence on us and external objects, but whether we really do possess a certain and decisive criterion whereby we can ascertain the reality of that influence; and I think I have sufficiently proved that we possess none. Nay I even maintain, that if something should not only be possible, but also really exist, yet its existence is no concern of mine, while I cannot ascertain its existence by a sufficient ground, while it does not manifest its existence to my knowledge by certain and indubitable criterions.”

“But your objection,” I resumed after a short silence, “may be pursued still further. You maintain that I could not prove the internal impossibility of the influence of spirits on human beings, and thus far you are right; but I have an equal right to maintain that you also cannot prove their real possibility; for in that case it would be requisite to know not only what a spirit is according to our idea, but also what it is in itself; and that only the Author of spirits can know. We know our own soul only by its effects, and no mortal can explain the essential nature of this first cause of all our ideas and actions. For that very reason it ever will be concealed from us whether it is related at all to spirits here below, and what the nature of that relation is? Here, my friend, are the limits of human reason, beyond which we cannot proceed without falling in with the empty space of sophistical phantoms. While you shall remain within the lawful boundaries, you never will have reason to complain of the insufficiency of human reason, as you have done just now. It is criminal arrogance to overleap the sacred limits, to which Providence has confined it; for the eternal wisdom of God is equally entitled to our regard by what it has denied, as by what it has granted us. Descend, therefore, my friend, descend from the empty space to which the Irishman had seduced you, to the firm ground of experience and common sense! Happy is he who looks upon this ground as a post allotted to him, which we can never transgress without being punished, and which implies every thing that can afford us satisfaction while we keep firm to what is useful.”

About six weeks after this conversation, I happened one night to sup with the Marquis in the company of his son and Alumbrado. Our discourse on the new government was growing very warm, when the clock in the room struck ten. Alumbrado suddenly grew deadly wan, and seemed to be struck dumb; his eyes stared at one spot, and he resembled a lifeless statue. We looked at each other with astonishment; the old Marquis was the first who called to him, but received no answer, and started up seized with terror. The Duke and myself followed his example; our endeavours to restore Alumbrado to recollection were, however, fruitless; he remained in profound stupefaction. Not knowing what had happened to him, we were going to send for a physician, when he rose from his chair like a person to whom nothing uncommon has happened, and told us with the greatest unconcern, “This very moment a strange accident has happened 300 miles from hence. At *li*, at the Sun Tavern, the picture of the new king which was hung up in the dining room, give occasion to a discourse concerning him. One of the guests said a great deal to his praise, manifesting, at the same time, a strong apprehension that the King of S--------n might not submit so quietly to the loss of the crown of P--------l, and perhaps, reclaim it by force of arms. Another guest declared this to be a vain idea, maintaining that the new King was as firmly fixed on his throne as his picture opposite him on the wall: but no sooner had he pronounced these words, when the picture suddenly fell to the ground with a tremendous noise.”

Here Alumbrado stopped. While we were standing around him in dumb astonishment, he eyed us with the firm look of a person who has related an incident of which he has been an eye witness. Astonishment and horror seized me, and I did not know what to say. The Duke recovered first from his surprise, asking him by what means he had got that intelligence. “I must beg you,” Alumbrado replied in a low accent, “to suppress a question to which I can give no satisfactory answer. However,” he added with emphasis, “you may rely on the truth of my intelligence.”

He had not deceived us. On the sixth day after this extraordinary incident, letters from *li* arrived confirming the same event, and nine days after, it was reported in the foreign newspapers. It really happened on the same evening, and the same night when Alumbrado had informed us of it.

Being unexpectedly honoured by the new King with a commission that obliged me to leave the kingdom of P----l, soon after this extraordinary incident had happened, I was not at leisure to investigate the source of Alumbrado’s prophecy; nor could I learn the Duke’s opinion of it; my deluded friend beginning to grow very close and reserved in my presence. It grieved me to be obliged to leave him in Alumbrado’s power, under such critical circumstances, I could however, not delay my departure. The Duke tore himself from my embraces with weeping eyes, and promised to write frequently to me.

A week after my arrival at the place of my destination, I received a letter from my friend, which I am going to transcribe faithfully.

“I have had to-day a most important conversation with Alumbrado. The principal subject of it was the old concealed King of P--------l, for whose restoration I had interested myself. ‘Can you seriously believe---’ Alumbrado said, ‘that the person with whom you have conversed at the Hermitage, has really been the old King of P--------l? It seems you did not even suspect that the introduction of the old man was a juggling farce, which was acted with a view similar to those of the other delusions of the Irishman? Although we should suppose that the King had not been killed in the field of battle, and that he himself had been the identical person who was confined at the castle of St. Lukar, which however, has not been proved, yet the whole affair would still bear a very suspicious aspect. Not to mention the great improbability of his escape from a well-guarded Castle, where he was kept in close confinement, and of his having attained an age of 108 years notwithstanding the hardships he suffered in the field of battle, and in his prison. I only beg you to consider who it was that introduced him to you as King of P--------l? Was not the Irishman that person? At the same time, give me leave to recal to your recollection, that Count Clairval has confessed that the pretended King acted in concert with that impostor, and then tell me sincerely, what ground you have to believe such an improbability on the testimony of two cheats? Perhaps you will appeal to his great resemblance to the late King? But have not three persons before him pleaded similar marks as proofs of the identity of their person, and nevertheless been unmasked as impostors? My good Duke, on mature consideration it seems that the Irishman relied very much on your youth and the absence of your tutor, when he imposed upon you by that juggling trick.’

“Ah! what ideas do you recall to my memory! I exclaimed, that letter from the Queen and the answer of the Irishman.”

“Very right! Alumbrado interrupted me, these letters sufficiently prove that you was considered as a young man who promised to be a fit instrument for executing their design. And it is no longer a secret what that design was, and in whose head it has been hatched out. The proud Duchess of B----za had a longing for the crown of P--------l, and it was she who persuaded the Duke to form a plan of seizing it. Your assistance, my dear Duke, was wanted for attaining that aim, but the conspirators foresaw at the same time, that you would refuse it, your antipathy against your illustrious relation being no secret to them. For that reason they pretended that the Duke of B----a had no other view but to replace the old King on the throne of his ancestors. It was necessary you should be made to believe that he was still alive and in safety; for that purpose the hermit was brought on the stage, and acted his part with no common skill.”

“Damned complot!” I exclaimed, with rising indignation. “Compose yourself my Lord,” Alumbrado resumed, “your anger will now avail you very little. Take care not to manifest your indignation too loudly, lest the new King might forget that you are his relation, and have assisted him to ascend the throne. You can do nothing else at present, but to submit humbly to his authority; and I advise you at the same time not to neglect paying due regard to the Queen, for she rules the King and the empire. Do not expect that the present King will yield the sceptre he has usurped to any man living. If you don’t believe me, you may inquire of him after the old King, and he will tell you, that he has resigned the government to him, because he feels himself unequal to the arduous task of ruling a large kingdom, on account of his advanced age, or perhaps that he is dead.”

“My dear Marquis, what do you think of this? I fear Alumbrado is not mistaken, and I am in a state of mind that would render it imprudent for me to appear at court; but as soon as the tempest that ruffles my mind shall be subdued, I will pay a visit to the new King in order to come to the bottom of the truth.

“P.S. You will be so kind to continue to direct your letters to Li*bon, for neither I nor my father shall leave the town this summer.”

Before I could return an answer to this letter, I received a second, the contents of which were as follow:

“Will you believe, my friend, that I desired three times to have an audience, before my royal cousin condescended to admit me to his presence? This utter want of regard and gratitude, re-kindled my indignation, in such a manner, that I entered the royal apartment in a way that was not very consonant with the court etiquette. The King, however, received me very courteously, pretending to be extremely sorry that the accumulated affairs of state had not allowed him to receive my visit sooner, declaring at the same time that he was very glad to see me. ‘I am come, I replied, in order to tell you that I am surprised that the old King has not yet made his appearance, and released you from the heavy burden of state business.’

“Don’t you know that he is dead?”

‘The emotions that I felt at these words are beyond all description; and my astonishment, the paleness that overspread my face, and my silence must have betrayed them to the King.’

“At what are you astonished thus? not at the death of an old man of a hundred and eight years?”

“No,” I replied after a pause, “but I am surprised that he died at so seasonable a period.”

“Will you explain yourself more distinctly?”

“I think it is a very strange accident that the royal hermit should have entered the kingdom of heaven, and left your Majesty the terrestial crown, just when he was to show himself to the people as their lawful King.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

The Power of Music; or, the History of Belario and Lucetta.

Belario was a youth who had been bred up under his father’s eye, according to the most rigid morals. Old Syphax had, in the early part of his life, been a great dupe to the fair sex; he had fancied himself a beau garcon, and imagined he had a right to captivate every female he thought proper to address. In this opinion he was greatly mistaken, and meeting with a variety of coquettes and jilts, he found himself often deceived by his own artifice, and after having squandered considerable sums upon them, discovered he was only laughed at for his vanity and folly. He, however, pursued the career of a general lover for upwards of a dozen years; in the course of which time he had much injured his fortune, in dangling after beauties who despised him, and substituting in their place professed harlots. At length he closed the circle of his amours in marrying, out of mere spight, his own cook-maid, by whom he had Belario.--His consort, though she had approved herself an excellent cook, turned out a dreadful wife. She no sooner attained the summit of her ambition, which she had long aimed at, and which she obtained by the most servile flattery, and the greatest humility imaginable, than she threw off the independant, and soon convinced Syphax, she knew the difference between a servile state and that of a mistress. In a word, she was the modern Zantippe, and probably Socrates never led half so wretched a life, as did poor Syphax, after the connubial knot was tied. He now took an aversion to the whole sex, swore eternal enmity to them, and made a solemn vow, after separating from his wife, soon after the expiration of the honey moon, never to associate or speak to a woman in the course of his future life. Upon the birth of his son he immediately sent for him, and would never let him know who was his mother.

As Belario advanced towards maturity, he had him educated under his own roof, having resolved that he should not be trained at a public school, lest, by associating with the world, he might imbibe their notions in favour of the female sex. He never suffered him to read any books that had the least allusion to the tender passion, and constantly represented women, whenever they were mentioned, as monsters in human forms, and more to be dreaded than wolves and tigers. In this opinion whenever Belario beheld a female at a distance, he fled from her with the greatest swiftness, fearful that even the air might be contaminated with her breath. Yet he thought that there was something enchanting in woman, which he could not account for; but if he hinted such a thought to his father, Syphax depicted them as Syrens, who allured unwary travellers to approach them for their destruction.

Tutored with these extraordinary notions, Belario had attained his eighteenth year, when Syphax paid the great debt of nature, and left his son in possession of an easy fortune. He began now to relax from the severity of those studies, to which he had been confined. He read novels, Ovid’s Art of love, and many other books, that soon made him suspect his father’s doctrine had been fallacious. Belario had not, however, the fortitude to dare approach a female so nearly, as to enjoy the contemplation of her charms, or the enchanting raptures of her conversation; when one day walking in a pensive mood, in a grove adjacent to his abode, his ears were assailed with such harmoneous accents as involuntarily attracted not only his attention, but, by a secret impulse, led him to the spot where the seeming celestial notes proved to issue.

He had scarce reached the hawthorn of melody, before he perceived the lovely Lucetta singing, accompanied by her guittar. Now, in despight of all his father’s tenets so carefully inculcated, he found the impulse of nature, and the power of music, operate far beyond all the sophistry of Syphax’s reasoning against the lovely sex.

He intuitively approached the beauteous maid, and instantly became a captive to her charms---a votary to love and harmony.

Lucetta at first received him with some reserve; but after a fervent declaration of his passion, which soon became sympathetic, she listened to his addresses; when he revealed to her how much he had been imposed upon by Syphax, who represented the most amiable part of the creation as monsters, more dangerous than serpents and crocodiles, and that in this opinion he had shunned them to this very hour; but that he now flattered himself he should make ample amends in paying his devotions to such an angelic being as the divine Lucetta.

This young lady was the only daughter of a gentleman of property in an adjacent village, whom Belario, with the approbation of Lucetta, waited upon to obtain his consent for their nuptials. Her father received the young man with politeness and hospitality, and told him he should have no objection to the match, if he could obtain his daughter’s consent. Happy in such a reply, he flew to his adored Lucetta, and acquainted her with the glad tidings, which she received with as much transport as he communicated them.

To be brief, in a few days their nuptials were solemnized, and they have now enjoyed the most permanent felicity the connubial state can confer, for upwards of two years, in which time the lovely Lucetta has given to the world two pledges of their mutual fondness, in a delightful boy, and a still more beautiful girl. Here we shall leave them, to enjoy that unsullied happiness which ever attends the purest virtue, and the sincerest love.

* * * * *

REMARK.

The enjoyments or misfortunes of men, are to be computed from their different degrees of feeling. What can they mean who speak of the happiness of the insensible? Can there be a greater absurdity, than to envy the enjoyments of such as want the power to enjoy!

* * * * * * * * *

+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+ [Written by Herself.]

(Continued from our last.)

I resolved to conceal Harland’s visit, but my father heard of it from his servant. He accused me of having concerted it, I declared my innocence. He vowed if I saw Harland my husband should be acquainted with it. How cruel such harshness. Mr. Mordaunt soon left the castle, he brought me to London; he loved dissipation, and I entered into it, I thought it would banish painful reflections. At the expiration of a year Heaven blest me with a lovely infant. My health was now so delicate, the physicians ordered me to Bristol. Mordaunt accompanied me thither, not indeed out of tenderness, but ostentation; he wished the world to think him perfect, and yet counterfeited a love for me, which in reality existed not, as his heart was too depraved to be long susceptible of a virtuous passion. My father accompanied us. We had a house one mile from Bristol. Each morning I went to the rooms, the remainder of the day was spent in weeping, and praying over my child, in lulling her to sleep, and hushing her feeble cries.

I had just entered the room one morning, and was conversing with a young lady, when turning round, I was startled by the figure of Harland. Struck by his appearance, various emotions rushed upon me, I could scarcely stand, trembling I leaned upon my companion--the alteration of his looks too visibly manifested the disorder of his mind; despair tinged every feature, and the lustre of his eyes was totally extinguished. I hurried from the room---I forgot my resolution---we cannot always command our feelings---the power above makes allowances for human frailty. I would have discontinued going to the rooms, only I feared exciting the prying eyes of suspicion. I again went, beheld him, and returned more unhappy. In the afternoon, walking alone in the garden, I saw a bit of paper thrown over the hedge, I snatched it up, and perceiving Harland’s writing, I started, I hesitated whether to open it---imagination pictured his sufferings---I broke the seal, and perused the following lines:

“Julia, the miserable Harland is on the point of eternally quitting his native kingdom, he flies to remote regions, far distant from an object who has banished peace--will she yet be cruel, or will her nature, once gently kind, comply with the last request of one, whose last sigh will be for her. Oh Julia! to leave this kingdom without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support---I sicken at the idea. Refuse me not, I conjure you, one parting interview, to sooth the solitary hours of my life, I have wandered on bewildered with misfortune, marked for affliction from the earliest dawn---nought but the long dark night can efface them. If you comply, as ah! surely you must, leave a note where you received this, and at any hour or place you shall appoint, I will meet you. Adieu, most loved and most lamented object of my soul.”

I could not refuse his last request---I was not proof against such entreaties, I might be censured, but I could not conquer the tender feelings which compelled me to comply. After supper, I stole to a little shady bower, situated in a shrubbery, and seldom frequented by any but myself. Here Harland waited for me---our meeting it is impossible to describe---he began with gentle upbraidings. Unable to bear the idea of his thinking me faithless, I declared the compulsive power which forced me to the precipice of despair. His feelings at this discovery overcame him---he raved at the cruelty of that parent, who, actuated by motives of avarice and ambition, had sacrificed the happiness of his child for ever---he implored my forgiveness for ever thinking me inconstant---he almost wept at my sufferings---he besought the being above to inspire me with fortitude and resignation to sustain them. The time approached for our separation---it was absolutely necessary on my account. Harland attempted to bid me adieu, but his words were inarticulate, he took my hand and prest it to his palpitating heart, I had endeavoured to summon resolution, his distress conquered me, a last interview, an eternal farewell from the dearest object of my love---the dreadful idea overpowered me, and I sunk fainting on his bosom, he claspt me to it, the emotions of our souls could not be restrained, my pallid cheek was wet with tears of misery, I forgot the world, I only remembered the cruelty of my fate. At that instant Mr. Mordaunt and my father rushed into the bower, their frantic rage, I shuddered at the recollection of. The former flew at Harland from whose arms I had sunk, full of the most direful apprehensions. He attempted to remonstrate, but in vain, the sword was at his breast, the instructive impulse of self-preservation prompted his defence, it was too dreadful to behold. I fainted, and in a happy insensibility was conveyed to my chamber. Returning life made me too soon acquainted with the fatal consequences of the combat, they were both wounded---a shocking tale had spread to my dishonour, it was credited, appearances so much against me, infamy branded till then my unspotted character, my father’s proud soul swelled at the ignominy of his daughter, he considered me as an everlasting disgrace to his family, as having sullied that blood, of whose purity he so often boasted---he rushed to the apartment, where I sat stupified with the horrid events of the night, myself the fatal cause---there, there was the arrow which pierced me to the soul, his whole face was distorted with passion---rage flashed from his eyes, in a voice scarce intelligible, he exclaimed, “wretch, cursed be the day on which you were born, you have branded the illustrious names of your ancestors with infamy; from this hour I renounce and curse you in the bitterness of my soul, and swear in the sight of heaven never more to see you.” For a moment I stood transfixed like a statue---a shriek wild and piercing then broke from me, and I fell senseless on the floor. When a little recovered, I called for my cruel father, I implored him to withdraw his curses, but he was gone---reason could not retain the shocks she had received. A violent fever succeeded---for a month my life was despaired of: the Almighty, however, thought fit to prolong existence. The first use I made of returning sense, was to enquire for my cruel connexions. Sir George and Mr. Mordaunt had both left the house with solemn asseverations of never again beholding me. Harland, dear ill-fated Harland, had paid the last sad debt of nature. My husband had stood his trial, but possessed of interest and wealth, he was soon acquitted; my child he had taken with him, and left orders for me to quit the house on my recovery; also a paper wherein I was informed of the settlement made on me, and the person on whom I was to draw for it. Miss Rivers, my faithful friend, neglected me not in the hour of severe calamity; she had me conveyed to a family in Wales, who had just retired there, and had no objection to receive me as a boarder. Heartbroken, I forsook a world where my dearest hopes were blasted, yet I left it with no impious repinings against my destiny. I confessed myself properly punished, humbled to the dust--I felt the impropriety of having ever placed myself in a suspicious situation; but I was thoroughly penitent for having (though I trusted in a slight degree) deviated from the path of rectitude--Heaven, I fancied, accepted my contrition, by placing me in a family of love, such as I shall now describe.

Captain Harley, after a life of activity in the service of his country, retired to a sweet retreat in South Wales, to enjoy the closing evening of a busy day; his family consisted of a wife, the faithful companion of all his sorrows, and one daughter, who being the only survivor of a numerous offspring, was doubly endeared to them. She was the staff of their age, the doating of their hopes, and they bore her continually on their hearts, to that heaven which they knew would alone protect her from those calamitous strokes they had so often experienced in the course of their lives.

The retreat they had chosen, was by its seclusion, calculated for the narrowness of their income, and by its beauty for the promotion of their pleasure.

He rented but as much land as would supply his household wants, this he delighted in cultivating himself, assisted by an old trusty servant who had been a soldier in his regiment. Conrade was the veteran son of calamity, and his misfortunes strengthened the claim his services had given him upon the affections of his master. During a late contest, a brave and only son had fallen by his side in the field of battle; scarcely could he survive the blow, but consolation effected what fortitude had no power to do. Captain Harley was not only a good soldier but a good christian, and by pointing out the path to heaven, gave poor Conrade full assurance, by faithfully discharging the humble duties of his station, he should obtain a passport to rejoin his brave and beloved son.

Louisa at the period of their retirement was fifteen; her mind and form were opening to perfection, and both promised to contain the fairest loveliness of ingenious innocence, and graceful symmetry.

The lilly and the rose gave their most beautiful tints to her complection; her fine black eyes beamed with the sensibility of her soul, never did she hear the tale of sorrow without emotion.

Harley had little to give, of that little he gave abundantly--not the largeness of the gift but real inclination of the donor, he knew was regarded by the power above. Like the benevolent pastor of Auburn village, to him repaired the needy and the wanderer, and found a ready welcome--often too, the weather beaten soldier in journeying to his native home, to lay his bones among those of his forefathers, turned in hither, and cheared by hospitable fare,

“Shoulder’d his crutch, & shew’d how fields were won.”

Harley knew what it was to have the unsheltered head exposed to the chill blast and sharp bitings of the wintry frost.

Such was this little family of love, who retired amidst Welch mountains, enjoyed that content and happiness which the votaries of fashion, misled by dissipation, can never experience.

Louisa was my constant companion--like a ministering seraph she hushed the turbulence of anguish, and whispered peace to my perturbed soul.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

ANECDOTES.

“My father desired me, Sir, to ax you,” said a physical disciple to a certain eminent pharmacopolist, “that I might attend you to all your patients, as you know, Sir, it is the last year of my time”---“You shall, Bob, you shall,” replied the master; “Come, get your hat.” They entered the sick man’s chamber, and the usual circumstances occurred, such as feeling the pulse, et cetera; After assuming an appearance of profound thought, the vender of galenicals told the wife of the sick man, with much gravity, that her husband was in extreme danger, and that she had contributed to his malady by giving him oysters: The woman, in much confusion, at last owned the fact. When they had quitted the house, Bob enquired with much earnestness of his master, how he could possibly know that the patient had eaten oysters. “You foolish boy,” replied the other, “I saw some shells under the bed.” The next time Bob went alone, and returned to his master with a ghastly visage, and told him the patient was dead by eating a horse---“A horse, Bob,” rejoined the esculapian chief, “how do you know that?” “Oh, easy enough, Sir, I looked under the bed, and saw a bridle and saddle!”

A Gentleman of Angiers, who did not trust to his memory, and wrote down all that he was to do; wrote in his pocket-book, “Memorandum, that I must be married when I come to Tours.”

Before the conquest by the Normans, the land in Norfolk was so light and fine, that the farmers usually ploughed it with two rabbits and a case knife.

* * * * * * * * *

A GRAMMATICAL EPISTLE To Miss SALLY SYNTAX.

MADAM,

Amongst the numeral propositions towards a matrimonial union with your amiable person, I hope you’ll not decline the interjection of my preliminary pretences. I should not wish to be a mere noun adjective to you in all cases, but I positively declare, that comparatively speaking, I should be superlatively happy to agree with you in the subjunctive mood. I trust you’ll not opiniate me singular, for desiring to have the plural in my family; I shall fabricate no verbal oration, to prove how I long to have our affections in common of two: but I presume, that in case of a conjunction copulative, you’ll use no indicative solicitation to be in the imperative mood, as I am determined to be in the potential active, while you are in the future passive, or in the supine: for it is the optative of my soul to become your relative, by the antecedent of regular conjugation, as this alone can constitute a lawful concord with the feminine gender, and afford us a participle of substantive happiness. Every article possessive or genitive shall become a dative translation to you; nothing shall be accusative against your government; and your sweet nominative without a pronoun or even adverb shall be my vocative, till death the great ablative of all living, by the gradual declention of our corporeal nature, puts a final termination to the present tense, and time, thro’ an infinite progression of ages, may render us preterperfect in the future tense; in the interim, my principal part of speech in its primitive or derivative extension is, to the end, that you may put the most charitable construction on this simple proposition, and that your definitive resolution may be consonant to the wishes of your very indeclinable lover

MICHAEL DE MARIBUS.

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ANECDOTES.

On the first night of the representation of the comedy of the Suspicious Husband, Foote sat by a plain, honest, well meaning citizen, whose imagination was strongly impressed by the incidents of the play. At dropping of the curtain, the wit complained to his neighbour of the impropriety of suffering Ranger to go off as he came on, without being reclaimed. “Could not the author,” said he, “throw this youth, in the course of his nocturnal rambles, into some ridiculous scene of distress, which might have reclaimed him? As he now stands, who knows but the rogue, after all the pleasure he has given us, may spend the night in a round house;” “Then,” says the Citizen, “if it happens in my Ward, I’ll release him, for I’m sure he is too honest a fellow to run away from his bail.”

A young woman lately applied to the manager of a Theatre to be engaged as a vocal performer---When required to give an instance of her ability, she began Mr. Incledon’s celebrated ballad of Ma chere amie my charming fair, thus---“March after me, my charming fair;”---The manager bowed, and the lady became scarce.

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GRACEFULNESS.

He who seeks to know the origin of Gracefulness, must look for it in his own mind; whatever is graceful there, must be so in expression. It is a quality analogous to the most exquisite tenderness of affliction; that sweet enthusiasm of action which goes hand in hand with beauty; or, if we may be allowed the phrase, it is the soul of beauty, the emphasis of pleasing expression.----Grace is the sublimity of beauty; the modest pride of virtue; the gentle dignity of love. An attitude expressive of the pensive and pleasing melancholy, a sentiment peculiar to the finest souls, is ever most graceful. The loveliest of the graces has on her face a cast of sadness mixed with the sweetest joy.

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NEW-YORK.

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MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 31st ult. by the Rev. Dr. Beach, LUCAS ELMENDORF, Esq. of Esopus, to Miss ANN WADDLE, of this city.

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METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 29th ult. to the 4th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Jan. 29 30 44 e. do. clear, calm, sm. rn. lt. wd. 30 27 35 50 nw. w. clear high wind, do. do. 31 24 50 30 e. do. cloudy lt. wd. sm. rn. & sn. Feb. 1 30 30 e. do. cloudy high wind, rain do. 2 37 49 w. do. rain cm. clear high wind. 3 32 44 w. do. clear light wind, do. do. 4 31 40 w. do. clear light wind, do. do.

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ON INNOCENCE.

Sweet INNOCENCE, thou child of Peace! Companion of the infant breast, Fond parent of domestic ease, And tranquil rest!

Say, in some solitary cell, Dost thou with Piety reside, Far from the sons of Vice, who dwell With Pomp and Pride?

There dost thou smooth the brow of Care, Beam hope serene on Virtue’s woes, And lull the transports of Despair To soft repose?

Dost thou in some sequester’d grove, With rural tenderness retire, There fan the sparks of infant love And pure desire?

Or with the nymphs in jocund play, Hide from their swains amid the bowers, Or with the blooming lasses stray, To cull sweet flowers?

Where, lovely stranger! hast thou fled, Since weeping Eden saw thee rove: Then pensive beauty droop’d her head, And left the grove?

Return, my once beloved guest! Bring thy fair friend Content with thee, Bring back those happy hours, which blest My infancy.

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THE SEASONS OF SORROW.

When hope, when health, when youth prevail, How fleet the dancing moments pass; Ere grief and care the heart assail, At ebb the sands of Time’s frail glass!

Once, brightly rose my morning ray, My noon of life serenely shone; Yet clouds on clouds o’ercast the day, Ere yet declin’d the setting sun.

Did gentle zephyrs waft the Spring, How bright each landscape glow’d around! What sweets could Summer seasons bring, What beauties Autumn, harvest crown’d!

Not hoary Winter’s dreary form, Shivering in snowy mantle dress’d, Could freeze my joys, or raise a storm To shake the calmness of my breast:

For then my bliss a Brother shar’d, A Friend his comforts could impart; If Fortune’s frowns that bliss impair’d, A gentle Mistress sooth’d my heart.

With these, whilst every care was charm’d, The choicest gifts of Heaven combin’d, Higeia’s power my bosom warm’d, And love spread sunshine o’er my mind.

In yonder vale Philander lies, Embalm’d with friendship’s choicest tear; Where those o’er-arching shades arise, I sorrow’d o’er a brother’s bier.

Yet stream’d my eyes, yet bled each wound, When Fate another arrow sped; A timeless grave my Delia found, My love was number’d with the dead!

My love!--a dearer name she own’d, Pattern of constancy end truth! Her image, in my heart enthron’d, The dear-priz’d consort of my youth!

That heart thus rent--What yet remains, While still our short-liv’d pleasures die? While grief in mournful notes complains, And sorrow heaves the heart-felt sigh?

The glorious sun puts on in vain His richest robes, and gilds the day; Sad melancholy’s sable reign, Prevailing, blots his brightest ray.

With roses crown’d, the blushing spring To every new-born joy invites; Delia more balmy sweets could bring, For her I pine amidst delights.

When Summer radiance paints the skies, Or Autumn swells the lusty year; Still flow my tears, still heave my sighs, Philander--Delia--is not here!

When Winter the gay train employs, In scenes of social mirth to blend; Can I forget who shar’d those joys, My Brother, Mistress, and my Friend?

Unheeded still the seasons roll, Unmov’d each various change I see; Can they relieve my troubled soul, Or smile upon a wretch like me?

Ah, no! To sorrow still a prey, My few remaining years I waste; Count by my sighs each passing day, And wish that each may be my last.

The torch funereal, cypress gloom, Are now familiar to my sight; These eyes, long gazing on the tomb, Now sicken at the morning light,

Does fancy make the shapes well known, That sudden flit, and disappear? Does fancy form the solemn tone Which vibrates on my aching ear?

Howe’er it be---aloud they call--- To quit in haste this mortal coil, And rise above the earthly ball, The scene of sorrow, pain, and toil.

Philander, Dorus, Delia bless’d! I hear the voice, and haste away, To scenes where Sorrow’s children rest, In realms of never-ending day.

But Virtue, from the seats on high Descended, shall assert her reign; Though worlds in mighty ruin lie, And still her sacred sway maintain.

Then shall her sons in every age, In every clime, with lustre rise; And quit, at once, this mortal stage, For scenes immortal in the skies.

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SONNET TO PUBLIC VIRTUE.

Is this the land for arts and arms renown’d, The Saint’s, the Hero’s and the Patriot’s pride? Is this where Pulaski, Warren, and Montgomery died? Where Liberty defends her favourite mound?

Here let me kneel, and kiss the hallow’d ground! Old Earth shall sooner drink this purple tide, Than faction with impunity shall wound Thy fame, Columbia! parent! patron! guide!

Unlike th’ aspiring prelate, meanly proud, The soldier, jealous of a brother’s fame; The popularian, voluble and loud; The Christian, martial, patriotic soul, Disdains the vulgar tribute of acclaim, Mean Envy, and Ambition’s mad controul!

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+-- where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+.

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UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, February 15, 1797.+ [+No. 85.+

PLEASURES OF OLD AGE.

Though, in old age, the circle of pleasure is contracted, yet within its limits many of those enjoyments remain which are most grateful to human nature.

Temperate mirth is not extinguished by advanced years; the mild pleasures of domestic life still cheer the heart. The entertainments of conversation and social intercourse continue unimpaired. The desire of knowledge is not abated by the frailty of the body, and the leisure of old age affords many opportunities for gratifying that desire. The sphere of observation and reflection is so much enlarged by long acquaintance with the world, as to supply, within itself, a wide range of improving thought. Whilst the aged are engaged in such employments as best suit the infirmities of their nature, they are surrounded, perhaps with families, who treat them with attention and respect; they are honoured by their friends; their characters are established, and are placed beyond the reach of clamour and the strife of tongues; and free from distracting cares can calmly attend to their eternal interests.

No age is doomed to total infelicity provided that we attempt not to do violence to nature, by seeking to extort from one age the pleasures of another, and to gather in the winter of life those flowers which were destined to blossom only in its summer or its spring.

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WIT.

Wit is the most dangerous talent we can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good nature, otherwise it will create many enemies.

Wit is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy; yet they are seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who possess it become intoxicated, and lose all self-command.

Though it is the most captivating, yet it is the most dreaded of all talents: the most dangerous to those who have it, and the most feared by those who have it not. He who is grown rich without it, in safe and sober dulness, shuns it as a disease, and looks upon poverty as its invaluable concomitant.

The moralist declaims against it as the source of irregularity; and the frugal citizen dreads it more than bankruptcy itself: for he considers it as the parent of extravagance and beggary. The Cynic will ask of what use is it? Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet it is allowed, as an object of innocent amusement, and delightful recreation.

A woman who possesses this quality has received a most dangerous present, perhaps not less so than beauty itself; especially if it be not sheathed in a temper peculiarly inoffensive, chastised by a most correct judgment, and restrained by more prudence than falls to the common lot.

This talent is more likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for there is much more danger that folly should arise from the confederation of what is our own, than of what we borrow. But wit, like learning, is not near so common a thing as is imagined. For flippancy, pertness, and impudence are often mistaken for this brilliant quality; and people often imagine they are witty, only because they are indiscreet, and this makes the name of wit so cheap, while its real existence is so rare.

But those who happily possess this talent, cannot be too abstinent in the use of it. It often makes admirers, but never makes friends; and she, who does not desire friends, has a sordid and insensible soul; but she, who is ambitious of making every man her admirer, has an invincible vanity and a cold heart.

* * * * *

GRATITUDE.

Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The sense of being distinguished by the kindness of another, gladdens the heart, warms it with reciprocal affection, and gives to any profession, which is agreeable in itself, a double relish, from its being the gift of a friend. Favours, though conferred by men, may become burdensome; but nothing of this kind can affect the intercourse of gratitude with heaven. Its favors are wholly disinterested. The Almighty aims at no end but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and who desires to return from them but a devout and thankful heart.

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THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 251.)

“It was an accident.”

“And a very fortunate one for your Majesty.”

“What do you call fortunate? My family had a lawful claim to the crown of P--------l, and I have an additional right to the possession of it because I have torn it from the head of the usurper at the risk of my life. I would, however, have resigned it cheerfully to my grand uncle if his death had not destroyed that plan. You are mistaken if you think the lot of a King to be so enviable. The burden of government lies heavy on my shoulders.”

“O! there are means of alleviating that load.”

“Of which I shall make as little use as possible, for it will be the chief object of my cares, and will afford me the greatest pleasure to render my people happy.”

“Who could doubt it? Yet I think one ought to make the death of the deceased King publicly known.”

“If we could but first convince the people that he has been alive lately. The profound incognito behind which he concealed himself, throws an insurmountable bar in our way. No one would believe us.”

“Upon my honour, I almost disbelieve it myself any longer.”

“You are right; one needs not to believe what one is convinced of, for you have seen him with your own eyes. If fate had suffered him to show himself in public, every one would have acknowledged him to have been the person that he really was, the old lawful King of P--------l. Having, however, lived and died in obscurity, the whole matter may remain a secret, and that so much the more because the discovery would be intirely useless. It is therefore my royal pleasure that no mention whatever be made of it. Farewell!” he added after a short pause, “you will always find me your affectionate King.”

‘Thus ended my audience. Do not desire me, my friend, to disclose to you the ideas and sensations which it produced within me. I shall endeavour to obliterate even the recollection of that scene.

‘Alumbrado is very much displeased with the manner in which I have spoken to the King. “Do you imagine,” said he, “that his offended pride ever will forgive you the torments of that self-denial which the patience he has opposed to your galling language has cost him? The sacrifice which he has made to his policy by that painful forbearance, will certainly cost you dear. Henceforward, you must renounce every hope of being promoted; for he will be careful to keep in submission, and at a proper distance, a man of spirit, as you must have appeared to him. This is perhaps the least misfortune that threatens you; your warmth, your ill-timed frankness, may produce consequences of a more serious nature. Alas! why have you not been on your guard? Have I not advised you to appear with humility in his presence?”

‘Alumbrado had certainly the most friendly view in reprimanding me thus: he did not know that every word of his wounded my heart like a two-edged dagger.

‘I have been interrupted by the visit of a Prelate of very high rank. He came to inform my father and myself that the Vice Queen of P--t--l had been imprisoned by the order of the King, because she has had the imprudence to declare that the new King had usurped the throne in a fraudulent manner, and that it was the duty of every inhabitant of P--t--l to acknowledge only the King of Sp--n as his lawful sovereign, because the voluntary oath of allegiance the P--t--se had sworn to the latter, could not be made void by that which the Duke of B- - - a had obtained by artifice and force. “I cannot conceive,” the Prelate added, “what reasonable objection can be alledged against this declaration; but nevertheless, no one dares to affirm it, for fear of sharing the fate of the Vice-Queen.”

‘The Vice-Queen and the Prelate, appear to me to be in the right. However, what can be done? Farewell, my friend, and let it not be long before you favour me with an answer.

‘P.S. This very moment I received an answer to a letter I had wrote to a friend near the place where the hermit lived. He informs me that the old man expired four months since, worn out with age.’

I suspected already from the first letter, but more so from the second, that the Duke was in danger of taking a course from which he could not return too soon. I imagined I had discovered the design which Alumbrado had formed upon him and shuddered at the idea that he might carry his point. Yet my suspicion against Alumbrado was also a mere supposition, which gave me no right to accuse him. After mature consideration I thought, however, it would be best to deliver the Duke, against whom his plan appeared so be chiefly directed, from his clutches, and thus expected to gain two advantages by one stroke: not only to cut the sinews of Alumbrado’s undertaking asunder, but also to guard the Duke against the snare which was laid for him.

With that view I wrote to the latter:

‘Your letters have been very important to me; I must, however, beg you to fetch my answer yourself. Don’t refuse my request, and hasten to the arms of your friend, whose happiness in a place on which nature seems to have lavished all her blessings, would be complete if you were present. Here we will discuss the political concerns which give you so much uneasiness, for I have more than one reason for not doing it by way of letter, and my affairs threaten to detain me here some time longer. The journey will not only improve your health, but it will also ease your mind, which is bent down at present by a gloomy sameness of ideas, and very much wants amusement and diversion. I am convinced that your melancholy will not pursue you to the paradise that blossoms here. And if only your gloominess of mind shall have left you, you will view things that now appear to you in a frightful shape, in a more pleasing light. At the same time you may expect that the commission the King has charged me with, will enable me to explain to you many political objects which I dare not do in writing. Come, my friend, you certainly will not regret your having undertaken this journey, &c. &c. &c.’

My letter produced the desired effect. The Duke returned me a very affectionate answer, and promised, to begin the journey in a fortnight. How joyfully and impatiently did my heart pant for his arrival! but I was disappointed. He did not come, but sent me a letter, which I am going to communicate to the reader.

‘Why am I not yet arrived? Ask Heaven that question, but not me, for I have done every thing in my power to fulfil my promise. In spite of Alumbrado’s remonstrances, I went on board of the ship to convey me to my friend. A favourable breeze that swelled our sails enlivened my hopes of embracing you soon. Evening set in, and the wind and the sky continued to be propitious. The second and the third night stole upon us amid the same favourable auspices.

‘I do not know how it happened, that on the third night the recollection of my sainted Amelia awoke within my mind with additional vivacity. It was not, however, associated with painful, but with bitter-sweet sensations, which frequently afford to feeling minds a more delicious pleasure than joys unmixed. I proceeded insensibly from sensations to the realms of fancy. I looked at the star of love, and imagined I beheld Amelia’s sainted spirit enthroned in its silver lustre. My soul soared above the immense space that separated us, and anticipated the bliss of the celestial spirits. O! why has she so soon been rendered insensible of the limits of her power, which obliged her to return to our sublunary globe?

‘I felt a faintness which invited me to rest, and having bid adieu to the starry firmament and the ocean, I went to my cabin, where the solacing hand of sleep soon closed my eyes.

‘I awoke an hour before the dawn of morn. Finding myself entirely refreshed I left my couch and returned on deck in order to hail the stars once more, before they should be dispelled by the majestic king of day. But what a scene did my gazing eyes behold! The firmament appeared no longer to be over us, but we seemed to ride upon it. I did not know whether I was dreaming or awake, rubbing my eyes repeatedly. In vain, the scene remained unaltered: intense darkness covered the sky, all its stars and galaxies appeared to be on the water.

‘O nature! thy grateful son never will forget the enjoyment which this undescribable spectacle has afforded him! I gazed a long time in silent wonder at the illuminated surface of the ocean, before I could examine the individual beauties of that grand scene. Whithersoever I directed my gazing looks, I beheld fiery streaks. However, all parts were not equally illuminated; some spots emitted quick flashes of light, while others continued some minutes to sparkle. The separated water gushed before us in luminous streams, and the furrow which the vessel drew formed a white bright streak behind us, which was interspersed with sky-blue spots. The multifarious and dazzling light was skipping on the curling waves; the spume which the little bubbles produced on the surface of the water, glittered like silver-coloured snow. I could have plunged in the watery abyss in order to sink down in that heaven.

‘The rising sun put a stop to that enchantment. My fellow travellers began to stir. I hastened to tell them what a scene they had missed. A reverend old man, who was present when I related what I had seen, smiled. “One can see,” said he, “that this is your first voyage; this phenomenon is nothing uncommon in all seasons, and particularly in warmer climes; nevertheless the naturalists still differ in their opinion of its cause, some believing that it proceeds from small luminous insects, and others from an oily substance that separates from rotten animal bodies.--Many pretend this phenomenon to be the forerunner of an impending tempest, but this is false.”

‘The old man may not have been mistaken, yet this time he was refuted by experience. The little clouds which were swimming singly in the sky, united by degrees and overdarkened the sun. A black tempest began to gather in the north. The crew were just going to prepare against the storm, when suddenly a violent gale of wind arose, and hurried the vessel with incredible rapidity over the ruffled surface of the sea. We lost one of our anchors, which fell from the deck with a thundering noise. Some loud peals of thunder gave the signal for the breaking out of the storm. The light of day disappeared, the billows of the swelling sea were rolling one upon another with a roaring noise; the dreadful flashes of lightening seemed to dye the surface of the ocean with blood, and each clap of thunder threatened to shiver the mast to atoms. The foaming of the waves, the rolling of thunder, and the howling of the winds, seemed to announce to that part of the world the return of old chaos.

‘The strong flashes of lightning made us suddenly observe that land was near. How welcome soever such a discovery is in fair weather, yet it was to us the most dreadful incident that could have happened, on account of imminent danger of being wrecked. Our cables seemed not to be able to resist long the fury of the winds and waves which availed the vessel.

‘All these circumstances contributed to recall to my mind the recollection of a similar incident which had robbed me of my Amelia. The wounds of my heart began to bleed afresh, and the melancholy sensations which assailed my mind, deprived me of the power that I, otherwise, should have opposed to the terrors which surrounded me. My heart beat violently against my breast, and nothing but my ambition could have prevented me from joining those who groaned and lamented loudly, wringing their hands and tearing their hair.

(To be continued.)

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ON THE GENIUS OF WOMEN.

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+To the EDITOR*.+

Sir,

Certain persons have for some time past been carrying on a dispute relative to the talents of women, and the dispute I perceive has found its way into your miscellany. I believe, Sir, the question might be soon settled to the satisfaction of all parties, if, we were first to agree in what is meant, or should be meant by the word talents. Hitherto, if I understand the controversy, talents have been understood to mean the power or faculty of publishing in prose and verse; and if we limit it to this, we may easily decide, that women are inferior to men, because there have been probably a thousand male authors for one female.

But, Sir, with submission, I would beg leave to suggest, that we narrow human genius and ability very much, when we confine them to the bookseller’s shop. Are there not many very able Statesmen who never write any thing but Treasury-warrants, and receipts for their salaries? Nay, do we not admire the vast genius of some Representatives, whose forte is entirely in speaking, and who, when compelled to draw up an address to their independent constituents, commit errors that would disgrace a school-boy? In short, Sir, if we have no other way of judging of a man’s talents, but by the quantity he publishes, either from the press or from his mouth, are we not giving all the praise to mere saying; and never reflecting that an accumulation of words, without corresponding actions, is to all necessary purposes useless and unprofitable?

This being premised, and, I hope, allowed, we need dispute no longer about the superiority of the male sex. The talents of the fair sex, as to all the great and important events of human life, and all the leading transactions of kingdoms and states have so far transcended what has been attributed to us, that were I to compile a new Universal History, however I might avail myself of the valuable labours contained in the old, I should certainly entitle it, “A history of the Power and Influence of the Female Sex, from the fall of Adam to the present time.” It is the pitiful jealousy and envy of men which has deprived the sex of the honours due to them in history; and likewise some part of the concealment of their influence, arises from the brevity of histories, their authors taking a superficial view of events, and seldom troubling themselves to investigate the secret springs of human action; whereas, if we will only examine into the minute particulars of great events, the secret intrigues of Courts, Kings and Ministers, or even of Republics, we shall always find that the women have had a great share in bringing about political changes, wars, treaties, negociations, &c. although they, for modesty probably, content themselves with acting unseen and unobserved, and the men, proud of the success of the affair, wish to take all the merit to themselves. Now, Sir, let me ask you a plain question: which of the two is likely to deserve most fame, and to confer greater renown on the party, the publishing a poem, or bringing about a Revolution in a state or nation, perhaps with a few words? Which requires greater abilities, to govern a kingdom, or to cajole a bookseller? To tickle the fancy of love-sick boys and girls by a novel, or to confound and stun half the Cabinets of Europe, by a bold stroke of invasion, a massacre, and a partition? To write a ballad about a man and woman who never existed, or to make the existence of thousands of men and women miserable?

But this is not all. It is not enough to appeal to the history of ancient and modern nations, for proofs of the superiority of women over men. This, perhaps, is not much in their favour, for a superiority of evil influence is not the present contest, and would not be very honourable if it were established. No, Sir, if we wish to ascertain the real and meritorious superiority of female talents, we need not consult the voluminous records of history; we need only bring the question home to ourselves. I shall instance but in one respect, the power of persuasion. This I take to be the great test of genius and talents. He who possesses this, possesses every thing; and yet we know that what a man cannot do by whole treatises and volumes, by a well connected chain of argument, and the most convincing calculations, is generally done by a woman with a smile, a glance of the eye, or a very few words. Sir, we may talk as we please of our vast learning, of our voluminous productions, of our many virtues for which we obtain credit in epithets and funeral sermons. But with what painful efforts do we accomplish the least of our good actions! and to do a great good is the business of a long life. What is all our power compared, or, which is more dangerous, put in competition with a TEAR or a FIT?

I repeat it, Sir, let us bring the question home to ourselves. What is it that constitutes the felicity of domestic life? Is it the wealth we have acquired, the house we live in, the equipage that bespeaks our rank, or the servants that bow at our command? No. Sir, to use an expression of Mr. Burke, it is, “the dignified obedience and proud submission” we owe and pay to the female sex. Our hearts confess that they deserve it, and that we cannot help paying it, and cannot, therefore, help acknowledging their superiority. When we refuse to pay it, when our minds are in a state of rebellion against those lawful sovereigns, where is it that we dare to breathe sentiments of a seditious tendency? Is it in their presence? No; a look, a word, awes us into submission; and when we conceive the thoughts of resistance we fly, like cowards, to some secret place, to some neutral ground, to the desart heath of celibacy.

They may be accounted to possess the greatest talents who accomplish the greatest purposes by few means, which, in my mind, establishes the superiority of the fair sex. I am, Sir, your humble servant,

PHILOGYNES.

[* This article is extracted from the London Monthly Magazine.]

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+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+ [Written by Herself.]

(Continued from our last.)

In a ramble one evening with her and her parents through a beautiful valley, our admiration was excited by a cottage extremely small, but exquisitely neat, which lay on the sloping bank of a meandering river, shaded by old luxuriant trees---a bridge composed of planks formed a passage from the vale to the cottage, we crost it in order to have a better opportunity of gratifying our curiosity. We now saw a venerable looking man who had before escaped our notice, sitting in a little sunny glade, we stopt for fear of intruding on his solitude, but perceiving us he instantly approached, and with a pleasing politeness requested we would enter his humble abode. Harley with emotion exclaimed---“Good God! surely that voice is not unknown to me.” “I am certain,” said the stranger, “I have seen you before, though where I cannot immediately recollect.” “If I am not mistaken,” cried Harley, “You are the worthy Hume who was chaplain to the regiment in which I served.” “The same, the same indeed,” replied he, returning his embrace---“the same unfortunate man, whose setting life has been attended with a train of the severest calamities.” The big tear stood trembling on Harley’s cheek---“Friend of my youth,” said he---his voice faultered, but betrayed the sensibility of his feelings. We accompanied Mr. Hume into his cottage, Harley and he appeared delighted with this unexpected interview, both appeared anxious to learn the occurrences which had past, during the long interval of a separation. Harley’s delicacy prevented his enquiring too minutely into those misfortunes Hume hinted at, which he, perceiving with a candour that seemed genuine to his nature, declared he would inform us of those events he had experienced, “a tale,” said he, “adapted for youth---they will find the consequences of illicit passions, and how easily credulity can be imposed on.

“The events of my life are uncommonly calamitous, misfortune has persued me with unremitting vigour, I have lost the sweetest ties of life, I have seen the form of loveliness mouldering away, the shroud of darkness encompassing a mind replete with gentleness and pity, I have beheld the inexorable ruffian rob innocence of its boast and the blossom of beauty withering beneath the blast of affliction. Oh Harley, I have endured all this, and yet I live---live to draw the tear of sympathy by the recital of my fate.”

HISTORY OF HUME.

“Hope, sweetest child of fancy born, Tho’ transient as the dew of morn;-- Thou who canst charm with sound and light, The deaf’n’d ear, and dark’n’d sight; And in dry deserts glad the swains, With bubbling rills and cultur’d plains. No more invent thy airy schemes, Nor mock me with fantastic dreams--- No more thy idle stories tell, Deceitful prattler--Hope farewell!”

“The evening was uncommonly serene when I wandered from my cottage to enjoy its balmy sweetness, the distant hum of the busy villagers retiring from their various occupations, just stole upon my ear, and made me reflect on the happiness of our English peasants, and that a life of industry was a life of peace, since it kept the mind employed, and prevented the thoughts from wandering beyond the boundaries of virtue.

“I raised my eyes to the bright firmament where joys eternal are treasured for the righteous--I considered that millions of celestial beings might at that moment be hovering over my head, and joining in responsive hallelujahs before the throne of the Almighty, Milton’s beautiful lines occurred to me--

“Then crown’d again their golden harps they took, Harps ever tun’d that glitt’ring by their side Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet, Of charming symphony, they introduce The sacred song, and waken raptures high, No one exempt, no voice but well could join, Melodious part, such concord in heaven.”

“I was roused from my meditations by a piteous voice, demanding the aid of charity, I looked at the object, he was a worn out veteran, the remnant of a shabby scarlet coat hung over his feeble limbs, he carried a wallet, no great load indeed, a mouldy crust of bread, too hard for decaying jaws of age. I felt for his misery, I pitied the misfortunes of that man, whose arm had assisted in defending my country from the rapacity of its enemies. He told me a tale of woe, and his cheek was moistened in relating it. Alas! poor old man, cried I, you have not been exempt from the common lot; but cheer up my soldier, the manly heart, while it trusts in heaven, should never be deprest, but the anguish of poverty has weakened courage. Come, cried I, taking him by the arm, we have both been veterans, though in different ways, labour should now cease, age requires a relaxation from toil, we are both swiftly gliding down the vale of years, let us endeavour to make the passage easy, we will retire to my little cottage, its doors have never yet refused admittance to the stranger, seated by the humble fire-side, we will recount our tales of old, and cheer our hearts with a draught of are, administered by the cherub hands of my Patty. We ascended the hill together which led to my lowly mansion, nature had sweetly decked it with the choicest verdure. As I ascended the hill, I wondered at not beholding my Patty; it was her custom, when prevented to attend my rambles, to watch my return, seated on the little green turf beside the door. As I entered I called her, but received no answer, my surprise increased---I seated my humble guest, and went in search of her, I tapt at her chamber door, still all was silent---melancholy presages rushed upon me, I attempted to open the door, weak and trembling my hand fell by my side, and my heart smote against my breast, I recollected myself, and wondered what had excited such fears in me---they now died away like the shadows of the night, I entered the chamber, but my child was not there, a folded paper lay on her little dressing table, I hastily snatched it up and perused it, a deep groan was wrung from me by agonizing pangs, and I fell senseless on the floor, my fall reached the veteran’s ears, he hurried to my assistance, gratitude inspired his poor unfortunate bosom, and he endeavoured to aid me, he recalled me to life, ah! mistaken kindness, the gloomy recesses of the grave were alone fit for me. I started from his arms, I raved aloud upon the name of Patty. Whither art thou gone, my child? I cried. The paper lay before me, I imagined it all a dream, I strained my glimmering sight to read the words of horror it contained:

“Oh my father, I fly from you, incapable of witnessing the shame and sorrow I have drawn upon you, I fly from you, a stranger to peace and bereft of innocence, the wiles of Mordaunt have undone me, I leave you forever!”

“Perfidious villain, to blast my only comfort! With some degree of resignation I could have consigned my child to death, the idea she was gone spotless to the bosom of her creator, would have calmed the sorrows of my soul, but to have her seduced by a monster, her fair form, her virtue for ever blasted, oh! ’twas agony insupportable, she was consigned to me by the wife on whom I doated; my Emily was an angel before she left this world, prepared for the mandate which called her hence, adorned with every charm of beauty and goodness, with her last sigh, she grieved forth the united names of child and husband, the cypress which shaded her grave was oftener watered by my tears, than by the dews of heaven; Patty was the darling of my eye, the blooming resemblance of her departed mother, she was sincere, artless, and unsuspecting as credulity itself, she became acquainted with her seducer, in our neighborhood he was affluent, young and elegant, beneath the mask of friendship and generosity, he concealed a mind deceitful and vicious, he admired the beauty of my child, he gained her affections, and rendered her forgetful of my early precepts, she fled, afraid to see the person whose hopes she had blasted, fled from the arms which would have sheltered her against the contumely of the world.

“I turned to the soldier, I beheld his tears of sympathy; he had seen troops destroyed, individuals fall beneath the ruthless sword of an enemy, but he had never beheld a lovely daughter, tempted from the arms of an idolizing parent. I will go in search of my child, I exclaimed, he offered his withered arm to support me, we descended the hill together. At the bottom I stopt, my emotions were to be compared to those which our first parents felt when driven from the garden of Eden. The cottage on the hill was once the scene of all my bliss with Emily, it was sacred because she resided in it; I have felt an enthusiasm of pleasure in walking through those paths in which she had trod, I wept, oh earth! I cried, where are thy joys, thy comfort? Alas! How fallible, how fleeting all thy blessings! I hurried on, the soldier followed me. We wandered to various cottages, still the answer was repeated, they had not seen such passengers as we described, travelling shortly exhausted our little stock of money, in a few days shelter was refused us, we crept under a hedge, and the rain wet our grey locks. The soldier murmured his regret, it was hard, he said, he had served his country faithfully, yet its ungrateful inhabitants barred their doors against him. Be comforted, my companion, I cried, consider what the Saviour of mankind has said, “the sparrows have their nests and the beasts their dens, but the son of man has not wherewithal to lay his head.” And shall we after so glorious an example, repine at not receiving shelter from a few miserable wretches.”

(To be concluded in our next.)

* * * * *

ESSAY on the Conduct of Men toward the FAIR SEX.

Every generous man should view the sentiments and actions of the fair sex in the most favourable light. I can ascribe the contrary practice to nothing but an unmanly spirit, since, in many cases, those guilty of it cannot vindicate themselves confidently with the laws of delicacy. Nature has made man the protector; and the fair sex require his protection: he who should refuse this, when necessary, would be reproached with cowardice; and much more if he should take advantage of their weakness. But is not he who injures a woman’s character, to be esteemed as great a coward as he who assaults her person? Certainly he is: the former is an insult on the modesty, and the latter upon the natural weakness of the sex.

There is but one way in which we can suppose a lady may vindicate herself from a false imputation, and that is by the tenor of her actions. But then, how liable are actions to be misconstrued! When once a slanderous tongue has given the clue, the world will be too apt to ascribe every thing to a wrong principle; even the candid are sometimes misled, and form suspicions which their honour would otherwise have prevented.

The practice of viewing the female conduct in an unfavourable light, subjects the sex to many disadvantages, which I have observed in the course of my acquaintance.

Flattery is a fashionable snare to entangle female vanity; and I know of no method more successful, when a man is disposed to put an unfavourable construction upon every thing he sees. If it is received with applause, with what satisfaction does the base deceiver congratulate himself upon his success! Hence some ladies, to avoid all such appearances, shew themselves displeased when they are attacked in this way; but alas! they succeed no better than the former; for it is easy enough for the confident fellow to console himself with this reflection, that the vain creature takes the compliment almost before it was intended.

* * * * * * * * *

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

To Mr. MICHAEL DE MARIBUS, In answer to his Grammatical Epistle addressed to Miss SALLY SYNTAX.

SIR,

The charitable construction which has been put upon your grammatical epistle, has rendered me declinable to your complex proposition. As your presumptuous address, wholly precludes the necessity of an apology for this abrupt preface; I shall be thereby relieved from an embarrassment, which the delicacy of the subject would have otherwise occasioned. The various contradictions visible in your letter, argue a defect of sincerity. In the first place, you say you would be superlatively happy to agree with me in the subjunctive mood; then you seem disposed, with an assuming air, so throw in a conjunction disjunctive, and disunite us into various moods and tenses. Again you say that you do not wish to be a noun adjective; then, that it is the optative of your soul, to become a relative.--What is a relative pray, but a noun adjective? You say also, that you trust I will not opiniate you singular: if you are not in the singular number, you must necessarily be in the plural. If, then, you have already formed the plural number, by the interjection of a copulative conjunction, connecting you to a noun substantive, you cannot expect, or even wish from me, an accession to your proposition. I candidly declare to you, that a noun substantive in the singular number, is the only part of speech to which I would willingly subjoin a copulative conjunction. Lest you should be disposed to charge me with assuming the prerogative of your own sex, I shall pass over many expressions in your letter, which might properly afford a field for criticism. But let me add, Sir, that as it was an impolite, so was it a very impolitic thing for you to make use of such unwarranted freedom, as to make proposals of so immensely great consequence, to a person, with whom you had so slight an acquaintance. If, previous to the exhibition of your bold letter, you had perfectly learned my disposition, you must have been sensible, that it would be far from being consonant with my feelings to admit of a concord with you, upon conditions so disagreeable as those you offered. Beside, it would have been by no means a bad plan for you, to have been a little conversant with my sister analogy; as she might have been of considerable advantage to you in an attempt of this nature: She might, at least, have supplied you with a rule, by which two noun substantives might have agreed with each other, without transforming either into a noun adjective.

SALLY SYNTAX.

* * * * *

OBSERVATION.

Sensible objects, which were any way connected with an absent or departed friend, impress their idea more forcibly on our minds, than bare reflections can; and then, like the pressure of the moon on the sea, they create a fulness of sorrow or tenderness, which can only be relieved by flowing from our eyes.

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NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. ROBERT JOHNSTON, to Miss ANN SWITZER, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. at West Greenwich, (Con.) by the Rev. Dr. Lewis, the Rev. PLATT BUFFETT, of Stanwich, to Miss HANNAH LEWIS, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Lewis, of the former place.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. ALEXANDER COWAN, to Miss MARGARET IVERS, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. PETER SLOTE, Printer, to Miss ANN COOK, both of this city.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 5th to the 11th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Feb. 5 31 42 s. se. clear, calm, do. light wd. 6 40 50 50 50 sw. do. rain, lt. wd. thick fog, do. 7 34 36 w. nw. clear, high wind, do. do. 8 26 38 w. do. clear, light wind, do. do. 9 31 50 42 s. se. clear, calm, do. high wind 10 44 48 se. do. cloudy, h. wd. much rain. 11 40 44 50 n. nw. cloudy, high wind, do. do.

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RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. FOR JANUARY 1797. deg. 100

Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 24 35 Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 32 78 Do. do. for the whole month 28 56 Greatest monthly range between the 9th and 28th, 46 0 Do. do. in 24 hours, the 10th, 20 75 Coldest day the 9th, 0 0 Warmest do. the 28th, 46 0

6 days it snowed, and about eight inches and a-half has fallen. 5 do. it rained, and a large quantity has fallen. 18 do. it was clear at sunrise, and 3 P.M. or observation hours. 8 do. it was cloudy at do. do. do. do. 2 do. the wind was high at do. do. do. do. 21 do. the wind was light at do. do. do. do. 26 do. the Mercury was at or below the freezing point, at sunrise. 16 do. the do. do. do. at sunrise and 3 P.M. 20 do. the wind was west of north and south at 7 A.M. & 3 do. 21 do. the do. was east of do. and do. at do. do.

* * * * *

SONNET TO ADVERSITY.

Neglected Nymph, that with unpitied sigh Turn’st thy white cheek to every striking gale, While the base crew with wounding taunts assail, And Worthless Wealth averts his wint’ry eye!

Yet the rich virtues follow in thy strain, Thine is Compassion’s tear, Submission’s calm, Inspiring Hope, Religion’s healing balm, And mild Philosophy’s instructive strain.

Thine is the plaintive Poet’s touching song, That tunes with melody the chords of Care, To smile forgiveness on the cureless wrong, And heal the wounded spirit of Despair.

Ah, may I ne’er forget thy voice divine, But bless the hour, that made its precepts MINE.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VISION: AN ELEGY.

What time the moon, in silver robes array’d, Propt on her lucent throne, majestic sate, With weary steps, I trod the muse-fraught glade, And hail’d the sombre glory of her state.

Still was the air, and solemn all the scene; For there, immers’d in heavenly thought profound, Deep Wisdom rov’d, whose sable robes were seen To sweep with awful majesty the ground.

Bent o’er an urn, pale Melancholy stood, With Pity’s smile soft melting in her eye; Around her feet, in visionary mood, The weeping spectres float in sorrow by.

There Contemplation held her awful reign, And Fear, methought, burst thro’ the low’ring gloom: While sounds terrific whisper’d in the gale, And palid visions burst the yawning tomb.

Oppress’d I stood; when lo! from yonder sky; Where charms celestial to the sight are giv’n, Some Seraph’s beauties swept in glory by, Enwrapt in all the radiant blooms of heav’n.

Propt on an amber cloud, one seem’d to stand, While o’er his breast his radiant pinions fold: A glitt’ring spear supports his better hand, His blazing helmet flames with plumy gold!

I hear him say, “Why pour thy mournful strain? Why feed with bitter grief thy woe-fraught mind, Why pants thy heart with visionary pain? Why give thy tresses to the ruffled wind?

No more let strains of hopeless sorrow flow;”-- He spoke, my father burst upon my eyes! “For me no more unlock the source of woe,” In strains divine my honour’d parent cries.

“For I am seated in the realms of light, Where founts of bliss from joys perennial play; Where suns of glory purify the sight, And the soul triumphs in eternal day!

Raise thy low thoughts to images above, And hail the form you ought not to deplore, Lodg’d in the bosom of your maker’s love; And learn from heav’nly precept to adore.

Frail child, no more let tears impearl thine eye, Nor rending groans lament thy glorious fire; Since wisdom tells you, that we all must die, Tho’ born to flourish with celestial fire!

Be these thy precepts; learn from hence, no more To bid the stream of erring sorrow flow: Exalt thy eyes; you realms of light explore, And aim to bloom where truths celestial glow!”

Corrected thus--I humbly bow’d my head: Thrice round his breast his flaming jav’lin flies; His radiant path eternal glories spread; He mounts the air, and seeks the opening skies.

* * * * * * * * *

HUMANITY’s POWER.

How delightful the season of May, When zephyrs come sailing along! The meadows how cheerful and gay! How sweet is the Nightingale’s song! The grove fragrant odours exhale When refresh’d by the still drooping show’r, And sweet is the eglantine gale, But sweeter Humanity’s Power.

When Summer, refulgent array’d, Darts fiercely his vertical beam, How welcome the tremulous shade! How refreshing the chrystaline stream! The breezes soft transports bestow, As they glide o’er the jessamine flower, But more grateful the plasures which flow, From gentle Humanity’s Power.

What can charm like Autumn’s bright ray, When the fields their rich treasures resign? Or what greater beauty display Than the smooth polish’d fruit of the vine? Is there ought like the morning can please? Or the smile of the sun setting hour? Yes, far more engaging than these, Are the beams of Humanity’s Power.

More mild than the calm vernal scene, More grateful than Summer retreats; More engaging than Autumn serene, When nature her promise completes: More gentle than zephyrs soft wind, And more sweet than the jessamine flow’r, Are the joys of the tranquiliz’d mind, Which glows with Humanity’s Power.

* * * * *

ASPIRATION Over the Tomb of an Amiable Friend.

If honour, prudence, piety combin’d, A noble nature, and an humble mind, Esteem’d whilst living, claim, while dead, a tear, The Muse is justified who pays it here.

For, O, if all which virtue ever gave Could save her vot’ries from th’ insatiate grave, Whom here I mourn had now in this sad hour Been an existent instance of her pow’r.

Existent instance!--mount above the pole Dull Muse, and trace the disembodied soul, Who, haply now, exulting in its doom, Views, with a smile, the disappointed tomb.

What tho’ its tent, beneath a fateful sky Prone in the dust, by death subverted, lie, Itself, escap’d above the stormy bow, Securely views the ruin spread below.

So when an earthquake shakes this trembling ball, And the high rocks in pond’rous thunders fall, Tho’ not her nest the devastations spare The Eagle still exults sublime in air!

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+-- where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, February 22, 1797.+ [+No. 86.+

MAN’S DANGER AND SECURITY IN YOUTH.

In that period of life too often characterised by forward presumption and headlong pursuit, self-conceit is the great source of these dangers to which men are exposed; and it is peculiarly unfortunate, that the age which stands most in need of the counsel of the wise, should be the most prone to contemn it. Confident in the opinions which they adopt, and in the measures which they pursue, the bliss which youth aim at, is, in their opinion fully apparent. It is not the danger of mistake, but the failure of success, which they dread. Activity to seize, not sagacity to discern, is the only requisite which they value.

The whole state of nature is now become a scene of delusion to the sensual mind. Hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what flatters most is always farthest from reality. There are voices which sing around us, but whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites us to repose, but to slumber upon it is death. Sobriety should temper unwary ardour; Modesty check rash presumption; Wisdom be the offspring of reflection now, rather than the bitter fruit of experience hereafter.

* * * * *

DECEIT.

That darkness of character, where we can see no heart, those foldings of art, through which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, present an object unamiable in every season of life, but particularly odious in youth. If at an age when the heart is warm, when the emotions are strong, and when nature is expected to shew itself free and open, we can already smile and deceive, what is to be expected, when we shall be longer hackneyed in the ways of men, when interest shall have compleated the obduration of our hearts, and experience shall have improved us in all the arts of guile!

Dissimulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age: its first appearance is the fatal omen of growing depravity and future shame. It degrades parts and learning, obscures the lustre of every accomplishment, and sinks us into contempt with God and man. The path of falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from sincerity, it is not in our power to stop. One artifice unavoidably leads on to another: till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth increases, we are left entangled in our own snare.

Deceit discovers a little mind, which stops at temporary expedients, without rising to comprehensive views of conduct. It betrays a dastardly spirit. It is the resource of one who wants courage to avow his designs, or to rest upon himself. To set out in the world with no other principle than a crafty attention to interest, betokens one who is destined for creeping through the inferior walks of life. He may be fortunate, he cannot be happy; the eye of a good man will weep at his error: he cannot taste the sweets of confidential friendship, and his evening of life will be embittered by universal contempt.

* * * * *

DUTY OF OLD AGE.

A material part of the duty of the aged consists in studying to be useful to the race who are to succeed them. Here opens to them an extensive field, in which they may so employ themselves as considerably to advance the happiness of mankind. To them it belongs to impart to the young the fruit of their long experience; to instruct them in the proper conduct, and to warn them of the various dangers of life; by wise counsel to temper their precipitate ardour, and both by precept and example to form them to piety and virtue.

It never appears with greater dignity, than when tempered with mildness and enlivened with good humour; it then acts as a guide and a patron of youth.

Religion, displayed in such a character, strikes the beholders, as at once amiable and venerable. They revere its power, when they see it adding so much grace to the decays of nature, and shedding so pleasing a lustre over the evening of life. The young wish to tread in the same steps, and to arrive at the close of their days with equal honour.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 259.)

“I stood on the deck a prey to speechless agony, when suddenly somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Conceive my astonishment when, on turning round, I saw Alumbrado standing behind me. I staggered back as if a midnight spectre had taken hold of me with icy hands. Terror and surprise deprived me of the power of utterance, and suspended every motion of my limbs. He had made the voyage without my knowledge, and found means to keep himself concealed from me; you may therefore imagine, how violently I was affected by the sudden appearance of that man, whom I fancied to be at Lis*on.

“Are you not sorry now, that you have slighted my advice?” Alumbrado said, “it seems you will not see your friend in this world.” Some minutes passed before I was able to reply. “Let us now enjoy in silence the grandest spectacle that nature can afford!” So saying, he looked with tranquillity at the foaming ocean, as if he had been standing on the sheltering shore, far distant from the danger that surrounded us from all sides. His eyes beheld with inconceivable serenity the wild commotion of the waves, which now raised the vessel to the flaming clouds, and now hurled it into the gaping abyss of the boiling sea. The firm tranquillity which Alumbrado’s countenance bespoke, in spite of the furious combat of the elements, the impending destruction of the ship, and the doleful lamentations of the desponding crew, appeared to me to denote more than human courage. I gazed with secret awe at a being that seemed to be delighted with a spectacle, which made every hair of my head rise like bristles.

‘At length the flashes of lightning grew fainter, the roaring of the thunder less violent, and the fury of the winds seemed to be exhausted; but the sea continued to be agitated in so dreadful a manner, that we apprehended the cables would not be able to stand the motion of the ship any longer. In vain did we implore human assistance by the discharge of our guns, the towering waves threatening destruction to the boats that attempted to come to our relief.

“In vain will human force endeavour to wage the unequal contest against all-powerful nature!” I exclaimed when I beheld that desponding sight. Alumbrado turned round. “I will tame the fury of these foaming waves, if you will promise to return to Lis*on!” I gazed at him in speechless astonishment. “I am in earnest,” he resumed, “will you return to Lis*on?” “If I will?” I replied, “If I will? how can you ask me that question? enable me to do it!” Alumbrado left me without returning an answer.

‘A few minutes after he returned. “You will, presently, behold a miracle,” he said, “but I must request you to tell nobody the author of it.”

‘I promised it, and the miracle ensued. The rolling foaming sea grew calm and smooth. We went on shore, and found ourselves not farther than a day’s journey from Lis*on.

‘You see my friend, that a higher power, against which opposition would have been useless, has put a stop to my voyage. I have related the history of it without making any comments, and leave it to your own judgment to form a just opinion of it. As for me, I am convinced that I have at length found the man whom my boding soul has long been in search of.’

This letter astonished me to the highest degree, and, at the same time, augmented my apprehensions very much. In my answer I declared neither for nor against Alumbrado’s supernatural power, because I neither chose to confirm the Duke in his belief in it, nor to risk losing his confidence; for how could I have expected to receive farther intelligence of his connection with Alumbrado, if I had been deprived of the latter? and yet it was of the utmost importance to me to learn every transaction of that designing man.

Notwithstanding this precaution, near a month elapsed without my having received an answer to my letter. I wrote a second time to him, but before his answer could reach me, was ordered by the King to return instantly, and to make an oral report of the issue of my commission. I was, therefore, obliged to depart without being able to wait the arrival of his letter.

I anticipated the pleasure of surprising him by my unexpected arrival, and went to his palace as soon as I arrived at Lis*on. He rather seemed surprised than pleased at the unexpected sight of me, asking with a kind of anxiety, whether I had received his last letter. When I answered in the negative he seemed to grow more easy, but adding, some time after, that it would be sent after me without delay, his brow began again to be overclouded. I was not much pleased with this behaviour, and begged him to relate to me the sequel of Alumbrado’s history, but he desired me to await the arrival of his letter, in which I should find a circumstantial account of it. In vain did I conjure him by the ties of our friendship to gratify my desire, and tried every art of persuasion in order to get the wished for information. He always evaded my questions, and frequently betrayed strong marks of uneasiness. Displeased with this reserve and mysterious behaviour, I took leave with evident coolness.

The two following days elapsed without our seeing each other. I must not forget to mention, that I received, the second day after my arrival, a letter from an unknown hand. When I opened the cover, I found a second sealed letter along with the following lines which were directed to me:

“Tomorrow you will receive a visit of an old acquaintance, to whom you will have the kindness to deliver the inclosed letter. But if he should not have made his appearance on the day after to-morrow, you may open the letter, which will give you farther information.”

I could guess neither the writer of the note, nor who that old acquaintance could be.

The day following I received the Duke’s letter, which had been sent after me. I opened it with impatience, and read the following lines:

“It appears more and more probable to me, my friend, that Alumbrado has raised the tempest that threatened to prove fatal to me, in order to punish me for my disobedience to his advice. For should he, who can subdue the billowing waves, not also be able to agitate them? You may say whatever you choose, a supernatural power must have been concerned in that event, and who is capable to fix its extention, its limits? My father and myself venerate Alumbrado as a worker of miracles ever since that event, although he strives to hide himself behind the pious cloak of humility.

“O! why was Alumbrado not present when that tempest raged which deprived me of my Amelia? He would have saved her, and all the gods of earth would envy me for my felicity. The Irishman has cheated me of every earthly blessing, by not fulfilling his promise.

“Concerning the Irishman, Alumbrado has given me a very extraordinary hint. ‘The Marquis of F*’ said he, ‘is undoubtedly right when he maintains, that God never intrusts an impostor with the power of working miracles. He is however mistaken, if he thinks the speaking phantom, which Hiermanfor made appear at the church-yard, had been nothing else but a natural deception; no one will ever persuade me that it is possible to effect any thing of that kind by natural means. Effected by mere natural means, you will say, and yet no miracle? certainly not; for cannot Hiermanfor have deluded you by the assistance of the father of lies? I will not explain my opinion on that head more at large, yet I think the Irishman is an hypocritical villain, who carries on a wicked trade. One ought to congratulate you, that your good principles deterred him from initiating you in his shocking mysteries. It was not without reason that he accused you of want of self-subsistence and resolution, for a dreadful degree of firmness of soul is required for joining in a contract whereby mortal men bid defiance to the great eternal Ruler of the world. However your better genius watched over you, and although you have been entangled a long time in the bonds of wickedness, yet he has delivered you from those snares before they were tied indissolubly. You ought to be thankful to the mercy of the God of love, and to be on your guard in future. If you should meet with men who perform supernatural works, you may easily find out what sort of people they are; if they deal in lies and imposition, they belong to the kingdom of darkness, but if truth and justice is sacred to them, they are children of light. If you had examined the Irishman after this standard, you would have fled with terror from the apparition of the church-yard, and he would never have succeeded in entangling you in an undertaking which has deprived the King of Spa*n of his lawful crown. The doctrine and the principles of the Irishman ought to have rendered him suspected to you. He endeavoured to point out to you the reason as the only infallible instructor and guide, at the expence of faith, and at the same time strove to confound that very reason by artful and fallacious conclusions, as the Marquis of F* has demonstrated in a masterly manner. The Irishman was very careful not to make you reflect on the limits of reason and the power of men, because a genius like you would easily have concluded how much we are in want of divine illumination and grace; and it was his chief aim to remove the light of religion, because his works required being covered by delusive mists. You will never have seen him frequent the church, nor perform religious rites, will never have heard him pronounce certain sacred names. I know that sort of people, who are so much the more dangerous, the more they are skilled in concealing their real shape behind deceiving masks. The spreading libertinism, and the furious rage of explaining every thing naturally, threatens indeed to suspend the belief in the existence, nay even in the possibility of miracles and sorcery, however they have not ceased notwithstanding that. The opinions of men may alter, but things will remain as they are. The same Omnipotence that in times of old has led the Israelites through the red sea, manifests itself still in our days through signs and miracles, although they are not acknowledged as such by the blind multitude. The same reprobated spirit that spoke formerly through the oracle of Delphos, and by whose assistance Simon the magician performed extraordinary feats, is still active in our present times.

“Is it therefore, improbable that men who by their superior sanctity rise above the generality, and connect themselves more intimately with the Godhead, should resemble the Supreme Being in power, and enjoy an immediate influence of the Ruler of the world? Is it so very incomprehensible that the spirit of darkness should favour those who resemble him in wickedness, and endow their inclination of perpetrating wicked deeds with a physical power of executing their diabolical designs? People of either description will, indeed, always rarely be met with; superstition will mistake as such many who do not belong to that class, yet who can prove that they do not exist at all? I am, certainly, no enemy to reason, however I conceive it to be not less absurd obstinately to reject whatever is miraculous, than to believe it blindly. I esteem reason while it does not overstep the limits to which it is confined, as the Marquis of F* has justly observed, nor attempts to expel faith. There are supernatural things, sacred truths, which the former never can comprehend, being reserved only for the latter. Faith is hailed by noontide light, even where reason finds nothing but midnight darkness. While the latter proceeds slowly, and with uncertain steps, through a mazy labyrinth of conclusions and arguments, the former enjoys a clear immediate sight of truth, and experiences all the strength of its evidence.

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

HAPPINESS.

----Tho’ tempest frowns, Tho’ nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heav’n! To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!

Dr. YOUNG.

Happiness is more sought after, and with much greater avidity, than any other blessing with which this terraqueous ball is supposed is be endued. Yet, notwithstanding the eagerness with which it is pursued, none has been less substantially obtained. The reason is obvious. Mankind are dissatisfied with their respective situations in life, and content dwells not in their bosoms: their minds are satiated with what they possess; new objects hardly delight for a moment, ere fresh ones present themselves; and man, unthinking creature as he is, follows the airy phantom, promising himself perfect happiness, can he but attain another wish; but which, when acquired, proves, alas! like the former, the visionary satisfaction of an instant.

Content constitutes continual happiness; for with that sweet companion, the peasant is greater than a prince destitute of the benign blessing. The glittering, gaudy tinsel of a court, is unable to convey that real happiness to man, which the honest rustic feels at the sweet lispings of his innocent babes, and the heartfelt welcome of a faithful wife as they greet his return every evening from a hard day’s toil. Surrounded by this happy group, he sits down, breaks the bread of virtuous industry, blesses Him who gave him strength to earn the scanty meal, and lays down on the pallet of penury in peace, to arise with the morn to labour and to happiness. This life he enjoys, because he aspires to nothing above that sphere in which it has pleased Omnipotence to place him.

How few, even in any state, do we find happy? Alas! the number is by far too few. To the improper pursuit after happiness, can we only attribute the misery of mankind; daily, nay even hourly, do we see dread examples of this serious truth. But where is the eye that has not beheld, the mind that has not felt, or the heart that has not pitied, some object who has, in grasping at the shadow of happiness, lost the substance; whether it has met the observation as a culprit at the bar of a criminal court, a lunatic, a beggar, a deluded female, or a debtor in the dreary mansion of a prison? Where is the tongue but must confess, that they have lost their probity, their reason, their independence, their virtue, or their liberty, in an improper pursuit after happiness? However wrong their ideas might be, that, and that only, was the aim.

It will be asked, and with great propriety, what remedy we should apply for the prevention or cure of such an unremitting disease? We can only recommend content; not merely as the interest, but the duty of mankind. For, if man repines, at whom is it? It is at Him who in mercy infinite made man. There are few, it is presumed, if they consider this serious and important truth, who will not cease to murmur and be discontented; or they must, at least, cease to offend the Almighty, by repeating those words which his beloved Son himself hath taught us, saying, “thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.”

* * * * * * * * *

+Of the GENIUS of the ARABS.+

Arabia has ever been as celebrated for horses of a gentle, generous spirit, as the Arabs for their skill in training them. That this praise is not undeserved, nothing can more clearly illustrate, I conceive, than the following incident, recounted by an English gentleman, whose credit and repute are well known among his countrymen in Bengal.

Temporarily resident at Bussorah, after a trading voyage to the Gulph of Persia, Mr. T---- went, one afternoon, to pay a visit at the English factory. Whilst the Chief, with several other gentlemen besides himself, were drinking coffee in a balcony, an Arab, gallantly mounted, and his horse superbly caparisoned, galloped into the courtyard: there, for some time, he exercised his steed, displayed perfect address in the manege, curvetting, prancing, volting, wheeling, and caprioling his courser, with inimitable grace, and as much expertness in the easy management of his arms, darting a spear in the air, and recovering it again at full tilt, with other feats, equally dexterous and entertaining.

Unluckily, however, for the poor fellow, in crossing a bank and ditch, leading from the area to an adjacent field, the horse, being fatigued, fell down, and threw his rider headlong in the dust. A stream of blood gushed, at the same time, from the creature’s nostrils, and he lay extended and motionless on the ground. The Arab seemed stunned by the fall; but at length recovering, shook his ears, brushed the dust from his cloaths, replaced his turban, and approached his horse.

But no man nor pencil can express the anguish and affliction conspicuous in the man’s countenance, on beholding the animal lie in that condition. At first he raved and screamed, in a delirium of agony; then bursting into tears, kissed and embraced his horse, bewailing and bemoaning his loss in all the excess of despondency. So animated, indeed, appeared his grief, and so deep his distress, as to inspire a sympathetic affection in the bosoms of all the spectators.

The gentlemen instantly called him up, and learning that the horse had been bred from a colt in his house, and was the only support (as the man served as a monthly Sepahi in the Bashaw’s army) of his father, mother, himself, his wife, and three small children, and that the loss now deprived the whole of subsistence, they humanely raised a handsome contribution for him, immediately among themselves and their dependents, and, giving the man the money, bid him be comforted, and go and buy another horse.

With effusions of the most lively gratitude, yet not unaccompanied by sighs and sobs, the man received the bounty, and once more repaired, dejectedly, towards his horse, in order, as it should seem, to take off the trappings and furniture. But no sooner had the wily Arab repassed the ditch, than, at a word, the horse started up; the master vaulted upon his back, and rode away full speed, laughing aloud at the credulity of his staring and astonished dupes, and at the success of his own contrivance.

* * * * * * * * *

+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+ [Written by Herself.]

(Concluded from our last.)

Be consoled that our hearts are not tainted with evil, and that the consciousness of never committing aught offensive to innocence, hangs like a friendly shade around us, to blunt the pointed arrows of adversity. Fatigue at length overpowered the veteran, and he died under a holly tree. A tributary tear of gratitude fell from me, but I quickly supprest my feelings, and envied him his fate. The minister of the parish was a good man, and had him interred. When the rustics retired who had attended the funeral, I seated myself by the sod which covered the remains of my last friend, how often did I raise my eyes to heaven, and beseech the Supreme to take me to eternal peace. I continued lost in gloomy reveries till night surrounded me, I arose with an intention of proceeding to the next hamlet. As I walked slow and pensive, my ears were struck by a soft voice familiar to them, which came from a flower-woven arbour on the road side. I listened attentively, it was the voice of my child, amazed, doubting my own senses, I crept to the spot. She was singing a little air, which had once been a favourite of mine, there is no describing the melancholy melody with which she sung it; she was often interrupted by sighs, and her hands were raised to wipe away her tears, the beams of the moon shone around us, affording sufficient light to discern every object. She turned around and perceived me, the paleness and agony of my countenance terrified her, “Gracious Heaven!” cried she, “what do I behold?” “A miserable old man,” I exclaimed, “whose heart is broken by ingratitude and grief.” She shrieked, she would have fled, but her limbs aided not her intention, fainting she sunk at my feet, I knelt beside her, I clasped her with a kind of phrenzy to my breast, called upon her to revive, and bless a father who never ceased to regret her loss, she opened her eyes, “Alas! I am unworthy of such tenderness,” “No, my child, mercy is the sweetest attribute of heaven, to err, the weakness of humanity.” Her head fell upon my shoulder, I wept with her, my heart seemed breaking, at that moment comfort seemed fled from both for ever. By degrees I calmed her agitation, “Alas!” said she, “was it in search of such a wretch you came? oh! my father, how could I ever forget thy precepts, or deviate from the path in which you brought me up, but if penitence and remorse can palliate error, mine is lessened, from the moment of error I have been superlatively wretched, and incessantly looked back to regret that peace which can only result from unsullied innocence.” A thousand times the dear unhappy girl knelt at my feet, to implore my forgiveness, I as often assured her she had obtained it.

“Though peace and innocence,” said I, “shall no more brighten my cottage, yet pity and repentance shall render it not an unpleasing asylum, but may some signal punishment from heaven, fall upon the author of your wrongs.”

The shocks my Patty had experienced preyed upon her life, unceasing anguish like a worm in the bud, fed on her damask cheek, the glow of health, the fire of imagination, and the animation of youth were fled, and a deep melancholy seized the soul of my child, she in whom my life was wrapt, whom I had nourished with so much tenderness, lay expiring before me, like a blossom immaturely blighted, I attended her in dumb despair. A few moments before she died, she thus spoke, “Alas my father, I have overwhelmed you with sorrow, regret me not, let not those tears fall on my account, in this world all must have been misery, the blackness of despair, I go, blessed by thy forgiveness, and the promise which scripture holds out of penitence meeting mercy, a broken and contrite heart is acceptable.” Her hands were extended, her eyes closed, and she expired. The power who supported me in such trials, pardoned the first delirium of grief, in the days of my felicity I had pictured to myself such scenes of bliss, I looked forward to a prattling progeny, who would be the comfort of my old age.

“How desultory are the schemes of man, he lays plans of permanent felicity, when the whirlwind of affliction arrives, and destroys the towering edifice of creative hope.

“After those occurrences, my mind was too perturbed to allow me to attend to the duties of my function, I surrendered my living, left that part of the country, and retired to this spot, where unknown and unmolested, I may brood over my losses, and where I frequently picture to myself the terminating scene.”

Exquisite were the sensations of grief and horror, which this little tale excited in our breasts; to my feelings was added a painful degree of surprise from the name of Mordaunt, I enquired, though in accents of dread and hesitation, and learned he was the destroyer of Hume’s happiness.

Our visits were frequently repeated to the cottage of the unfortunate old man, to me they were inexpressibly soothing, from kindred grief there was derived a congenial sympathy.

Two years had rolled away since my retirement in Harley’s cottage, when I was called down one morning to a gentleman in the parlour, my heart trembled at the summons, and my tottering limbs could scarcely support me to the spot. A stranger in deep mourning met my view, I gazed attentively on him, and recollected the features of my brother, grief had so altered my form, so worn away all traces of my former self, that he knew me not, till my weak voice pronounced his name.

“Ah my sister,” cried he, “think not your brother could ever forget your gentle worth, could ever think you deserving of censure, or like the world be biassed by misfortune to forget you, a father’s interdiction prevented me ere this, visiting your retreat, that father no longer exists to oppose my intentions, he died convinced of your innocence, and breathing wishes for your felicity. Harland, the penitent Harland is no more, sensible of the injustice he had done you, he acknowledged his cruelty, and has by his death, restored you to fame, to fortune, and to your child.”

I wept as my brother spoke--my heart was opprest by a variety of emotions, and my gloomy soul turned to the untimely grave of Harland--my brother conjectured my feelings--“I see” cried he, “from what a mingled source your tears flow, but ah my sister, in this life happiness must ever receive some alloy.”

His consolations strengthened my reason in combating grief--I reflected that even if Harland lived, to me he must have been lost, since after the unfortunate rencontre between him and my husband, a connection with him would have confirmed an invidious world in every idea they had formed prejudicial to me.

He was soon struck by the charms and innocent simplicity of Louisa, her heart returned his partiality, and I had the happiness of witnessing their union.

Their happiness, the education of my child, and self-exertion, roused me from the lethargy of grief, and diffused a calm over my mind I never hoped to have experienced.

* * * * *

THE SCHOOL OF NATURE.

“-------- -------- -------- Nature spreads An open volume; where, in ev’ry page, We read the wonders of Almighty Pow’r, Infinite Wisdom, and unbounded Love. Here sweet instruction, entertaining truths, Reward the searching mind, and onward lead Enquiring Thought: new beauties still unfold, And op’ning wonders rise upon the view. The Mind, rejoicing, comments as she reads; While through th’ inspiring page Conviction glows, And warms to praise her animated pow’rs.”

THEODOSIA.

Nature presents to the imagination an inexhausted fund of rational amusement. To contemplate the inimitable works of creation, is no less instructive than pleasing. Animate as well as inanimate objects afford an abundance of entertaining ideas, equally calculated to raise in the souls of human beings the most unfeigned offerings of wonder, gratitude, and praise. The gaiety of spring, the smiles of summer, the fecundity of autumn, and the dreariness of winter, all combine to celebrate the Author of universal existence. From the most curious and precious earthly substance, down to the simplest blade of herbage, a granery is opened to satisfy the desires of, and impart delight to, rational mortals. But, notwithstanding the innumerable blessings conferred on man from above, if we attentively mark the conduct of the majority of individuals, painful as it may be to our own feelings, or those of every contemplative, virtuous, and sensible person, how few are those to be found, who are truly thankful for the mercies they enjoy? How few, indeed, who acknowledge the goodness of an omnipotent and omniscient Being! They live as if they were indebted to none for their life or their enjoyments. Unthankful and ungenerous man! why art thou so impious as to forget that incumbent gratitude, and that graceful duty, which thou owest to thy heavenly Father? Why trample on every moral obligation? why shun the precepts of pious Wisdom, and the dictates of impartial Conscience? Rouze thyself from the torpor which now envelopes thee, and learn to be thankful for those blessings which thou dost assuredly receive from above; and, in the words of the late pious Mr. Addison, testify thy acknowledgments--

“When all thy mercies, O my God! My grateful soul surveys, Transported with the view, I’m lost In wonder, love, and praise!”

Let not any one think it beneath him, or in the smallest degree derogatory to his character or sphere in life, however learned, opulent, and exalted, he may be, to retire occasionally from the bustle of the world, and to meditate in some calm and undisturbed recess, the perfections of his Maker, and the works of his hands. Believe me, the most refined pleasures are to be derived from such innocent, delightful, and laudable pursuits. The magnificent and wonderful objects of the celestial, and the curiosity and variety of the vegetable world, as well as the formation of all animals, reptiles, insects, and other productions of Nature, have properties which, if accurately viewed, yield inconceivable astonishment to the beholder. When spring, for example, returns with all it’s native beauties, as succeeding the gloomy aspect and forbidding horrors of winter; when it teems with a matchless splendour and magnificence; when its green hues and universal verdure come forth in all their pristine elegance, and enchanting attractions; and the birds warble and attune in sprightly attitudes, their respective notes, even then they are almost always either forgotten or disregarded; even then men neglect to thank the Author of life and happiness, the source of every distributive blessing. What culpable negligence is this, in rational and accountable beings! O that man would attend with docility to these important truths, and frequently reflect on the revolving seasons of the year, and the School of Nature, which would afford him an endless variety of useful and instructive lessons; and, in an iminent degree, furnish a convincing and happy demonstration of the wisdom, power, and goodness, of the Creator.

* * * * *

ANECDOTE.

Charles the Second asking the famous Bishop Stillingfleet, how it came to pass, that although he was informed he always preached without book elsewhere, yet he always read his Sermons before the Court? The Bishop replied, that the awe of so wise an audience, where he saw nothing that was not greatly superior to himself, made him afraid to trust his memory. “But will your majesty (continued Stillingfleet) permit me to ask you a question in my turn?---Why do you read your Speeches, when you can have no such reasons?”---“Why, truly, Doctor, (said the King) your question is a very pertinent one, and so shall be my answer.---I have asked the Parliament so often, and for so much money, that I am afraid to look them in the face.”

* * * * * * * * *

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

OBSERVATION.

“Qui capit ille facit.”

“Giving advice unasked,” says Lord Chesterfield, “is a piece of rudeness; it is, in effect, declaring ourselves wiser than these to whom we give it; reproaching them with ignorance and inexperience. It is a freedom that ought not to be taken with any common acquaintance.” Notwithstanding, there are those who assume the place of preceptors, not only to their familiars, but to those with whom they have no particular acquaintance, nor can claim the least pretence to superiority.

There is also another class of people who render themselves insufferably disgusting, by a kind of blind raillery, which they employ against some person present: to whom they offer the most unpardonable insults, without saying any thing in particular that can properly be resented.

An instance of both these characters I met with, not long since, in a gentleman whom I chanced to fall in company with: and as I perceived his observations were altogether levelled at me, I shall not hesitate to offer a few remarks thereon; and, in my turn, propose a word of instruction to those who may be guilty of the like errors. Should they wish to convince any one of his faults, on honourable grounds, let them, without reserve, address the immediate person intended, with freedom and candour: for they may be assured that open reproof is better than covert insults. “Poisoned arrows,” (to use the words of a celebrated author, on another occasion) “and stabs in the dark, are not more repugnant to the laws of Humanity” than “this battery of” indirect sarcasm. Reflections, thus obliquely delivered, though clothed in the “mildest language,” give to persons of discernment and spirit “sensible” offence. Every body knows that the provokingest things are frequently uttered in the ironic style; and it is quite as certain, that the acutest sting often lurks under the softest expressions. The dagger becomes not less keen for being polished.

ETHICUS.

NEW-YORK October 6, 1796.

* * * * *

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

THE CHURCH YARD.

+A Fragment.+

******I walked into the Church-Yard, and placed myself near a grave that had been newly dug, in order to take a view of the different characters that approached.

--The body was deposited in the place appointed. The mourners stood near the clergyman, as he read the service. The father of the departed held a handkerchief in his hand, which he alternately applied to each eye, for the purpose of wiping off the briney tear; for they were abundantly surcharged therewith. His eye was fixed on the coffin; now it reverted to the minister: again it fell to the ground in hopeless sorrow.

The uncle next caught my attention; he also held a handkerchief in his hand.---But for the life of me I could not tell for what, unless it was that fashion demanded it. His sorrow appeared to reside no where but in his dress: and I must say, he was in no wise deficient in that point. I could not perceive that he took the least notice of the ceremony; his attention was more occupied on the things of this world. I imagined he was taking the model of a house that stood near; and it surprised me not a little that he did not take out his pocket-book, in order to note it.

In the countenance of the divine was depicted humility---It was with solemnity he fulfilled his office.

The people were departing; but the sincere mourner was still standing by the grave. The uncle had reached the gate; but suddenly he arrested his steps: he missed his fellow, and returned. He pulled out his handkerchief again, and when he stood along side his brother applied it to his eyes!----

----Shame on the hypocrite!

L. B.

October 14, 1796.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 30th ult. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. CHOATE, to Mrs. SARAH YOUNG, widow of the late Mr. Ebenezer Young, all of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. John Juland, Mr. CHRISTOPHER DUNN, late of Yorkshire, England, to Mrs. NANCY FERRIS, of Throgs Neck.

On Thursday evening the 9th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Goodhue, Mr. ELIAS BREVOORT to Miss MARGARET PAINTER, both of this city.

A few evenings since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. JOHN DOUBLEDAY, Printer, to Mrs. ODELL, both of this city.

[[The transcriber is sorry to say that “John Doubleday, printer,” appears to have no connection with the publisher of the same name.]]

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 12th to the 18th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Feb. 12 31 53 25 w. do. clear, calm, do. do. 13 36 38 ne. e. cloudy, lt. wind, rain do. 14 35 36 ne. do. rain, light wind, do. do. 15 27 30 ne. nw. snow, light wd clear do. 16 25 33 nw. do. clear, light wind, do. do. 17 25 39 e. s. cloudy, lt. wd do. h wd. 18 36 41 nw. do. cloudy, lt. wd rain do.

* * * * *

SENSATION AND PERCEPTION. A Thought.

Sweet are the dewy tears of morn, Which drop profusion in the show’r; And sweet the incense-breathing gale, Which scatters fragrance from the flow’r.

But trifling such poor charms appear; Can these with Nature’s feelings vie? Much sweeter is the falling tear; More grateful still--the heaving sigh!

* * * * * * * * *

LAVINIA. A PASTORAL.

Why steals from my bosom the sigh? Why fix’d is my gaze on the ground? Come, give me my pipe, and I’ll try To banish my cares with the sound.

Ere now were its notes of accord With the smile of the flow’r-footed muse: Ah! why, by its master implor’d, Shou’d it now the gay carol refuse?

’Twas taught by LAVINIA’s smile In the mirth-loving chorus to join: Ah me! how unweeting the while! LAVINIA----cannot be mine!

Another, more happy, the maid By fortune is destin’d to bless---- Tho’ the hope has forsook that betray’d, Yet why shou’d I love her the less!

Her beauties are bright as the morn, With rapture I counted them o’er; Such virtues these beauties adorn, I knew her, and prais’d ’em no more.

I term’d her no goddess of love, I call’d not her beauty divine: These far other passions may prove, But they could not be figures of mine.

It ne’er was apparell’d with art, On words it could never rely: It reign’d in the throb of my heart, It spoke in the glance of my eye.

Oh fool! in the circle to shine That Fashion’s gay daughters approve, You must speak as the fashions incline;-- Alas! are there fashions in love?

Yet sure they are simple who prize The tongue that is smooth to deceive; Yet sure she had sense to despise The tinsel that folly may weave.

When I talk’d, I have seen her recline With an aspect so pensively sweet,---- Tho’ I spoke what the shepherds opine, A fop were asham’d to repeat.

She is soft as the dew-drops that fall From the lip of the sweet-scented pea; Perhaps, when she smil’d upon all, I have thought that she smil’d upon me.

But why of her charms should I tell? Ah me! when her charms have undone! Yet I love the reflection too well, The painful reflection to shun.

Ye souls of more delicate kind, Who feast not on pleasure alone, Who wear the soft sense of the mind, To the sons of the world are unknown:

Ye know, tho’ I cannot express, Why I foolishly dote on my pain; Nor will ye believe it the less That I have not the skill to complain.

I lean on my hand with a sigh, My friends the soft sadness condemn, Yet, methinks, tho’ I cannot tell why, I should hate to be merry like them.

When I walk’d in the pride of the dawn, Methought all the region look’d bright; Has sweetness forsaken the lawn? For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight.

When I stood by the stream, I have thought There was mirth in the tremulous sound, But now ’tis a sorrowful note, And the banks are all gloomy around!

I have laugh’d at the jest of a friend; Now they laugh and I know not the cause, Tho’ I seem with my looks to attend, How silly! I ask what it was!

They sing the sweet song of the May, They sing it with mirth and with glee; Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay, But now ’tis all sadness to me.

Oh! give me the dubious light That gleams thro’ the quivering shade; Oh! give me the horrors of night By gloom and by silence array’d!

Let me walk where the soft rising wave Has pictur’d the moon on its breast: Let me walk where the new-cover’d grave Allows the pale lover to rest!

When shall I in its peaceable womb Be laid with my sorrows asleep? Should LAVINIA but chance on my tomb-- I could die if I thought she would weep.

Perhaps, if the souls of the just Revisit these mansions of care, It may be my favourite trust To watch o’er the fate of the fair.

Perhaps the soft thought of her breast With rapture more favour’d to warm; Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress’d, Her sorrow with patience to arm.

Then! then! in the tenderest part May I whisper, “Poor COLIN was true;” And mark if a heave of her heart The thought of her COLIN pursue.

* * * * *

A JEU D’ESPRIT.

Quoth Blab--“I would not, for the world, have it known, But Miss FLINT’s with young STEEL in the dark!”-- “Phoo! phoo!” cries old Sly, “pr’ythee leave them alone, They are only producing a Spark.”

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.+-- +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, +Wall-Street+.

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UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, February 29, 1797.+ [+No. 87.+

+The ART of HAPPINESS.+

Almost every object that attracts our notice, has its bright and its dark side. He who habituates himself to look at the displeasing side, will sour his disposition, and, consequently, impair his happiness; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensibly meliorates his temper, and, in consequence of it, improves his own happiness, and the happiness of all about him.

Arachne and Melissa are two friends. They are, both of them, women in years, and alike in birth, fortune, education, and accomplishments. They were originally alike in temper too; but, by different management, are grown the reverse of each other. Arachne has accustomed herself to look on the dark side of every object. If a new poem or play makes its appearance with a thousand brilliances and but one or two blemishes, she slightly skims over the passages that should give her pleasure, and dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you shew her a very excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery which has been neglected, or to a hand or finger which has been left unfinished. Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and elegancy: but, if you take a walk with her in it, she talks to you of nothing but blights and storms, of snails and caterpillars, and how impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves and worm-carts. If you sit down in one of her temples, to enjoy a delightful prospect, she observes to you, that there is too much wood, or too little water; that the day is too sunny, or too gloomy: that it is sultry, or windy; and finishes with a long harangue upon the wretchedness of our climate.--When you return with her to the company, in hopes of a little chearful conversation, she casts a gloom over all, by giving you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy accident that has befallen one of her daughter’s children. Thus she insensibly sinks her own spirits, and the spirits of all around her; and, at last, discovers, she knows not why, that her friends are grave.

Melissa is the reverse of all this. By constantly habituating herself to look only on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual chearfulness in herself, which, by a kind of happy contagion, she communicates to all about her. If any misfortune has befallen her, she considers it might have been worse, and is thankful to Providence for an escape. She rejoices in solitude, as it gives her an opportunity of knowing herself; and in society, because she can communicate the happiness she enjoys. She opposes every man’s virtues to his failings, and can find out something to cherish and applaud in the very worst of her acquaintance. She opens every book with a desire to be entertained or instructed, and therefore seldom misses what she looks for. Walk with her, though it be on a heath or a common, and she will discover numberless beauties, unobserved before, in the hills, the dales, the brooms, brakes, and the variegated flowers of weeds and poppies. She enjoys every change of weather, and of season, as bringing with it something of health or convenience. In conversation, it is a rule with her never to start a subject that leads to any thing gloomy or disagreeable. You therefore never hear her repeating her own grievances, or those of her neighbours or, what is worst of all, their faults or imperfections. If any thing of the latter kind be mentioned in her hearing, she has the address to turn it into entertainment, by changing the most odious railing into a pleasant raillery.

Thus Melissa, like the bee, gathers honey from every weed; while Arachne, like the spider, sucks poison from the fairest flowers. The consequence is, that, of two tempers once very nearly allied, the one is ever sour and dissatisfied, the other always gay and chearful; the one spreads an universal gloom, the other a continual sunshine.

There is nothing more worthy of our attention, than this art of happiness. In conversation, as well as life, happiness, very often depends upon the slightest incidents. The taking notice of the badness of the weather, a North-East wind, approach of winter, or any trifling circumstance of the disagreeable kind, shall infallibly rob a whole company of its good-humour, and fling every member of it into the vapours. If, therefore, we would be happy in ourselves, and are desirous of communicating that happiness to all about us, these minutiæ of conversation ought carefully to be attended to. The brightness of the sky, the lengthening of the day, the increasing verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of good news, or whatever carries with it the most distant glimpse of joy, shall frequently be the parent of a social and happy conversation. Good-manners exact from us this regard to our company. The clown may repine at the sunshine that ripens the harvest, because his turnips are burnt up by it; but the man of refinement will extract pleasure from the thunder-storm to which he is exposed, by remarking on the plenty and refreshment which may be expected from the succeeding shower.

Thus does politeness, as well as good sense, direct us to look at every object on the bright side; and, by thus acting, we cherish and improve both. By this practice it is, that Melissa is become the wisest and best-bred woman living; and, by this practice, may every person arrive at that agreeableness of temper, of which the natural and never-failing fruit is Happiness.

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THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 267.)

The period is however arrived, when men begin to abandon themselves exclusively to the cold speculations of reason, and this fatal maxim manifests itself but too evidently in the practical life. Rarely any thing is undertaken before it is pondered and weighed most anxiously with a pusillanimous minuteness. And this is one of the chief causes of the present scarcity of great and striking actions. The sacred flame of enthusiasm extinguishes, and every energy of soul dies away along with it. While reason wastes her whole strength in barren speculations, the demands and wants of our heart remain unsatisfied, a kind of insensibility deals upon us, the mind grows pusillanimous, and all noble passions are suffocated. No, no! this is no age in which great geniuses can thrive! Reasoning has produced but very few immortal deeds; faith, however, although it should have been only the faith of man in his natural abilities, has frequently rendered impossible possible.--If so, what miracles will faith in the assistance of an omnipotent being, be able to perform? The first King of Portugal has given us the most glorious proof of the truth of this assertion: he went, as you know from history, with four thousand men against the infidels, and was opposed by five kings with four hundred thousand Moors. Terror and dismay seized his little army at this sight; however the celebrated apparition through which God promised him the victory over his enemies, revived the broken spirit of his troops. And what else but faith in this promise could have made him risk and gain a battle, in which one man had to encounter an hundred?”

“My dear Marquis, I have been interrupted again by the visit of a great prelate, and, with your permission, shall communicate to you the substance of what he has told me. The Jews, he said, have, as you will know, offered to the new Regent, on his accession to the throne, to pay a great sum of money to him, if he would grant them liberty to live and to trade in the country as external Christians, without being persecuted by the Inquisition. It would have been highly advantageous to religion, if this liberty had been granted to the Jews; for although they should have visited the Christian churches at first only for form’s sake, and observed only the external rites of worship, yet many would have been edified, and convinced of the truth of Christianity so irresistibly, that they would have seriously embraced the Christian religion. The Inquisitors themselves have intimated this to the King. However the --------, I do not know how to call him, who cares little for the propagation of faith, has refused to grant this petition of the Jews. The Inquisition has informed the Pope of it; and the holy father, who as yet has refused to acknowledge his royal authority, will now have an additional reason for not confirming the usurped dignity of a free thinker, who injures the interest of the church whenever opportunity offers. I have, however, great reason to suspect that our new King foments these dissensions designedly, for some horrid purpose. Not contented with having alienated the nation from their lawful Sovereign, he also endeavours to obtain an opportunity of alienating them from the chief of the church. O Marquis! O Duke! what gloomy prospects for all those who are resolved to live and to die in the religion of their ancestors.

“Stop,” the Marquis exclaimed, “he shall not dare to carry matters to that point; by heaven, he shall not.” My father had not yet ceased giving vent to his indignation, when the other prelate, whom I mentioned in my last letter, joined us. The two prelates were rejoiced to see each other, and concealed their sentiments so little from each other, that they both avowed their opinions of the new King without the least reserve. ‘I cannot conceive how you,’ said he, who had joined us, turning to my father and me, ‘who are sprung from royal blood, can submit to the humiliation of obeying a usurper, who will do every thing in his power to humble your family as much as possible. Don’t you perceive that he confers the highest dignities on other people, while he, out of a cowardly policy, keeps his nearest relations at a distance, and in profound submission? The King of Spa--n knows your merits, and is capable of rewarding them properly. Who would not rather hold an important office under the greatest Monarch, than live in inactivity and obscurity, under the most insignificant King in Europe? These are the sentiments of many nobles who are still firmly attached to their old lawful Sovereign.’

“Dear Marquis, my heart is deeply afflicted, and strange ideas are crossing my head. What must I do? Alumbrado says nothing, but commit every thing to the paternal care of God.

“To day I received your letter, in which you reproach me for my long silence. I am, however, not sorry that my letter, which I wanted to send eight days ago, has been kept back through negligence, for now I shall be able to conclude it with the relation of a most extraordinary incident.

“I used for some time to visit every evening our favourite spot before the town, which always attracted me very much, partly by its natural charms, and partly by the undisturbed solitude one enjoys there. On the left side, a chain of hills, that form a beautiful group; on the right, a wood, inclosing the extensive plain, and in the middle the prospect of the distant blue mountains. You know what an enchanting effect that spot produces, particularly at sun-set; and thither I took a walk every evening. The way to that charming place is decorated with the ruins of an old chapel, which partly is surrounded with a half decayed wall. Approaching those ruins last evening, I saw Alumbrado step forth with hasty paces. ‘Stop!’ he exclaimed, ‘do you know that you will be a dead man if you proceed a step farther?’ Alumbrado’s unexpected appearance, his intelligence, and the seriousness of his countenance convulsed my nerves. ‘A dead man?’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes!’ said he, ‘did I not foretell you that the King would vent his resentment against you? If you go fifty steps farther, you will bleed under the hands of his banditti. You stare at me,’ he continued. ‘If you wish to be convinced of it, then follow me into the chapel, and let us change cloaths; I shall pursue this path, wrapt in your cloak, and the hired assassins will fall upon me, under the mistaken notion that I am the person whom they have been ordered by the King to assassinate. If you will ascend to the top of this turret, you may witness the whole scene.’ I shuddered with horror, and peremptorily refused to submit to it. ‘You need not to be under the least apprehension for my life,’ he replied. ‘All that I desire of you is to make no noise when you see me fall, but to go quietly home without mentioning to any one what you will have seen. We shall meet again at your house.’ All my objections availed nothing; we exchanged our dress, he saw me to the top of the turret, and left me. I pursued him with anxious looks and beating heart.

“Alumbrado had scarcely reached the skirts of the wood, when I heard the report of a pistol, and saw him drop down, upon which three ruffians darted forth from the bushes, gave him some stabs, and carried him into the wood. I staggered down the narrow staircase by which I had ascended the turret, and went home, thrilled with emotions that surpass all power of description. I sat up till after midnight, but no Alumbrado came; however, at six o’clock he entered my apartment. I cannot describe what I felt on seeing him. He was unhurt, but nevertheless I staggered back at the sight of him. ‘Alumbrado!’ said I, after a pause of dumb astonishment, ‘do I really see you alive after the scene my eyes have witnessed last night?’ ‘Pistols and daggers,’ he replied, ‘cannot hurt the man who is under the immediate protection of God. Come,’ added he, ‘let us go to your father.’

“I related to my parent the incident of the preceding night. He seemed to be petrified. The cruel villainy of the King, and the supernatural power of Alumbrado, appeared to have carried him beyond himself; the thanks which he wanted to offer to the latter for the preservation of my life, and curses against the King, hovered at the same time on his lips; but he could not speak.

“Let us take a walk in the garden,” Alumbrado said. We went; but I shall not repeat the conversation that took place. Yet I do not think that Alumbrado has added fuel to the fire. ‘The Duke of B----a,’ said he, ‘is King and accountable to no other tribunal but that of God. No mortal dare lift up his hand against him without the express command of God or his Vicegerent. I have received no such order, and I think you neither. All that you can do is to be on your guard against the King, and to mention to no one the villainous transaction of last night. Will you promise this? Your own safety requires it.’ We promised it.

“I could not help manifesting my astonishment at Alumbrado’s wonderful preservation. ‘Do you then think,’ said he, ‘that only those who are leagued with the spirit of darkness are proof against fire-arms and swords, and that the children of light do not enjoy that privilege? I will give you a proof of it; send for a gun and balls, here is powder.’ So saying, he produced the powder horn which I had missed some days. ‘You have,’ added he, ‘either lost it or it has been stolen, for I have found it in the hands of the banditti.’ ‘What are you going to do with balls and a gun?’ My father asked with marks of astonishment. ‘That you shall see instantly,’ Alumbrado replied, ‘if you only will send for both.’ I ordered Pietro to fetch my fowling piece and a couple of balls out of my apartment. He returned with them, and Alumbrado whispered in my ear to send him out of the room. Having dismissed the servant, Alumbrado begged me to charge the gun, but previously to examine carefully the powder and the balls. I did as he had desired me, and the gun being charged, Alumbrado said to the Marquis; ‘Now take the gun, my Lord, and fire it at me.’ My father was almost petrified at this request, and having gazed at him a good while, with looks of astonishment, exclaimed: ‘No! I never shall do any thing of that kind!’ ‘Then you too are destitute of faith?’ Alumbrado said, looking up to heaven. ‘O God, how degenerated even the faithful adorers of thy son!’ ‘I have declined it out of no other motive,’ the Marquis replied, ‘but because I will not tempt the omnipotence of God.’ ‘The motive of my request is not temptation, but the glory of God,’ Alumbrado replied. If I fall, then I am a daring provoker of the Almighty, and deserve my fate; but if I remain unhurt, you will have reason to conclude that the power of God has warded off the ball, and know in what light to view me.’ So saying, he uncovered his breast, retreated three steps, and desired my father to fire.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

ANECDOTE.

A French nobleman one day visiting a late famous duke, a favourite little dog bit his lordship’s leg. “Fear nothing, my lord,” said the duke, “my dog never bites.” On which his lordship, knocking down the little animal with a violent blow of his cane, replied in the same tone of voice, “Fear nothing, my lord, I never beat dogs.”

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THE PROVERBIALIST.

Home, is a place, either of happiness or misery. In my book of experimental wisdom, I find a number of most excellent remarks, which, if remembered, and reduced to practice, I am confident may be of service to families.

Every person has some failings: Perfection is not to be looked for in the present world. A great attention in husband and wife, to the failings of each other, has a direct tendency to destroy or embitter domestic enjoyments.

The ancients, sensible of this gave good advice, when they said that, “The husband should hot see, and the wife should be blind.” And it is evident, that many things which transpire in a family, had better not be seen--if seen, not remembered, if remembered, yet not spoken of. Again, to render families happy, there must be, “In the husband wisdom, in the wife gentleness.” These are virtues indeed, which, when they meet, cause families to shine with a peculiar lustre. Again, “Those husbands are in heaven whose wives do not chide.” Certainly then, if it is in the power of the wife to put her husband into heaven, since she must be with him, and with him participate in all its joys, she will forever remember this excellent proverb.

A consideration of the unhappy condition of those families, wherein scolding is the principle employment, I should suppose would stimulate every woman to attend to the above remarks. Only hear what the Spaniards say, “Smoke, raining into a house, and a scolding wife, make a man run out of doors.”---The ladies will pardon me, I trust, for introducing this proverb, since it evidently implies, that a scolding wife alone, without rain and smoke, does not render a house so intolerable, but that a man, at least if he has a common share of patience, may possibly live in it.

Again, that house is highly ornamented, and that family has many enjoyments, in which the wife is as attentive to her domestic concerns, as is the husband to his abroad. No person was ever made for idleness, accordingly, it is positively affirmed in my book of wisdom, that “That is the best gown, which goes up and down the house.” If there be any women, who are unable to penetrate into the depth of this proverb, or to comprehend its profound wisdom, I will endeavour to explain it. As there are but a few gentlemen, whose finances are adequate to the supporting of a woman who feels herself above a personal attention to her family concerns, so in general, husbands are well pleased to see their wives suitably active in the house. Husbands in general, love their wives; and it gives them pleasure to see them blooming in health; and they know that the idle drone is always sick, or full of complaints.

Further, sometimes ladies, by doing nothing except eating of the honey, reduce their husbands to poverty, and we read that, “When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window,” and I add, misery comes in at every corner. It is best then to “Carry an even yoke.”

Pough! why am I always so severely berating the women? Every body knows they do not deserve it: And I assure the ladies that I have an affection for them. I am fearful that I have not well considered what I am about. It is well if I do not bring an “Old house about my ears.” From this time forward, on consideration they will pardon me for what I have already said, I solemnly promise that I will be more cautious; and no more proverbs shall come out respecting them, unless they come by accident.

Perhaps I shall make this lecture rather long, but I wish to give some advice to heads of families respecting their children. We read, that “Children are certain cares, but uncertain comforts.” They would, however, oftener be comforts, if they had not, as the ancients say, “Too much of their mothers blessing.” Alas! well it only came out edgwise, therefore I have not broken my promise.

To prove that I had no evil intention, I will bring one proverb greatly in favour of the ladies; “She spins well who breeds her children well;” and as every woman knows that she breeds her children well, so it is proved beyond all doubt, that every woman is a good house wife.

To be serious; set your children good examples. Be more anxious to make them virtuous, than to leave them rich. The Spaniards say, that “The father’s virtue is the best inheritance a son can have;” and if so, surely to make the son himself virtuous is to make him rich indeed. Again, “Leave your son a good reputation, and an employment.” This is good advice, for children trained up without virtue, and without employment, are fit only for the gallows. Again, “It is a bad house which has not an old man in it.” The meaning is, that every man who has a family, should have the soberness, gravity, and virtues of the aged.

Govern your children well, for we read that “He who cockers his child provides for his enemy,” and such a father will soon find the truth of the Spaniards assertion, viz. “The first service a bad child does his father is to make him a fool, and the second is to make him mad.”

Give your children good instructions; fear not a little expence, for “Better unborn than untaught.” And again, “If the brain sows not corn it plants thistles.” And depend on it, that thistles are prickly things to parents, when found in the hands of their children. See that you put good books into their hands; they are apt to get bad ones, and we read, that “An ill book is the work of thieves.” Be careful of what you say, in presence of your children. They catch words, as easily as examples, and tell things abroad, which may make your hearts ache, and every one will believe that, “The child tells nothing but what is heard by the fire side.”

The following proverb I do not like, yet I am fearful it is applicable in some instances, “The son full and tatter’d, the daughter empty and fine.” The son should not be tatter’d, nor the daughter empty. Parental distinctions are odious, and a source of bitterness and of endless contentions in families.

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[[For sources, see the end of the final (3rd) installment.]]

THE FATAL MISTAKE; Or, THE HISTORY OF MR. ELLIOT. [Written by Himself.]

As various conjectures will, most probably, be formed on my retirement from the world by those ignorant of the cause, and the particularity of my life will most likely occasion illiberal and ill-natured observations, I write the history of my misfortunes, ignorant into whose hands it may fall. Let who will become possessed of this manuscript, may it warn them from excess of passion, and especially from that destructive fiend, jealousy.

Born to the enjoyment of a large estate, my birth promised every happiness affluence could bestow: at ten years old my parents both died of a malignant fever: left to the care of a worthy man, I was not sensible of their loss. Mr. Osburn (for that was the name of my guardian) felt for me, as he has often acknowledged, the fondness of parental love. No event worth relating happened till I arrived at the age of fourteen, when a young nobleman came to Winchester, where I was placed; he was the only son of the Earl of Somerset. Distinguished by his rank, but more so by his merit, his sweetness of disposition attracted the love of the whole school, and his generosity demanded their admiration. For some time I was indifferent to all his amiable qualifications, ’till an accident happened which was the foundation of the most affectionate friendship. My master was very severe; I had left school one evening in order to steal apples from a neighbouring orchard, and had just reached the intended scene of action, when I saw Lord Edward Marchmont running towards me. As soon as he came within hearing, he cried out, “My dear Elliot, the doctor has discovered your absence, and threatens, unless he finds you within bounds, to punish you with the utmost severity; if you make haste, we may get round a back way into the play ground, before he comes from hunting over the college, and escape the old dog’s vigilance.” As I knew the doctor’s disposition, I complied with my friend’s proposal, and accordingly we gained the play ground just as our master appeared. Lord Edward pulled a volume of Homer out of his pocket, on which we were both looking when the doctor came softly behind us. Upon seeing our employment he was agreeably surprised, and applauded us for our conduct in terms of the greatest encouragement. This good natured action so effectually engaged my gratitude, that I was miserable if separated from him. We grew so fond of each other, that the whole school took notice of it; our affection increased with our years, and when the time came to leave school, both Lord Edward and myself begged we might be at the same university. Lord Somerset and Mr. Osburn consenting, we were again happy in the society of each other.

When we had been at Oxford about two years, Lord Somerset paid the debt of nature, and as my friend was now possessed of the title and fortune of his ancestors, he left Oxford, and entreated me to do the same. As the university had lost all its pleasures when my friend departed, I wrote my determination to Mr. Osburn of following him; the good man would fain have persuaded me to stay longer, but I was not to be moved: I hastened to London, and according to promise flew to the house of my Edward, who introduced me with the most flattering character to Lady Somerset and his sister; the latter was the loveliest work of nature; joined to a form beautifully perfect, she had an engaging sensibility in her countenance that seldom accompanies beauty. That amiable Almena received me with the sweetest complacency, as the friend of her brother, whom she doated on: the mother of Lord Somerset likewise honoured me with the greatest marks of esteem, and for a length of time, I enjoyed every delight that perfect friendship could bestow, but, alas! I was soon fated to feel a reverse of fortune. My kind and indulgent guardian was taken suddenly ill; he sent for me, and I was obliged to leave Lord Somerset and his amiable family: the necessity of this absence discovered a secret I was willing to hide from myself: it was not the separation from my friend alone, that caused my grief, I found I loved his charming sister; the beautiful Almena haunted my imagination continually: my Edward’s penetration soon discovered the ill hid partiality, and one day taking me into his study, he addressed me as follows: “I am infinitely concerned at the cause of our separation, but I hope we shall soon meet again, by Mr. Osburn’s health being established; why do you appear so very wretched? Ah Frederick! you have not been ingenuous with me; why did you doubt my friendship? Have I ever given you cause to suspect my entire attachment to you? How then could you violate our regard by a doubtful concealment? Your secret had rested within this faithful breast had you desired it.” I would have spoke, but my feelings were too violent for expression. “Compose yourself,” continued he, “I will explain this painful silence; you love my sister; your eyes have fully exposed the feelings of your heart, and I am happy to think our friendship may be closely united by the tye of relations.” This unexpected eclaircissement elated me beyond idea; I eagerly embraced my amiable friend, and acknowledged the truth of his observations; “But, alas! Edward,” continued I, “shall I ever dare avow my love to your charming sister? What can the exalted Lady Almena Marchmont see in the poor Frederick Elliot? Will she not despise me for my presumption, and disdain a man who has nothing but a heart filled with her perfections to offer?” “And as great a share of merit,” interrupted my friend, “as ever fell to the lot of one mortal; fear not, Elliot, my sister has too much understanding to regard a man merely because he has a title, and in every other qualification you may pretend to a princess: Almena indeed has a mind capable of distinguishing your exalted virtues, and if I mistake not feels their full force.” “Flatter me not, my friend; I cannot dare not indulge the pleasing hope.” My noble Edward promised to do every good office in my absence, and I took leave of a family where my chief happiness was centered.

I reached the habitation of Mr. Osburn just time enough to take a last farewell; the violence of his disorder had left him very weak, and death made quick approaches to the excellent heart of this worthy man. I drew near his bed with the tenderest emotions, and taking his cold hand between mine; “My dearest sir, how painfully does this sight affect your Frederick! Ah that I could remove every pang far from you!” I could not restrain my tears: he faintly pressed my hand, and in a voice hardly articulate, he delivered himself as follows: “It pains me, my dear boy, to be obliged to part with you; but it is the decree of heaven, and I submit. I leave you, Frederick, in the possession of a large estate that was your father’s; to which I have added my own: I have no relations who stand in need of wealth, and to none can I give it whom I love like you. Remember it is virtue alone, that renders riches valuable. When you come to this solemn period, to which you must, may no bad action discompose your dying moments; you have an excellent heart and are in no danger of deviating from the narrow road of rectitude, but from the violence of your passions. Be careful to avoid every thing that may lead you into mistake and error. Farewel, my excellent boy; remember the last injunctions of a man who had a real affection for you.”

Articulation was stopped, and I could only express my sorrow by sighs and tears. The clergyman of the parish now came to Mr. Osburn, and I was obliged to leave him. He soon retired, and informed me that his friend was on the verge of eternity. When I entered Mr. Osburn’s chamber, I found him speechless; however by his motions he convinced me he was sensible. I embraced him in the greatest agony of grief; but, alas! he could not return it; he looked at me with expressive marks of affection, and gently breathed his last in my arms. I was for a few hours so totally absorbed in sorrow, that I hardly knew whether I myself existed; but youth and the appearance of my Edward, who, on hearing of my loss, flew to console me, had its usual influence, and I again recalled my thoughts from the grave of my guardian, to the world and society.

When I opened Mr. Osburn’s will, I found he had bequeathed to me the whole of his estate, which amounted to more than two thousand per annum, which joined to my paternal inheritance, made me possessed of eight thousand a year. My gratitude was infinitely excited by his generosity; and except a legacy of five hundred pounds to Mr. Harper, the clergyman I have mentioned, there was no other bequest. I paid the money immediately, and added a thousand pounds, as his family were large. Having settled my affairs, I left the abode of my late guardian, and accompanied Lord Somerset to town. The fair Almena and her amiable mother, received me with the utmost kindness, every thing in the power of these dear friends to dissipate my melancholy was exerted, and though I felt all the gratitude such a conduct excited yet could I not banish from my remembrance the good Mr. Osburn.

I was roused from my lethargy by Lady Almena’s having a declared lover. Lord Ashford was a nobleman of reputed worth, and I believe truly attached to my friend’s sister. Lady Somerset seemed to approve the proposed alliance; my Edward was silent, and Almena appeared unhappy. Thus were we situated when I was determined to lay aside every fearful apprehension, and declare my latent flame. I had soon after an opportunity of revealing the state of my heart to the fair cause of my anxiety. Lady Almena was one day writing in her brother’s study when I entered thinking he was there: she blushed and started; but seeing me about to retire, “Mr. Elliot,” said she, “my brother is from home, but as I have finished the note I was writing. I beg you will remain here ’till Lord Somerset comes back.” I again entered the room, and seated myself by her. She rung for a servant, to whom she delivered the note, and was going to retire, when I took her hand, and intreated her to hear me. She did not know in what manner to proceed. I threw myself at her feet, and in the most respectful terms, declared how much I loved her. She listened with polite attention, and casting her eyes upon the ground, appeared greatly agitated. I was all painful suspense. “Speak, lady Almena, continued I, pronounce my fate; perhaps you despise my too presumptuous passion; perhaps your heart is already engaged; the merits of Lord Ashford have met your approbation, and I am wretched.” “Sorry should I be,” replied the dear charmer, “if the sister of Lord Somerset could willingly make wretched the friend on whom an only brother doats: no, Mr. Elliot, I despise affectation as much as I do coquetry; be assured, sir, Lord Ashford is perfectly indifferent to my heart: ’tis true, my mother espouses his cause, and pleads for him powerfully: but the happiness of her daughter has ever been her chief delight, nor will she insist on a circumstance that would render her miserable.” “Ten thousand thanks, adorable Lady Almena, for this condescension! Pardon my bold aspiring heart: may I not hope my unwearied assiduities may at last make an impression on your gentle nature in my favour?” She told me, she did not, neither should she wish to throw me into despair, but begged leave to retire.

My friend soon after appeared, and seeing the joy that animated my countenance, congratulated me in the most affectionate manner. “Ah, Edward! exclaimed I, the dear Almena has not driven me to despair: she does not love Lord Ashford, and I may yet be happy.”--“And who ever thought she did? Prythee, Frederick, do not encourage that horrid passion, jealousy, but rather crush it in its birth; no mortal but yourself would have imagined my sister had the least regard for Lord Ashford. You may command my interest in your favour with my mother: she is partial to his lordship, on account of a tender regard she entertained for his mother; but the happiness of Almena is a matter of too great importance to be trifled with; and that no man but you could make her happy, I have long discovered.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

MISCELLANY.

In no way, can we so certainly captivate mankind, as by appeals to their senses.

Rich banquets, the singing of eunuchs, riding, dancing, pantomime, ballooning, have a thousand more attractions for the vulgar, than all the didactic lessons of reason and understanding; than all the wit and humour of Cervantes, Sterne, and Wolcott. Such a reproach, is familiar to old governments; we fondly anticipate, that our youthful establishments may, by the timely exertions of men of taste and science, for a long time escape it.

The increased fondness for theatric amusements, for frivolity, noise and show, demands the animadversions of the moralist, and of the friends of literary pursuits.

Under our forms of governments, we may have an opportunity to rival the celebrated schools of Greece. Republics are the peculiar soil of liberty, of genius, of talents; for in them, merit is not exclusively attributed to wealth and birth. How important then, to excite the generous emulation of talents. What mean more effectual, than to encourage literary enterprises, stamped with genius and industry.

Where there is so little leisure, but so much general ease and affluence; they, who can instruct and entertain the public, deserve, and will receive its generous patronage.

The cacoethes scribendi, is as strong as the love of money, and we need not apprehend, but America may produce her Poets, Critics, Historians, if an enlightened and liberal community will, sometimes, wet with Peruvian dew, the tender buds of genius, which poverty often attends, and neglect more frequently blasts.

Need I say, that GENIUS, like Charity, is timid, not obtrusive---hopeth all things, believeth all things,---That it utterly disclaims all consanguinity with that bronz’d dame, Impudence; but is tenderly knit with its fair counterpart, Modesty. It loves retirement and tranquility; seek it therefore in desarts and cottages, where it is too commonly left to bemoan its untoward fate, where it enjoys now and then, but a few rays of hope through the glimmering lattice or gale: go then quickly and place the pillow of ease and content under its desponding head, and save the child of Fear and Fancy from despair.

But I hesitate and doubt---some Vandal will here reply, that Ignorance is happiest; that Genius is a curse. For some moments I almost surrender my enthusiasm for Genius, and agree with the position, that it is so, that all who wish to be arrayed in scarlet and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day, who prefer brisk champagne to the Heliconian beverage, and a fat sirloin to a flimsy sonnet, will deprecate it with the Vandal, and strangle in the cradle every future Homer, Virgil, Livy, and Cæsar.

I will not deny that poets are querimonious: after allowing to excessive sensibility a due share of spleen, much is left to lament of real misfortune.

That they frequently enjoy posthumous fame, and justice done to merit, though late.

But yonder ghosts will testify, that when on earth, the flush of health never glowed in their pallid cheeks, the fire wasted in their eyes, and strength in their bodies, when the friendly tomb, received them from a frowning world.

Homer, by his immortal Iliad; Shakespeare, by his Lear, Macbeth, and Hamlet; have enriched, and in the phrase of the world, aggrandised thousands. We buy a bud of the one, and a fragment of the mulberry-tree of the other, and sit down satisfied, that We have amply discharged our duty and conscience.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening the 12th inst. at Goshen, by the Rev. Nathan Ker, the Rev. JOHN JOLINE, Pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Florida, to Miss MARIA GALE, of that place.

On Monday evening the 13th inst. at Princeton, by the Rev. Dr. S. Smith, Mr. GEORGE KIRK, of this city, to Miss MARY NORRIS, of that place.

On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. JONATHAN DENNIS, to Miss POLLY KETCHUM, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. JOHN PEASE, to Miss ELIZABETH HURTIN, daughter of the late Mr. Joshua Hurtin, all of this city.

On Tuesday evening the 21st inst. by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. ROBERT SAUNDERS, of Baltimore, Printer, to Miss ELIZABETH BANCKER, of this city.

On Thursday evening the 23d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. DAVID OGDEN, Merchant, to Miss SARAH GLOVER, daughter of Mr. John G. Glover, all of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. JAMES FLINN, to Miss PEGGY SLIDELL, both of this city.

On Friday evening the 24th inst. by the Rev. Isaac Lewis, at Horse Neck, state of Connecticut, Mr. WARRIN DELANCEY, of West-Chester, state of New-York, to Miss SARAH REBECCA LAWRENCE, of said place.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 19th to the 25th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Feb. 19 31 46 sw. do. frost at ni’t. cl. cm. do. h. w. 20 38 50 sw. do. cloudy lt wd clear do. 21 23 32 ne. s clear light wd. do. do. 22 34 52 e. w. sm. rn. & ha. cl lt. wd. cl. 23 32 42 e. se. clear light wd. do. h. wd. 24 50 57 nw. do. cloudy lt wd. do. h. wd 25 33 35 sw. w. clear light wd. do. h. wd.

* * * * * * * * *

THE CHOICE.

Awake, my Muse! awake, and sing Of all my fancy would desire; While, flutt’ring on her ærial wing, Or touch’d with thy etherial fire.

Inspir’d by thee, I learn to fly The gilded follies of the day; To keep my thoughts from tow’ring high, To mad Ambition’s pompous way.

Perhaps, unguided by thy aid, I might have lov’d the heights of pow’r; Have sigh’d to sport the gay parade, The tinsel mortal of an hour.

Me, now, far other views engage, For, sick with ev’ry vulgar joy, I fly the projects of the age, To Reason’s charms, which never cloy.

O give my soul content to know, In whatsoever station plac’d: Nor raise me high, nor sink me low, But let the medium line be trac’d!

Enough of Fortune’s goods I’d have, To keep me from dependent state; The frowns of Poverty to brave, Or domination of the Great.

Enough each comfort to procure, Which gives to life a pleasing zest; And something over, for the poor, The stranger, and the weak oppress’d.

And O! to chear the hours of life, Grant, mighty Heav’n! thy chiefest boon-- The blessing of a virtuous wife! A gift, thou can’st not give too soon.

And, might I dare the choice define, Pourtray the mouldings of her frame; Let grace in every action shine, And modesty her worth proclaim!

Let for good-nature passion still; And mildness speak the feeling soul, That could the cares of life fulfil, And ev’ry idle wish controul.

Though pride should never touch her breast, Nor sighs to mingle with the gay; I’d have her always neatly dress’d, And thus her person best display.

To such a wife I could disclose The inmost secrets of my heart; Each trifling project, as it rose, And ev’ry growing wish impart.

And, sure, if bliss the earth contains, It dwells where Love and Peace reside; Where confidence unbounded reigns, And peevish passions ne’er divide.

Yet one thing more, to crown our lot, To pleasure youth, to comfort age-- Let not the infant be forgot, Whose smiles should both our hearts engage.

Thus, held in Friendship’s silken ties, Must each domestic pleasure know; And health enhance the hour that flies, Till life shall ebb, no more to flow.

* * * * *

ADDRESS TO PITY.

Hail, lovely power! celestial maid! Soft, pleasing Pity, hail! Whose gentle influence, balmy aid, Suspends Affliction’s tale.

Mild as the dew salutes the earth, Ere morn begins to appear, Thou giv’st to hope and gladness birth. Diffusing joys sincere.

From thy blest mansions, humbly great, The streams of bounty flow, To calm the frowns of adverse fate, And soothe the plaints of woe.

Come, darling child of Heaven above, To me thy sweets impart; O teach me, with endearing love, To heal Affliction’s smart!

Teach me to soften every care In injur’d Virtue’s breast; And, succouring, rescue from despair The innocent oppress’d!

Teach me to wipe the falling tear From helpless widows eyes; And, fraught with generous zeal sincere, Assuage the orphan’s sighs.

Or, mindful of still lovelier deeds, Thy influence so extend, That, e’en where silent sorrows plead, My bounty may befriend.

Thus, when I roam the verdant mead, And view seductions round, To doom the harmless bird to bleed, That treads the insidious ground:

Teach me, when struggling and oppress’d, He pines for Liberty, With sensibility impress’d, To set the captive Free!

So shall my heart exult to spare A life it never gave; And freely loosen from the snare What Pity’s band would save.

Then come, soft Pity smiling fair, From thy blest realms descend; My bosom glows, with anxious care, To greet it’s genial friend!

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.+-- +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, +Wall-Street+.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, March 8, 1797.+ [+No. 88.+

ARTFUL SENTIMENTAL-LOVER.

The man versed in the wiles of deceit puts on the mask of plausibility and virtue, and, by these means, disarms the object of his attention and apparent love of the usual administration of her prudence, lays her apprehensions asleep, and involves her in misery: misery the more inevitable, because unsuspected. For she who apprehends no danger, will not think it necessary to be always upon her guard; but will rather invite than avoid the ruin which comes under so specious and so fair a form.

One of these sentimental lovers will not scruple very seriously to assure a credulous girl, that her unparalelled merit entitles her to the adoration of the whole world; and that the universal homage of mankind is nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms.

But she should reflect, that he who endeavours to intoxicate her with adulation, intends one day most effectually to humble her. For artful man has always a secret design to pay himself in future for any present sacrifice. If he has address and conduct, and the object of his pursuit much vanity, and some sensibility, he seldom fails of success; for so powerful will be his ascendency over her mind, that she will soon adopt his notions and opinions.

The lover, deeply versed in all the obliquities of fraud, and skilled to wind himself into every avenue of the heart which indiscretion has left unguarded, soon discovers on which side it is most accessible. He avails himself of this weakness by addressing her in a language exactly consonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own weapons, and opposes, if a sentimental girl, rhapsody to sentiment. He professes so sovereign a contempt for the paltry concerns of money, that she thinks it her duty to reward him for so generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully advances of his own unworthiness, is considered by her as a fresh demand, that her gratitude must answer. And she makes it a point of honour to sacrifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to regard.

These professions of humility are the common artifices of the vain, and these protestations of generosity the refuge of the rapacious.

* * * * * * * * *

EFFECTS OF HONOURABLE LOVE.

A man of delicacy oft betrays his passion by his too great anxiety to conceal it; especially if he has little hopes of success. True love, in all its stages, seeks concealment, and never expects success. It renders a man not only respectful, but timid, to the highest degree, in his behaviour to the woman he loves.

To conceal the awe he stands in of her, he may sometimes affect pleasantry, but it fits awkwardly on him; and he quickly relapses into seriousness, if not dullness. He magnifies all her real perfections in his imagination, and is either blind to her failings, or converts them into beauties. Like a person conscious of guilt, he is jealous that every eye observes him: and to avoid this he shuns all the little observances of common gallantry.

His heart and his character will be improved in every respect by his attachment. His manners will become more gentle, and his conversation more agreeable; but diffidence and embarrassment will always make him appear to disadvantage in the company of his mistress. If the fascination continues long, it will depress his spirit, and extinguish every vigorous and manly principle of his mind.

* * * * *

LOVE OF JUSTICE.

A sense of justice should be the foundation of all our social qualities. In our most early intercourse with the world, and even in our most youthful amusements, no unfairness should be found. That sacred rule of doing all things to others, according as we wish they would do unto us, should be engraven on our minds. For this end, we should impress ourselves with a deep sense of the original, and natural equality of men.

Whatever advantage of birth or fortune we possess, we ought never to display them with an ostentatious superiority. We should leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the intercourse of more advanced years. In youth it becomes us to act among our companions, as man with man. We should remember how unknown to us are the vicissitudes of the world; and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in future years.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 275.)

“My father took up the piece, levelling it at him with a trembling and fearful hand. ‘I beg you will not spare me, and insist upon your aiming at my head or heart!’ The Marquis look his aim, but trembled so violently that he was obliged to lay down the gun. Alumbrado desired me to step nearer, and putting my hand to his bare breast, said: ‘Feel whether this heart beats so timmorously as that of your father.’ These words provoked the pride of the Marquis, he ordered me to step aside, levelled his piece and discharged it. A cloud of smoak concealed Alumbrado’s situation for a moment from our eyes. It is impossible to depict the sensations that rushed upon my heart, when I beheld him in his former situation, and heard him exclaim: ‘You have aimed well, my Lord, however, the ball has recoiled from my breast, there it lies on the floor.’ My father sunk on his knees and lifted his hands to heaven as if praying, and I gazed at Alumbrado with silent awe.

“‘Duke!’ said the latter, ‘charge the gun once more.’ The marquis started up, exclaiming: ‘For what purpose?’ ‘I want your son to repeat the deed.’ ‘No, there is no occasion for it;’ my father replied, ‘the omnipotence of the Eternal has been glorified sufficiently.’ ‘Just now,’ Alumbrado returned, ‘you have been of too little faith, and now you are too credulous? Is it impossible that you should have missed your aim? That the ball accidentally has hit another object and recoiled? But although you should be convinced that you have aimed well and hit me, is the Duke so too?’

“In short, I was obliged to charge the piece again, and Alumbrado exposed his uncovered bosom once more.

“I could rely on my gun, and was sure not to miss him, because he was standing only seven paces from me. I pointed at Alumbrado’s head, took my aim well, and fired; however, he stepped forth from the cloud of smoak like a being of a superior order; the ball lay on the floor, and Alumbrado had not received the least hurt.

“He now took a dagger out of his pocket, and plunged it twice in his breast, up to the hilt, extracting it without a wound being seen.

“O my friend, make haste to recant at the feet of this astonishing man the prejudices which you have uttered against him. Blush at your philosophy, whereby you have combated so frequently my propensity to supernatural events. I have always had a presentiment that this irresistible propensity would be gratified one time; yet I was a stranger to the road which led to the object of my most ardent wishes. Alumbrado has pointed it out to me and a new epocha of my life has commenced with that period. How little, and how disgusting and vain does now all the wisdom and all the tinsel splendor of the world appear to me, since I have been made acquainted with that higher good, which is concealed from, and inaccessible to the greatest part of human kind.”

“P.S. On reading my letter over, I find a few passages in it, which would determine me not to send it on account of the great watchfulness with which all letters are examined by order of the King, if I had not been assured that those which are directed to you are exempted from examination.”

Having perused this letter of the Duke of Ca*ina, I did not know whether I should hasten first to him, to his father, or to Alumbrado. I ordered instantly my carriage to be got ready; but when I was going to step out of the house, my valet stopped me pale and panting for breath. ‘My Lord,’ he stammered, ‘Coming----I have’----‘Well, what is the matter?’----‘It is almost incredible,’ he resumed, ‘it is rumoured all over the town.’ Here he stopped again. His consternation communicated itself to me, and I exclaimed in a trembling accent, ‘For heaven’s sake! what has happened?’ ‘It is reported that the Marquis of Villa R*al and his son---but don’t be terrified, my Lord!’ ‘What?’ I replied, ‘Are you,’ I could not proceed, my lips being sealed with terror, ‘It is rumoured that the Duke of Ca*ina and his father have been taken up on an accusation of having conspired against the life of the King.’

These words curdled the blood in my veins, and I was ready to drop to the ground; however, despair soon roused me from the stupor that had seized me. I got in my carriage in order to enquire personally into the truth of that dreadful intelligence. Coming in the street I observed a universal commotion, and received, but too soon, a confirmation of my valet’s intelligence; being informed, at the same time, that forty five persons more had been arrested along with the Duke and his father. The multitude were assembled before the royal palace, demanding with a furious clamour, that the traitors should be delivered up to them; the king however thanked them for their zeal, and ordered the constable to disperse the populace.

My astonishment, my agony and consternation, and an indisposition which had been brought on by the violent agitation of my mind, prevented me from recollecting that this was the very day on which I was to expect the friend, of whose intended visit I had been apprised by that letter from an unknown person. The succeeding day I happened to see that letter accidentally on my writing-desk, and the friend to whom I was to deliver it, not having made his appearance at the fixed hour, I made use of the liberty I had received to open it.

Conceive my astonishment when I saw the handwriting of the Duke of Ca*ina. “When you shall read these lines,” he wrote, “the great deed will be performed, and P----l reduced again under the S----sh dominion. Forgive me, for having this time deceived your confidence, and believe me, that nothing but your connection with the new King could have prevented me from communicating the matter to you before our design is carried into execution. For that reason only I have had recourse to art, and wrote this letter which will inform you of the whole transaction, but is to be opened only when it will be impossible to put a stop to our undertaking.

“Not only my father and myself, but also those two prelates whom I have mentioned in my letters, and a great number of noblemen agreed after several conversations to force the usurper to restore the crown of P----l to the King of S----n; yet this design appeared to be so dangerous, that neither the Marquis nor myself would engage in it before we had the consent of Alumbrado. We pressed him, therefore, one evening to grant us his permission and assistance. He hesitated a long while, and at length replied, ‘Well! I will oppose you no longer, but I declare solemnly that I will not afford you the least assistance in your design against the King before I shall be convinced that it is the will of God, which we can learn by no other means but prayer. The spirit of God inspires those that are praying to him with sincerity of heart, and the sentiments which prevail in our soul in that situation are the voice of God. Let us devote this night to prayer, address the Omniscient separately, and to-morrow morning communicate to each other what the Lord shall reveal to us. If you shall continue firm in your resolution after you have performed your devotion, then it is the will of the Eternal, and we will go to work.’

“I had, for a long time, entertained the wish of spending a night in a church, imagining that this would afford me a pleasure of a most singular nature. I resolved, therefore, to execute Alumbrado’s proposal, and, at the same time, to gratify this darling wish of my heart. With that view, I concealed myself one evening in the cathedral. The first idea which forced itself upon my mind, as soon as I was left alone in that sacred place, was that of the immediate presence of the Eternal, and this notion filled me with solemn awe.

“I went to the altar, throwing myself on my face upon the steps of it and adoring the omnipresent God with ardent fervour. I soared beyond the limits of materiality, transported by devotion, and my soul and every sense was hurried along by the torrent of holy enthusiasm. I prayed with filial submission for filial illumination and heavenly aid.

“The clock on the church steeple tolled eleven, when I recovered from my pious trance. The church was covered with awful darkness; the solitary lamps which were burning before the altar, and the images of the saints, produced on the opposite parts of the fabric large masses of light and shade, while they spread only a faint dusk over the other parts of the Gothic building. The presence of the Eternal, the melancholy stillness of night, the extensive circumference of the venerable edifice, made me sensible, with a kind of horror, of my solitary situation. The profound stillness that reigned around was interrupted only now and then by a momentaneous cracking by the clattering of the windows, the whistling of a gust of wind rustling through the softly resounding organ-pipes, and by the chiming of a bell.

“Proceeding further, I was struck with the hollow sound of my footsteps, which reminded me that the marble pavement covered the vault in which the bodies of the deceased fathers of the order were awaiting the morn of resurrection.

“I went through one of the aisles, and stopped in awful contemplation, now at an altar, now at the image of a saint, and now at a tomb. The antique, artless appearance of many images and statues contributed much to increase their awful effect. A chapel, where a whole length picture of Christ on the cross was suspended attracted my attention particularly, because the quickly repeated flirtation of the lamp which was placed before it had made me fancy that the picture was stirring. The singular distribution of light, darkness, and shade prevailing through the whole church, the sudden flaring and dying away of the lamps, produced the most different and surprising effects on the eye, and furnished the imagination with multivarious objects of occupation.

“At length, I entered a great hall, which led to the hindmost porch, and from thence to a church-yard, the iron gate of which was locked. The first look I directed at it made me start back, seized with surprise. I looked once more at it, and beheld again several white figures that appeared and vanished with a rustling noise. I cannot but confess that a chilly tremor seized my limbs and fixed me to the ground. A few minutes after, a monk carrying a lanthorn appeared in the back part of the burying place; and a short reflection unfolded to me the whole mystery. The noise which I had heard proceeded from his steps, and the figures were nothing else but white statues, which appeared and disappeared as he moved the lanthorn in walking. Probably he had been praying in the porch, and was now returning to his cell: I concealed myself in a pew, in order to avoid being seen by him. A weariness which proceeded from the chilly night air and a want of sleep, bade me, at length put a stop to my wanderings. I seated myself in a pew, where I abandoned myself to the wild freaks of my imagination.

“The dawn of day was already peeping through the stained windows, when I awoke from the fanciful dreams of my wondering mind, and the purple rays of the morning sun reflected with radient glory from the image of the holy Virgin, suspended against the wall opposite the window. I was absorbed in the contemplation of this sublime object for some time; however the trance in which this charming sight had thrown me, soon gave room to religious sensations of a more sublime nature; a pious confidence in the heavenly aid of Providence was kindling in my bosom, and I was going to prostrate myself before the blessed Virgin, when the church was thrown open.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * * * * * *

THE FATAL MISTAKE; Or, THE HISTORY OF MR. ELLIOT. [Written by Himself.]

(Continued from our last)

I expressed my obligations to his friendship in the warmest and most grateful terms, and we consulted how the matter should be broke to Lady Somerset; my friend undertook the task.

That very evening, as his sister was engaged out, and I had determined to be absent, I waited in a state of the most anxious expectation for the event of his embassy; and on seeing him enter my room at one o’clock in the morning, I had hardly resolution to inquire his success. “My friend, my brother,” exclaimed he, “I am authorised to call you so by the most amiable of mothers, Almena is your’s, win her, my dear Frederick, and be happy.”

Words were too faint to express my feelings; my Edward shared my emotions, and for a time we lost the remembrance of every thing but friendship. Now each adverse cloud appeared removed, and happiness permanent and delightful dawned on my morning joys. Lady Somerset informed lord Ashford, that her daughter’s heart was engaged: his disappointment betrayed him into the most violent rage, and he left the house threatening to be revenged.

Blessed as I was in Almena’s love, and in the friendship of her amiable brother, I disregarded his threats, and smiled at the apprehensions of my charmer: three weeks after this made me her happy husband; my friend gave away his lovely sister, and shared in our felicity. My wife was every thing that was excellent and good; her love for me was unbounded, and mine was to such a painful excess, that I could not bear a look cast at any other person. To this unhappy jealousy of temper all my subsequent misfortunes were owing.

For twelve months, we enjoyed the most perfect felicity, when Lady Somerset appeared to be declining in her health. Her physicians advised her to go to the south of France: my Almena was desirous of accompanying her beloved parent, but her situation rendered it improper and dangerous. Lord Somerset was determined to attend her, which greatly alleviated my wife’s uneasiness. As London did not agree with lady Almena, and as the season was far advanced, I proposed going to Trout-Hall, for the ensuing hot months: she consented chearfully, as her lying-in was not expected for a considerable time. The separation of my beloved from her mother and brother may be better imagined than described. We immediately went into the country, where I exerted the most unwearied assiduity to amuse and divert her thoughts from dwelling too much on the late melancholy parting. On a visit to a neighbouring family I was amazed to see lord Ashford. He addressed my wife as if nothing had passed between them, and me with the most polite freedom. Some few weeks after, I had been out a little way, and on my return, asked the servant if any body had been there during my absence? “Lord Ashford, Sir, has been an hour with my lady.” I hurried to my wife’s apartment, and opening the door gently, surprized her in tears. “How is this, my love? what has happened to make you uneasy?” “Nothing particular, replied she, I was thinking of my poor mother, you must pity the weakness of your wife, my Frederick.” “My Almena, my dearest love, answered I, clasping her to my bosom, I cannot bear your tears; talk not of weakness, you are all that is amiable and lovely.” She seemed soothed with these words and appeared more chearful; as she did not mention lord Ashford’s having been there, I did not choose to start the subject.

We passed a month in the most perfect tranquility, having heard in that time from my friend, who gave us a pleasing account of lady Somersets health. My Almena’s happiness was excessive at this information, and joy beamed on her lovely countenance; I frequently left her at her own desire, to partake of country amusements, though my inclination would have ever detained me with her; yet to make her easy I complied. She feared a too constant attendance on her would weaken my affection, and make me uneasy at so great a restraint.

One day, I had stayed longer than usual in hunting, and was hastening to meet my wife, when I perceived lord Ashford riding up the avenue: these visits and always in my absence greatly alarmed me. He would have avoided me, but I rode up to him, and after a slight civility, begged to know what had occasioned the honour of my seeing him there? He looked confounded, and making an evasive answer spurred his horse, and rode away with great precipitation. This conduct, so very enigmatical, enraged me infinitely; I was inclined to pursue him, and force him to confess what his business was, but a moment’s thought deterred me from such a conduct. I entered the house, torn by a thousand emotions, and went to my wife, who fled with open arms to receive me. I brutishly turned from her. “Lady Almena, has Lord Ashford been here?” I looked at her very sternly, she hesitated and blushed; “No, my dear; but wherefore this unkindness! Alas, Mr. Elliot, have I offended you?” She burst into tears. Oh, how I cursed my own horrid disposition! I strove to abate her grief by every method in my power: and had she at that moment informed me of her conjectures, what a weight of woe had been spared to my succeeding days! But my misery was not to be avoided. I applied to the servant, who had before informed me lord Ashford had been at my house, who confirmed my suspicions by telling me, my hated rival, as I then madly thought him, had been a considerable time with his lady. I was too much affected by this news to answer the servant; and leaving him in the greatest haste, I determined to return to my wife and tax her with her inconstancy; but the consideration of my Almena’s situation deterred me; as she was drawing near her time I reflected I might be her destroyer.

(To be concluded in our next.)

* * * * * * * * *

CURIOSITY.

Of the various passions that are natural to mankind, Curiosity seems to be one of the most active and powerful; which, unless it be engaged in laudable pursuits, and confined within the limits prescribed by Virtue, often becomes a disease pernicious and fatal to the mind, and exhibits human nature in a most pitiable point of view.

Nothing can be conceived more contemptible, and at the same time move dangerous, than a merely enquisitive person: “he is generally a blab,” says the poet; “and ought to be avoided, as we would the spy of an enemy.” Such a one may be compared to the Danaide’s tub, which was incapable of containing what it received: for, whatever comes under his inspection, or is mentioned in his hearing, he is sure to publish; and, when opportunity shall serve, will enlarge and illustrate.

This excessive prying and communicative disposition, has been observed to be particularly prevalent in those who are naturally indolent, and have no useful employment to divert their imagination. The mind, if it be not engaged in the pursuit of useful knowledge, must necessarily be active in the investigation of trifles, and matters of small moment. Thus, for instance, the indolent man, who affects to be studious, as he is deterred from the attempt to acquire solid learning, by that care and assiduity which are the consequent attendants on laborious study; so he squanders that time, which might be employed to better purposes, in the search after trifles. He contents himself with the knowledge of things, that can contribute nothing to his learning; nor could his ignorance of them diminish aught from it.

But there is a kind of Curiosity, which produces more fatal effects; and which argues, that the disposition of those who are actuated by it, is not only indolent as to commendable enquiries, but that they are also envious and malicious, and enjoy great satisfaction in exposing to public censure the faults and failings of every one around them. We meet with beings of this description, in every place, without exception, who make it their business to pry into the affairs of others. It is a kind of trade with them, wherein one deals more largely than another; and he is esteemed the greatest who can dispose of most scandal. Such persons are finely described in the fable of the Lamiæ; who, we read, were blind at home, but when abroad were remarkably quick-sighted. In like manner, these Curiosi are fully blinded as to their own demerits; while not only the more open and flagrant faults of others, but even the smallest inadvertensy, or mistake, is subject to their strict enquiry and nicest examination. Being always more solicitous to enquire into the failings of their neighbours, than to notice and imitate their good qualities; and hurried on by the strong impulse of this restless passion, they spare no pains in searching to the very bottom of a thing that is but whispered, and enjoy no peace till it becomes public and universally known.

I well remember, when a worthy and respectable family first went to reside at a place that contained a numerous class of these idlers, what a stir it caused among them! Running about from one place to another, various suppositions, and exclamations of surprise, passed between them. “I wonder who this new-come family are!” says one; “and whether they are people of much property?” “No great deal, I should conceive,” replies another; “for they keep a very poor house, and are fashionable in no respect whatever.”--“Aye,” says a third, “I hear that they go to market, not with ready-money, but on trust.”--“I am informed,” says a frigid old maid, with a contemptuous sneer, “that Mr. ----, and his wife, live unhappily together, on account of a familiarity that subsists between him and the chambermaid.”--“Pray, can any one inform me,” says a formal old widow, “whether they observe any regularity in their family? What is their hour of dining? Do they keep late hours? And what is their time of rising?”---“O!” says one of the male gossips, “they are very particular, Madam, I can assure you in regard to those things, and do every thing by rule; and they are the most penurious and miserable wretches on earth, for they always keep the key of the cellar.” Thus, these triflers, to call them no worse, amuse themselves with groundless conjectures, and unjust censure, the absurdity of which needs no remark.

But, notwithstanding every transaction, that comes under their cognizance, is handed about with the worst construction it is capable of receiving, they by no means stop here. Not content with the information themselves are able to collect, they have their private emissaries to communicate intelligence, and give them notice of the domestic affairs of every family in the town, which become the subject of debate the next time they assemble; for they have their meetings, where the conversation never fails to be such as wounds the honour and reputation of some of their neighbours. If any one in company presumes to speak of another with praise and commendation, he is either attended to with careless indifference, or totally disregarded; and considered as one who wishes to violate the laws and rules of the society. On the contrary, should he call in question the chastity of some sage matron, or relate the misfortunes of some frail female; should he make the discord of families, or the animosities of friends, the topick of conversation; they are all attention, and listen to the scandalous report with the highest degree of satisfaction.

One grand incentive to Curiosity, is a fickle and unsteady temper, with a fondness for novelty. When, therefore, the mind in any of it’s sallies borders on frivolity, it ought immediately to be checked, and have its attention directed to some other object less unworthy the consideration of a rational creature. Thus, by bringing this passion under the government of Reason, at the first, we may prevent the unhappy consequences that envy and spleen might otherwise spur it on to effect.

In diseases of the body, by not attending to the first symptoms of a disorder, and stopping it in the beginning, it often happens, that it gains strength through delay; and, in process of time, bids defiance to the powers of medicine. Thus it is with diseases of the mind. Such, and so inveterate is the nature of vice, that unless it be eradicated on its first appearance, and destroyed in its infancy, the contagion soon extends it’s baneful influence over all the faculties of the mind, and enervates the whole intellectual system.

In order to the preservation of health, on the slightest attack of any corporal malady, it is expedient to have immediate recourse to those means which are considered the best adapted to impede it’s progress: and if, to remove infirmities of the body, so much precaution be necessary, surely the mind demands still greater attention. But how frequently do we find this nobler part of man, either very little regarded, or totally neglected! Too often are the innate virtues of the soul extinguished by the insinuations of Vice! its nobler powers enfeebled by the alluring wiles of that fascinating enchantress; and rendered useless, as to the end and design for which they were originally intended; or, what is worse, applied in promoting the advancement of her cause, to our own perpetual disgrace!

* * * * *

CURIOUS INCIDENT.

It was formerly usual for the Senators of Rome to enter the Senate-house, accompanied by their sons, who had taken the prætexta. When something of superior importance was discussed in the senate, and the farther consideration adjourned to the day following, it was resolved that no one should divulge the subject of their debates till it should be formally decreed. The mother of the young Papirus, who had accompanied his father to the Senate-house, enquired of her son what the senators had been doing. The youth replied, that he had been enjoined silence, and was not at liberty to say. The woman became more anxious to know: the secretness of the thing, and the silence of the youth did but inflame her curiosity; she, therefore, urged him with the more vehement earnestness. The young man, on the importunity of his mother, determined on a humorous and pleasant fallacy: he said it was discussed in the senate which would be most beneficial to the state, for one man to have two wives, or one woman to have two husbands. As soon as she heard this, she was much agitated; and, leaving her house in great trepidation, hastened to tell the other matrons what she had learned. The next day, a troop of matrons went to the Senate house; and, with tears and entreaties, implored that one woman might be suffered to have two husbands, rather than one man to have two wives. The senators, on entering the house, were astonished, and wondered what this intemperate proceeding of the women and their petition could mean. The young Papirus, advancing to the midst of the senate, explained the importunity of his mother, his answer, and the matter as it was. The senate, delighted with the honour and ingenuity of the youth, decreed that, from that time, no youth should be suffered to enter the senate with his father, this Papirus alone accepted. He was afterwards honourably distinguished by the cognomen of Prætextatus, on account of his discretion at such an age.

* * * * * * * * *

LIFE OF BONNA, THE SHEPERDESS.

Bonna was the daughter of a shepherd of the Valteline, a fruitful valley at the foot of the Alps, and the grand pass between Italy and Germany. As she was one day guarding her flocks, Peter Brunoro, an illustrious Parmesan general, lost his way near the spot where she attended her innocent companions. Brunoro politely accosted the rural maid, to enquire the road, but was so struck with her beauty, and so pleased with her courteous answer, that he dismounted and entered into conversation with the sheperdess. Bonna was no prude, and she had wit enough to distinguish a gentleman from a rustic; in short, her vivacity, and a certain air of modest assurance, admirably calculated to hit the taste of an officer, had such an effect upon him, that he fell in love with her, and carried her off. From this time, we are to consider her not as the Arcadian sheperdess, but as Brunoro’s mistress.

Finding that she had a bold, masculine spirit, he took great pleasure in dressing her in men’s cloaths; and he had the satisfaction to observe, that she was ambitious to gain a masculine address! Brunoro soon learned her to manage the fleetest courser, and as he was remarkably fond of hunting, she was always of his party, and acquitted herself to the astonishment of all the cavaliers.

A quarrel happening some time after between Francis Sforza, duke of Milan, and Alphonsus, king of Naples; Brunoro quitted the service of the king his master, and went over to the duke of Milan’s party: Bonna, his faithful mistress accompanied him, and signalized herself in the first campaign. The difference between the contending parties being accommodated by the interposition of mediators, Brunoro was received again into the service of Alphonsus, and Bonna was presented to the king as a young Amazon: her talents for war and politics became every day more and more conspicuous; and upon a rupture between the Venetian republic and the duke of Milan, she had the address to negociate at Venice, the command of the Venetian army, with an appointment of 20000 ducates per annum during the war for Brunoro. The general’s heart, at this striking piece of felial affection in his mistress, was now touched with a lively sense of honour for Bonna, he regretted he had ever took advantage of the assenting and unguarded Shepherdess, and, to repair past injuries, and in gratitude for such signal services, married his benefactress: After this event, she placed no bounds either to her conjugal affection, or her love of arms. She accompanied her husband wherever he went: and while the general was engaged upon some other service, she headed a detachment, and took the Castle of Pavanou, near Brescia, from the Milanese, by assault.

The senate of Venice honoured her with distinguished rewards, and placing an unlimited confidence in both husband and wife, sent them to the succour of Negropontus, attacked by the Turks. They defended this island so ably, that during the time that they commanded, the Turks desisted from all further attempts on the place. Bonna died on her return to Venice at a small town of Morea, leaving behind her two children, and an immortal reputation.

[[Notes:

This piece is somewhat historical. Bona Lombarda or Lombardi married Pietro Brunoro 1417-1468; she died in Modone.]]

* * * * * * * * *

THE FLOWER-GIRL.

----“Pray, buy a nosegay of a poor orphan!” said a female voice, in a plaintive and melodious tone, as I was passing the corner of the Hay-market. I turned hastily, and beheld a girl of about fourteen; whose drapery, tho’ ragged, was clean, and whose form was such as a painter might have chosen for a youthful Venus. Her neck, without covering, was white as snow; and her features, though not regularly beautiful, were interesting, and set off by a transparent complexion: her eyes, dark and intelligent, were shaded by loose ringlets of a raven black, and poured their sweetly supplicating beams through the silken shade of very long lashes. On one arm hung a basket full of roses, and the other was stretched out towards me with one of the rose-buds. I put my hand into my pocket, and drew out some silver---“Take this, my pretty girl,” said I, putting it into her’s; “and may that God, who is the Father of the fatherless, be the preserver of your existence and your virtue!---Virtuous poverty is no crime.”

I was turning from her, when she suddenly caught my withdrawn hand; and, putting it to her lips, burst into a flood of tears. The action, and the look which accompanied it, touched my soul; it melted to the artless gratitude of this poor Flower-girl, and a drop of sympathy fell from my cheek. “Forgive me, Sir,” said she, recovering from her transport, while a sweet blush diffused itself over her lovely face: “my heart was full of what it could not express---nature impelled me to so free an action. You will pardon the effect it had on me, when I tell you, they were the first kind words I have heard since I lost all that was dear to me on earth----” A sob interrupted her discourse: she stopped, and wept silently; then, raising up her face from the hand on which she had laid it---“O Sir! I have no father! no mother! no relation! Alas! I have no friend in the world!” Choked with her emotions, she was silent for a moment before she could proceed---“My only friend is God! on him I rely; I submit to his will. I only pray that I may support with fortitude, the miseries I am born to experience! To him, kind Sir, this heart shall always pray for you. May that God for ever protect you!” added she, dropping a curtsey full of humility and native grace, as she retired. I returned her benediction, and went on----

“And can I thus leave this poor creature?” said I, as I walked pensively on. “Can I leave her forever, without emotion? What have I done for her, that can entitle me to her prayers? Preserved her a few days from death, but that is all! And shall I quit thee, fair flower, to see thee no more? to be blown down by the rude blast of adversity! to be cropped by some cruel spoiler! to droop thy lovely head beneath the blight of early sorrow!--No! thou hast been reared on some happier bank; thou hast been nurtured by the sweet tears of maternal affection; thou hast once blushed beneath the chearing sun of domestick content, and under it thou shalt bloom again!” I turned, as I spoke: my heart beat with its sweet purpose. I saw the beautiful Flower-girl before me. I approached---caught her hand---the words of triumphant virtue burst from my lips---

“Come, thou lovely, deserted girl! come, and add one more to the happy groupe who call me father! Their home shall be thine: thou shalt share their comforts: thou shalt be taught with them that virtue their father tries to practise!” She stopped me; her eyes flashed with a frantic joy: she flung herself on her knees before me, and burst into a flood of rapturous tears. I raised her in my arms---I hushed her eloquent gratitude, and led her to a home of happiness and piety. She loves my children; she loves their father; and the poor orphan of the Hay-market is now the wife of my son!

DE BURGHE.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. WILLIAM W. GALATIAN, to the amiable Miss CATHARINE BROWER, daughter of Mr. John Brower, all of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. PETER VORHISS to the amiable Mrs. NANCY SMITH, widow of Joseph Smith, deceased, both of this city.

* * * * *

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 26th ult. to the 4th inst.

Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 Feb. 26 16 23 nw. w. clr. h. w. Aurora Boralis*. 27 38 47 s. sw. cloudy lt. wd. do. do. 28 34 35 nw. w. cloudy lt. wd. do. do. March 1 22 35 nw. do. clear lt. wind. do. h. wd. 2 24 37 ne. se. clear lt. wind. cloudy do. 3 33 42 ne. sw. sn at ni. clou. lt. wd. do. 4 38 49 50 s. sw. cloudy lt. wd. clear do.

* * * * *

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. FOR FEBRUARY 1797. deg. 100

Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 32 9 Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 41 2 Do. do. for the whole month 36 55 Greatest monthly range between the 24th and 26th 41 0 Do. do. in 24 hours, the 26th & 27th 22 Warmest day the 24th 57 0 Coldest do. the 26th 16

14 days the Mercury was at or below frost, at sunrise. 4 do. it was at or below frost at sunrise and at 3 P.M. 7 do. it rained, and a large quantity has fallen this month. 1 day it snowed, and 2 inches and a-half has fallen. 17 do. the wind was at the westward of north and south. 11 do. the do. was at the eastward of do. and do. 16 do. the do. was light at sunrise and 3 P.M. 4 do. the do. was high at do. and do. 13 do. it was clear at do. and do. 12 do. it was cloudy at do. and do.

[* On the 26th a remarkable appearance of the Aurora Boralis in the evening at the north point: its appearance changed several times, and at length collected to a Piremidical form and disappeared.]

* * * * * * * * *

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

THE DEBTOR.

“Ah! little know’st thou who ne’er has tri’d, “What pain it is in prison long to ’bide; “To lose whole days, that might be better spent, “To pine whole nights in anxious discontent; “To speed to day, to be put back to-morrow; “To flush with Hope, to pine with care and sorrow.”

Transposed from COWLEY.

Two long, long years are gone and past, Since from the pitch of affluence cast; With Friends, Fame, Fortune out of date, Eugenio moans his hapless fate: Like the poor Starling in his cage, He fluttering spends his idle rage; And all his cry, and all his rout, Is, Well-a-day! I can’t get out.

Friend to the Muse, alas! no more His fancy roves in classic lore; His senses flag, his eyes grow blind, And a chill torpor cramps his mind. Like the poor Starling in his cage, He fluttering spends his idle rage; And all his cry, &c.

What, though when war and tumult rag’d, His country all his soul engag’d; No trace is left, no record sav’d, Of what, to save a state, he brav’d: Like the poor Starling in his cage, He’s doom’d to pine, to fret, to rage; And all his cry, &c.

Did want, or merit claim a friend, He knew to serve, to give, or lend; But out of cash and out of place, His former friends forget his face! Like the poor Starling in his cage, Lonesome he sits and vents his rage; And all his cry, &c.

No more the sun’s all chearing ray, Ope’s to his view the blush of day; The day is dreary as the night, And a sad darkness clouds the sight: Like the poor Starling in his cage, In doleful plaints he spends his rage; And all his cry, &c.

At eve with gnawing care opprest, His weary eye-lids ache for rest; Then clanking chains above him roll, And sobs, and wailings pierce his soul. Like the poor Starling in his cage, He counts each tedious hour an age; And all his cry, &c.

When in his arms his infant train, Their little woes and wants explain, The trickling tear, and sigh supprest, Betray the anguish of his breast: ’Till like the Starling in his cage, His throbbing bosom bursts with rage; And all his cry, &c.

Sometimes in dreams he wings his flight, And roves in regions of delight; When (sad reverse!) the Watchman’s noise, Dispels his Visionary Joys: Then like the Starling in his cage, He starts, and flutters round in rage: And all his cry, &c.

And is there then no Hope in Laws? No generous Friends to urge his cause? Ah! no:--his Friends have not the time, And DEBT, you know’s the GREATEST CRIME. Thus like the Starling in his cage, He moulders on to life’s last stage; And all his cry, and all his rout Is, Well-a-day! I can’t get out.

* * * * *

THE FADED ROSE.

Yon Rose, that bloom’d with tincture bright, That shed its od’rous sweets around, And smiling with the orient light, Diffused its beauty on the ground:

That gave its fragrance to the air, And waving kiss’d the gentle breeze, And though it gave, appear’d still fair, Still yielded nectar to the bees.

But blooming with uncommon pride, And blushing with the rain-bow’s hue, Upon the foliage by its side, That glitter’d with the morning dew.

A fair that watch’d her fleecy flock Beside the bending poplar shade, And resting on a mossy rock, Espy’d it waving in the glade.

Eager to seize the envy’d rose, And with it deck her glowing breast; She left her charge, forsook repose, And pluck’d it from its thorny nest.

That instant droop’d its spreading leaves, And soon its beauteous colours fled; In vain Cecilia’s bosom heaves, For with its charms the rose is dead.

So the fair damsel in her prime, That blooms with all the pride of May, Feels the corroding hand of time, And all unconscious fades away.

* * * * *

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF An Amiable Young Lady;

Whose virtues richly merited the eulogium here offered by a friend.

Soft as the balm the gentle gales distils! Sweet as the fragrancy of new-mown hills! Her op’ning mind a thousand charms reveal’d, Proof of those thousands which were yet conceal’d. The loveliest flower in nature’s garden plac’d! Permitted just to bloom, and pluck’d in haste. Angels beheld her ripe for joys to come, And call’d, by God’s command, their sister home.

NEW-YORK: +Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.+-- +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, +Wall-Street+.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

UTILE DULCI.

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, March 15, 1797.+ [+No. 89.+

GRATITUDE.

“If aught gives one virtuous man a superiority over another, it is only by as much as he exceeds the other in Gratitude.”

Gratitude, though a single word, contains a volume of expressions: it is the brightest jewel in Virtue’s diadem. It comprehends every social duty, and every celestial virtue, that adorn mankind; it renders them objects of Almighty love, and worthy the admiration of their fellow-creatures. Divested of Gratitude, what are we? Nought but solitary reeds, blown by every breeze, and beat down by every shower, that God, in the plenitude of his mercy, sends to chear the rest of the world.

Gratitude may be said to consist of two orders--to God, and to man.

Gratitude to God is indisputably our first and chief duty. Can we for a moment contemplate the creation of the world, the coming, sufferings, crucifixion, death, resurrection, and ascension of Christ, without acknowledging that Gratitude to God is our first and chief duty? God forbid! There are few, in this world’s sphere, but daily, nay even hourly, experience the goodness of the Almighty. How are we extricated from difficulties? How are we relieved, even when desponding misery rankles in the heart? And how do we enjoy our health, or happiness, but from the excess of that mercy which gently drops from Heaven? Can, then, our lives be better spent than in devoting them to those purposes esteemed worthy in God’s all-seeing eye, and expressive of our gratitude for the blessings we receive?

“Never let day or night unhallow’d pass, But still remember what the Lord has done.”

SHAKESPEARE.

Of Gratitude to man, much has been, and much still remains to be said. It may be urged that, in our Gratitude to God, every kind of gratitude is contained. This may be granted; and, therefore, to Him should we give the glory. If we are really grateful, we shew it not only to Him, but to those whom he makes the instruments of his goodness.

From the earliest period, we find that centre of every virtue, Gratitude! honoured, revered, and even adored. How many have sacrificed their lives in gratitude for services received from others; and, dying, blessed the cause in which they died! Gratitude to man consists in a grateful remembrance of every favour, however trifling or essential. It is to be hoped that a man, plunged by misfortune into dire distress, confined within the narrow and dreary cell of a prison, surrounded by an infant family, some senseless of the misery they endure, sleeping on a bed of straw, a helpless babe in his arms, pining for it’s mother, who is gone, alas! in vain, to soothe the obdurate heart of a relentless creditor---it is to be hoped, I repeat, that human nature does not produce such a man, who, were he relieved from this horrid situation, by the benevolent hand of smiling Affluence, would ever cease to remember, without the softest emotions of extatic pleasure, the truly generous act: if he could, he should cease to live.

Other instances, equally forcible, might be brought forward; but man who ought not to forget the smallest obligation, or neglect the slightest opportunity of manifesting his gratitude. It matters not, whether our gratitude be called forth into action by pecuniary assistance in the hour of distress, solace in the hour of misfortune, or help in the moment of personal danger. He who relieves another in a pecuniary manner, he who sighs with him in his misfortunes, or he who saves the life of another, is equally entitled to our prayers, our praise, and our gratitude.

* * * * *

PLEASURES OF STUDY.

There is unspeakable pleasure attending the life of a voluntary student. The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend. When I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles the meeting with an old one. We ought to lay hold of every incident in life for improvement, the trifling as well as the important. It is not one diamond alone which gives lustre to another; a common coarse stone is also employed for that purpose. Thus I ought to draw advantage from the insults and contempt I meet with from a worthless fellow.

* * * * * * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A. Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 283.)

I hastened to conceal myself in a corner, and slipped out of the church as soon as the sexton had entered it. In going home, I fancied I observed Hiermanfor at a distance, nay he seemed even to advance towards me; however, I fled from him with horror.

“About an hour after my return, I was joined by Alumbrado, who entered my apartment with awful solemnity. His countenance spoke more plainly than his lips. We went to the Marquis who seemed to have awaited our arrival with impatience, and bowed respectfully to Alumbrado.

“You have been watching last night,’ the latter said to us, ‘and dedicated it to devotion. Is your resolution still firm and unalterable?’

“Yes!’ we replied at the same time.

“A long pause ensued. At length Alumbrado began: ‘I too have dedicated the night to devotion, and join in your league.’ Taking us by the hand, ‘I have conversed with God, and received heavenly revelations, which I will communicate to you if you will promise eternal secrecy.’

“We promised it.

“Yes, my friends,’ he resumed, ‘God has chosen you to be ministers of his avenging justice. Your mission is honourable, but awful--awful, and at the same time, blissful. But I must remind you, that it does not befit the instruments of the Eternal to scan his holy degrees, nor to resist. Will you, therefore, promise to obey implicitly?’

“We will.’

“To obey also when the decrees of God shall come in contradiction with your opinions and feelings?’

“The decrees of the Eternal are impenetrable, but ever wise and ever just. We will obey!’

“Then you swear to obey blindly?’

“We swore, and now we learned from Alumbrado our mission, and the whole plan of the secret league. It would be superfluous to give you the particulars of it, because it will be executed, and consequently known to you when you shall read this letter.--Farewell, my friend, for whom I always shall retain a tender affection, although you should become my inveterate enemy. Farewell.”

This letter partly unfolded to me the mystery of the whole event; I could, however, best form a clear idea of the particulars of the conspiracy and the whole design when the culprits were tried. I shall confine myself to a brief sketch of that infernal plot.

Oli*ariz the Minister of S----n, not having been able to put a stop to the secret preparations the Duke of B----za had been making for restoring the crown of Port--l to his family, and his three last artful attempts to that effect having miscarried, he sent Alumbrado whom he had already successfully employed on different occasions, to watch the secret motions of that nobleman, and to counteract them effectually. Alumbrado fixed his eyes on a man who was generally respected as well on account of his rank, his birth, and extraordinary merits, as of his great wealth; the Marquis of Villa Re*al, whose secret antipathy against the Duke of B----a, Oli*arez had pointed out to him. With the assistance of this man, he designed to lay the mine which was to blow up the great work of the Duke of B--------a. He found the Marquis in a situation of mind that seemed to promise very little success in the prosecution of his political views.

The supposed apparition of Count San*, and the illness which had succeeded it, had changed him from a statesman to a pietistical hermit. However, an intriguing genius like Alumbrado was not discouraged by these unfavourable symptoms; he only changed his measures, and founded on religious fanaticism and superstition a plan, by which he expected to interest the Marquis for his designs. Yet he had, perhaps, imagined this task much easier than it really was, or the progresses the Marquis made were slower than he had expected, in short, the revolution broke out before he had attained his purpose. This unexpected blow did not depress Alumbrado’s spirit. He had, indeed, not been able to dispute the acquisition of the crown of P------l with the Duke of B----a; he formed however, the resolution to deprive him of it.

With this view he returned to S----n to consult with Oli*arez. The latter had really been induced by the dissimulation of the Duke of Cam*na, to believe him serious in his devices against the family of B--------a, and this was sufficient to prompt him to agree with Alumbrado that one ought to endeavour to interest the Marquis and his son for the design against the new Sovereign.

That, and how this has been effected, was proved afterwards by the event.

Alumbrado had foreseen that the execution of so dangerous a design would require many co-operating powers, and therefore had taken care to procure in time the requisite assistants. One of his principal associates was the archbishop of Br*ga, Primate of P--------l, an acquisition which cost Alumbrado very little trouble, the Prelate meeting him half way. The archbishop had witnessed the successful issue of the revolution with the greatest indignation, because he was entirely devoted to the S---sh court and the Vice Queen to whom he owed his preferment.

On the breaking out of the Revolution, he had already drawn the sword against one of the conspirators in order to avenge his benefactress; her confinement was therefore an additional motive to him for joining the conspirators, by whose assistance he hoped to avenge her wrongs and restore her to liberty. Alumbrado gained through him even the bishop of *arda, Grand Inquisitor of the Empire.

The insinuation that he would not enjoy long his important office under the new government, the King being inclined to abolish the Inquisition, was the chief motive of his having taken a part in the conspiracy.

Both prelates were very sensible how necessary it was that the Marquis and his son should join the conspirators if Alumbrado’s design should succeed, and therefore supported him in his endeavours to ensnare these noblemen, although they dissembled to have not the least connection with that vile deceiver.

Meanwhile the latter endeavoured secretly to encrease the number of the conspirators through the interest of these two prelates, and they succeeded in gaining over to their party Count Arm*mar a cousin to the Primate, a great number of other Port**ese noblemen and the Jews. It has already been mentioned in the letters of the Duke, that the new King rejected their petition of being suffered to live and to trade in the kingdom as external Christians, uncontrolled by the Inquisition. The Primate made them a voluntary offer of that privilege; nay, he even promised secretly, in the name of the King of S---n, that they should have a public synagogue, if they would co-operate in the execution of the plot, which they consented to without hesitation.

The design itself was, indeed, horrid enough. On the 6th of August, 1641, the Jews were to cause a conflagration in the night, not only in the royal palace, but also in different parts of the town, in order to divert the attention of the people. Then the conspirators were to penetrate into the palace under the pretext of extinguishing the fire, and to stab the King; the Queen, however, and the two young Princes, were to be seized by the Duke of Ca*ina, in order to obtain through them the possession of the castle. The Primate with his train was, meanwhile, to parade through the streets, in order to frighten the refractory multitude with the Inquisition, and when the whole plan should have been happily executed, the Marquis of Villa R*al was to be invested with the dignity of Vicegerent.

This was the plan of an undertaking that could be attempted only by fool-hardy and deluded men. Alumbrado, who knew best how hazardous and adventurous it was, was well aware, that, even if their design should be executed in the most successful manner, the capital only would be gained, and every thing lost again if they were not supported by an external power. He found it therefore necessary that a S---sh fleet should be ready to surprise the port as soon as the fire should break out, and a small army of S- - -rds waiting on the frontiers, in order to penetrate in the country on the first intelligence of the successful execution of the undertaking. Oliv*rez was to afford this assistance, and consequently, intelligence must be sent him and every thing preconcerted, which was extremely difficult, the new Sovereign, having issued the strictest orders not to suffer any suspicious letter to pass the frontiers.

Ba*za, of whom I have already made mention in a former page, had, on account of his extensive trade, received an exclusive privilege of carrying on an unmolested correspondence with S---n.

Alumbrado found means to insinuate himself with his important man in such a manner, that he undertook the dangerous task of forwarding the letter which contained that intelligence. However---

The Irishman was returned from his journey. Some expressions which he accidentally overheard and several unusual movements his eagle eye espied, excited his suspicion, in spite of the secrecy of the conspirators and the great precaution they observed in carrying on their plot. He found it, nevertheless, very difficult to come upon the right tack. Although he had succeeded in his attempt of getting admittance to Ba*za’s house in the disguise of a foreign merchant, and gained the confidence of that man by means of some very great money transactions, yet he could not trace out the least thing concerning the secret plot which he suspected to be carrying on, Ba*za being always on his guard, notwithstanding the repeated invectives the Irishman uttered against the new government in order to allure him to take the bait. But when Ba*za received the aforesaid letter in order to send it to S---n, he betrayed so much anxiety that it could not escape the keen-sighted looks of the Irishman. The latter employed every art to dispose the merchant to direct that letter to the Marquis of Aja*onti, a commander of a Spanish fortress on the frontier, and acted his part with so much dexterity, that Ba*za adopted his advice without entertaining the least suspicion, thinking that the letter would certainly be delivered to the Minister when it once had reached the Sp--sh territory.

The Irishman could not indeed, divine the important contents of the letter, and the uneasiness which the merchant betrayed concerning its safe delivery, could also have originated from the great importance of the mercantile papers it might have contained. It was, therefore, a mere act of prudence that he sent instantly a message to his friend Ajam*nti, requesting him to examine that letter carefully if it should come to his hands.

The Marquis receiving the letter opened the first cover, and seeing it directed to the Sp--sh Minister of State, and sealed with the great seal of the Primate of P-----l, his suspicion having been roused by the previous notice he had received from the Irishman, he opened it without hesitation, and thus discovered the imminent danger threatening the life of the King of P----l.

Being a near relation to the Queen and sincerely attached to the King, he sent the letter without delay to his royal kinsman. The King was seized with astonishment and horror when he learned what a dreadful plot was carrying on against himself and the kingdom.

He convoked instantly the Privy Council, and concerted with them the necessary means which were to be taken in order to award the impending blow.

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

REMARK.

There is no virtue, perhaps, that with respect to the advantages arising from it to others, may not be so well supplied by a vice as generosity. Vanity almost alone will often perform all its functions.

* * * * * * * * *

REASONS WHY MEN OF GENIUS SELDOM RISE ACCORDING TO THEIR MERIT.

Amid the illusions deceiving mankind, which Hope sighs for, or Pleasure grasps at, none are more fallacious than the dreams of success, which Fancy imprints, from the consciousness of her deserts, on the tablet of imagination. When an author boldly pursues the path of fame, when he strikes out into the mazes of intricate disquisition; however his Genius, prompted by her own powers, might at first promise success, yet from circumstances unknown, he too often fails in his attempt: like the bold adventurer who, searching for the diamond in the bowels of the mine, fell a victim to the blasting vapour of contagion and death.

No one will deny, that merit ought to have it’s reward; and, that every encouragement should be given for advancement in the moral or intellectual world. Habits of virtue would then be acquired from necessity; and ambition, in greatness or goodness, meet with universal admiration and applause: but, before human nature can arrive at such a state of primitive excellence, some of the bad passions must be expelled with rankle in the human heart. A barrier must be raised between envy and admiration; and ingratitude banished, as the pest of moral and intellectual happiness. I might farther analyse, and draw a parallel between the powers of the mind and it’s passions, to shew, that what prompts the one to goodness, stimulates the other to greatness; but it would be unnecessary to mention arguments, or canvass hypotheses, which have already been made the subject of frequent discussion. I shall, therefore, confine myself to the reasons why Genius too often sinks into obscurity, even while her breast expands with benevolence---while virtue and greatness animate her heart.

Ambition, while restrained within certain bounds, is highly commendable; when exceeding those limits, it degenerates, and becomes vicious. I shall, therefore, first point out this delicate barrier, perceptible only by the unprejudiced; to be trodden on by those alone who are innately good, and can bid each “passion move at the command of Virtue.” It is necessary that there should be some incitement to noble actions, to rouze the mind from torpidity, and promote the exertion of her powers. This incentive to greatness is called Ambition; and is equally fought for by the workman who excels in mechanism, the general who leads an army, and the statesman who commands the applause of senates. By a fascinating power, it beguiles mankind; and has but one predominant fault---an unbounded satiety. This gigantic precipice, which hides her head amid the clouds, is only to be climbed by the man of genius; and, when he mounts towards the summit, if he can view the prospect around him without a swimming head, and a dizzy eye, he is truly noble.

In our various gradations through life, if we can view and admire the summit of excellence which we have not reached, or look down with pleasure on that which we have passed, while we enjoy the plaudits of a surrounding world, each of us shall feel the secret praise of our own heart, proud in the consciousness of it’s integrity. Ambition, then, is the guide of Genius; it either raises it to perfection, or hurls it, in an unguarded moment, into obscurity. While, therefore, we can admire abilities greater, or perhaps less than our own, this laudable incentive will elevate and ennoble us; if, on the contrary, we despise or envy these powers, it will soon sink us into shame, and our works into oblivion.

I have made this digression, because a certain kind of ambition--for there are many species belonging to the genus---is the most essential cause why men of letters do not rise so well as they have reason to promise themselves, or even as they deserve.

Modesty is the inseparable attendant on Merit; at least, a certain kind of diffidence is felt by every man of genius, which too often hinders him from intruding himself on public notice. Possessing a mind fraught with the dignity of it’s own powers, he scorns those trammels with which an unfeeling world would too often gall his tender neck, and fetter down his lofty spirit. When, therefore, he explores the depths of science, or with unbounded good-nature skims the surface, for the benefit of mankind; he exults in the hope of that success which he had a right to demand, and looks forward to the promised harvest of the well-earned field. Though he may thus snatch his images, in daring enthusiasm: and, with “a phrenzy-rolling eye,” survey the expanse of nature; yet seldom will a harsh world comprehend---or, comprehending, reward---a dignity of mind, which might do honour to a class of beings higher than ourselves in the scale of existence. Every man who labours for the community, even should he fail, ought to be thanked for the pains he has taken; as every attempt to enforce the practice of those qualities which adorn and dignify the human heart, must necessarily merit applause.

There is certainly one excuse alledged by mankind in general, why they do not reward Genius according to it’s merit; and the reason, I will add, cannot fail, if persisted in, to tear the laurel from the brow of infant worth, and trample it in the dust. They assert, in fact; that authors are the enemies of each other, and will not allow their reciprocal fame to live.

To lay the metaphor aside; men of letters are too seldom men of generosity. It is a harsh expression, and I must beg pardon of the world for using it; but still cannot retract, till they disprove my assertion. Instead of cherishing a young author, or admiring a refined and superior genius; the wits of the age, in the one instance crush, and in the other snarl at and depreciate, his merits.

In a word, if authors would be more generous to each other’s productions---for perfection is not the attribute of humanity---if they would pardon the defects, and at the same time extol the beauties they read, merit would no longer linger in obscurity; the embryo fire of genius would again soon burst on the world, fostered in the bosom of Virtue, and fanned by the breath of Fame!

* * * * * * * * *

THE FATAL MISTAKE; Or, THE HISTORY OF MR. ELLIOT. [Written by Himself.]

(Concluded from our last)

However I was resolved to observe her conduct as well as lord Ashford’s and act accordingly. I therefore assumed an air of tranquility, and, by my tenderness, seemed to have banished every painful sensation from her bosom; when one day as we were talking on family matters, and wondering we had not heard from lord or lady Somerset for two months past, a servant brought me a letter from an intimate friend who was dying, and begged to see me; I would not have complied with his request, disagreeable as it was to refuse, had not my Almena insisted on my going.

In a fatal hour I complied with her entreaties, and left her with the utmost reluctance. When I came to the house of Mr. Warner, I found he had expired two hours before my arrival; I paid a tribute of tears to the memory of honest George, who had been my college familiar; and as I had no further business, I hastened back to my wife. I entered the house unobserved by any one, having delivered my horse to a servant I met in the yard, and was proceeding to Lady Almena’s dressing room, with all the anxiety of love, when, on hearing the sound of voices I stopped, and clearly distinguished my wife, who pronounced these words: “You cannot imagine what I have suffered in this cruel separation. My heart has felt every painful sensation, you have been exposed to: believe me, my lord, my love for you is as violent as before my marriage.” “My love, my dearest Almena, answered a manly voice, I do believe you, and am convinced nothing can abate your affection for me.” I heard no more, but rushing to my apartment I seized my sword, and determined to end my woe, by plunging the weapon deep in the heart of the villain who had dishonoured me, I burst open the door of the dressing room, and, heart-rending sight! beheld my wife locked up in the arms of Lord Ashford, as I imagined.

Transported by my rage, I sprung towards him, and buried my sword in his body! He groaned and fell! But, oh Heavens! what were my feelings when I beheld the face of Lord Somerset! Though it was almost dark, I plainly perceived the features of my friend as he lay extended on the floor, bathed in his blood. My Almena had fainted on seeing her brother fall, and so stupified was I with horror at the rash action I had committed, that I was incapable of giving the least assistance to either.

My faculties at length forsook me, and I fell senseless; the noise of my fall brought the servants crouding to the apartment, there to behold the most horrible sight that ever shocked the eyes of humanity! When I recovered to a sense of my misery, I found my wife had been carried to her apartment during her fit, and Lord Somerset was seated in an armed chair.

Some of the servants were gone for a surgeon, whilst others were endeavouring to stop the effusion of blood.

He faintly opened his eyes, and casting them on me with a look of infinite sweetness, addressed me in the following manner, in a voice hardly audible: “Whatever, my dear Frederick, was your motive for a conduct so precipitate and rash, be assured I heartily forgive you; and am certain, mistake and fatal misapprehension were the cause of my death!” Here he stopped. The horror and distraction of my thoughts were so great, that, had not my servants prevented, I should have plunged the fatal sword in my own breast! By force they wrested it from me; and I was doomed to bear a wretched existence! I threw myself at the feet of Lord Somerset, and entreated his pardon.

My agonies were so great that before I could inform him of the truth, I was again deprived of my senses. I remember no more, than that after having been a long time confined to my chamber, I recovered to endless remorse!

The excess of my grief threw me into a violent fever which continued a month; during which time my wife and lord Somerset breathed their last! The latter lived only three days after the fatal wound he had received from me. He had a paper drawn up in which he solemnly attested my innocence, and acquitted me of his death. I found he had been acquainted with my jealousy of lord Ashford, by the villain who was hired by that scandal to nobility; the servant who had informed me of his lordship’s visit’s to my wife, was the detested creature of this wretch; and these falsities had been invented merely to disturb our domestic harmony; to which the appearance of his comrade in iniquity the day I had been hunting had greatly added, joined also to his evasive conduct. These particulars lord Somerset had been informed of by a letter from the abandoned fellow, who had left the kingdom, as his vile employer soon after did. But though my grief on the death of my Edward was little short of madness, yet the fate of my unhappy wife, rent my heart-strings! that angelic sufferer, on recovering from her fainting, immediately fell into strong labour; and after continuing in the utmost agony for a whole day and night, expired with her unhappy infant ere she had given it birth.

She left her forgiveness for him who had destroyed her and her brother. I am unable to describe the melancholy situation in which I was involved.

Several times I was tempted to end my miserable being; but some remains of conscience being left, I dared not rush into the presence of my Maker, uncalled for. I was greatly assisted in my resolution of enduring life, by the worthy Mr. Harpur, who on hearing of my melancholy situation, left his family and came to my house.

The world by his prudent management remained uninformed of my misfortunes; supposing my wife died of a fever in her lying-in, and Lord Somerset of an apoplectic fit. I wrote to lady Somerset the melancholy account of my folly and rashness, and intreated her pardon, as she valued the peace of my soul. But alas! she lived not to grant it me: her sorrow for the loss of her children, joined to her ill state of health soon brought her to the grave! Thus had the violence of my passions destroyed three persons dearer to me than the whole world. Mr. Harpur would have persuaded me to leave Trout-Hall, as the scene of my wretchedness, only aided the poignancy of my sufferings, but all his arguments were vain: I was resolved to dedicate my life to penitence on that mournful spot. I accordingly built a retreat in the park and never after left it except once a year, when I forsook my humble habitation, to spend a few hours in the house where my greatest misery was compleated. I generally distributed a large sum of money to the poor inhabitants of the neighbourhood on that day, and in the evening returned to my cottage. I hope my sincere repentance and sorrow for my crimes may have atoned for them to that power whose blessings I had so infinitely abused. For twenty years I lived uninterrupted by any mortal save the good Mr. Harpur, who sometimes came and spent half an hour at my solitary residence. Here I lived and enjoyed more content than I ever thought could have fallen to my lot, after the miseries of my former life. As my prayers for mercy and pardon, at the throne of Heaven, have been real and sincere, so I trust I shall be forgiven, and whenever it shall please the deity to call me hence, I shall rejoice to obey his summons, hoping I shall have peace in a better world, and my error totally obliterated.

One thing I should have mentioned, which is, that the twenty-fifth year of my retirement, I made Mr. Harpur a present of thirty thousand pounds, and left my estate to a distant branch of my family, the only surviving relations I had. I begged my worthy friend to have my remains deposited in a tomb that should be erected in my convent, as I was used to call my residence. This, I have no doubt he will see performed, and may the melancholy incidents of my life warn them who shall see this manuscript, against the blameable use of reason. Had I suffered mine to have had its proper influence, I had not been plunged in such uncommon distress.

[[Sources:

Original: “Female Stability, or, the History of Miss Belville, In a Series of Letters”, London 1780 by “The Late Miss Palmer”. The author is apparently not the better-known Charlotte Palmer. Possible sources include The London magazine, or, Gentleman’s monthly intelligencer (Vol. 50, July 1781, pg 316ff). Notes: A contemporary review in the London Magazine called the book “instructing and entertaining”. Another contemporary, Frances Hamilton, called it “sentimental, badly structured, pointless”.]]

* * * * *

NEGLIGENCE In Epistolary Correspondence.

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