The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Forming an Interesting Collection of Original and Select Literary Productions in Prose and Verse (part 4 of 5)
I have no patience with those who apologize for not writing letters to their friends or acquaintances, by saying they have not time enough. Few people are so much pressed for time, as not to be able to spare half an hour, or an hour, in any day, for a particular avocation; a space quite sufficient for writing a letter. Most of those who make this silly excuse, are frequently, during the day, at a loss for filling more time than would suffice for this purpose. The true reason of the neglect seems, therefore, to be want of inclination rather than of leisure; and he who says--“I have not time for writing,” might in general say, with more honesty--“I am too indolent.”
But here it may be alledged, in favour of this neglect of correspondence, that it is not worth while, merely for the sake of amusement, to write letters; that it is irksome to sit down and be obliged to compose an epistle without possessing any subject of real and necessary business; and that the efforts of invention give to this employment the fastidious nature of a task. These objections, strictly taken, are undeniable: but it is most evident, that whoever makes them, must bind himself never to engage in any correspondence, or write a single letter that is not absolutely and indispensably necessary. And if this principle, which flows from the objections, be allowed, then epistolary correspondence must be left entirely to the concerns of business; and the communications of separated friendship, of love, and all other degrees of social affection, are at an end.
Many people sit down to write a letter as to perform a displeasing imposition, which they anticipate with reluctance, and defer as long as they can with decency. I have no objection to that reluctance, provided they would at first---whether requested to correspond, or spontaneously offering---ingenuously confess, that they consider all correspondence, which is not absolutely necessary, to be unworthy of regard: for by this explicit declaration of their sentiments, they would at once rid themselves, and others, of all trouble and expectation on the subject. The people should acquiesce in preserving correspondence, and then attempt to justify the neglect of it, by reasons which should have been offered before it was entered into, is the matter of complaint.
To such as consider that correspondence by letter is but another sort of personal communication, it will appear strange, that to compose an epistle, should be esteemed by those who possess any of the social affections, as a labour and hardship. Every person, it may be supposed, has some intimacy or acquaintance which he would wish to preserve, and if so small a portion of time might be made subservient to that agreeable purpose, is it not astonishing that so much reluctance should accompany the performance? The most indolent scruple not to confess their absent connections in terms of affection or attachment, but yet cannot induce themselves to accomplish that frequent interchange of sentiment, which constitutes the essence of friendship, and the nature of correspondence.
It should seem that those who acknowledge the existence of their absent attachments, but are yet too supine to preserve regular correspondence with them, are either under the dominion of an habitual and inveterate indolence, or else they do not feel the power of those attachments so strongly as they would have us imagine. For will the person who feels a real and undeniable pleasure in correspondence, excuse himself from it by such frivolous objections? Will the affectionate wife, separated from her faithful husband; will the ardent lover, debarred from the object of his adoration; content themselves for omitting this delightful duty, by alledging that they have not time? If the occupation employed ten times the space, they would contrive to accomplish it. And why is this? Because they take an unfeigned pleasure in the employment.
It will not avail to say that the fervour of passion often induces us to sacrifice more time to one object than is reasonable. It is sufficient to deduce, from these instances, that what we really delight in, we can always find means to perform.
Examine employments in which the warmth of passion is by no means concerned, as many there are which interest not the affections, but which by various people are highly esteemed; and you will find that such people contrive, whatever may be their other avocations, to dedicate sufficient time to those esteemed employments. Every man has a partiality for some occupation or amusement, in which, important as his necessary business may be, he can find time to indulge himself. And thus some persons, indolently inclined, can always contrive to devote a great portion of their time to their favourite goddess, Idleness; however loudly the calls of business, and of affection, may strive to detach them from her influence.
The general falshood, therefore, of this apology for neglect of correspondence---“I have not time,” is evident; being nevertheless true, with the change of one word for another, viz. instead of time, say inclination.
I am apt, however, to believe that this aversion to letter-writing is confirmed, if not induced, by the defect of conversance with literary composition. Since those who have been disused to writing, are observed in general to dislike it; and, on the contrary, persons who have had a learned education, and been early accustomed to epistolary communication, are least averse to it. The defect of practice in composition, must undoubtedly occasion a difficulty of collecting the sentiments, and of properly arranging and expressing them, that may render the employment truly irksome, notwithstanding the utmost warmth of affection. But it should be remembered, that little art is necessary to express the sensations of friendship; and that the simple language of sincerity is universally preferable to the most laboured compositions of ingenuity and elegance.
W----.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
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THE DUEL.
----“Are you satisfied?” cried Edgar, accompanying his words with a dreadful thrust. The sword entered the breast of Richard, and but just escaped his heart. “Are you satisfied?” repeated he, while drawing the weapon from the wound, reaking with the blood of his friend. Richard would have replied, but his speech failed. He groaned; he gasped for breath; he fainted.
The clashing of swords, and the words of Edgar, arroused the venerable inhabitant of the forest. He slipped on his garments, and hastened to the scene of action: With some herbs, of the nature of which he was acquainted, he staunched the bleeding, and Richard again opened his eyes. When the hermit saw he was so far recovered, he returned to his cottage, to prepare a bed, and get other things in readiness for the reception of the wounded person.
The first object that Richard’s returning sight brought to view was Edgar. “Traitor! Villain!” he feebly uttered, “hence from my sight---life is no longer pleasing to me---you have strewed before me bitterness. My sister you have wronged; in an unguarded moment you took the advantage; you triumphed over her virtue: And do you still suppose I can behold you with tranquility? If you do, know that I detest you.”
“For this I will be revenged!” exclaimed the other. “Take that!---and should our spirits meet in other worlds revenge I’ll still pursue!” Here the wretch, triumphing over a fallen enemy, plunged his sword deep into the heart of Richard; and extinguished the spark of life that still remained.
The hermit was returning from his cottage---horror arrested his steps---“he saw the iron enter his soul.”
L. B.
February 14, ’97.
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NEW-YORK.
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To Correspondents and Patrons.
[->] While there is an asylum open for registering instruction and depositing the modern progress of genius and literary productions in so large a metropolis as New York, a foreigner, of sentiment and taste, might with propriety remark, how few advocates step forward to eternize their fame, or support, strengthen and establish the infant state of a publication, wholly devoted to seal instruction of a lasting duration on the hearts of a virtuous and enlighten’d people.
The EDITORS, sensible of the abilities of many individuals who constitute various useful and honourable associations in this city, cordially solicit them (not thro’ selfish motives, but for the public good) to expand and communicate their instructive discussions; by which means, the world and posterity will partake and be entertained by their beneficent solutions. Some there are, who have already been stimulated by the generous impulse of a heart flowing with sensibility, and a desire to transmit their agreeable meditations: These will ever have the grateful thanks of those who are pleas’d with instruction, and particularly the best wishes of the Editors.
A REBUS is received, and will appear in our next.
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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 March 5 50 50 54 w. do. cloudy, h. wd. clear, do. 6 22 25 nw. do. clear, h. wd. do do. 7 19 28 nw. sw. clear, h. wd. cloudy sm. sn. 8 37 60 sw. do. cloudy, sm. rn. clear h. wd. 9 25 30 nw. do. clear h. wd. do. do. 10 19 32 nw. do. clear lt wd. do. do. 11 28 33 s. s. sn. lt. wd. do. sn. 6 in. deep.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
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ON A LADY WHO DIED AT BRISTOL WELLS:
By Her Husband.
Who e’er like me, with trembling anguish brings, His hearts whole treasure to fair Bristol’s springs; Whoe’er like me, to soothe disease and pain, Shall prove those salutary springs in vain: Condemn’d like me, to hear the faint reply, To view the trembling look, the aching eye; From the faint brow to wipe the damps of death, And watch, in dumb despair, the parting breath. If chance directs him to this artless line, Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine: Ordain’d to lose the partner of my breast, Whose virtues charm’d me, and whose beauties blest; Form’d every tie, which binds the soul to prove Her only friendship, and her friendship love. Yet still rememb’ring that the parting sigh, Appoints the just to slumber, not to die! The starting tear I check’d, I kiss’d the rod, And not to earth consign’d her--but to God.
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LIFE. A POEM.
While through life’s thorny road I go, I will not want companions too: A dreary journey, and alone, Would be, alas! too troublesome. But company that’s choice and good, Makes trouble hardly understood: For toil, divided, seems to be No toil, but a felicity. Therefore will I companions take, As well for ease as safety’s sake.
Fair truth shall serve me for a guide, Justice shall never leave my side: Integrity, my trusty guard! Nor shall I Caution quite discard: Experience shall my tutor be, Nor will I wiser seem than he: Discretion all my thoughts shall weigh, And Modesty my words convey: Soft Innocence protect my sleep, And Charity my purse shall keep.
Thus thro’ this wilderness I’ll stray, Nor ever fear to lose my way: The Sages I sometimes will see, Be sometimes with the Muses free. With guiltless Mirth an hour beguile, Or with free-spoken Satire smile. With Meditation often walk, Or with sweet Melancholy talk With these companion’s dear I’ll sport, Nor heed the journey, long or short.
So Health supply the Doctor’s place, And, for a Chaplain, send me Grace.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
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+SONG.--By Mrs. G------ C----.+
Fortune, all thy gifts are vain, All thy joys but transient shew; Can you free this heart from pain? Can you ought of bliss bestow?
No, this wretched heart can tell, All your boasted joys are poor; Stings there are, you can’t repel, Blessings lost, you cant restore.
Cease, Enchantress, to deceive, Cheat not thus, mankind to woo; Lure not votaries to believe, Happiness depends on you:
For this wretched heart can tell, All thy boasted joys are poor: Stings there are, you can’t repel, Blessings lost, you can’t restore!
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THE FIRE SIDE.
Now around the blazing fire, Social seated, raptures steal; Dame and daughter, son and sire, Each relate by turns the tale.
Laugh, and sprightly song go round, Prattling children speak their fears; Now ghosts stalking forth profound, Wrought by fancy pale appears.
But from fictious stories free, Free from such opinions vain, No wan spectre sire can see, Thus he breaks their idle strain.
“No, my children, conscious guile, Only can make these arise; The abandon’d and the vile, Well may dread--but not the wise.
Tread my youthful children dear, In those paths mark’d by our Lord; So shall phantoms ne’er give fear-- God’s your guardian, ye his ward.”
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+To Miss S---- T------.+
When morn returns with blushing pride, I long to range the mountains side, To hail with joy returning day, And catch the woodlark’s melting lay. When Eve descends with balmy breath, And whispering breezes fan the heath, I fly to hear, on yonder plain, The bird of Evening’s dulcet strain: Thy notes, dear S------, to mine ear, Are sweeter, than the woodlark’s air. And the FIRST SONGSTRESS of the choir, Is discord to thy melting lyre.
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, March 22, 1797.+ [+No. 90.+
ESSAY ON MARRIAGE.
There is nothing which renders a woman more despicable than her thinking it essential to happiness to be married. Besides the gross indelicacy of the sentiment, it is a false one, as thousands of women have experienced.
But a married state, if entered into from proper motives of esteem and affection, is the happiest, makes women the most respectable in the eyes of the world, and the most useful members of society. Care should be taken not to relinquish the ease, and independence of a single life, to become the slave of a fool, or a tyrant’s caprice.
Love is very seldom produced at first sight; at least, in that case, it must have a very unjustifiable foundation. True love is founded on esteem, in a correspondence of tastes and sentiments, and steals on the heart imperceptibly. Therefore, before the affections come to be in the least engaged to any man, women should examine their tempers, their tastes, and their hearts very severely; and settle in their own minds, what are the requisites to their happiness in a married state; and, as it is almost impossible that they should get every thing they wish, they should come to a steady determination what they are to consider as essential, and what may be sacrificed.
Should they have hearts disposed by nature for love and friendship, and possess those feelings which enable them to enter into all the refinements and delicacies of these attachments, matters should be well considered before they give them any indulgence.
Should they have the misfortune to have such tempers, and such sentiments deeply rooted in them; should they have spirit and resolution to resist the solicitations of vanity, the persecution of friends; and can they support the prospect of the many inconveniences attending the state of an old maid, then they may indulge themselves in that kind of sentimental reading and conversation, which is most correspondent to their feelings.
But if it is found on a strict self-examination, that marriage is absolutely essential to their happiness, the secret should be kept inviolable in their own bosoms; but they should shun, as they would do the most fatal poison, all that species of reading and conversation, which warms the imagination, which engages and softens the heart, and raises the taste above the level of common life. If they do otherwise, let them consider the terrible conflict of passions this may afterwards raise in their breasts.
If this refinement once takes deep root in their minds, and they do not mean to obey its dictates, but marry from vulgar and mercenary views, they may never be able to eradicate it entirely, and then it will embitter all their married days. Instead of meeting with sense,--tenderness--delicacy--a lover--a friend--an equal companion in a husband, they may be tried with insipidity and dulness;--shocked with indelicacy;--and mortified by indifference.
To avoid these complicated evils, joined to others which may arise from the opinion of the infelicity thence arising; women who are determined, at all events to marry, should have all their reading and amusements of such a kind, as do not affect the heart nor the imagination, except in the way of wit and humour.
Whatever are a woman’s views in marrying, she should take every possible precaution to prevent being disappointed. If fortune, and the pleasure it brings be her aims, the principal security she can have for this will depend on her marrying a good-natured, generous man; who despises money, and who will let her live where she can best enjoy that pleasure, that pomp, and parade of life for which she married him.
In order to ensure felicity, it is difficult to point out in the married state the most effectual method, nor can we advise whom a woman should marry, but we may with great confidence advise whom she should not marry.
A companion that may entail any hereditary disease on posterity, particularly madness, should be avoided. Such risque is the height of imprudence, and highly criminal.
A woman should not marry a fool; he is the most intractable of all animals; he is led by his passions and caprices, and is incapable of hearing the voice of reason. Besides it may probably too hurt a woman’s vanity to have a husband, for whom she has reason to blush and tremble every time he opens his lips in company.
But she worst circumstance that attends a fool, is his constant jealousy of his wife’s being thought to govern him. This renders it impossible to lead him; and he is continually doing absurd and disagreeable things, for no other reason but to shew he dare do them.
A rake is always a suspicious husband, because he has only known the most worthless of the sex.
Women, who have a sense of religion, should not think of husbands who have none. If husbands have tolerable understandings, though not actuated by religious principles themselves, they will be glad that their wives have religion, for their own sakes, and for the sake of their families.
If they are weak men, they will be continually shocking and teasing them about their principles.
A sudden sally of passion should never be given way to, and dignified with the name of love.---Genuine love is not founded on caprice; it is founded in nature, or honourable views;--on virtue--on similarity of tastes, and sympathy of soul.
In point of fortune, which is necessary to the happiness of both, a competency is requisite. But what that competency may be, can only be determined by their own tastes. If they have enough between them, as will satisfy all demands, it is sufficient.
Marriage will at once dispel the enchantment raised by external beauty; but the virtues and graces that first warmed the heart, that reserve, and delicacy which always left the lover something further to wish, and often made him doubtful of his mistress’s sensibility and attachment, may and ought ever to remain.
The tumult of passion will naturally subside; but it will be succeeded by an endearment that affects the heart in a more equal, more sensible, and more tender manner.
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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 291.)
The fifth of August, in the night of which the plot was to be carried into execution, the King sent orders to all the troops that were quartered in the neighbourhood of Lis*on, to march instantly to the capital under the pretext of a review. On the morning of the same day, he delivered himself sealed instructions to his most faithful officers, ordering them not to be opened before noon, when they were to execute the contents with the greatest dispatch.
These precautions being taken, the king ordered the Great Council of State to assemble at one o’clock. The Bishop of Br*ga and the Marquis of Villa Re*l were arrested as soon as they entered the council chamber, and a captain of the life guard seized the Duke of Ca*ina at the same time in the public street. This was the time when all the officers opened their sealed orders, which contained the names of those whom they were to arrest, and of the prison to which they were to conduct them. Every one of the conspirators was confined in a different prison, and some were arrested by more than one officer. All those that had been ordered to execute the king’s command, arrived at the same time at the places of their destination, and performed their mission almost in one moment. The number of the prisoners amounted to forty-seven.
A committee of Grandees was now appointed to try the conspirators. The letters through which the plot had been discovered were not produced of the beginning of the trial, in order not to betray the Marquis of Aja*onti. Baeza being threatened to be put to the rack confessed first, and the rest confirmed his confession after having been put to the torture. The Marquis of Villa Re*l and the Duke of Ca*ina, and the two prelates confessed voluntarily.
Alumbrado endured the first degree of the torture without confessing any thing; however, at the second he began to be more tractable.
Imagining that my readers will be desirous to learn the particulars of the life of this extraordinary man, I will give a short sketch of what I could learn.
He was born at *a*. If the virtues of parents were as inheritable as their rank and fortune, he would not have been a disgrace to a family as noble as it was respectable. Already in his juvenile age he exhibited marks of a penetrating understanding, of an extraordinary docility and acuteness, but nature had thrown away her gifts upon a villain. The great rigour with which his father watched his conduct, had no other effect but that of making him a hypocrite, for he would commit any crime if he could do it unobserved, although he was generally believed to be a pattern of every virtue. In his ninth year he killed a girl by a stone thrown from a sling, and was capable not only of fathering the crime upon one of his play-fellows, but, at the same time of rendering his accusation more plausible by his solemn protestations, and the tears he shed over the corpse. Progress of time changed his conduct not in the least, he rather improved in wickedness, and in the art of concealing his crimes.
Inheriting from his father an immense fortune, he determined to indemnify himself for his former constraint, by the most licentious manner of life, and abandoned himself to all sorts of debauchery, with a fury that ruined both his health and his fortune. The grief at this conduct broke the heart of his mother, at which he was not very sorry, expecting to improve his fortune by a new inheritance. He was, however, disappointed, for his mother, thinking it sinful to support him in his debaucheries, left her wealth to a cloister. Glowing with thirst for revenge, he set it on fire and ran away.
The vengeance of Heaven pursued him, and want soon completed the measure of his wretchedness. Whithersoever he went he was haunted by the unrelenting punishments of the Omnipresent Judge on high, and the greatest distress. At length he obtained leave of a captain, who was just going to sea, to embark on board of his vessel.
Thus he did, indeed, get out of the reach of public justice, but not of the vengeance of Heaven. The ship was captured by Algerine pirates, and he was dragged to captivity.
He abjured his religion and turned Mahometan, in order to ease the yoke of slavery that lay heavy on his shoulders. His great capacities enabled him soon to improve his situation, and during some successful cruizes against his own countrymen, he acquired a considerable fortune, which he increased rapidly through his speculations on land and sea, which he carried on for more than twenty years with astonishing success.
Meanwhile he took every opportunity of injuring the Christians, and Portugal lost through his infernal intrigues her most valuable possessions in Africa.
Yet his good fortune became at last the source of new misfortunes, puffing him up with pride in such a manner, that he aspired to a dignity in the state which a renegado rarely or never obtains. The Dey of Algiers died, and he spared neither expences nor artifices to be constituted his successor; his ambitious views were however frustrated.
His pride was wounded, and he endeavoured to gain his aim by additional bribes, but in vain! Enraged with new disappointment, he conspired against the new Dey; a Dervise, whom he wanted to implicate in his plot, betrayed him, and he had scarcely time to save himself by a sudden flight, leaving all his ill-gotten wealth behind.
On his return to Europe he disguised himself in the garb of a pilgrim, and affected to be a peregrinating penitentiary. Wherever he passed through he pretended to have visited the holy sepulchre, where the infidels had detained him a long while, in captivity, from which he had been delivered, at length, in a miraculous manner. He distributed small pieces of wood, stone and earth, as valuable relics, for which the poor superstitious multitude paid him great sums of money.
Thus he roamed from place to place, and met every where with credulous people, with hospitality and alms. At Aran*uez he got acquainted with the Bishop of P--*, who, at that time, exercised the office of a papal legate at the court of Spa*n. His pharisaical hypocrisy enabled him to ingratiate himself with that worthy prelate, who was so much deceived by him, that he received him into his service.
Alumbrado dispatched the private secretary of his deluded master by a dose of poison, and succeeded him in his place. The unsuspecting prelate was so much pleased with Alumbrado’s abilities and services, that he recommended him to Oliva*ez when he returned to Rome.
The character of the Prime Minister of Spa*n differed materially from that of the Bishop; Alumbrado, however, knew how to accommodate himself to every one. He soon prejudiced his new patron so much in his favour, that he entrusted him with the execution of a political charge of the greatest importance, and Alumbrado acquitted himself so well of his commission, that the Minister promised to reward his services on the first opportunity. Alumbrado improved every opportunity of securing the favour of his master, and endeavoured anxiously to explore his ruling passions.
The keen-sighted dissembler soon found out that the Minister was a great admirer of the occult sciences, and instantly hinted that he had acquired a great knowledge of those sciences on his travels. From that moment the Minister was rather in Alumbrado’s service than the latter in his.
Thus they had lived together in mutual good understanding five years, when the commotions in Portu*al began to alarm the Court of Mad**d. Alumbrado was sent to Lisbon, in order to counteract the machinations of the Duke of Braga*za, but having not been able to effect his purpose, attempted to carry his point by forming a conspiracy, which, if it had succeeded, would have proved fatal to the life of the new King, and plunged the empire into the greatest misery.
Unfortunate young man! who hast been implicated in the most enormous artifices of a monster in that infernal plot; have not all the torments of Hell raged in thy bosom, when the veil which that arch deceiver had thrown over that horrid undertaking was removed, when thy seducer was unmasked before his judges, and thou sawest in whose hands thou hast been, and how the miracles by which thou hadst been ensnared, had been wrought? A fragment which I have copied from the records of the trial, will enable the reader to form an idea of the state of my unhappy friend.
Duke. It is impossible, I say.
Alumbrado. And yet it is exactly as I have told you. It was you who prompted me by your relation of your adventures with the Irishman, to gain you for my purpose by delusive miracles. These were the only means left me by the Marquis of F------, for I could not expect to ensnare you by apparitions of ghosts, after the sensible arguments which he had opposed to your belief in their existence. Your friend’s philosophical caution not to trust a man whom you should have caught once in the act of committing a fraud, obliged me to be on my guard, and I endeavoured to persuade you that I was a saint.
I pronounced the Irishman a sorcerer in order to prejudice you against him, and to exclude him from all further connection with you. Thus I gained more than I ever should have done, if I had pronounced him an impostor, because I had it very much at my heart to inspire you with a blind belief in supernatural events of every kind, and a blind confidence in my miracles.
(To be continued.)
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REFLECTIONS ON WAR.
On the first appearance of this dreadful and destructive calamity, the parties more particularly and personally engaged, are animated with an enthusiastic ardour, to have an opportunity of signalizing themselves in it. It is then that the impetuosity of youth, the fervour, the experience, the sapience, of old age, are called forth in open field, to put in force the discussions of the cabinet, and to engage with real zeal in the cause of their country; it is then that every manly breast feels a warlike impulse thrilling the whole frame! The sound of drums, the roaring of cannon, the clangor of every species of martial music, rise figuratively within us: it is then that we should
“Set the teeth, and stretch the nostrils wide, Hold hard the breath, and bend up ev’ry spirit To it’s full height.”
SHAKESPEARE.
While thus engaged, through the medium of honour, under the tremendous banners of Mars; buoyed up by him, we sally forth, and bear down all mortal opposition. We scarcely, in our thoughts, survey the disconsolate many we left behind; who, though concerned, are not engaged, in the murderous contest. Flushed with the hopes of suspended victory, the insignia of triumph hanging doubtful over our heads, whole hosts advancing to dispute with us our martial prowess, we indulge no thoughts about those who lament the loss of a father, a child, a husband, a brother, or a friend.
Stunned with the fatal tidings, which mournfully announce the death of an affectionate father, behold the wretched family, the disconsolate, the helpless relict, of a gallant warrior; who, with the bravery of his arm, supplied the wants of nature to a once happy family: now, robbed of their entire support, they in vain call out to the manes of their Sire; in vain invoke all that was most clear to them, to return from the mouldering dust! But this trying scene is too affecting to demand expression. Let us, then, survey, in return, the condition of those venerable parents who weep the loss of their beloved offspring. A prey to that incessant grief which naturally accompanies those to whom the fatal loss happens, the worthy sire, and the tender matron, lament the eternal exit of their ill-fated son; whom, as they nurtured him in happiness, the tear of genuine affection trickled down the manly cheek, and the sweet smile of maternal fondness pervaded the mother’s enraptured looks. Now, that scene of mutual content is changed for misery, sorrow, and incessant tears. None but parents can conceive their condition; none but parents picture what it is impossible for the tongue or pen to describe. Let us, from this scene, turn to view another equally affecting.
In pourtraying the situation of the disconsolate and mournful widow, we should find, were we to confine our ideas to her alone, an ample field for grief and serious consideration. Living, perhaps, in uninterrupted harmony, friendship, and love, the happy pair, if poor, supplied the wants of nature with an industrious hand; and, if ever persecuted by the hand of mercenary, fickle Fortune, sought in each others bosom an asylum against the storms of Fate: if rich, perhaps a bright example of conjugal affection, the love and happiness of all around, of all connections and dependencies. An adieu, a final adieu! took place between the brilliant pair, previously to his entering the plains of Mars. The calls of Honour are loud; the calls of honour must be obeyed: obeyed they are; and, sacrificed to them, are the best, the bravest of her votaries! Returning, to behold the situation of the widow absorbed in grief, we find beauty in distress. Bereft of every consolation that this life affords, the partner of her joys, the solace of her cares, and the partaker of her fond embraces, she languishes a life of widowhood in misery; lamenting the hour that gave her birth, to linger out a miserable existence in the nursery of Woe. This is one of the many fatal consequences produced by that aweful, that terrific hydra, War.
Now, finally, let us survey the condition of the man, who, in the loss of a real friend, has lost every thing of value in this world. The sharer, as it were, of his bosom; his comforter in this vale of tears; his refuge in adversity; and, in short, all that he esteemed; is gone, in a moment gone, and launched for ever into those boundless realms of beatitude, “from whose bourne no traveller returns.” Is it the loss of an affectionate brother he mourns, and yet laments with mental fortitude? If so, it was friendship indeed! Where two hearts congenial rise, amicably, fraternally, combining each other’s souls. They lived, and lived happy in each other, a most unparalleled example of fraternal amity and love. But, alas! how transitory is this earthly vision, this temporary bliss! How little to be depended on, our situation here! These two, who the rugged paths of life together trod, each other’s souls exchanged, & the sweet balm of friendship tasted, are separated for ever; never, never to meet, till the massy ambrosial gates of those mansions of eternal bliss shall be opened to them, where every vice, and it’s attendant passions, are wrecked to annihilation, and vanish to eternity!
A few more reflections, and I have done. War, tho’ often productive of the most solid advantages, is always attended with the most miserable consequences; and what serves to enrich a few individuals, may reduce many to misery and want, whose former circumstances were none of the most inferior sort. Callous, indeed, must be the heart of that man, and lost to every sense of fellow-feeling, who can behold such scenes, and not be melted at the sight. These are the consequences of war; of that war which, when of long duration, entails wretchedness on the greatest part of the community, and tends to destroy and reduce to general distress, nations once the envy of the world. Well may we, then, in such critical emergencies, pour out our souls to the omniscient Disposer of all things; and, with fervency of heart, exclaim--
“Great God of wars, make rage and discord cease; And let the busy world be hush’d in peace.”
TYRUNCULUS.
* * * * * * * * *
ALI AND ORASMIN; Or, the Effects of Envy.
When Muley Mustapha swayed the Ottoman Empire, lived Ali and Orasmin, sons of two most eminent Lords in the court of Amurath his father; they were born on the same day; had been companions from infancy; contemplated together the stupendous beauties of Nature; scrutinized the complicated labyrinths of Knowledge; cultivated the heroic discipline of War; and courted the irresistible Graces calculated to meliorate the ruggedness of the soldier, and familiarize the pedantic stiffness of the scholar; polish the invaluable precepts of Wisdom, and make even Virtue’s self more divine. It was determined at their births, by the Genii of Excellence, that Ali should surpass Orasmin in beauty of person, strength of body, and vigor of mind; and though the latter apparently possessed all the candour and generosity of the former, he was in reality subtle and selfish; jealous of merit, and impatient of superiority; yet the sacred zone of friendship was mutually exchanged between them, and they were the sole confidents of each other.
A soil so ungrateful as the breast of Orasmin was little propitious to the seeds of amity; especially as increasing maturity confirmed proportionately the unkind bias of nature. In all their emulatory exercises, the wreath of victory was the boon of Ali, who wore it with the most conciliating demeanour; but nothing could reconcile Orasmin to repeated disappointment; continual defeat increased his chagrin; his friendship daily subsided; he had recourse to stratagem for triumph, but the result was ever accumulated mortification; till, at length, envy took possession of his breast, and was by a most important occurrence sublimed into a desire of revenge.
Of Amine, the beautiful and virtuous daughter of the Vizier Omar, they were both enamoured; and both sought her affections, though unknown to each other: but the talisman of Fortune was in the hand of Ali; and, by consent of the vizier, the cadi drew up the contract of union between them. Orasmin attended the celebration of his friends nuptials; but, while he prayed aloud that Alla might shower down innumerable blessings on his head, he cursed him in his heart, and from that moment meditated his destruction. But his resentment he veiled under the garb of extreme solicitude; and while on his lips dwelt the mellifluous accents of disinterested profession, the deadly gall of hatred rankled in his soul. Lo! to the eye, how beautiful appears the serpent of the desart; yet in his mouth is inserted a barbed sting, and under his tongue is collected the dark beverage of death!
Orasmin now stedfast in his hate, waited with the utmost anxiety for a favourable moment to effect his monstrous purposes on his rival, as the tawny lion of Africa watches an opportunity to spring on his prey: but the hopes of the envious were vain; the conduct of Ali put Scandal to shame, and bade defiance to the machinations of Malice.
The pure bliss which the new-married couple enjoyed was in the fullness of time heightened extremely by the birth of a son: but it is written in the ample book of Nature, “That the fairest blossom shall be blighted, and the green leaf shall not last forever;” and, in the unutterable volume of Destiny, that--“The aspect of human happiness is deceitful as the complexion of the sky; and that the exquisite season of enjoyment flees away on the light pinions of impatience.” The son of Amine was stolen from his nurse; and the house of Ali, from being the mansion of supreme felicity, became on a sudden, the dwelling of anguish, and the haunt of despair.
An hundred moons had revolved, and Ali and Amine heard not of their first-born; neither did the all-wise Alla think fit to supply his place by another. At length, Ali was dispatched on an expedition against the enemies of the faithful; and Orasmin had the mortification to serve under him, as second in command. He resolved to thwart him all he could insidiously: and, by a well-concerted stratagem, and most consummate address, made so grand diversion in favour of the foe, that the Musselmen were not only defeated; but, apparently to the whole army, through the imbecility of the commander in chief, who narrowly escaped being made a prisoner.
The sagacious Ali, however, though he little suspected the treachery of Orasmin, knew well where the blame lay; yet rather than his friend should suffer, nobly chose to keep silence, and himself bear the whole weight of the Sultan’s displeasure.
The perfidious Orasmin, internally rejoicing at the effect of his art, with the greatest pleasure received the news, that the generous Ali was banished his sovereigns presence, and had retired to hide his shame far from the royal city. Time, however, and the interest of Omar, once more restored Ali to Mustapha’s favour; he was intrusted, in a full divan, with an embassy to the Christian states; and returned, after having concluded his mission in the most honourable manner. But it should seem that the Genii of Prosperity had resigned his destiny to the Spirits of Malediction; the sublime satisfaction he received from the approving smiles of his royal master, were blasted by the intelligence that Amine, the wife of his bosom, was no more! At his departure, she had retired to a house which he possessed by the sea-shore; and it was her custom every evening to ramble among the rocks, as if to look for his return; from one of these excursions she never returned; and her attendants concluded that she must have been drowned.
Ali was distracted at the information, and flew from society to bury his grief in sympathising solitude. In the mean time, partly through sorrowing for his daughter, and partly through the dilapidations of time, the venerable Omar resigned his seat of mortality; and Orasmin, by mere intrigue, obtained the post of temporary Vizier; as Mustapha had proclaimed, that no one should be confirmed in it, but he who should perform an action worthy of such a reward.
Orasmin, however, through the most refined artifice, had almost induced the Sultan to perpetuate his claim to the viziership; when Nadar Ismoul, with a formidable army, approached, with all the insolence of a rebel, within two days march of the royal capital. The voice of rebellion pierced the recesses of grief; and Ali, rouzed from his desponding lethargy by the imminent danger of his country, hastened to court, and throwing himself at the Sultan’s feet, entreated leave to march against Nadar, and retrieve his former dishonour. Muley readily complied; and Ali took the field with a less, but a much better disciplined army than that of Nadar: victory strode before him; the deluded forces of the traitor threw down their arms, but it was the will of Alla that their leader should escape.
The acclamations of thousands proclaimed the honourable return of Ali; and Orasmin, making a virtue of necessity, was the first to declare him worthy of the viziership. He at first hesitated to accept it, for the memory of Amine had estranged his heart from society; but, reflecting that man was not made for himself, and that he who slights the power of doing good is an enemy to human nature, he received it at the hands of his gracious sovereign with the most zelous and heartfelt professions of gratitude. The torments of Orasmin increased daily; and, though he overserved the most marked attention to his rival outwardly, the dark projects of revenge continually absorbed his mind. An orphan, who from earliest infancy had been under his protection, loved, and was beloved by his daughter: he had long noticed it, but concealed that knowledge. One day, when the lovers were enjoying, as they thought, the blisses of security, he surprized them, and with a stern frown bade Ibrahim follow him. They entered a private apartment; when Orasmin, seating himself, thus addressed the youth, who stood trembling before him--“Ibrahim, when the Angel of Death deprived thee of thy parents, and the Angel of Adversity destroyed the fortunes of thine house, thou was insensible to thy loss. Thy father had been my most intimate friend, and I took thee under my protection. I have been to thee as a father, and thou hast been profuse in professions of gratitude; but it is by deeds alone that we can judge of the sincerity of the heart, and Orasmin now finds it necessary to put thy gratitude to trial.” Then, giving him a letter, bade him read it; which the terrified Ibrahim immediately opening, found to contain these words--
“Ali Mahomet, to his esteemed friend, Nadar Ismoul, greeting, health and happiness. To the tyrant Mustapha, despair and death! The plan of thy defeat was well managed; the credulous Muley is completely deceived, and has made me vizier: he little dreams, that he has put himself into the power of his most implacable enemy. I dispatch this by a trusty messenger; by whom, from time to time, I shall communicate to thee what steps thou art to take. At present, keep still where thou art; and I hope soon to call thee from thy hiding-place, to share with me the empire of the usurping Othmans. Thine in all the ardour of sincerity.
“ALI MAHOMET.”
“Among the talents thou possessest,” continued Orasmin, “thou hast that of imitating, beyond the possibility of detection, the most difficult hand-writing; transcribe then, that letter in the characters of Ali our vizier, specimens of which I shall give thee; and if thou succeedest to my wish the hand of my daughter Almeria, whom thou lovest, shall be thine.” The agitation of surprize which possessed the youthful Ibrahim, left him not words to reply: he stammered a few incoherent words; when Orasmin, drawing his scymitar cried--“I am not to be trifled! to the task this moment; or, by the head of Mahomet, thou shalt follow the shade of thy father! But, I again repeat it, if thou pleasest me, Almeria shall be thine to-morrow.”
(To be continued.)
* * * * *
IRONICAL INSTRUCTION TO LOUNGERS.
Such gentlemen as carry small canes, in modish language termed canees, ought to put them in a horizontal position under their right arm taking especial care that the ferule end, which must be carried behind them, be sufficiently dirty. This, with a jirk in the gait, and a frequent whisk, as if to look about them, will prevent that crowd of busy people, who infest the public streets, from pressing too close.
If a short man carry an umbrella, let him lift it no higher, than the eyes of the overgrown monsters, among the passengers of the street. By this expedient, he will prevent their coming so near, as to splash him; at least, if they do, it will be at the hazard of loss of sight.
Such gentlemen, as write their letters in a coffee-house, should endeavour to procure two or three of the newspapers of the day, to put under their paper. This will prevent the table soiling their letter, or their ruffle; as to the impatience of those who wait for news, that is not the business of a gentleman to inquire about.
If a Coffee-room be crowded, endeavour to fix yourself at the corner of a table, in such a manner, that you prevent any one passing you to get seated on any other part of the bench; or, if that cannot conveniently be done, put one, or both of your legs, at full length upon the seat, lean back, whistle, or pick your teeth. This will show your consequence.
If you walk the streets, always wear boots and spurs, especially in the summer months, when the ways are clean. I say spurs, because it is three to one, but they catch the apron or petticoat of some woman, who is passing you; if she be young and handsome, you may make a low bow, and ask her pardon, in a degagee way, which may give birth to an agreeable connexion. Observe the same rule, when you go to the play-house; besides, if your boots be sufficiently dirty, you prevent people incommoding you, by crowding a box seat.
Whenever you call a hackney coach, order the driver to stop his horses, as near as possible to the foot-way. This will naturally occasion a number of people to stop, and give you an opportunity, of showing your person or a new coat, made in the ton.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
HOPE.
Hope may be considered as a mental stimulus: It is to the mind what the blood it to the body: If the circulation of the latter is arrested, the powers of life collapse; if Hope deserts us, despair commences her gloomy reign, and blackens every prospect. Few are free from the intrusions of this unwelcome visitor when assaulted by the calamities of life, when the gay visions of imagination vanish from their sight, and when the anguish of remorse preys upon the soul. Since each earthly dependance must fail, how miserable is he whose only objects of Hope are confined to the present world, and how often must his heart flag for want of this necessary stimulus. Hence appears the glorious advantage of that man, whose Hope, grounded on a faith in divine Revelation, extends through eternity. This is the prerogative of the Christian, and from hence he draws a never-failing supply in whatever state he is destin’d to appear.
VIATOR.
* * * * *
For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
SLAVERY.
Gloomy night had began her reign, and dread silence prevailed in and about the habitations that were situated on the banks of the Niger*; and nought was there to interrupt the gloom, save man, savage-civilized man; who, conscious that the deed he perpetrates is unfit for the sun to be witness of, makes choice of this solemn hour, when the sad victims to his avarice are fast locked in the arms of sleep and innocence, to accomplish his nefarious designs.
[* A great River in Africa.]
On such an hour as hath my pen pourtrayed, forth rushed from a bark that bore proud Albion’s flag, several, who had long been the acknowledged possessors of what are called “hearts of oak”--(perhaps the title never suited more exactly). The base commander had taken the advantage of unguarded innocence, and to accumulate wealth, purloined his fellow man. The “Free Briton” was converted into a Slave ship, and became a prison for Afric’s ill-fated sons.
Near to the shore the vessel lay, until its honourable master had seen stowed in its hold, far from Aurora’s soul-reviving beams, sufficient of those beings that were formed in the exact image of his Creator, to complete his cargo, spread his canvass to the gentle breeze. The ship, as if partaking in some degree of the spirit of its commander, proudly mounted the white top’d billows, and exulting in the numbers she was conducting to their destined port to partake of the bitter draught of slavery, flew before the wind.
Hitherto the winds had been propitious, and nought had intervened to disturb the pleasure of the crew. Half the distance had the vessel measured; and so certain were they of soon beholding the Island of Barbadoes, that they could have sworn they would have reached it ere a week had finished. But righteous Heaven, who, alas! is the only protector of inoffending mortals, grieved to see a portion of its creatures thus abused, sent to the eyes of the eager crew, a ship, that bore engines (not of torture, although navigated by infidels) of war. On her stern majestically waved Britannia’s flag. Lured by the bait, the eager crew hastened to greet their brethren. Already was the Captain situated in a place conspicuous, in order to deliver the accustomed salutation; when oh! a death-blow was given to all their expectations---they beheld an Algerine corsair. Too late to retreat they were soon taken possession of, and themselves made prisoners.
L. B.
March 17, 1797.
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NEW-YORK.
* * *
MARRIED,
At Cherry-hill, by the Rev. Nicholas Van Vranken, Captain SOLOMON VAN RENSSELAER, to Miss HARRIOT VAN RENSSELAER, second daughter of Philip Van Rensselaer, Esq.
On Saturday evening the 18th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Abeel, Captain JOSEPH MARSCHALK, to Miss MARY YOULE, both of this city.
On Friday evening the 24th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. JOHN DEVAY, of Albany, to Miss MARY WARREN, late of England.
On Tuesday evening the 28th ult. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. THOMAS S. TOWNSEND, Merchant, to Miss PEGGY NOSTRAND, both of this city.
A few weeks since, at Boston, GRENVILLE TEMPLE, Esq. son of Sir John Temple, Bart. to Mrs. RUSSELL, widow of the late Thomas Russell, Esq. of that city.
On Wednesday the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, Mr. ROBERT GIBBONS, to Miss HANNAH HIGGINS, of Elizabeth-Town.
On Thursday evening the 2d inst. by the Rev. Mr. Abeel, Mr. JOHN HOLLOWAY, to Miss CATHARINE STANTON, both of this city.
On Thursday evening sen’ight, by the Rev. Mr. Holmes, Mr. JOHN COATS, to Miss WILHELMINA PATTERSON, both of this city.
* * * * *
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 March 12 28 36 s. do. cloudy, lt. wd. clear, calm 13 36 43 cloudy, calm, do. do. 14 45 62 s. do. foggy, lt wd. do. do. 15 36 44 ne. do. rain, lt wd. do. do. 16 33 36 e. ne. rain, lt wd. do. do. 17 38 48 e. do. rain, lt wd. very thick fog. 18 48 68 sw. w. clr. lt wd. thunder shower.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
A REBUS.
The Greek, without whose aid fate pre-ordain’d, That Troy had stood, nor Illion’s turretts flam’d: An island which Apollo’s birth does claim, A judge of Pandemonia’s dark domain! A crescent emblem of the ceasing storm, The country where fam’d Liberty was born. The man who brought great natures works to light, A semi orb, that does illume the night: A Nymph who rides upon the ambient air, Whose voice responds to joy, or fell dispair. What Despots do oppose to Reason’s Laws. The mount where Beauty’s Queen gain’d her fam’d cause: The time when natures wrapt in soft repose, A cave where Reasons beatific smile ne’er flow’s: A Sage who was translated to the skies; A principle, Columbia’s sons much prize. What fills the frighted mariner with dismay, A bird that does prefer dun night to day; A city where bright truth and honour shine, Whose laws are rear’d on sentiments divine: An Aeronaut of courage, skill and fame, A Town that mistress of the world did reign. A Bard who sung the various arts of Love, A path through which the planets yearly move: An act that mutual pleasure does impart, What animates and warms each feeling heart.
The initials if rightly combin’d will declare, The name of a Trio of beautiful Lasses; Than Pallas and Juno, or Venus more fair, Or the Helicon maids, or the Nymphs of Parnassus.
* * * * *
ON SEEING A LADY AT AN OPPOSITE WINDOW.
Whilst on forbidden fruit I gaze, And look my heart away; Behold my star of Venus blaze, And smile upon the day.
Fair as the purple blushing hours, That paint the morning’s eye; Or cheek of ev’ning after show’rs, That fresh the western sky.
I send a sigh with ev’ry glance, Or drop a softer tear; Hard fate! no further to advance, And yet to be so near.
So Moses from fair Pysga’s height, The land of promise ey’d: Surveyed the region of delight, He saw, came down, and di’d.
Then oh! my Fair, descend to bless, And soothe those sorrows in my breast! My heart’s desponding into grief, Thy healing balm can give relief!
* * * * * * * * *
[[For sources, see the end of the final (3rd) installment.]]
AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.
+By James De-La-Cour.+
Oh! come my friends, who like with me to rove, The flow’ry mountain, and the laurel grove; Where god Apollo guards the limpid fount, And the glad muses climb the vocal mount; You whom the voice invites to taste their charms, Whom verse transports, and tuneful fancy warms; Before you press the syrens to your heart, Attend a while the precepts I impart.
First let your judgment for your fancy chuse, Of all the nine, the most unblemish’d muse; Soft yet sublime, in love yet strictly cloy, Prone to be grave, yet not averse to joy; Where taste and candour, wit and manners meet, Bold without bombast, daring but discreet; Correct with spirit, musical with sense, Not apt to give, nor slow to take offence; First to commend when others thoughts are shown, But always last delighted with her own.
When this is done, let nature be your guide, Rise in the spring, or in the river glide; In every line consult her as you run, And let her Naids roll the river on: Unless to please our nice corrupted sense, Art be call’d in, and join’d with vast expence; Then rivers wander thro’ the vale no more, But boil in pipes, or spout thro’ figur’d ore; The neighb’ring brooks their empty channels mourn, That now enrich some artificial urn.
Thus ever suit your numbers to your theme, And tune their cadence to the falling stream; Or shou’d the falling stream incline to love, Let the words slide, and like its murmers move: Poor were the praise to paint the purling rill, To make it music is the muses skill; Without her voice the spring runs silent by, Dumb are the waters, and the verse’s dry; While chill’d with ice the cool waves creep along, And all the fountain freezes in the song.
* * * * *
ANACREONTIC.
Found in an old Drawer in the Repositories of a Person deceased.
O God of Sleep! since we must be Oblig’d to give some hours to thee; Invade me not whilst the full bowl Glows on my cheek, and warms my soul. Be that the only time to rest, When I no wine, no joys can taste: Short, very short, then, be thy reign, For I’m in haste to live again.
But oh! if melting in my arms, The nymph belov’d, with all her charms, In some sweet dream should then surprise, And grant what waking she denies; Gentle slumber! prithee stay, Slowly, slowly bring the day. Let no rude noise my bliss destroy, For sweet delusion’s real joy.
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 29, 1797.+ [+No. 91.+
TRUE GENUINE SENTIMENT.
True genuine sentiment may be so connected with the virtue of action, as to bestow on it its brightest lustre, and its most captivating graces. And enthusiasm under these circumstances is so far from being disagreeable, that a portion is indispensibly necessary in an engaging woman; but it must be of the heart, not of the senses.--It must grow up with the feeling mind, and be cherished by a virtuous education, not compounded of irregular passions and artificially refined by books of unnatural fiction, and improbable adventure.
But this dangerous merit cannot be too rigidly watched, as it is very apt to lead those who possess it into inconveniencies from which less interesting characters are happily exempt.
Strong sensibility may carry a very amiable temper into the most alarming extremes.---The taste of those so actuated are passions. They love and hate with all their hearts, and scarcely suffer themselves to feel a reasonable preference, before it strengthens into a violent attachment.
When an innocent girl of this open, trusting, tender heart, happens to meet with one of her own sex and age, whose address and manners are engaging, she is instantly seized with an ardent desire to commence a friendship with her. She feels the most lively impatience at the restraint of company and the decorums of ceremony.--She longs to be alone with her--longs to assure her of the warmth of her tenderness, and generally ascribes to the fair stranger all the good qualities she feels in her own heart, or rather all those which she has met with in her reading, dispersed in a variety of heroines.--She is persuaded that her new friend unites them all in herself, because the carries in her prepossessing countenance the promise of them all.
If hints of her defects are given, she mistakes the voice of discretion. At first she listens to them with a generous impatience, and afterwards with a cold and silent disdain, and despises them as the effect of prejudice, misrepresentation, or ignorance.
Yet this trusting confidence, this honest indiscretion, is, at this early period of life, as amiable as it is natural; and will, if wisely cultivated, produce at its proper season, fruits infinitely more valuable than all the guarded circumspection of premature, and therefore artificial prudence. Nay, if the younger part of the sex are sometimes deceived in the choice of a friend, they enjoy even then an higher degree of satisfaction than if they never trusted--For to be always clad in the burthensome armour of suspicion is more painful and inconvenient, than to run the hazard of suffering, now and then, a transient injury.
These observations chiefly respect the inexperienced; for it is a certainty that women are capable of as faithful and as durable friendship as any of the other sex. They can enter not only into all the enthusiastic tenderness, but into all the solid fidelity of attachment.
* * * * *
RIDICULE.
The fatal fondness for indulging a spirit of ridicule, and the injurious and irreparable consequences which sometimes attend the too severe reply, can never be condemned with more asperity than it deserves. Not to offend is the first step towards pleasing. To give pain is as much an offence against humanity as against good-breeding; and surely it is as well to abstain from an action because it is sinful, as because it is impolite.
A man of sense and breeding will sometimes join in the laugh, which has been raised at his expence by an ill natured repartee; but if it was very cutting, and one of those shocking sorts of truths, which, as they scarcely can be pardoned even in private, ought never to be uttered in public, he does not laugh because he wishes to conceal how much he is hurt; and will remember it, as a treat of malice, when the whole company should have forgotten it as a stroke of ridicule.
Even women are so far from being privileged by their sex to say unhandsome or cruel things, that it is this very circumstance which renders them intolerable. When the arrow is lodged in the heart, it is no relief to him who is wounded to reflect, that the hand which shot it was a fair one.
* * * * * * * * *
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 299.)
It gave me great pleasure to have found out a mean through which I could influence you and the Marquis at once, and guide both of you to one mark. I feared, however, the Marquis of F-------- would discover my artifices, and for that reason recommended him to the King by a third person, for the transaction of affairs which removed him far enough from us.
Duke. Infernal villainy! execrable wretch!----But no, your deeds contradict your profession. No, Alumbrado, human art cannot produce miracles like yours. Did not nature herself obey you?
Alumbrado. Your imagination only obeyed me. The idea of the miraculous had been instilled in your mind already, and I had nothing else to do but to strengthen it, in order to get possession of the confidence which Hiermanfor had enjoyed. I thought it, however, prudent to use a different method. He founded his supernatural power on the occult sciences, and I on religious mysteries.
I did not find it more difficult to lead you from the delusions of speculative philosophy, to those of implicit faith, than to give you proofs of my miraculous power. A little dexterity, a little success on my part, and a judicious accommodation to circumstances, delivered you and the Marquis into my power. I gained my purpose, and this was the only miracle in the whole affair.
Duke. However, the effects which you produced, are still so very mysterious to me.--
Alumbrado. And yet every thing was done in a very natural manner.
Duke. How could you know the accident that happened at the Inn at *li*, in the very moment when it took place.
Alumbrado. Because I had preconcerted it with some of my emissaries at *li*. You now will comprehend how I could know the day and the hour, and how that incident could agree so exactly with my prediction.
Duke. What end did you mean to gain by that deception?
Alumbrado. The throwing down of the picture by an invisible hand, was to give you a hint that a higher power had decreed the dethronement of the King.
Duke. However, the appeasing of the tempestuous sea could be no delusion, nor an accident. Through what extraordinary means did you effect it?
Alumbrado. Mere precaution enabled me to effect it. Experience had taught me that oil possesses the extraordinary quality of restoring the equilibrium of the water, if violently agitated, and of smoothing the swelling waves. For that reason I have been used never to make a voyage without carrying some casks of oil with me; and I had taken the same precaution when I went on board of the vessel in which you had taken your passage. Having left you, I ordered my people to beat off the hoops of the casks and throw them overboard. The oil instantly spread over the surface of the water and calmed the agitated waves.*
[* Pliny long ago knew that extraordinary quality of the oil, and in our times it has been confirmed by the experiments of the immortal Franklin. Mr. Osorezkowsky, the celebrated Russian academician, experienced the same on his physical voyage, and our modern seamen in general are no strangers to that effect of the oil, and frequently make use of it in dangerous surges.]
Duke. [After a pause] It was your intention to persuade me to return to Lis*n, and you have gained your aim by that expedient; but what would you have done if no tempest had afforded you an opportunity of deceiving me by a pretended miracle?
Alumbrado. I should have watched another opportunity, and devised other artifices; for it was with that view that I accompanied you on your voyage without your knowledge.
Duke. By what means did you preserve your life, under the hands of the royal banditti?
Alumbrado. The whole scene you beheld from the top of the turret was pre-concerted by me. The fellows who attacked me, neither had been sent by the King, nor were they banditti, but had been previously instructed by me how to act; their pistols were charged only with powder, and their poniards did not wound me. This will explain to you the whole miracle.
Duke. Not sent by the King, did you say. He then had no design against my life?
Alumbrado. No, the King never had the least idea of such a deed.
Duke. Villainous! villainous! to deceive me thus!--And with what view did you devise that horrid fraud?
Alumbrado. I wanted to inflame your father’s mind with resentment against the King. Nay, I will tell you more. It was my work that the King treated you with so much coldness, and neglected to raise your family: for I had represented you and your father to him, by one of my agents, as persons who beheld his new dignity with envious eyes. Through these mutual exasperations, I gained the advantage of increasing your personal antipathy against the King, and of turning it, at length, into hatred that had all the appearance of just resentment.
Duke. Ah! I now begin to penetrate the whole atrocity of your artful wiles. Then it was you who has excited the King against me and my family, and formed the plots against his life?
Alumbrado. What would it avail me to deny the charge?
Duke. And yet it seemed as if you had not been concerned in the conspiracy. The design against the King had already been determined, and still you withheld your consent and assistance.
Alumbrado. And not without reason. I would not expose myself. The grand Inquisitor and the Primate took care to gain you to our purpose without your suspecting it, while I was directing the plot behind the curtain; I should have destroyed my own work if I had stepped forth too soon. My seeming backwardness spurred you on, and screened me from suspicion. However, after I had performed the last fictitious miracle, I thought myself sufficiently secured against all suspicion, and calculated that it would be reasonable to command you in the name of God to take an active part in the conspiracy.
Duke. After the last fictitious miracle? Do you mean that incident by which you showed yourself proof against ball and dagger?
Alumbrado. I do. The miracle will appear very natural to you when I tell you that I had filled the powder-horn, which I had conveyed secretly from your apartment, with a powder of my own invention, which could not carry the ball farther than five steps. Having placed myself seven steps distant from the gun, I was far enough out of harm’s way. I requested to be fired at twice, in order to empty the powder-horn of its contents, a precaution that prevented you from discovering, afterwards, the real nature of the powder. The dagger with which I stabbed myself, had also been previously made for that purpose, and could do me no harm. The blade of it, which was not much pointed, snapped back into the hollow handle on the smallest resistance, which made you believe that it had penetrated my breast. A spring which forced it again into its former situation, rendered it entirely impossible for you to discover the fraud.
Duke. What views had you in making me believe that you was invulnerable?
Alumbrado. Was it not to be expected that you would repose the utmost reliance on the assistance of a man who should appear to you proof against balls and daggers?
However, I have, as yet, explained to you only the particular views I had in performing fictitious miracles, and now will tell you that every one of them tended to effect a general end, which was nothing less than to persuade you and the Marquis to believe that God was working and speaking through me. Our plot was so hazardous, the circumstances so unfavourable, and success so improbable, that we had reason to apprehend you would shrink back from your resolution, when you should have pondered more maturely the danger which it was attended with. For this reason I thought it most prudent to appear to you to be an organ of the godhead, because it was to be expected that you would fear no danger whatever, if you should be persuaded that our design was the work of God, and supported by his omnipotent power; for with God nothing is impossible. In order to corroborate you in that belief, I advised you to have recourse to prayer.----
Duke. Daring wretch! how could you run that risk?
Alumbrado. Why not? you had already taken your resolution before you implored God to signify his will to you. The execution of our plan had been, some time since, the principle idea that prevailed in your mind, and forced itself upon you on every occasion, and, of course, in your prayers too; it was, therefore, very natural that in the latter case, you should mistake for a decree of God, what, in reality, was nothing else but the voice of your provoked passions. I entertained not the least apprehension that devotion would produce more pious sentiments in your mind, because the sophistry of your passions, and the two prelates had already persuaded you that our design was just; I rather expected that the fervour of your prayer, particularly at night, would increase the fermentation of your blood, and animate you with additional courage to execute our plan.
Duke. Infernal spirit! but no! thou art worse than Satan! for he respects the temples and altars, but thou hast laid thy snares even in those sacred places. Prayers and faith, these sacred treasures of man become in thy hand tools of seduction; and thou dost not tremble at the idea of being accountable to the all-seeing Judge for thy villainous deeds?--What wouldst thou have done, daring wretch! if a ray of divine illumination had dispelled my errors?
Alumbrado. I was not afraid of that. You could expect no such illumination from above, because your own reason would have pointed out to you the illegality of your design, if you had consulted your own good sense rather than your passions. God does not work miracles while we can be instructed by natural means.
Duke. But suppose he had, for how canst thou prescribe limits to the wisdom of God, suppose he had, nevertheless, condescended to open mine eyes through his holy spirit?
Alumbrado. (carelessly.) I then should have had recourse to a natural expedient--which I intended to adopt in case of emergency. You will recollect that you missed a sheet of your treatise on the Manicheean system; it was I who purloined it. If you had shrunk back from your engagement, I would have threatened you with all the terrors of the Inquisition; the sheet was written by you and the grand Inquisitor my friend; consequently now as other choice was left you, than either to make good your engagement or to experience all the horrors of that tribunal.
Duke, shuddering with horror. Lead me back to my dungeon, lest the aspect of this monster should poison me intirely.
The day after the trial, the son of the gaoler brought me a letter, which, to my utter astonishment, was from the Duke, and contained the following lines*: * * * * * * * * * * *
(To be continued.)
[* This letter is the same which is prefixed to the beginning of these Memoirs.]
* * * * * * * * *
A PENEGYRIC UPON IMPUDENCE.
Orators and men of wit have frequently amused themselves with maintaining paradoxes. Thus, Erasmus has written a penegyric upon folly: Montaigne has said fine things upon ignorance, which he somewhere calls “the softest pillow a man can lay his head upon:” and Cardan, in his Encomium Neronis, has, I suppose, defended every vice and every folly. It is astonishing to me, that no one has yet done justice to impudence; which has so many advantages, and for which so much may be said. Did it never strike you, what simple, naked, uncompounded impudence will do? what strange and astonishing effects it will produce? Aye, and without birth, without property, without principle, without even artifice and address, without indeed any single quality, but “the front of three-fold brass.”
Object not folly, vice, or villainy however black: these are puny things: from a visage truly bronzed and seared, from features muscularly fixed and hardened, issues forth a broad overpowering glare, by which all these are as totally hid, as the spots of the sun by the lustre of his beams. Were this not so, how is it, that impudence shall make impressions to advantage; shall procure admission to the highest personages, and no questions asked; shall suffice (in short) to make a man’s fortune, where no modest merit could even render itself visible? I ask no more to insure success, than that there be but enough of it: without success a man is ruined and undone there being no mean. Should one ravage half the globe, and destroy a million of his fellow-creatures, yet, if at length he arrive at empire, as Cæsar did, he shall be admired while living as an hero, and adored perhaps almost as a god when dead: though, were the very same person, like Cataline, to fail in the attempt, he would be hanged as a scoundrel robber, and his name devoted to infamy or oblivion.
But to proceed. Pray, what do you think the elder Pliny suggests, when he affirms it to be “the prerogative of the Art of Healing, that any man, who professes himself a physician, is instantly received as such?” He certainly suggests, that such sort of professors in his days, like itinerant and advertising phisicians, had a more than ordinary portion of that bold, self-important and confident look and manner, which, with a very little heightening, may justly be called impudence. And what but this could enable a little paltry physician, of no name or character, to gain so mighty an ascendency over such a spirit, as that of Lewis XI. of France? Read the account in Philip de Comines; and then blame me, if you can, for thinking so highly of this accomplishment.--True it is, Lewis was afraid of death even to horror, and so as not to bare the sound of the word; and I grant, that on this same fear the empire of physic, is in a great measure founded.
Pope Gregory VII. who governed the church from 1073 to 1085, is celebrated for having carried ecclesiastical dominion to the height: for he was the first who maintained and established, that popes, by excommunication, may depose kings from their states, and loose subjects from their allegiance. And how did he effect this? Not by genius or eloquence; not by a knowledge of canon law, and the constitutions of the holy see; no, nor by the arts of policy and grimaces of his religion (with all which others had been endowed as well as he) but by a most insolent, daring, usurping spirit. He seized the papal chair by force, as it were threw the church into confusion to gratify his ambition; made kings his slaves, and bishops his creatures; and established in his own person a tyranny over things both spiritual and temporal.---But my admiration of impudence transports me too far: I will say no more upon it.
[[Source:
Possible sources include: _Sylva: or, The wood: being a collection of anecdotes, dissertations, characters, apophthegms, original letters, bons mots, and other little things_, 1786, “by a society of the learned”.]]
* * * * *
+To the Editors of the Weekly Magazine.+
Gentlemen,
I have observed in your Magazine, a number of very striking and just Etymologies---I am induced therefore, to present you with the following; hoping, from its authenticity, it will be thought worthy of a place.
The term that was formerly used to express the union of two fond souls was, “Marriage and given in Marriage;” but in course of time, the encitements to this union were changed: instead of Love, Money was the stimulus; of course, a new term must be invented to express it:---So that instead of saying, on such a day a Marriage took place between such a Lady and such a Gentleman---It was said, there’s a Matter-of-Money: and hence, by a slight alteration, the modern phrase of MATRIMONY.
L.
* * * * *
ANECDOTES.
A country Blacksmith coming into a farmer’s yard with a hammer in his hand, was suddenly surprised by a severe bite from a snarling dog, which so irritated him, that he immediately retaliated upon his enemy with his heavy weapon, with the sharp end of which, he killed him on the spot. “You might,” said the person that owned the animal, “have struck him with the other end of the hammer.” “That I would,” answered the other, “If he had only bit me with the other end of his teeth.”
An ingenious politician, meeting with a gentleman of his acquaintance, immediately began to harrangue upon his favourite theme, and positively affirmed, that, “after the late events in France, the actual government of that country will not be acknowledged by any power in Europe, except America.”
The author of an old book called the Theatre of the World, supposes, that if a person who died of love were to be opened and anatomized, we should find all his entrails gone, his heart burnt up, his liver smoaked and dried, and all the dependencies of the brain spoiled: and he believes, that the poor soul (as he calls the lover) was scorched, and, as it were roasted upon a fire, with the vehement, ardent, and excessive heat that it endured, since first the fury of love surprised him.
* * * * * * * * *
ALI AND ORASMIN; Or, the Effects of Envy.
(Concluded from our last.)
Flattered by the hopes of possessing Almeria, but more through fear at the threats of Orasmin, Ibrahim sat down, without a thought of the consequences which might ensue to imitate the treasonous scroll. The monster who compelled him to the action, was delighted with his performance: and calling for sherbet, he drank, telling Ibrahim to pledge him; then, bidding him good night with a sarcastical smile, and securing the door when he went, left him in a most painful reverie.
Repairing to the walls of the seraglio, he entered by a private passage, through which the Emperor always passed when wont to survey the royal city in disguise; and which, by having been vizier, he was well acquainted with: and having, while in office, procured false keys to the various doors, he easily found admission to the secret audience-chamber, where none but the vizier can enter, on pain of death, without permission of the Sultan; and there leaving the letter, he returned to his house, exulting in the hope that Mustapha would discover it, when he retired there alone, as was his custom every night, to inspect such dispatches as the vizier in the day prepared for his approbation: trusting the success of his plan on the extreme credulity and impetuosity of that monarch, which hurried him into actions that provided him the most severe repentance for his moments of reflection.
The event justified his most sanguine expectations; and, before the first watch of the night was passed, a hasty messenger summoned him to a secret audience in the palace. The sultan presented him with the letter; he read it, and appeared petrified with astonishment; compared the writing with some of Ali’s he had purposely brought with him, to satisfy himself of it’s identity; then, bemoaning the defalcation of his friend, in accents of the most artfully counterfeited grief, and after an apparent struggle between duty and friendship--“Glory,” said he, “to God and his prophet! Long life to the Commander of the Faithful! and destruction to his enemies! The profound duty every Mussulman owes to the vicegerent of Alla, obliges me to dispense with the scruples of an ill-placed friendship; and declare, that the conduct of Ali has long appeared to me as involved in the veil of mystery; the plausible manner in which he has ever demeaned himself, I have discovered, beyond a doubt, has been only a bait for popularity; too ardent a love for which is a certain criterion of unwarrantable ambition.
“I once had the mortification to witness the shameful defeat of the Ottoman arms, under his command: I had then many reasons to suspect treachery; but the implicit confidence I, with the empire at large, put in him, made me discredit my own senses; and it was the same infatuation which induced me to be the foremost in declaring him the most eligible for the viziership, when returned from meeting the rebel Ismoul.
“Yet, when I reflect, in sober reason, on the nature of that action, and behold the insurgents, though greatly superior in force, throwing down their arms almost without the shadow of resistence, and their leader suffered to escape, it impresses me as a strong confirmation of the authenticity of his treason.” “Thou art right, Orasmin!” interrupted the enraged Mustapha: “convey him instantly to a dungeon; and to-morrow’s sun shall behold inflicted on him the reward of his treachery!”--“Will it please the gracious emblem of Alla,” replied Orasmin, “to listen a moment longer, without anger, to his slave; while he offers, as Alla himself can witness, the counsel only dictated by that unshaken attachment ever evinced by his house to the renowned family of the Othmans!”--“Speak on, and fear not,” returned Mustapha. Orasmin proceeded--“Thou knowest well, O glory of thy race! that Ali is the idol of the deluded multitude; and, should they behold him going forth to execution, what desperate steps may not their blind attachment induce them to take for his preservation? And a commotion once begun, as we know not how far the treason has spread, may encourage hundreds of accomplices in the guilt to come forward; and, led by Nadar who doubtless is at hand, induce the populace to join the compact of treason, release Ali, and shake perhaps even the foundation of the Ottoman throne? Let policy, then, bid Justice strike this night; so, the root of the confederacy being cut away, the branches shall necessarily wither; and when to-morrow’s sun shall expose the traitor’s head, branded with his crime, to the trembling people, thy subjects shall be more firmly fixed in their obedience--taught by the awful lesson, that the most exalted enemies of Mustapha are the fated victims of destruction!” He ceased.
“By Mahomet, I swear,” rejoins the Sultan, “thy reasons are just! See him instantly dispatched! Be this,” presenting his ring, “thy warrant. Begone!”
Orasmin wanted not urging: he seized Ali; but appeared not before him, till he beheld him extended on the floor of a loathsome dungeon, secured by the pondrous manacles of injustice. On entering, having ordered the guard to withdraw--“Mahomet!” said he, “is it my noble friend Ali I am commissioned to guard? Can any wretch have accused thee of a crime meriting such dishonour! thou, whose name scandal had not even dared to prophane? Alas! my friend! where will Oppression finish his career!”---“I know not, my dear Orasmin!” replied the injured Ali, half raising himself, “my crime, nor mine accuser: innocence, however, is my support; and, while thou art my gaoler, I shall find pleasure even in a prison!”---“Generous, noble Ali,” rejoind the brute, “what is it I do not feel for thee! Yet it were unkind to keep thee in suspence. Know, then, that the abandoned wretch, who was the occasion of the foul disgrace thou endurest, is no other than thy dear, thy beloved friend, Orasmin!”---“Orasmin! Orasmin!” with an accent of doubting horror, inquired the victim. “Yes!” returned the fiend, “thy Orasmin!” Ali sunk down senseless. On his recovering, Orasmin continued, “From the hour that early youth submitted me to the scourgings of a pedagogue, thou hast been my rival, and the name of Orasmin has shrunk before that of All. Thinkest thou, that I could have a spirit, and bear it? No! the childish weaknesses of friendship I soon got rid of; and, from the moment thou deprived me of all hope of possessing the sorceress Amine, I determined on a revenge--not a common revenge, that was always at hand--I waited, with all the patience of deliberate malignance, for a revenge worthy my hatred, and I have obtained it! I have accused thee of treason; and, behold, this ring is my warrant for thy private murder! Murder! I say; for--O it delights my soul to pronounce it--thou art innocent!”
“And must I die innocent?” exclaimed the devoted Ali. “Yet thy will, O Alla! be done. What more have I to wish for on earth? I have lost my friend, my wife, and my child!”--“Friend,” interrupted Orasmin, “thou never hadst! Thy wife and child----But, hold! I came to torment, not to satisfy thee!”--“Oh! Orasmin, what a conflict hast thou raised in my bosom! My wife and child! knowest thou any thing of them?” Orasmin smiled contemptuously. “Speak, only say if thou knowest aught of them!”---“I will say nothing,” replied he; “uncertainty will increase thy pangs. Prepare for death!---Slaves!” The door of the dungeon burst open, and presented to their view Mustapha, Ibrahim, and Amine! “Secure that fiend!” cried the Sultan; and instantly Orasmin was loaded with chains. Ali and Amine were lying senseless in each other’s arms; Orasmin assumed a desperate sullenness; the Sultan and Ibrahim surveyed the whole in silence. “Alla! Alla! Alla!” repeated the reviving Ali; “thou art merciful! thou art merciful!”
“My dear lord,” interrupted Amine, “dreary have been the hours since we parted! O hear my justification! While walking by the seaside, a band of men, masked, beset me; and, forcing me on a horse, carried me, blind-folded, I knew not where; for when suffered to remove the bandage, I was alone, in a mean, gloomy apartment, the door of which was secured. There have I remained, in vain lamenting my fate; ignorant of my oppressor; and seeing no one, except a slave, who put my food through a lattice daily, but never spoke; till this night I heard the voice of Orasmin in a tone of threatening.
“I listened; and discovered, that he was compelling that generous youth, Ibrahim, to write a treasonous letter in characters like yours. When I found Orasmin was gone, I entreated the youth to liberate me: instantly he opened a door into my apartment, so artfully contrived, that I had never before observed it. I told him who I was, and begged him again to deliver me. He was shocked; confirmed what I had over-heard, and promised to protect me.
“He discovered, with indignation, that he himself was also a prisoner. After a long deliberation, and many fruitless attempts to force the door, at the peril of our lives, we escaped by a window into the garden. Here we had fresh difficulties to encounter, and the fourth watch passed before we were quite at liberty.
“We soon learned that you was imprisoned. Flying to the palace, our gracious Sultan admitted us to an audience, when we convinced him of the villainy of thy false friend.” “And, behold me,” interrupted the Sultan, “ready to do thee justice, Ali; and inflict on that wretch the punishment which he had prepared for thee! for, by Alla’s self I swear, this night is his last!” “My fate is just!” said Orasmin, in a tone of penitence. “But, before I die, let me make what reparation is in my power to the man I have injured.
“Behold, Ali, in Ibrahim, I restore thee thy long-lost son!” Extreme was the astonishment of all; and the rapture of Ali and Amine induced them to kneel for a pardon for the culprit. “Ask not pardon,” said Orasmin, “which must soon be repented! I stole thy child solely for the purposes of revenge; though fortune never, till now, gave me an opportunity of making use of him equal to my wishes; and, to make him the source of his father’s death, was a stroke worthy the noblest policy of vengeance. Thou hast escaped me; but, to give him thus kindly, were an inequality of soul, poor indeed! No I have pangs for thee yet in store, the thought of which makes the contemplation of death and tortures pleasant to me.
“I only revealed him to thee, to make thee feel the curses of lasting separation. The mother once disdained the offer I made of my hand; it was my intention, therefore, to have kept her ignorant of her persecutor, languishing till grief and despair removed her from my reach; but the boy had answered the end I designed him for: I wanted him no more; and, at liberty, he might have betrayed me. For security, I gave him poison in sherbet; and thought, even had he got free, so strong it was, that it would have worked faster than his conscience!”
“The vengeance be on thine own head!” cried Ibrahim; “for it was thyself who drank the poison. I saw thee drop something in the draught intended for me; and unseen by thee, changed the cups.”
“I feel it! I feel it!” exclaimed the frantic Orasmin. “Curse on thee, Mahomet! thou hast frustrated all!” “Hence with him!” said Mustapha. And then led Amine and Ibrahim out of the prison. By permission of the Sultan, Ibrahim was united to Almeria; and the participation of her husband’s honours, who was restored to his viziership, amply recompenced Amine for all her sorrows.
An exemplary instance of gratitude towards Alla and the Sultan---towards the latter, by faithful counsel, and steady attachment to his interest; and, towards the former, by an uniform course of piety, and a conscientious dispensation of justice and benevolence to his fellow subjects. Ali lived long beloved, and happy. As it is written in the sacred tablets of truth---“The righteous shall dwell in the tents of gladness, and the merciful in the gardens of peace: while the wicked shall be covered with shame; and the envious man shall be consumed in the fire which he kindleth for his neighbour.”
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
ON INDUSTRY.
The absurd indulgence with which parents anticipate every wish of their children often paves the way for their destruction, and entirely unfits them for returning that affectionate care which is due to the authors of their being. How many instances do we see of the ill effects of such misplaced kindness. By supplying children with all the superfluities of life, we at once weaken the springs of exertion, and induce a habit of indolence fatal to future improvement; for why should they exert themselves to procure that which is ready at their call? Virtuous habits and habits of industry are nearly the same; and since these only are productive of happiness, it is of the utmost importance to teach the youthful mind that enjoyment and self-satisfaction must be purchased by labour.---Happy is the man, who, in early life, has been taught by experience the blessed effects of honest industry, and the inestimable value of time. Multiply time by industry, and what is the result?--Peace of mind; the innocent enjoyment of life, and every thing that can exalt human nature.
By Industry, I must not be understood to mean the incessant drudging pursuit after sorded gain:---I have likewise reference to mental industry; the improvement of that intellectual part of our existence which elevates our view above this narrow scene of things, and teaches us to soar to heaven.
VIATOR.
* * * * *
MILITARY ANECDOTE
A new formed corps of Volunteers were one day exercising in a park, where a Bull was kept, and where he had been accustomed to enjoy unresisted sovereignty. Whether displeased with the aukwardness of their manœuvres, offended at their intrusion on the scene of his pleasure, or regarding their martial music as a challenge of defiance on his own territory, the Lordly Animal advanced with a menacing air; and notwithstanding some attempts at resistance, charged the line, broke through the ranks, and after having completely routed and dispersed the enemy, remained undisputed master of the field!
* * * * *
LEVITIES.
Literary men, and the advantages of learning, being the subject of conversation when JOHNSON was present, he enforced and closed the observations in the following celebrated sentence of Lactantius--- “Eruditio inter prospera ornamentum, inter adversa refugium.”
Professor Richardson’s observation, that men judge of objects according to their peculiar habits, and that a beautiful lawn, which excites pastoral ideas in the poet’s mind, suggests the value of the land to the miser, is exemplified by the following:
An old Epicure, walking one fine morning, in the meadows on the banks of a river, exclaimed with rapture at the sight of a lamb that was frisking about “pretty innocent creature, how deliciously thou wouldst eat with carrots or cauliflowers.”
Sir John Salter, who died in 1605, and was a generous benefactor to the worshipful company of Salters, ordered, in his last will and testament, the beadles and servants of the company, to go to the church of St. Magnus, the first week of every October, and knock upon his grave stone, with sticks and staves three times each person, and say, “How do you do brother Salter? I hope you are well.”
* * * * *
NEW-YORK.
* * *
MARRIED,
On Sunday evening the 5th inst. at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Schenk, Mr. KETCHUM TERRY, Merchant, of this city, to Miss POLLY SNEDEKER, daughter of John Snedecker, Esq. of that place.
On Saturday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, WILLIAM L. ROSE, Esq. Attorney at Law, to Miss CHARLOTTE C. SMITH, both of this city.
On Wednesday evening the 15th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Woodhill, JOHN WELLS, Esq. of this city, to Miss ELIZA LAWRENCE, daughter of Mr. Thomas Lawrence, of Newtown, Long-Island.
On Friday evening the 17th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Rattoon, HENRY C. WILLIAMSON, to Miss MARY DANIEL, both of this city.
On Saturday evening the 18th inst. at Jamaica (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Faitoute, Mr. JAMES VAN DUYNE, of Fresh-Meadow, to Mrs. DEBORAH ALLEN, of that place.
On Tuesday evening the 21st inst. by the Rev. Mr. Banks, Mr. JAMES ANGUS, to Miss MARGARET WALKER, both of this city.
On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. PEXCEL FOWLER, to Miss JEAN DAY, both of this city.
* * * * *
TO CORRESPONDENTS.
[->] We acknowledge the receipt of the “EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO MISS ****:” Likewise a “SOLUTION TO THE REBUS,” which appeared in our last;--both of which were received too late for a place this week; they however, shall appear in our next. We anticipate great improvement from the excellent observations and productions of “VIATOR;” and acknowledge our obligations to him, and all others whose merit displays such intrinsic worth.
THE EDITORS.
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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 March 19 41 46 w. do. clear lt. wd. cloudy h. wd. 20 30 44 nw. do. clear lt. wd. do. do. 21 30 51 w. s. clear lt. wd. do. do. 22 42 45 se. e. clear h. wd. do. do. 23 39 56 nw. do. clear lt. wd. do. do. 24 42 46 se. do. clear h wd. rain do. 25 47 52 w. nw. ra. th. & li’t. at ni. cle. h. w.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
PRAYER OF MR. WYNKOOP.
Late of Kingston (Esopus) during the Loss of his Sight.
Father of light and life, Creator wise! Great benefactor, and support of all! In frowns and mercies, both divinely kind; While this hand chastens, that diffuses bliss, O teach my soul chearful resignation To thy will; calm content and smiling patience; Forgive my sins, then tho’ deprived of vision, Of seeing thee, in all the wondrous works In air, earth, sea and skies, supreme perfection Will I kiss the rod and bless the smiter; Will I thank thy divine correcting hand, Which might have made me infinitely worse, For all the various blessings I enjoy; For tender parents, friends, relations kind, A virtuous spouse and blooming offspring; For plentious food and raiment. My soul submit, Think the decrees of Heaven are wise and just, Most beneficial to thyself, and all. Father! thy will is best and be it done.
* * * * *
ELMINA; Or the +Flower+ that never +Fades+.
Fresh from their native beds I bring These images of youth and spring; Sweet flowers, whose bloom too quickly past, What pity ye no longer last.
In early dawn the Vi’let spreads, Its transient beauties thro’ the meads; At close of day the maid no more Can trace, alas! her fav’rite flow’r.
At noon the rose of damask hue, She plucks, the gaudiest as it grew; An instant sees its leaves expand, The next they wither in her hand.
Yet one there is of lasting kind-- Happy the nymph this flower can find! In never-ending sweets array’d, Whose blooming beauties never fade.
’Tis neither violet nor rose, Nor in the field nor garden grows; Fast rooted in the soul ’tis seen, And there maintains perpetual spring.
Would’st thou, ’till latest time shall end, Secure the lover and the friend; Elmina, cultivate with care, The flow’r that blows immortal there.
Perfect in soul thou’lt quit this sod, And soar aloft to meet thy God: Join hands with seraphs at the shrine, And taste of Love that’s all Divine.
* * * * * * * * *
AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.
+By James De-La-Cour.+
(Continued.)
But if a storm must rattle thro’ the strain, Then let your lines grow black with gath’ring rain; Thro’ Jove’s ærial hall loud thunders sound, And the big bolt rear thro’ the dark profound: But shou’d the welkin brighten to the view, The sun breaks out and gilds the style anew: Colour your clouds with a vermillion dye, And let warm blushes streak the western sky; ’Till evening struts in sober suited grey, And draws her dappled curtains o’er the day.
Let Vesper then pursue the purple light, And lead the twinkling glories of the night; The moon must rise in silver o’er the shades, Stream thro’ your pen, and glance along the meads; While Zephyr softly whispers in the lines, And pearly dew in bright description shines; The little warblers to the trees repair, Sing in their sleep, and dream away their care; While closing flowrets nod their painted heads, And fold themselves to rest upon their rosy beds.
But if Aurora’s fingers stain the lay, Let fancy waken with the rising day; Let Sol’s fierce coursers whirl the fiery team, And from their nostrils blow a flood of flame: Be sultry noon in brighter yellow drest, And bend a rain-bow on her burning breast, Let the rich dyes in changing colours flow, And lose themselves in one poetic glow.
So the fair Indian crown its gloss assumes, Dispos’d in tufts of party-colour’d plumes; The transient tincture drinks the neighb’ring hue, As if from each th’ alternate colours grew, Where ev’ry beauty’s by a former made, And lends a lustre to the following shade.
Thus may a simile bright come in with grace, And add new splendours to the show’ry piece; Paint the proud arch so lively to the sight, That ev’ry line reflects a wat’ry light.
* * * * *
LOVE, HONOUR, AND TRUTH.
If truth, my dear Laura, can merit regard, If love, faith and honour, deserve a reward; ’Tis thine to dispense--Oh! bestow it on me, Whose love, faith, and truth are directed to thee.
In strains more harmonious than Orpheus e’er sung, More soft than the sounds of Cecilia’s sweet tongue, Ye zephyrs, this truth to my Laura convey, That my love, faith and honour, can never decay.
The lover, whose heart a fair face can engage, May by caprice grow fickle, or cool in old age; But founded in sense, my love, honour and truth, Shall bloom in old age, as they flourish in youth.
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+.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
[Transcriber’s Note:
At this point there is a visible change in the front page of the Magazine. The typeface is different, and the new masthead omits the phrase “utile dulci”.]
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, April 5, 1797.+ [+No. 92.+
* * * * *
For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
EXTRACT from a LETTER to +Miss+ ****.
----Since we both fancy ourselves unhappy, permit me, in this place, to make a few serious reflections on the extreme mutableness and instability of all terrestrial felicity; and the long duration and permanency of misfortune and disappointment. Those halcyon days I oft remember, when I enjoyed the pleasure of your society. Then, indeed, I tasted for a moment, something like unmixed happiness: not a wave of sorrow rolled across my breast; nor was corroding care an inmate of my bosom. The loveliness of the season, in union with the serenity of the atmosphere, conspired to increase my tranquility, and to render every thing delightful. When we sailed gently down the harbour, the clear cerulean of the sky added a softer beauty to the adjacent landscapes, and rendered the prospect enchanting. When we strayed over the flowery fields, or penetrated the leafy grove, the flocks grazing the green herbage, the zephyrs rustling through the trees, and the birds warbling on the branches, exhibited a resemblance of the pristine happiness of ancient Eden. And when listlessly wandering on the rocky beach, the idle murmuring of the waves upon the sandy shore, the confused gabbling of the sea fowl, and the distant view of the “full spread vessel majestically advancing over the white capp’d billows,” tended to sooth the sorrows of humanity, and lull the mind to quietude. The day ended, and still evening drew on. Then did nature appear in silent magnificence; while the silver rays of the full orbed moon shed a majesty on each surrounding object. The lofty summit of the cloud-topt mountain appeared in solemn grandeur; the dusky forest reflected a yellow radiance; and the rolling wonders of the skies glittered over our heads: while the awful stillness that reigned, interrupted only by the lonely strains of the whip-poor-will, served to exalt the soul, and distend the heart.
These were beatific seasons of bliss--golden moments indeed, while they lasted, but, alas! where are they fled? They have vanished like the fading glories of the west, when the illustrious monarch of day resigns our hemisphere to the sable goddess of darkness. Or like the gay delusions of a morning dream, which only tantalize the mind with the prospect of unsubstantial happiness, and render the real evils of life more intolerable. A true, but melancholy picture of unhappy man. Joy, for a moment, expands his countenance with smiles; but it is suddenly overclouded with a gloom of sadness, and misery and woe become his inseparable companions. Youth and beauty just open into bloom; and then are succeeded by the solicitudes of manhood, and the dull unjoyous season of old age. Humiliating reflections are these to the sorrowing child of humanity: yet, where virtue has a residence in the heart, she quickly calms the throbbing breast, and allays the gathering storm of affliction. ’Tis virtue alone that can enable the soul to bear up cheerfully against the calamities of life, and give her a joyful assurance of happiness in a future state. Virtue will command respect among men, adorn the wrinkles of age with dignity, and crown the hoary head with respect. It will shine forth in the evening of life, like the refulgent glories of a setting sun, and glow with increasing splendor in never-ending worlds.
This invaluable jewel, I admit not the least doubt, dear madam, but you possess; and it is the great object of my pursuit. Then let life’s tempestuous ocean roar, and fortune inauspiciously frown upon us; we shall surely outride the stormy gale, and ere long make the blessed port of an happy immortality.
* * * * *
PROSPERITY.
A single disappointment is sufficient to embitter all the pleasures of worldly prosperity. Though it might be expected, one in possession of high power and station should disregard slight injuries. But prosperity debilitates instead of strengthening the mind.--Its common effect is, to create an extreme sensibility to the slightest wound.---It foments impatient desires; and raises expectations which no success can satisfy.---It fosters a false delicacy, which sickens in the midst of indulgence; by repeated gratification, it blunts the feelings of men to what is pleasing; and leaves them unhappily acute to whatever is uneasy.
* * * * * * * * *
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 307.)
Grief, horror, pity, hope, and despair assailed my heart alternately, after I had read this letter. I moistened it with burning tears. When this violent agitation of my mind began to abate so much that I could reflect again, I considered what could be done for the preservation of this hapless man, and regardless of my indisposition, hastened to the archbishop of Lis*on, who always had been very partial to the Duke, and was much respected by the Queen. I entreated this worthy prelate to intercede with the latter for my hapless friend. “Alas!” he replied, “I have attempted it already without success.” “How, my Lord?” her reply was, “how can you intercede for a traitor who has meditated our destruction and the ruin of our kingdom. All that you can expect is, that I shall forget what you have asked.”
This account of the archbishop rent my heart; however, I entertained still some hope that the King, whose generous disposition I knew, would not prove callous against my tears and prayers. I went without delay to the palace, and was admitted. I supplicated him on my knees, to grant his royal mercy to the unfortunate deluded young man, and exerted every power of eloquence to excite his pity. “Rise, Marquis,” the King replied, “there is no occasion for your intercession; I have determined already to pardon the Duke and the rest of the conspirators; yet their fate does not depend on myself alone, but also from the decision of the Council of State.” With that resolution I was dismissed.
The following day, the gaoler brought me a second letter from the Duke, which I shall transcribe literally:
“MY DEAREST FRIEND,
“I am allowed to converse with you once more. The 200 dobras have gained the gaoler, and the promise of a like sum has prompted him to engage to deliver this letter to you. I must inform you of an important incident, that happened last night, within the walls of my dungeon. The door of my prison was suddenly flung open, and Hiermanfor entered. Although I have great reason to be angry with him, yet he appeared to me an angel of light, in comparison with Alumbrado. The sight of him roused my heart from its state of despondency; however, my former gloominess of mind soon returned, when after a long and solemn silence, he exclaimed: “must we meet again in this place?”
“I could return no answer; the consciousness of my guilt lay heavy on my mind, and the looks of the Irishman confounded me. Without being affected by my perplexity, he resumed, after a short silence: “you was a noble, deserving young man when I left you, and now I find you a rebel.” I do not know whether it was the accent in which he pronounced these words, or the truth they implied, that made my blood ferment on a sudden--in short, I exclaimed: “if you had fulfilled your promise as an honest man, I should then perhaps not have been in this situation.” The Irishman seemed to be affected vehemently. “By heaven! my Lord!” he exclaimed, “it was no fault of mine, a journey, and business of great importance, prevented me from seeing you sooner. But I do not comprehend you sufficiently, will you be so kind as to explain the meaning of your words?”
“I will, as soon as you shall have given me an explanation of an incident which you have promised to clear up.”
“What incident do you mean?” the Irishman said.
“The apparition of Antonio, at the church-yard. Was it a natural contrivance of your invention?”
“It was.”
“Merciful God!”
“What is the matter with you?”
“Don’t ask me, the explanation--the explanation--”
“The apparition was effected by means of a convex mirror; the vision which you wanted to embrace, was nothing else but the image of a statue of your tutor, which was reflected on the spot where it appeared by a mirror placed before that statue.”
“But how did it happen that the mirror escaped my observation?”
“You will recollect that the vision appeared not far from the chapel, behind the wall of which the mirror was placed in such a manner that it could not be perceived by you.”
“And Antonio’s statue?”
“You would have observed it if the sight of the apparition had not engrossed your whole attention; however, its having been painted white like the rest of the statues in the church-yard, probably would have induced you to mistake it for the statue of some saint or other, and thus it would not have attracted your attention.”
“But how could the apparition disappear and re-appear at my desire?”
“That was not difficult. One of my people, who directed the mirror through one of the church windows, removed it when the vision disappeared, and replaced it again in its proper situation when you desired the phantom to appear once more.”
“But if I had discovered the artifice?--”
“Don’t you believe that I had taken the necessary precaution? Even if you had seen the mirror, yet you would not have discovered its effect. I was, however, pretty sure that you would not enter into an examination, being well aware that you would have no inclination of doing it, because I had desired you to make every investigation you should wish, and thus prompted you to believe that I apprehended no discovery.”
“However, the phantom spoke, how could that be?”
“Not the phantom, but Count Clairval, who was in the gallery of the chapel, spoke through a speaking trumpet. The direction of the trumpet, and the striking resemblance the phantom bore to your tutor, induced you to attribute the words which he pronounced to the vision.”
“Hiermanfor,” said I after a pause, “then your last miracle too was a delusion?”
“You have my confession.”
“And nevertheless you assured me so solemnly that it was the work of super-natural power!”
“I did so; but I intended to recant after the end which I had in view should have been attained. Unforeseen incidents prevented me from doing it sooner.”
“Why did not Count Clairval recant in your name, when I entreated him so solemnly and so pressing to confess the fraud?”
“He had received no orders to that purpose.”
“You promised me, one time, to initiate me in a new philosophy, and to introduce me to an happiness that is concealed from other mortals.”
“Then I promised you what I am not able to perform. Without circumlocution, I imposed upon you!”
“And you have the courage to tell me this to my face?”
“I have spoken the truth, and hope you will forgive me. Yes, I have deceived you, and the success of the revolution depended chiefly upon that innocent fraud. I deceived you because--forgive me my frankness--because you would be deceived.”
“Your morality agrees pretty well with your policy.”
“I am astonished,” the Irishman replied with a contemptuous smile, “that you presume to call my morality in question; the clangor of these fetters contrasts very much with your moral speeches.”
“Scarcely able to retain my rising indignation, I replied, “But if I could prove that this innocent fraud, as you please to call it, has been the chief cause of my crime, of these fetters, and of my impending execution!”
“Heaven forbid it!” the Irishman exclaimed, seized with terror.
“You have excited by your delusions my propensity to miraculous events. The explanation of your deceptions did not at all destroy the dangerous effect they produced on my mind, because I never was able to recover entirely from the erroneous opinion that the apparition of the church-yard had been the effect of supernatural power. An infernal impostor took advantage of the situation of my mind, and incited me through new delusions to engage in the undertaking that has been the cause of these fetters. Are you now sensible of the injury I have suffered through you?”
“The Irishman grew pale, and seemed deprived of the power of utterance. At once he recovered from his sudden terror, and started up. “Whither are you going?” I exclaimed. “To the King!” he replied. “What business have you with the King?” I enquired. “I am going to implore him to spare your life, and to set you at liberty. Forgive me, unfortunate young man! (he added) forgive me! I will exert every power of persuasion for the preservation of your life.” So saying, he left me, and I have not seen him since. I must patiently await the effect of his application. Farewell! my friend, farewell! I am not afraid of leaving this world, for Amelia is dead, Antonio is no more, and alas! my father too will be condemned to die. However, the idea of dying branded with ignominy, thrills me with terror and desponding agony. Gracious Heaven, ward off this dreadful blow, if it be possible!”
Hesitating between hope and fear, I awaited the day which was to decide the fate of my hapless friend. It arrived.
My melancholy tale draws nearer towards its conclusion! why does my hand tremble thus? why do these tears start from my eyes? what means this dreadful agony that almost breaks my heart? Alas! thy doom is fixed, ill-fated victim of delusion!
The judges who were to decide the fate of the conspirators met, and decreed that the Marquis of Villa Re*l and the Duke of Ca*ina, should be beheaded as rebels against the King, whose authority they had acknowledged with the rest of the states of the empire, and the other conspirators hanged and quartered. The punishment of the Primate and the Grand Inquisitor was left to the decision of the King.
(To be concluded in our next.)
* * * * *
ANECDOTES.
A wild young fellow was going abroad: His mother took him up into her closet, telling him she had a precious treasure to deposit in his hands, and after many grave admonitions produced the Bible, handsomely bound in two volumes; and, to crown all, advised him to consult and search the scriptures. Little did the youth know how precious the volumes were; but you shall hear. On his return from sea, the old lady one day took him aside, and hoped he had remembered the last injunction she had given him: “Yes, he could very honestly say he had taken care of the Bible.” To prove his respect and obedience, he runs up stairs to his own room, and returns instantly, with the two volumes safe and sound.
The good lady pulls off one cover: “Rather too clean, my dear.” “O madam, I took great care of them: the second volume is equally fair.” She shakes her head; intimating her suspicions that they had not been read so often as she wished: Then opens the first volume, and, lo! a ten pound bank note is found: the second volume displays a second note, and of twice the value. She was confounded; and so was her son: And I know no man, of my acquaintance, who more sincerely regrets that he did not search the scriptures.
* * * * *
A man having hurt his forehead, was advised to rub it with brandy. Some days after being asked if he had done so? answered, “I have tried several times, but can never get the glass higher than my mouth.”
* * * * * * * * *
From an ENGLISH MAGAZINE.
* * *
ORIGIN OF THE SPENCER. Being a Sequel to the Story of the Bottle-Conjuror.
On my arrival in town for the season, my eyes every where in the streets encountered a phenomenon which I could not account for: namely, men walking in great coats, the TAILS of which were CUT OFF close to the body!--The first person I met in this garb being rather of a mean appearance otherwise, I set it down to the account of convenience, and recollected the proverb of, half a loaf being better than no bread. But when I saw numbers of gentlemen decorated with this ABRIDGMENT of a coat, many of whom to my personal knowledge, could afford a whole coat, once a week if they chose, I was totally at a loss to account for the grotesque appearance they made. Surely, thought I, this cannot be voluntary.
On consulting, however, a friend, who always resides in the metropolis and is a close observer of modes and manners, he solved all my doubts.
“That absurd dress, which does not surprise you more than any other stranger, is a wonderful proof of the obsequious servility of those who would be thought in the fashion. Lord C. Spencer, from whom the dress takes its name, bet with some friends that he would support a fashion, the most useless and ridiculous that could be conceived; and that it should, within a given time, be universally adopted. The bet being laid he produced a pattern of this fashion, which excited so much laughter, that his opponents were pretty confident he would lose his bet. Lord C.’s opinion of mankind, was, however, better founded. The fashion soon became general, and, to complete the humbug, the wearers of this half coat have found out a thousand conveniencies and advantages in it, such as saving of cloth, impossibility of being draggled, easier put on, &c. not one of which the author ever thought of. Such is the origin of the Spencers! I need not remind you that the bottle-conjuror affair was likewise a wager, to see what lengths credulity would lead the public, and the present fashion is no bad Second Part to that memorable take in.”
Are these things so, Mr. Editor? Are we really such fools as to adopt a dress, the chief merit of which is its being ridiculous, and injurious to trade? All I shall say is, Quis vult decipi decipitur!
Your’s,
OLD SKIRTS.
* * * * * * * * *
A DIGRESSION.
Many of those authors, who have largely contributed to the amusement and instruction of readers, have considered episodes of digressions, a very essential part of their labours. These writers seem apprehensive lest the greedy reader should be surfeited with a repletion of highly seasoned wit; and therefore occasionally serve up a course of more homely fare. This practice, when the main subject of the work is interesting and the writer sprightly, I always disapprove; but, if the subject and writer are dull, I am constantly impatient for digressions. The true style of digressing however has not frequently been attained. Sterne attempted it with some success; but his marble page, his crooked lines, and his seven castles are dull system, are dry method, compared with the narrative of our modern peasantry. Having some skill in stenography, I have been able to preserve one of those diverting stories, which was not long since related in my hearing, and which, for the improvement of speakers, as well as writers, I now carefully transcribe.
“On the seventh day of last October, I will not however be positive it was the seventh; it might possibly, for aught I know, be the eighth. It could not be later than the eight nor earlier than the seventh. The month if I mistake not, came in of a Saturday, and it must have been very near the close of the first week; but the particular day is not material. So, be that as it may, it is of no consequence; but, I am pretty certain it was the seventh. I would not undertake for to go for to swear to it; because I may possibly be mistaken; and, as I said before, it is not material. If it was necessary, I should not be much afraid to swear it was either the seventh or eighth. Indeed, the more I think on it, the more I am convinced, in my own mind, that it was the seventh. But, though I should not wish to swear to it, unless it was necessary, I am as well persuaded of it, in my own mind, as I am of any thing, that I do not know for certain. Well, as I was saying, on the seventh of October last, for I am very sure it must be the seventh, one of my neighbours; I call him a neighbour, though, it is true, he does not live very near to me; perhaps seventy-five or eighty rods distance. I do not know but it may be more. I very often travel it, and possibly it appears to me shorter than it really is. Indeed, I have not been used to have near neighbours. Before he came, the nearest was at least half a mile from me; and, when this one came, I told my wife, it seemed but a step to his house. But that is neither here nor there. We are but new yet, and cannot expect to have very near neighbours; but I had rather be as I be than have a hundred such people for neighbours as I have sometimes been acquainted with. But that is neither here nor there. But as I was saying, one of my neighbours came to my house. I had as lief tell who it was as not. The matter I am certain will be known. It was Noah Douglass. I was sitting before the fire. Before it? I can’t say I was exactly before it. Perhaps I was a little nearer one side than the other. But that is neither here nor there. When he came in, I asked him to sit down, not thinking nor mistrusting the least thing in the world. I had no more suspicion of any difficulty with him than the farthest person upon earth. There had always been a good correspond between us. He had always been sociable with me, and I with him. We never had any quarrelling pro nor con. We had had a good deal of deal together; but we were always very authentic, and settled peaceably and quietly. But he had not been in the house long, before I could see there was something that laboured. Well, it was not longer than I have been telling the story, before he began. Says Douglass, says he, don’t you think, says he, you have used me like a rascal, says he. Why, Mr. Douglass, says I, if I was as stout a man as you--And what if you was, says he.”
From this last reply of Douglass, I am persuaded he must be a lineal descendant of the celebrated GAWIN DOUGLASS, a very ancient English author, frequently quoted by some of our modern grammarians, and considered as the true standard of the colloquial and familiar style.
THE MEDDLER.
* * * * *
MIRANDA. A Moral Tale.
“Come, gentle hope, in flow’ry vest, Pour thy sweet balm o’er all my sense; Lull each anxiety to rest, And chear the-mind of Innocence.
“Shroud from my sight this urgent gloom, And paint the morrow’s chearful ray; Or soon this corpse shall meet the tomb, Fall’n, like a rose, ere noon of day.”
Such were the plaintive accents that smote my ear, as I wandered, musing, by the banks of the Mersey. The words had something in them which arrested my attention; but the melancholy cadence with which they were sighed forth, elicited the sympathetic tear of sorrow. I could not discover from whom the ditty proceeded; I advanced, therefore, cautiously, to the place whence the sounds issued, that I might view the distressed mourner, who had already so powerfully engaged my commiseration.
She sat on the cold ground, under a shade of willows; distress spoke in her countenance; the fountain of her tears appeared exhausted; and her grief, unable to overflow and vent itself at her eyes, convulsed her throbbing breast. Her form contained every thing that elegance and beauty can combine; her features were regular, and expressive; her eyes large and black, but sorrow had robbed them of their vivid flashes; and her dress was the remains of gentility.
I stood awhile in silent admiration; and was so enwrapt in the contemplation of the fair distressed, that I had not hitherto noticed a little dog, which she had in her lap, and viewed with all the tender languishment of love. I was about to address her, when she again began to sing--
“Fair truth and constancy shall prove The pillars of Miranda’s love; The main shall sooner float in air----”
Here an involuntary sneeze, on my part, caused the unhappy maid, to espy me, and break off her strains of woe.
She arose, and clasped her little care in her arms, tenderly but deliciously exclaiming--“They shall not hurt thee, my Henry! these murderers shall not come near thee! Rest on thy Miranda’s bosom, and forget thy fears in her love!”
I approached nearer. She looked at me with earnestness; and saw the big drop rolling down my cheeks, and my whole frame almost motionless with grief. The delirium which she had just experienced immediately left her: she advanced near me--“And do you pity me and my love?”
“Thou lovely fair one,” said I, “though I am unacquainted with thy miseries, and the source from whence they flow; yet, let my tears witness my heart felt commiseration.”
“Is there, then, one soul left,” said she, “that feels for poor Miranda; that feels for her father, and her lover?”
Here she sighed, and cast a tender look on her little companion. A paleness overshadowed her cheeks, her lips quivered, and she seemed about to relapse into her former delirium; when I diverted her attention, by turning it to the beauty of the landscape, and the serpentine windings of the river.
I offered my arm; which she accepted with that unsuspicious modesty, that a heart pure and conscious of it’s innocence inspires. “Where do you live Miranda?” said I. She started at hearing her name from a stranger, having forgot that she had mentioned it; but, quickly recollecting herself--“At the foot of yon farthest hill, you see several clumps of trees around an humble cottage; at present,” replied she, sighing, “I live, or rather die, there!” I desired leave, to see her home: she thanked me for my kindness, and consented.
“Miranda,” said a grief-worn personage, whom, at our entrance into the cot, I perceived laid on a poor but cleanly couch--“Miranda, you shall not add to my heap of miseries by staying in the fields so late; I am alarmed, at such times, for your safety.”
At the sound of the voice, and at the appearance of the old lady, I felt a tumultuous palpitation of the heart, and a more deeply sympathizing sorrow, than I could account for. She had not discovered me before: she now perceived me motionless at the sight of this little mansion of sorrow. She alledged, in excuse for her inattention to me, her solicitude for her daughter. A youth of about twelve years old raised her up from the couch; a girl some years older sat languidly at her feet. A little wood composed their fire, which was at present their only light: it’s inconstant glimmerings served only to exaggerate sights of woe.
Such were my presentments on this occasion, that I involuntarily conceived there must exist some unknown connection of destiny or consanguinity between myself and the sufferers. I therefore desired with eagerness, to be made acquainted with their history.
On turning from Miranda, to whom I made this request, I beheld the mother’s eyes fastened on me: a glistening tear impearled them: she shook her head, as if disappointed, and poured forth a rending sigh. Again my heart throbbed within my breast; but I recollected the desire I had expressed to Miranda, whom I perceived now composed, and ready to satisfy my curiosity.
“The zeal, Sir, with which you appear to interest yourself in our afflictions, entitles your request to attention. By complying, however, I shall again pourtray in lively colours, to my own and my wretched parent’s sight, those miseries which have by time acquired a mellower tint. Hard is the fate of the inferior order of clergymen! How many are the difficulties that surround them! The labourer, who by his toil is able to support his family, enjoys comparatively the happiness of a prince. The scanty pittance allowed them by the church, will oft times scarcely procure food for themselves and their family. You will join with us, no doubt, in lamenting, that in England, in this most happy and heaven-favoured isle, there should exist so intolerable and just a ground of complaint. Nay, even policy, one might imagine, would direct them to abolish such a neglect of Christ’s ministers: for, as no government can flourish, so it cannot long stand, without religion for its basis. The common people chiefly respect externals, and fancy themselves at liberty to deride the thread-bare coat, how great and how many virtues soever its wearer may possess. When the expounders of religion fall into disesteem, religion itself does not long escape; till, at length, all laws, divine and human, are totally neglected and despised. But, whither am I carried on? Excuse my wandering, Sir: such considerations ever arise, when I reflect on our condition.”
“The justness of your remarks, Miss,” said I, “precludes the necessity of an apology.”
“You, no doubt,” continued she, “conjecture, from what I have said, that my father was a clergyman; your conjecture, Sir, is right. That good man is one of the best and most neglected of the clerical profession. He was thirty years curate of the neighbouring village; where his name was ever heard with raptures, so long as he retained the capacity of supplying their wants. But--O this ungrateful world!--when he was no longer able to assist them, they thought themselves freed from former obligations, and at liberty to laugh him to scorn, and insult his misery!”
The old lady sighed; a tear started into her eye; she looked towards Heaven, and was again calm.
“The widow, to whom he was a husband; the orphan, who had found in him the tenderness of a father; were the first to aggravate his sorrows, by that blackest of all vices, ingratitude. One only poor widow exhibited a grateful heart----But again I wander! His yearly income was forty pounds, allowed him for doing the whole duty of the church, by a rector whose laziness procured near two thousand. With this small income we lived in happy frugality, many years: but the good man’s heart overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and this scanty pittance, though sufficient for our expences, and for small beneficences, was very inadequate to the demands of wretchedness. He borrowed, therefore, a sum of money, from a tradesman, to liberate from prison one who craved his assistance. About this time, the son of the rector returned from the university; a youth--Good Heavens!--a youth whose form, whose mind, whose heart, were----”
[To be continued.]
* * * * *
+Mrs. RADCLIFFE.+
This lady’s novels have a bewitching interest. The power of painting the terrible and the mysterious is hers, in an eminent degree, but her sketches of landscape, though always indicating a skilful painter, are too numerous and minute. They may be called the miniature pictures of nature. Whether in the vales of Arno, or among the craggs of the Appennines, unsatisfied with general description, she chooses to note every spire of grass, and every shrub of the rocks. In the labyrinthian scenes of her castles and her forests, the attentive critic may discern a degree of finesse and stage trick, which, often repeated, offends, rather than surprises. When curiosity pants to discover the secrets of a desolate chamber, or a ruinated abbey, some, perhaps many, impediments may be judiciously thrown in Fancy’s way. But the rusty and bloody key, the glimpse of fancied apparitions, the perplexed path and the impracticable stair case, occur so often in Mrs. Radcliffe’s midnight rambles, that they soon lose their power of deception. But let pruning criticism lop what it may, the laurels of this lady cannot be injured. Her style pure, harmonious and forcible, might be a model, even to masculine writers. In the exhibition of the nicer, and less obvious shades of character, she has caught the strength and the spirit of TACITUS and SHAKESPEARE. The family of La Lue is an enchanting group, not less agreeable from its resemblance to the La Roche of Mackenzie; and the fierceness of Montoni, and the fears of Emily St. Aubert, are admirably contrasted.
* * * * * * * * *
For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
REFLECTIONS.
* * *
“Life glides away, LORENZO! like a brook; “For ever changing, unperceiv’d the change. “In the same brook none ever bath’d him twice: “To the same life none ever twice awoke.”
YOUNG.
Step aside, vain mortal!--cast thine eyes on this emaciated figure, and then reflect on thy transitory life. Look yet closer--See! the smile is no longer seated here. In how short a time has this change happened! A few hours since and he sported in the sunshine of health: his gaiety was equal to thine. He had measured full twenty years; and many more appeared in readiness to swell the lump.
Dost thou shrink back?--Nay, start not! ’tis thine own picture thou art viewing!--Ere long and thou wilt be likened unto this odious mass. Perhaps thou mayest not again behold that bright luminary which constitutes the day.
Ah! ’twas but yesterday that this now inanimate substance was in the full exercise of every living faculty!--He had laid down a plan for future life, but lived not to put it in practice. While he was figuring to himself the many days of uninterrupted pleasure that seemed within his grasp, the dread summons arrived; and scarcely was the awful packet opened, before the victim was made sure.
L. B.
March 25, 1797.
* * * * *
DUTY OF PARENTS TO THEIR CHILDREN.
* * *
By all the nameless sensations of tenderness, which ye whom heaven hath blessed with children feel towards them, be entreated, then, to make their improvement in piety and virtue their chief concern. That you should provide as far as you are able for their comfortable support and happy settlement in life, is undoubtedly your duty. Nor is it less your duty to afford them every opportunity in your power for improving their understandings, and laying up stores of useful and ornamental knowledge in their minds. But, let it never be forgotten, that the principal part of education, is the education of the heart. Endeavour by every method in your power, to inspire them with a reverence for the Supreme Being, with gratitude for his innumerable mercies; with a sence of honour and love of virtue; with sentiments of generosity and compassion towards their fellow creatures; with regard to truth; and with a consciousness of the dignity and excellence of their rational nature. On this foundation assist them in raising the superstructure of a manly, virtuous and useful character. In a word, imitate the example of the pious patriarch; and so command your children and houshold after you, “that they may keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment.”
* * * * * * * * *
PITY.
When I hear one say to his neighbour in adversity, “I am sorry for your misfortunes,” it sounds very much, in my ear like, “bring me my slippers.”
* * * * *
NEW-YORK.
* * *
MARRIED,
On Wednesday evening the 22d ult. at Fish-Kill, by the Rev. Mr. Van Vankin, Mr. Jacob P. Roome, of this city, to Miss Nelly Hoogland, of that place.
“If you would have the nuptial union last, Let virtue be the bond that ties it fast.”
On Sunday evening sen’ight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Isaac Seymour, to Miss Sally Wilson, both of this city.
Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Milledolar, Mr. James P. Allen, to Miss Mary Gordon, daughter of Charles Gordon, Esq. of Middle-town, New-Jersey.
* * * * *
METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 26th ult. to the 1st inst.
THERMOMETOR observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 March 26 32 40 e. s. clear l. wd. do. do. 27 47 55 s. nw. P. rai. h. w. clr. l. do. 28 34 37 nw. do. cloudy lt. wd. clr. l w. 29 30 45 calm. clear calm. do. do. 30 34 43 e. se. clear l. w. cloudy do. 31 40 43 se. s. cloudy l. w. s. r. h. w. April 1 43 49 nw. do. cloudy l. w. clear do.
* * * * *
RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. FOR MARCH 1797.
Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 34 50 Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 43 85 Do. do. of the do. the whole month 39 75 Greatest monthly range between the 7th. and 18th. 43 0 Do. do. in 24 hours, between the 8th and 9th. 35 0 Warmest day the 18th. 62 0 Coldest do. the 7th. 19 0
12 days the Mercury was at or below frost, at sunrise. 4 do. the do. was at or below do. and at 3. P.M. 9 do. it has rained, and a very large quantity has fallen. 3 do. it snowed, and about eight inches has fallen. 18 do. the wind was at the westward of north and south. 11 do. the do. was at the eastward of do. and do. 14 do. the do. was light at sunrise, and at 3 P.M. 7 do. the do. was high at do. and at do. 20 do. it was clear at do. and at do. 8 do. it was cloudy at do. and at do. 2 do. Thunders and Lightnings, one of which was heavy. A number of remarkable heavy winds has occured this month.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
SOLUTION TO THE REBUS.
Achilles is the Greek whom fate decreed, Without whose aid old Greece should ne’er succeed: Delphos the God of Music’s birth does claim, And Rhadamanthus judged Hell’s domain. The Iris designates the ceasing storm, And Freedom in America was born. Newton the works of Nature brought to light; The crescent moon does oft illume the night: Echo’s the nymph who rides upon the air, Whose voice responds to joy or fell despair. War despots do oppose to Reason’s laws; Ida’s the mount where Venus gain’d her cause. Night is the time when Nature does repose, And in Trophonius’ cave smiles never glows. Elijah was translated to the skies; Reason, Columbia’s sons do greatly prize: A tempest o’erclouds the orb of sight: The Owl’s a bird peculiar to the night. New-York’s the City where such worth doth shine! Whose Laws are fram’d on principles divine. Blanchard’s the Æronaut, of skill and fame; And Rome once mistress of the world did reign. Ovid did sing the various arts of love; And through their orbs the planets yearly move: Kissing, a mutual pleasure does impart, And sympathy does warm each feeling heart. The initials when we rightly thus combine, Miss ADRIANCE WINTERTON and BROOKS define.
* * * * *
THE AMERICAN SOLDIER. A Picture from the Life.
Deep in a vail, a stranger now to arms, Too poor to shine in courts, too proud to beg; He, who once warr’d on SARATOGA’s plains Sits musing o’er his scars, and wooden leg.
Remembering still the toils of former days, To other hands he sees his earnings paid; They share the due reward--he feeds on praise, Lost in the abyss of want, misfortune’s shade.
Far, far from domes where splendid tapers glare, ’Tis his from dear-bought PEACE no wealth to win; Remov’d alike from courtly cringing squires, The great man’s levee, and the proud man’s grin.
Sold are those arms that once on Britons blar’d, When flush’d with conquest to the charge they came; That power repell’d, and FREEDOM’s fabric rais’d, She leaves her soldier--FAMINE and a NAME.
* * * * * * * * *
AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.
+By James De-La-Cour.+
(Continued.)
Hence to the garden should your fancy fly, Let the tall tulip with your Iris vie; With a mixt glory crown its radiant head, The brightest yellow, ting’d with streams of red: Next let the lilly in your numbers blow, And o’er its sweetness shake the downy snow; In the white garb of Virtue let it rise, And wave in verse before the Virgin’s eyes: On tuneful feet let languid ivy crawl, And in poetic measure scale the wall, While the sharp sheers return a clipping sound, And the green leaves fall quiv’ring to the ground.
Here in the bow’r of beauty newly shorn, Let Fancy sit, and sing how Love was born; Wrapt up in roses, Zephyr found the child, In Flora’s cheek when first the goddess smil’d; Nurs’d on the bosom of the beauteous spring, O’er her white breast he spread his purple wing, On kisses fed, and silver drops of dew, The little wanton into Cupid grew; Then arm’d his hand with glitt’ring sparks of fire, And tipt his shining arrows with desire: Hence joy arose upon the wings of wind, And hope presents the lover always kind; Despair creates a rival for our fears, And tender pity softens into tears.
Your sounds in softer notes must learn to more, And melting music rise the voice of Love! Let Fubal’s lute in skilful hands appear, And pour new numbers on the list’ning ear; With the full organ let them sweetly swell, With the loud trumpet languishingly shrill; Or in soft concord let the concert suit, The sprightly clarion with the Dorian flute: Then wake to vocal airs the warbling wire, Let the strings run beneath the poet’s fire; While sorrow sighs, ah! never let them cool, But melt melodious on the soften’d soul: So may the passions wait upon your hand, Move as you move, and act as you command: I’ve laid down precepts, to guide your vocal strains, Resume your lays, for hark, the Muse complains.
[[Source:
Title: “A Prospect of Poetry: address’d to the Right Honourable John, Earl of Orrery”. Author: “James De-La-Cour” or Dalacourt 1709-1781. Changes: Opening stanzas omitted; two stanzas skipped before “Your sounds in softer notes...”; last two lines not in original.]]
* * * * *
EPIGRAM. Translated from the French, by the Late Dr. Cooper.
To Love should Beauty not submit, In vain its power it tries, Love has a dart, if Beauty fights, And wings, if Beauty flies.
NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co.+ +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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, April 12, 1797.+ [+No. 93.+
* * * * *
For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
A FUGITIVE THOUGHT.
Musing the other day in a pensive attitude, my head reclining on my hand, and my elbow resting on the table--methought--Why is the mind either incessantly haunted with gloom, or wrapt in extacy? Why is man generally peevish, morose, sullen, fretful or passionate, and seldom enjoying that beautiful equilibrium of temper that alone can produce happiness to himself and others? The object of all (said I to myself) is to acquire comfort and happiness; but how wide do they steer of the mark, that give way to hateful passions. I recollected how trivial faults of persons in my employ made me impatient--that I sometimes was subject to those disagreeable emotions, and that I thereby made those and myself unhappy: I bethought myself of recent trials, which, though afflictive, should not have excited discontent; and I put up a fervent petition to heaven, to assist me in a resolution I then formed of never giving way to chagrin, but of always endeavouring to possess, at least, a pleasing equanimity. I am no enemy to transports of joy, when not carried to excess: I fancy, that for this end are the passions given us; but we have perverted into a source of uneasiness what was designed to increase our pleasure, and to make this life of probation less burthensome.
I will, continued I, from this, endeavour to be as happy myself as possible, and it shall be my care to cause those around me, as far as lies in my power, to participate in my bliss. My domestics, and all under my care, shall be but gently reproved when they err; or rather, I will acquaint them merely with their faults, and if they are wise they surely will improve. My children I will advise with the utmost tenderness, and use every art to allure them into the paths of virtue; good shall be represented to them in the most glowing and fascinating colours, and vice shall be depicted with the most frightful, hideous and forbidding appearance. My wife, the partner of my joys, must be the partaker of my happiness--hand in hand shall we go on in this blissful path--no jar shall disturb our harmony, nor shall discontent or anger ever wrinkle our brows: then shall we fulfil the design of our Maker in sending us into the world, and shall pass through its variegated scenes with as much comfort and content as can possibly be enjoyed here below by mortals.
N. L.
* * * * *
DISCONTENT.
In the humble and seemingly-quiet shade of private life, as well as among the great and mighty, discontent broods over its imaginary sorrows; preys upon the citizen no less than the courtier, and often nourishes passions equally malignant in the cottage and in the palace. Having once seized the mind, it spreads its own gloom over every surrounding object; it every where searches out materials for itself; and in no direction more frequently employs its unhappy activity, than in creating divisions among mankind, and in magnifying slight provocations into mortal injuries.
In situations where much comfort might be enjoyed, this man’s superiority and that man’s neglect, our jealousy of a friend, our hatred of a rival, an imagined affront, or a mistaken point of honour, allow us no repose. Hence discord in families, animosities among friends, and wars among nations! Look around us! every where we find a busy multitude. Restless and uneasy in their present situation, they are incessantly employed in accomplishing a change of it; and as soon as their wish is fulfilled, we discern, by their behaviour, that they are as dissatisfied as they were before. Where they expected to have found a paradise, they find a desert.
The man of business pines for leisure; the leisure for which he had longed proves an irksome gloom, and, through want of employment, he languishes, sickens, and dies.
The man of retirement fancies no state so happy as that of active life; but he has not engaged long in the tumults and contests of the world, until he finds cause to look back with regret on the calm hours of his former privacy and retreat.
Beauty, wit, eloquence and fame, are eagerly desired by persons in every rank of life. They are the parent’s fondest wish for his child; the ambition of the young, and the admiration of the old; and yet in what numberless instances have they proved, to those who possessed them, no other than shining snares, seductions to vice, instigations to folly, and, in the end, sources of misery.
* * * * * * * * *
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.
(Concluded from page 315.)
The King proposed in the council of state in which this decree was debated, that some of the criminals should be executed, but the rest imprisoned for life. The Marquis of **ira insisted, however, upon the execution of the legal punishment, and was seconded by the other members. The King mitigated the punishment of those who had been sentenced to be hanged, ordering them to be beheaded. The two prelates, whose fate had been left to his Royal pleasure, were doomed to eternal imprisonment.
Going to Court the next day, I heard Alumbrado had found means to escape from his prison. It was believed Oliv*rez had bribed the gaoler by a large sum to suffer him to liberate himself, which appeared to me very probable, as the latter could be found no where, and very likely had joined the villain in his flight, who, however, as it is to be wished for the best of human kind, will not escape the punishment due to his crimes*.
[* He did not escape the vengeance of Heaven if, as I have reason to suppose, Alumbrado is the same person with Vi*o*va. The latter fled from Port**al to Spa*n, deceived the Minister through his pretended occult knowledge, and continued to be connected with him after he had been removed from the helm of government. However, a journey which Alumbrado made to Tol**o, where he attempted to play off his magical delusions, brought on his destruction; he was seized by the officers of the Inquisition, and executed as a heretic and sorcerer. Oli*arez too was arrested by the Inquisition, when that ruthless tribunal was informed of his connection with the villainous Alumbrado: his relations are, however, believed to have dispatched him by poison, in order to spare him the disgrace of a public execution.
MARQUIS OF SAU*****.]
What I am going to relate now, is the account of an eye-witness, for how could I have been present on such an heart-breaking occasion?
On the 28th of August a scaffold, covered with black cloth, was erected before the house where the prisoners had been confined the preceding night. On this scaffold three steps were seen, on each of which a chair was placed, the upper one for the Duke of Cam*na, the middle chair for the Marquis of Villa R*al, and the lower one for the Duke of Ar*amar.
The Marquis of Villa R*al was the first who stepped out of one of the windows of the house, which served instead of a door. He begged the bye-standers pardon in a short speech, and was beheaded.
As soon as his corpse was covered, his son made his appearance. His pale and staring countenance resembled that of a corpse. He uttered not a syllable, seated himself on the chair, and one blow severed his head from his body.
The pen drops from my hand, and the idea of that horrid scene curdles the blood in my veins. Reader, who art perusing these pages, look back once more on the road on which a noble young man, adorned with the most excellent genius, and the best of hearts, suffered himself to be seduced to a crime for which he atoned with his life!
CONTINUATION.
(By an unknown Hand.)
The Marquis of F*, to whom the preceding Memoirs had been entrusted for publication, dying nine weeks after the execution of his unhappy friend, left these interesting papers to me, after I had promised him on his death-bed to execute the last request of their ill-fated author. I have discharged the trust reposed in me some years since, and the character of the poor deluded young man has been vindicated in the eyes of the public, who have received the mournful tale of his misfortunes with tears of pity. The continuation of these extraordinary Memoirs, which I am going to add, is so wonderful and remarkable, that I wish it had been in my power to communicate it to the public along with the rest; the whole being, however, a secret of state, which I am not allowed to disclose while the persons concerned in it are alive, I shall, perhaps, be obliged to leave the publication of the subsequent pages to my children.
Nine years are already elapsed since the execution of the conspirators, and the death of the Marquis of F* and--the Duke of Ca*ina, whose hapless fate the latter has bewailed in silent grief, and who generally is believed to have been executed with the rest of his associates, is yet alive.
The King, who ardently wished to spare the life of the Duke, but at the same time was afraid of counteracting the decree of the council of state, who had doomed him to public execution, found himself in no small embarrassment. However, the Irishman, who wished with equal ardour to save the life of the poor misguided young man, soon found out means of dissolving the Gordian knot. “I could,” said he to the King, “make a mask, which no one should be able to discern from the real phisiognomy of the Duke; and this mask I could fasten to the face of some other person, in such a manner, that every one should believe that person to be the Duke. If, therefore, we can find a person who resembles him in size, and in the make of his body, and at the same time shall be willing to lose his head in the place of the Duke, it will not be difficult to save the life of the latter, without either offending the Senate, or leaving him at liberty to conspire a second time against the life of your Majesty. This person, who in every respect will answer our purpose, is Alumbrado. He is of the same size with the Duke, and if informed that he is condemned to be torn by horses, will not refuse to accept the mask, and to die by the sword in the place of the Duke. In order to cover this innocent fraud, we must give out that Alumbrado has escaped from the prison, and thus the benevolent wish of your Majesty can be accomplished with secrecy and safety.”
This plan of the Irishman was executed with the privity and assistance of only a few persons, who took a solemn oath never to disclose the secret, and Alumbrado was beheaded in the room of the Duke. The deceit was carried on so dexterously, that none of those who witnessed his execution, suspected him to be any other person but the Duke whom he represented.
The latter, however, knew nothing of this fraud that had been practised in his favour, for although the Irishman had modelled his face in wax, yet he had not received the most distant hint of the purpose for which it had been done. When he was carried out of his dungeon, a few hours after the execution of his father and the disguised Alumbrado, and led through a dark subterraneous passage, he fancied that he was to meet his doom. He was conducted over many secret staircases, and at length entered, through an iron door, a dark apartment where he was ordered to wait. But soon after a second door was opened, and an apartment illuminated with numberless torches presented itself to his view. There he beheld the King sitting at a table, and a man with a sack and a sword standing by his side, who beckoned to him to step nearer. The Duke having entered the apartment, the door was bolted after him, and he expected every moment to be his last. The King looked at him for some time without speaking a word, and at last began:--“You have designed the ruin of your country, and conspired against my life, what do you think you deserve?” “Death!” the Duke replied. “You have been doomed by the Council of State to suffer a very painful death; I have, however, mitigated their sentence into that of your being executed by the sword.” The Duke thanked the King for his clemency, and looked at the man, whom he mistook for the executioner. “Your sentence has been executed already!” the King resumed, after a long pause of awful expectation. The silence of the Duke, and the expression of his features, bespoke his desire for an explanation of these mysterious words. “You gaze at me;” the King added, “you doubt, perhaps, the truth of what I have said? however you shall soon be convinced.” So saying he made a signal to the man who was standing by his side, upon which the latter opened the sack, and taking out a head recently cut off, showed it to the Duke, who staggered back when he discerned his own features in the face of the bleeding head. The whole mystery was now explained to him, and the King added: “You owe your life to my mercy and the invention of the Irishman; it is, however, not in my power to restore you to human society. Although you are alive, yet you will be numbered among the dead, and be lost to the world for ever. You will pass your life banished from society, and deprived of liberty, yet you may rest assured that none of the comforts of life, liberty excepted, will be denied you.”
This sentence was executed literally, the Duke was confined for the rest of his life in a strong tower situated on the river Ta*o, where handsome apartments were allotted to him, and wanted nothing but liberty.
* * *
[The Address of the Translator of the preceding history to his Thinking Readers, being thought worthy their attention, it will be laid before them in our next, and succeeding number.]
* * * * * * * * *
THE BALM OF SORROW.
Not studied consolatory speeches, not precepts from the Cynick’s tub, nor a volume of last century sermons, but employment. Let the victim of ingratitude, of grief, of love, plunge into the whirlpool of business, and he will feel like the valetudinarian, invigorated from the bath. On this subject ARMSTRONG prescribes like a physician, and exhorts like a philosopher.
“Go, soft enthusiast, quit the cypress groves, Nor to the rivulet’s lonely moanings tune Your sad complaint. Go seek the cheerful haunts Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd; Lay schemes for Wealth, or Power, or Fame, the wish Of noble minds, and push them night and day, Or join the caravan in quest of scenes New to your eyes, and shifting every hour, Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines. Or, more adventurous, rush into the field Where war grows hot; and raging thro’ the sky, The lofty trumpet swells the madd’ning soul; And in the hardy camp and toilsome march Forget all softer and less manly cares.”
* * * * *
ANECDOTES.
A gentleman who now fills an important office in this State, was travelling through a part of the country where he was not so personally known as his horses and carriage; having exchanged places with his servant who attended on horseback, he fell into conversation with a rough countryman, who was riding the same way, and from the gentleman’s extraordinary paleness, mistook him for the servant. The conversation turning on the fineness of the horses before the carriage, the clown observed, that he knew them very well; they belonged to Mr. G--: the gentleman replied they did: “And I suppose,” said the fellow, “that is he in the coach; but if I had his horses, I wou’d’n’t care if the D--l had him.”
* * *
A veteran toper complained to the celebrated Doctor W. of Boston, that from long use of spirituous liquors, they palled upon his palate, and failed to exhilirate his spirits. The Doctor, in a sportive mood, inquired if he had ever used AQUA FORTIS, and recommended it to his patient, diluted with water.--The toper immediately procured a quantity, which he first mixed with water, and then took in its crude state; but in a few months the AQUA FORTIS afforded him as little pleasure as common New-England Rum. Soon after the unfortunate tipler, meeting the Doctor in the street, addressed him thus, “Doctor, the aqua FORTIES won’t do, can’t you give me something stronger; do, dear Doctor, for the love of grog, let me have a little aqua FIFTIES.”
* * * * * * * * *
Messrs. PRINTERS,
The following story struck me on perusal, as an affecting one. Modern military petit maitres, who have never seen any other service but that of the ladies, pique themselves on extreme insensibility. They nightly infest the theatres, not to be entertained, but to interrupt--to display white teeth and empty heads--to laugh at every noble sentiment of Melpomene, though delivered with all the exquisite energy of a Siddons, or the delicate tenderness of a Merry--to such beings this little story may be of infinite use--they may learn that sensibility does not entirely disgrace regimentals, and that the sympathetic tear may be given to distress, without tarnishing the honour of the soldier.
EUGENIUS.
+The FATAL EFFECTS of a TOO SUSCEPTIBLE HEART in a YOUNG PRUSSIAN OFFICER.+
“My son was an ensign in a regiment in which I ranked as Captain. We had served two campaigns together, and I was pleased with the marks of a cool and sensible courage, which I had observed in him, and which promised the most flattering hopes of his becoming one day an ornament to his family.
“His heart was naturally generous and tender. This virtue endeared him to me; but I trembled for its effects. It might, I thought, shake his fortitude in the trying scenes of the miserable spectacles of war, and possibly suppress the enterprising spirit of youth; a quality so essential to the advancement of a soldier, and so necessary an embellishment to his character.
“Oftentimes, when his overflowing compassionate heart would vent itself in a burst of sorrow for the unfortunate, I had recourse to the sophistry of argument, to paint those objects of his reflections in different colours to his imagination; and while reproving him with his unmanly weakness, could have clasped him to my bosom for the melting tenderness of his nature.
“I frequently, though with utter repugnance, conducted him to the trying scenes of suffering criminals; thus attempting to familiarize his mind to the disastrous events which life is too often embittered with.
“Some little time after the affair of Schweidnitz, our army had burnt and sacked a small village of the Austrians. It was our chance of duty to be sent to this place. When the general confusion of the day had subsided, and some order restored among the troops, we made an excursion round the village to view the effects.
“On our approach to the ruins of a once clean and neat house, we were suddenly shocked by the approach of an old woman. The genius of extreme wretchedness seemed faithfully pourtrayed in her ghastly countenance.
“She flung herself upon her knees, and in a shrill voice of desperation, imprecated the most direful curses on our heads. “If,” says she, “you call yourselves men, and not savages of unequalled brutality, either kill me instantly, and end my extreme sufferings; or, O! let me have help to search for the remains of my children.”
“I tenderly exhorted her to calm herself--that she might expect every assistance; and staying with her till my son had returned with a few soldiers, I learnt, that on the alarm of the sudden approach of our troops to the village, the unrestrained disorder which was naturally to be expected, had forced her son and daughter, with two grandchildren, to seek shelter in a cellar of the house; which house sharing the same unfortunate fate with the rest, was soon pillaged and set on fire--that she herself had fled some little way into the country, and had retired from the danger of the enemy, in hopes that, in case of a discovery, her age might secure her from that fate which her grandchildren, two young women in the bloom of life, might otherwise be exposed to--that their father, who was a notary of the place, with his wife, had resolved on staying with the children in their concealment.
“When my son returned with the soldiers, the old woman showed us the spot where we should search for the poor devoted family. We had not been long at work among the ruins, when we broke into the cellar whither the family had fled. Here a scene presented itself, that would have turned a monarch’s heart from the fell tide of war, which brings such desolation and horror in its course.
“Clasped in each others arms lay two beautiful sisters, with their father and mother by their side, suffocated by the smoke; while the old woman, with horrid yells, was bewailing the loss of her unfortunate children, kissing the bodies, and frantic with grief. My son stood with folded arms musing over this melancholy spectacle.
“I solicited him to depart; I urged him to withdraw from so affecting a scene. Sternly did he turn his eyes on me, and seemed petrified to the spot. In vain did I reason on the necessary consequences of war; that it was no premeditated cruelty, but one of those casual misfortunes that even the civil transactions of life are often checquered with.
“Where is your reason, your manhood, my boy? shall a soldier be overcome with weak womanish feelings? for shame! for shame! All men in the course of their lives must make up their minds to calamities like these. Away! Your countrymen will ridicule your want of firmness; and the laurels which you have hitherto acquired, will only serve to point you out as a more conspicuous instance of effeminacy.
“I took him by the arm to draw him gently from this distressing sight, when he flung himself away from me, and exclaimed, pointing to the youngest of the girls, whose tongue, from the convulsive gasps of death, hung from her mouth, “Behold this unparalleled butchery of my countrymen! Will not the wrath of heaven revenge this outrage on humanity? Cruel, cruel Prussians! You are bloody indeed! accursed profession! Hell only has invented thee. From this moment I abjure thee. I will not return to these blood-hounds: I will fly to the desarts for ever, and hide my face from such inhumanity:” with “see there! my father,” pointing again to the dead bodies, and burst into a flood of tears.
“It required some force to bear him from this calamitous scene; and so strong was the impression, that a fixed melancholy took entire possession of him: and such was the extreme delicacy and tenderness of his feelings, that I was destined to see this beloved child seized with a violent fever, and to hear him, in the paroxisms of his distemper, rave in the wildest, yet most pathetic language on this event.
“Some little time before he expired, he had fashioned one of the young women into his wife; and starting up in bed, cursing the war which had snatched her away from him, he fixed his eyes ghastly upon me, which I readily translated into a remonstrance for being the author of his unhappy malady, fell back into a swoon, from which he never recovered.”
* * * * *
MIRANDA. A Moral Tale.
(Concluded from page 318.)
Sighs and tears interrupted her speech; her words died on her tongue; she pressed her little companion, and was silent. Her mother begged she might here take up the story.
She was just beginning, when an old woman opened the cottage-door. Her appearance was such as to prejudice beholders in her favour. She set down a basket, which she carried on her arm; and, without speaking a word, was about to retire, when the matron called to her--“This gentleman, Mary, who deigns to interest himself so much in our afflictions, will not, my heart, I know not why, tells me, be offended at your being admitted to his company.” I joined my voice to the old lady’s--Mary curtsied, and sat down.
“This, Sir,” continued the old lady; “this, Sir, is our Heaven-sent benefactress: under that rustic garb, are virtues which would adorn the possessors of a throne!--But I make you uneasy, my good friend; I will cease to praise you in words: I will only tell your actions, and let them praise you. This worthy creature, Sir, lived with us twenty years. In that space, she saved nearly forty pounds; by which we have all, my poor dear husband included, been for these nine months supported.”
“The money came from you, my good lady; it was my duty, therefore,” said Mary, “when you stood in need, to restore it to you again.”
“Her attentions, Sir, would heal our woes, if they could admit of cure: but, alas! that seems impossible. However, when I reflect how miraculously Heaven has hitherto preserved us, I take comfort; and hope that, in his own good time and manner, he will make us triumph over our calamities. God is just; he chastens those whom he receives into the number of his children.”
“Do not doubt, Madam,” exclaimed I, involuntarily clasping her hand; “do not doubt, that God will speedily cause you to emerge out of this sea of adversity!”
“Will you please, Madam, to take your little supper now?” said Mary, with officious attention.
“We will,” replied her mistress; “and this gentleman, if he can put up with our rustic food, will perhaps do us the honour to partake with us.”
We moved to the table; and, when supper was over, the old lady returned the clue of the narrative--
“Henry, the rector’s amiable son, returned now from Oxford; he saw, he admired, he loved Miranda. The nobleness of his nature caused him to act in every thing with the strictest honour and integrity. He confessed his passion, and received as ingenious reciprocation of love. With generous frankness, he acquainted his father with his attachments. The haughty priest foamed with rage at the bare mention of it, and maddened at the idea of his son’s marrying---these were his words---“a wench without fortune, family, or any thing; the daughter of my curate, too!” In short, from hence forward, he studied only how to distress and ruin us. His first motion was to get his son out of the way, whom he compelled to take the tour of Europe!---Miranda sobbed aloud--“a joyless tour, alas! for Henry.” We believe he constantly writes to Miranda; but the rector secures his letters, knowing that we are not able to bring him to account. Not satisfied with having separated the lovers, he sought for other means of distressing us; and, having bought the debt which my husband had contracted, thrust him with merciless cruelty into prison. Here we succour him, and make him as comfortable as such a situation will allow: though the surly priest takes every means of harrassing both him and us.”
When the old lady had finished her narrative, I felt such deep commiseration, that I could answer her only by marks of indignation, and by sighs.
Miranda, during the whole time, had been totally absorbed in tears: but, now, collecting herself, she caught my eyes fixed on the little dog. “You wonder,” said she, “no doubt, at the unusual kindness which I manifest towards this little animal. I will put an end to your astonishment. It is the only memorial of my Henry; he gave it to me: we were both wont to amuse ourselves with it; since his departure I have cherished it in my bosom; it has eat of my bread, drank of my cup, and been to me as my lover.”
I thanked her for her condescension; and, turning to address the old lady, found her eyes again fastened on me: she examined my features involuntarily, and with seeming forgetfulness; then shook her head as before, and sighed. This striking behaviour, particularly as I found myself similarly circumstanced, stopped what I was about to utter. I was silent. Soon after, she looked eagerly at me again.
“Excuse me, Sir; I am sensible of my rudeness, but nature impels me to this behaviour; will you have the goodness to ease my doubts, by informing me, whether you are a native of England?”
“No, Madam! but born of English parents in Russia.”
“Good Heaven! art thou, then, making me amends for the afflictions thou hast laid upon me!”
“Your words, Madam, distract me! What do they mean? My heart tells me that some kindred tie binds us. Heaven grant that it may be so!”
“Is your name, then, Egerton?”---“The same.”
“I thank thee, O God!”---Here she sunk into a swoon; but was quickly recovered by her daughter and the old servant.
She opened her eyes again; and, by the kindness of indulgent Heaven, I embraced a long-lost-sister! Who can describe my joy?
Our family thought she had become a prey to the waves. She had been shipwrecked, at an early age, in a vessel bound to England; was taken up by an English privateer, and adopted as the captain’s daughter. About the time she married, the captain had been unfortunate; and had, therefore, no portion but about two hundred pounds to give with her, which sum had been long since expended in the education of her children. He promised, however, to seek out her parents, but was cast away in the voyage. She, therefore, had never heard any thing of them; and, as the captain of the vessel in which herself had been wrecked had her instructions in his possession, she knew not whither she was intended to go to, in England.
Miranda, and her sister, now pressed me to take their bed for the night, as it was too late to return; but, as I was stronger, and in better health than them, I insisted on using the couch.
Early next morning, I repaired to Lord Alton, my worthy host, and acquainted him with my adventure. He hastened with me to relieve my respected, but unknown brother, from the horrors of confinement.
We reached the prison; when, lo! the good man had just been liberated by his future son. Henry had returned in disguise; had discharged the debt; and was now receiving his grateful benediction. I explained who I was: and they received me with tears of joy.
His lordship took upon himself the conciliation of the rector, and immediately set out to acquaint him with all the circumstances, while we hastened to the cot. I will not attempt to describe the overflowing joy of the old couple, nor the rapturous embraces of the young folks. Miranda underwent a transient suspension of her faculties, but awakened to never-fading happiness. The two young children climbed the good man’s knees, to share the long-regretted kiss. The old woman gazed on her worthy master, with eyes overflowing with unaffected tears of mingled joy and sorrow. Her extacy was unbounded; she lifted up her hands to Heaven, and silently blessed its goodness! Her master did not neglect her, but quickly received her in a kind and grateful embrace.
We now received a message from his lordship, desiring our attendance immediately. Henry, the worthy curate, and myself, quickly obeyed it. We met the hitherto obdurate father--but, how changed! He was all politeness, all compliance: proud of an alliance with his lordship’s friend and relation--for such Miranda now proved to be. I gave my niece a dower equal to the young man’s fortune.
In a few days the nuptials were celebrated. All the inhabitants of the village shared heartily in their joy. They danced on the village green, and were treated in rustic sumptuousness by the happy bridegroom. Whispers of blessings showered on them both! Such as had been ungrateful to the father, threw themselves on their knees, and asked his forgiveness; which was readily granted them, with a kind and gentle rebuke. Even the rector sued for pardon, ashamed of his inhuman treatment, as he himself termed it.
His lordship soon after stationed my brother in a comfortable rectory, to which I added five hundred pounds a year as my sister’s fortune.
The old woman survived but a few months: during which time she had been treated as a sister. Her remains were interred in a vault designed for the family; and a small mural monument was erected with this inscription----
To the Memory of MARY S-- A humble Christian, A steady Friend, The best of Servants; Who graced her station by her Virtues; Supported her Master and his Family In their distresses; And strove, with tender and incessant attention, To blunt the stings of Adversity: This Monument Is erected, as a testimony of Gratitude And sincere Respect, And as an example, to excite others To the like pious Conduct, By her grateful Master, W. JACKSON.
Henry, and his ever-lovely Miranda, live in tempered extacies of love; their little dog is treated as a child. They have one child, a sweet boy, called after my name. My niece is again pregnant. May Heaven render my dear little son, and all their future offspring, who are to inherit my estates, as worthy and as virtuous as their parents.
* * * * *
ANECDOTE.
Some time ago, a gentleman was robbed of some loose silver and an empty purse. The highwayman discovering the inutility of the latter, very politely returned, and gave him his purse back, with the following observations:--‘Sir, I shan’t put you to the trouble of advertising it; for indeed it is of no use but to the owner.’
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
Thinking the following Fragment, found among the writings of the late much lamented Doctor Joseph Youle, will be an acquisition to the Editors of the Weekly Magazine, I have endeavoured to obtain a copy of it, and present it to them, with a wish that it may be received by the public with as much pleasure as it was by
M.
* * * * *
A FRAGMENT, after the manner of J. Y.
The sun was retiring behind a lofty ridge of mountains to gladden other regions; the towering spires of the village churches were tipt with gold; while the resplendent rays reflected from the windows dazzled the eye. Above was the azure vault, variegated with fleecy clouds; beneath was Nature’s verdant carpet. The little songsters of the grove were paying their tributes of praise in melodious strains; the bleatings of the lambs, and the lowings of the milky mothers re-echoed from the vallies. The waters of a gently murmuring stream, which ran by the foot of a mountain, were silvered o’er by the mild rays of the queen of night. The soothing sound of a distant cataract gently saluted the ear. The fragrant odors of flowers, watered by gentle zephyrs, breath’d a delightful perfume.
Surely, says AMELIA, all nature conspires to calm the mind, to restore tranquility, to soften every care. But what can ease the torture of a love-sick soul; like the angry sea after agitation by blustering winds, ’tis still tumultuous. My PHILANDER sleeps in the silent dust; to the king of terrors he has fallen an untimely prey: cold are the clods that cover his once faithful breast. That heart which was once the seat of sensibility, and endowed with every virtue, ceases to vibrate to the sound of woe. The widow and the orphan shall point to thy tomb, PHILANDER, and cry, There lies our friend and patron! She walked pensively towards the place where his last remains were interred: Is this white stone, emblem of his innocence, the only memento of the lovely youth?--No--thou ever livest in the soul of AMELIA; there, in indelible characters, thy image is impress’d. I will strew thy grave with flowers; I will raise upon it the green sod; I will encircle it with willows. Let not unhallowed feet tread here; this place to love is sacred. Nightly will I visit thy grave, nor shall the wealth of worlds induce me to forego the mournful pleasure. If the spirits of the just watch round their surviving friends, then surely thou art my guardian angel. Dear shade, thou knowest the anguish of my soul: to me thou can’st not be visible--where thou art, I soon shall be, never to part again: in that state, where eternal love, and joy, and peace prevail. While she stood entranced in pleasing anticipation, she reflected on his last request:--“AMELIA, live to reward my virtues, friend, and bless the world with a race of angels like thyself.” Suddenly she started at the voice of complaining and of woe;--’twas TITIUS, breathing the anguish of his soul to the silent night.--“Oh, AMELIA, thou lovely fair one, how long must I mourn an unreturned affection? thou knowest I waste my midnight hours in thoughts on thee; the conscious moon, the woods, the groves, are witnesses of my love: I grieve unpitied--I sigh unheard.” As he advanced towards her, she exclaimed:--“TITIUS, I know, I feel thy sorrow;--if thou can’st in return for love accept of friendship, I am thine. Thou knowest the object of my soul, the once adorable, amiable PHILANDER.” In an extacy of amazement and delight, he cries--“Angels, catch the sounds; ’tis my AMELIA’s voice: thy friendship is more valuable than the love of TITIUS. Let us be happy. We will visit the grave of PHILANDER together, and pay to his memory the tribute of love and friendship. Each returning season we will decorate his grave with flowers, till we go to join him in the world of spirits; where there is an ever blooming spring, an eternal day.”
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NEW-YORK.
* * *
MARRIED,
On Thursday the 30th ult. at Flatbush, (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Faitoute, Mr. Charles Dickenson, of Saybrook, (Connecticut) to Miss Nancy Smith, of this city.
Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, Mr. Hugh Dougherty, to Miss Elizabeth Forbes, both of this city.
On Saturday evening the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. John Kendrickson, of Albany, to Miss Maria Griffin, of this city.
On Sunday evening the 2d inst. by the Rev. Mr. Nicols, Mr. Stephen Lyons, late of Stamford, (Connecticut) to Miss Ann Warner, of this city.
On Monday evening the 3d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Samuel Milner, of the Island of St. Thomas’s, to Miss Mary Gardner, daughter of Mr. Charles Gardner, of this city.
On Wednesday last, at East-Chester, by the Rev. Mr. Ireland, John Smith, Esq. of Baltimore, to Miss Eliza Smith, of this city.
* * * * *
METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 2d to the 8th inst.
THERMOMETOR observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 April 2 40 48 sw. se. clear l. wd. do. h. w. 3 46 70 s. do. clear calm. do. lt. w. 4 46 60 e. s. clr. l. w. do. do. th. lg. r. 5 54 82 sw. do. clr. l. w. do. cal. th. lg. r. 6 56 56 n. e. cloudy lt. wd. do. do. 7 44 42 ne. e. cly. l. w. P. rai. h. w. 8 39 40 e. do. cly. l. w. P. rain.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
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[The following, by mere accident, has fallen into my hands; the author of which I have not the honour of being acquainted with. --As I cannot conceive it will in any degree offend him by its insertion in your Repository, and as its merits intitles it to your attention, I beg you will give it a place.
L. B.]
* * *
STANZAS, Addressed to a Young Lady.
The hour full fraught with woes is now arriv’d, In which I bid thy lovely form farewell; Sever’d from thee can I the task survive, O cruel Fate! who I have lov’d so well! Endless and sharp will be my woes, No ray of comfort shall I see; And yet who knows, alas! who knows If thou wilt ever think of me! Still will my fond affection hold thee dear, And sensibility will draw th’ empassion’d tear.
Pensive along the hollow murmuring shore, Or woods, and wilds, and solitary glades, Or night’s dull form, or ev’ning’s grateful shades, Or rocks romantic height, I’ll thee implore. From the grey twilight’s dawn till ev’ning’s close, In woods sequester’d I will call on thee; And yet who knows, alas! alas! who knows If thou wilt e’er bestow one thought on me.
With cadence soft, the circumambient breeze, Responsive, bursting through the waving trees; And echo, repercussive from her cell, Does sweetly vibrate through the neighb’ring dell, To bid the mind’s tumultuous passion’s tide, In Reason’s law, and call recess subside.
To lull the heart-rent pang of Nature’s sigh, And dry the tear of sensibility, In these lone solitary wilds I’ll call on thee, Whilst thou, perhaps, wilt ne’er remember me. There Nature, goddess of the heart, Shall ev’ry tender wish reclaim; Her healing balm she will impart, And ease my bosom of its pain. There, wrapt in meditation’s calm repose, My heart shall only weep for others woes.
Adieu, dear maid! and may each hour Heav’n’s choicest gifts upon you show’r! May happiness shine in each day, And truth and virtue light your way! While I will never cease to think of thee, Though thou, perhaps, wilt ne’er remember me.
CYNTHIO.
* * * * * * * * *
ODE TO SPRING.
Hail, gentle Spring! whose genial pow’r Calls to new life each fragrant flow’r, In richest tints array’d: Whose balmy breath revives each scene, The shady grove, the daisied green In verdant beauty clad.
At thy approach the feather’d trains Renew their long neglected strains; Sweet music floats around; Whist list’ning Echo’s busy tongue Repeats the burden of each song, In faint imperfect sound.
Thy presence prompts the lab’ring swain To give, with equal hand, the grain To the kind fost’ring soil: Mild suns autumnal shall mature The golden crop, in happy hour To recompense his toil.
The mute sojourners of the brook Had long their wonted paths forsook, Cramp’d by stern Winter’s reign; But, rouz’d by thy revising beam, Again they gambol in the stream, And skim the glassy plain.
Ah! short-liv’d joys! The angler keen Shall soon to sorrow change the scene, With the deceptive fly; The speckled rovers seize the bait, And swallow unsuspected fate; They flounce, they gasp, they die.
Thy healing hand destroys disease; Thy breath brings health in every breeze; Before thee agues fly: Thou giv’st each heart with joy to glow, All blood in brisker streams to flow; Health laughs in every eye.
What tribute, then, shall mortals bring, To offer to the genial Spring? What trophies shall we raise? With grateful sons, at least, let’s try To waft her praises to the sky, In loud accordant lays.
* * * * *
SONG.--By +Maria Falconer+.
Ye roses bow your lovely heads, Nor boast your damask hue; For see, yon spotless lily spreads Her charms to rival you.
So in the beauteous female breast Does Envy’s passion dwell; Each blooming maid, of charms possest, Endeavours to excel.
Ah silly nymphs, behold your doom, In yonder fading flower; For what is Beauty’s brightest bloom? The triumph of an hour!
NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co.+ +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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, April 19, 1797.+ [+No. 94.+
CHEARFULNESS.
* * *
“Come, Chearfulness, triumphant fair, Shine thro’ the painful cloud of care: O sweet of language, mild of mien; O virtue’s friend, and pleasure’s queen! And, while thy gracious gifts I feel, My song shall all thy praise reveal.”
Dr. AKENSIDE.
It is the indispensable duty, not to say privilege, of every rational being on the face of the earth, to cultivate and improve a serene and chearful disposition, independent of that levity and versatility which many possess from an erroneous way of thinking. “Chearfulness,” says Mr. Addison, in the Spectator--a work of very considerable merit for its natural sweetness, ease, and delicacy--“is the best promoter of health. Repinings and secret murmurings of heart give imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibres of which the vital parts are composed, and wear out the machine insensibly; not to mention those violent ferments which they stir up in the blood, and those irregular, disturbed motions, which they raise in the animal spirits. The pleasures of friendship, books, conversation, and other accidental diversions of life, offer themselves as incitements to a chearful temper, to persons of all ranks and conditions; and which may sufficiently shew us, that Providence did not design this world should be filled with murmurs and repinings, or that the heart of man should be involved in gloom and melancholy.”
There are many persons who indulge a fixed melancholy, from religious motives. Many of the lower orders of society contract a gloomy, forbidding aspect, by feeding their minds with the ranting effusions of puritanical enthusiasts; whose doctrines, for the most part, are particularly calculated to cloud all their bright intellects. They discourage the good, and intimidate the penitent. They oftener disserve, than benefit, the cause of christianity. It is an observation of the learned and pious Dr. Watts, that religion never was designed to make our pleasures less. Innocent recreations (and innocent they must be, or not at all) calculated to promote chearfulness, are absolutely necessary to soften the cares of life. Superstition and fanaticism are highly incompatible with the generous feelings of a devotional taste and habit which are in themselves very desirable; but a habit of melancholy is altogether improper, and wholly repugnant to these divine precepts, which ought to influence all to the adoption of amiable principles, and a chearful disposition. “Piety and goodness,” says Dr. Blair, “ought never to be marked with that dejection which sometimes takes rise from superstition, but which is the proper portion only of guilt. At the same time, the chearfulness belonging to virtue, is to be carefully distinguished from that light and giddy temper which characterises folly, and is so often found among the dissipated and vicious part of mankind. Their gaiety is owing to a total want of reflection; and brings with it the usual consequences of an unthinking habit, shame, remorse, and heaviness of heart, in the end. The chearfulness of a well regulated mind, springs from a good conscience and the favour of Heaven, and is bounded by temperance and reason. It makes a man happy in himself, and promotes the happiness of all around him. It is the clear and calm sunshine of a mind illuminated by piety and virtue. It crowns all other good dispositions, and comprehends the general effect which they ought to produce on the heart.”
Indeed, true piety is an invaluable treasure; and happy are they who esteem its salutary tendency. It meleorates the morals and disposition, and promotes present and future felicity. It adds dignity, pleasure, and security, to any age. To old age, in particular, it is the most becoming grace, the most substantial support, and the sweetest comfort. It is the only proper and adequate relief of decaying man. Let the old and the young, therefore, who wish to be happy, and preserve so great an acquisition, cultivate it with peculiar care and increasing ardour, as the source of all tranquility and chearfulness; and let it be remembered, that in order to retain it successfully, the whole tenour of life must be guided and attended by the very admirable requisites of temperance, innocence, and simplicity.
A chearful temper irradiates the progress of life, and dispels the evils of sublunary nature. All, indeed, cannot possess so desirable a blessing, without some interruptions, inseparable from the evils of life, to damp its energy and excellence. Afflictions are so diversified, that it were superfluous to enumerate even the most prominent and lamentable: but in these, and all other misfortunes, there is a remedy pointed out for the acceptance of mankind, which, if properly administered, does not fail to alleviate the unavoidable casualties and afflictions necessarily attendant on frail nature. Not a few are rendered wretched and despondent by their own immediate vices, after having exhausted their vile pursuits and prostituted their advancement to a comfortable and peaceful life by practices which religion forbids and wisdom reprobates. We should endeavour to turn our enjoyments to a current altogether serene and pure. Such rational and manly conduct would render us respectable: man would admire a life so exemplary, and God himself would approve it.
I was pleased a few evenings since, on reading the answer of an Italian Bishop, who possessed all the virtues which adorn and embellish human life. He struggled through great difficulties without repining; and met with much opposition in the discharge of his episcopal function, without ever betraying the smallest impatience. An intimate friend, who highly admired these virtues which he thought it impossible to imitate, one day asked the prelate if he could communicate the secret of being always easy?--“Yes,” replied the old man, “I can teach you my secret, and with great facility: it consists in nothing more than making a right use of my eyes.”
My friend begged him to explain himself. “Most willingly,” returned the Bishop--“In whatever state I am, I first of all look up to heaven, and I remember that my principal business here, is to get there: I then look down upon the earth, and call to mind how small a space I shall occupy in it when I come to be interred: I then look abroad into the world, and observe what multitudes there are, who in many respects are more unhappy than myself. Thus I learn where true happiness and innate chearfulness are placed, where all my cares must end, and hew very little reason I have to repine, or to complain.”
From what has been said, we may learn to be chearful; at least, calm and contented; and gratefully enjoy, in moderation, the blessings which Providence has bestowed on us. It is puerile and absurd, to indulge melancholy. Be it, therefore, the endeavour of us all to cherish with the greatest care an ingenuous and mild disposition; and, above all, religion, piety, and virtue. Let it be our constant rule and practice to cultivate self-command; to cultivate humility; to cultivate the milder affections; submit to our reason and our conscience; be christians, and be happy.
T. C.
* * * * *
OBSERVATION.
There can be no pleasure in any enjoyments which the heart cannot approve, and which tends to sink, in our estimation the object of our love: obstruct the idea of perfection and our enthusiasm vanishes: take our esteem and love is at an end.
* * * * * * * * *
+ADDRESS of the TRANSLATOR+ +of+ +The VICTIM of MAGICAL DELUSION+, &c. To His Thinking Readers.
Before the Translator takes leave of the Reader, who will not withhold a tear of tender pity from the Hero of the preceding history, when informed that the mournful tale of his deviations and hapless fate is not the offspring of imaginary fiction, but founded on historical facts, recorded in Abbe Vertot’s excellent history of the Revolution in Portugal; he deems it his duty as a man, and as a Christian, to put his young friends, who will peruse his translation, in a way to avoid the snares of superstition, the dire effects of which are the theme of the preceding history. A careful attention to the four following principles, will be the surest means of steering clear of the dangerous rocks and quicksands of superstition, on which the happiness of so many mortals has been wrecked; the Translator, therefore, begs his readers who value their peace of mind, never to forget
That Order is the Supreme Law of Nature. The motion of the celestial bodies, the ecliptical course of our globe, the regular change of day and night, and of the different seasons, and every object we behold in Nature’s boundless realms, enforce the truth of that principle on the mind of the attentive observer. We no where behold effects without a sufficient cause, no where causes without proportionate effects; no where vacancies nor irregular leaps in the series and concatenation of things; no where beings that are insulated and unallied to the whole; no where supernatural effects nor immediate interpolations of the Godhead, where the regular powers of Nature are sufficient to effect the great views of the Creator. On the contrary, we behold every where the most indissoluble union, and the exactest proportion between cause and effect, every where the most admirable connection between all the smaller and the lesser parts of the whole, and between all the mutations and changes that take place therein: we behold every where fixed, immutable laws, after which all the works of God, the sun and the smallest grain of sand, the worm and man, the king of creation, move and act, every where great ends and means that are proportionate to them. Who can examine the world, without perceiving the most perfect order whereby it is ruled? And what reasonable man would conclude from what he does not know, nor can comprehend of the contrary of those things which he can see and examine? How was it possible that man could successfully carry on his occupations and labours without this unalterable order of things? How could he know the will of his Creator, and how execute it? how conclude with the least security from what is past, of what will be? how compute the success of his undertakings, meditations and exertions? What a dreadful scene of confusion would a world exhibit, wherein the series and the connections of things were constantly interrupted through miracles, or the influence of superior beings. Order is, and ever will be, the supreme law of Nature; respect, therefore, this law, take it for your guide on your pilgrimage, and you will avoid the deviations of superstition.
Superstition misconceives this order of things, expects effects without causes, or from such causes as have no relation to them; it arbitrarily transforms the nature of things, separates what is indissolubly connected, and connect in the same arbitrary manner things which evidently contradict each other, or are not connected at all.
Superstition obliterates the natural limits of created beings, imputing to them qualities and powers which they do not, nor can possess, if they shall be and continue to be what they really are. The superstitious expects every where miracles and exceptions from the stated rules of Nature, and the more wild and confused his fancies are, the more important solutions of mysteries do they appear to him to promise. But is not this scorning the laws of the Supreme Ruler of the world, and censuring the order of things which is founded thereupon? Is not this exposing the world, which is the work of the Supreme wisdom and goodness, to all the dangers and confusions of blind fatality, and destroying all dependance on our reasoning and conclusions, on our actions, hopes and expectations? Is such a manner of thinking consistent with a sound knowledge of God, and of the ways of Providence? If you wish to avoid the delusions and the snares of superstition, that bane of human happiness, of good order, and of peace of mind, O! then respect Order as the supreme law of Nature, as the unalterable will of her Creator and Ruler! Make yourselves acquainted with the regulation of the world, and the eternal laws after which it is governed; suspect every thing that is contrary to the regular course of Nature, and do not foolishly dream that it is in the power of mortal man to change or abrogate it by means of certain words and formulas, or of certain mysterious ceremonies. Endeavour to trace out the natural cause of every effect, and if you cannot find it, at least take care not to yield to the self-conceited idea, that there exists no natural cause, because you are too short-sighted to see it. Let your system of reasoning be governed by the same accurate connection, the same natural combination and order you behold in the whole creation, and you will not be surprised by self-delusion, or the deceptions of impostors.
Reason is the greatest prerogative of Man; a second truth that powerfully can guard us against the wiles of superstition.
What distinguishes us more eminently from all other inhabitants of our globe, what renders us more the resemblance of our Maker than Reason? the faculty of tracing out the causes of things, of forming just ideas of their connections with each other, and of deducing firm conclusions from what we know, of what we do not know? Our sensible organs and sensations we have in common with the beasts of the field; reason only renders us superior to them. Reason enables us to discover the delusions of our senses, or to compare and adjust the impressions we have received from external objects. By the light of reason we can investigate the origin of our feelings, trace out their secret causes and their turns, and raise them to clear notions. Assisted by reason, we can govern every other faculty of our mind, strengthen or weaken, and direct it in a manner which is most favourable for the discovery and examination of truth. Without reason every natural phenomenon would confound us, and every uncommon effect it produces fill our soul with fear and consternation; without reason we should be the sport of our own passions and of those of others.
Superstition does, however, not argue thus. The superstitious and the vile disseminator of superstition, despises reason, decries that sacred prerogative of man, exaggerates her imperfections and weaknesses, hurls her from the throne on which the Creator has placed her, and raises sensation and imagination upon it. The superstitious will not think, not examine nor draw just conclusions; every picture that heats his fancy; every appearance that blinds his senses; every obscure idea that makes his blood ferment, is well received by him; he prefers it to every principle of reason, and every incontestible truth, because they do not amuse, nor heat his senses and his imagination. The more mysterious, the more inconceivable a phenomenon, an experience, doctrine or system is, the more eagerly he takes hold of, and the more firmly does he rely upon them, because they leave his reason at rest, and promise him great discoveries without trouble and exertion. But can this be called honouring human nature and her Creator? is this valuing and making a proper use of the prerogatives that ennoble human nature? Do we not degrade ourselves to an inferior sort of beings when trusting to no other guides but to our senses and feelings, and scorning the dictates of reason? Is it to be wondered at, when the superstitious entangles himself in the mazes of delusion, and falls a victim to a self-created tyrant? If you are desirous to avoid these dark and perilous labyrinths, if you wish to pursue the road to eternity with peace of mind and safety, O! then, honour reason as the greatest treasure of man, and maintain the dignity this gift of all-bountiful heaven confers upon you. Reject, without hesitation, whatever is contrary to generally adopted principles of sound reasoning, however charming and seducing it be in many other respects. Suspect every thing of which you can form no distinct and clear idea, or no notion at all, every thing that obliges you to trust merely to an obscure sensation, to your own feelings, or to those of other people, or to vague pictures of imagination. Suspect every thing that shuns the investigation of the impartial and cool examiner; every thing that conceals itself under the veil of incomprehensible mysteries; suspect every one that attempts to preoccupy you against reason, and advises you not to be guided by her torch in your opinion. If the secrets which are offered to you really are incomprehensible, then you have no interest in them; if they are useful and important truths, then they must admit examination, and be founded on firm arguments.
(To be concluded in our next.)
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MISCELLANY.
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When viewing the race of men upon the large scale, in my spleen, I have divided them into two classes--the deceivers, and the deceived. Indeed so rooted an opinion have I imbibed of the ductility of my fellow-mortals, that I never seriously believed, nor vindicated, what are so proudly styled, the honour and dignity of human nature. Read this, ye unwary, and draw some useful mementos with me. Leave no part of your body undipped in Styx, and be invulnerable.
See then that Politician, wrapped up in the garb of patriotism, mount the rostrum, tickle the stupid multitude into conviction that he is the people’s, the mechanic’s, the poor man’s friend; that he, indignant of his country’s wrongs, alone feels them and asserts her rights. Take off that garb, look through the window of his breast, and see collected, at the apex of his heart, sighs and flutterings after titles, honours, places. Next turn to the bland Physician, who, with nerve of steel himself, feels along the palpitating artery of my Lady Vapour’s, counts its throbs, prescribes a cordial, and receives a guinea for making madam a dupe. Look after that military beau that struts through the Mall. A cockade, a sword, and two epaulets, dazzle the crowd, impose on boys and girls, men and maidens to imagine, that not danger, nor the devil himself could appal such a hero. Carry him to the field of honour, and find him white-liver’d as a hen.
How easily my Lawyer, entrenched with forms and books, gulls clients of their cash, is too stale to repeat. For once in your life, be persuaded, that if you come within the circle of his writs, pleas, bars, demurrers, rejoinders, &c. you will be handsomely stripped, even to your pin-feathers.
I am all gentleness to the sex: were it not that one smile of a Coquette makes me a slave, a flirt of a well-manœuvred fan puts all my resolution asleep, I would not tread on consecrated ground. While I am sensible, that she is playing me on the line, till some other gudgeon come in view, when I shall be shaken off the hook; that I should fancy nought but love in her eyes, on her cheeks but the down of the peach, her hair all auburn and natural, her lips two rose leafs dipped in dew, symmetry in her form, taste in her dress, wit in her repartees, with sincerity in her bosom, is, strange as it is, inconsistent, inconclusive, and unwarrantable. The theatre, is all a cheat. The kings, queens, lords and ladies on the stage, we find, on our streets, are the veriest pieces of mortality. After so much mockery of our senses, not only divinity is fled; something less than mortality remains.
I am the first to confess that Fancy cheats me at her will; not more at the age when I blew the washer-woman’s soap suds through a pipe into beautiful balloons, than at the period at which I am arrived, building palaces on earth, and castles in air. I have roamed, in Imagination’s car, from the seat of Paradise in former, to the present degenerate days: I have searched all, of all ages and countries; and, in abundance have found, as many simple, deluded, pliable, gazing, cheated, weak-sighted mortals, as myself. But as virtue is better than vice, so is delusion, than wretchedness. ’Tis only in regions superior, the soul finds rest, perfection, and happiness.
PROTEUS.
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ELINOR. A Sentimental Sketch.
----“Ah! how cold the wind blows!” said a tall female, as she descended from a white cliff which over-hung the sea. I raised my eyes wistfully to her face. I saw it was traced by the hand of Beauty, and not by the tear of Misery. The fresh breeze blew through her loose garments, and cast her brown hair in disordered, but beautiful masses over her naked bosom: her eyes were sweet and blue, but they rolled with the quickness of phrenzy as she approached. “Who are you?” asked I, with emotion, taking her hand within mine. “They call me Wild Elinor!” answered she, in a soft but hurried voice, eyeing some flowers.--“I am very poor--I have no home--I have lost my lover----
“Beneath yon wave Is Edwin’s grave!”
repeated she, in a musical tone. “But, come back with me, and see it. I strew it every day with flowers, and weep sometimes----But--I can’t now!” She stopped, and sighed; then, putting her hand on her breast---“I am very unhappy, stranger! O my breaking heart!” Her voice died away. I thought reason gleamed in her eye, as she sunk on the sod. I stooped to raise her falling frame. She lifted her large blue orbs towards me with silent gratitude: a soft bloom spread her pallid cheek; and, articulating “Edwin!” fell lifeless on the earth.
“Thy gentle spirit is now at rest!” said I, bending pensively over her clay. “But, oh! what agonies must have torn thy heart, luckless maid! when returning reason shewed thee all thy wretchedness, and when that wretchedness cut the thread of thy existence! Cold, cold is the loveliest form of Nature! closed is the softest eye that ever poured a beam on mine! That form must now moulder in the dust! that eye must no longer open on the world!” The tears gushed as I spoke. I fell on the earth beside her corpse: the warm drops of sensibility washed the marble of her bosom---my heart heaved with agony. I was a man, and I gloried in my tears!----
DE BURGHE.
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[[For sources, see the end of the e-text. This story is also available from Project Gutenberg as e-text 32527.]]
+The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;+ An Interesting Spanish Tale.
Marina, at seventeen, was the most admired beauty in Granada. She was an orphan, and heiress to an immense fortune, under the guardianship of an old and avaricious uncle, whose name was Alonzo, and who passed his days in counting ducats, and his nights in silencing serenades, nocturnally addressed to Marina. His design was to marry her, for the sake of her great fortune, to his own son, Henriquez, who had studied ten years in the university of Salamanca, and was now able to explain Cornelius Nepos tolerably well.
Almost all the cavaliers of Granada were in love with Marina. As they could obtain a sight of her only at mass, the church she frequented was filled with great numbers of the handsomest and most accomplished youths of the country.
One of the most distinguished among these, was Don Alphonso, a captain of cavalry, about twenty, not very rich, but of a family of the first distinction. Handsome, polite, and witty, he attracted the eyes of all the ladies of Granada; though he himself paid attention to none but Marina, who, not insensible to his attachment, began, on her part, to take notice of her admirer.
Two months passed away without the lovers daring to speak; nevertheless, they silently said much. At the end of that time Don Alphonso found means to convey a letter to his mistress; which informed her of what she knew before. The reserved Marina had no sooner read this letter than she sent it back to Don Alphonso; but, as she possessed an excellent memory, she retained every word, and was able to return a very punctual answer, a week afterwards.
A correspondence was now settled between the two lovers; but Don Alphonso was desirous to be still more intimate. He had long solicited permission to converse with Marina through her lattices. Such is the custom in Spain, where the windows are of much more use during the night than in the day. They are the places of rendezvous. When the street is vacant and still, the lover wraps himself up in his cloak, and, taking his sword, invokes love and night to favour him, and proceeds to some low lattice, grated on the side next the street, and secured on the inside by shutters.
He waits not long before the window opens softly, and the charming maid appears. She asks, in a tremulous voice, if any one is there. Her lover, transported at her condescension, endeavours to dispel her fears. They talk in a whisper, and repeat the same thing a hundred times. Day, at length, approaches, and they must separate.
Marina’s lattice was on the ground floor, and opened into a narrow passage, where the houses were ill built, and only inhabited by the lower class of people. Don Alphonso’s old nurse happened to occupy a tenement directly opposite the window of Marina. Don Alphonso, therefore repaired to his nurse. ‘My good woman,’ said he, ‘I have been much to blame to suffer you to live so long in this miserable habitation; but I am now determined to make you amends, by giving you an apartment in my own house. Come, and reside in that, and leave me to dispose of this.’
The worthy woman could not refrain from tears, and, for a long time, refused; but, at last, overcome by his solicitations, she consented to the exchange, with every expression of gratitude to her benefactor.
Never did any monarch enter his palace with more satisfaction than Don Alphonso did the hovel of his nurse.
Early in the evening Marina appeared at her lattice. She promised to repair thither every other night, and she kept her word. These delightful interviews served only to fan the flame of love, and, very soon, the lovers nights were constantly passed in pleasing conversation, and their days in writing passionate epistles.
Just at this time, Henriquez, the intended husband of Marina, arrived from Salamanca; bringing with him a declaration of his passion in Latin, which had been written for him by the head of his college.
The lovers consulted each other on this event at the lattice; but, in the mean time, the old guardian had drawn up a contract of marriage, and a day was fixed on for the celebration of the nuptials of Marina and Henriquez.
In these circumstances, the only remedy was to fly into Portugal. This was determined; and it was also settled that the two lovers, on arriving at Lisbon, should first marry, and afterwards have recourse to the law, against the guardian.
Marina was to carry with her a box of jewels, which had been left her by her mother. These were very valuable, and sufficient to maintain the happy pair till the decision of their law-suit. To effect this escape, it was necessary to procure the key of the lattice, and in this Marina succeeded.
It was resolved also, that the next night, at eleven, Don Alphonso, after having appointed horses to wait without the city, should come and fetch Marina; who should descend from the window, into the arms of her lover, and immediately set off for Portugal.
Don Alphonso spent the whole day in preparations for his departure. Marina, on her part, was equally busy, in getting ready the little box she was to take with her. She was very careful to secret in it a very fine emerald, which had been given her by her lover.
Marina and her box were ready by eight in the evening; and, before ten, Don Alphonso, who had already provided carriages on the road to Andalusia, arrived at the appointed spot: his heart beating with perturbation and hope.
As he approached the place, he heard persons calling for assistance, and perceived two men attacked by five armed assassins. The brave and humane Alphonso forgot his own affairs to defend the lives of the assaulted. He wounded two, and put the other three to flight.
What was his surprise, on more attentively viewing the persons he had delivered, to perceive they were no other than Henriquez, and Alonzo, the guardian of Marina. Some desperate young cavalier of the city, who was in love with Marina, knowing it was intended that Henriquez should espouse her, had hired bravoes, to assassinate them; and, had it not been for the valour of Don Alphonso, the young scholar and the old miser would have found it no easy matter to escape.
Alphonso did his utmost to avoid their grateful acknowledgments, but Henriquez, who piqued himself on having learned politeness at Salamanca, swore he should not leave them that night. Alphonso, in despair, had already heard the clock strike eleven. Alas! he knew not the misfortune that had happened.
One of the bravoes, whom he had put to flight, had passed muffled up in his cloak, near the lattice of Marina. The night was extremely dark, and the unfortunate beauty, having opened the window, imagined him to be Don Alphonso, and presented him the box with joyful impatience: ‘Take our diamonds,’ said she, ‘while I descend.’
At the word diamonds, the bravo suddenly stopped, took the box, without speaking a word, and, while Marina was getting out of the window, fled with the utmost precipitation.
Imagine the surprise of Marina, when she found herself alone in the street, and saw nothing of him whom she had taken for Don Alphonso. She thought, at first, he had left her, to avoid raising suspicion or alarm. She, therefore, hastily walked to a little distance, looked round on every side, and called in a low voice. But no Alphonso could she see; no lover could she hear.
She was now seized with the most alarming apprehensions. She knew not whether it were most adviseable to return home, or endeavour to find the horses and attendants of Don Alphonso, that were waiting without the city. She continued to walk forwards, in the utmost uncertainty and distress, till she had lost herself in the streets; while her fears were augmented by the darkness and silence of the night.
At length she met a person, whom she asked if she were far from the gate of the city. The stranger conducted her thither; but she found nobody waiting as she expected.
She dared not yet accuse her lover of deceiving her: still she hoped he was at no great distance. She proceeded, therefore, along the road, fearful of every bush, and calling Don Alphonso at every step; but the farther she walked the more she was bewildered; for she had come out of the city on the side opposite to the Portugal road.
In the mean time Don Alphonso found himself unable to get away from the grateful Henriquez and his father. They would not suffer him to leave them for a moment, but obliged him to enter the house with them; to which Alphonso, fearful of betraying his intent, and frustrating his dearest hopes; and imagining too that Marina might be soon acquainted with the reason of his delay, most reluctantly consented.
Alonzo hastens to the chamber of his ward, to inform her of the danger he had escaped. He calls, but receives no answer; he enters her apartment, and finds the lattice open; his cries collect the servants, and the alarm is immediately given, that Marina is missing.
Alphonso, in despair, immediately offered to go in quest of her. Henriquez, thanking him for the concern he expressed, declared his resolution to accompany him. Alphonso suggested, that the probability of finding her would be greater, if they took different roads. Accordingly, he hastened to rejoin his domestics: and not doubting but Marina had taken the road to Portugal, put his horses at full speed. But their swiftness only removed him farther from the object of his love; while Henriquez galloped towards the Alpuxarian mountains, the way which Marina had actually taken.
In the mean time, Marina continued to wander, disconsolate, along the road that led to the Alpuxares. Presently she heard the clattering noise of approaching horses; and at first, imagined it might be her beloved Alphonso: but, afterward, fearful of discovery, or apprehensive of robbers, she concealed herself, trembling, behind some bushes.
Here she presently saw Henriquez pass by, followed by a number of servants. Shuddering at the danger of being again in the power of Alonzo, if she continued in the high road, she turned aside, and took refuge in a thick wood.
The Alpuxares are a chain of mountains, which extend from Granada to the Mediterranean. They are inhabited only by a few peasants. To these, fear and terror conducted the unfortunate maid. A dry and stony soil, with a few oak trees, thinly scattered: some torrents and echoing cataracts, and a number of wild goats, leaping from precipice to precipice; are the only objects which present themselves at day-break to the eyes of Marina. Exhausted, at length, by fatigue and vexation, she sat down in the cavity of a rock, through the clifts of which a limped water gently oozed.
The silence of this grotto, the wildness of the landscape around, the hoarse and distant murmur of several cascades, and the noise of the water near her, falling drop by drop into the bason it had hollowed beneath, all conspired to excite in Marina the most melancholy sensations. Now she thought herself cruelly abandoned by her lover; and now she persuaded herself that some mistake had happened: ‘It certainly could not be Alphonso,’ said she, ‘to whom I gave my diamonds. I must have been mistaken. No doubt he is now far hence, seeking me with anxiety and distraction; while I, as far distant from him, am perishing here.’
While thus mournfully ruminating, Marina, on a sudden, heard the sound of a rustic flute. Attentively listening, she soon heard an harmonious voice, deploring, in plaintive strains, the infidelity of his mistress, and the miseries of disappointed love.
‘And who can be more sensible of this than myself?’ said Marina, leaving the grotto, in search of this unfortunate lover.
She found a young goatherd, sitting at the foot of a willow, his eyes bedewed with tears, and intent on the water as it issued from its rocky source. In his hand he held a flagalet, and by his side lay a staff and a little parcel.
‘Shepherd,’ said Marina, ‘you are no doubt forsaken by your Mistress: have pity on one abandoned, like yourself, and conduct me to some habitation, where I may procure sustenance, at least, though not repose!’
(To be continued.)
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
THE CRIMINAL.
* * *
“And now, which way so ere I look or turn Scenes of incessant horror strike my view; I hear my famish’d babes expiring groan, I hear my wife the bursting sigh renew!”
Ah! cruel fortune, thou hast driven me to this! Ah, my father! thou wilt not relieve my wants, because I wedded the woman of my choice and not of thine. Once was I stiled my father’s darling, the son for whom he only lived; and yet, for acting once contrary to his will, he banished me his presence, with a pension barely sufficient to support life--That pension now has ceased; for what reason I am totally ignorant. An amiable wife and two children are perishing for want, and unless I bring them something, they cannot exist. I went to my father’s house, with an intent of informing him of our wretched condition: I sent in my name, he would not see me!--Must my babes starve? They are young, and my wife lies ill--and I am indeed a wretch for thus joining her to poverty!--
Here I am alone on this dreary heath--and what have I brought with me?--A pistol charged with death.--What light was that?--My fears transform every thing into enemies--It is the sun! Why dost thou shed thy beams on one, whom dire necessity hath made the foe of man?--
* * * * * *
Here I am, plunged yet deeper in this forest’s gloom, like the insidious serpent thirsting for his prey. On man--on a being formed like myself, am I to avenge my want of bread?--My family must live--despair, do what thou wilt!----
--Hark! what noise is that? Sure it resembled a horse’s tread. Undone man, what fate hath bid thee pass this way? He approaches--how unlike me.--Serenity is pictured in his countenance. He little thinks, that like the harmless bird who flies unto the fowler’s snare, he is hastening to destruction. Oh! My wife!--My children!--He comes!--
--“Stop, traveller!”----
L. B.
(To be continued.)
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+The MENTAL and PERSONAL QUALIFICATIONS of a HUSBAND.+
Great good nature, good humour, and good sense.
Lively by all means.
Stupid by no means.
His person agreeable rather than handsome.
No great objection to six feet, with an exact symmetry of parts.
Always clean, but not foppish in his dress.
Youth promises a duration of happiness, therefore is agreeable.
Well read in the classics, but no pedant.
Experimentally acquainted with natural philosophy.
A tolerable ear for music, but no fidler. I must repeat it again, no fidling husband.
An easy and unaffected politeness.
No bully; just as much courage as is necessary to defend his own and his wife’s honour.
May fortune smile on the man of my wishes.
A free thinker in every thing, except in matters of religion.
These, with Mr. Pope’s definition of wit, are the only qualifications I require in the man I intend to honour with my hand and heart.
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NEW-YORK.
* * *
MARRIED,
On Thursday the 6th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, SAMUEL ALDWILL SMITH, Esq. to Mrs. ANN WOOD, both passengers in the Belvidere, from London.
On Saturday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Kunzie, Mr. JOHN HARKEY, of Albany, to Miss HANNAH ADAMSON, of this city.
On Thursday evening the 13th inst. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Captain MOSES TAYLOR, to Miss MARGARET TOWT, both of this city.
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TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.
[->] The Patrons of the WEEKLY MAGAZINE, who are not apprised of its place of publication being removed, and at any time have commands for the Editors, will please to call at No. 358, Pearl-street, near the Friends meeting house:--where every attention will be paid to their favors. A Letter Box is prepared for the reception of the productions of our Literary Friends, through whose assistance we hope to communicate the modern progress of Literature in this city; the remarks of the ingenious, and the epistles of the pertinent, are always admissible, when within the bounds of modest reserve. The “Verses addressed to Miss A---- B----” shall be punctually honored in our next.
Those Subscribers who have it in contemplation to change their place of residence the 1st of May, are requested to leave their address at the office, or with the carrier of this MAGAZINE.
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METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 9th to the 15th inst.
THERMOMETOR observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 April 9 42 54 nw. do. clear do. h. w. l. do. 10 36 48 nw. do. clear do. h. wd. do. 11 38 56 w. do. clear do. h. wd. do. 12 44 48 nw. se. clear cloudy l. w. do. 13 41 38 e. do. ra. do. h. wd. do. p. r. 14 35 58 n. w. clear do. l. wd. do. 15 47 58 sw. s. clr. cloudy l. wd. do.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
A RECEIPT FOR WRITING NOVELS.
Take a heroine, free from the tincture of vice, Renown’d for fine feeling, in sentiment nice; No matter what country her birth may be found in, But be sure that her name is quite grand and high-sounding; Make a peevish old crab, that at nothing would faulter, And who fully deserves for to swing from a halter; Let him mark all the letters that she will deposit, And find her, and the hero, lock’d up in a closet: Then quote Hamlet’s Ghost, but don’t tire yourself much, Only make old Curmudgeon as stiff as a crutch: Then such kneeling, and praying, together you jumble, And you bring off your lovers so meek and so humble. If you can attempt it--why bring in a poem, And if you have talents, the rhyming will show ’em; Thus, subscribers will croud in the bard-chearing roll, And each critic shall think it quite fine on his soul. A Confidant too, you must introduce, Her name must be sprightly, her character spruce; And if you should want for to lengthen the action, Let the maid court with John, for your own satisfaction; Let the reader be drown’d in a reverie deep, But I hope o’er your book he won’t quite fall asleep: Then rouse him at once with soniferous thunder, But when on the high horse, have a care, don’t fall under. Let a messenger enter as pale as a ghost! With a letter of woe, that would soften a post-- The heroine reads, all her colour is fled, John, the drops! or Belinda is certainly dead! For her lover, quite wearied, and sick of his life, Had determin’d to end all this trouble and strife; You may say that he took a pestiferous vorax, Or planted a bullet just under his thorax! But don’t, for your life, let the fame to go loose, That your hero would tie up his neck in a noose; That death is too common, beside, ’tis quite wrong, For pois’ning, or shooting, is now quite the ton: Tho’ ev’ry man dies when he loses his breath, Yet there ought to be some small decorum in death; ’Tis so rude for to step in a trice to your grave, And not have the politeness to come take your leave; For some are so brutish, such cormorants quite, They don’t think it worth while for to bid us good night.
* * * * *
SONNET. By Holcroft.
Though pale and wan my cheeks appear, Though dead to joy and hope I live, Though the deep sigh and trickling tear, Are all the signs of life I give;
The blood will blushing spread my face, Again my languid pulse will beat, If, in some unexpected place, I cruel Laura chance to meet.
Thus will the touch of homicide, As we in ancient legends read, Recal the flowing purple tide, And make the lifeless body bleed
* * * * * * * * *
TO A HOG--ON HIS BIRTH-DAY
Never as yet the unjust muse (As if by those old precepts bound Which tie the superstitious Jews,) One line to praise a HOG has found.
Never till now, as I remember, Has any poet sung a swine, O, Hog! this twentieth of November, I celebrate--the day is thine.
Three years ago thy little eyes Peep’d on the day with optics weak; Three years ago thy infant cries, By mortal men were call’d a squeak.
Ev’n then the muse prophetic saw Thy youthful days, thy latter state, And sigh’d at the relentless law, That doom’d thee to an early fate.
Yes, the fond muse has anxious look’d, While thou a roaster, careless play’dst, Thoughtless how soon thou might’st be cook’d, (A fine appearance then thou mad’st.)
The dangers of a roasting past, She saw thee rear’d a handsome shoat; Saw thee a full-grown hog at last, And heard thee grunt a deeper note.
Thy charms mature with joy she view’d, As waddling on short legs about, Or rolling in delicious mud, Or rooting with sagacious snout.
But thy last hour is near at hand; Before a year, a month, a week, Is past, ’tis Fate’s severe command, That death shall claim thy latest squeak.
And this shall be thy various doom; Thou shalt be roasted, fry’d and boil’d, Black puddings shall thy blood become, Thy lifeless flesh shall pork be styl’d:
Thy ears and feet in souse shall lie; Minc’d sausage meat thy guts shall cram; And each plump, pretty, waddling thigh, Salted and smoak’d, shall be a ham.
Yet it is fruitless to complain: “Death cuts down all, both great and small;” And hope and fear alike are vain, To those who by his stroke must fall.
Full many a hero, young and brave, Like thee, O Hog! resign’d his breath; The noble presents nature gave, Form’d but a surer mark for death.
Achilles met an early doom; Euryalus and Nisus, young, Were slain; but honour’d was their tomb; That, Homer, these, sweet Maro sung.
On the rude cliffs of proud Quebec, In glory’s arm Montgomery dy’d; And Freedom’s genius loves to deck His early grave with verdant pride.
Nor shalt thou want a sprig of bays To crown thy name. When set agog, The muse shall tune eccentric lays, And, pleas’d, IMMORTALIZE A HOG.
NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co.+ +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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, April 26, 1797.+ [+No. 95.+
For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
ON MATRIMONY. ADDRESSED TO MR. C. L.
You are desirous, you say, to see a small sketch and exemplification on the benefits incumbent and to be experienced by embracing the connubial state of matrimony.--I do not profess to be a competent judge in pourtraying the perfections and incomprehensible felicities which might be enjoyed by the sweet acquiescence of enlightened minds; but can, by a slight survey of those incidents which has happened to excite my wandering attention, anticipate those domestic enjoyments which are experienced by the moral and virtuous pair. I shall not contend that all who embrace the matrimonial state, enjoy that pure bliss for which such a state was morally intended; those who come short of this privilege, are contracted in their ideas; they are incapable of comprehending and bringing into sweet subordination the faculties of the human mind--and from hence, in time, arises a disgusting aversion to the sensation and impulse which once stole upon their hearts, and stimulated them with an eagerness to possess the object of their wishes; every trifling incident tends to exhilirate evil propensities, and almost all their converse becomes one continual series of discord and contention: the spark of affection is now extinguished, and their existence becomes, as it were, insupportable.--I readily admit, that such a compact of misery is very inauspicious, and none more disgusting and unhappy.
But to enjoy the state of matrimony to the greatest advantage and fullest extent, I think it propitious to be well acquainted with the disposition of our own hearts; the guidance of our passions we should be masters of, and always keep reason in our right hand, and evil propensities at a distance. The feelings which are dishonourable, and are in direct aversion to puerile happiness, may, at intervals, strive to obtain a seat in the hearts of the most virtuous pair; but, with a little exertion are defeated and put at defiance--and now it is that those joys which are almost supreme and insurpassible take up a residence in their breasts; they make it their chief and greatest blessing to cultivate their hearts in love and accordant unison--their social hours roll on in joyous emotions--they taste the blessings of a lasting union in affection and disposition--they improve the hours of solitude by endearing and virtuous precepts; and their hearts are ever engaged to eternize each others happiness, both temporal and spiritual.--With what ecstacy do they behold themselves possessed of a little progeny; who, by their wise precepts, are initiated into morals that enlighten and beautify the soul; they become ornaments to society, and a soothing balm to the declining mortality of their revered parents. What state in existence is so desirable and is productive of such beneficent repose to the mind that was once prone to wander through the thick mazes of perplexities, and encounter those versatile haunts of a disturbed imagination? I hope you will agree with me in my conclusion, that the matrimonial state, when supported inviolable by enlightened hearts and conceptions, is the greatest felicity in the reach of mortals, that existence can afford.
Yours, &c.
LAVENSTEIN.
New-York, April 20, 1797.
* * * * *
MAN OF PLEASURE.
To a man of pleasure every moment appears to be lost, which partakes not of the vivacity of amusement.--To connect one plan of gaiety with another is his sole study, till in a very short time nothing remains but to tread the same beaten round,--to enjoy what they have already enjoyed,--and to see what they have often seen.
Pleasures thus drawn to the dregs become vapid and tasteless. What might have pleased long, if enjoyed with temperance and mingled with retirement, being devoured with such eager haste, speedily surfeits and disgusts. Hence, having run through a rapid course of pleasure, after having glittered for a few years in the foremost line of public amusements, such men are the most apt to fly at last to a melancholy retreat; not led by religion or reason, but driven by disappointed hopes and exhausted spirits to the pensive conclusion, that all is vanity.
* * * * * * * * *
+ADDRESS of the TRANSLATOR+ +of+ +The VICTIM of MAGICAL DELUSION+, &c. To His Thinking Readers.
(Concluded from page 331.)
Pursue every ray of light on the road to the sanctuary of truth, while you can account to yourselves for every step you proceed, and if necessary, can return to the spot whence you started; but do not venture on dark roads, where, with every step you proceed, you may lose your way, or be precipitated into a bottomless abyss. A few clear truths that force themselves on your understanding as such, and do not infringe on the sacred rights of your reason, are certainly of far greater value, and can guide you safer than all occult arts and sciences that force you to renounce the use of your understanding, and to walk in the dark. Keep firm to the former, and you will maintain your dignity, and be out of the reach of superstitious delusions.
Man is destinated for an active and a laborious life, and whatever makes him relinquish, or dislike it, removes him from his destination. This is the third principle I wish to recommend to the consideration of the reader who wishes to guard against the insiduous wiles of superstition. Man is not designed to lead an idle and contemplative life, but to exert his faculties, and to acquire the means of happiness. He is destinated to use all his mental and corporeal faculties, to apply them to useful occupations, and thus to unfold and to improve them. He therefore, never can grow reasonable and wise, nor virtuous, rich, and powerful, without his own uninterrupted exertions to become so. He must learn every thing through meditation and diligent application, and acquire every thing with trouble and labour, and only what he thus learns and acquires, he can consider as his property, which he can rely upon, and use with safety. Man must not expect the interaction of physical, or moral miracles, for the sake of his instruction and support, the increase of his wealth, or the restoration of his health; for if that were the case, he neither would, nor ever could attain here below, that degree of perfection he is designed to acquire. Man shall not overleap a single step on the scale of perfection, but approach the great mark only by degrees, and with careful steps. Whoever will pay due attention to the institutions and regulations God has made for the improvement and the education of man, will be convinced of the truth of this principle.
If, therefore, you wish to execute the will of God, and to attain the destination for which you are designed, O! then, beware of superstition; for it goes diametrically against the institutions and regulations which God has made for the happiness of man, subverts the order of things, and wants to lead you to the mark without the employment of means, or at least by unnatural means; promises to conduct you to the goal of happiness on a less difficult road than nature has designed. Superstition promises you wisdom, knowledge, advantages and eminent qualities, which are to cost you little or nothing, and which you are to obtain without the least exertion and trouble, through faith, hope, or mechanical processes and ceremonies. This is, however, not the course of nature, is not the will of the Creator, nor the damnation of man; it is the hope and the wish of the lazy and weak, the language of him who is averse from labour and trouble, and yet wants to reap the fruits arising therefrom. Apply your faculties according to your destination, apply them with diligence and chearfulness, perform your duly faithfully, and enquire for wisdom and knowledge, wealth and honour, health and power, on the road of activity and usefulness, for this is the only path that leads to happiness and human perfection.
The last principle I wish to recommend to you as a safeguard against superstition, is: Man is not designed to foreknow the future events of his life! and how could he know, by what means foresee them? if that should be possible, the powers of his understanding, his reason and his knowledge, either must be so much enlarged that he could form the most accurate ides of the great concatenation of all possible events and causes throughout the creation, and then he would not be a mortal, that is a limited being; (this, however, would be a kind of omniscience, which is the sole prerogative of the Godhead) or he must be inspired in a miraculous manner by the Supreme Being, which would infinitely multiply miracles and wonders, and subvert the wise laws of nature. But let us suppose the Godhead should really give it in the power of man to explore his future fate, would he be the happier for it? No, undoubtedly not! a knowledge of that kind rather would prove the greatest bane to the happiness of the individual, and of the human race in general. The villain would grow more daring, and scorn all divine and human laws, if he could foresee that no temporal bad consequences would attend his vile course, and every one that could foreknow the blessings which futurity has in store for him, would anticipate the joys that await him; so that the expected happiness, when realized, would charm him infinitely less than if it had surprised him unawares. Many great geniuses, that through their talents have proved blessings to the world, and, notwithstanding their unremitted exertions to raise a fortune, through their services to human kind, lived and died in poverty, would have relaxed in their zealous endeavours to render themselves useful to the state, if they could have foreseen their fate; the world would have been deprived of the fruits of their diligence, and despair would have utterly destroyed every remnant of comfort which the ignorance of their future fate has left them; while, on the contrary, heaven-born hope gave wings to their genius, and animated them to pursue their career with redoubled alacrity. If the favourite of fortune could foresee that the fickle Goddess never will prove inconstant to him, would this not render him proud and overbearing? would not the firm persuasion that the uninterrupted continuation of his happy situation would entirely exempt him from every application to the kindness and assistance of his fellow creatures, render him neglectful in his endeavours to preserve their good opinion? while, on the contrary, the uncertainty in which he is, with respect to his future fate, makes it his interest to gain the affection of his fellow creatures. If, on the other side, the favourite of fortune could with certainty foresee that a time will inevitably arrive when his present happy situation will be overclouded, his wealth lost, his body racked with excruciating pains, &c. &c. would not this fore knowledge poison the enjoyment of his present happiness, and render him miserable even in the lap of bliss? In short, would not the possibility of exploring future events destroy the felicity of numberless mortals, banish hope, that sweet comforter, and oftentimes, the only remaining friend of the unfortunate, from this sublunary world? Would it not frequently render vice more daring, and break the only staff of suffering virtue? If, therefore, we are persuaded that a good God rules the world, and that the Supreme Being watches with a paternal care over the felicity of mankind, we cannot, we dare not expect, that he ever will suffer man to remove the mysterious veil that hides futurity from mortal sight! Some of my readers will, however, perhaps object that, notwithstanding the many bad consequences which inevitably must arise from a foreknowledge of future events, man would, at the same time, be enabled to avoid at least those misfortunes that can be guarded off by vigilance and prudence. I grant that man would be more capable to take measures against future evils, but experience authorises me to maintain, that but very few would make such a wise use of that knowledge. Did not the holy seers of yore, did not our Saviour foretel the Jews the dire consequences of their perverseness? and yet did they not bid defiance to the judgments of punishing Heaven? Does not every Christian know that vice leads to eternal misery hereafter? and do we not every day behold, notwithstanding the general belief in that awful truth, thousands and thousands disregard the warning voice of Heaven, and pursue the road to eternal destruction with unabated ardour? Is it to be expected that man, who risks his eternal salvation for the gratification of his desires during a short and uncertain life, that man who does not tremble at the certainty of endless misery would be rendered more careful in the choice of his enjoyments, and in the mode of his proceedings through the fore-knowledge of future temporal woe? Let us therefore, never presume, nor even wish to pry into futurity, let us not revolt against the express command of the great Ruler of the Universe: not regard them that have familiar spirits, nor seek after wizards and suspect every one who promises to remove the veil from the hidden face of futurity. Let us look upon those daring mortals as the greatest enemies to human happiness, as rebels against the law of heaven, and as impostors who abuse our credulity, and under the cloak of occult sciences, make us subservient to their private views. Let us not be astonished when we now and then find some of their predictions realized; but always consider that this is owing merely to accident, and that one truth they utter, is overbalanced by numberless lies. Let us act up to the best of our knowledge, fulfil our duties to God and men, confide in the paternal care of Providence, and he that rules the fate of the whole creation, will stand our friend and protector in the time of need.
* * * * *
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 people’s pinchings; but if a ring on my little finger has charms enough in and about it to keep half a score or 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.
MARCUS.
* * * * *
ANECDOTE.
An Irishman of the name of Scannel, who wished to get rid of his wife, wrote her a melancholy letter by the last mail from the West-Indies, in which he stated, that he died of the yellow fever after three days illness, and recommended her, and children, to the care of Providence and his friends.
* * * * * * * * *
REMARKABLE SPEECH OF ADAHOONZOU, KING OF DAHOMY, An Interior Nation of Africa,
On Hearing What Was Passing in England Respecting the Slave-Trade.
I admire the reasoning of the white men; but, with all their sense, it does not appear that they have thoroughly studied the nature of the blacks, whose disposition differs as much from that of the whites, as their colour. The same great Being formed both; and since it hath seemed convenient for him to distinguish mankind by opposite complexions, it is a fair conclusion to presume, that there may be as great a disagreement in the qualities of their minds; there is likewise a remarkable difference between the countries which we inhabit. You, Englishmen, for instance, as I have been informed, are surrounded by the ocean, and by this situation seem intended to hold communication with the whole world, which you do, by means of your ships; whilst we Dahomans, being placed on a large continent, and hemmed in amidst a variety of other people, of the same complexion, but speaking different languages, are obliged, by the sharpness of our swords, to defend ourselves from their incursions, and punish the depredations they make on us. Such conduct in them is productive of incessant wars. Your countrymen, therefore, who alledge that we go to war for the purpose of supplying your ships with slaves, are grossly mistaken.
You think you can work a reformation, as you call it, in the manners of the blacks; but you ought to consider the disproportion between the magnitude of the two countries; and then you will soon be convinced of the difficulties that must be surmounted, to change the system of such a vast country as this. We know you are a brave people, and that you might bring over a great many of the blacks to your opinions, by the points of your bayonets; but to effect this, a great many must be put to death, and numerous cruelties must be committed, which we do not find to have been the practice of the whites: besides, that this would militate against the very principle which is professed by those who wish to bring about a reformation.
In the name of my ancestors and myself I aver, that no Dahoman ever embarked in war merely for the sake of procuring wherewithal to purchase your commodities. I, who have not been long master of this country, have, without thinking of the market, killed many thousands, and I shall kill many thousands more. When policy or justice requires that men be put to death, neither silk, nor coral, nor brandy, nor cowries, can be accepted as substitutes for the blood that ought to be spilt for example sake: besides, if white men chuse to remain at home, and no longer visit this country for the same purpose that has usually brought them hither, will black men cease to make war? I answer, by no means; and if there be no ships to receive their captives, what will become of them? I answer, for you, they will be put to death. Perhaps you may be asked, how will the blacks be furnished with guns and powder? I reply by another question, had we not clubs, and bows, and arrows, before we knew white men? Did not you see me make custom--annual ceremony--for Weebaigah, the third King, of Dahomy? And did you not observe, on the day such ceremony was performing, that I carried a bow in my hand, and a quiver filled with arrows on my back? These were the emblems of the times; when, with such weapons, that brave ancestor fought and conquered all his neighbours. God made war for all the world; and every kingdom, large or small, has practised it more or less, though perhaps in a manner unlike, and upon different principles. Did Weebaigah sell slaves? No; his prisoners were all killed to a man. What else could he have done with them? Was he to let them remain in his country, to cut the throats of his subjects? This would have been wretched policy indeed; which, had it been adopted, the Dahoman name would have long ago been extinguished, instead of becoming, as it is at this day, the terror of surrounding nations. What hurts me most is, that some of your people have maliciously represented us in books, which never die; alledging that we sell our wives and children, for the sake of procuring a few kegs of brandy. No! we are shamefully belied, and I hope you will contradict, from my mouth, the scandalous stories that have been propagated; and tell posterity that we have been abused. We do, indeed, sell to the white men a part of our prisoners, and we have a right so to do. Are not all prisoners at the disposal of their captors? and are we to blame, if we send delinquents to a far country? I have been told you do the same. If you want no more slaves from us, why cannot you be ingenuous, and tell the plain truth; saying, that the slaves you have already purchased are sufficient for the country for which you bought them; or that the artists, who used to make fine things, are all dead, without having taught any body to make more? But for a parcel of men, with long heads, to sit down in England, and frame laws for us, and pretend to dictate how we are to live, of whom they know nothing, never having been in a black man’s country during the whole course of their lives, is to me somewhat extraordinary! No doubt they must have been biassed by the report of some one who has had to do with us; who, for want of a due knowledge of the treatment of slaves, found that they died on his hands, and that his money was lost; and seeing others thrive by the traffic, he, envious of their good luck, has vilified both black and white traders.
You have seen me kill many men at the customs; and you have often observed delinquents at Grigwhee, and others of my provinces, tied, and sent up to me. I kill them, but do I ever insist on being paid for them? Some heads I order to be placed at my door, others to be strewed about the market-place, that people may stumble upon them, when they little expect such a sight. This gives a grandeur to my customs, far beyond the display of fine things which I buy; this makes my enemies fear me, and gives me such a name in the Bush*. Besides, if I neglect this indispensable duty, would my ancestors suffer me to live? would they not trouble me day and night, and say, that I sent nobody to serve them? that I was only solicitous about my own name, and forgetful of my ancestors? White men are not acquainted with these circumstances; but I now tell you, that you may hear, and know, and inform your countrymen, why customs are made, and will be made, as long as black men continue to possess their own country: the few that can be spared from this necessary celebration, we sell to the white men; and happy, no doubt, are such, when they find themselves on the path for Grigwhee, to be disposed of to the Europeans--“We shall still drink water†,” say they to themselves; “white men will not kill us; and we may even avoid punishment, by serving our new masters with fidelity.”
[* The country expression for the woods.]
[† Meaning--“We shall still live.”]
[[Sources:
Original: 1793 History of Dahomy by Archibald Dalzel. Underlying source: “collected from the communications of” Lionel Abson, governor since 1766 (“Whydah” aka Ouidah).
Background: “Whydah” is also spelled Ouidah. “Adahoonzou” or Adanzu died in 1789 of smallpox. Notes: The interpolated words “annual ceremony” after “make Custom” are not in the original. The word “Customs” is capitalized throughout. Footnotes are in the original.]]
* * * * *
+The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;+ An Interesting Spanish Tale.
(Continued from page 336.)
‘Alas! Madam,’ answered the goatherd, ‘I wish it were in my power to conduct you to the village of Gadara, behind these rocks: but you will not ask me to return thither, when you are informed that my mistress is this day to be married to my rival. I am going to leave these mountains, never to behold them more; and I carry nothing with me but my flute, a change of dress, which I have in this parcel, and the memory of the happiness which I have lost.’
This short account suggested a new project to Marina.
‘My friend,’ said she to the goatherd ‘you have no money, which you will certainly want, when you have left this country. I have a few ducats, which I will divide with you, if you let me have the dress in your parcel.’
The goatherd accepted the offer. Marina gave him a dozen ducats, and, having learned the road to Gadara, took her leave of the despairing lover, and returned into the grotto to put on her disguise.
She came out habited in a vest of chamois skin, with a shepherd’s wallet hanging by her side, and, on her head, a hat ornamented with ribbands. In this attire she appeared yet more beautiful than when adorned with brocades and jewels. She took the road to the village, and, stopping in the market-place, enquired of the peasants, if they knew of any farmer who wanted a servant.
The inhabitants surround her, and survey the stranger with admiration. The girls express their surprise at the beauty of her flowing ringlets. Her elegant form, her graceful manner, the brilliancy of her eyes, even though dejected, their superior intelligence and mild benignity, astonish and delight all beholders. No one could conceive from whence came this beautiful youth. One imagines him a person of high distinction in disguise; another, a prince in love with some shepherdess; while the schoolmaster, who was at the same time the poet of the village, declared it must be Apollo, sent down, a second time, to keep sheep among mortals!
Marina, who assumed the name of Marcello, was not long in want of a master. She was hired by an aged alcaid, or judge of the village, esteemed one of the worthiest men in the whole province.
This honest countryman soon contracted the warmest friendship for Marina. He scarcely suffered her to tend his flock for a month before he gave her an employment within his house, in which the pretended Marcello behaved with so much propriety and fidelity, that he was equally beloved by his master, and the servants.
Before he had lived here six months, the alcaid, who was more than eighty, left the management of all his affairs to Marcello: he even asked his opinion in all the causes that came before him, and never had any alcaid decided with so much justice as he, from the time he permitted himself to be guided by the advice of Marcello, who was proposed as an example to all the village: his affability, his pleasing manner, and his good sense, gained every heart. ‘See the excellent Marcello,’ cried the mothers to their sons, ‘he is perpetually employed in rendering his old master’s age happy, and never neglects his duty, to run after the shepherdesses!’
Two years passed away in this manner. Marina, whose thoughts were continually employed on her lover, had sent a shepherd, in whom she could confide, to Granada, to procure information concerning Don Alphonso, Alonzo, and Henriquez. The shepherd brought word back, that Alonzo was dead, Henriquez married; and that Alphonso had not been seen or heard of for two years.
Marina now lost all hope of again beholding her lover, and, happy in being able to pass her days in that village, in the bosom of peace and friendship, had resolved to bid an eternal adieu to love, when the old alcaid, her master, fell dangerously ill. Marcello attended his last moments with all the affection of a son, and the good old man behaved to him like a grateful father: he died and left all he possessed to the faithful Marcello. But his will was far from being a consolation to his heir.
The whole village lamented the alcaid, and, after his funeral rites were celebrated, the inhabitants assembled to choose a successor. In Spain certain villages have the right of nominating their own alcaid, whose office it is to decide their differences, and take cognizance of greater crimes by arresting and examining the offenders, and delivering them over to the superior judges, who generally confirm the sentence of those rustic magistrates; for good laws are always perfectly consonant to simple reason.
The assembled villagers unanimously agreed, that no one could be so proper to succeed the late alcaid as the youth whom he seemed to have designed for his successor. The old men, therefore, followed by their sons, came with the usual ceremonies to offer Marina the wand, the ensign of the office. Marina accepted, and sensibly touched by such a proof of esteem and affection from these good people, resolved to consecrate to their happiness a life which she had formerly intended to dedicate to love.
While the new alcaid is engaged with the duties of her office, let us return to the unfortunate Don Alphonso, whom we left galloping towards Portugal, and continually removing farther from the beloved object of his pursuit.
Don Alphonso arrived at Lisbon, without obtaining any intelligence of Marina, and immediately returned, by the same road, to search every place he had before in vain examined; again he returned to Lisbon, but without success.
After six months ineffectual enquiry, being convinced that Marina had never returned to Granada, he imagined she might perhaps be at Seville, where, he knew, she had relations. He immediately hastened to Seville, and there found that Marina’s relations had just embarked for Mexico.
Don Alphonso no longer doubted that his mistress was gone with them, and directly went on board the last ship which remained to sail. He arrived at Mexico, where he found the relations, but alas! no Marina: they had heard nothing of her: he, therefore, returned to Spain. And now the ship is attacked by a violent storm, and cast away on the coast of Granada; he, and a few of the passengers, save themselves by swimming; they land, and make their way to the mountains, to procure assistance, and, by accident or love, are conducted to Gadara.
Don Alphonso and his unfortunate companions, took refuge in the first inn, congratulating each other on the danger they had escaped. While they were discoursing on their adventures, one of the passengers began to quarrel with a soldier, concerning a box, which the passenger asserted belonged to him.
Don Alphonso desirous to put an end to the contention, obliged the passenger to declare what it contained, opening it, at the some time, to discover whether he spoke truth.
How great was his surprise to find in it the jewels of Marina, and, among them the very emerald he had given her. For a moment he stood motionless, examining attentively the casket, and fixing his eyes, sparkling with rage, on the claimant, ‘how came you by these jewels?’ said he, with a terrible voice.
‘What does it signify,’ replied the passenger, haughtily, ‘how I came by them? It is sufficient that they are mine.’
He then endeavoured to snatch the casket from Don Alphonso; but the latter, pushing him back, instantly drew his sword, and exclaiming, ‘Wretch, confess your crime, or you die this moment,’ attacked him with great fury: his antagonist defended himself desperately, but presently received a mortal wound, and fell.
Don Alphonso was immediately surrounded by the people of the house. They take him to prison, and the master of the inn sends his wife to fetch the clergyman of the parish, that he may administer spiritual comfort to the dying man, while he runs himself, to the alcaid to carry the casket and inform him of the whole adventure.
How great was the surprise, the joy, and the anxiety of Marina on perceiving her diamonds, and hearing the behaviour of the noble stranger!
She immediately hastened to the inn: the minister was already there; and the dying man, induced by his exhortations, declared, in presence of the alcaid, that, two years before, as he was one night passing through a street in Granada, a lady had given him that box, through a lattice, desiring him to hold it till she came down, but that he immediately made off with the jewels; for which theft he asked pardon of God, and of the unknown lady he had injured. He immediately expired, and Marina hastened to the prison.
Imagine the palpitations of her heart: she could no longer doubt but she should again see Don Alphonso, but he was apprehensive of being known by him: she therefore pulled her hat over her eyes, wrapped herself up in her cloak, and preceded by her clerk and the gaoler, entered the dungeon.
(To be concluded in our next.)
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STORY OF TWO CORDELIERS. By Margaret Valois, Queen of France.
Two cordeliers, arriving late one evening at a little village, were obliged to lodge at a butcher’s, and the chamber where they lay was only separated by a few boards from that where the butcher and his wife slept. Curiosity led the cordeliers to hearken what the man and woman were conversing about. The husband began talking of his domestic concerns, and said, “I must get up, my dear, to-morrow betimes, and give a look at our cordeliers; one of them is, I think, in pretty good order, but we will kill both, and salt them down, which will turn well to our account.”--Although the butcher spoke only of his pigs, which he jocosely called cordeliers, the poor friars were so horribly frightened, that they were ready to expire with fear, and resolved to save themselves by jumping out of the window. The thinnest of the two fell lightly on the ground, and ran as far as the town without waiting for his companion: the other followed his example; but being very fat, fell so heavily, that he broke his leg, and with much difficulty crawled to a little shed which he found not far off, and which proved to be precisely the place where the pigs (his brother cordeliers) usually lay. Early the next morning the butcher got ready his knife, and went straight to the stye:--“Come, come, my cordeliers,” said he, “come out, come out, for to-day I am resolved to eat some of your puddings.” The cordelier cried out for mercy; and the butcher, who concluded that St. Francois had metamorphosed one of his pigs into a friar, on purpose to punish him for having sported with the name of a religious order of men, was overcome with fear; but the matter being soon explained, the good fathers, in gratitude for their hospitable reception, and fortunate release from their fears, very peaceably parted with their host, and very kindly comforted him with their benediction.
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LOVE AND FOLLY.
* * *
LOVE.
The greatest virtues that men possess are owing to Love. From whence proceeds the balmy band of friendship?--From Love. What felicity would there he in the marriage state without Love? How wretched are those mortals who are incapable of friendship, and who feel no satisfaction in loving or being loved! How morose, how savage, how indelicate, how dull, how cruel would man be, if exempt from social virtues?--And from whence do they all spring, but from Love? I will even go so far as so say, that the polite arts owe their origin to Love. Even the most celebrated poets have exerted their utmost skill on the subject of Love. It sooths, softens, and harmonizes the minds of men, and inspires them with sentiments of tenderness and humanity. It even disposes them to feel for their fellow creatures, and comfort the bosom of affliction. It cannot be denied but men’s glory, honour, profit, and pleasure, all depend upon Love. Love would wish that all men should live in perfect harmony with each other, and that there should be no distinction of persons. Love inspires honour, friendship, charity, humanity, benevolence, modesty, meekness, and chastity.
* * * * *
FOLLY.
From the first moment that man was placed upon earth, he began his life by pursuing the dictates of Folly, since which his successors have continued to follow the example, and have improved by her precepts, beyond what their forefathers could have conceived, or even hoped for. Folly has invented every kind of excellence that is held in estimation by mankind; luxury, magnificence, titles, honors, and riches. Folly occasioned one set of men to rule their fellow creatures, and keep them under subjection. What but folly could have induced men to search into the bowels of the earth for iron, gold, precious stones, and a thousand other useless baubles?--Even commerce herself would be banished if it were not for Folly. How would so many lawyers, judges, fiddlers, players, perfumers, embroiderers, and ten thousand other professions and trades flourish, if it were not from Folly?
* * * * *
ANECDOTE.
An elegant writer has said, “that the period of our courtship is the happiest of our lives.”--If this position be true, it is impossible not to admire the prudence of a couple lately married, who protracted this period of felicity for thirty-four years. That they should at last think it necessary to unite in the bands of wedlock, is a striking proof that all human felicity must sometime or other have an end.
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NEW-YORK.
* * *
MARRIED,
On Monday the 13th of February last, at the Prussian capital, His Royal Highness the Hereditary Prince of HESSE-CASSEL, to Her Serene Highness AUGUSTA Princess of Prussia.
On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. LEONARD MEUISE, to Miss DOLLY SHUTE, both of this city.
Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Provost, Mr. JOHN HAMILTON, to Miss GIFFY HEDEN, both of this city.
On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Dr. ALEXANDER ANDERSON, to Miss ANN VAN VLECK, both of this city.
Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. CHARLES HENRY, to Miss ELIZABETH ROBINSON, both of this city.
On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. ISRAEL POST, to Miss ANN RICH, both of Philipsburgh, West-Chester.
On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. BENJAMIN TAYLOR, to Miss MARY BARKER, both of this city.
Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. JAMES TORTON, to Miss ANNA BARKER, both of this city.
On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. SAMUEL LOW, to Miss ANN CREGIER, both of this city.
When pure and unresisted thoughts conspire, To be dissolv’d in love and warm desire-- The heart then melts with unaffected zeal, The soul desires no other joys to feel.
Oh may this latter pair such raptures find In Hymen’s bands as calm the wand’ring mind: May pure affection choicest gifts bestow, And crowns of laurels cause their hearts to glow.
On Saturday evening last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. WALTER TOWNSEND, of this city, to Miss JEMIMA WHITE, of Norwalk.
May bliss forever play around their heads, Content be their’s, and peace unmix’d with care; And all the joys that await virtuous deeds, Center in my dear friends--this happy pair. One that ne’er yet has known connubial bliss-- At verse a novice--now solicits Heav’n To strew round you, in variegated dress, All, all the blessings that to us are giv’n.
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METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS. From the 16th to the 22d inst.
THERMOMETOR observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3. 100 100 April 16 45 44 e. do. ra. h wd. cloudy do. 17 37 49 ne. se. clear lt. wd. do. do. 18 37 38 e. n. rain lt. wd. do. do. 19 37 45 n. s. rain h. wd. snow h. wd. 20 41 50 nw. do. cloudy lt. wd. do. do. 21 43 55 sw. do. cloudy lt. wd. clear do. 22 44 58 s. do. clear calm do. h. wd.
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For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
VERSES, Addressed to Miss A---- B----.
Accept, dear girl, this artless lay, Flowing from an heart sincere, And banish sorrow far away, Nor think Omnipotence severe.
Affliction is the lot of all, With ev’ry sweet is mixed gall; Each pleasing prospect that allures, But a momentous bliss insures.
I’ve felt, alas! this fatal truth, And been a prey from early youth; Have drank of sorrow’s bitter cup, But pleasing hope still bears me up.
With our lov’d friends we here must part, Death, unrelenting, aims his dart; We all must his stern call obey, And sink into our native clay.
You mourn a tender parent’s fate. Now summon’d to a future state; Whose kind solicitude while here, Prevented each corroding care.
Ah, mourn no more, my lovely friend, Let grief no more your bosom rend; Dry up your tears, suppress your sighs, And seek a mansion in the skies.
The orphan’s parent be your guide, On his sure word of truth confide; He ever faithful is, and just, To succour all that in him trust.
REBECCA.
New-York, March 28, 1797.
* * * * *
SPLEEN. A SONNET.
Curse on thee, Spleen! or liberate my soul, Or I must call on Madness for relief: Madness is bliss, compar’d with thy controul Of nerveless yearnings, and lean, tearless Grief!
For Madness sometimes will give ear to Mirth; Yes, I have seen him sooth’d into a smile: But thou, O Locust! of the sickliest birth, Gangren’st all humours with thy vapoury bile!
Not even Love--and Madness sits by Love, And hears his tale, and sighs, and oft will weep: While thou, worst horror of the wrath of Jove! Would’st dash him headlong from the wildest steep!
I can no more.--Heav’n save me! lest despair Drive my poor struggling soul to tax thy care!
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+ALWIN and RENA.+
Ask you, why round yon hallow’d grave The myrtle and the laurel bloom? There sleep the lovely and the brave; O shed a tear upon their tomb!
“Oh! cease, my love, these vain alarms!” --For war prepar’d, young Alwin said-- “For I must quit my Rena’s arms; My bleeding country asks my aid!”
“Yes, I will check this bursting sigh; Yes, I will check these flowing tears: A smile shall brighten in my eye; My bosom shall dispel its fears!”
“You try indeed, to force a smile, Yet Sorrow’s drops bedew your cheek; You speak of peace--yet, ah! the while, Your sighs will scarcely let you speak!”
“Go, Alwin!--Rena bids thee go; She bids thee seek the fields of Death: Go, Alwin, rush amid the foe; Go, and return with Vict’ry’s wreath!”
A thrilling blast the trumpet blew; The milk-white courser paw’d the ground: A mix’d delight young Alwin knew; While Rena shudder’d at the sound--
Yet strove to check the rising fears, Which now with double fury swell; And, faintly smiling thro’ her tears, She falter’d out a long farewel!
Three tedious moons, with chearless ray, Had vainly gilt the face of Night; Nor yet the hero took his way, To bless his drooping Rena’s sight!
At length, thro’ Rena’s fav’rite grove, When now the fourth her radiance shed, He came--and Vict’ry’s wreath was wove--- But, ah!--around a lifeless head!
Distracted at the blasting sight, To yonder tall cliffs bending brow, With beating breasts she urg’d her flight, And would have sought the waves below!
But while, with steady gaze, she view’d The foaming billows, void of fear, Religion at her right-hand stood, And whisper’d to her soul, “Forbear!”
And now the storm of grief was o’er; Yet Melancholy’s weeping eye Distill’d the slow and silent show’r, Nor ceas’d--till Life’s own springs were dry!
For this, around yon hallow’d grave, The myrtle and the laurel bloom: There sleep the lovely, and the brave; O! shed a tear upon their tomb!
[[Possible Source: European Magazine and London Review, vol. 16 (September 1789).]]
NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co.+ +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.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, May 3, 1797.+ [+No. 96.+
ON IMPRUDENT FRIENDSHIP.
* * *
In considering the instability of the ties that bind individuals in unison and communion with each other, I cannot but lament the disgrace which some miscreants have brought upon themselves by wilfully abusing and burying in oblivion the origin of all happiness, and at the same time profess themselves advocates for, and supporters of, the genuine principles of Friendship; under the mask of which, they deceive and render unhappy the honest and unsuspecting part of the community. A few remarks on this important subject may not be unwelcome to the reader.
The words parodox, problem, &c. are never misrepresented; whereas others, such as honour, reputation, friendship, &c. are scarcely ever quoted, unless to be misapplied.
The words friendship and friend, are used, indeed, in such a variety of senses, all different, that it is almost impossible to recognize the genuine features of that old-fashioned thing called Friendship among such a group of unaccountables. A spendthrift, after various attempts to borrow money, complains, with a sigh, that he has not a friend left in the world; and another, who has not quite reached this period, talks, with some pleasure, of meeting a dozen or two of friends to dine at a tavern.--Benjamin Bribewell, Esq. invites his friends to meet at a public hall, and proceed from thence in a body! and Captain Swagger, who has accepted a challenge, requests a brother officer to go out with him as his friend, and see that he be fairly run through the body. A highwayman who quarrels with his accomplices concerning the distribution of the booty, wonders that there should be any bickering among friends. Nor is it very uncommon that two who always own a friendship for each other, after cutting and bruising one another until they can scarcely stand, are separated by their friends--nay, what is more remarkable, they sometimes shake hands, and agree to part friends!
Such are the common ideas of Friendship; and if such is the only Friendship men expect to contract, surely they have little reason to complain if they should be disappointed. After having prostituted the name, how can they expect the substance? After having dreamt only of the sign, how can they expect the thing signified? If we consider how those connexions which are called Friendships are formed, we shall the less wonder that they are unstable with most men: it is sufficient to have been twice or thrice in each others company, they become thereafter friends, and we are not to be surprised, if what is formed so hastily, should be as hastily dissolved. Houses that are thrown up quickly, and while the materials are green and unseasoned, cannot be expected to last long.
There are, on the other hand, some persons who entertain a notion of Friendship so very celestial and romantic, as is not to be expected from the frailty of human nature: They mistake the nature of a friend just as much as those of whom I have been speaking. They expect every thing from a friend, and in this are as much in fault as those who expected any thing. Romantic notions of Friendship are much cherished in novels and sentimental writings, but their tendency is often fatal, and at all times pernicious. A very short intercourse with the world of men, convinces them that they have been reading of ideal beings, and their tempers are apt to be soured; in consequence of which, they entertain worse perceptions of men than they deserve.
There are two kinds of men who are strangers to true Friendship, although they may attain the habit, and appear in outward profession to be sincere; and these are the profane and ignorant, or the immoral. Those who are unsuspecting may anticipate great satisfaction and delight by the outward concessions of the designing friend, but they will sooner or later find, by awful experience, that they have misplaced their sincere regard, and in retaliation for their good offices, receive nothing but impious insults and all the injuries that their depraved friend can inflict.
* * *
WORLDLY GREATNESS AND HONOURS,
When enjoyed with temperance and wisdom, both enlarge our utility, and contribute to our comfort. But we should not over-rate them; for, unless we add to them the necessary correctives of piety and virtue, besides corrupting the mind, and engendering internal misery, they lead us among precipices, and betray us into ruin.
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[[For sources, see the end of the e-text.]]
The WANDERINGS of the IMAGINATION.
BY MRS. GOOCH.
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