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Italics are shown conventionally with _lines_. Small capitals in
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capital letters. In the body text, where whole-word capitals are rare,
small capitals are generally shown as CAPITALS. The pointing-finger
symbol is shown as [->]

   *   *   *

The New-York Weekly Magazine or Miscellaneous Repository was published
for slightly more than two years, from summer 1795 through summer 1797.
The two complete years were also published as bound volumes; this e-text
is Volume II, nos. 53-104. Volume III, renamed Sentimental & Literary
Magazine, only lasted through no. 112.

There are no illustrations and no advertising. Each page was in two
columns. The arrangement of each issue was:

  Front Page, in slightly larger type:
    masthead spanning the top of the page
    didactic or philosophical essays
  Inside pages:
    prose essays (philosophical or educational)
    fiction, ranging from from a single column to serialized novels
  Page 7, second column (variable):
    Marriages
    Meteorological Observations, including monthly summary
    short poem
  Back Page, in slightly smaller type:
    poetry
    printer/publisher information spanning the bottom of the page

Except for pieces explicitly labeled "For the New-York Weekly Magazine",
and some of the poetry, the entire content was taken from other
published sources. Attribution is haphazard.

Single lines of asterisks *  *  * represent decorative lines separating
articles in the original. Articles that begin at the top of a column are
marked with two rows of asterisks. All other asterisks--notably in "The
Victim of Magical Delusion" and "The Baron De Lovzinski"--are in the
original.

The Index was printed at the beginning of the bound volume. It has been
relocated to the end of the text, before the Errata and Sources.

Typographical errors are listed at the end of the e-text. Most spellings
were left as printed even if they are probably wrong.

For pieces complete in one or two issues, sources are given in [[double
brackets]] at the end of the last installment. Sources of longer pieces,
including serialized novels, are given at the end of the e-text, after
the Errata. Except for the serials, these annotations are not intended
to be complete. Links, where given, are valid at the time of e-text
preparation (Spring 2011).]




  [Illustration:

  Youth, accompanied by Virtue, and directed
  by Experience, approaching the Temple of happiness.]




                      The

           NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;

                      or,

           MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY:

Forming an Interesting Collection of Original and Select

             LITERARY PRODUCTIONS,

             _In Prose and Verse:_

    Calculated for Instruction and rational
   Entertainment--the Promotion of moral and
  useful Knowledge--and to enlarge and correct
          the Understandings of Youth.


                   VOLUME II.


    "----Touch, with a surprising delicacy,
    "The sweetest movement of the mind."


                 [Decoration]


                  _NEW-YORK:_

  +Printed for the PROPRIETORS, at Homer's-Head,
             No. 358, Pearl-Street.+

                      1797.




  ADDRESS.


_The very flattering patronage with which this work, for two years, has
been kindly favoured, demands the warmest acknowledgments of the
Editors. Since its commencement, it has witnessed the demise of other
periodical publications; some established long before it, others that
have taken their rise at a later period; while the particular
distinction honorably awarded the WEEKLY MAGAZINE, has marked it an
object of public favor, and denoted the estimation in which it has ever
been considered; not as matter of exultation do the Editors make this
remark; but it gives their friends stronger claims on their gratitude,
and acts as a momentum to impel them to exertions which in some degree
might enable them to merit such attention. Strongly impressed with a
sense of their duties as conductors of a work so universally read, they
have, with the utmost solicitude, guarded against the intrusion of any
thing, in the smallest degree, injurious to the feelings of the
religionist. Their selection has uniformly tended either to inform and
enlighten the understanding, to inculcate the purest lessons of
morality, or to unbend the mind with innocent levities. To effect those
primary objects, they have studiously endeavored to make the work abound
with curious investigations, elegant descriptions, historical
narrations, biographical sketches, well-chosen tales, essays, anecdotes,
observations, maxims, poetical effusions, &c. &c., all contributing in
the highest degree to mend the heart, to improve the head, and to form
the taste. In order more fully to designate the properties of this work
in the title, it is intended to commence the third volume under that of
the SENTIMENTAL and LITERARY MAGAZINE; this alteration, we trust, will
be universally acceptable. We shall only trespass on the patience of our
friends to make one remark more; the cheapness of this work is
unrivalled; let it be considered that advertisements and news are wholly
excluded--the former, in a literary publication, has, in our eyes,
a very unpleasant appearance, beside the room engrossed to the exclusion
of more agreeable matter; the latter, from the very general circulation
of daily newspapers, must be rendered wholly uninteresting. This, then,
is devoted solely to literature--and the many entire works, which, in
the last two years it has contained, amount, when separately purchased,
to considerably more than the price of the magazines during that
period--besides the immense number of anecdotes, essays, extracts,
sketches, &c. &c. and the poetry, which, alone, comprises more than an
eighth of the whole._

_Filled with a laudable ambition to render ourselves, by every thing in
our power, worthy the continuance of general favor, we are, with the
greatest respect, the devoted servants of a generous public,_

  _The EDITORS._

    _PRINTING-OFFICE, June 30, 1797._


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, July 6, 1796.+  [+No. 53.+


      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

              MORNING REFLECTIONS.

In one of my rambles I saw a collection of people, some appeared highly
elated, while others in stupid indifference were not the least affected;
I advanced, and found two boys fighting; in attempting to part them,
I had nearly got myself in the same predicament, from a motley bullying
fellow, whose feelings, if he was possessed of any, were more becoming a
tyger than a human being. Those who were before mute, appeared delighted
in the prospect of another scene of brutality, expecting that we would
decide our dispute with blows; I plainly saw that the most prudent step
for me, would be to leave them as peaceable as possible in possession of
the field.

From what source these barbarous dispositions spring, and how they can
exist in a country where information is so easily attained, would, to a
foreigner, appear a mystery; every child of nature has a vacancy in
their understandings to be filled up, and why it should not be stored
with rational humanity, let parents judge. Slaves from dejection become
callous, hence barbarous sports are congenial with their minds, in
proportion to the severe treatment they receive from their matters.

How degraded is that master who neglects to inculcate moral principles
into his slave, and how much more wretched are parents who attend not to
the improvement of their own children; too many instances of such
omissions momentarily occur; a parent who entertains a child with a
bull-beat, fixes a supposition in the tender mind that the creation was
formed only for caprice, and is verified in their tormenting domestic
animals; with years the feelings naturally become hardened, and the
youth thus brought up, only waits an opportunity to leave off all
restraint. This is plainly evinced in war, when the law is suspended,
murders and robbery become fashionable, and those very men who were
peaceable inhabitants, with exultation take the lives of strangers whom
they have never seen, and by whom they have never been injured.

  T.

    NEW-YORK _July 1, 1796_.


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           *       *       *       *

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


  _+Description+ of the famous SALT MINES at +Williska+ in +Poland+._

There are mines of salt in Hungary, Catalonia, and many other parts of
Europe, but the greatest in the world is that at Williska in Poland,
from which a great part of the continent is supplied. Williska is a
small town not far from Cracow, and the mine has been worked ever since
the year 1251, when it was accidentally found in digging for a well.
There are eight openings or descents into this mine, six in the field,
and two in the town itself, which are most used for letting down the
workmen, and taking up the salt; the others being mostly used for
letting in wood and necessaries.

The openings are five square, and about four feet wide; they are lined
throughout with timber, and at the top of each there is a large wheel
with a rope as thick as a cable, by which things are let down and drawn
up: it is worked by a horse. When a stranger has a curiosity to see
these works, he must descend by one of these holes; he is first to put
on a miner's coat over his clothes, and then being led to the mouth of
the hole by a miner, who serves for a guide, the miner fastens a smaller
rope to the larger one, and ties it about himself; he sits in this, and
taking the stranger in his lap, he gives the sign to be let down. They
are carried down a narrow and dark well to the depth of six hundred feet
perpendicular; this is in reality an immense depth, but the terror and
tediousness of the descent makes it appear to most people vastly more
than it is. As soon as the miner touches the ground at the bottom, he
slips out of the rope, and sets his companion upon his legs.

The place where they are set down here is perfectly dark, but the miner
strikes fire, and lights a small lamp, by means of which (taking the
stranger he has care of by the arm) he leads him through a number of
strange passages and meanders, all descending lower and lower, till they
come to certain ladders by which they descend an immense depth, and this
through passages perfectly dark. The damp, cold, and darkness of these
places, and the horror of being so many yards under ground, generally
makes strangers heartily repent before they get thus far; but when at
bottom they are well rewarded for their pains, by a sight that could
never have been expected after so much horror.

  (_The conclusion in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  [[This serial began in No. 45 of the New-York Weekly; the last 4 of
  its 12 installments are in Volume II.  For sources, see the end of the
  final (4th) installment.]]


  THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
  Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 410 of Vol. I.)

I informed her of my determination, assuring her, at the same time, it
was irrevocable. I confess, however, notwithstanding my certitude, at
moments, of her hatred, I secretly flattered myself, that this
declaration would astonish, and produce a most lively emotion in Julia;
and it is certain, had I discovered the least signs of regret on her
part, I should have cast myself at her feet, and abjured a resolution
which pierced my very soul.

I was deceived in supposing myself hated; I was equally wrong in
imagining my conduct could inspire even momentary love. Great minds are
incapable of hatred; but a continued improper and bad conduct will
produce indifference, as it did with Julia. I had lost her heart past
recal. She heard me with tranquility, without surprize, and without
emotion. My reputation, said she, is already injured, and this will
confirm the unjust suspicions of the public; but if my presence is an
obstacle to your happiness, I am ready to depart; my innocence is still
my own, and I shall have sufficient strength to submit to my fate.

Cruel woman! cried I, shedding a torrent of tears, with what ease do you
speak of parting!

Is it not your own proposal!

And is it not I who adore you, and you who hate me!

Of what benefit is your love to me; or of what injury is what you call
my hatred to you?

I have made you unhappy; I am unjust, capricious, mad; and yet if you do
hate me, Julia, your revenge is too severe; there is no misery can equal
your hatred.

I do not hate you.

The manner in which she pronounced this, said so positively I do not
love you, that I was transported beyond all bounds of patience; I became
furious, yet the next instant, imagining I saw terror in the eyes of
Julia, I fell at her feet. A tear, a sigh at that moment, had changed my
future fate, but she still preserved her cold tranquility. I hastily got
up, went to the door, and stopped. Farewell for ever! said I, half
suffocated with passion. Julia turned pale, and rose as if to come to
me; I advanced towards her, and she fell back into her chair, ready
almost to faint. I interpreted this violent agitation, into terror.
What, am I become a subject of horror! cried I; well, I will deliver you
from this odious object. So saying, I darted from the chamber in an
agony of despair.

My uncle was absent, I no longer had a friend, no one to advise or
counteract the rashness of the moment. Distracted, totally beside
myself, I ran to the parents of Julia, declared my intention, added,
Julia herself was desirous of a separation, and that I would give back
all her fortune.

They endeavoured to reason with me, but in vain; I informed them I
should go directly into the country, where I should stay three days, and
when I came back I expected to find myself alone in my own house. I next
wrote to Julia to inform her of my proceedings, and departed, as I had
said I would, the same evening for the country.

My passions were too much agitated to let me perceive the extent of
misery to which I condemned myself; and what seems now inconceivable
was, that though I loved my wife dearer than ever, and was inwardly
persuaded I might yet regain her affections, I found a kind of
satisfaction in making our rupture thus ridiculously public. I never
could have determined on a separation from Julia with that coolness and
propriety which such things, when absolutely necessary, demand. I wanted
to astonish, to agitate, to rouze her from her state of indifference,
which, to me, was more dreadful even than her hatred. I flattered myself
that, hearing me, she had doubted my sincerity, and supposed me
incapable of finally parting from her.

I likewise imagined that event would rekindle in her heart all her
former affection; and this hope alone was enough to confirm me in the
execution of my project. I took pleasure in supposing her incertitude,
astonishment, and distress; my fancy represented her when reading my
letter; beheld her, conducted by her relations, pale and trembling,
descend the stairs; saw her stop and sigh as she passed the door of my
apartment, and weep as she stepped into the carriage.

I had left a trusty person at Paris, with orders to observe her as
carefully as possible; to watch her, follow her, question her women, and
inform me of all she said or did at this critical moment; but the
relation was not long. Julia continued secluded in her chamber, received
her friends without a witness, and departed by a private stair-case
unseen of any one.

The same afternoon that she left my house she wrote me a note, which
contained nearly these words.

"I have followed your orders, and departed from a place whither I shall
always be ready to return, whenever your heart shall recall me. As to
your proposal of giving back a fortune too considerable for my present
situation, I dare expect as a proof of your esteem, it will not be
insisted upon: so to do is now the only remaining thing that can add to
my uneasiness. Condescend therefore, to accept the half of an income,
which can give me no pleasure if you do not partake it with me."

This billet, which I washed with my tears, gave birth to a crowd of
reflections. The contrast of behaviour between me and Julia forcibly
struck me, and I saw by the effects how much affection, founded upon
duty, is preferable to passion. I adore Julia, said I, and yet am become
her tormentor; have determined to proceed even to a separation; she
loved me without passion, and was constantly endeavouring to make me
happy; ever ready to sacrifice her opinions, wishes and will and
continually pardoning real offences, while I have been imputing to her
imaginary ones; and, at last, when my excessive folly and injustice have
lost her heart, her forgiveness and generosity have yet survived her
tenderness, and she thinks and acts the most noble and affecting duties
towards an object she once loved. Oh yes! I now perceive true affection
to be that which reason approves, and virtue strengthens.

Overwhelmed by such reflections, the most bitter repentance widened
every wound of my bleeding heart. I shuddered when I remembered the
public manner in which I had put away my wife; and in this fearful state
of mind, I had doubtless gone and cast myself at Julia's feet,
acknowledged all my wrongs, and declared I could not live without her,
had I not been prevented by scruples, which for once were but too well
founded.

I had been a Prodigal and a Gamester and, what was still worse, had a
steward, who possessed in a superior degree the art of confusing his
accounts, which indubitably proves such a person to want either honesty
or capacity. Instead of at first discharging him, I only begged he would
not trouble me with his bills and papers; which order with him needed no
repetition, for it was not unintentionally he had been so obscure and
diffuse.

About six months, however, before the period I at present speak of, he
had several times demanded an audience, to shew me the declining state
of my affairs. At the moment, this made little impression upon me; but
after reading Julia's note it came into my mind, and before I could
think of obtaining my pardon, I resolved to learn my real situation.

Unhappily for me, my conduct had been such that I had no right to depend
on my wife's esteem; and, if ruined, how could I ask her to return and
forget what was passed? Would not she ascribe that to interest, which
love alone had inspired? The idea was insupportable, and I would rather
even never behold Julia more, than be liable to be so suspected.

With such fears I returned hastily to Paris. But what were my sensations
at entering a house which Julia no longer inhabited, and whence I myself
had had the madness and folly to banish her! Attacked by a thousand
afflicting thoughts, overwhelmed with grief and regret, I had one only
hope, which was, that by oeconomy and care I might again re-establish my
affairs, and afterwards obtain forgiveness, and be reconciled to Julia.

I sent for my steward, and began by declaring, the first step I should
take would be to return my wife's fortune. He seemed astonished at this,
and wanted to dissuade me, by saying he did not think it possible I
could make this restitution without absolute ruin being the consequence.
I saw by this my affairs were even much worse than I had imagined.

The discovery threw me into the most dreadful despair; for to lose my
fortune was, according to my principles, to lose Julia eternally.

Before I searched my situation to the bottom, I restored Julia's whole
portion; I then paid my debts; and these affairs finished, I found
myself so completely ruined, that, in order to live, I was obliged to
purchase a trifling life-annuity, with what remained of a large fortune.
My estates, horses, houses, all were sold, and I hired a small apartment
near the Luxembourg, about three months after my separation from my
wife. My Uncle was not rich; he had little to live on except a pension
from the government, though he offered me assistance, which I refused.

Julia, in the mean time, had retired to a convent. On the very day I had
quitted my house, I received a letter from her in the following terms:

"Since you have forced me to receive what you call mine, since you treat
me like a stranger, I think myself justified in doing the same. When I
left your house, the fear of offending you, in appearing to despise your
gifts, occasioned me to take with me the diamonds and jewels which you
had presented to me: it was your request, your command that I should do
so, and I held obedience my duty. But since you shew me you will not act
with the same delicacy, I have determined to part with these useless
ornaments, which never were valuable but as coming from you. I found a
favourable opportunity of selling them advantageously for twenty-four
thousand livres (a thousand pounds sterling), which I have sent to your
Attorney, as a sum I was indebted to you, and which you cannot oblige me
to take back, since it is not mine.

"I have been in the convent of * * * for these two months past, where I
intend to remain for some weeks at least, unless you take me
hence.----_We_ have a fine estate in Flanders; they say it is a charming
country. Speak but a word, and I am ready to go with you, to live with
you, to die with you."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

  +THE DEAD INFANT; or, the AGONIZING MOTHER.+

  "She snatch'd the hope of youth, the pride of age
  From the dark cerements of the shrouding sheet!"

----"Speak, Menander, let thy mother once more hear the Voice that was
her last comfort--" She begged in vain, for Menander had closed his eyes
in death, and with him had fled the only happiness that his widowed
mother possessed. She had but a little while since bade farewell to
another child, who had gone to that bourne from whence there is no
return. And now must she lose the other--the thought was too much.--No
one should part her from him.--"I will still keep him," said she, in the
height of maniac rage, "if he will not speak to me I shall still behold
him--I will still have my child."

A friend who willingly would have been the means of allaying her extreme
sorrow, had taken the liberty, while the mother slept, of arraying the
corpse in the dress suitable for interment, and removed it to the
appointed place. The mother awoke--missed her child, and hastened to the
church-yard.--It was not yet deposited in the earth.--In agony she tore
the lid from the coffin--pressed him to her heart, and returned
home.--She kissed him---kept him continually encircled in her arms---nor
would she again be parted from him.

She offered part of the necessaries that were set before her to the
insensate clay, nor did she eat because her son could not.---But nature
could not long bear up against this torrent of grief.---She once more
pressed him with redoubled force to her breast, again kissed his putrid
cheek--and slept her final sleep.

  L. B.


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           *       *       *       *

  [[This serialized novel began in no. 22 of the New-York Weekly; the
  last 41 of its 74 segments are in Volume II. For sources, see the
  end of the e-text.]]


  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 415 of Vol. I.)

"Your features, dear Duke," she resumed after a long pause, "have no
resemblance with those of this picture; and yet the originality of the
face is so remarkable to me, that it would afford me the greatest
pleasure, if you would give it me."

"If your Majesty should know how dear it is to me--"

"Well, that will enhance the value it has in my eyes. Whenever I shall
look at the picture of the mother, I will remember the son. I will give
you _my_ picture, in lieu of it; will you resign it to me on that
condition?"

I bowed respectfully, she opened a drawer, putting my picture in it, and
took another out of it, which was adorned with jewels much more precious
than that of my mother.

"Take it, Duke, and whenever you look at it, think that it is the
picture of--a very unhappy woman." So saying, she gave me the picture.

The accent and the mien with which these words were pronounced, wounded
my heart. I prostrated myself---"How, amiable Queen, should you really
be unhappy? and this pledge of your condescension should be to me a
remembrancer of your misfortunes? O, name the source of your sorrows,
and if the power of a mortal being can remove it, I will do it with
pleasure, will attempt it even at the peril of my life!" So saying,
I pressed my lips with vehemence on her hand.

"Rise! the interest which you take in my unhappiness renders me less
unfortunate. It will not be in your power to make me happy, though I
should be at liberty to unfold a mystery to you which never must be
revealed. Rise, Duke!" She stooped to raise me up, her cheek touched my
face, and a tremor of joy trembled through my frame. "Take courage!"
I exclaimed, "though neither my power nor that of any man living should
be able to render you happy, yet I know a person who possesses
supernatural powers, and I flatter myself he will not refuse to grant my
prayers. He shall make you happy, my Queen!"

She looked at me with weeping eyes, then up to heaven, and then again at
me. "Your prayer," she said at length, "would be fruitless; for if an
angel would descend from heaven to offer me his assistance, he could not
restore me to happiness, while certain human laws and political
relations are in force."----

I plainly perceived the dreadful struggles of her soul, and it would
have been cruel to render her victory more difficult by farther
persuasions.

I beheld with respectful silence the workings of her mind; however, she
could not but observe that I adored her---her looks bespoke the grateful
emotions of her heart.

"You have told me a few minutes ago, that your mother is no more," she
began after a long pause. "I hope your father is yet alive?"

"I have little reason to think he is."

The Queen turned as pale as a corpse. "You doubt?" she stammered, "you
doubt whether your father is alive?"

"A dangerous illness which has confined him to his bed, gives me reason
to apprehend---but what is the matter with your Majesty?"

"Nothing---nothing at all---A dangerous illness did you say."

"So he has informed me sometime since, by a letter, and requested me, at
the same time, to hasten to his arms, that he might see me once more
before his death, and give me his blessing."

The Queen started up, and went to another part of the room, as if in
search of something, but soon came back again:

"He wants to see you and you are _here?_"

"Before I received the letter of my father, I had promised to that
_Unknown_ of whom I have been speaking, that nothing should detain me
from travelling to Fr**ce, and imploring your assistance in behalf of my
unhappy country."

"Poor father!" said the Queen, absorbed in melancholy, "how anxiously
will he have expected the arrival of his son--I fancy I see the dying
Marquis, how he extends his arms in vain to receive the child of his
love--"

"Does your Majesty know my father?" I enquired hastily.

She gazed at me. "If I know him?---no!---yes---I saw him several times
when at the court of my father---But why do you ask this
question?"---Without giving me time to reply, she resumed, "Make haste!
make haste, return to your native country; perhaps he is yet alive---the
sight of you will animate him with new strength, he will recover in your
arms, and perhaps be restored to health!" The last words she pronounced
with a visible joyful emotion.

"Shall I leave your Majesty," I replied "without having my prayer
granted? Is my unhappy country to expect no assistance from a Queen
whose sentiments are so sublime? Is the picture of the best of women to
be to me a lasting mark of her favour and displeasure?"

She seemed to meditate, "It is true," she said at length, "we have
entirely wandered from your concerns. Did you not tell me that you are
haunted every where by an apparition? I too have seen an apparition some
time ago. It was the ghost of my departed father, who, at midnight drew
the curtains of my bed, and said 'I am very wretched my daughter!
neither prayers nor masses will give me relief, while Por****l which we
have usurped shall be submitted to the Sp***sh sceptre. O! my daughter,
if the least spark of filial love is left in thy bosom, if thou wilt
relieve me from unspeakable torments, then make use of all thy interest
at this court, in order to support the endeavours of those who, at
present, are secretly occupied to deliver Por****l from her oppressors.
A noble youth will arrive in a few days and implore thy assistance. He
is sent from Heaven; grant his prayer. He has a mole on his left breast,
which will be to thee a token of his mission."

I started up. "That youth stands before your Majesty," I exclaimed,
uncovering my breast, "behold here the mole. O! relieve the suffering
spirit of your father, relieve my country!"

She seemed to be in a trance, encircling me with her arms, and straining
me to her bosom. "Thy prayer is granted!" she said in a faint
accent.---No sooner had the last syllable escaped her lips, when the
sound of a little bell was heard in the adjoining apartment. She
disengaged herself from my neck and started back, "Gracious heaven!---"
she exclaimed, pale and trembling, "the King is returned. Begone! for
God's sake begone!"

I was going to obey her command; the stopped me: "Never reveal a word of
what has happened between ourselves," she whispered; "leave the palace
and the kingdom as soon as possible: beware of the King, I conjure you!"

I prostrated myself and encircled her knees, shedding tears of anguish;
wanted to take leave, but could not utter a single word. The bell in the
adjoining apartment was rung a second time; the Queen disengaged herself
seized with terror: "make haste!---flee!---O stay!" she exclaimed when I
hastened to the door, "come back!" She opened her arms to receive me;
I flew to her bosom; she imprinted three burning kisses on my lips, and
hurried into an adjoining apartment.

I do not recollect how I got out of the room. On the staircase I
observed first, that the same lady who had conducted me to the Queen was
walking by my side. We returned the same way by which I had entered the
palace, and I arrived happily at our hotel in the company of the Count.

After I had communicated to him my success, I went to my apartment in
order to give audience to my thoughts; however I was not able to account
for the behaviour of the Queen, and my feelings during the whole scene.
Was it love that I felt for the Queen? certainly not; at least, my
sentiments for her were quite different from those I entertained for
Amelia; was it mere esteem that endeared her so much to me?
impossible!---My heart left me entirely in the dark with respect to that
point, as well as my reason. It is true, _one_ particular idea prevailed
in my soul, however it appeared to me ridiculous, as soon as I reflected
on other circumstances. The account which the Queen gave me of the
apparition of the ghost of her father, completed my confusion. Was it
the work of the _Unknown_, and did she really believe she had seen the
ghost of her father? in that case the grant of my prayer was perhaps
merely the consequence of her love for her father, whom she hoped to
release thus from his sufferings; even her tears, embraces, and kisses,
were then nothing else but means of alluring me to strain every nerve,
in order to bring to a happy conclusion an undertaking, from the
execution of which the eternal happiness of her father depended. But
perhaps---and that, I thought, was not less possible---has she only
invented that apparition in order to prevent me from suspecting the real
source of her willingness to grant my prayer, and her confidential and
endearing deportment? Even the manner in which she mentioned the mole on
my breast, appeared to me an artifice which she might have made use of,
rather to assure herself of the identity of my person, than of my
mission from above; and this supposition received an additional
confirmation, by her singular behaviour, after the discovery.---Thus I
was wandering in the mazy labyrinth of conjectures and doubts, till
sleep stole upon me by degrees, and shut my heavy eyes.

We left P**is the following night, and directed our road to Sp**n as
Hiermanfor had ordered.

I stopped a few days at **cia, a hundred miles from the frontiers of
Fr**ce, in order to rest a little from the fatigues of my journey, and
received from the bribed surgeon a letter from my father, who informed
me he was in a fair way of recovery. This welcome intelligence animated
me with new life, and dispelled the gloom which had overcast my mind. We
continued our journey without delay, and arrived at ***pala, where we
alighted at the principal hotel. The first object that attracted my
attention, was a handsome well dressed man, whose features struck me at
a great distance, because I fancied I knew them. He was engaged in
conversation with a tall thin man, and did not observe me till I was
close by him. My sudden appearance seemed to surprize him, and the sight
of him produced the same effect upon me, for now I perceived that it was
Paleski, Amelia's former valet. He approached me with evident marks of
uneasiness, and welcomed me in broken accents. I ordered him to follow
me to my apartment. The first question I put to him, was where Amelia
resided, and how she was. Paleski lamented it was not in his power to
give me the least information on that head. I enquired after the
_Unknown_, and he assured me that he had not seen him since the last
scene in the wood. "However," said I, "you still owe me an account of a
dreadful accident concerning the _Unknown_, of which you pretended to
have been informed on your pilgrimage." Paleski hesitated a few moments,
and then promised to satisfy my curiosity the day following, being
prevented by business of great importance from doing it on the spot.
I dismissed him, with the injunction not to forget to come to my
apartment in the evening of the next day. He promised it; however I
waited in vain for him, for in his room a Capuchin friar came to my
hotel, desiring to speak a few words to me in private. I ordered him to
be admitted, and was told by him that Paleski had had a quarrel with
some young men, who first had intoxicated and then provoked him, and
that he had received some mortal wounds, by which he was confined to his
bed at the hospital where he desired to see me, in order to disclose to
me important secrets. The friar offered to conduct me to the hospital,
and I drove thither in anxious expectation.

When I alighted at the gate of the hospital, I met Count Clairval. He
seemed to be petrified when he saw me in the company of the friar.
"Whither are you going?" he enquired at length. "To Paleski, who is on
the brink of eternity." The Count changed colour, and whispered in my
ear: "Don't go, the fellow is infected with a contagious
disease."---"You are mistaken (was my answer) he has been wounded
dangerously, as his confessor tells me." "I have just come from him,"
the Count resumed with visible uneasiness, "the fever has deranged his
head, and he will tell you a number of foolish things." "No matter,"
I replied, "I must see him, for he has sent me word that he has
important discoveries to make." "What can he discover to you?" said the
Count, "Paleski has ever been an impostor." "This will render his
confession on the brink of eternity so much the more remarkable. But I
must not lose a moment. Farewell, Count, till I see you again!" So
saying, I tore myself from him, and hastened with the friar to Paleski's
apartment. When the nurse had left the room, the former said: "you need
but ring the bell, if you should want me, I shall be within
hearing."---With these words he went out of the room. Paleski stared at
me for some time. The livid colour of death covered his haggard
countenance, and the most agonizing anguish of a tormented conscience
was strongly painted on his looks. "My Lord!" he at length began, "I owe
you a thousand thanks for your condescension; I should undoubtedly have
fallen a sacrifice to black despair, if you had refused to give me an
opportunity to unfold mysteries to you which lie heavy on my mind."

I took a seat close by the bed, seized with dreadful bodings.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  _A remarkable account of two Brothers,
  extracted from Linschoten's Voyages._

In the sixteenth century, the Portuguese carracks sailed from _Lisbon_
to _Goa_. There were no less than twelve hundred souls on board one of
these vessels. The beginning of their voyage was prosperous; they had
doubled the Cape of _Good Hope_ and were steering their course
North-east, to the great continent of India, when some Gentlemen on
board who having studied Geography and Navigation, found in the latitude
they were then in, a large ridge of rocks laid down in their Sea-charts.
They no sooner made this discovery, than they acquainted the Captain of
the ship with it, desiring him to communicate the same to the pilot,
which request he immediately granted, recommending him to lay by in the
night, and slacken sail in the day, until they should be past the
danger. It is a custom among the Portuguese absolutely to commit the
navigation, or sailing part of the vessel to the Pilot, who is
answerable with his head for the safe-conduct or carriage of the King's
ships, or those that belong to private traders; and is under no manner
of direction from the Captain, who commands in every other respect. The
Pilot being a self sufficient man, took it as an affront to be taught
his art, and instead of complying with the captain's request, actually
crowded more sail. They had not sailed many hours, before the ship
struck upon a rock. In this distress the Captain ordered the pinnace to
be launched, into which having tossed a small quantity of biscuit, and
some boxes of marmalade, he jumped in himself with nineteen others, who
with their swords prevented the coming in of any more, lest the boat
should sink. In this condition they put off in the great Indian ocean,
without a compass to steer by or any fresh water, but what might happen
to fall from the heavens, whose mercy alone could deliver them.

After they had rowed to and fro for four days the captain died: this
added, if possible, to their misery, for as they now fell into
confusion, every one would govern and none would obey. This obliged them
to elect one of their company to command them, whose orders they
implicitly agreed to follow. This person proposed to draw lots, and to
cast every fourth man overboard; as their small stock of provision was
not sufficient to sustain life above three days longer. They were now
nineteen persons in all; in this number were a friar and a carpenter,
both of whom they would exempt, as one was useful to absolve and comfort
them in their last extremity, and the other to repair the pinnace, in
case of a leak or other accident. The same compliment they paid to their
new captain, he being the odd man, and his life of much consequence. He
refused their indulgence a great while; but at last they obliged him to
acquiesce, so that there were four to die out of sixteen.

The three first, after having confessed and received absolution
submitted to their fate. The fourth was a Portuguese gentleman that had
a younger brother in the boat, who seeing him about to be thrown
overboard most tenderly embraced him, and with tears in his eyes
besought him to let him die in his room, telling him that he had a wife
and children at _Goa_, besides the care of three sisters: that as for
himself he was single, and his life of no great importance; he therefore
conjured him to suffer him to supply his place. The elder brother
astonished with this generosity, replied, That since the divine
Providence had appointed him to suffer, it would be wicked to permit any
other to die for him; especially a brother to whom he was so infinitely
obliged. The younger would take no denial; but throwing himself on his
knees held his brother so fast that the company could not disengage
them. Thus they disputed for awhile, the elder brother bidding him be a
father to his children, and recommended his wife to his protection, and
as he would inherit his estate, to take care of their common sisters;
but all he said could not make the younger desist. At last the elder
brother acquiesced, and suffered the gallant youth to supply his place,
who being cast into the sea, and a good swimmer, soon got to the stern
of the pinnace and laid hold of the rudder with his right hand, which
being perceived by one of the sailors, he cut off the hand with his
sword: then dropping into the sea, he frequently caught hold again with
his left, which received the same fate. Thus dismembered of both hands,
he made a shift to keep himself above water with his feet and two
stumps, which he held bleeding upwards.

This spectacle so raised the pity of the whole company that they cried
out, he is but one man! let us endeavour to save his life! and he was
accordingly taken into the boat; where he had his stumps bound up as
well as the place and circumstances would permit. They rowed all that
night, and the next morning, when the sun rose, as if heaven would
reward the piety and gallantry of this young man, they descried land,
which proved to be the mountains of _Mozambique_ in _Africa_, not far
from a Portuguese colony. There they all safely arrived, where they
remained until the next ship from _Lisbon_ passed by and carried them to
_Goa_.

At that city, _Linschoten_, a writer of good credit, assured us, that he
himself saw them land, supped with the two brothers that very night,
beheld the younger with his stumps, and had the story from their mouths,
as well as from the rest of the company.

  [[Source:

  Original: Jan Huyghen van Linschoten (1563-1611), _Voyages_.
  First English translation: 1598, rpt. by Hakluyt society 1885.

  Notes: "At that city, _Linschoten_, a writer of good credit, assured
    us, that he himself saw them land."
  The article is loosely adapted from chapter CXII, "Of certaine
    memorable Things", vol. II, pg. 179-181 in the reprint.

  Link: http://www.archive.org/details/voyagejohnhuygh01tielgoog
    and
  http://www.archive.org/details/voyagejohnhuygh02tielgoog]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  SENTIMENTAL PERFUMERY.

A sentimental Perfumer recommends it to the fine ladies, to furnish
their toilets with the following articles:

_Self knowledge:_--A mirror, shewing the full shape in the truest light.

_Innocence:_--A white paint, which will stand for a considerable time,
if not abused.

_Modesty:_--Very best rouge, giving a becoming bloom to the cheek.

_Contentment:_--An infallible smoother of wrinkles in the face.

_Truth:_--A salve, rendering the lips soft and peculiarly graceful.

_Good humour:_--An universal beautifier.

_Mildness:_--Giving a tincture to the voice.

_Tears of Pity:_--A water, that gives lustre and brightness to the eye.

N.B. The constant use of these articles cannot fail rendering them quite
agreeable to the sensible and deserving part of mankind.


       *       *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS PROPOSITION OF A DEBTOR TO HIS CREDITOR

  (From a London Paper)

A debtor in the Fleet prison, lately sent to his creditor, to let him
know that he had a proposal to make which he believed would be for their
mutual benefit; accordingly the creditor called on him to hear it.
"I have," said he, "been thinking that it is a very idle thing for me to
be here and put you to the expence of seven groats a week; my being so
chargeable to you has given me great uneasiness; and God knows what it
may cost you in the end; therefore what I would propose is this, you
shall set me out of prison, and instead of seven groats, you shall only
allow me eighteen pence a week and the other ten pence shall go towards
the discharge of the debt."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, DAVID HUNT, Esq. of
West-Chester, to the Widow COOPER of Fish-Kills.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From June 26th to July 2d._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometor observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

           deg.  deg.  deg.   8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
              100   100   100
  JUNE  26  79    84    82    SW. W. do.  clear light wind.
        27  75    80    75    N. NW. SW.  clear do. do.
        28  78 75 80    79    SW. do. do.  clear do. cloudy.
        29  81 50 83    79    W. NW. do.  rain thund. and lightn.
        30  70    79    77    N. do. do.  clear do. do.
  JULY   1  69 50 81 50 79    NW. W. do.  clear. do. do.
         2  72    82    72    NW. W. SW.  clear do. do.

                   *   *   *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  _For June 1796._
                                                            deg. 100

  Mean temperature of the thermometer  at 8 A.M.             71   37
  Do. do. of the do. at 1 P.M.                               73   97
  Do. do. of the do. at 6 P.M.                               68   74
  Do. do. of the whole month                                 71    6
  Greatest monthly range between the 12th and 26th           25   25
  Do. do. in 24 hours the 3d                                  9   50
  Warmest day the 26                                         84
  Coldest do. the 12                                         59   50

  10 Days it rained. A large quantity has fallen this month.
  15 do.  it was clear at 8 1 and 6 o'clock.
   6 do.  it was cloudy at do.  do.
  23 do.  the wind was light at do.
  16 do.  the wind was to the westward of north and south.
   3 times it thundered and lightned in this month.


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

         OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND VIRTUOUS.

    In days of old, historians write,
      There liv'd a maid of wond'rous charms,
    Whose very name would oft invite
      And pre-engage the heart that warms.
    The gods of yore did try each suit
      To win this all-alluring fair;
    But neither men nor gods could do't,
      She listen'd callous to their pray'r.

    In modern days we too are blest
      With Nature's best, completest art,
    Her breast is with the virtues drest,
      And dignity exalts her heart.
    If gods cou'd once more live again,
      And eye the Clara of our day,
    Their very souls would burst with pain,
      And sigh alas! for death's decay.

  Ye virtuous youth who search for worth,
  And look with hate on idle mirth,
  Direct your steps where Clara lives,
  And you may get what virtue gives.

  LUCIUS.

PINE-STREET, June 28th, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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


     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

     AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTONY.
               +From the French.+

                 _BY MATILDA._

  While Anthony without the chance of arms,
  Contemn'd by all, and lost to glory's charms,
  A woman's signal leads across the wave,
  To share the just derision of the brave:
  I shudder at thy weakness and thy shame,
  The price a worthless mistress pays thy flame;
  Now Rome disowns thee--blushes to have borne
  The power of him who fills the world with scorn;
  O hero still belov'd, ere quite undone,
  Recal the palms thy youthful valour won;
  Recal those times, those actions, that applause,
  That join'd the senate people in thy cause,
  When Rome in Caesar's friend beheld him live,
  And emulation all his worth revive.
  Then judge, unhappy, of thy heart's estate,
  Thyself avenging Brutus' hapless fate;
  Betray'd by female arts to boast a flame,
  That leads to thy misfortune and thy shame;
  'Tis she that stifles all the warrior's glow,
  And tears the fading laurel from thy brow.
  O husband mid thy weakness, still too dear
  Are such the actions of a love sincere;
  Grant but these lines with true affection fraught,
  The calm indulgence of unbiass'd thought;
  Does not remorse, even in some tender hour,
  O'er thy fond soul extend her chilling power;
  How oft do Rome and sad Octavia rise,
  And glance reproaches to thy mental eyes;
  Ah if 'tis so, and thy repentant soul
  Has felt the salutary griefs controul,
  Permit, at length permit this trembling hand,
  To mention honour's claim and love's demand;
  And if some crime thy just aversion draws,
  Tell, only cruel, tell the hapless cause.
    My brother all prepar'd, assum'd his arms,
  When war between you kindled fierce alarms;
  To reunite two heroes then became
  Of me, the glorious and successful aim;
  Your jarring int'rests in one point to blend,
  And change each stern opponent to a friend;
  Our marriage made--I hop'd to ratifie
  Your union, and confirm the mutual tie.
  Th' Egyptian queen, her love, your weakness prov'd,
  No apprehensions in my bosom mov'd.
  Ev'n Cleopatra secretly defy'd,
  I hop'd to humble guilty beauty's pride,
  And wish'd in loving thee, th'exalted fate,
  To punish her, and greatly serve the state.
  Rome sought, applauding, from my eyes to raise,
  The pleasing prospect of serener days;
  These glorious aims inflam'd my ardent breast,
  And tender prepossession did the rest.
  That happy day on which thy faith was giv'n,
  Bestow'd dear Anthony, the joys of heaven!
  What pomp, great Gods! and with what transport join'd
  To sway the lords of Rome, and of mankind;
  I dissipated rage and banish'd art,
  And rul'd a brother's and a husband's heart.
  Extinguish'd in her breast discordant hate,
  And reign'd the sovereign of the Roman state.
  A pardonable pride I dare confess,
  That generous pride that only knows to bless;
  The love of Cleopatra, her alarms,
  Augmented both my triumphs and my charms.
  The conqu'ror crown'd his conquest with repose,
  And own'd the laws affection dar'd impose.
  With war and with Octavia shar'd his life,
  Augustus rivalled and ador'd his wife.
    What did I say--That Rome which saw thee yield,
  Was not to shew me a sufficient field,
  Thou would'st, thy soul's supreme content to prove,
  Teach all mankind thy happiness and love;
  T'admire Octavia ev'ry eye must join,
  And render her more fair and dear to thine.
    O days of splendour pass'd on Athen's plains,
  Where all things seem'd but to cement our chains,
  That race by Mars and Pallas jointly crown'd,
  Who arts diffuse to all the world around.
  Witness'd my happiness so pure serene,
  And press'd each day to ornament the scene.
  Mild in my arms repos'd the warrior's art,
  Thy face expressive of thy tranquil heart;
  No more proclaim'd a victor's pride you knew,
  And peaceful virtue gain'd your valour's due;
  That Athens, Rome, with envy view'd before,
  A Roman countenance embellish'd more.

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                      PITY.

  Come, gentle pity, sooth my breast,
    Pity, thou attribute divine,
  Come softly lull my heart to rest,
    And with my tears O mingle thine.

  How sweet is sympathising grief,
    How grateful to the breast of woe,
  From sorrow's pangs we find relief
    In tears that from sweet pity flow.

  Thus sighing to the passing gale,
    Or wand'ring o'er the rugged steep,
  Oft have I told my mournful tale,
    And wept my sorrows in the deep.

  Few are my days, yet full of pain
    I sorrowing tread life's devious way,
  No hopes my weary steps sustain,
    My grief, alas! finds no allay.

  See yonder rose that withering lies,
    Lost are the beauties of its form,
  Torn from its fost'ring stem it dies,
    A victim to the ruthless storm.

  How fair it shone at early morn,
    How lovely deck'd in verdant pride,
  It blush'd luxuriant on the thorn,
    And shed its sweets on ev'ry side.

  How fair the morning of my day,
    Now chang'd, alas! to horrid gloom,
  My joys are fled, far, far away,
    And buried lie in Anna's tomb.

  C. S. Q.

    New-York, June 28, 1796.


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




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

  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, July 13, 1796.+  [+No. 54.+


  _+Description+ of the famous SALT MINES at +Williska+ in +Poland+._

  (Concluded from page 1.)

At the bottom of the last ladder the stranger is received in a small
cavern, walled up, perfectly close on all sides. To encrease the terror
of the scene, it is usual for the guide to pretend the utmost terror on
the apprehension of his lamp going out, declaring they must perish in
the mazes of the mine if it did. When arrived in this dreary chamber, he
puts out his light as if by accident, and after much cant, catches the
stranger by the hand, and drags him through a narrow creek into the body
of the mine, when there bursts at once upon his view, a world, the
lustre of which is scarce to be imagined. It is a spacious plain,
containing a whole people, a kind of subterraneous republic, with
houses, carriages, roads, &c. This is wholly scooped out of one vast bed
of salt, which is all a hard rock, as bright and glittering as crystal;
and the whole space before him is formed of lofty arched vaults,
supported by columns of salt, and roofed and floored with the same, so
that the columns, and indeed the whole fabric, seem composed of the
purest crystal.

They have many public lights in this place continually burning for the
general use, and the blaze of those reflected from every part of the
mine, gives a more glittering prospect than any thing above ground can
possibly exhibit. Were this the whole beauty of the spot, it were
sufficient to attract our wonder; but this is but a small part. The salt
(though generally clear and bright as crystal) is in some parts tinged
with all the colours of precious stones, as blue, yellow, purple, and
green; there are numerous columns wholly composed of these kinds, and
they look like masses of rubies, emeralds, amethysts, and sapphires,
darting a radiance which the eye can hardly bear, and which has given
many people occasion to compare it to the supposed magnificence of
heaven.

Besides the variegated forms of these vaults, tables, arches, and
columns, which are formed as they dig out the salt for the purpose of
keeping up the roof, there is a vast variety of others, grotesque and
finely figured, the work of nature, and these are generally of the
purest and brightest salt.

The roofs of the arches are in many places full of salt, hanging pendant
from the top in the form of icicles, and having all the hues and colours
of the rainbow; the walks are covered with various congelations of the
same kind, and the very floors, when not too much trodden and battered,
are covered with globules of the same sort of beautiful materials.

In various parts of this spacious plain stand the huts of the miners and
families, some standing single, and others in clusters like villages.
They have very little communication with the world above ground, and
many hundreds of people are born, and live all their lives here.

Through the midst of this plain lies the great road to the mouth of the
mine. This road is always filled with carriages loaded with masses of
salt out of the farther part of the mine, and carrying them to the place
where the rope belonging to the wheel receives them. The drivers of
these carriages are all merry and singing, and the salt looks like a
load of gems. The horses kept here are a very great number, and when
once let down, they never see the day-light again; but some of the men
take frequent occasions of going up and breathing the fresh air. The
instruments principally used by the miners are pick-axes, hammers, and
chissels: with these they dig out the salt in forms of huge cylinders,
each of many hundred weight. This is found the most convenient method of
getting them out of the mine, and as soon as got above ground, they are
broken into smaller pieces, and sent to the mills, where they are ground
to powder. The finest sort of the salt is frequently cut into toys, and
often passes for real crystal. This hard kind makes a great part of the
floor of the mine, and what is most surprising of all in the whole place
is, that there runs constantly over this, and through a large part of
the mine, a spring of fresh water, sufficient to supply the inhabitants
and their horses, so that they need not have any from above ground. The
horses usually grow blind after they have been some little time in the
mine, but they do as well for service afterwards as before. After
admiring the wonders of this amazing place, it is no very comfortable
remembrance to the stranger, that he is to go back again through the
same dismal way he came.

  [[Sources:

  Earlier publication: "The New magazine of knowledge concerning Heaven
    and Hell, and the Universal World of Nature" Vol. I, June 1790
  Background: The Polish spelling is Wieliczka. The salt mines are
    currently a major tourist attraction.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
  Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 3.)

How shall I describe my feelings at reading this letter! Oh, Julia!
cried I, lovely, adorable woman! Is it possible! O God! Can it be that I
have accused you of perfidy!--have done every thing in my power to
dishonour you!---have abandoned you! What! a heart so delicate, so
noble, did I once possess, and have I lost it! Oh misery! I might have
been the happiest of men; I am the most wretched. And can I, in my
present circumstances, accept the generous pardon thou offerest! O, no!
Better die than so debase myself! No, Julia, though thou mayest truly
accuse me of extravagance and injustice, thou never shalt have reason to
suspect me of meanness.

Streams of tears ran down my cheeks, while I reasoned thus. I wrote
twenty answers, and tore them all: at last I sent the following:

"I admire the noble manner of your proceeding, the sublimity of your
mind; and this excess of generosity is not incomprehensible _to me_.
Yes, I conceive all the self-satisfaction of saying, _All which the most
tender love can inspire, virtue alone shall make me perform._---But I
will not take advantage of its empire over you--Live free, be happy,
forget me.----Adieu! Julia---You have indisputably all the superiority
of reason over passion------and yet I have a heart, perhaps, not
unworthy of yours."

With this letter I returned the twenty-four thousand livres, ordering it
to be told her, that the diamonds having been given at her marriage,
were undoubtedly her's; and having once received, she had no right to
force them back upon me.

I had now made a sacrifice the most painful; Julia had offered to
consecrate her life to me, and I had renounced a happiness without which
there was neither happiness nor peace on earth for me. My grief,
however, was rather profound than violent; I had offered up felicity at
the altar of honour, and that idea, in some measure, supported me.
Besides, I did not doubt but my letter would prove to Julia that,
notwithstanding all my errors, I yet was worthy of her esteem. The hope
of exciting her pity, and especially her regret at parting from me,
again animated my heart: I supposed her relenting, and grieved, and the
supposition gave me a little ease.

I had lived about a fortnight retired in my lodging near the Luxembourg,
when I received an order to depart immediately, and join my regiment.
Peace had been declared near a year, and my regiment was in garrison two
hundred leagues from Paris. I was one of the most ignorant Colonels in
Europe; besides that I still secretly cherished the fond hope Julia was
not lost to me for ever; though I perfectly felt I could not recede, nor
could she make any further advances, yet I still flattered myself some
unforeseen event would again confer a blessing on me which I had never
sincerely renounced.

In fact, I could not resolve to quit Paris, and put the intolerable
space of two hundred leagues between me and Julia; I wrote therefore to
the minister, to obtain leave of absence, which was refused me, and I
instantly threw up my commission.

Thus did I quit the service at five-and-twenty, and thus did passion and
folly direct my conduct in all the most important events of life.

This last act of extravagance was the cause of great vexation to me; it
increased and completed the difference between me and my Uncle, who was
previously very angry with me for rashly separating from my wife: so
that I now found myself absolutely forsaken by every person in the world
whom most I loved.

At first, indeed, I did not feel the horror of my situation, being
solely occupied by one idea, which swallowed up all the rest. I wished
to see Julia once more. I imagined, if I could but find any means of
appearing suddenly and unexpectedly before her, I should revive some
part of the affection she formerly had for me. But I could not ask for
her at the convent; for what had I to say? She never went out, and her
apartment was in the interior part of the house; how then could I come
to the sight of her?

I had a valet, who happened to be acquainted with a cousin of one of the
Tourieres**. I spoke to this man, and got him to give me a letter for his
cousin the Touriere, in which I was announced as one of his friends, and
steward to a country lady, who wanted to send her daughter to a convent.

  [** A kind of female runner or turnkey to a convent.]

Accordingly, at twilight, I wrapped myself up in a great coat, put on an
old slouched hat, and went to the convent. The Touriere was exactly such
a person as I wished; that is, she was exceedingly talkative and
communicative. At first I put some vague questions to her, and
afterwards said, my mistress was not absolutely determined to send her
daughter to a convent; whence I took occasion to ask if they had many
boarders.

Oh yes, replied she, and married women too, I assure you. Here my heart
beat violently, and she, with a whisper, a smile, and an air of secrecy,
added----You must know, Sir, it is this very convent that incloses the
beautiful Madame de la Paliniere, of whom you have certainly heard so
much.

Yes---yes---I have---She is a charming woman.

Charming! Oh beautiful to a degree! It is a great pit!---but it is to be
hoped God will grant her the gift of repentance.

Repent! of what?

Sir!----Yes, yes, Sir, it is plain enough you are just come from the
country, or you could not ask such a question. So you don't know!

I have heard she had a capricious unjust husband, but--------

Oh yes! That to be sure she had; every body talks of his folly and
brutality, but that will not excuse her conduct. I hear every thing, and
can assure you she is here much against her inclination; nay, she would
not have come, had she not dreaded an order for imprisonment.

Imprisonment! Oh! heavens!

Not for her good behaviour, as you may suppose. Why she is neither
suffered to go out, nor see any person whatever, except her nearest
relations. Oh! she leads a very melancholy life! You may well think, our
Nuns won't have any communication with a wife false to her husband's
bed. The very Boarders will not look at her; every body avoids her as
they would infection. God forgive her! she must do penance yet: but
instead of that, she is playing upon the harpsichord all day long; is as
fresh as a rose, and looks better every day: she must be stubborn in
sin.

And does not she seem sorrowful?

Not at all; her woman says, she never saw her so contented; for my own
part, I am charitable, and hope she may yet be reclaimed, for she has
not a bad heart; she is generous and charitable; and yet she has
insisted upon having all her fortune restored, and has left her husband
in absolute want. You will tell me he is mad and foolish, has ruined
himself nobody knows how, and has just suffered the disgrace of being
degraded in the army. I own they have taken away his commission: yes, he
has lost his regiment; but yet, I say, a husband is a husband. The poor
man wrote to her about a month since to beg her assistance, but no! she
told him plainly, no! 'Tis very hard though!---I have all these things
from the best authority; I don't talk by hearsay; I have been fifteen
years in this house, and, I thank my God, nobody could ever say I was a
tatler, or a vender of scandal.

The Touriere continued at her own ease praising herself; I had not the
power of interruption left. She was loudly called for, kept talking all
the way she went, and in a few minutes returned.

It was the relation of a young Novice who takes the veil to-morrow, that
wanted me, said she. Ah! now; there; there is a true convert! A call of
grace! Gives fifty thousand francs (2083l. sterling) to the convent! You
ought to see the ceremony: our Boarders will all be there, and you can
take a peep through the church window.

At what o'clock will it begin?

Three in the afternoon. The Novice is as beautiful as an angel, and is
only twenty. Had she not lost her lover and her father in the same year,
the would never have attended to the blessed inspiration of the Spirit.
How good Providence is to us! Her father died first, and her lover, who
was imprisoned at Saumur, about five months after, of a broken heart, as
it is thought.

What was his name? cried I, in an agony not to be described.

The Marquis of Clainville, replied the Touriere, and our novice is
called Mademoiselle d'Elbene.

This last sentence went with inexpressible torture to my heart. I rose
suddenly, and ran out with an exclamation that threw the Touriere into
astonishment and terror.

Arrived at my lodgings, I threw myself upon the sopha, penetrated, torn,
and confounded at all that I had heard. The veil was rent away, the
illusion passed, I knew at length the extent of my misery; saw to what a
point my extravagant conduct had stained my wife's reputation; felt how
impossible it was for this innocent victim of my destruction truly to
pardon the injury I had done her, by destroying the most precious thing
a woman possesses; and owned, that the unjust contempt with which the
world treated her, ought incessantly to reanimate her resentment against
me its author. To her virtue alone could I now attribute her generous
manner of acting.

In fact from the account given by the Touriere, it was evident that
Julia, consoled by the testimony of a good conscience, was resigned to
her fate, and lived at peace; which she could not continue to do, but by
burying my memory in eternal oblivion.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

  ON GOD'S PROVIDENCE IN THE FORMATION OF HIS CREATURES.

When God created man he endowed him with certain principles of action,
which distinguished him from the animal or brute creation.---It is a
question which involves in it much disquisition and philosophy, whether
men were aboriginally white, black, or brown; but the popular opinion
with us seems to be, that all men were radically white. We see around us
on the face of nature, people of various complexions, some of whom are
the sons of science and education; others beclouded by the chilling
mists of profound ignorance: Those, however, that are more enlightened
presumptuously advance in the face of truth, that they alone are
favoured mortals, because of their superiority in the knowledge of
things.---Fallacious reasoning!---God is an equal providence, his
endowments are not partial but universal. He has given all men equal
abilities, which time and circumstance have rendered more conspicuous in
some; and if the same opportunities, the same education, the same
youthful care and social intercourse had been extended to all---_all_
would have been equally conspicuous. The sons of Ethiopia would vie with
the ablest of mankind, we should blush to call them slaves, and attach
to their reputation a more becoming appellation. Were I to argue from
other deductions, I should justly be accused of an attempt to argue a
defect in the God of nature---impossible!---It may not be improper here
to ask the ingenious advocates for opposite principles, what grounds
they rest their theory upon. Alive to the feelings of sensibility, with
reluctance I anticipate their answer: "_Appearances are the criterions
by which we judge!_" Generous Deity! is a whole nation to be imposed
upon and bear the shackles of ignominious bondage, because there is an
external difference of appearances? I shudder at concomitant
reflections! and must suspend the inquiry with deploring their miserable
condition if they ever consult their consciences.

  LUCIUS.

    PINE-STREET, June 28, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  IF A STORY BE NOT GOOD, SAY 'TIS A DUTCH ONE.--ERASMUS.

  _A Good Name_ is better than _precious Ointment_----SOLOMON.

'Tis certainly a strange and a ludicrous sentiment--there appears to be
such a contrast in the objects--I presume, in former days, ointments
were in greater estimation than at present---for it seems to have been
as currently talked of as _bank bills_ with us.---I recollect his
father's wonderful conception, that love and unity were similar to the
_precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even
Aaron's beard that went down to the skirts of his garments._---I cannot
conjecture the reason for their prizing it so highly:---Is this the
ointment or oil, pray, that made their kings? Well, admitting it
is,---why should it be set along side a _good name_.---We lessen the
importance of the noble object by placing it with a trivial one----The
fact is, I believe, Solomon said it because he happened to hear it (like
many other things) at home. Does there need much inspiration to raise so
noble a thought?---What if he said, a good name is better than _300
wives and 700 concubines_---would it not have made an admirable sound
indeed? Yes, how striking it would have been, had he only said, 'tis
better than 1000 stalls of horses---how some _penetrating diving old
gentlemen_ would have eyed it thro' their spectacles.---But such
_trivial things_ as a _few_ wives, concubines, or horses extra did not
pop into his mind just then. When I recollect how far the Queen of the
South came to _see_ his wisdom, and that, in fact, he was acknowleged
able to distinguish and divide a hair twixt south and south-west
side---I must blush and confess it folly and presumption to _smile_ at
him---though I had nothing else to do and cannot sleep;---but truly it
would have read so handsomely to me had it been a _good name_ is better,
far better, (understand me right,) than the best of _gingerbread_.

  R. G. W.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EFFECT OF MUSIC.

  (From a London Paper.)

The effect of music on the senses was oddly and wonderfully verified,
during the mourning for the late DUKE of CUMBERLAND: A taylor had a
great number of black suits, which were to be finished in a very short
space of time---among his workmen, there was a fellow who was always
singing _Rule Britannia_, and the rest of the journeymen joined in the
chorus.---The taylor made his observations, and found that the slow time
of his tune retarded the work, in consequence, he engaged a blind fidler
and placing him near the workshop, made him play constantly the lively
tune of _Nancy Dawson_.---The design had the proper effect---the taylors
elbows moved obedient to the melody, and the clothes were sent home
within the prescribed period.


       *       *       *       *       *

  OBSERVATION.

It is ungenerous to give a man occasion to blush at his own ignorance in
one thing, who perhaps may excel us in many.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 6.)

"But, my Lord," he continued, folding his hands, "will you be able to
pardon the manifold injuries which you have received from me, if I can
convince you that I have been only the tool of greater impostors."

"Speak frankly and without reserve! I will forgive you every thing."

"My Lord!---you are in dreadful hands. That _Unknown_---"

"Who is he?" I interrupted him impatiently.

"_Who_ he is, I do not know! as sure as I am going to appear before the
omniscient searcher of hearts, I do not know it. He always has observed
the greatest secrecy on that head. 'I am who I am!' he always replied,
when I questioned him on that point, 'and I never am what I seem to be!'
Three days before you made your first appearance at the castle of the
Countess, he came late at night to the gate, disguised as a beggar, and
enquired for me. Supposing that he wanted alms, I gave him a piece of
money. He raised a loud laughter, whilst he took a handful of ducats out
of his pocket, and put them in mine. 'This is only a prelude to what I
am going to do for you,' said he, without paying the least regard to my
astonishment, 'if you will assist me in executing a plan which I have
formed, without betraying our connection to the Countess.' 'And what
plan is it?' 'It is a very innocent one,' he replied, 'I wish to work
some miracles in the castle, and should be glad if you would assist me.
'For what purpose?' 'I want to make two people happy,' was his reply,
'the Countess, and a young nobleman, who will arrive within three days.
The Countess abandons herself too much to her grief, on account of her
deceased husband, and I know no better means to cure her of it, than to
banish the dead husband from her heart by a living lover. As a mediator
between the Countess and the young nobleman, I must render myself
important to both, and for that purpose I must work miracles; if I
succeed in getting the sway over their understanding, then I shall
easily make myself master of their hearts.' He then asked me whether he
could rely on me, and if the rest of the servants could not be gained by
money? I assured him of my readiness to serve him, and promised to
attempt the latter, in which I succeeded. My fellow servants were easily
bribed, because they were persuaded that it was a laudable, or at least
an innocent undertaking in which they were to be engaged. The cheat
which was to be played on you and the Countess was believed to be
innocent, as it appeared to be a means of gaining a salutary purpose. To
be brief, I informed the _Unknown_ the day following, that all of us
were firmly determined to assist him in the execution of his plan;
a resolution which he again rewarded with a handful of ducats.

"As soon as the Countess was gone to bed, I introduced the generous
stranger to my fellow servants. He soon convinced us that he was no
stranger in the castle; for he knew every apartment, and every corner.
'I was acquainted with the Prince of Ge**,' he said, 'the former
possessor of the castle. He was extremely fond of physic, and chemistry,
and his great skill in these sciences procured him publicly, the name of
a man of great learning, and privately that of a sorcerer. His rank
protected him against the fate which would have been the portion of
every body else, if suspected of sorcery. He built the castle in this
forest, in order to indulge here, without being interrupted by intruding
visitors, his inclination for physical and chemical operations, by means
of which he frightened many uninvited guests out of the castle. The most
extraordinary tricks he played in the last room, on the first floor,
which is connected by means of a machine, with a secret apartment on the
ground floor. The latter having neither a door or windows, has very
likely not yet been discovered by any of the inhabitants of the castle.'
This is really the case. The _Unknown_ demanded a candle, and requested
us to follow him. He led us to a wall which we never had noticed. There
he took a stone out of the floor, put his arm into the opening, and
pushed a part of the wooden wall back. We followed him through the
aperture of a small room, where we instantly beheld the machine of which
we had been speaking. It consisted of a strong spring, which was
connected with a large wooden cone, fitted in the ceiling, and fastened
by a bolt. As soon as the bolt was pushed back, and somebody placed
himself on the cone in the upper apartment, the spring was pressed down
and the person sunk into the lower apartment, between four posts, in the
joints of which the cone was sliding down. However as soon as one jumped
from the cone, the spring made it snap back by the elastic force into
its former place. In order to convince us of it, the _Unknown_ mounted
up to the ceiling upon a ladder which was in the room, and suspended
some heavy weights to hooks which were fastened to the under part of the
cone, which made it slide down as soon as he removed the bolt, and was
forced up again into its former place, by the elastic force of the
spring, as soon as he had taken away the weights. This machine could not
be perceived in the upper apartment, the floor of which consisted of
cubical squares, resembling in form, colour and position, the moveable
cone to which they seemed to be closely joined.

"Besides this machine, he shewed us a crooked tube, which was fixed to
the ceiling, and reached down to the middle of the room. This tube, said
the _Unknown_, is in communication with the wall of the upper apartment
where it ends in the open jaw of one of the four lions which are
standing in the corner of that room. By means of that tube, one cannot
only hear very distinctly in this room what is spoken in the upper
apartment, but one hears equally distinctly what one speaks here,
without suspecting from whence the voice proceeds. You know, my lord,
from your own experience how well the _Unknown_ knew how to render these
machines serviceable to his plan.

"Before the _Unknown_ left the castle, he asked me in what apartment the
Countess was used to receive strangers? 'In the room,' I replied,
'contiguous to that in the floor of which the moveable cone is
fixed.'--He left us with visible marks of satisfaction.

"The next day he came again to the castle, and meeting me at the gate,
exclaimed in accents of joy, 'To-morrow already we must begin to work
miracles. I have invented a plan which cannot miscarry. The young
nobleman will come to the castle to-night. Place some lights in the
windows of the upper and lower apartments, that he may find his way to
the castle, and order the gates to be opened without delay, as soon as
you hear him ring the bell. The Countess, who will be gone to bed by
that time, cannot see him before to-morrow morning. When you shall have
introduced him to her, then you must return to her apartment, after a
short interval and deliver this box and the note which I am going to
give you, into the hands of the Countess. If you are asked who has
brought it, describe me as you have seen me the first time I came to the
castle gate. The young nobleman will be desirous to see and to speak to
me, but you must tell him that I had left the castle after the box and
the note had been delivered. He will order you to pursue me without
delay; however, I will save you that trouble, for I shall stay at the
castle, and surrender to you as soon as you shall want me. Keep some
cords ready, which must be cut asunder and slightly sewn again together.
With these cords you must tie me, and charge some of the servants to
conduct me to the Countess, pretending that I had refused obstinately to
return. Then I shall tear the cords asunder, fly into the adjoining
room, and bolt the door after me. Meanwhile you must expect me in the
lower apartment and unfasten the bolt beneath the cone, that I may sink
down as soon as I shall get upon the latter. When the cone shall have
snapt back into its former place, you must be ready to fasten it by
means of the bolt. When the Countess and her guest, impatient to seize
me, shall force open the door and find the room empty, they will fancy
me to be a supernatural being, not being acquainted with the secret of
the machine.'

"You know my Lord, how punctually and successfully this design has been
put into execution. An accident was the cause of a second more important
plan, the execution of which has not been less successful. The
_Unknown_, who after his disappearance was listening attentively, in the
secret chamber, heard among other discourses, by means of the tube, the
prayer which the Countess addressed to him on account of the apparition
of her deceased Lord. He reflected a few minutes on the possibility of
granting it, and promised to satisfy her wishes. The tube was the
channel through which the _Unknown_ conveyed his answer to the
Countess."

Seized with astonishment at Paleski's narration, and impatient to hear
its continuation, I had not interrupted him once; but now I could not
refrain any longer from speaking. "Then Amelia is really innocent?"
I exclaimed, "and was not privy to the artifices of the _Unknown?_"

"Not in the least!" Paleski replied, "as I wish to be saved! The
Countess is innocent; she has been deceived as well as your Lordship,
and probably her faith in the supernatural power of the _Unknown_, is
still as firm as it was then."

This declaration lessened my anger at having been deceived in so
villainous a manner, I begged Paleski to continue his account.

"Does your Lordship recollect all the particulars of the apparition
scene?"

"Yes! I do."

"Well, then I will explain it to you. On the day previous to the magical
farce, the _Unknown_ told me that he had gained over to our party the
brother-in-law of the Countess, who had arrived lately, in order to
surprise Amelia unexpected, and promised to act the part of the ghost--"

"Impossible!" I exclaimed, "you must be mistaken. At least you are not
speaking of Count Clairville?"

"Yes the very same person who is at present your travelling companion."

A chilly tremor thrilled through my whole frame; my mind measured with a
look of horror the time past and present. I beheld myself in the power
of two men, one of whom had imposed upon my heart by means of the mask
of sincere friendship, and the other upon my understanding, by
displaying a shew of pretended supernatural powers, and both of whom
were leagued to work upon my credulity, and to make me run into the
greatest dangers.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  A PRODIGY.

The well-known Mr. George, son to the French governor of St. Domingo,
realised all the accomplishments attributed by Boyle and others,
particularly the adventurer, to the admirable Crichton of the Scotch. He
was so superior at the sword, that there was an edict of the parliament
of Paris to make his engagement in any duel actual death. He was the
first dancer in the world. He played upon seven different instruments of
music beyond the most artists. He spoke twenty-six languages, and could
maintain public theses in each. He walked round the various circles of
human science like the master of each: and strange to be mentioned to
whitemen, he was a Mulatto, and the son of an African mother.


       *       *       *       *       *

  GREATNESS.

Greatness conveys so fugitive an idea, that there is no holding it long
enough to make a definition: it is like a sun-beam reflected from water,
playing upon the walls of an apartment: it gives a momentary splendor to
the spot where it falls, and flies away to another and another, but to
which it belongs we cannot determine, so as to say it deserves
distinction.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

  REFLECTIONS.

  _Occasioned by the very sudden death of Miss MARY BLACKBOURN,
  who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796._

    "Record her worth."

      HARVEY.

Twenty years are now complete since America burst the shackles of
despotism--pleasures sat smiling on every cheek upon the review of our
glorious revolution.--Every freeman's heart seemed inspired with
enthusiastic ardour to imitate those brave veterans, who forsook the
dear ties of family connection to defend their country's rights, who
sacrificed their lives in the glorious cause of liberty. The return of
the day was commemorated with heartfelt joy; and amongst a number who
were to celebrate the birth of Independence, was one (a female) who had
promised herself the pleasure of joining with them. But, alas! how
fleeting is the happiness we fondly picture to ourselves. At one moment
we appear to have arrived at the very summit of earthly bliss, and at
the next we are plunged by cruel fate into the lowest abyss of misery.

O! ye who are sporting in the joys of youth, who are figuring to
yourselves the many happy days you, no doubt, expect to see for years to
come! who have never taken into consideration that solemn truth that you
are born but to die; that your life is like a vapour; that the present
hour you can scarcely call your own--it is you I now call upon to read
this with attention, to consider that like yourselves MARIA was in the
full bloom of youth, health, and beauty--yes, she was in possession of
all these, but one hour before her dissolution, and bid fair to live as
long as you--Sudden was her departure; in the space of a few minutes how
changed the scene!--She whose conversation just before, was wont to
inspire every hearer with emulation, lay stretched before our eyes a
senseless corpse.--Reflect, kind reader! O seriously reflect on your
visionary state of happiness! you are formed of the same materials! it
is the same air your breath!----yes! and a similar narrow cell you must
also inhabit, and that perhaps shortly too!---It is impossible for you
to say that you expect length of days, because you are in full
possession of health, as the very next moment may prove how deceitful
your expectations were.

O shade of departed innocence, where is it thou dost now inhabit?----art
thou one of those that surround the dazzling throne of Nature's God, and
employed in adoring the great I AM? It was surely for some wise purpose
that Jehovah snatched thee from us. Perhaps he saw the evils to which
thou wouldst have been exposed by a longer stay, and therefore thought
it expedient to translate thee to a better world.

O death! O thou cruel leveller of man! O thou fell tyrant of our race!
O thou king of terrors! why couldst thou not for once have deviated from
thy accustomed mode of procedure? Why couldst thou not have passed this
fair flower and attacked the couch of feeble age? Methinks thy haggard
cheek was never bathed with the tear of pity, or here certainly thou
wouldst have relented.

O thou great Supreme! O Lord of life and glory, teach us to be resigned
to our loss! may we never murmur at the dispensations of thy Providence,
but may we learn in every trial to be content---and when death shall
summon us hence may it be to never-fading worlds.

  MELPOMENUS.

    New-York, July 8, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

       For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

                   *   *   *

  +On JEALOUSY.+

Of all the passions which disturb the human mind, there is none more
pernicious in its quality, or more dreadful in its consequences, than
that of jealousy: it is looked upon, indeed, as the most certain proof
of a strong and violent affection; yet it is such a proof as no one
would wish to experience, since the beloved object is the greatest
sufferer of the parties, by having to partake with his own, under
conscious innocence, a large share in the unmerited sufferings of
others.

  MARS.

    New-York, July 8, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Thursday evening by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Captain TIMOTHY DORGAN, to
Miss SALLY JONES, both of this city.

The 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. EDWARD BLACKFORD, merchant, of
this city, to the agreeable Miss HANNAH MURRAY, daughter of James
Murray, late of this city, but now of Newark.

On Monday last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. SAMUEL CURIEA, to Miss SALLY
BOWEN, both of Providence.


       *       *       *       *       *

  [->] _TO CORRESPONDENTS._

The answer of ORLANDO to MELPOMENUS, has been received, but as we deem
the subject uninteresting, and as personal animosity, seemed to
predominate over that coolness which should be observed in discussion,
we think it better to drop the subject----The THREE CORNERED HAT, by
TYRUNCULUS, is received and shall be attended to.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 3d to the 9th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometor observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

         deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
            100   100   100
  JULY 3  72    74    72     SW. S. do.  clear cloudy do.
       4  72    80    78     E. S. do.  cloudy clear do.
       5  72    81    79 50  S. do. do.  foggy clear do.
       6  80 50 87 50 79     S. SW. do.  clear. do. do
       7  76 75 84 75 83     SW NW SW  clear do. do.
       8  80    88    79     W. do. S  clear do. cloudy
       9  76    85    80     N. W. NW.  clear do. do.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  LINES

  _Occasioned by the Death of Miss MARY BLACKBOURN,
  who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796._

    "Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernae crastina summae
    "Tempora Di superi?"

      HORACE.

  Attend, ye thoughtless!--Hear, ye young and gay!
  Who chearly pass the buxom hours away;
  And let reflection for a while prevail,
  While the sad Muse unfolds her mournful tale:
  In pensive strains her solemn numbers flow,
  And shew the vanity of all below.

    The day that mark'd, in majesty sublime.
  The greatest epoch in the rounds of time,
  Since hymning angels, in exalted lays,
  Proclaim'd _salvation_ to our ruin'd race,
  Began the east with radiance to adorn,
  And joy and gladness usher'd in the morn;
  Each heart exulted, every bosom glow'd;
  Great _Liberty_ inspir'd the son'rous ode;
  And while the flame through every patriot burn'd,
  Responsive echo _Liberty_ return'd.

    Now sportive youths in jovial bands combin'd,
  Tn social converse to unbend the mind;
  While ruddy nymphs, flush'd with unusual charms,
  That rouz'd the kindling breast with sweet alarms,
  To tuneful airs sung the harmonious lay,
  And swell'd the acclamations of the day.

    Among the rest, with inoffensive glee,
  MARIA joy'd th' auspicious morn to see:
  A lovely virgin, a young charming maid,
  In youthful bloom and modesty array'd;
  Whose gentle soul ne'er knew the dangerous ways;
  Where innocence in paths of error drays:
  But in the spotless school of virtue taught,
  No other pattern for her conduct sought.
  Thus undefil'd the graceful fair one grew,
  "Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew."

    But lo! while she no fell disaster fear'd,
  And to receive her welcome guests prepar'd;
  When each warm transport in her breast reviv'd,
  The grisly messenger of _death_ arriv'd:
  In his cold arms embrac'd the helpless maid,
  And number'd her for ever with the dead.

    Oh! matchless _cruelty!_ Thou haggard foe!
  Grim king of terrors! Ghastly prince of woe!
  Virtue immaculate thus to requite!
  And on the innocent to wreak thy spite!
  To blast the rose just op'ning into bloom,
  And hide its faded glories in the tomb!

    O! could I touch, with sympathetic smart,
  The tender feelings of the melting heart;
  Then would I long on the dire subject dwell,
  And the sad verse with gloomy numbers swell:
  But 'tis not mine,--I must the task forego,
  And let the gushing tear in silence flow.

    Rest then, thou gentle spirit, rest in peace;
  All jarring _passions_ now for ever cease;
  No more shall _sickness_ thy soft frame invade;
  And _grief_ and _pain_ eternally are fled,
  Ere long thy friends, who now thy fate deplore,
  Will follow thee and be beheld no more;
  And the young hand that pays this tribute, must
  Lie down in death, and mingle with the dust.

    ETHICUS.

      NEW-YORK _July 7, 1796_.

   [[The quoted line "Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew"
   is from Falconer, _The Shipwreck_, 1762.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

     AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTONY.
               +From the French.+

                 _BY MATILDA._

  (Concluded from page 8.)

  Too fleeting moments! now succeed your flight,
  Ambitious rivals rise in hostile fight;
  Thou fly'st me--fast thy rapid vessel flies,
  Snatch'd from my eager, my expiring eyes;
  From that dread moment, sad presage and care,
  Brood in my heart, my fortitude impair;
  My fear of Cleopatra's pow'r renews,
  Thy former passion, trembling mem'ry views;
  O rise ye winds! and in the deeps below,
  Plunge ev'ry bark t'avenge a lover's woe;
  Th'ingrate whose crimes no more deserve the light,
  Death, and the furious pangs of love requite!
  Or ah! at least the fatal fleet detain,
  From the curs'd region of my rival's reign
  The winds, (ye Gods, I fruitlessly implore!)
  Already land thee on that hateful shore;
  The haughty fair I see, with smiles approve
  The pow'rful influence of her captive love;
  I see thee adulate her treach'rous charms,
  And boast my suff'rings, cruel, in her arms;
  And when enfeebling transports long controul,
  To languid indolence resigns thy soul;
  She comes in all her secret arts array'd,
  Augments her charms by grief's deceitful aid;
  Affects the tenderness of pensive thought,
  A mind with doubt and apprehension fraught;
  And with her treach'rous sighs and feign'd distress,
  Revives the passion lost in calm success;
  'Tis thus, that mingling caprices and tears,
  Her form still new, still unimpair'd appears;
  Thou court'st the error that obscures thy mind,
  And think'st thou'rt happy, when thou art but blind.

    What strange excess of folly could delight,
  When a base triumph dignified thy flight?
  A Roman chief assuming Bacchus' name,
  Thro' Alexandria, publishes his shame;
  In these low arts can I that hero view,
  Who once in Rome far different triumphs knew.
  Ah! fruitless pains, requited with disdain,
  The charms of Egypt all thy soul detain;
  In her gay garden, of umbrageous grove,
  The Field of War and Fame no more can move.
  On flowers reclining in luxurious state,
  Rest Caesar's friend, the avenger of his fate;
  While to Octavia sunk in hapless grief,
  No spouse, no titles, yield a kind relief:
  Rome views my hapless fate with pitying eye,
  Fain from her sight, from all mankind I'd fly:
  Despair consumes me--and with calm delight,
  Thy hate forbids thy palace to my flight.
  To all Marcellus' tears and mine proclaim,
  Even to Augustus mingled grief and shame;
  That infant feels my tears, with fond desire
  To sooth my sorrows, prattles of his sire;
  Thy cruel mandates all have seen obey'd,
  A trophy to thy guilty flame I'm made;
  In our misfortunes dost thou pleasure find,
  Can grief and joy at once possess thy mind;
  But if thy worthless heart more outrage give,
  I ought to warn thee, long thou wilt not live:
  I speak as wife, I speak as Roman too,
  Rome daily loses her respect for you;
  The child, she says, that own'd my fost'ring care,
  Thus with a foreigner his life to share,
  And give the sun to see amidst our arms
  A stranger Queen display her haughty charms;
  Our veteran's to her dastard courts confin'd,
  Our standards wave, to love-devices join'd;
  Shall these dishonours vile be calmly borne,
  Till all the universe regards with scorn;
  No: when a Roman proves unworthy breath,
  Abridge his shame, or give him instant death.
    The people warm, the senate join applause,
  Thy crime due vengeance even to Syria draws;
  Augustus' rage, the just intent pursues,
  T' avenge a sister, and a rival lose.
  Ah! yet regard the impending danger near,
  Hear glory's call, that glory once so dear;
  Return to crown Octavia's constant love,
  No fierce reproaches thou from her shalt prove;
  Though beauty's transient charms no more you see,
  Those charms, lamented husband, fled with thee;
  The kindness of the wanderer I deplore,
  Will to this form each banish'd grace restore:
  Could I whom only I desire, retain,
  Even Cleopatra's eyes I'd wish to gain.
  Thou sigh'st, I triumph----thy relenting soul
  For glory form'd, and virtue's blest controul,
  Wilt for Marcellus take a father's part,
  For him sole solace of his mother's heart.
  ----What do I say--when you, perhaps, even now
  In Cleopatra's arms my ruin vow;
  Would to the gods! ah! would the Fates decree
  That barbarous fair the lot ordain'd for me;
  O may she fall betray'd, and as she dies,
  View joy exulting in her lover's eyes;
  On her who poison'd all my bliss of life,
  A cruel death avenge an injur'd wife.
  So perish all who boast such dangerous arms,
  Whom Nature ornaments with guilty charms;
  To banish faith, conceal a vicious heart,
  Or elevate caprice and fraud to art,
  The despicable beauties, whose controul,
  Destroys the seeds of honour in the soul;
  Who glorying o'er illustrious slaves to reign,
  Contrive each day to swell the inglorious train;
  The blaze of beauty wrap in viewless gloom,
  And dress with flow'rs their passage to the tomb.
  Forgive this transport; yes, the keenest dart
  Should pierce, had I the pow'r, that barb'rous heart.
  For thee, dear Anthony, live ever blest,
  No hostile vows from me thy peace molest.
  May Rome behold thee, is my warmest pray'r,
  Augustus' rank and the world's empire share:
  While I descending to the realms beneath,
  Not even the pang of one remorse bequeath.

    NEW-YORK June 26, 1796.

  [[Sources:

  The French original _may_ be Nicolas Renouard, "Epitre (or Lettre)
    d'Octavie a Marc-Antoine".]]


       *       *       *       *       *

    FRAGMENT.

  Pow'r, wealth, and beauty are a short-liv'd trust;
  'Tis virtue only blossoms in the dust.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, July 20, 1796.+  [+No. 55.+


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

  _+Remarks+ on the +Wonderful Construction+ of the EYE._

The eye infinitely surpasses all the works of the industry of man. Its
formation is the most astonishing thing the human understanding has been
able to acquire a perfect knowledge of. The most skilful artist could
imagine no machine of that kind which would not be much inferior to what
we observe in the eye. Whatever sagacity or industry he might have, he
could execute nothing which would not have the imperfections necessarily
belonging to all the works of man. We cannot, it is true, perceive
clearly the whole art of divine wisdom in the formation of this fine
organ; but the little we do know is sufficient to convince us of the
infinite wisdom, goodness, and power of our Creator. The most essential
point is for us to make use of this knowledge, weak as it is, to magnify
the name of the Most High.

In the first place, the disposition of the external parts of the eye is
admirable. With what intrenchment, what defence, the Creator has
provided our eyes! They are placed in the head at a certain depth, and
surrounded with hard and solid bones, that they may not easily be hurt.
The eye-brows contribute also very much to the safety and preservation
of this organ. Those hairs which form an arch over the eyes, prevent
drops of sweat, dust, or such things, falling from the forehead into
them. The eye-lids are another security; and also, by closing in our
sleep, they prevent the light from disturbing our rest. The eye-lashes
still add to the perfection of the eyes. They save us from a too strong
light, which might offend us; and they guard us from the smallest dust,
which might otherwise hurt the sight. The internal make of the eye is
still more admirable. The whole eye is composed of coats, of humours, of
muscles, and veins. The tunica, or exterior membrane, which is called
_cornea_, is transparent, and so hard, that it can resist the roughest
shocks. Behind that there is another within, which they call _uvea_, and
which is circular and . In the middle of it there is an opening,
which is called the _pupil_, and which appears black. Behind this
opening is the _crystal_, which is perfectly transparent, of a
lenticular figure, and composed of several little flakes very thin, and
arranged one over another. Underneath the crystal there is a moist and
transparent substance, which they call the _glassy humour_, because it
resembles melted glass. The cavity, or the hinder chamber, between the
cornea and the crystal, contains a moist humour, and liquid as water,
for that reason called the _watery humour_. It can recruit itself when
it has run out from a wound of the cornea. Six muscles, admirably well
placed, move the eye on all sides, raise it, lower it, turn it to the
right or left, obliquely, or round about, as occasion requires. What is
most admirable is the _retina_, a membrane which lines the inside bottom
of the eye. It is nothing but a web of little fibres extremely fine,
fastened to a nerve or sinew, which comes from the brain, and is called
the _optic nerve_. It is in the retina, that the vision is formed,
because the objects paint themselves at the bottom of the eye on that
tunica: and, though the images of exterior objects are painted upside
down on the retina, they are still seen in their true position. Now, in
order to form an idea of the extreme minuteness of this picture, we need
only consider, that the space of half a mile, that is to say, of more
than eleven hundred yards, when it is represented in the bottom of the
eye, makes but the tenth part of an inch.

I return thee thanks, O Lord God, for having formed my eye in so
wonderful a manner. My soul acknowledges thy infinite power, goodness,
and wisdom. Hitherto I had not considered my eyes as I should have done,
that is, as a master-piece of thy hands, and as a demonstrative proof,
that even the most minute parts of my body are not the work of chance,
and that thou hast formed them for most useful purposes.---_Surely I am
a faint image and likeness of THYSELF._


       *       *       *       *       *

  MAXIM.

The same energy of mind which urges to the noblest heights of
benevolence, and assists towards the sublimest attainments of genius,
may also, if not properly directed, hurry us on to the wildest
extravagances of passion, and betray into impetuosity and folly.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
  Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 11.)

God of mercies! cried I, into what a frightful abyss have my passions
plunged me. Had I subdued jealousy, had I overcome my natural
impetuosity, my idleness and inclination for play, I should have enjoyed
a considerable fortune; should not have borne the inward and dreadful
reproach of effecting the death of a worthy young man, nor of being the
primary cause of the sacrifice which his unhappy mistress will make
to-morrow; I should have been the delight of a benefactor, an Uncle, who
at present justly thinks me ungrateful and incorrigible; and should not
cowardly, at five-and-twenty, have renounced the duty of serving my King
and country. Far from being an object of contempt and public censure,
I should have been universally beloved, and, in possession of the
gentlest, most charming, and most virtuous of women, should have had the
most faithful and amiable of friends, and moreover should have been a
father! Wretch, of what inestimable treasures had thou deprived thyself!
Now thou mayest wander, for ever, lonely and desolate over the peopled
earth! So saying, I cast my despairing eyes around, terrified as it were
at my own comfortless and solitary situation.

Buried in these reflections, my attention was rouzed by the sound of
hasty footsteps upon the stairs. My door suddenly opened, a man appeared
and ran towards me; I rose instinctively, advanced, and in an instant
found myself in the arms of Sinclair!

While he pressed me to his bosom I could not restrain my tears; his
flowed plentifully. A thousand contending emotions were struggling in my
heart; but excessive confusion and shame were most prevalent, and kept
me silent.

I was at the farther part of Poitou, my friend, said Sinclair, and knew
not till lately, how necessary the consolations of friendship were
become; besides, I wanted six months for my own affairs, that I might
afterward devote myself to you. I am just come from Fontainbleau, have
obtained leave of absence, and you may now dispose of me as you please.

Oh Sinclair! cried I, unworthy the title of your friend, I no longer
deserve, no more can enjoy the precious consolations which friendship so
pure thus generously offers: I am past help, past hope.

Not so, said he, again embracing me; I know thy heart, thy native
sensibility and noble mind: had I nothing but compassion to offer,
certain I could not comfort, I should have wept for and assisted thee in
secret; but thou wouldst not have seen me here. No; friendship inspires
and brings me hither, with a happy assurance I shall soften thy anguish.

Sinclair's discourse not only awakened the most lively gratitude, but
raised me in my own esteem. In giving me back his friendship, he gave me
hopes of myself. I immediately opened my whole heart to him, and found a
satisfaction of which I had long been deprived, that of speaking without
disguise of all my faults, and all my sorrows. The melancholy tale was
often interrupted by my tears; and Sinclair, after hearing me with as
much attention as tenderness, raised his eyes to heaven and gave a deep
sigh.

Of what use, said he, are wit, sensibility of soul, or virtuous
dispositions, without those solid, those invariable principles which
education or experience alone can give! He who has never profited by the
lessons of others, can never grow wise but at his own expence, and is
only to be taught by his errors and misfortunes.

Sinclair then conjured me to leave Paris for a time, and travel; adding
that he would go with me, and pressed me to depart without delay for
Italy. I give myself up entirely to your guidance, said I; dispose of a
wretch who without your aid must sink beneath his load of misery.
Profiting accordingly by the temper in which he found me, he made me
give my word to set off in two days. The evening before my departure,
I wished once more to revisit the place where I had first beheld my
Julia. It was in the gardens of the Palais-Royal; but, ashamed of
appearing in public, I waited till it was dark. There was music there
that evening, and a great concourse of people; so hiding myself in the
most obscure part of the great alley, I sat down behind a large tree.

I had not sat long, before two men came and placed themselves on the
other tide of the tree. I instantly knew one of them, by the sound of
his voice, to be Dainval, a young coxcomb, without wit, breeding, or
principles; joining to ridiculous affectation of perpetual irony,
a pretension to think philosophically; laughing at every thing; deciding
with self-sufficiency; at once pedantic and superficial; speaking with
contempt of the best men and the most virtuous actions; and believing
himself profound by calumniating goodness.

Such was Dainval, a man whom I had believed my friend till the moment of
my ruin, and whose pernicious example and advice I had too often
followed. I was going to rise and remove, when the sound of my own name
awakened my curiosity, and I heard the following dialogue began by
Dainval:

"Oh yes, it is very certain he sets off to-morrow morning with Sinclair
for Italy."

"How! is he reconciled to Sinclair?"

"The best friends on earth! Generosity on one side, repentance on the
other; mutual tenderness, tears, and tortures; prayers, pardons, and
pacifications. The scene was truly pathetic."

"So there is not a word of truth in all the late town talk?"

"What, of their being rivals? Why should you think so?"

"Why, how is it possible that Sinclair should be so interested about a
man he had betrayed?"

"Ha! ha!----I do not pique myself much for finding reasons for other
men's actions, though I do a little for the faculty of seeing things as
they are. Sinclair, still fond of Julia, would reconcile her to her
husband, in order to get her out of a convent again. The thing is
evident enough."

"But wherefore then go to Italy?"

"To give the town time to forget the history of the picture and the
pocket book."

"And yet there are many people who pretend the pocket-book was
Belinda's."

"A fable invented at leisure! The fact is, poor La Paliniere knew well
enough, previous to that discovery, how matters went, and had told what
he knew above a year before to whoever would listen."

"Is he amiable, pray? What sort of a man is he?"

"Who? La Paliniere!--------A poor creature! talents excessively
confined; half stupid; no imagination; no resource; no character. At his
first coming into life he threw himself in my way, and I took him under
my tuition; but I soon saw it was labour in vain; could never make any
figure; a head ill turned; Gothic notions; trifling views; scarce common
sense; a Prodigal that gaped with confusion at the sight of a Creditor:
a Gamester, that prided himself on generosity and greatness of soul with
a dice-box in his hand; any man's dupe; ruining himself without
enjoyment, and without eclat."

"Have you seen him since his clash?"

"No; but I have burnt all our accounts; he'll never hear of them more."

"Did he owe you many play-debts?"

"Numberless. I have destroyed his notes; not that I brag of such things,
nor should I mention this to any body else, 'Tis a thing of course you
know with a man of spirit; though I would not have you speak of it."

I could contain myself no longer at this last falsehood. Liar! cried I,
behold me ready to pay all I owe you; retire from this place, and I hope
to acquit myself.

"Faith, said Dainval, with a forced smile, I did not expect you just
now, I must confess. As to your cut-throat proposal, it is natural
enough for you; you have nothing to lose, but I must take another year
to complete my ruin: therefore, when you return from Italy, or
thereabouts, why we shall fight on equal terms."

So saying, he ran off without waiting for a reply, and left me with too
much contempt for his cowardice to think of pursuit.

This then is the man, said I to myself, whom I once thought amiable, by
whose councils I have been often guided! What a depth of depravity! What
a vile and corrupted heart! Oh how hideous is vice when seen without a
veil! It never reduces but when concealed; and having ever a greater
proportion of impudence than of artifice, it soon or late will break the
brittle mask with which its true face is covered.

This last adventure furnished me with more than one subject for
reflection; it taught me how carefully those who prize their reputation,
ought to avoid making themselves the topic of public conversation, in
which the sarcasms of scandal are always most prevalent. The malicious
add and invent, and the foolish and the idle hear and repeat; truth is
obscured, and the deceived public condemn without appeal.

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

          ON THE THREE CORNERED HAT.

Among the many things invented by man for his use, none perhaps is more
ridiculous than the _three cornered hat_ at present used by some
persons. That it affords but an inconsiderable shelter for the head, is
a truth scarcely to be denied; and that the face of him who wears it
remains exposed to the piercing rays of the sun, is equally true. If our
ancestors deemed it a conveniency to wear the hats in question,
experience teaches us at the present day, their great inutility: And
shall we then willingly smile on those customs which (tho' formerly
practised) proves at present highly injurious? No; Let us consult our
own feelings, and not the habits of former times.---Common sense points
out their inconsistency, and reason mocks the stupidity of him who madly
submits to be ruled by custom, that tyrant of the human mind, to whose
government three-fourths of this creation foolishly subscribe their
assent. Again, the weight which is comprised in a hat of that size, is a
sufficient argument for their abolition. Wherein then can the utility of
such an unwieldy machine consist? Is not the round hat more becoming?
And does it not finally prove to the head by far the best covering? The
contrary cannot be urged unless through prejudice or selfishness. That
it looks respectable and sacred, may be urged in favour of it; to this I
reply, that if to be _impudent_, constitutes either of those characters,
the _three cornered hat_ has the great good fortune to be superior to
the other. It may be further advanced in its favour, that by letting
down its brims it will answer the purpose of an _umbrella_ in a hot
summer's day: true that for size it may, but where is the person that
would not rather make use of the real than the fictitious machine? Why
was the pains taken for the invention of an umbrella, if the hat could
be made to answer the same views? Was it not because the hat attracting
the rays of the sun, was found to be injurious to the eyes, and
therefore recourse was had to a machine which proved not only a shelter
from the sun, but to the eyes far more beneficial. To conclude, nothing
but a false pride, and a desire to be _conspicuous_, could ever induce a
person thus inconsistently to use that which will finally prove his
folly.

  TYRUNCULUS.

    NEW-YORK _July 7, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  A SPEAKING STATUE.

Laugingen, a city of Germany, is famous for the birth of Albert the
Great, who made a statue, with such admirable clockwork, that it could
walk, move its tongue, and speak distinctly.

It one day happened that Thomas d'Aquinas, disciple of Albert, having
entered the chamber where this statue was left alone, the statue
advanced towards him, and spoke to him before he was aware. Thomas was
so frighted at this, that he struck it several times, and broke to
pieces this admirable work, which had cost Albert thirty years labour.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _To the +Editor+ of the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

  SIR,

  The inclosed Account I transmit to you for publication, at the
  particular request of a friend, who is well acquainted with the
  circumstances that gave rise to it.--It is drawn up by a female
  hand, and she here relates respecting Mr. Y-------- what she knew
  of him herself, and what she had heard of him in her father's
  family, where he had been an occasional visitant; as I have no
  reason to believe that this transaction has ever appeared in print,
  you will be pleased to give it a place among your original
  compositions.

    ANNA.

      NEW-YORK _May 17, 1796_.

                   *   *   *

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

  AN ACCOUNT

  OF A MURDER COMMITTED BY MR. J---- Y----, UPON HIS FAMILY,
  IN DECEMBER, A.D. 1781.

The unfortunate subject of my present essay, belonged to one of the most
respectable families in this state; he resided a few miles from
Tomhanick, and though he was not in the most affluent circumstances, he
maintained his family (which consisted of a wife and four children,)
very comfortably.--From the natural gentleness of his disposition, his
industry, sobriety, probity and kindness, his neighbours universally
esteemed him, and until the fatal night when he perpetrated the cruel
act, none saw cause of blame in him.

In the afternoon preceding that night, as it was Sunday and there was no
church near, several of his neighbours with their wives came to his
house for the purpose of reading the scripture and singing psalms; he
received them cordially, and when they were going to return home in the
evening, he pressed his sister and her husband, who came with the
others, to stay longer; at his very earnest solicitation they remained
until near nine o'clock, during which time his conversation was grave as
usual, but interesting and affectionate: to his wife, of whom he was
very fond, he made use of more than commonly endearing expressions, and
caressed his little ones alternately:--he spoke much of his domestic
felicity, and informed his sister, that to render his wife more happy,
he intended to take her to New-Hampshire the next day; "I have
just been refitting my sleigh," said he, "and we will set off by
day-break."--After singing another hymn, Mr. and Mrs. J--s--n departed.

"They had no sooner left us (said he upon his examination) than taking
my wife upon my lap, I opened the Bible to read to her---my two boys
were in bed---one five years old, the other seven;---my daughter
Rebecca, about eleven, was sitting by the fire, and my infant aged about
six months, was slumbering at her mother's bosom.---Instantly a new
light shone into the room, and upon looking up I beheld two Spirits, one
at my right hand and the other at my left;---he at the left bade me
destroy all my _idols_, and begin by casting the Bible into the
fire;---the other Spirit dissuaded me, but I obeyed the first, and threw
the book into the flames. My wife immediately snatched it out, and was
going to expostulate, when I threw it in again and held her fast until
it was entirely consumed:---then filled with the determination to
persevere, I flew out of the house, and seizing an axe which lay by the
door, with a few strokes demolished my sleigh, and running to the stable
killed one of my horses---the other I struck, but with one spring he got
clear of the stable.---My spirits now were high, and I hasted to the
house to inform my wife of what I had done. She appeared terrified, and
begged me to sit down; but the good angel whom I had obeyed stood by me
and bade me go on, "You have more idols, (said he) look at your wife and
children." I hesitated not a moment, but rushed to the bed where my boys
lay, and catching the eldest in my arms, I threw him with such violence
against the wall, that he expired without a groan!---his brother was
still asleep---I took him by the feet, and dashed his skull in pieces
against the fire-place!---Then looking round, and perceiving that my
wife and daughters were fled, I left the dead where they lay, and went
in pursuit of the living, taking up the axe again.---A slight snow had
fallen that evening, and by its light I descried my wife running towards
her father's (who lived about half a mile off) encumbered with her babe;
I ran after her, calling upon her to return, but she shrieked and fled
faster, I therefore doubled my pace, and when I was within thirty yards
of her, threw the axe at her, which hit her upon the hip!---the moment
that she felt the blow she dropped the child, which I directly caught
up, and threw against the log-fence---I did not hear it cry---I only
heard the lamentations of my wife, of whom I had now lost sight; but the
blood gushed so copiously from her wound that it formed a distinct path
along the snow. We were now within sight of her father's house, but from
what cause I cannot tell, she took an opposite course, and after running
across an open field several times, she again stopped at her own door;
I now came up with her---my heart bled to see her distress, and all my
_natural feelings_ began to revive; I forgot my duty, so powerfully did
her moanings and pleadings affect me, "Come then, my love (said I) we
have one child left, let us be thankful for that--what is done is
right--we must not repine, come let me embrace you---let me know that
you do indeed love me." She encircled me in her trembling arms, and
pressed her quivering lips to my cheek.---A voice behind me, said, "This
is also an idol!"---I broke from her instantly, and wrenching a stake
from the garden fence, with one stroke levelled her to the earth! and
lest she should only be stunned, and might, perhaps, recover again,
I repeated my blows, till I could not distinguish one feature of her
face!!! I now went to look after my last sublunary treasure, but after
calling several times without receiving any answer, I returned to the
house again; and in the way back picked up the babe and laid it on my
wife's bosom.---I then stood musing a minute---during which interval I
thought I heard the suppressed sobbings of some one near the barn,
I approached it in silence, and beheld my daughter Rebecca endeavouring
to conceal herself among the hay-stacks.---"

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 14.)

"Alas! Paleski," I exclaimed, after a long pause, "how dreadfully have
you opened my eyes!"

"Compose yourself, my Lord, I am sensible that my time is very precious,
and I have to reveal to you a great deal more. The Count acted the part
of the ghost, which he could do with sanguine hopes of success, as he
resembles his deceased brother in a striking manner. He covered his body
with a doe skin, which as well as his face, was painted of a corpse-like
colour. A spunge filled with a red mixture was concealed betwixt his
body and the doe skin, which had five inscissures. As soon as the clock
struck twelve, and the lights were extinguished, the moveable cone was
drawn down into the lower apartment, the Count got through the aperture
by means of a ladder, and the cone snapped again in its former place, as
soon as the ladder was removed. The shroud in which the Count was
wrapped had been rubbed with a spirit that diffused a corpse-like smell
through the apartment. Whenever the Count gave a signal, a flash of
lightning illuminated the apartment, and you saw the pretended ghost,
who addressed the Countess in a solemn, serious manner. The red colour
penetrated through the inscissures of the doe skin as often as the Count
pressed the spunge.----Having finished his part, he stepped back upon
the moveable cone, and sunk down into the lower apartment."

"Unheard of fraud!" I exclaimed, "so simple, and yet so
impenetrable--But, Paleski, can you explain how the lightning and
thunder, which was so extremely natural, was effected?"

"Both were produced by two men in the apartment over your head. One
shook a large round copper plate which the _Unknown_ had found in the
secret chamber, and caused the thundering noise by its vibrations. The
other was standing at a window, and produced the lightning by directing
the light of a magic lanthorn in such a manner that it was received by a
large mirror which was suspended opposite to the window of the apartment
where the ghost appeared, in such a manner that it reflected the light
into the room, and illuminated the ghost, who stood in a straight line
with the window. The trembling motion in which the mirror was put, gave
the illumination the appearance of flashes of lightning, which
disappeared as often as the shutter of the lanthorn was let down."

"But how did it happen that I did not observe the mirror when I looked
out of the window?"

"It was fastened to the branches of an opposite tree, while you were at
supper; however the darkness of the night, the distance of the tree, and
the black cloth with which it had been covered till twelve o'clock, had
rendered it invisible. Your servant, from whom we carefully concealed
our proceedings, had been removed to a distant apartment, where he was
amused by a game at cards till midnight had set in."

"But why did the _Unknown_ not endeavour to gain him over to his party?"

"We had really been charged by him to attempt it, however he displayed
so much fidelity and unshaken attachment to you, that we found it
prudent to drop the attempt."

The confirmation of the good opinion which I always had entertained of
Pietro's fidelity, gave me so much the more pleasure, because I saw
myself so dreadfully mistaken in my opinion of the Count and the
_Unknown_.

"I do not know," Paleski continued, "whether the success of the whole
design is to be ascribed to the Count or the _Unknown_, the former of
whom had taken upon himself the execution, and the latter the regulation
and direction of the plot. All of us were enraptured at the successful
execution of that undertaking; however consternation soon stepped in the
room of joy, when we perceived the fatal effect which that juggling
farce produced on the health of the Countess, and we should certainly
have betrayed the whole cheat, if the immense presents which the
_Unknown_ distributed, and his solemn declaration that he would restore
the health of the Countess had not silenced us."

"Was the illness of Amelia really so dangerous as I have been told by my
servant?"

"The accounts we gave him were very much exaggerated by the direction of
the _Unknown_, who persuaded us, that if you had a sincere love for our
lady, it would increase with the danger of losing her. When we asked him
on your departure, for what reason he did not oppose it, if he really
designed to promote your and her ladyship's happiness: he replied, 'Your
notions of love are very erroneous, if you cannot see my drift. The
spark which glimmers in their bosoms, must be blown up into a blazing
flame, by obstacles and difficulties; a forcible separation of two
loving hearts, unites them more firmly.'---Even the fictitious account
which I gave you of the death of the Countess was written by the desire
of the _Unknown_; for he pretended to try the strength of your love, by
observing the effect which it would produce upon your heart. The
intelligence which I gave you of the pretended miraculous restoration of
the Countess was forged, with the design to obliterate the impression of
the former, and to give you at the same time a high notion of the power
of the _Unknown_."

"But, certainly, you did not write that letter by his direction?"

"Yes, my Lord, I did."

"And your recantation in the wood near ****n?---"

"Was a new cheat."

I gazed at him with astonishment.

"You will recollect, my Lord, that I told you the _Unknown_, had given
up all hope of seducing your servant; and yet he stood in need of a man
who enjoyed your confidence, in order to be informed by him of all your
actions, wishes and sentiments, and to govern you at his pleasure by his
assistance, without your perceiving it. The Count offered to attempt to
get acquainted with you. In order to deceive the keen-sightedness of
your tutor, who was a principal obstacle to the execution of his
designs, he pretended to join with him in his hatred against the
_Unknown_, whom he declared to be an impostor, and thus made your
governor believe that he was an unprejudiced honest man. For that very
reason he persisted in his declaration, accepted your challenge, and
produced the letter by which Amelia had informed him of the particulars
of her recovery, and proved my letter to be a forgery. He even accused
the _Unknown_ of acting in concert with me, with the view to remove the
most distant suspicion of being connected with either of us. The Count
would certainly not have hazarded to push matters so far, if he had not
foreseen that a scene like that which I acted in the wood near
****n would retrieve every thing, and clear the _Unknown_ of the
suspicion of having acted in concert with me. The event has proved that
he had not been mistaken, and now he thought it seasonable to change the
scene. Till then the Count had appeared to counteract him, though he had
rendered him the most important services; but now, thinking to have
gained a firm footing in your confidence, he began to declare openly for
the _Unknown_. He could easily foresee what a seducing effect this
seeming change of opinion would have upon you. For it was natural you
should conceive the idea, that the unfavourable prejudice which the
Count had manifested against the _Unknown_, had been conquered by the
reality and greatness of his miracles; and supposing this, you could not
but think to have an additional motive for yielding without reserve to
the sublime notion of the power of the _Unknown_, which you till then
frequently had entertained reluctantly. However the Count could not
change his tone before the _Unknown_ appeared justified, as well in his
as in your opinion, if he would not expose himself to the danger of
exciting your suspicion, and for that reason the farce in the wood near
***n was acted."

"I comprehend you!" said I, grinding my teeth with anger. "But what of
the farce?"

"It was partly of my, and partly of the Count's invention. I had kept
myself concealed in the wood of ****n, some days previous to that farce,
and carefully consulted with the Count, what I should do and say in your
presence. We fixed on purpose on an evening on which we had just reason
to expect a thunder storm, in order to give the whole scene more
solemnity. We chose an unfrequented, solitary spot of the wood, for the
scene of action, where I disguised myself in the ruins of an old house,
and awaited your arrival without being observed. I painted my face with
a light yellow, and my feet with a red colour, and rushed from my ambush
with loud screams, as soon as I saw you at a distance."

"You dropped senseless to the ground, and behaved like a maniac; what
view had you by doing so?"

"I only wanted to strengthen the impression of my tale."

"You pretended to see the _Unknown_; was he really not far off, or did
you only deceive me?"

"It was mere deception, for he was then many miles distant from ****n."

"But what you told me of the hermit was true? or was it also a
preconcerted tale?"

He was prevented from returning an answer by a sudden fainting fit,
which probably was the consequence of his having talked too much. I rang
the bell for the nurse and retired with the intention of hearing the
next morning the continuation of Paleski's confession. A nameless
sensation thrilled my whole frame when I went home. I wished and dreaded
to find the Count at our hotel, being enraptured at the idea of treating
the unmasked impostor with that humiliating contempt which he so well
deserved; but shuddering at the thirst for revenge which I felt in my
bosom, and that animated me to take a satisfaction against which my good
genius warned me. However, to my and his fortune, he was not at home. He
had, as Pietro told me, taken some papers out of his trunk, during my
absence and left the house suddenly. The evening and the night passed
without his being returned, and he was not come back in the morning when
I went to the hospital.

I entered Paleski's apartment, burning with impatience to hear his
farther discoveries. But alas! he was on the brink of eternity, and died
a few minutes after my arrival.

I would have given worlds if I could have prolonged the life of this man
only for a few hours. His relation had thrown a light only over a part
of my mysterious history, and a far greater part was still surrounded
with impenetrable darkness. I have never been so sensible how much more
painful half satisfied curiosity is, than utter ignorance or the most
dreadful certainty. How much did I now repent that I had not
interrogated Paleski the day before, on the fate of my tutor, Amelia's
sentiments for me and her abode. The _Unknown_ had indeed given me very
flattering hopes, with regard to these dear people; however, what
reliance could I have on the promises of an impostor? Entirely left to
myself, I was obliged to leave it to some fortunate accident, or to his
generosity, whether I ever should have the happiness of meeting them
again? Frail hope! and yet it was my only support in my friendless,
distressing situation, the only prop on which I could lean. Being in a
world to which I was almost an utter stranger, without a friend or
guide, surrounded with the invisible snares of two impostors, threatened
by an uncertain and gloomy futurity, I readily gave myself up to the
sweet ideas of possibility, in order to console myself for the
melancholy reality.

Two days were now elapsed, and the Count was not yet returned, which
confirmed my apprehensions that he had fled. A look at his trunk
suggested a thought to me which I could not shake off; the consequence
was that I opened it with a master-key, with an intention to search
whether I could not find some papers, which would throw a light upon
several dark parts of my history.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                  OBSERVATION.

Being pretty much of a rambler, I occasionally fall into a variety of
company; and as I am something of a moralist, I frequently make
reflections on what I see.

In one of my late excursions, I happened in company with a young lady,
lately from Wales; whom I found to be a very social person. She
entertained me with an account of many circumstances relating to her own
country; and withal expressed her disappointment with regard to the
ideas she had entertained of the Americans. "I have," said she, "always
heard them represented as the most humane, free, and agreeable people in
the world; but on the contrary, find them quite the reverse: for since I
came to this continent, I have not received a single visit from a young
lady of my neighbourhood, or had the least attention paid me."
I expressed no small disapprobation and surprise at this account: but at
the same time was in no wise at a loss to discover the cause. I found
her so very tenacious of the manners and customs of Wales, that she
could not by any means persuade herself to recede from them; though very
different from those of New-York. This is an error that most Europeans
fall into. They are so possessed of the notion, that the inhabitants of
America are an ignorant simple race of mortals, that they come over with
a view of being received as instructors, and implicitly adhered to in
all their peculiarities. But this hypothesis being far from true, they
frequently give disgust by their magisterial deportment; and while they
persist in these ideas render themselves ridiculous.

The foregoing observations led me to a more general reflection on the
amazing force of tradition, and the narrow contracted principle of
_bigotry_: by which nothing, methought so justly represented, as a
hungry man, sitting down to a sumptuous table, richly replenished with a
variety of excellent dishes; who having tasted of one, and finding it
agreeable, could not be persuaded there was another good one before him.

  ETHICUS.

    NEW-YORK _July 16, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  WONDERFUL ACCOUNT OF A MAN-FISH.

Alexander, of Alexandria, and above fifty other historians, have written
an account of a man named Collas, whom they call the Fish Collas; this
man had accustomed himself from his infancy to the frequenting of the
sea, till at last he became an inhabitant thereof; and dwelt there with
such obstinate delight, that he would not be persuaded from it; so that
at length he became viscous and waterish, and continued in the sea the
greatest part of his life; being sometimes hidden betwixt two waves like
a fish, so that he could not be seen for five or six hours together, and
would seldom come out in less than eight or ten days; but when he saw a
ship he would sometimes go aboard, and live with the mariners for some
time; and when tired he would throw himself overboard into the sea and
be gone. He said that when he was on shore, he used to be troubled with
a pain in his stomach, which he had not when in the water.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                 ON POLITENESS.

Politeness is requisite to keep up the relish of life, and procure us
that affection and esteem which every man who has a sense of it must
desire. The established maxims of politeness are little less than
good-nature, polished and beautified by art; they teach a person to
behave with deference towards every body, in all the common incidents of
society; and particularly so whenever a person's situation may naturally
beget any disagreeable peculiarity in him. Thus, old men know their
infirmities, and naturally dread contempt from the young; hence, well
educated youths redouble the instances of respect towards their elders.
Strangers and foreigners appear to be without protection; hence, in all
polite companies, they receive the first marks of civility.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MOORISH GRATITUDE.

M. Chenier, in the present state of Morocco, relates, that as the late
Emperor was once passing the river Beth on horseback, at a place where
it falls into the Seboo, he was in imminent danger of being drowned,
when one of the <DW64>s plunged into the stream, and saved his life, at
the risque of his own. Having preserved his royal master, the slave
shewed marks of exultation at his good fortune. But Sede Mahomet drawing
his sabre, with one blow almost severed his head from his body:
exclaiming "Here is an infidel, to suppose that God stood in need of his
assistance to save a Shariff's life."--The same magnanimous despot being
once slightly reproached by a French Consul for not performing a promise
made him, answered, "Takest thou me for an infidel, that I must be the
slave of my word--Know that it is in my power to say and unsay whatever
and whenever I please."


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE FORGETFUL MAN.

A Gentleman in Angiers, who did not trust to his memory, and wrote down
all he was to do, wrote in his pocket book----"Memorandum, that I must
be married when I come to Tours."


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

  MARRIED,

On Friday evening last by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. GEORGE GAINES, to
Miss ELIZABETH TAYLOR, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPITAPH,
  On A Violent Scold.

                   *   *   *

  Beneath this stone, a lump of clay,
    Lies ARABELLA YOUNG,
  Who on the twenty-fourth of May,
    BEGAN TO HOLD HER TONGUE.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

  SIR,

  The following juvenile performances, were circulated in manuscript,
  during the late revolution, when the British Forces held possession
  of this city, in consequence of the improper resort to the walk in
  front of Trinity Church; if you think them worthy of being
  preserved in your amusing repository, they are at your service.

    A.


  THE MALL.

  This is the scene of gay resort,
  Here vice and folly hold their court,
  Here all the martial band parade,
  To vanquish--some unguarded maid:
  Here ambles many a dauntless chief,
  Who can, O great beyond belief!
  Who can, as sage historians say,
  Defeat--whole bottles in array.

    Heavens! shall a servile dastard train
  The mansions of our dead prophane,
  A herd of undistinguished things,
  That shrink beneath the frown of kings!
  Sons of the brave and virtuous band,
  Who led fair freedom to this land,
  Say, shall a lawless race presume
  To violate the sacred tomb,
  And calmly you the insult bear?
  Even wildest rage were virtue here.
  Shades of our sires, indignant rise,
  Oh! arm, to vengeance arm the skies,
  Oh! rise, for no degenerate son
  Bids impious blood the guilt atone;
  By thunder from th' etherial plains,
  Avenge your own dishonour'd manes;
  Bid guardian light'nings flash around,
  And vindicate the hallowed ground.

    MATILDA.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE RECANTATION.

  Had I the muse of satire's warmest rage,
  To brand the vices of an impious age,
  To snatch the villain from his happiest lot,
  In calm oblivion to remain forgot,
  Give modest merit to a nobler fate,
  And doom the guilty to eternal hate:
  How vain, how foolish, in these blameless times,
  Th' unmeaning raving of satiric rhymes!

    Auspicious muses grant your happier art,
  With panegyric warm each grateful heart!
  And foremost let the lank Pomposo stand,
  To crush dissentions in a rising land,
  And scatter thousands,--what tho' envy say
  He gave his thousands in the eye of day,
  He gains his just reward, applauses by't,
  Nor in a scanty bushel hides his light.
  Tell how the fair are now so wond'rous kind,
  Their love is boundless, free and unconfin'd,
  To all their soft approving glances fly,
  To all that are unknown to poverty.

    Next sing the trim well-powder'd warriors course,
  Recount the gorgeous trappings of his horse;
  How the broad umbrage intercepts Sol's rays,
  To shade his beauties from too fierce a blaze:
  Far from the field, he, foe to rest, can dare
  The direr dangers of intemp'rate fare,
  While day nor night his ardent labour close,
  And the full cellar interdicts repose:

    O'er hallowed ground no daring footsteps tread,
  But sacred hold the mansions of the dead;
  Its shades prophan'd no ruin'd temple mourns,
  Nor ghosts bewail their violated urns.

    Thus, while to praise my city numbers roll,
  And soft applauses sooth each raptured soul;
  How will my name to distant ages shine,
  And fame, though not unfashion'd truth, be mine,
  How will full bloom my opening honours crown,
  And give my deathless name to high renown.

    MATILDA.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO MATILDA.

  Matilda, stop thy course of virtuous rage,
  And spare from satire this unthankful age.
  The world, while fashion dictates moral law,
  While gold repairs where nature feels a flaw,
  While nobler passions sink as time decays,
  And love forgets its fears, and fame is praise,
  The world unmov'd, will hear thy eloquence,
  The diction flatter, but reject the sense.

    R****.

      New-York, 1779.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

  ELEGY,
  Addressed to a Young Lady on Transcribing for Her a Poem
  on the Death of Two Unfortunate Lovers.

  If o'er the lover's melancholy bier
    Unbidden sorrow from thine eyes should flow,
  Check not the tender sympathising tear,
    Nor blush to soften at another's woe.

  Indulge the tender luxury of grief,
    Melt at those pangs which nipp'd their springing bloom,
  And (soon as flattering hope deny'd relief,)
    Consign'd them early victims to the tomb.

  The heart insensible to woe like this,
    Demands no caution to secure its case,
  Alike depriv'd of every social bliss,
    No wit can warm it, and no beauty please.

  Yet while the soft emotion is admir'd,
    Thro' which thy virtues with mild radiance shine,
  Forgive the pain thy danger has inspir'd.
    The sigh----lest Emma's fate should e'er be thine!

  Ah! let it teach thee--nor be too secure----
    That love, tho' virtuous, may thy praise destroy,
  That death's dire dart may fix thy ruin sure,
    And blast for ever all thy hopes of joy.

  While this reflection dwells upon thy mind,
    The wish truth dictates, sure thou wilt approve,
  Long may thy heart its bliss in freedom find,
    And dread the soft delusive pow'r of love.

    ELEGIOGRAPHUS.

      New-York, June 24, 1796.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, July 27, 1796.+  [+No. 56.+


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

  _+View+ of the STARRY HEAVENS._

The sky at night presents us a sight of wonders, which must raise the
astonishment of every attentive observer of nature. But from whence
comes it, that so few consider the firmament with attention? I am
willing to believe, that in general it proceeds from ignorance; for it
is impossible to be convinced of the greatness of the works of God,
without feeling a rapture almost heavenly. O how I wish to make you
share this divine pleasure! Raise your thoughts for this purpose towards
the sky: It will be enough to name to you the immense bodies which are
strewed in that space, to fill you with astonishment at the greatness of
the artificer. It is in the center of our system that the throne of the
sun is established. The body is more than a million of times larger than
the earth. It is one hundred millions of miles distant from it, and
notwithstanding this prodigious distance, it has a most sensible effect
upon our sphere. Round the sun move twenty-one globular bodies, seven of
which are called planets, the other fourteen, moons or satellites; they
are opake, and receive from the sun light, heat, and perhaps also their
interior motion. Georgium Sidus, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Earth,
Venus, and Mercury, are the names of the seven principal planets. Of
these seven, Mercury is nearest the sun, and for that reason is mostly
invisible to the astronomer. As he is near nineteen times smaller than
our earth, he contributes but little to adorn the sky. Venus follows
him, and is sometimes called the morning, and sometimes the evening
star. It is one of the brightest of the heavenly bodies, whether it
precedes the sun-rise, or succeeds the setting sun. It is near as large
again as our earth, and is about sixty-eight millions of miles distant
from the sun. After Venus comes our earth, round which the moon moves,
as a secondary planet. Mars, which is the fourth planet, is seven times
smaller than our globe; and its distance from the sun is one hundred and
forty-four millions of miles. Jupiter, with his belt, is always
distinguished by his splendor in the starry sky: it seems in size to
surpass all the fixed stars; it is almost as bright as Venus in all her
glory, except that the light of it is less brilliant than the morning
star. How small our earth is in comparison with Jupiter! There would not
be less than eight thousand globes like ours, necessary to form one
equal in size to that of Jupiter. Saturn, whose distance from the sun is
upwards of nine hundred millions of miles, was thought the remotest
planet until the late discovery of the Georgium Sidus, whose distance is
eighteen thousand millions of miles, and its magnitude eighty-nine times
greater than our earth. In the mean time, the sun, with all the planets
which accompany it, is a very small part of the immense fabric of the
universe. Each star, which from hence appears to us no larger than a
brilliant set in a ring, is in reality an immense body which equals the
sun both in size and splendor.

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                   KNOWLEDGE.

The life of man is lengthened by his pursuits of knowledge, as that of a
fool by his passions. The time of the one is long, because he does not
know how to spend it; but the other distinguishes every moment of it
with useful and amusing thoughts; the one wishes it always elapsed, and
the other enjoys it always.

How the view of past life, appears different to the man who is grown old
in knowledge, from that who is grown old in ignorance; the latter is
like the owner of a barren country, that sees nothing, but some hills
and plains naked; the other beholds an agreeable landscape, and can
scarce cast his eyes on a single spot of his land that is not covered
with some beautiful plants.


       *       *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS ETYMOLOGY.

When the French first settled on the banks of St. Lawrence, they were
stinted by the intendant, Monsieur Picard, to a can of spruce beer a
day. The people thought this measure very scant, and every moment
articulated, "Can-a-day!" It would be ungenerous in any reader to desire
a more rational derivation of the word Canada.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
  Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Concluded from page 18.)

In the midst of these thoughts, there was one more afflicting than all
the rest; I was arrived at that height of misery, that my greatest
misfortune was not that of being for ever separated from Julia; no,
I had another more insupportable. The most virtuous and innocent of
women, the ornament and glory of her sex, groaned beneath the
opprobrious burthen of the world's contempt, and I alone was the cause
of this cruel injustice; the remembrance of this distracted me, and made
me almost insensible to the consolations of friendship. Yes, said I to
Sinclair, I could suffer singly for my errors, and support my punishment
perhaps with fortitude. Time I know destroys passion and regret, but it
never can enfeeble the remorse of a feeling heart born to the practice
of virtue. The day may come, when Julia will no longer live in my
imagination with all those seductive charms I now continually behold;
but she will ever remain there the innocent sacrifice of folly and
distraction, and the remembrance of that will be the torment of my life.

In effect, neither the tender cares of Sinclair, nor the dissipation of
a long voyage, could weaken my chagrin. When we returned to Paris,
Sinclair was obliged to leave me and rejoin his regiment, and I
departed, almost immediately, for Holland; where, six months after,
Sinclair came to me. He suggested an idea of my undertaking some kind of
commerce, and lent me money necessary to make a beginning.

Fortune seconded this next project, and I foresaw the possibility of
regaining the happiness I had lost: the desire of laying the fruits of
my travels at the feet of my Julia, gave me as much industry as
perseverance; I vanquished my natural indolence, and the tiresome
disgust with which this new species of employment at first inspired me,
and read and reflected during the time that business did not call my
attention.

Study soon ceased to appear painful: I acquired a passionate love for
reading; my mind was insensibly enlightened, my ideas enlarged, and my
heart became calm. Industry, reading, and thinking, recovered me, by
degrees, from the soporiferous draught of indolence; religion likewise
gave fortitude to reason, elevated my soul, and released me from the
tyrannical empire of passion.

This revolution in my temper and sentiments did not at all change my
projects. 'Tis true, I had no longer that excessive and silly passion
for Julia which had made us both so unhappy. I loved with less violence,
with less self-interest, but with more certainty. Passion is always
blind, selfish, and seeking its own satisfaction: friendship is founded
upon esteem, owes all its power to virtue, is more affectionate, and the
more affectionate it is, the more it is equitable and generous.

I passed five years in Holland, during which time I was constantly
fortunate in the business in which I was engaged; and at length, by
extreme oeconomy and unwearied assiduity, entirely re-established my
fortune. I then thought of nothing but of once more visiting my own
country. I imagined, with the most tender delight, the happiness I was
going to regain, when falling at the feet of Julia, I might say to her,
"I return worthy of you; I return to consecrate my life to your
happiness."

Thus occupied by the most delightful of ideas, I departed from Holland,
far, alas! from suspecting the blow I was about to receive.

I had written to Sinclair, desiring him to inform Julia of my journey,
and received an answer at Brussels; by which I learned Julia had had a
fever, but at the same time the letter assured she had not been
dangerously ill, and was almost recovered. The explanations which
accompanied that letter prevented all uneasiness, and I continued my
route with no other fear than that of seeing Julia more surprized than
affected at my resolutions and return.

I drew nearer and nearer to Paris, and at last, when within twenty
leagues, I met Sinclair, who stopped my carriage, and descended from his
own: I opened my door, and flew to embrace him; but as soon as my eyes
met his, I shuddered: astonishment and terror rendered me speechless!
Sinclair opened his arms to me, but his face was bathed in tears!
I durst not ask the reason, and he had not the power to tell me.
I expected the worst, and from that moment faithless fleeting joys
forever forsook my heart!

Sinclair dragged me towards my carriage without speaking a single word,
and the postillions instantly quitted the road to Paris. "Whither are
you taking me?" cried I distractedly; "tell me: I will know."

Ah, unhappy man!

Go on! continue! strike me to the heart!

Sinclair answered not, but wept and embraced me. Tell me, continued I,
what is my fate? Is it her hatred, or her loss, thou wouldst announce?

Sinclair's lips opened to answer, and my heart sunk within me; I wanted
the courage to hear him pronounce my sentence; "Oh, my friend!" added I,
"my life this moment is in thy hands."

The supplicating tone with which I spoke these words, sufficiently
expressed my feelings. Sinclair looked at me with compassion in his
eyes. "I can be silent," said he, "but dare not deceive:" he stopt;
I asked no more; and the rest of the road we both kept a profound
silence, which was only interrupted by my sobs and sighs.

Sinclair conducted me to a country-house, where I at length received a
confirmation of my misery: alas! all was lost: Julia existed no more;
her death not only deprived me of all felicity, but took from me the
means of repairing my faults, of expiating my past errors, except by
regret, repentance, and by daily pouring out my silent griefs before an
elegant Mausoleum, which the generous friendship of Sinclair had kindly
caused to be erected to her memory in the neighbourhood of his
country-house.

The remainder of my history has nothing interesting; consoled by time
and religion, I consecrated the rest of my career to friendship, study,
and the offices of humanity; I obtained my uncle's pardon, and the care
of making him happy became my greatest delight; and I fulfilled, without
effort, and in their whole extent, those sacred duties which nature and
gratitude required.

Though my uncle was far advanced in years, heaven still permitted him to
remain with me ten years, after which I had the misfortune to lose him:
I purchased his estate, and retired thither for the rest of my days.

Sinclair promised to come and see me once a-year, and though fifteen are
now past since that event, we have never been eighteen months without
seeing each other.

Sinclair, at present in his fifty-eighth year, has run a career the most
brilliant and the most fortunate: a happy husband, a happy father,
a successful warrior, covered with glory, loaded with fortune's favours,
he enjoys a felicity and fate the more transcendant, in that they only
could be procured by virtue united to genius.

As for me, I, in my obscure mediocrity, might yet find happiness, were
it not for the mournful, the bitter remembrance of the evils which
others have suffered through the errors of my youth.


  [[Sources:

  Original: _Les veillees du chateau_, 1785, by Stephanie Felicite,
    comtesse de Genlis, 1746-1830.
  English Translation: _Tales of the castle; or, Stories of instruction
    and delight_, trans. Thomas Holcroft, 1745-1809. This selection is
    pages 203-270 in Volume 1 (of 5), in the 1793 (4th) edition.
  The serial began in no. 45 of the New-York Weekly; the first 8 of its
    12 installments are in Volume I.

  Link: http://www.archive.org/details/talesofcastleors01genluoft]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF A SPANISH NOBLEMAN.

  _From the Chevalier De Rabilier's remarkable
  Events of the present Century._

Francis Anthony De Sandoval, duke of Medina Celi, and of St. Lucar, in
the province of Andalusia, was not only a grandee of the first class,
but exceedingly beloved in the country where he usually resided, on
account of his great benevolence and affability to all ranks of people
who approached him. Having a prodigious estate in lands, besides the
duties and customs of the port of St. Lucar, near Seville, which were
conferred on his family by Roderick the last monarch of the Gothic race,
he kept a sort of vice royal court, to which the nobility, gentry, and
merchants, around his wide domain, were always welcomed with the
grandeur of a prince, the hospitality of a burgher, and the smiles of a
friend. Young, rich, powerful, and revered by thousands, who considered
him as the pride of their country, and an honour to the whole nation,
nothing seemed wanting to complete the felicity of this worthy nobleman,
but an alliance suitable to his elevated rank and more distinguished
virtues. Many were the overtures on that head, from the most illustrious
families in every part of Spain; but his grace, who was of a domestic
turn, and averse from the vanities of high life, declined entering into
any engagement which might subject him to the impertinence, folly, and
etiquette, to which the major part of the fashionable world seem to
abound, either as servile imitators, or involuntary slaves. He loved
magnificence, but abhorred ceremony as much as the amusements wherein
persons of fortune usually lose the best part of their time. Hunting he
considered as a manly exercise, calculated to brace the nerves, and give
circulation to the blood, therefore to be taken occasionally as physic,
not followed as a trade. It may be asked by some fantastic man of
pleasure of the court, or jolly squire of the country, how then could a
person of his quality spend his leisure hours? Why, in reading, walking,
entertaining his numerous friends at home, and returning the necessary
visits abroad, in various innocent parties on land and water, in keeping
up his gardens and improvements, in examining his vast houshold
accounts, inspecting the state of his vassals and farmers, hearing and
redressing their grievances, portioning the marriageable daughters of
his poor tenantry, and presiding at those nuptials, where he is
considered in the threefold light of father, benefactor, and guardian;
as the ministering angel of comfort, and deputed commissioner of a
bountiful Providence, to dispense his gracious mercies amongst the sons
and daughters of affliction. If to these healthful avocations and
duties, so worthy elevated rank and rich possessions, we add the public
and private attendance on religious worship, frequent self-examination,
and the distribution of super-abundant wealth, to modest indigence and
clamorous distress, as a small tribute for the distinguished blessings,
which rightly enjoyed, will confer the purest happiness here, and a
crown of glory in the regions of everlasting day hereafter, little or no
time can be spared for frivolous amusements or sinful pursuits. Think of
this, ye extravagant and debauched men of quality without peace, morals,
or good faith, whose hours are sacrificed to folly, whose minds are the
sport of delusion, whose bodies are the sinks of disease, and whose
fortunes are hastening to the hands of the extortioner who sooner or
later, will consume all you possess! Let the example of the duke of
Medina point out the true man of sense, honour and distinction; act like
him and be happy!

Whilst this model of real nobility was thus blessed, and blessing all
around, chance led him to the house of a tradesman in Seville, whose
only son was that very day to be married to an amiable girl of that
city. The condescension with which his grace always accepted an offer of
contributing to the pleasure of his friends and neighbours, rendered
much solicitation needless, and he determined to stand bridesman on the
occasion. The guests were a company of genteel citizens, who with their
wives and daughters, made a very tolerable appearance, and the duke
seemed delighted with manners not viciously refined, where elegance,
unsullied by pride or affectation, and beauty, unassisted by art, shone
out in native meridian lustre. But, with what joy did he behold a plain,
modest maiden, daughter to a linen-draper, named Anthony de Valdez, who
came with her mother to the wedding! He gazed, he admired, he loved,
this picture of rural innocence, with as much elegance and sensibility
as suited his ideas of a perfect form, joined to an amiable and virtuous
mind. After some acquaintance and private enquiries, which terminated to
the advantage of the young lady and her family, the duke demanded the
fair Elvira de Valdez in marriage, and was received with equal joy and
astonishment by the honest couple, who shed tears of gratitude for the
happiness offered their beloved child by the richest and most
illustrious lord in the whole monarchy of Spain. Miss Elvira expressed
no reluctance, but what proceeded from her own demerit and total
inequality; but this was soon got over, and the happy day fixed for the
Sunday following.

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  AN ACCOUNT

  OF A MURDER COMMITTED BY MR. J---- Y----, UPON HIS FAMILY,
  IN DECEMBER, A. D. 1781.

  (_Concluded from page 20._)

At the noise of my feet upon the dry corn stalks---she turned hastily
round and seeing me exclaimed, "O father, my dear father, spare me, let
me live--let me live,--I will be a comfort to you and my mother--spare
me to take care of my little sister Diana--do--do let me live."--She was
my darling child, and her fearful cries pierced me to the soul---the
tears of _natural pity_ fell as plentifully down my cheeks, as those of
terror did down her's, and methought that to destroy _all_ my idols, was
a hard task---I again relapsed at the voice of complaining; and taking
her by the hand, led her to where her mother lay; then thinking that if
I intended to retain her, I must make some other severe sacrifice,
I bade her sing and dance---She complied, terribly situated as she
was,---but I was not asking in the line of my duty--I was convinced of
my error, and catching up a hatchet that stuck in a log, with one well
aimed stroke cleft her forehead in twain---she fell---and no sign of
retaining life appeared.

I then sat down on the threshold, to consider what I had
best do---"I shall be called a murderer (said I) I shall be
seized--imprisoned--executed, and for what?--for destroying my
idols---for obeying the mandate of my father---no, I will put all the
dead in the house together, and after setting fire to it, run to my
sister's and say the Indians have done it---"I was preparing to drag my
wife in, when the idea struck me that I was going to tell a _horrible
lie_;" and how will that accord with my profession? (asked I.) No, let
me speak the truth, and declare the good motive for my actions, be the
consequences what they may."

His sister, who was the principal evidence against him, stated---that
she had scarce got home, when a message came to Mr. J----n, her husband,
informing him that his mother was ill and wished to see him; he
accordingly set off immediately, and she not expecting him home again
till the next day, went to bed---there being no other person in the
house. About four in the morning she heard her brother Y------ call her,
she started up and bade him come in. "I will not (returned he) for I
have committed the unpardonable sin---I have burnt the Bible." She knew
not what to think, but rising hastily opened the door which was only
latched, and caught hold of his hand: let me go, Nelly (said he) my
hands are wet with blood---the blood of my Elizabeth and her
children.---She saw the blood dripping from his fingers, and her's
chilled in the veins, yet with a fortitude unparalleled she begged him
to enter, which--as he did, he attempted to sieze a case knife, that by
the light of a bright pine-knot fire, he perceived lying on the
dresser---she prevented him, however, and tearing a trammel from the
chimney, bound him with it to the bed post---fastening his hands behind
him---She then quitted the house in order to go to his, which as she
approached she heard the voice of loud lamentation, the hope that it was
some one of the family who had escaped the effects of her brother's
frenzy, subdued the fears natural to such a situation and time, she
quickened her steps, and when she came to the place where Mrs. Y----
lay, she perceived that the moans came from Mrs. Y----'s aged father,
who expecting that his daughter would set out upon her journey by day
break, had come at that early hour to bid her farewel.

They alarmed their nearest neighbours immediately, who proceeded to Mrs.
J----n's, and there found Mr. Y---- in the situation she had left him;
they took him from hence to Tomhanick, where he remained near two
days---during which time Mr. W--tz--l (a pious old Lutheran, who
occasionally acted as preacher) attended upon him, exhorting him to pray
and repent; but he received the admonitions with contempt, and several
times with ridicule, refusing to confess his error or _join_ in
prayer---I say _join_ in prayer, for he would not kneel when the rest
did, but when they arose he would prostrate himself and address his
"father," frequently saying "my father, thou knowest that it was in
obedience to thy commands, and for thy glory that I have done this
deed." Mrs. Bl--------r, at whose house he then was, bade some one ask
him who his father was?--he made no reply---but pushing away the person
who stood between her and himself, darted at her a look of such
indignation as thrilled horror to her heart---his speech was connected,
and he told his tale without variation; he expressed much sorrow for the
loss of his dear family, but consoled himself with the idea of having
performed his duty--he was taken to ALBANY and there confined as a
lunatic in the goal, from which he escaped twice, once by the assistance
of Aqua Fortis, with which he opened the front door.

I went in 1782 with a little girl, by whom Mr. Bl-----r had sent him
some fruit; he was then confined in dungeon, and had several chains
on---he appeared to be much affected at her remembrance of him, and put
up a pious ejaculation for her and her family---since then I have
received no accounts respecting him.

The cause for his wonderfully cruel proceedings is beyond the conception
of human beings---the deed so unpremeditated, so unprovoked, that we do
not hesitate to pronounce it the effect of insanity---yet upon the other
hand, when we reflect on the equanimity of his temper, and the
comfortable situation in which he was, and no visible circumstance
operating to render him frantic, we are apt to conclude, that he was
under a strong delusion of Satan. But what avail our conjectures,
perhaps it is best that some things are concealed from us, and the only
use we can now make of our knowledge of this affair, is to be humble
under a scene of human frailty to renew our petition, "Lead us not into
temptation."

  May 27, 1796.

  [[Sources:

  This is believed to be the original publication of the narrative.
  The author may be Margaretta Faugeres, daughter of Ann Eliza Bleecker
    ("Mrs. Bl----er")

  Notes: Tomhanick is now spelled Tomhannock.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  BEAUTIFUL ALLEGORY.

Happiness and virtue are twins, which can never be divided; they are
born and flourish, or sicken and die together.---They are joint
offsprings of good-sense and innocence, and while they continue under
the guidance of such parents, they are invulnerable to injury, and
incapable of decay.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 22.)

I found indeed a number of letters, however, they were written in
cyphers. Now I comprehended why the Count had asked repeatedly whether I
could read cyphers? Having made it a rule, in regard to this point,
always to deny the question, he had probably left these writings on the
supposition that I should not be able to read them, and saved only those
which were written in common characters. However, the Count had deceived
himself this time, for I am pretty well skilled in the art of
decyphering. I took one of the papers which were marked 1. 2. 3. &c. &c.
however, I perceived on the first attempt, that my art would encounter a
hard trial. Yet this did not deter, but rather animated me to exert all
my skill to find the key to these papers, while my servant was occupied
with taking an exact copy of the rest.

I had already been working above twenty-four hours without seeing my
labour crowned with success, when my servant, whom I had sent to the
post, returned with a letter. Conceive my astonishment, when I found it
was from the Count.

"Whatever Paleski may have discovered to your Grace with respect to me,
yet I am assured that he cannot have said any thing for which my
conscience condemns me, though I should not be able to defend it before
an ecclesiastical, or a civil court of justice. I have deceived you;
however, I have done it for a great and noble purpose, and by order of a
powerful being, whose authority I and you acknowledge. I should despise
myself, if mean, or self-interested views, could have prompted me to do
what I have done. To stimulate you to take an active part in the
delivery of your country, was the sole reason for which you have been
imposed upon. Although Paleski should not have disclosed the secret to
you, yet you would not have remained in the dark much longer, because it
was the plan of the _Unknown_ to remove the veil from your eyes, and to
introduce you into a new world, for which you was to be prepared by the
delusions which you have experienced. Man is led to truth by error,
according to an eternal law of nature. It was necessary that you should
be made acquainted with delusions, that your look might be sharpened for
future knowledge; it was necessary you should experience the highest
degree of delusion, that you might acquire the prerogative of discerning
fraud from reality, and of never suffering yourself to be imposed upon
again. Then, and not sooner, the time would have arrived, when the
_Unknown_ would have shown himself to you in his real shape, and
embraced you not only as a preserver of your country, but also as a
member of that sacred society of wise men, who are admitted behind the
curtain of nature, whither no eye of common short-sighted men can
penetrate. A power and a happiness of which you can form no adequate
notion, would have been your reward. Your tutor already enjoys that
reward, and if you had been keen-sighted enough to penetrate, without
assistance, the mist of delusions with which you have been encompassed,
you would have been admitted some time since to the sanctuary where that
reward awaits you. More I dare not say at present; however, I would
advise you not to postpone your journey, and neither to betray me or the
U_nknown_. If you slight my advice, then you must ascribe to yourself
all the bad consequences which may arise from it, and you never will
meet again in this world your tutor or Amelia. I conjure you not to
mistake this for a new delusion. If you, on the other side, are inclined
to profit by this advice, you will continue your journey with all
possible expedition, and not think it finished before you shall be
arrived at Ma***d, the capital of Sp***n, you will meet the _Unknown_,
Amelia and your tutor, on the road. At *ubea you will stop at the inn
which bears the sign of the golden mirror, where you are to receive an
important visit. You will have the goodness to send my trunk to the
post-house, where one of my people will call for it. I remain, with that
respect and love with which I always have been,

  "Your Grace's, &c. &c."

I must confess, I never should have expected _such_ a letter. I fancied
it would be couched in terms of repentance and submission, and when I
opened it, found it to be a letter of a man of good conscience, who took
it upon himself to advise and to warn me. What he told me of a hidden
sanctuary to which the _Unknown_ had designed to introduce me after I
should have completed my time of probation, was an utter riddle to me,
but what he told me about my tutor was still more so. At first I fancied
this to be nothing but a varnish, by which he would conceal his
deceptions, and an artifice to ensnare me a second time; however the
idea that the matter _might_ be as he had stated it, made me uneasy, and
his menaces with respect to the bad consequences of my discontinuing
my journey, frightened me. The bare possibility of the execution
of his threats, was sufficient to determine me to continue my
journey.---Pietro, my faithful servant, endeavoured indeed to persuade
me to drop my design assailing me with tears and prayers; however,
nothing could change my resolution. I would have encountered any danger
and difficulty in order to meet Amelia and my tutor again, and departed
with the first dawn of day. I left the Count's trunk at the post-house
at **zin. At ***jelo, I was, at length, so fortunate as to find a key to
the cyphers which I had despaired to unfold. I had already tried all
languages which I was master of, and succeeded at length with the Latin.
How amply did I think my trouble rewarded, when I found the papers to be
copies of letters which the _Unknown_ had wrote on my account to Pinto
Ribeiro, privy counsellor of the Duke of Br**za. Here follows the
translation:

"Your Excellency knows how carefully we endeavoured to conceal the place
of our secret meetings from the intrusion of prying strangers, by
spreading the report that it was haunted. However, this did not deter a
young nobleman who is on his travels, from entering last night the
castle, in company of his tutor, with the intention of forming an
acquaintance with the ghosts. No sooner had we been informed of their
being arrived at the castle, when Georgio de M**** offered to chastise
them for their inquisitiveness, fixing twelve o'clock at night for the
execution of his design. He disguised himself as the most dreadful
spectre which ever has appeared at midnight. Concluding from the
undertaking of the two strangers that they were men of spirit and
resolution, he put on a coat of mail, and covered his face with a mask
made of bull-skins, in order to be proof against swords and pistols;
a precaution which, as the event proved, was not superfluous. Thus
accoutred, he approached at twelve o'clock the apartment of the
strangers with a tremendous noise. Their door was bolted from within as
he had apprehended; however, all the locks and bolts in the castle being
constructed in such a manner that they can be opened from without,
Georgio found it not difficult to push their door open. I remained at
the threshold in order to wait the event. Georgio no sooner had entered
the room with a design to chastise the young man who was sitting near
the window, at a table on which two candles were burning, than his tutor
started up, aiming a blow at him from behind which would have done his
business at once, if Georgio had not been protected by his coat of mail.
The pretended spectre threw the old gentleman so violently on the ground
that he was unable to move a limb. This sight entirely disconcerted the
young man, who was on the point of firing a pistol at his frightful
visitor, rushed on him with a thundering voice, extinguished the
candles, and beating him in such a manner as if he was going to beat him
to atoms. Georgio's dress being anointed with a salve composed of
phosphorus, he appeared in the dark, to be all on fire. The dreadful
impression which this sight produced on the mind of the young man was
increased by the howling, groaning, and the tremendous noise which some
of our company raised in the apartment over his head; he seemed to be
senseless. As soon as Georgio perceived his helpless state, he lighted
the candles with phosphorus, and left the apartment which he carefully
bolted and locked.

"An hour after this scene had been acted, Georgio returned to the
apartment, partly with the intention of seeing what effect the incident
had produced on the strangers, and partly with a view to deter them from
paying a second visit to the castle, and renewed the former scene. Both
of them were again stretched senseless on their beds. As soon as Georgio
had done with the young nobleman, he left the room without kindling the
taper, for fear of being watched by the young spark, if he should
recover his recollection a little too soon. He was not mistaken. But who
would have thought that the young man would be so daring to pursue the
spectre on his return through the dark passage? Georgio, who did not
entertain the most distant idea of such an attempt, neither looked back,
nor shut the trap-door thro' which he had jumped down into the
subterraneous vault, upon a heap of hay and straw. He had not advanced
four steps, when the report of a pistol re-echoed through the
subterraneous fabric. Some of our company who were at hand, hastened to
the spot from whence the report of the pistol had proceeded, wrapt in
black cloaks, and provided with torches and swords. They found the young
man lying upon the straw upon which he had fallen in the dark through
the trap-door. He was instantly seized and conducted to the
assembly-room, where the conspirators, who had previously masked their
faces, were sitting around a long table. Hearing that he was to pay with
his life for his rashness, he drew his sword, but was soon disarmed and
confined in an adjoining chamber.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  CURSORY THOUGHTS ON THE FICKLE GODDESS,
  SHEWING WITH WHAT INJUSTICE SHE GENERALLY DISPENSES HER FAVOURS.

It has long been the complaint of the experienced, that no human
foresight, no prudence, can at all times ensure prosperity, and avert
ill fortune. Something still arises to baffle the counsels of the wise,
and to counteract the intentions of the good. The Roman satirist has
indeed asserted, that fortune is a deity of our own creation, and that
he, who submits to the guidance of prudence, needs not the interposition
of any supernatural power; but experience proves the assertion to be
rather the effusion of rigid and affected philosophy, than the cool
suggestion of well-informed reason.

The observation of a sacred moralist, that the race is not to the swift,
nor the battle to the strong, is more agreeable to truth, and has been
confirmed by the repeated testimony of some thousand years. Wisdom is
often found guilty of folly, and ingenuity of error.

As merit cannot always ensure success, even in the exertion of its
peculiar excellence, so it is by no means certain of obtaining a good
reception in the world: for history and experience furnish many examples
to prove, that wealth and power are not the necessary consequences of
wisdom and virtue. To be wise and virtuous, may be learned from an
Epictetus, to be fortunate from others.

It might indeed be supposed, that strength of intellects, accuracy of
judgment, and extensive erudition, would either secure to themselves
good fortune, or would, at least, be rewarded by the world; but it is an
incontestable truth, that poets and philosophers, of every age and every
nation, have been as much distinguished by their indigence, as their
ingenuity. Poverty and poetry are almost synonymous, while the unerring
experience of mankind has reduced it to a proverb, that fools have
fortune.

The insufficiency of merit, and of honest endeavours, to the acquisition
of fame and fortune, has given occasion to the discontented to repine,
and censure the economy of human affairs: but they who are conversant in
the investigation of final causes, easily perceive, that such a
dispensation tends to perfect virtue, by the exercise of patience.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _MORAL AXIOM._

Those who reprove with passion for every trifle, in a little time will
not be regarded when they reprove with reason.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

       ACTIVITY CONDUCIVE TO HAPPINESS.

The final cause of the many obstacles which we meet with, and the
numerous difficulties in which this journey of life involves us, will
readily appear to a confederate mind, as an excellent contrivance of
Providence to stimulate us to exertion. Without this order of things,
many faculties would lay dormant, the ends of our being would be
frustrated, and this world be no longer a scene of trial. Man is
naturally inclined to indulge himself in ease and inactivity, and were
it not for certain motives, would always remain in a state of rest: But
the fluctuating nature of all human affairs constantly counteracts this
propensity to accommodate ourselves to every situation, and urges
forward on the road in pursuit of something we call happiness, or
hastens our flight from some evil. The long-expected hour of happiness
is perhaps at length arrived, and deluded man sits down to enjoy life,
and hopes at last to find innocent and tranquil pleasures. The storms of
adversity arise and obscure the delightful prospect; his attention is
excited, and some unforeseen emergency demands the exertion of his
talents, and proves that man is made for action.


       *       *       *       *       *

  Account of a WONDERFUL DELIVERANCE at SEA near fifty years ago.

A Dutch seaman being condemned to death, his punishment was changed, and
he was ordered to be left at St. Helen's Island. This unhappy person
representing to himself the horror of that solitude, fell upon a
resolution to attempt the strangest action that ever was heard of. There
had that day been interred in the same island an officer of the ship:
the seaman took up the body out of the coffin; and having made a rudder
of the upper board, ventured himself to sea in the coffin. It happened
fortunately for him to be so great a calm that the ship lay immoveable
within a league and a half of the island; when his companions seeing so
strange a boat float upon the waters, imagined they saw a spectre, and
at last were not a little startled at the resolution of the man, who
durst hazard himself upon that element in three boards slightly nailed
together, though he had no confidence to find or to be received by those
who lately sentenced him to death. Accordingly it was put to the
question, whether he should be received or not; some would have the
sentence put into execution, but at last mercy prevailed, and he was
taken aboard, and came afterwards to Holland; where he lived in the town
of Horn, and related to many how miraculously God had delivered him.


       *       *       *       *       *

  OBSERVATION.

A youth is generally laughed at by his youthful companions where they
see him pursue the paths of virtue and piety with alacrity and zeal; but
let him not be discouraged; if God be on his side, who can be against
him?


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED.

On Tuesday, the 28th ult. by the Rev. Thomas L. Moore, of Hempstead, Mr.
MINNE SCHENK, of Cow Neck, to Miss PHEBE TOFFEY, daughter of Mr. Daniel
Toffey, of Herricks, (L. I.)

On Thursday evening the 14th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. CORNELIUS
DAY, to Mrs. ANN HAMELLER, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 10th to the 23d inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometor observed at 8, A.M.  1, P.M.  6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
             100   100   100
  JULY 10  73    78 50 74     NW. SW S.  clear do. do.
       11  73 25 78    77 50  S. do. do. cloudy do. do. rn. at n.
       12  80 75 87 50 78     S. SW. W.  cr. cy. do. thun. & light
       13  76    72 50 74 25  SW do SW   rain do. do.
       14  72    74 75 72     SW do NW   rain do. do. thun. & lit
       15  72    76 50 72     N se sw    cy. rn. cy. thun. & lit.
       16  74 50 82 50 76 75  W do SW    cloudy clear do.
       17  74 25 80 50 79     SW do. do  clear do. do.
       18  72    79    73     W. SW W.   clear. do. thun. & light
       19  70 75 78    79     W. do do.  thun. in the nt. cy. do cr
       20  70 50 66    63     NE. do. N. cloudy rain do.
       21  74 50 77 50 77     N. do. SW. cloudy clear do.
       22  75    80    73     NE. do se  clear do. do.
       23  69    74    69     Ne do. e   cloudy clear do.


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                   TO ELIZA.

  Come, my Eliza, grace the sylvan scene,
    Ah! fly, and leave the careful seats of woe;
  No sorrows here intrude, all calm, serene,
    Our happy hours in sweet contentment flow;
  Bring guileless pleasures each succeeding day,
  Then clap their joyous wings, and quickly haste away.

  O'er neighbouring fields, unlike our smiling plain,
    Fell tyranny his iron rod extends:
  There furious war and devastation reign,
    And pity bids us weep our slaughter'd friends
  Yet cannot sympathy our peace molest,
  We grow by sad comparison more blest.

  O come, the time prophetic bards foretold,
    When tyranny, and war shall be no more;
  When circling years, restore the age of gold,
    And every sorrow, want, and pain are o'er;
  When heaven-born love, and peace shall reign again,
  To bless an unambitious gentle race of men.

    MATILDA.

    Cedar Grove, 1776.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

  EJACULATION

    +Over the grave of my wife.+

  And does this little space contain
    The person of my wife?
  Who, when alive, no house could hold,
    Her _tongue! ! !_----Ah! what is _life_?

    THEODORE.

      New-York, July 24, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  TO AMANDA.

  From me, dear maid, one faithful verse receive,
  The last sad offering that a wretch can give;
  Warm from that heart, decreed by heaven to prove,
  The sad experience of too great a love.
    When first, Amanda, with your friendship blest,
  Your form too lovely, all my soul possest;
  Tho' sweet the hours, how swift the minutes flew,
  While pleas'd I sat and fondly gaz'd on you.
  Ah! how I listen'd when your silence broke,
  And kiss'd the air which trembled as you spoke;
  Did you not, dearest, see my fond distress,
  Beyond all power of language to express?
  Did not my soul betray the young disease,
  The soften'd look, the tender wish to please?
  To sooth your cares, when all in vain I strove,
  Did not each action speak increase of love?
    'Tis done! but ah, how wretched must I be,
  That lovely bosom heaves no sigh for me;
  For me, that heart with no warm passion glows,
  Nor my Amanda one soft word bestows:
  But could she see the anguish of my heart,
  And view the tumults that her charms impart;
  Could she but read the sorrows of my mind,
  She sure would pity, for she must be kind.
    Ah! what avails, dear maid, to souls like mine,
  That gen'rous friendship is your sweet design?
  The pleasing thought with rapture I pursue,
  It must be lovely, for it comes from you.
  But oh! how vain is friendship to repress
  The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress.
  How small the balm, by friendship you impart,
  To the sharp tortures of th' impassion'd heart.
    What tender wish, for you alone to live,
  Could once each dear deluding moment give?
  When every look, bewitching as 'twas fair,
  Seiz'd all my heart, and play'd the tyrant there.
  How did those eyes with soften'd lustre shine,
  Thought unexpress'd, and sympathy divine?
  While still the hope within my bosom grew;
  Vain hope!----to live for happiness and you.
  Some swain more blest has taught thy breast to glow,
  But who can soothe the wretched Arouet's woe?
    Ah! think not absence can afford a cure,
  To the sharp woes, the sorrows I endure:
  Amanda, no! 'twill but augment distress
  To such a height no mortal can express.
  My soul, distracted, still is fix'd on you;
  Was ever heart so wretched and so true!
    Oh! say, shall selfish love my bosom fire?
  Shall you reluctant meet my fond desire?
  If that dear heart has vow'd eternal truth,
  To some blest swain, some more engaging youth;
  Forgive the thought, dear angel of my breast,
  I must be wretched; O! may you be blest.
    Yes, may the youth to whom you prove more kind,
  Know the rich treasures of that lovely mind:
  May he be fond, and may no cloud o'ercast
  The virtuous passion, born to ever last.
  But though his love in every act may shine,
  Yet know, sweet maid, it cannot be like mine:
  Your image never can from me depart;
  Fixt in my soul, and written on my heart.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                   THE WISH.

  Where's my Olivia, tell me where?
  Oh! could she all my pleasures share;
  Oh! could she---- No-- That thought restrain,
  She must not, shall not share my pain.

    How oft with her I've rang'd the fields,
  Pleas'd with the blessings friendship yields;
  Contented then, no more desir'd,
  And only sung what it inspir'd.

    Soon may she come, and with her bring
  That peace which taught me first to sing,
  That calm contentment which attends
  The gentle intercourse of friends.

    'Till then in vain I seek relief,
  And sooth, with ev'ry art, my grief;
  Friendship alone can grief destroy,
  And tune the soul again to joy.

    Can bid each flatt'ring hope be still,
  To reason's power subdue the will;
  Each feeling of the heart improve,
  And guard it from the darts of love.

    HENRICUS.

      New-York, _July 22, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  To a Gentleman who Obliged Me to Read Aloud,
  and Made Me Promise to Write Some Verses.

  THE THREAT.

  Strephon, as yet you have your way,
    No contradictions tease you;
  Submissive to despotic sway,
    I've read, I've wrote to please you.

  Howe'er this empire to secure,
    You less should seem to know it,
  Your pow'r, believe me, won't endure,
    If thus you strive to shew it.

  If conscious triumph you'd enjoy,
    You must not still perplex me;
  Nor all your wit and sense employ,
    On themes, _you know_, will vex me.

  The woman's pride may rouze at last,
    It can't be _always_ neuter,
  I freely can forgive the past,
    But do not tempt the future.

    PHYLLIS.

      New-York, _July 22, 1796_.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, August 3, 1796.+  [+No. 57.+


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

  _+View+ of the STARRY HEAVENS._

  (_Concluded from page 25._)

Each star, then, is not only a world, but also the center of a planetary
system. It is in this light we must consider the stars, which shine over
our heads in a winter night. They are distinguished from the planets by
their brilliancy, and because they never change their place in the sky.
According to their apparent size, they are divided into six classes,
which comprehend altogether about three thousand stars. But though they
have endeavoured to fix the exact number of them, it is certain they are
innumerable. The very number of stars sowed here and there, and which
the most piercing eye can with difficulty perceive, prove that it would
be in vain to attempt to reckon them. Telescopes indeed have opened to
us new points in the creation, since by their assistance millions of
stars are discovered. But it would be a very senseless pride in man to
try to fix the limits or the universe, by those of his telescope. If we
reflect on the distance between the fixed stars and our earth, we shall
have new cause to admire the greatness of the creation. Our senses alone
make us already know that the stars must be farther from us than the
planets. Their apparent littleness only proceeds from their distance
from the earth. And in reality, this distance cannot be measured: since
a cannon-ball, supposing it always to preserve the same degree of
swiftness, would scarce, at the end of six hundred thousand years, reach
the star nearest to our earth. What then must the stars be? Their
prodigious distance and their brightness tell us,---they are suns which
reflect as far as us, not a borrowed light, but their own light; suns,
which the Creator has sowed by millions in the immeasurable space; and
each of which is accompanied by several terrestrial globes, which it is
designed to illuminate.

In the mean time, all these observations, however surprising they are,
lead us, at the utmost, but to the first limits of the creation. If we
could transport ourselves above the moon; if we could reach the highest
star over our heads, we should discover new skies, new suns, new stars,
new systems of worlds, and perhaps still more magnificent. Even there,
however, the dominions of our great Creator would not end; and we should
find, with the greatest surprize, that we had only arrived at the
frontiers of the worldly space. But the little we do know of his works,
is sufficient to make us admire the infinite wisdom, power, and goodness
of our adorable Creator. Let us stop here, then, and reflect, how great
must be that Being who has created those immense globes! who has
regulated their course, and whose right hand directs and supports them!
And what is the clod of earth we inhabit, with the magnificent scene it
presents us, in comparison of the beauty of the firmament? If this earth
was annihilated, its absence would be no more observed than that of a
grain of sand from the sea-shore. What are provinces and kingdoms in
comparison of those worlds? Nothing but atoms which play in the air, and
are seen in the sun-beams. And what am I, when I reckon myself amongst
this infinite number of God's creatures? How I am lost in my own
nothingness! But however little I appear in this, how great do I find
myself in other respects! "How beautiful this starry firmament, which
God has chosen for his throne! What is more admirable than the celestial
bodies! Their splendor dazzles me; their beauty enchants me. However,
all beautiful as it is, and richly adorned, yet is this sky void of
intelligence. It knows not its own beauty; whilst I, mere clay, whom God
has moulded with his hands, am endowed with sense and reason." I can
contemplate the beauty of those shining orbs. Still more, I am already,
to a certain degree, acquainted with their sublime Author; and I partly
see some rays of his glory. I will endeavour to be more and more
acquainted with his works, and make it my employment, till by a glorious
change I rise above the starry regions, and enter the world of spirits.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MAXIM.

If we would be truly great, we must think nothing below our notice, nor
any thing too high for our attainment.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF A SPANISH NOBLEMAN

  _From the Chevalier De Rabilier's remarkable
  Events of the present Century._

  (Concluded from page 27)

They were accordingly united in the pleasing bonds of Hymen, which are
never so indissoluble, as when religion and virtue, disinterested love,
and real worth form the bright links of the mystic chain. But as all
sublunary happiness is liable to a change, a most dreadful reverse
succeeded to this seemingly well established scheme of domestic
enjoyment. The duchess from some accident in lying-in, notwithstanding
every possible assistance from the faculty, expired three days after
presenting her spouse with an heir to his noble possessions. It would be
needless to attempt a description of the grief and confusion caused by
so dire a misfortune, which were not confined to the castle of St.
Lucar, but spread like an epidemic disease throughout the whole
district. The church bells rang their usual melancholy dirge, and were
echoed by the responsive sighs of city and country for many miles round:
to complete this scene of woe, the disconsolate widower, penetrated with
the most lively anguish, followed his beloved partner to the tomb in
less than six months.

The young duke, now an orphan, remained under the tutelage of the count
d'Alvarez, uncle to his father, a nobleman whose fortune was by no means
equal to his rank and numerous family.--The immense riches of his ward
tempted him to sacrifice the last of this illustrious family to the
abominable desire of enriching his own children with the spoils. A mind
capable of forming so black a design is commonly capable of carrying it
into execution; yet this barbarian, not daring to shed innocent blood
with his own hand, bribed one of his domestics to carry the young
nobleman to some remote place, and there strangle him. But the servant
who fortunately had never been stained with so detestable a crime as
wilful murder, though somewhat encouraged by the hopes of a further
recompense, seized the wretched victim, and with a tremor and agitation,
that equally denoted reluctance and want of skill in the weapons of
death, gave him three stabs in the left arm with a poignard, which
instantly fell from his convulsed and shaking hand. The cries of this
lovely infant, and the blood which ran plentifully from his wounds,
quite overcame the youthful assassin, and recalled a sense of the act he
was about to perpetrate. He melted into tears, and forgetting both his
interest and rigid lord's commands, ran with speed to a neighbouring
surgeon, who on examining the wounds, found them not mortal, though
dangerous, and deep enough to leave indelible marks of their malignity
on the back of his shoulders.

The domestic having in part discharged the duties of humanity, returned
to his lord, and informed him that he had fully executed the bloody
commission, which was readily believed, and a report immediately
circulated that the young duke died suddenly in a convulsion fit,
a coffin was accordingly filled with rubbish, and solemnly interred the
following night.

Notwithstanding these precautions, the servant became very uneasy in his
mind, and returned privately to the surgeon, under whose care he had
left the wounded infant. He found him much mended, and dreading a
discovery of the fraud put on his cruel master, which would have
endangered his own life, as well as that of the young nobleman, whom he
was now determined to preserve, he conveyed him to a distant province,
and committed him to the care of an honest peasant, who for a
considerable sum in hand promised to take particular notice both of his
nurture and safety.

The young duke remained six years in this situation, when the same
domestic appeared, and to rid himself effectually of every probable idea
of being discovered, brought the child to Malaga, where he sold him to
one Jacob de Mendez, a Portuguese Jew, who was about to embark for
Constantinople, at the same time telling him, that being the natural son
of a Spanish nobleman, by a young lady of the first distinction at the
court, it was necessary on several accounts, that so strong a proof of
frailty should be removed to a great distance. The Jew paid the price,
promised secrecy, embarked with his slave, or pupil, for the Levant, and
happily arrived at the port of Modon, in the Morea, from whence he went
by land to Constantinople, where we will leave him for the present, and
return to the uncle in Spain, whose project of murdering his innocent
ward was not attended with the satisfaction he had at first imagined.

About two years after, a strange malady, unknown to the most experienced
physicians, broke into the old nobleman's house, and carried off every
one of his numerous issue in less than a month. He himself was attacked
by a malignant fever, in which he remained delirious for above six
weeks. At length he recovered, and penetrated with the keenest remorse
for the unworthy steps he had taken to destroy his innocent pupil, the
first use he made of his understanding was a participation of his griefs
to the servant who had been his accomplice in the crime, who, believing
all danger from his lord's resentment at an end, confessed the whole
truth. This indeed appeased in some measure, the agonies with which the
Count's mind was tortured; he now conceived a glimmering ray of hope
that he might one day be instrumental in restoring the young nobleman to
his lawful possessions; Providence, moved by his deep contrition, seemed
to applaud the just design; he recovered his health, and took every
method that prudence could suggest, but his enquiries were a long time
fruitless. Happening, however, to be at Marseilles when the Caesar,
a ship in the Levant trade, arrived in the port, the disconsolate count,
learned from the captain, who had sailed from Constantinople about six
weeks before, that the Portuguese Jew, to whom the young duke was sold
by the servant at Malaga, had presented him to lord Paget, ambassador
from England, who had returned to London before the French vessel set
sail. Count d'Alvarez, on receiving this agreeable news, sent an express
to London, but the messenger arrived too late; the young gentleman was
not to be found in that city, all he could learn was, that, after living
with a barber in Picadilly, who taught him to shave and dress, he had
engaged with Count de Gallas, the Imperial Minister, who returned to
Vienna some months before. Old Alvarez, not in the least discouraged,
sent his confessor to the Emperor's court, where the Count de Gallas
informed him that the domestic in question had quitted his service, and
went to live with the Baron d'Obersdorf, governor of Inspruck in Tyrol,
where he then resided. That he had married a chamber-maid belonging to
Madame, the Baroness, and was much respected in the family.

On this interesting intelligence, the good priest set out for Inspruck,
and being conducted to an audience, the governor acquainted him, that
the young man he so diligently sought, was gone about a month before to
reside on a farm, which the governor had let him at an easy rent,
sixteen miles from Munich in Bavaria, where he believed him to be
extremely happy, with an amiable girl who had waited on his lady, and
was now become his wife. Hither the indefatigable friar hastened, and at
length discovered the retreat of this long-lost alien from his family
and friends. After some preparatory compliments and questions, the young
farmer confessed that he knew nothing of his real name, rank or country.
All that he possibly could remember of his early days was his being a
slave to a merchant in Turkey, who told him frequently that he was
natural son to a Spanish lord. The friar requested to examine his
shoulders, and beholding three distinct marks of a poignard, or other
sharp weapon, in the places before described, hesitated not a moment to
pronounce him the undoubted heir of the duchies of Medina, and St.
Lucar. It is impossible to describe the astonishment of the young
gentleman, or the lively alarms of his amiable spouse, on the discovery
of their true condition. Instead of being elevated or flattered by this
double access of immense wealth and princely dignity, they only feared
that such a change in circumstances might some way or other deprive them
of the innocence and tranquility they enjoyed with each other in a
moderate sphere of life. The young farmer, now duke of Medina Celi, and
lord of the town and port of St. Lucar, positively insisted on the
acquiescence of his family with his choice, and their respect for the
deserving person, whom he should introduce to them as his wife, as a
necessary condition of his returning amongst them. Matters being thus
settled, the confessor, with the duke and his fair spouse, set off for
Inspruck, to take leave of, and thank the noble Baron and Baroness
d'Obersdorff for all their favours, who understanding, that their graces
intended passing through Vienna in their way to Spain, recommended them
so strenuously to his imperial majesty Charles the sixth, father to the
present illustrious dowager queen of Hungary and Bohemia, as to ensure
them a very honourable reception.

After a few weeks stay at the court of Vienna, they all set out for
Spain by the way of Italy, and arrived by easy journies at Genoa,
embarked on board the Princess Louisa, an English man of war, who landed
them safely at Cadiz, where the old count d'Alvarez, with a number of
domestics and carriages, waited their arrival. From hence their graces
set out with a retinue worthy their rank and virtues, for the castle of
St. Lucar, which was finely illuminated on this joyful occasion, and
where they yet enjoy the reward of their sufferings and constancy. His
grace is now in the seventy-fourth year of his age, and the duchess in
her grand climacteric. Both are strong and healthy for their time of
life, and continue patterns of every virtue than can do honour to their
rank and fortune; happy parents of a numerous and lovely offspring,
blessed by the poor, revered by the rich, and in favour with God and
man.


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                  OBSERVATION.

It is never best to bestow encomiums on our friends which are too
brilliant for them, in order to hide their defects: for by this means we
frequently bring failings to light, which would otherwise have been
unobserved; and so defeat the end we aim at. This remark was suggested
by the following anecdote:

A young lady, not long since, with a view to represent her brother, who
was a mere dunce, as a person of great learning, took occasion to say,
in a large assembly, that, "For her part, she was very fond of reading;
but Johnny's books being chiefly _Latin_ or _French_ authors, they
afforded her little or no amusement at all." "Then," said a gentleman
present, who knew his abilities, "I cannot see what use they can be to
him, for he hardly understands English."

  ETHICUS.

    NEW-YORK _July 29, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                    ADVICE.

How necessary it becomes us to reflect on our future state, a state in
which we are doomed either to possess happiness or misery, according to
our deserts---to avoid all painful sensations on the aera of death is to
pursue faithfully the grand dictates of our Creator, whilst he gives us
strength and power; for without a serious, diligent and punctual
attention thereto, the mind must inevitably be much discomposed and
filled with imaginations too great to be described, by heretofore
neglecting the functions of _that_ duty which he (the Supreme) so
strictly commands us to perform. How many of our worthy citizens have
been lately cut off, and how many are now on the brink of leaving this
world in their youthful prime.

My good friends, do but think of the uncertainty of life, and remember
that no moment ought to be neglected in assiduously applying ourselves
to the devotion of God, which will secure to us the happiness of
futurity.

  R. C.

    NEW-YORK _July 22, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  [[For sources, see the end of the e-text. This story is also available
  from Project Gutenberg as e-text 30794.]]


  Interesting History Of
  THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

  _Translated from the French._

Among all the great families which flourished in France in the reign of
Philip the First, the Count de St. Paul and the Count de Ponthieu were
the most distinguished; but especially the Count de Ponthieu, who,
possessing a great extent of dominion, maintained the title of sovereign
with inconceiveable magnificence. He was a widower, and had an only
daughter, whose wit and beauty, supported by the shining qualities of
her father, made his court polite and sumptuous, and had attracted to it
the bravest Cavaliers of that age. The Count de St. Paul had no children
but a nephew, son of his sister, by the Sieur la Domar, who was the only
heir of his title and possessions. This expectation was for the present
his only fortune; but Heaven having formed him to please, he might be
said to be one of those whose intrinsic worth is sufficient to render
them superior to the rest of mankind: courage, wit, and a good mien,
together with a high birth, made ample atonement for his want of riches.
This young Cavalier having engaged the notice of the Count de Ponthieu
in a tournament, where he had all the honour; he conceived so great an
esteem for him, that he invited him to his court. The considerable
advantages he offered him were so much above what the Count de St.
Paul's nephew could for the present expect, that he embraced the
proposals he made him with pleasure, and the Count thought himself happy
in having prevailed on him to stay with him. Thibault, for so history
calls this young Cavalier, was no sooner come to court, than the beauty
of the princess inspired him with admiration, which soon ripened into
love; and it was but in vain that reason opposed his passion, by
representing how little he was in a condition to make any such
pretensions. Love is not to be controuled, it is not to be
repelled.--But in some measure to punish his temerity, he condemned
himself to an eternal silence; yet, though his tongue was mute, the
princess, who had as great a share of sensibility as beauty, soon
perceived the effect of her charms written in his eyes, and imprinted in
all his motions, and, in secret, rejoiced at the conquest she had
gained. But the same reasons which obliged Thibault to conceal his
sentiments, prevented her from making any discovery of her's, and it was
only by the language of their glances, they told each other that they
burned with a mutual flame.

As at that time there were great numbers of sovereign princes, there
were very often wars between them; and as the Count de Ponthieu had the
greatest extent of land, so he was the most exposed: But Thibault, by
his courage and prudence, rendered him so formidable to his neighbours,
that he both enlarged his dominions and made the possession of them
secure. These important services added to that esteem the Count and
Princess had for him before; but at last, a signal victory which he
gained, and which was of the utmost consequence to the Count, carried
the gratitude of that prince to such a height, that in the middle of his
court, and among the joyful acclamations of the people, he embraced the
young hero, and begged him to demand a reward for his great services;
assuring him, that did he ask the half of his dominions, he should think
himself happy in being able to give a mark of his tenderness and
gratitude. Thibault, who had done nothing but with a view of rendering
himself worthy of owning the passion he so long and painfully had
concealed, encouraged by such generous offers, threw himself at the feet
of the Count, telling him, that his ambition was entirely satisfied in
having been able to do him any service; but that he had another passion
more difficult to be pleased, which induced him to beg a favour, on
which depended the whole felicity of his life. The Count pressed him to
an explanation of these words, and swore to him by the faith of a
knight, an oath inviolably sacred in those times, that there was nothing
in his power he would refuse him. This promise entirely recovering the
trembling lover from that confusion which the fears that accompany that
passion had involved him in, "I presume then, my lord," said he, "to
beg, I may have leave to declare myself the Princess's knight, and that
I may serve and adore her in that quality. I am not ignorant," continued
he, "of the temerity of my wishes, but if a crown be wanting to deserve
her, let me flatter myself with the hope that this sword, already
successful over your enemies, may one day, enforced by love, make my
fortune worthy of the glory to which I aspire." The joy which appeared
in the face of the Count at this demand, would be impossible to
represent: he raised Thibault, and again tenderly embracing him, "My
son," said he, "for so henceforth I call you, I pray heaven to dispose
my daughter to receive your vows as favourably as I shall satisfy them."
He took him by the hand with these words, and led him to the Princess's
apartment; "Daughter," said he, "as I have nothing so dear to me as
yourself, you alone can recompense the obligations I have to this young
warrior.--The respect he has for you, makes him desire only to be
entertained as your knight; but I come to let you know. I would have you
receive him as your husband." The Princess blushing cast down her eyes;
but being commanded to reply, she confessed the choice he had made for
her was agreeable to her inclinations, and that it was with pleasure she
submitted to her father's will. Thibault thanked the kind concession in
terms that testified his excess of transport. The Count perceiving their
mutual wishes, suffered them not to languish in expectation of a
blessing he had resolved on; but gave immediate orders for the marriage
preparations, and a few days after it was celebrated with the
magnificence the occasion deserved. Hymen, in agreement with love, only
rendered their flames more lasting; possession was so far from
extinguishing them, that it seemed to be the torch which kindled them.
The Count was charmed with the happy union he saw between them, and his
heart could scarce decide which he most loved, his own daughter, or
son-in-law.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 29.)

"Conceive our astonishment, when we heard who the man was whom we had
handled in such a dreadful manner! It was Miguel, the son of the Duke of
C***na, and Count ****ez, his tutor. Most of the conspirators proposed
to dispatch both of them, lest our secret should be betrayed; I insisted
however upon their being examined before any thing should be determined,
to which they consented. Miguel confessed that he had been sent by his
father to visit the principal towns of Europe in company of his tutor,
and that the account of the priest at whose house he had supped, had
made him curious to have a sight of the inhabitants of the castle. Their
examination being finished, they were ordered to retire, and I harangued
the assembly in the following manner:

"You expect to avoid a discovery by destroying our prisoners; however,
I believe just the contrary will happen. The servant, the priest, and
his family, know that they have spent the night at the castle, and if
they do not return to-day, the whole village will be alarmed. The old
Duke will be informed of the incident, and who can seriously expect that
he will be so credulous as to attribute the death of his son to ghosts.
His life is too important to the father and the state, not to cause the
strictest investigation. The castle will be surrounded, searched, and we
shall be detected, or obliged to save ourselves by flight. In either
instance, we must leave the castle. This will be the natural
consequence, and the death of these two men will certainly be the surest
means of betraying our asylum. I would therefore advise you to spare
their lives, I know the family of Villa R***l too well, to apprehend the
least danger from the execution of this proposal. Miguel and Count
***rez, are men of honour, and if they pledge their word to conceal the
events of this night we shall be safe. However, this is not the sole
reason for which I would advise you to spare their lives; I have a more
important view at heart; I intend to gain Miguel over to our party. He
shall become a principal actor in the great drama which we are going to
perform, and untwist the knot which we have tied. You are astonished?
however, I would have you to recollect that I am not wont to attempt
what I am not sure to be able to perform. I will tell you my plan more
at large, at some other time; at present let us demand an oath of
secrecy from our prisoners and set them at liberty.

"My proposal was adopted, and I sat instantly down to inform your
Excellency of that incident."

I should never have believed the _Unknown_ to be the writer of this
letter, if I had not been convinced of it by the other papers. I had
always looked upon my adventure at the castle, as a scene which I
thought to have been closed with the recovery of our liberty, and
entirely unconnected with the subsequent events of my life. I had not
entertained the most distant suspicion that the rest of my adventures
were any ways connected with that incident. I suspected indeed, from the
beginning, the masked persons at the castle to be men of high rank,
however, I should never have thought that they were the heads of the
conspiracy which had been formed to set my country at liberty. I fancied
the _Unknown_ had framed his design upon me when we met him in the
disguise of a beggar; but I never dreamed that he had formed it already
at the castle; and that I and my tutor owed our lives to his mediation.
You may, therefore, easily conceive how much I was surprised at this
discovery. I vowed never to forget how much we were indebted to the
_Unknown_. How remarkable was this letter to me! however the second was
still more so.

"I intend to submit Miguel to my will by the delusions of magic. Your
Excellency perhaps may think, that this plan may be rendered abortive by
a young man who gives so little credit to the reality of apparitions,
that he dares to take up his night's lodging at a castle which is famed
for being the haunt of ghosts. However, even if I should suppose that he
had no other view in his visit to the castle, than to encounter an
adventure, yet I must conclude from that step that he has a tendency for
enthusiasm, which, however, is very different from that which I want him
to have; yet enthusiasm, however it may display itself, is always
enthusiasm; and the only thing I have to aim at, is to give it a turn
most consistent with my plan, which will be no difficult matter with a
young man of his temper, his thirst for knowledge, and unstable
principles.

"Certainly it would be a great mistake, if one should conclude from his
visit to the castle, that he does not believe in the reality of
apparitions. On the contrary; I think I have reason to make just the
opposite conclusion from it. If Miguel had been convinced of the vanity
of apparitions before he came to the castle, he would not have taken the
trouble of acquiring that conviction by experience; a secret voice,
which, in spite of his philosophy, pleaded for the possibility of
apparitions, excited his curiosity, and gave rise to that resolution
which he had carried into execution. If Miguel had been convinced, that
the inhabitants of the castle could be no other beings but men, his
resorting to the castle would have been not only superfluous, but also
fool-hardy, as he would have exposed his life to unknown and suspected
people, for no other reason but to convince himself of a truth which he
already knew. However, his want of a firm conviction, his wavering
between belief and unbelief, was the ground on which he risked so much
in order to come to the truth. I am certain Miguel's philosophy would
have received a mortal blow, if Grigorio had acted his part with more
moderation.

"It will be my chief, and, I hope, no fruitless aim, to effect this by
means of magical delusions and art. If I can but gain so much advantage
over Miguel, that he, for want of capacity to explain my deeds
naturally, shall begin to think me gifted with supernatural power, then
he will suffer himself to be entirely ruled by me. His thirst for
knowledge, and his fondness of adventures, will assist me to gain my
aim, which would be a difficult matter, if he were of a different turn
of mind. In order to enthral his head and heart at one time, I intend to
make him acquainted with a female enthusiast who has been prompted by
the extraordinary incidents of her life, to believe in wonders and
apparitions of all kinds. Enthusiasm is catching, and particularly so,
if the enthusiast is such a beautiful and charming woman as the Countess
of Clairval. In her company Miguel will easily become an enthusiast, who
will be equally capable of seeing ghosts, and staking his life for his
mistress and his country. If that point is but gained, then I shall find
it easy work to lead him with rapidity to the mark. _All arguments of
philosophy and patriotism never would be able to gain him so decidedly
and so rapidly to our party, as the word of a man whom he fancies to
possess supernatural power, and to have been sent from above._ I shall
think it my duty to account to your excellency for every important step
I shall take in this matter, because you being the soul of our
undertaking, renders it necessary you should be informed of every action
of each individual member, in order to regulate your conduct
accordingly. I only beg not to acquaint the Archbishop of L*sbon of my
magical operations. Your excellency is no stranger to his rigid
principles; how active soever he be in our cause, and how great soever
his satisfaction at the conquest of Miguel will be, yet he would condemn
without mercy the means by which I intend to gain him over to our party.
My own heart would certainly reproach me severely for the fraud which I
am going to commit against that excellent young man, if the important
end which I am aiming at, did not plead my excuse, and I was not firmly
resolved to open the eyes of the deluded man, as soon as I shall have
gained my purpose.

  "I am, &c. &c. &c."

The last lines confirmed the declaration of the Count, that the
_Unknown_ would have removed himself the veil from my eyes. But this did
not justify him in my opinion. Though he should have destroyed the
delusion at some future period, was I on that account less imposed upon
while the deceit lasted, and can ever low and illicit means be ennobled
by laudable views?--However, I cannot deny that the sagacity with which
the _Unknown_ had explored my weak side, the dextrous use he made of
that discovery, and the finesse of the artifices which he employed to
deceive me, excited my admiration to the highest degree; but at the same
time, I must confess that I was severely vexed at the ease with which my
philosophy yielded to his delusive artifices. I was very agreeably
surprised to find that the Archbishop of L*sbon was one of the
conspirators. I knew him very well, and it flattered my pride to have a
share in an undertaking in which a divine of his worth and uncommon
learning was concerned. His rigid principles, which the _Unknown_
dreaded so much, were to me the best security for the justness of his
undertaking. I took up the third letter, burning with an impatient
desire to know the names of the rest of the conspirators; but its
contents were of a different nature.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ALL MEN ARE SLAVES.

That the fair sex are supreme sovereigns of the universe, can never be
doubted. Man has no will of his own but what woman delegates to him; she
moulds him as she pleases; he seems most happy if but permitted to
become her vassal, and she deputes and disposes of him according to her
will and pleasure.

A smile of approbation, or the squeeze of the lovely hand of a charming
woman, will immediately procure thousands of volunteers ready to
undertake the most dangerous and hazardous enterprizes, if sanctioned by
her enchanting fiat; such enviable distinctions will create cowards into
heroes, who are ever willing to risk every thing under the fair one's
banner.

We whine, we tremble, we sigh at the fair one's feet for days, years and
ages, supplicating, some will perhaps say, the most trifling favours in
the humblest manner: heavenly woman's distinctions and favours are
almost inestimable; therefore, as such, ought always to be considered of
a sublime and fascinating nature. I sincerely pity those, if any such
there are, who do not possess a sublimity of ideas to enable them to
adore and value the charms and attractions of the fair; for 'tis they
only who can expand and enlighten our minds and ideas. It is the
bewitching eye, the enchanting features, the soft and delicate
complexion, the charming symmetry and the tout ensemble of divine woman;
that taketh at pleasure the soul of man by surprise, and renders him a
prisoner. Man, as the humblest slave, is most happy in her chains; nor
would he exchange them for fetters of gold. By enjoying her charms, he
is possest of unspeakable bliss; for on divine woman depends the
principal pleasures of life.

  --I would call thee somewhat higher still
  But when my thoughts search heaven for appellation,
  They echo back the sovereign name of woman!
  Thou woman, therefore! O thou loveliest woman!


       *       *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS ANECDOTES Of THE DISCOVERY OF ANCIENT MANUSCRIPTS.

It was a Florentine who found, buried in a heap of dust, and in a rotten
coffer belonging to the monastery of St. Gal, the works of Quintilian:
and, by this fortunate discovery, gave them to the republic of letters.

Papirius Masson found, in the house of a book-binder of Lyons, the works
of Agobart. The mechanic was on the point of using the manuscripts to
line the covers of his books.

A page of the second Decade of Livy was found by a man of letters on the
parchment of his battledore, as he was amusing himself in the country.
He ran directly to the maker of the battledore: but arrived too late;
the man had finished the last page of Livy, in completing a large order
for these articles about a week before.

Sir Robert Cotton, being one day at his tailor's, discovered that the
man held in his hand, ready to be cut up for measures, the original
Magna Charta, with all its appendages of seals and signature. He bought
this singular curiosity for a trifle; and recovered in this manner, what
had long been given over for lost.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                 ON GEOGRAPHY.

Geography is a science which is no more looked upon as a fine
accomplishment, but a necessary part of education; for there is no study
which seems fitter for the entertainment and instruction of young
persons than this. Geography gives them a perfect idea of the exterior
surface of the globe, of its natural and political divisions, and of the
curiosities of all its parts: hence it may be called with reason, the
eye of history, the soldier's companion, the merchant's director, and
the traveller's guide.

It is also a study which holds the first rank among those qualities
which are requisite for forming the scholar; for it is adapted not only
to gratify our curiosity, but also to increase our knowledge, to banish
prejudices, and make us acquainted with our real advantages, and those
of our fellow-creatures.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                   ANECDOTE.

During the summer of the year 1780, an old Indian, an inhabitant of the
wood, used to visit the town of Poughkeepsie for the purpose of
disposing of wooden ware, it being the only means he had for gaining a
livelihood---Among the purchasers of his goods, was a lady who much
wished for a utensil for working her butter as she called it---and
desiring him, when he came again, to bring some _butter
ladles_.---"_Butter ladles!_" answered the tawny son of the forest, in
the native simplicity of his soul---"Why mistress, if I was to fashion
such things, they would all melt away before I could get here."

  L. B.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON THE MUTABILITY OF FORTUNE.

There is nothing certain in this world but death: theory supposes,
experience sometimes proves, but the latter often deceives. The fatality
which constantly attends the wayward lot of mortals, is so secret in its
operations, that it baffles all the penetration of men to discover it.
Xerxes came to conquer Greece with such a numerous force, that his
armies quite exhausted the rivers in quenching their natural thirst. He
covered the sea with ships, as numerous as the caterpillars which
formerly infested Egypt; whence he was inflated with such a certain
prospect of success, that he already considered himself as a complete
master of the sea; and he commanded it to be whipped with rods, for
having the insolence to mutiny tempestuously against him. But, alas! he
shamefully lost so many thousand men, and such a number of ships, that
he thought himself very fortunate in escaping on board a small fishing
bark.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Sunday se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. PETER HOPMIRE, to Miss
SALLY WILSON, both of this city.

On Monday se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. JAMES BLEECKER,
merchant, to Miss SARAH BACHE, daughter of Mr. Theophylact Bache,
merchant, of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. WILLIAM JAMES, of
this city, to Miss ANN READ, of Trenton.


       *       *       *       *       *

  DIED,

On the 27th ult. of a sudden illness, TIMOTHY MASON, son to Christopher
Mason, Esq. of Swansey, in Massachusetts. He promised fair to realize
the hopes of his affectionate parents, but was prematurely cut off in
the seventh year of his age, on a visit to the city. On the 28th, his
remains were interred in the Baptist burying ground.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The ELEGY on an UNFORTUNATE VETERAN, by MATILDA, and TWILIGHT, a Sonnet,
by ALEXIS, are received, and shall appear in our next.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 24th to the 31st inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
             100   100   100
  AUG. 24  70    74    69     NE. sw. s.   clear do. rain.
       25  69    73    67     S. do. do.   clear do. do.
       26  70    70    72     E. do. se.   clear cloudy. do.
       27  70    76 50 79     NW. do. N.   clear do. do.
       28  73    79    78     SW. do. do.  clear cloudy clear.
       29  78    85 50 80     W. nw. w.    clear do. do.
       30  76    86    80     SE. W NW.    clear do. do.
       31  75    84    79 50  NW. sw. do   clear do. do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  For July, 1796.
                                                            deg. 100

  Mean temperature of the thermometer at 8 A.M.              73   25
  Do. do. of the do. at 1 P.M.                               81    5
  Do. do. of the do. at 6 P.M.                               75    5
  Do. do. of the whole month                                 76   45
  Greatest monthly range between the 8th and 25th            21    0
  Do. do. in 24 hours the 21st                               12    0
  Warmest day the 8                                          88    0
  Coldest day the  25                                        67    0

  14 Days it rained. A very large quantity of rain has fallen
       this month.
  13 do.  it was clear at 8 1 and 6 o'clock.
   5 do.  it was cloudy at do.  do.
  22 do.  the wind was to the westward of north and south.
   7 Times it thundered and lightned in this month.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ADVERSITY.

  Adversity is virtue's school
    To those who right discern:
  Let me observe each painful rule,
    And each hard lesson learn.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

    THE VELVET LARKSPUR AND THE EGLANTINE.

               A Fable of Flora.

  Amidst the flowers that lov'd to pour
    Their sweets on every breath of May,
  Along a green luxuriant shore
    Where hoary HUDSON winds his way.

  There high upon a slender stem
    A _Larkspur_ bloom'd in scarlet pride,
  And glittering with an evening gem,
    She view'd her beauties in the tide.

  Hard by, beneath a cedar's shade,
    An _Eglantine_ of softest hues,
  Her blushing buds and flowers display'd,
    And shed her odours with the dews.

  The _setting_ SUN shot back a ray,
    Once more the lovely plant to warm,
  While warbling from a neighbouring spray,
    A _Thrush_ proclaim'd her power to charm.

  The _Larkspur_ turn'd her velvet head
    To view the subject of the song;
  "Come, minstrel of the wood," she said,
    "For me thy tuneful notes prolong.

  "See how the waters, as they pass
    To bathe the verdure of my feet,
  Brighten before my glowing face,
    And raptured roll in murmurs sweet.

  "No flower that blossoms in the wild
    Can boast a bloom so rich as mine;
  No leaf that Flora's hand can gild,
    May like my polish'd foliage shine.

  "Why therefore waste thy tender lay,
    On yonder _Eglantine_ so frail,
  Whose faded tinges speak decay,
    Soon as they open on the gale.

  "And if some hermit ere hath found,
    And sought her simple sweets to taste,
  With pois'nous thorns encompass'd round,
    He mourn'd too late his witless haste."

  "Vain weed, the scented brier replied,
    While my perfumes enrich the air,
  And bless the dale on every side,
    Wilt thou, indeed, with me compare?

  "And shall thy boasted tints that glare
    A moment on the astonish'd sight,
  With my lov'd buds a chaplet share,
    Which even when faded yield delight?

  "Thy verdant foliage, though it shine,
    Emits a faint and sickly smell,
  While every leaf and thorn of mine
    Soft and delicious sweets exhale.

  "And even those thorns thy folly blames,
    They shield me from the spoiler's power,
  Whose niggard with an object claims,
    He knows must perish in an hour.

  "Yes, and the bard by _love_ imprest,
    Or sacred _grief_, hath sought my shade;
  And there the anguish of his breast
    In mournful poesy display'd.

  "Henceforth then, herb, to me give place,
    Long shall my charms be sung by fame,
  While all thy tawdry, worthless race
    Bloom and expire without a name."

  A HERMIT from his rocky cell,
    With pity the contention heard,
  And thrice did tears his eye-lids fill,
    And thrice he shook his silv'ry beard.

  For in the vivid blooms he saw
    What he in former times had been,
  When passion was his only law,
    And pride led on each various scene.

  But prosperous days full soon withdrew,
    _Wealth_ vanish'd like a fairy dream,
  And _Friendship_ from his moanings flew,
    And _Love_ forgot his wonted theme.

  Then turn'd he from his devious path,
    (A path with many a thorn bestrew'd)
  From passions wild, and cares that scath,
    And sought this silent solitude.

  "Frail flowers (he cried) forbear your strife,
    Why should the charms that nature gave,
  To bless your _fleeting space_ of life,
    That space, of mild content bereave?

  "Let neither to the palm aspire,
    To each a share of praise is due,
  Rich is the odour of the _Brier_,
    And beauteous is the _Larkspur's_ hue.

  "But ah, since fate with stinted hand
    Allots to each her little day,
  Let PEACE its morning beam command,
    And gild serene its evening ray.

  "For on the wing of _Speed_ draws near,
    Old DEATH, too faithful to his trust,
  And soon the _unlovely_ and the _fair_
    Alike shall crumble into dust."

    ANNA.

      New-York, July 29, 1796,


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE KISS. INSCRIBED TO OLYNDA.

  Those balmy lips outvie the rose,
  A thousand sweets at once disclose;
  Each kiss is heaven itself confess'd,
  And nature made them to be press'd.
  As feasts the bee on Flora's plain,
  I'd sip, and sip, and sip again;
  At every taste new joy I'd prove,
  And die of aromatic love.
  Then, charmer, ne'er deny the bliss
  That flows from thy delicious kiss;
  And if there be a joy intense
  In gratifying human sense,
  Be love, and love alone, your plan,
  And me alone the happy man.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, August 10, 1796.+  [+No. 58.+


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

  +The singular state of man when asleep.+

In order to know the omnipotence and wisdom of God, we need not have
recourse to extraordinary events. The most common things, the daily
changes which happen in nature, and in our own bodies, are alone
sufficient to convince us, in the strongest manner, that it is a Being
infinite in wisdom, goodness, and power, who has created the world, and
who directs every event in it. Of the great number of wonders of which
he is Author, I will now mention one only; and, though it happens daily,
it does not the less deserve to be remarked, and to become the object of
our admiration. How often have those been refreshed and recruited by
sleep, who possibly have never reflected on that state; or at least have
never considered it as one of the remarkable effects of divine goodness.
They think that nothing extraordinary happens when balmy sleep comes
upon them. They think the machine their body is formed for that
situation; and that their inclination to sleep proceeds from causes
purely natural.

But perhaps sleep may be considered in two different lights. On one side
there is nothing in it which may not result necessarily from our nature.
On the other, there is in this natural effect something so striking and
wonderful, that it is well worth a closer examination. In the first
instance it is a proof of the wisdom of our Creator, that we go to sleep
imperceptibly. Let us try only to watch the moment in which we are
falling asleep, and that very attention will prevent it. We shall not go
to sleep till that idea is lost. Sleep comes uncalled. It is the only
change in our manner of existence in which reflection has no share; and
the more we endeavour to promote it, the less we succeed. Thus God has
directed sleep, that it should become an agreeable necessity to man; and
he has made it independent of our will and our reason. Let us pursue
this meditation, and reflect on the wonderful state we are in during our
sleep. We live without knowing it, without feeling it. The beating of
the heart, the circulation of the blood, the digestion, the separation
of the juices; in a word, all the animal functions continue and operate
in the same order. The activity of the soul appears for a time in some
degree suspended, and gradually loses all sensation, all distinct ideas.
The senses deaden, and interrupt their usual operations. The muscles by
degrees move more slowly, till all voluntary motion has ceased. First,
this change begins by the forehead; then the muscles of the eye-lids,
the neck, the arms, and the feet, lose their activity, to such a degree,
that man seems to be metamorphosed into the state of a plant. The
situation of the brain becomes such, that it cannot transmit to the soul
the same notions as when awake. The soul sees no object, though the
optic nerve is not altered; and it would see nothing, even if the eyes
were not shut. The ears are open, and yet they do not hear. In a word,
the state of a person asleep is wonderful in all respects. Perhaps there
is but one other in the world so remarkable, and this is visibly the
image of that state which death reduces us to. Sleep and death are so
nearly alike, it is right to observe it. Who, in reality, can think of
sleep, without recollecting death also. Perhaps, as imperceptibly as we
now fall into the arms of sleep, shall we one day fall into those of
death. It is true that death often gives warning of its approach several
hours or days before: but the real moment in which death seizes us,
happens suddenly, and when we shall seem to feel the first blow, it may
be already our last. The senses which lose their functions in our sleep,
are equally incapable of acting at the approach of death. In the same
manner, the ideas are confused, and we forget the objects which surround
us. Perhaps, also, the moment of death may resemble the moment of
falling asleep: and the convulsions of dying people may possibly be as
little disagreeable a sensation to them, as the snoring is to those that
sleep.


       *       *       *       *       *

  STUDY.

Study, as far as it signifies any thing valuable or commendable, has
been defined, the pursuit of youthful knowledge, in a close application
of the mind to reading or thinking, for the due conduct or entertainment
of life; and it is certainly one of the greatest and noblest pursuits in
which the mind of man can be possibly engaged.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 36.)

Two years passed away without any other interruption of their joy, than
the want of heirs; and though that no way diminished their love, yet it
gave Thibault some uneasiness, which made him resolve on a progress to
St. James of Gallicia; that age was not so corrupted as this is, the
heroes fought as much to shew their piety as their courage; and what
would now be thought a weakness, at that time gave a greater lustre to
their virtue. It was not surprising therefore to see the valiant
Thibault taking a resolution of going to Compostella; but the Princess
not being able to bear a separation from so dear a husband, would needs
accompany him, and join her vows with his; his unabated affection for
her, made him receive the proposal with joy, and the Count de Ponthieu,
always ready to oblige him, ordered an equipage to be got ready, worthy
of those illustrious pilgrims, being willing that they should be well
enough accompanied, to prevent any accident during their journey. They
set out, and the hope of seeing them again in a little time, lessened
the Count's affliction at the separation.

They got safe to a little village within a day's journey of Compostella;
there Thibault stopped, to rest the Princess; and the next day, finding
themselves somewhat fatigued, he sent his attendants before him to
provide for their coming, that they might lose no time, retaining only
his chamberlain. When they thought themselves sufficiently reposed, they
set forward; but having learned there was a dangerous place in the
forest, through which they were obliged to pass, the Prince sent his
chamberlain to recal some of his people. Nevertheless they still went
on, and their ill fortune engaged them in a road, which had so many
cross ways to it, that they knew not which to take. The robbers had made
an easy plain path, which led travellers into the most intricate part of
the forest, getting numbers by this means into their power: it was this
fatal one; the unhappy Thibault and his lady imagined to be in the
right; but they soon perceived their error. When not having gone above
two bow-shots into it they found it terminated in a thicket: out of
which, before they could avoid them, rushed eight men completely armed,
and surrounded them, commanding them to alight. Thibault had no arms,
but his courage disdaining to yield obedience to these ruffians, made
him answer in terms which let them see it must be to their number they
must be obliged to force him: one of them thinking to do so, quitting
his rank, made at him with his lance; but Thibault with an admirable
dexterity avoided the blow, and seized the lance as it passed him, with
the vigour of an arm accustomed to victory; then seeing himself in a
state of defence, he set on them with an heroic fierceness, killing one
immediately, and facing them all, pierced a second; but in attacking a
third, the lance flew into a thousand shivers, and disabled him from
resisting farther. The remaining five encompassing him, and killing his
horse, seized him; and notwithstanding his efforts, and the piercing
cries of the Princess, stripped him, and tied him fast to a tree, not
being willing to steep their hands in the blood of so brave a man. The
heat of the combat, and their eagerness in tearing off his rich habit,
had hindered them from casting their eyes on the Princess; but she being
now left alone, she appeared a more precious booty than what they had
just taken. Love inspires virtuous minds with a desire of doing only
great and noble actions, and in the hearts of any others than these
barbarians, would have endeavoured to have insinuated itself by pity:
but that virtue being unknown to them, the charms of this unfortunate
lady only redoubled their cruelty. Their fury and brutality inflamed
them; and no intreaty could deter such hardened wretches from being
guilty of the most shameful crimes!---What a spectacle was this for a
husband!---The soul of the wretched Thibault was torn with the most
poignant anguish---distracted at not being able either to succour, or
revenge her, who was a thousand times dearer to him than his life---he
conjured heaven to strike him dead that moment---all that can be
conceived of horror, of misery, without a name, was his.---But if his
despair was more than words can represent, how much more was that of the
afflicted Princess?---she tore her hair and face, begged, threatened,
struggled, till her delicate limbs had lost the power of motion; filled
all the forest with her piercing cries, without making those relentless
monsters recede from their design. Never woman so ardently wished to be
beautiful, as she did to become deformed, she would have rejoiced so
have had her lovely face that moment changed into the likeness of
Medusa; but all her prayers and tears were ineffectual; victim of force
and rage.---The cruel leader of these fiends had just effected his
diabolical intentions, when a sudden noise of the trampling of horses
and the distant voices of men, forced them to fly. Fear, the companion
of villainous actions, made them abandon their prey, and make off with
incredible swiftness, so that the wretched Princess soon lost sight of
them; but her irremediable misfortune, too present to her mind, to
vanish with the authors of it, disordered her senses so cruelly, that
abhorring herself, and believing she could no longer inspire her husband
with any thing but contempt, she looked on him as one that was become
her cruellest enemy; witness of her disgrace, her troubled imagination
made her believe she ought to free herself from the only one who had the
power of publishing it.---Struck with the idea of being unworthy of his
affection, all the love she had formerly bore him, now changed into
hatred and fury; and becoming as barbarous as the very ruffians, who had
just left her, she snatched up one of the dying villain's swords, and
ran with her arm lifted up to take away the life of her wretched
husband: but little accustomed to such actions, the blow fell on the
cords which bound him, and gave him liberty to wrest the weapon from her
hands.---He discovered immediately her thoughts, and made use of the
most moving softness to calm the tempest of her soul: "If," said he,
"you could read my heart, you would find grief and pity only
there---with what alas! can I accuse you!---What are you guilty of?---I
still am your husband---still love you with the same unabated
fondness---am the only witness of your ill fortune; I'll hide it from
the eyes of the world, nor shall you ever be sensible that I myself
remember it---seek not therefore by a blind fury to publish our mutual
shame---comfort yourself, and let us by sentiments of piety, endeavour
to purify ourselves from an involuntary crime." In this manner did he
talk to her, but all his love and tenderness made no impression on her
mind---she answered him only by her endeavours to snatch away the sword,
and stab him. During this melancholy struggle their attendants arrived;
they had also lost themselves, and having sought their master all over
the forest, the noise of their horses, though then at a distance, had
frighted the robbers, and saved the Princess from further violation.

Thibault took a cloak from one of his equipage, and having mounted his
disconsolate lady on horseback, did the same himself, and in a short
time arrived at Compostella, neither he nor she speaking a word. Deep
affliction was imprinted in both their countenances; but the princess
had a wildness in her eyes and air, that discovered the distraction of
her mind. Thibault placed her in an abbey, and went and prostrated
himself at the feet of the altars; not with the design he went for, but
to beg of heaven to enable him to undergo so terrible an adventure. This
act of piety being over, he returned to the Princess: who remaining
still in the same humour, not being able to get any expressions from her
but threats against his life, he took her out, and returned with all
possible speed to Ponthieu, where they were received with a joy that
they were not able to partake.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  [[For sources, see the end of the "Courtship and Marriage" article
  (No. 10).]]


  ACCOUNT OF THE LAST MOMENTS OF THE CELEBRATED DR. JOHNSON.

He arrived in London on the 16th of November, and next day sent to Dr.
Burney, the following note:

"Mr. Johnson, who came home last night, send his respects to dear Dr.
Burney, and all the dear Burneys, little and great."

Soon after his return to the metropolis, both the asthma and dropsy
became more violent and distressful. He had for some time kept a journal
in Latin, of the state of his illness, and the remedies which he had
used, under the title of "Aegri Ephemeris," which he began on the 6th of
July, but continued it no longer then the 8th of November; finding,
probably, that it was a mournful and unavailing register.

Dr. Herberden, Dr. Brocklesby, Dr. Warren, and Dr. Butter, physicians,
generously attended him, without accepting of any fees, as did Mr.
Cruikshank, surgeon; and all that could be done, from professional skill
and ability, was tried, to prolong a life so truly valuable. He himself,
indeed, having on account of his very bad constitution, been perpetually
applying himself to medical enquiries, united his own efforts with those
of the gentlemen who attended him; and imagining that the dropsical
collection of water which oppressed him, might be drawn off, by making
incisions in his body, he, with his usual resolute defiance of pain, cut
deep, when he thought that his surgeon had done it too tenderly.

About eight or ten days before his death, when Dr. Brocklesby paid him
his morning visit, he seemed very low and desponding, and said, "I have
been as a dying man all night." He then emphatically broke out, in the
words of Shakspeare,

  "Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd?
  "Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow?
  "Raze out the written troubles of the brain?
  "And with some sweet oblivious antidote,
  "Cleanse the full bosom of that perilous stuff,
  "Which weighs upon the heart."

To which Dr. Brocklesby readily answered from the same great poet,

  "------------therein the patient
  "Must minister unto himself."

Johnson expressed himself much satisfied with the application.

On another day after this, when talking on the same subject of prayer,
Dr. Brocklesby repeated from Juvenal,

  "Orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano,"

and so on to the end of the tenth satire; but in running it quickly
over, he happened in the line

  "Qui spatium vitae extremum inter munera ponat,"

to pronounce "supremum," for "extremum;" at which Johnson's critical ear
infirmly took offence, and discoursing vehemently on the unmetrical
effect of such a lapse, he shewed himself as full as ever of the spirit
of the grammarian.

Having no near relations, it had been for some time Johnson's intention
to make a liberal provision for his faithful servant, Mr. Francis
Barber, whom he had all along treated truly as an humble friend. Having
asked Dr. Brocklesby what would be a proper annuity to bequeath to a
favourite servant, and being answered that it must depend on the
circumstances of the master; and that in the case of a nobleman fifty
pounds a-year was considered as an adequate reward for many years
faithful service. "Then," said Johnson, "shall I be nobilissimus, for I
mean to leave Frank seventy pounds a-year, and I desire you to tell him
so." It is strange, however, to think, that Johnson was not free from
that general weakness of being averse to execute a will, so that he
delayed it from time to time; and had it not been for Sir John Hawkins's
repeatedly urging it, it is probable that his kind resolution would not
have been fulfilled.

Amidst the melancholy clouds which hung over the mind of the dying
Johnson, his characteristical manner shewed itself on different
occasions.

A man whom he had never seen before was employed one night to sit up
with him. Being asked next morning how he liked his attendant, his
answer was, "Not at all, Sir. The fellow is an idiot; he is as awkward
as a turnspit when first put into the wheel, and as sleepy as a
dormouse."

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

            THE FUNERAL--A FRAGMENT.

  "Fresh in my mind the uncheery scenes arise,
  "Each _groan_ again I hear! each piercing _cry!_
  "Each _languid look_ I see! the _dawn_ of _death_,
  "And the sad beatings of the death-bell still
  "Hum slow and solemn in my frighted ear!"

    MRS. FAUGERES.

----The cavalcade moved slowly on--The old mourner raised his eyes to
heaven, as if to implore the aid of Omnipotence in resigning him to the
fatal stroke, and anon the tear of grief would steal down his furrowed
cheek.

How must it rend the heart of a fond, a doting father, who had promised
to himself many days of uninterrupted happiness, in an amiable child, to
see him torn from his embrace, ere he yet had arrived at manhood! Is it
not afflicting? Ye, who have felt the smart, it is you that best can
reply: It is you alone can tell what pleasure, and what pain a parent
feels.

Full sixteen suns had run their annual course since SAMUEL saw the
light. And on his birth-day morn, sol darted forth his beams in rich
effulgence; yet ere the noon-tide came, the only prop of age had sunk to
an eternal rest. The sparkling eye, the crimsoned cheek had lost their
wonted charms, and nothing in their stead remained, save a sad semblance
of mortality. Death, that insatiate monster, had stretched forth his
iron fangs, and grasped his spotless soul; and in one moment brought to
nought each fancied joy.

Now here is room for one who has ever wept at the wayward lot of
mortals, to drop the briny tear, and mourn the partial decree of fate,
that summoned hence this _opening rose_. Alas! that it could not be
revoked!

The gate was already open, and the clergyman led the way across several
graves that had long been inhabited. Doubtless, their bodies have, ere
this, left nothing save a handful of ashes. Once they were as gay as
thou art, O reader! Some, perhaps, launched into the vortex of pleasure,
while others found happiness at home, in company with their playful
infants.---What are they now?

The ceremony was begun: the corpse was deposited in its narrow cell.
Tears flowed more freely from the eyes of the mourners, and when the
first spadeful of earth had fallen heavy on the lid, they arose to sobs.
The spectators dropped theirs in unison.

It resembled the funeral of Jacob. The labourers had ceased:---the
spades had fallen from their hands, and they looked round with
astonishment. Perhaps they had never witnessed such a scene; and well
might they gaze on the one before them. At length the fountains of
nature were drained, they could no longer weep.

  L. B.

    NEW-YORK _August 5, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  OBSERVATION.

The coldest hearts, nay the hardest, cannot forbear admiring virtue;
but, while they stop at this involuntary and barren homage, the feeling
mind burns with emulation.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                STUDY OF NATURE.

From the effect of great objects on the human mind, we may trace the
origin of every useful and pleasing art. The painter, whose
susceptibility is peculiarly irritable in viewing majestic heights and
the variegated foliage of nature, infuses the happiest effect in his
productions; the poet's flight of fancy has its birth in streams, in
hills, in vales, &c. The philosopher, in contemplating the heavens and
earth, unfolds the omnipotence of the Deity, and conveys the sublime
information to surrounding millions, engaging them in pursuits
interesting to the present, and necessary to an existence
hereafter.--From these observations, how necessary is it to form our
minds to the study of nature.

  T.


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARKABLE CURE OF A FEVER BY MUSIC.
  An Attested Fact.

At Aix la Chapelle, a celebrated Master of Music, a doctor in the
science, and a great composer, was seized with a fever, which increasing
daily, became perpetual: On the 9th day he fell into a very violent
delirium, accompanied with shrieks, tears, panics, and a perpetual
wakefulness, almost without any intermission. On the third day of his
delirium, one of those natural instincts, which, it is said, cause the
brute animals, when sick, to seek the herbs that are proper for them,
caused him to desire that a little concert might be performed in his
chamber. It was with great difficulty that the physician consented to
it. On the patient's hearing a tune he himself composed, and which was
much approved, his countenance assumed a serene and pleasing air, his
eyes were no longer fierce or wild, the convulsions totally ceased, he
shed tears of pleasure, and shewed a much greater sensibility than could
be expected or hoped for so soon. He was free from the fever during the
whole concert; but as soon as it was finished, he relapsed into his
former condition. Upon this they did not fail to continue the use of the
remedy, whose success had been so unforeseen, and so happy; the fever
and delirium were ever suspended during the time the concert was
performing: and music in a few days time became so necessary to the
patient, that at night he prevailed on a kinswoman who attended him to
sing several tunes and even to dance. One night in particular, when
there was not a person with him but the nurse, who had no voice for
singing, nor knew any piece but a wretched, stupid ballad, he was
obliged to her for even that dull performance, and it is said had some
relief from it. In about a fortnight music perfected his cure without
any other assistance than once bleeding in the foot, the efficacy of
which was held as rather doubtful.


       *       *       *       *       *

  APHORISM.

He who censures with modesty will praise with sincerity.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 38.)

"I have made my first attack upon Miguel and his tutor. Knowing by their
own declaration on their examination, which road they intended to take,
I made haste to get the start of them, accompanied by my two servants,
and waited for them at the skirts of the forest of ***ulano, three miles
distant from the next town. Wishing to make a surprising and lasting
impression upon their mind, I chose the most whimsical dress. An old
tattered coat, which was composed of numberless patches, and a new
embroidered satin waistcoat, which reached down to my knees, gave me a
very singular appearance; the rest of my body was naked. I had fastened
to my chin a long artificial white beard, which accorded very little
with my black hair. As soon as Miguel's chaise came to the spot where I
was lying in ambush, I limped forth upon my crutches and begged the
tutor to give me his shoes and stockings. It would have highly amused
your Excellency if you had seen the astonishment which my unexpected
boldness created. The old gentleman seemed at first to be very unwilling
to comply with my extraordinary request; however, when I persisted in my
prayer with the impudence of an experienced beggar, without minding his
menaces and curses, and did not stir from the window of the coach; he
condescended at length to grant my request. When he stooped down to
unfasten his shoe-buckles, I perceived a letter-case, lying by his side
on the seat, which he probably had pulled out of his pocket with his
handkerchief, and taking with one hand his shoes and stockings, I seized
with the other the letter-case, without his perceiving it, and put it in
my pocket. Then I went to Miguel, whom I begged to give me his coat and
breeches. This new request excited the anger of the two travellers to
such a degree, that they commanded me to take myself off without delay.
Upon which I looked at Miguel with sparkling eyes, and raised such a
dreadful laughter, that they were frightened, and ordered the coachman
to go on. However, I darted suddenly forth and struck one of the horses
so violently, in a tender part, that he dropped down. This had the
desired effect. Miguel began to undress; having pulled off his breeches,
he took his purse out of the pocket and put it in a coat which the
servant had taken out of his travelling trunk, however I espied a proper
opportunity while Miguel was putting on a new pair of breeches, and
pilfered his purse. When they had done dressing and undressing,
I thanked them for their donation, warning them at the same time not to
take lodging at the principal inn of the town and to repair again after
three days, at a fixed hour, to the same spot where we then were. Then I
hobbled with my booty towards the forest, where I contemplated piece
after piece, with more satisfaction than a general feels after a gained
battle. And indeed, although the deed I had performed was not of the
heroic kind, yet it was no trifling action to have demanded and
received, of the son of a Duke his coat and breeches, and of a Count his
shoes and stockings, armed with no other weapon but my crutches, and
dressed in the garments of a miserable beggar. Every one must confess,
that this attempt would never have succeeded, if an uncommon degree of
resolution, boldness, firmness, and presence of mind had not been at my
command, not to mention the seisure of the letter-case and Miguel's
purse, that every pick-pocket would have effected with equal success.
However, this action is for Miguel and his tutor, of no less importance
than the former. I have gained a great advantage, my first interview
with them having been attended with incidents which, for many reasons,
will make a deep impression on their mind. I have now the courage to
risk bolder attempts with the certain hope of success. Even the
conspirators to whom I have sent by one of my servants the pieces of
dress which I have got, along with a brief account of my taking
possession of them, will look upon these trophies as pledges of far
greater victories which I have engaged to gain over Miguel, and for
which every preparation has been made. I did not without reason select
the spot on the skirts of the forest of ***ulano for the scene of
action, for in that forest stands a castle which formerly belonged to
the Prince of Ge***, and at present is inhabited by the Countess of
Clairval, that enthusiast of whom I have given a description to your
Excellency in my last letter. I intend to allure Miguel to her
residence, when he shall come to the place of rendezvous. And he
certainly will not miss the appointment; for if he does not come out of
curiosity, the hope of regaining the purse and the letter-case, which he
knows to be in my possession, will make him keep the assignation. And I
shall certainly restore these things to him, for I wish to appear to him
to be an extraordinary man, but not a pick-pocket; however, he shall
receive them no where, but at the castle of the Countess. I have formed
a plan to that purpose, which promises to be of important consequences,
and shall be laid before your Excellency in my next letter.

"It was also not without proper reason, that I advised Miguel not to
lodge at the principal inn of the town, for I wanted to know, by his
regarding or disregarding this caution, whether my words had made an
impression on his mind, and found credit with him or not. For that
reason I went in the dusk of the evening to the town, accompanied by my
servant, and dressed in a common unsuspected garb, taking apartments at
the inn against which I had cautioned him, in order to know whether he
had followed my advice. But alas! I have been rather too sanguine in my
hope, for Miguel and his tutor are at present in that very inn: however,
I will punish him for it in such a manner, that he shall have reason to
repent his having slighted my advice. With that view I have taken an
apartment close by his, and I must beg your Excellency to give me leave
to lay down the pen and to act, for midnight is set in, and the time for
executing my plan is at hand.

  "I am, &c. &c."

The following sheet contained the continuation of this letter.

"Wonderful things have happened since I had the honour to write to your
Excellency! My designs have a rapid success, and fortune herself seems
to favour them. I had formed a plan to chastise Miguel and his tutor for
their disobedience; however, the execution of this design has been
interrupted by an accident, which has assisted me to gain my aim in a
more glorious manner than I ever could have expected. I had already put
on the garb of a monk, which I had brought with me in my portmanteau,
had fastened the white beard (which however had been almost set on fire
by the candle) to my chin, and was going to execute my plan, when a
sudden alarm of fire disturbed the house. The pressing danger not
allowing me to change my dress, I effected my escape in my disguise, and
concealing my portmanteau which I had fortunately saved in a remote
corner, I took with my servant a position which rendered it impossible
for Miguel and his tutor to get out of the house without my seeing it.
However, my anxiety rose to the highest degree, when the fire had
consumed already the greatest part of the house, and Miguel was still in
it. My apprehensions had reached the highest summit, when I suddenly saw
him and his tutor rush out of the burning building. My servant, whom I
had ordered to watch carefully every word and motion of theirs, was
close at their heels, while I followed him at a small distance,
concealing my face with my hood. They had no sooner stopped, than Miguel
recollected that he had left the picture of his mother upon the table;
he valued it so high, that he would have gone back to fetch it, if his
tutor had not retained him forcibly. My servant, who gave me this
intelligence, suffered himself to be persuaded by his love for me, and
the ten ducats which I offered to him, to attempt saving it. Pretending
to assist in extinguishing the flames, he requested one of the firemen
to give him a wet blanket, wrapped himself in it, got safe into the
house, went to Miguel's apartment, seized the picture, which was lying
upon the table, and jumped out of the window, which was not higher than
one pair of stairs, in order to avoid the dangerous retreat through the
house. He pushed through the multitude, who were loudly admiring his
boldness, and gave me the picture. I returned it to Miguel, reproaching
him severely for having slighted my advice. He was astonished, and
looked alternately at me and the picture. I espied a favourable
opportunity, concealed myself behind my servant; and stooping down,
untied my beard, and pulled off my monk's garb unobserved by the
multitude, whose attention was entirely taken up by the fire. I could
not help laughing when Miguel, after he had gazed some time at the
picture, took my servant by the arm, mistaking him for me, and
perceiving his error, enquired in vain all around for me, though I was
not six steps distant from him.

"These events could not fail to strengthen the first impression which I
had made upon him in the disguise of a beggar, and to make him believe
that I could be nothing less than a soothsayer, and a worker of
miracles. This was just what I wanted, for it increased his desire to
get better acquainted with me, and made him impatient to meet me the
third day at the appointed place.

"Your Excellency may easily think that I was not idle during this
interval, and did not omit to make the proper preparations for Miguel's
reception. My principal care was to gain the servants of the Countess,
to whose house I intended to introduce him, that I might act my part at
the castle without the knowledge of the lady, at the same time I
endeavoured to attain a thorough knowledge of all the roads and
bye-paths, of all the bushes and haunts of the forest, in order to
regulate my measures accordingly, and to take advantage of them as
circumstances should require. I also did not omit to train my
substitutes properly, for their respective parts which they were to act.
Their number amounted to eight experienced fellows, for my servant
Manuel, whom I had dispatched to the desolated castle, with the
above-mentioned pieces of dress, returned on the second day with six
more people, whom the conspirators had sent to my assistance, with the
assurance that I could rely upon their fidelity and activity. And,
indeed, these fellows rendered me the most essential services, as the
consequence will shew.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  _HINT TO THE SCHOLAR._

Learning and genius, like beauty and feminine vivacity, are to be
considered but as the ornaments of life, the essentials of which are
good temper and virtue: and wherever these latter, or either of them,
are wanting, no talents, however brilliant, can give their possessor any
genuine title to love, or even to esteem.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                    A FACT.

At the commencement of the present war, between France and Great
Britain, a serjeant in the recruiting service of the latter power, asked
a tall countryman of Yorkshire, what bounty he would take to engage in
his Majesty's service? the countryman replied that he was his man, if he
would for the first half inch of his stature give him a halfpenny, (one
cent.) a penny for the second, for the third, two pence, and counting at
that rate, till he had finished his measure; the bargain being struck,
and the countryman measuring six feet in length, the calculation was
carried on for some time, until the serjeant thought proper to drown the
affair in a bowl of punch. I find, upon calculation, that the
countryman's bounty, allowing five dollars to a cubic inch, would
(including fractions, which of theselves come to an enormous amount)
have been equal in value to 27,364,368,033,632 globes of solid silver,
each globe measuring as large as the earth.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                   ANECDOTE.

A gentleman having put out a candle by accident one night, ordered his
waiting man (who was a simple being,) to light it again in the kitchen;
"but take care, James," added he, "that you do not hit yourself against
any thing in the dark."--Mindful of the caution, James stretched out
both arms at full length before him, but unluckily, a door that stood
half open, passed between his hands and struck him a woeful blow upon
the nose; "Dickens!" muttered he, when he recovered his senses a little,
"I always heard that I had a plaguy long nose, but I vow I never have
thought that it was longer than my arm."


       *       *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS LAW ANECDOTE.

The following curious anecdote is told, in the Negoristan, of a famous
lawyer of Baghdad, called Abu Joseph. It marks several peculiarities in
the Mohammedan law, and displays some casuistical ingenuity adapting
them to the views of his clients. The Khalif Haran Alrashid had taken a
fancy for a female slave belonging to his brother Ibrahim. He offered to
purchase her; but Ibrahim, though willing to oblige his sovereign, had
sworn, that he would neither sell nor give her away. As all parties
wished to remove this difficulty, Abu Joseph was consulted; who advised
Ibrahim to give his brother one half of the slave, and to sell him the
other. Happy to be relieved from this embarrassment the Khalif ordered
300,000 dinars for the moiety of the slave; which Ibrahim, as a mark of
his acknowledgment, immediately presented so the lawyer. But a second
difficulty now arose. The Moslem law prohibits all commerce between a
man and the wife or concubine of his brother, till she has been
remarried and divorced by a third person. Abu Joseph advised the Khalif
to marry her to one of his slaves; who, for a proper consideration,
would be easily induced to repudiate her on the spot. The ceremony was
instantly performed: but the slave, falling in love with his handsome
spouse, could not be prevailed upon to consent to a separation.

Here was a strange and unexpected dilemma; for, all despotic as the
Khalif was, he durst not compel him. But Abu Joseph soon discovered an
expedient. He desired the Khalif to make a present to the lady of her
new husband, which virtually desolved the marriage; as no woman, by the
Mohammedan law, can be the wife of her own slave.

Overjoyed that the Gordian knot was thus so ingeniously unloosed, the
Khalif gave him 10,000 dinars; and the fair slave receiving a
considerable present from her royal lover, presented him with 10,000
more; so that Abu Joseph, in a few hours, found his fees amount to
50,000 dinars, or nearly 15000l.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. JOSEPH HANNAH, of
this city, to Miss POLLY GRAY, of Brooklyn (L.I.)

  Let fortune on this blithesome pair,
    With cloudless aspect smile;
  Nor trouble e'er or anxious care,
    Their peaceful life beguile.

On Monday se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. More, B. PENROSE, Esq. of
Philadelphia, to Miss H. BINGHAM, of this city.

Last Sunday se'nnight, in the Methodist New Meeting, by the Rev. Ezekiel
Cooper, minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church, Mr. JOHN WILSON, to
Mrs. HESTER BLEECKER, widow of the late Mr. John Bleecker, all of this
city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, Mr. ENOCH ELY,
merchant, to Mrs. KEZIA CAMP, both of Catskill.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Dow, Mr. CORNELIUS DAY, to
Miss ANN HAMILTON, lately from Trinadad.

On Thursday evening Lft by the Rev. Dr. Kuntzie, Mr. JOHN AIM, to Miss
PEGGY MOORE.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Beach. Mr. WILLIAM WOODS, to Miss JEMIMA
SIMMONS, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 1st to the 6th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

         deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
            100   100   100
  Aug. 1  76 25 86 75 73 75  SW. do. W.  Clear, rain, thun lt.
       2  76    82    83 50  NW. W do.   clear, do. do. lt. wind.
       3  70    75 75 75 75  NW. do.     clear, do. do.
       4  66    72 75 71     N. nw do.   clear, do. do.
       5  71    76    73     SE W. SW.   clear, do. do.
       6  69    72    67     SE. do. E.  cloudy, rain, cloudy


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON READING SOME ELEGIES.

  Hither your wreaths, ye drooping muses bring,
    The short-liv'd rose, that blooms but to decay;
  Love's fragrant myrtles, that in paphos spring,
    And deathless poetry's immortal bay.

  And oh! thou gentlest shade, accept the verse,
    Mean though it be, and artlessly sincere,
  That pensive thus attends thy silent hearse,
    And steals, in secret shades, the pious tear.

  What heart by heav'n with gen'rous softness blest,
    But in thy lines its native language reads?
  Where hapless love, in tender, plainness drest,
    Gracefully mourns and elegantly bleeds.

  In vain, alas, thy fancy fondly gay
    Trac'd the fair scenes of dear domestic life;
  The sportive loves forsook their wanton play,
    To paint for thee the mistress, friend and wife.

  Oh luckless lover! form'd for better days,
    For golden years, and ages long ago:
  For thee Persephone* impatient stays,
    For thee the willow and the cypress grow.

  [* The Goddess of Death.]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

        ELEGY ON AN UNFORTUNATE VETERAN.

  The loud inclement storm now rages high,
    Then why, my friend, imprudent dost thou roam?
  Go seek some hospitable shelter nigh,
    Or haste and warm thee at thy social home.

  Nor longer thy half-cover'd limbs expose,
    To the assaults of th' unpitying air;
  Thy fragile body sure demands repose,
    For numerous years have silver'd o'er thy hair.

  "No home I have!" the hapless wanderer cries;
    Say, was thy youth to vicious courses given;
  That thus thy age must brave inclement skies,
    To fate the vengeance of offended heaven?

  No guilty passion warm'd my youthful breast,
    Nor foul injustice stain'd my spotless name;
  But once in brighter, happier prospects blest,
    I sacrific'd those golden views to fame.

  Ardent to check Iberia's tyrant pow'r,
    Thro' unpropitious seas I took my way,
  And gain'd her coast, but, ah, unhappy hour!
    How many gallant soldiers fell that day!

  After long toils, and various hardships borne,
    Our gen'rous blood the vanquish'd foe repays;
  But now I droop in poverty forlorn,
    And mourn the triumphs of my youthful days.

  Frowning the soldier told his piteous tale,
    Ah! what to him the humbled pride of Spain?
  He help'd to conquer, what does it avail?
    He now is left to poverty and pain.

  Forever blessed be the bounteous heart,
    That may the suppliant child of woe receive,
  The blessings favouring fortune gave impart,
    To me that fortune gives but to relieve.

    MATILDA.

      New-York, 1775.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                   TWILIGHT.
                   A Sonnet.

  "The West yet glimm'ring with some streaks of day
  "Now spurs the lated traveller apace
  "To gain the timely inn."
    _Shakespeare._

  Bright Sol retiring o'er the western hills,
    With parting radiance gilds the village spire:
  In other realms his healing office fills,
    To other climes emits beatific fire.

  The dusky shades of twilight now preside,
    And wrap the Hamlet in a solemn gloom;
  The labours of the industrious hind subside,
    The weary shepherd seeks his peaceful home.

  At this lone hour, in contemplative mood,
  Near some remote and solitary wood,
      To calm his grief the mourning lover strays:
  The nightingale in sympathetic strain,
  Warbling its plaintive notes, relieves his pain,
      While gentle zephyr ev'ry sigh conveys.

    ALEXIS.

      New-York, July 27, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  _Lines sent to a Young Lady with an AEolian Harp._

  Ye zephyrs who delighted stray
    O'er every grace which Flora wears,
  Hither direct your airy way,
    For worthier scenes demand your cares.

  Within these strings, in soft suspense,
    The latest powers of music rest;
  Oh, draw their tendered accent hence
    To soothe and charm my Sally's breast.

  Should sorrow ever enter there,
    (For merit is no shield from woe)
  Disperse the Demons of despair,
    And teach the softening tear to flow.

  And e'en when rapture's maniac train,
    Shall wildly seize the impassion'd soul,
  O, let some sweetly-plaintive strain,
    The blissful agony control.

  The feeling bosom illy bears
    The dire extremes of grief and joy,
  For anguish every sense impairs,
    And cruel "transports oft destroy."

  And still each pensive hour to cheer,
    Let friendship raise her gentle voice;
  And when she seeks a friend sincere,
    Direct to me the envied choice.

    MONIMIA.

      New-York, May, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                  CUPID STUNG.

  Cupid wanton rogue they say,
  Inclin'd to rob a hive one day;
  Thrust his hand into the swarm,
  Thoughtless little thief of harm;
  When vext to be insulted so,
  A bee sprung out upon her foe;
  Around his fist a thousand clung,
  And faith the wag was soundly stung.
  He shook his hand, he leap'd, he cried,
  And all in tears to Venus hied;
  Ask'd how a bee, so small a thing!
  Could lodge to terrible a sting?
  Venus replied, "How like my child,
  Are these fell bees to you?" and smil'd;
  "Tho' small your size, sharp is your dart,
  And keenly does it wound the heart."

    OLIVERIUS.

      New-York, August 5th, 1736.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _EPIGRAM._

  Cries logical BOB to NED, if you dare,
  A Bet, which has most legs, a _mare_ or _no mare_,
  A mare to be sure, replies NED with a grin;
  And fifty I'll lay, for I'm certain to win;
  Quoth BOB, you have lost, sure as you are alive,
  A mare has but four legs, and _no mare_ has five.


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, August 17, 1796.+  [+No. 59.+


      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

  REASON.

_Q._ Cannot we, by the light of Reason, discover enough of futurity and
the attributes of God, to secure our peace of mind here, and our
happiness hereafter, without the aid of a revelation?

_A._ As well might you ask, cannot a merchant freight his vessel for a
voyage to a country of which he is entirely ignorant, and the
description of which he refuses to examine and believe;---who puts to
sea without his charts because they _may_ be false, and would rather
trust to his uninformed mind for a safe conduct through shoals and
breakers to the desired port.

What is reason, or the exercise of the reasoning faculty, but the
comparison of ideas and the exercise of the judgment thereon? And from
whence can we acquire ideas, where can we acquire information relating
to a subject so important as our future existence? The works of nature
are open to our view;---these indeed are a copious source, but their
insufficiency for promoting the love of God and of our fellow-creature,
is obvious to any one who will observe man in a state of nature.---If,
then, a fund of information is delivered to us, which carries with it
all the evidence of a divine revelation, which explains and assists the
language of nature, what should deter us from seizing with avidity the
precious deposit, and accumulating facts on which we may employ our
reasoning faculty to our eternal benefit.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON LANDSCAPE PAINTING.

The poets, of all ages and all languages, have dwelt with particular
delight upon the morning scenery, and the epithets of the dappled, the
rosy fingered, the saffron, and the blushing morn, have been not less
often quoted, than they have been imitated and read; and to these verbal
descriptions have followed those of the pencil; and in these graphic
truths no man has succeeded in any degree of comparison with Claude
Lorraine. The reason appears to be pretty obvious; he studied nature
with so much enthusiasm and perseverance, that he may be almost said to
have exhausted her varieties; and we hardly behold a composition from
his hand in which the rising or the setting sun does not irradiate or
warm his scenes; but the sober impressions of the dawn, those chaste and
reserved tints that particularly express the break of day, just
awakening from repose; when the curtain of the night seems to be
insensibly withdrawn, and the landscape appears to open by degrees, when
the colours of the sky are yet doubtful, and the landscape imperfect to
the view; in short, when darkness is not entirely fled, nor light
distinctly seen; this period of the day I do not recollect to have seen
expressed by the fidelity of his magical pencil.

When coolness sits upon the mountains, and freshness delights the
plains, when the dews hang trembling upon every leaf, and the insects
flutter on every thorn; when the groves begin to resound with the
murmurs of the dove, and the vallies to echo with the twitterings from
the spray; how delightful is it to see Arachne weave her web upon every
bush and the gossamer uplifted by the breeze! how extatic is the
twilight hour, which, for a time, hangs balanced between the dispersion
of darkness, and the dapplings of the east; and which gives a solemn
pleasure to every thing around! When these images of nature arrest our
sight, and their charms find a passage to the heart, how pleasing at
such a time are the feelings of anticipation to those who adore in his
works, the wonders of the Creator!

Of that period, when the sun begins to diffuse his early rays, to tip
the mountains with light, and to project the shadows of the hills, I do
not recollect to have seen more than one attempt of imitation; and this
effect I think is produced in the landscape of the celebrated picture of
Aurora, by the hand of Guido, in the Rospiliosi palace at Rome. The
distant sea would be undistinguished, or would rather partake of what
Milton calls "the darkness visible," did it not almost seem to be
imperceptibly illuminated by the foam of the waves that wash, with
breaking murmurs, the silver sands, and pour their drowsy hoarseness on
the shore. As the eye wanders over this inimitable performance, the
chilness of the dawn appears to brood over the scene below; but, as the
imagination ascends, it fancies that it meets those breezes in the air
that mildly prognosticate, the blushes of the morning; whose curtains
the rosy fingered hours have drawn aside, and between which the infant
day begins to peep.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 43.)

During their journey, and on their arrival, Thibault omitted no act of
tenderness, to convince the Princess she was still as dear to him as
ever; but finding all his protestations in vain, and that she concealed
a dagger in the bed one night with an intent to assassinate him, he took
a separate apartment, still endeavouring by his behaviour to her, to
prevent the public from finding out the cause of their disagreement; and
he was the more to be pitied, because he could not help loving her still
with the same ardency as ever. In the mean time, the Count de Ponthieu
perceived there was something more than ordinary between them, they
could not hide it from his penetration; Thibault was overwhelmed with a
secret melancholy--the Princess would be seen but rarely; her silence,
and when she was obliged to speak, the incoherency of her words, in
fine, all her actions implied a strange alteration, and made him resolve
to oblige Thibault to a discovery of the cause.---He defended himself a
long time, but being too closely pressed by a prince, to whom he owed
every thing, he at last revealed all the particulars of his misfortune
to him, and painted his love, and the unjust fury of the Princess, in
such moving colours, that the Count was so thoroughly affected, that he
could scarce contain his anger against her. He pitied Thibault,
comforted him, and promised him to speak to the Princess in a manner,
which should oblige her to change her conduct. "Yours," said he, "is so
prudent and so tender, that I cannot sufficiently admire it; and I hope
my daughter will not always be insensible of it, but return to her
duty."

He left him, and passed to the Princess's apartment, whom he found
sitting in an elbow-chair; her head reclined, and in the posture of one
buried in thought, her women round her in a profound silence. The Count
making a sign for them to withdraw; "What, daughter," said he, "will you
never lay aside this gloomy melancholy which so much troubles me, and
astonishes my whole court.---I know your misfortune, your generous
husband has just discovered it to me---I am very sensible of it, but
much more so of his proceeding; who, notwithstanding your blind rage,
has preserved so great a regard for you, as never to complain."

At these words, the Princess fixing her eyes full of fury on the face of
her father, "How!" cried she, "has Thibault dared to reveal that secret
to you?" "Ah Princess," interrupted the Count, "speak with more
moderation of a man who adores you----think a moment, remember you have
loved this husband----that I did not force you to accept of him, that
your misfortune, dreadful as it is, has not impaired his esteem; you, in
return, owe him the same affection and confidence; I desire it of you as
a friend, and demand it of you as a parent and a sovereign. Make good
use of the pity that pleads in my breast in your behalf---and dread
irritating me, lest I throw aside the father, and act wholly as a
prince." This discourse, so far from softening the Princess, redoubled
her distraction, and she discovered so much rage of temper to the Count,
that he deferred, till a more favourable opportunity, the reclaiming
her. He went out, ordering her to be strictly guarded in her apartment,
and that she should not be suffered to have communication with any one
but her women; and so returning to Thibault, informed him of the ill
success he had met with. Yet he did not despair, but every day for a
whole month made fresh attempts on her disordered mind; but every thing
proving in vain, and her fury rather increasing than diminishing, he
resolved to free his family of a woman whom he looked on as a
monster.---With this intent, on pretence of taking the air, he carried
her with him in a shallop, and having got a considerable distance from
shore, he ordered her to be seized by some sailors, and put into a tun
prepared for that purpose, and closing it up again, thrown into the sea.
After this cruel expedition he landed; but alas! what became of
Thibault, when the other, still transported with rage, told him what he
had done! how great was his affliction! and what reproaches did he not
vent against so barbarous a father! He ran to the fatal place which he
heard had been the grave of his unhappy Princess; but finding nothing
that could flatter him with any hope of there being a possibility to
save her, he returned to court in a condition truly pitiable;---the many
charms of his lost Princess dwelt for ever on his mind, and he thought
himself the most miserable creature living, because he had it not in his
power to revenge her. It was not long before the Count himself repented
of the action, and his remorse became so great, that even the miserable
Thibault endeavoured to mitigate it. At last it wore off, and he began
to think a second marriage, and the hope of an heir, would dissipate his
afflictions; and well knowing that his son-in-law would never engage
himself again, he married, and was happy enough at the expiration of a
year to have a son: yet his grief was not wholly vanished, his daughter
came ever fresh into his memory, and the light of Thibault, who
continued overwhelmed with the deepest melancholy, added to his despair.

In this manner they passed almost nine years, when the Count becoming
once more a widower, resolved, together with Thibault, and his little
son, to travel to the Holy Land, hoping by devotion to expiate his
crime. Thibault, who now thought he had an opportunity of dying
gloriously in fighting for the faith, readily embraced the proposal.
Every thing was soon ready for the voyage, and the Count de Ponthieu
having entrusted the government of his dominions to persons of
confidence, they set out, and arrived safely at Jerusalem. The Count and
Thibault engaged themselves for the space of a year in serving the
temple, in which they had frequent opportunities of testifying their
zeal and courage. The year finished, and their vows accomplished, they
embarked in order to return. The winds were for some days favourable,
but a most violent tempest succeeding the calm, they were so shook by
the fury of it, that they expected nothing but death; when on a sudden,
a contrary gust arising, drove them on the coast of Almeria, a land
belonging to the infidels; they were soon surrounded by the barks and
brigantines of the Saracens, and as the ship was incapable of putting to
sea again, they were much less so in a condition of defence.

The Count de Ponthieu, the young Prince his son, and Thibault, were made
prisoners, and thrown into dungeons; all the christians in the ship were
served in the same manner, and so loaded with irons, that they
immediately found they had been preserved from the rage of the sea, only
to perish in a more cruel manner on land. Those heroes prepared
themselves for death with a resolution worthy of their courage; but the
infidels believing them a noble sacrifice, permitted them to live till
the day on which they celebrated the birth of the Sultan, it being the
custom of that country, to offer to their gods on that day a certain
number of criminals, or christians.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ACCOUNT OF THE LAST MOMENTS OF THE CELEBRATED DR. JOHNSON.

  (Concluded from page 43.)

Mr. Windham having placed a pillow conveniently to support him, he
thanked him for his kindness, and said, "That will do--all that a pillow
can do."

As he opened a note which his servant brought him, he said, "An odd
thought strikes me---We shall receive no letters in the grave."

He requested three things of Sir Joshua Reynolds:---To forgive him
thirty pounds which he had borrowed of him---to read the Bible---and
never to use his pencil on a Sunday. Sir Joshua readily acquiesced.

Johnson, with that native fortitude which, amidst all his bodily
distress and mental sufferings, never forsook him, asked Dr. Brocklesby,
as a man in whom he had confidence, to tell him plainly whether he could
recover. "Give me," said he, "a direct answer." The doctor having first
asked him if he could bear the truth, which way soever it might lead,
and being answered that he could, declared that in his opinion he could
not recover without a miracle. "Then," said Johnson, "I will take no
more physic not even my opiates, for I have prayed that I may render up
my soul to God unclouded." In this resolution he persevered, and at the
same time used only the weakest kind of sustenance.

After being in much agitation, Johnson became quite composed, and
continued so till his death.

Dr. Brocklesby, who will not be suspected of fanaticism, obliged Mr. B.
with the following accounts:

"For some time before his death all his fears were calmed and absorbed
by the prevalence of his faith, and his trust in the merits and
_propitiation_ of Jesus Christ.

"He talked often to me about the necessity of faith in the _sacrifice_
of Jesus, as necessary beyond all good works whatever for the salvation
of mankind.

"He pressed me to study Dr. Clarke, and to read his sermons. I asked him
why he pressed Dr. Clarke, an Arian. 'Because,' said he, 'he is fullest
on the _propitiatory sacrifice_.'

"Johnson having thus in his mind the true Christian scheme at once
rational and consolatory, uniting justice and mercy in the Divinity,
with the improvement of human nature, while the Holy Sacrament was
celebrating in his apartment, fervently uttered this prayer:

"Almighty and most merciful father, I am now, as to human eyes it seems,
about to commemorate, for the last time, the death of thy Son Jesus
Christ, our Saviour and Redeemer. Grant, O Lord, that my whole hope and
confidence may be in his merits, and thy mercy; enforce and accept my
imperfect repentance; make this commemoration available to the
confirmation of my faith, the establishment of my hope, and the
enlargement of my charity; and make the death of thy Son Jesus Christ
effectual to my redemption. Have mercy upon me, and pardon the multitude
of my offences. Bless my friends, have mercy upon all men. Support me,
by the Holy Spirit, in the days of weakness, and at the hour of death;
and receive me, at my death, to everlasting happiness, for the sake of
Jesus Christ. Amen."

"The doctor, from the time that he was certain his death was near,
appeared to be perfectly resigned, was seldom or never fretful or out of
temper, and often said to his faithful servant, 'Attend, Francis, to the
salvation of your soul, which is the object of the greatest importance:'
he also explained to him passages in the scripture, and seemed to have
pleasure in talking upon religious subjects.

"On Monday the 13th of December, the day on which he died, a Miss
Morris, daughter to a particular friend of his, called, and said to
Francis, that she begged to be permitted to see the doctor, that she
might earnestly request of him to give her his blessing. Francis went
into the room followed by the young lady, and delivered the message. The
doctor turned himself in the bed, and said, 'God bless you, my dear!'
These were the last words he spoke.---His difficulty of breathing
increased, 'till about seven o'clock in the evening, when Mr. Barber,
and Mr. Desmoulins, who were sitting in the room, observing that the
noise he made in breathing had ceased, went to the bed, and found he was
dead.

"A few days before this awful event, he had asked Sir John Hawkins, as
one of his executors, where he should be buried; and on being answered,
'Doubtless in Westminster Abbey,' seemed to feel a satisfaction very
natural to a poet, and indeed very natural to every man of any
imagination, who has no family sepulchre in which he can be laid with
his fathers. Accordingly, upon Monday, December 20, his remains were
deposited in that noble and renowned edifice; and over his grave was
placed a large blue flag stone, with this inscription:

  SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D.
  Obiit xiii die Decembris,
  Anno Domini
  M. DCC. LXXXIV.
  AEtatis suae LXXV.

"His funeral was attended by a respectable number of his friends,
particularly by many of the members of the Literary Club, who were then
in town; and was also honoured by the presence of several of the
reverend chapter of Westminster. His school-fellow, Dr. Taylor,
performed the mournful office of reading the service."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  A STRIKING SPECIMEN OF INDIAN ELOQUENCE,

  _In a Speech of the Chief of the Mickmakis or Maricheets Savages,
  dependent on the government of Cape Breton._

When all the peltry of the beasts killed in the enemy's country, (with
whom they are about to declare war) is piled in a heap, the oldest
samago, or chieftain of the assembly, gets up and asks what weather it
is? is the sky clear? does the sun shine? On being answered in the
affirmative, he orders the young men to carry the pile of peltry to a
rising ground or eminence, at some little distance from the field or
place of assembly. As this is instantly done, he follows them, and as he
walks along, begins and continues his address to the sun in the
following terms:

"Be witness, thou great and beautiful luminary, of what we are this day
going to do in the face of thy orb! If thou didst disapprove us, thou
wouldst, this moment hide thyself, to avoid affording the light of thy
rays to all the actions of this assembly. Thou didst exist of old, and
dost still exist. Thou dost remain for ever as beautiful, as radiant, as
beneficent, as when our first forefathers beheld thee. Thou wilt always
be the same. The father of the day can never fail us; he who makes every
thing vegetate, and without whom cold, darkness, and horror, would every
where prevail. Thou knowest all the iniquitous proceedings of our
enemies against us. What perfidy have they not used? what deceit have
they not employed, whilst we had no room to distrust them? There are now
more than five, six, seven, or eight moons revolved since we left the
principal among our daughters with them, in order thereby to form the
most durable alliance with them, (for, in short, we and they are always
the same thing as to our being, constitution, and blood) and yet we have
seen them look on these girls of the most distinguished rank, as mere
play-things for them; an amusement, a pastime, put by us into their
hands, to afford them a quick and easy consolation for the fatal blows
we had given them in the preceding war. Yet we had made them sensible,
that this supply of our principal maidens was, in order that they should
repeople their country more honourably, and to put them under a
necessity of conviction, that we were now become sincerely their
friends, by delivering them so sacred a pledge of amity as our principal
blood. Can we then, unmoved, behold them so basely abusing that through
confidence of ours? Beautiful, all-seeing, all-penetrating luminary!
without whose influence the mind of man has neither efficacy nor vigour,
thou hast seen to what a pitch that nation (who are, however, our
brothers) has carried its insolence towards our principal maidens. Our
resentment would not have been so extreme with respect to girls of more
common birth, the rank of whose fathers had not a right to make such an
impression on us: but here we are wounded in a point there is no passing
over in silence or unrevenged.--Beautiful luminary! who art thyself so
regular in thy course, and in the wise distribution thou makest of thy
light from morning to evening, wouldst thou have us not imitate thee?
and whom can we better imitate? The earth stands in need of thy
governing thyself, as thou dost towards it. There are certain places
where thy influence does not suffer itself to be felt, because thou dost
not judge them worthy of it. But as for us, it is plain that we are thy
children; for we can know no origin but that which thy rays have given
us, when first marrying efficaciously with the earth we inhabit, they
impregnated its womb, and caused us to grow out of it like herbs of the
field, and trees of the forests, of which thou art the common father. To
imitate thee, then, we cannot do better than no longer so countenance or
cherish those who have proved themselves so unworthy thereof. They are
no longer, as to us, under a favourable aspect. They shall dearly pay
for the wrong they have done us. They have not, it is true, deprived us
of the means of hunting for our maintenance and cloathing; they have not
cut off the free pillage of our canoes, on the lakes and rivers in this
country; but they have done worse, they have supposed in us a tameness
of sentiment which does not, cannot exist in us. They have deflowered
our principal maidens in wantonness, and lightly sent them back to us.
This is the just motive which cries out for vengeance. Sun! be thou
favourable to us in this point, as thou art in point of hunting, when we
beseech thee to guide us in quest of our daily support. Be propitious to
us, that we may not fail of discovering the ambushes that may be laid
for us; that we may not be surprised unawares in our cabins or
elsewhere; and finally, that we may not fall into the hands of our
enemies. Grant them no chance with us, for they deserve none. Behold the
skins of their beasts now a burnt-offering to thee! accept it, as if the
firebrand I hold in my hands, and now set to the pile, was lighted
immediately by thy rays instead of our domestic fire."

  [[Source:

  "An account of the customs and manners of the Micmakis and Maricheets
    Savage Nations, Now Dependent on the Government of Cape-Breton",
    Antoine Simon Maillard. English translation 1758.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE WONDERFUL QUALITIES OF HOPE.

A Rhodian, taking too much freedom in reprehending the vices of a
tyrant, he was shut up in a cage, his hands were cut off, his nostrils
slit, and his face disfigured with many rude gashes cut in it; whereupon
a friend advised him to put an end to his miseries, by famishing himself
to death; but he with great indignation rejected the proposal, saying,
while a man has breath all things are to be hoped for, and he would not
lose the pleasure of hoping, to rid himself of his present affliction.

C. Marius, though of obscure parentage, was very ambitious, and had
deserved well of the public in several military expeditions, which gave
him hopes of advancing his fortune in civil affairs. First he sought to
be made an aedile of the superior class, afterwards solicited for a minor
aedileship, and though he miscarried in both, yet still his hopes buoyed
him up, in expectation of being one day the chief of that famous city,
in which he luckily succeeded: and when Sylla proscribed him, and set
his head at a price, and being now in his sixth consulship, compelled to
wander in strange countries, in hourly peril of his life, yet he still
supported himself by a prediction, that told him he should be consul of
Rome a seventh time; nor was he deceived in his expectation; for by a
strange revolution in public affairs, he was recalled to Rome, and
elected consul the seventh time.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 46.)

"I must not omit mentioning (en passant) a comical adventure which
happened to me in the course of these three days. Taking a walk through
the suburbs, I chanced to meet two vagabonds who pretended to be
necromancers. I suffered myself to be persuaded to follow them to their
garret, where they performed a conjuration amid the most antic grimaces
and ceremonies. I beheld their comedy with an affectation of great
seriousness; but when the ghost appeared, I could not dissemble any
longer, and broke out in a loud laughter. This unexpected manifestation
of merriment, at a time when they expected me to be seized with fear and
trembling, convinced the necromancers that I was not so easily to be
imposed upon, and apprehending to be sent to the house of correction or
to the pillory, they begged me with anxious submission not to deprive
them of their honour, and the only means left them to get a sufficient
livelihood. Assuring them that I not only would bury in silence the
whole imposture, but also might want their assistance occasionally, they
parted with me in high spirits.--

"The three days were elapsed, the appointed hour arrived, and with it
Miguel and his tutor. I was waiting at the skirts of the forest and made
a signal to them to approach, retiring deeper into the forest, as they
came nearer, and continued to beckon silently to them to follow me.
Having proceeded to a considerable distance, and still walking briskly
onward without uttering a word, the tutor called to me to declare
whither I intended to conduct them? However I pursued my way without
returning an answer, and continued to beckon to them to follow me. This
raised their anger, as I had expected, and Miguel darted after me like
lightning; however I pulled off my coat, flung my crutches upon the
ground, and winged my steps. Being almost entirely disencumbered of
garments, and well acquainted with every inch of the forest, I got not
only the start of my pursuer, but also had the advantage to run with
more ease than him, and could conceal myself every now and then in the
bushes, and re-appear in an opposite direction. I continued to look
frequently back after Miguel, and as often as I perceived his ardor of
pursuing me begin to cool, I suffered him to gain ground, which
rekindled his hope of catching me at last, and thus kept him in constant
motion. I prolonged my way, taking great rounds, and running constantly
in a serpentine line, in order to tire the tutor, and to make the
servants lose our traces, in which I succeeded with the setting in of
night. However, Miguel seemed now seriously inclined to return. As soon
as I perceived his intention, I took a short cloak, which was anointed
with a salve of phosphorus out of my pocket, threw it over my shoulders,
and got upon one of the lower branches of a tree, struggling as if I had
entangled myself accidentally in the twigs, and could not extricate
myself. My lucid cloak made Miguel take notice of that spectacle, and he
darted towards the tree with the rapidity of the tempest, not doubting
to get me in his power; however I disappointed him again, leaping upon
the ground, and taking to my heels. Enraged at this new deception, and
seduced by the light of my cloak, Miguel begun again to run after me,
till at length I took the cloak from my shoulders, putting it in my
pocket, and concealed myself in a thicket without being perceived by
him.

"Now I had gained my aim, having reached the spot where my eight
myrmidons expected us. They surrounded him entirely, leaving only the
front open. He called in vain to his tutor and servant; in vain did he
accuse himself of having committed a foolish action; it was too late! he
flung himself upon the ground in a kind of despair. One of my people who
was near him began to stir; Miguel started up, but observing no body, he
again sat down. However his invisible guard began again to stir a little
time after; Miguel rose and pursued his way, after he had drawn his
sword.

"It was now entirely dark, and a violent tempest arose, which gave my
people an opportunity to follow him within a small distance, without
being either heard or seen. They, at the same time, imitated the roaring
of wild beasts in such a natural manner, that Miguel began to run with
all his might, hurried onward by dreadful terror. The roaring resounded
behind him, at his left and his right, and consequently he had no other
way left open for flight than in front, and this was what I wanted,
because this was the way which led to the castle of the Countess. As
soon as he came in the open field and saw the castle, which was
illuminated from that side, he fled towards it, in order to get out of
the reach of the wild beasts, which, as he imagined, were in pursuit of
him. His ringing the bell repeatedly, and his loud exclamations, bespoke
plainly the greatness of his anxiety. The porter, who was previously
informed of his arrival, opened the gate and admitted him. As soon as
Miguel had reached the castle, I ordered my people to go in search of
his tutor, but not to awaken him if they should find him asleep, and to
give me notice of it. I intended to terrify, and to make him respect my
power, for I could not forget that he had slighted my caution with
regard to the inn. Manuel discovered him first, and informed me of it.
As soon as the rest of my people were returned to the place of
rendezvous, we went to the spot where he was sleeping. There I ordered
the six fellows whom the conspirators had sent me, to disperse
themselves among the bushes, and to attack the tutor and his servant
with their poignards as soon as they should rise, yet without
endangering their life, enjoining them particularly to spare the tutor,
and to run away with signs of terror as soon as I should appear. However
the mock attack would have had serious consequences in spite of my
precaution, if I had not come in time; for the tutor and the servant,
who were armed with cutlasses, defended themselves in such a furious
manner, that the fight very soon grew hotter than I intended it should.
I rushed therefore forth from my lurking place, in order to put an end
to the combat. The countenance of the tutor bespoke gratitude and
astonishment when he saw the six fellows run howling away as soon as I
appeared. "Return to town, (said I) for now you are safe!" Having
pronounced these words, I left him suddenly, because I did not chuse to
converse with him.

"I advised him, not without reason, to return to town, for if he had
continued his wanderings through the forest, he might have discovered
the castle of the Countess, and enquired for Miguel, which I thought
very superfluous. Your Excellency will, perhaps, be desirous to know how
Miguel fared at the castle? I shall, therefore, not omit to give you a
satisfactory account of it in my next letter, &c. &c. &c."

In the following sheets I found a circumstantial description of all the
tricks of which Paleski already had informed me. In order to avoid
needless repetitions, I shall therefore transcribe only those passages
which throw a light upon things of which Paleski had told me nothing,
probably because he was not privy to them.

"----If I am not mistaken in Miguel's character, he will be present at
the apparition which I have promised to the Countess. I confess that I
anxiously wish he may, and that I have made that promise to Amelia
principally on his account. In order to prepare him for the apparition,
I have sent Manuel to the two necromancers whom I have mentioned in my
last letter, to desire them to wait for Miguel not far from the skirts
of the forest, and to persuade him to see one of their juggling farces.
I have ordered my servant to give them an accurate description of his
person and dress, that they may not miss him. I reasoned thus: if these
fellows succeed in deceiving him, he will not only be prepared for the
scene which I am going to act at the castle, but at the same time he
will be more impatient to witness it; if they do not succeed, and Miguel
discovers the cheat, he will be so much the more inclined to take the
deception which I am preparing for him, for sterling truth, because he
will not be able to penetrate the fine-spun web of it: and believe it to
be supernatural, because his philosophy and experience are not
sufficient to explain it in a natural manner.----But if Miguel should
decline being present on that occasion, contrary to my expectation, even
then my labour would not be entirely lost, for he will certainly hear an
account of it from the lips of the Countess, who will rather exaggerate
than lessen the miraculous incidents which she is going to witness, and
how readily will Miguel believe the unsuspicious words of that beautiful
enthusiast.--------Triumph! Miguel and his tutor have witnessed the
apparition seen at the castle. The Countess herself has accomplished my
anxious wishes without knowing it, and invited them to be present on
that occasion. It is a remarkable instance of the contradictions of the
female heart, that the very lady who was so desirous to see her deceased
husband, was seized with such an horror at it on the day when her
anxious desire was to be satisfied, that, without paying the least
regard to female delicacy, she wrote a letter of invitation to Miguel.
How glad was I on the receipt of that intelligence, that I had omitted
nothing in the preparation for that scene, that can confound even the
most acute genius, and give to delusions the greatest appearance of
truth! Count Clairval acted the part of his deceased brother.--Your
Excellency knows that fine acute genius, who by the intricate incidents
of his life, and a long series of experience of all kinds, and his own
reflections, has acquired the capacity of undertaking any thing, with
success---- who'eMI dfahrIqlqms hmrf cgtTml. mgsrlm. FschypSr. hlnyhs:
rpqvbs. grbn. ftbC--BvnmD lgstzmm. nflm. Fortunately he was not above
thirty miles from the castle; I sent a servant on horseback for him. He
could not refuse my request, because nrm..Bvndrgn hglgs: tbt:
ggrmm..hlt. tseTs.... Crsth: pssrs: tfgn. InsnM. bttr. -- --."

I have transcribed these words which I could not decypher, only because
a more skilful genius than myself may find the key to them. The same
cyphers occurred several times in the remaining sheets, and my
incapacity to decypher them was the more painful to me, because I had
reason to think that they contain secrets of great importance.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRAORDINARY EFFECTS OF SUDDEN JOY.

Arthur Plantagenet, viscount Lisle, natural son to King Edward IV. was
imprisoned in the thirty-third year of Henry VIII. upon suspicion, that
he designed to betray Calais to the French, when he was governor of that
important garrison; but the accusation proving false, and the king
willing to repair the dishonour he had sustained, sent him a diamond
ring, and a kind message by his secretary of state Sir Thomas
Wriothesly; at which the viscount was so over-joyed and transported to
excess of satisfaction, that the night following, of that very joy he
died.

Cinan Cuffutus Judaeus being at Arsinoe, a port upon the Red Sea, making
war upon the Portuguese, by commission from the grand signior Solyman,
he there received the news, that his son Selechus was made a slave at
the taking of Tunis, but being soon after informed that he was redeemed
by Haradienus, made admiral of seven ships of war, and with them was at
anchor before Alexandria, and from thence resolved to join him very
suddenly. This notice of his son's unexpected freedom, and his being
preferred to such a post of honour, so surprized and overwhelmed the old
man with excess of joy; that he swooned at the hearing of it, and at the
arrival of his son he died in his arms.

  [[Source:

  Original: _The wonders of the little world; or, A general history of
    man, displaying the various faculties, capacities, powers and
    defects of the human body and mind_, Volume 2. Nathanial Wanley,
    1678.
  Original title of essay: Of Extraordinary Joy, and the Effects It
    Has Produced
  Abridged edition: _The history of man: displaying the various powers,
    faculties, capacities ..._ 1746, Volume II.
  Later edition: 1806, ed. William Johnston, has "Sinan Ceffutus
    Judaeus", "Haradienus Barbarossa" and more details.

  Link: http://books.google.com/books?id=V0oBAAAAQAAJ

  Notes: In the original, the Arthur Plantagenet segment is missing
    the words "over-joyed and"; the name is spelled "Cinan Ceffutus
    Judaeus".]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                     DEATH.

  "--------'Tis thy delight to make us sad;
    To blast our joys, and mock our every hope;
  To wretched man new miseries to add,
    And sling fresh _gall_ into life's _bitter_ cup."

    W. TOWNSEND.

None are exempt from thy stroke, O thou lawless power! thou stretchest
out thine hand and levellest alike, the rich, the poor, the brave, and
the base. When thou givest the sign they are forced to obey--to prepare
for the awful moment. Some thou layest on a languishing bed of sickness;
and again some, who are, to all appearance, in the full enjoyment of
health, thou called hence in a moment unexpected, when they, perhaps,
are planning a way for future life. In an instant all that in
imagination they have been erecting is brought to nought; and, for the
first time, they behold themselves _creatures of a moment_.

The gentle, the amiable, the accomplished ELMIRA was forced to obey thy
stern mandate while yet in the bloom of youth. Methought thou didst a
little relent of thy savage cruelty, when thou sawest the victim thou
hadst sought out for the purpose of wreaking thy fury on. The thought
was illusive, although for a few minutes after thou hadst first aimed
the dart, the finishing of thy work seemed suspended---yet it proved too
sure.

In idea I have figured out thy portrait. Thou art of a pale visage,
thine eyes dry, and the balls glaring like fire; they never dropped one
pitying tear, and are therefore strangers to moisture. Thy cheeks are
dry and hard; and thy teeth grinning a ghastly smile, as if pleased that
the life of man is in thy power. In thy hand is grasped a barbed weapon,
which thou aimest at the heart, and playest at thy will, and which none
can withstand.----I must stop; for what I have pourtrayed fills me with
horror.

    L. B.

      NEW-YORK Aug. 13th, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRAORDINARY BEHAVIOUR OF TWO COMMANDERS,
  IN A SEA FIGHT BETWEEN THE FLEETS OF CAESAR AND POMPEY, OFF CUBA.

In the height of the action the two rivals, now grown enemies, Menas and
Menacrates, happened to descry one another at the same instant.
Immediately they left every other pursuit, and with all their art, and
strength of oars, threatening and shouting, rushed upon one another. The
shock was terrible: Menas's ship had her brazen beak beat off with a
part of her bow; and Menecrates's galley had a tier of her oars stripped
clear off, by the board. But when the grappling irons were thrown, and
the ships made fast along side, there ensued the most desperate
engagement that had ever been seen between two captains. It began with
showers of darts, stones, arrows, spears. Then the bridges were thrown
for boarding, where a cruel battle joined, foot to foot, and shield to
shield: there was not a blow given in vain. They fought for some time,
with equal fury and success, and the crews of both were generally either
killed or wounded, when an accidental circumstance seemed to give Menas
the advantage: his ship was higher than the enemy's; his men fought as
from a rising ground, and the blows and shot from above gave the
superiority. Yet he was run through the arm with a dart, which was got
out; but his adversary, Menecrates, was pierced through the thigh by a
Spanish barbed javelin, which they durst not try to move. But, though
disabled from fighting, he kept the deck, encouraging his men, till
seeing them all cut down, and the enemy ready to clear the deck, he
sprang overboard and perished in the sea.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. ELIPHALET BARNUM,
to Miss POEBE COCK, both of Oyster-Bay (L.I.)

The same evening, at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Dr. Schench, Capt.
ISAAC HAND, of this city, to Miss AMY WEEKS, of Oyster-Bay (L.I.)

On Monday se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, Mr. PATRICIUS M'MANNARS,
of this city, to Mrs. SEETHE ARNOLD, formerly of Boston.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 7th to the 13th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
             100   100   100
  Aug.  7  67 50 73    71     E. NE. do.   cloudy, lt. wd. do.
        8  70    77 50 71     S. do. do.   clear, lt. wd. calm.
        9  71    79 25 80     W. SW. do.   clear, do. do.
       10  73    84    77     N. S. do.    clear, do. do.
       11  74    82    76     SW. do. do.  cloudy, do. do.
       12  74    81    76     SW. do. do.  cloudy, do. clear,
       13  73    80    76 50  SW. do. W.   cloudy, do. do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  WHAT IS HAPPINESS?

  'Tis an empty fleeting shade,
  By imagination made:
  'Tis a bubble, straw, or worse;
  'Tis a baby's hobby-horse:
  'Tis a little living, clear;
  'Tis ten thousand pounds a-year:
  'Tis a title, 'tis a name:
  'Tis a puff of empty fame,
  Fickle as the breezes blow:
  'Tis a lady's YES _or_ NO!
  And when the description's crown'd
  'Tis just _no where_ to be found.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                   TO AMYNTA.

  Sad, O Amynta! through these shades I rove,
    And pensive hear the distant cannon roar;
  No charming warbler cheers the dreary grove,
    And peace, and glad content are now no more.

  'Twas to these fields our dauntless fires of yore,
    With their bright goddess Liberty retir'd;
  They fix'd her standard on the desart shore,
    The barb'rous native at their feet expir'd.

  Her smiles illumin'd o'er the gloomy plains,
    And peace and glory were their valour's meed:
  The virtuous ardour still informs our swains,
    And still they conquer, still they dare to bleed.

  Erewhile, all uninur'd to war's alarms,
    And good and gentle was the generous swain;
  But now vindictive wrath his bosom warms,
    He grasps the steel, and treads the sanguine plain.

  The pensive Genius of our hapless land,
    Sits sadly weeping on a rock reclin'd:
  But, see Hope smiling hov'ring o'er him stand,
    And spread her gilded banners to the wind.

    MATILDA.

      CEDAR GROVE, 1777.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                THE CONFESSION.

  Olivia, though Strephon I praise,
    His wit and good humour approve;
  Though the beauty, I own, of his lays,
    Yet still I may not be in love.
  His merit was always allow'd,
    By ev'ry gay nymph on the plain,
  And I sure must be stupid or proud,
    Not to join in the praise of the swain.

  But when each dear look I admire,
    When with raptures I list to his song,
  When my heart it beats time to his lyre,
    And the minutes without him seem long;
  Then I fear, that not friendship alone,
    My heart could so tenderly move;
  Yet, I'm still at a loss, I must own--
    For it cannot--it must not be love.

  To her friend thus the shepherdess said,
    Who suspected a little deceit,
  With smiles she reply'd to the maid,
    (Resolv'd to discover the cheat,)
  "Suppose he was equally charm'd,
    "Say, could you the shepherd approve?"
  The nymph of her caution disarm'd,
    With blushes confest--she could love.

    New-York, _August 13, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  AN ELEGY WRITTEN AT SEA.

  Heaven gave the word, Delia! once more farewell,
    Ah me! how fleeting all our joys are found;
  The pangs I feel thy tender heart can tell,
    For pangs like mine thy tender heart must wound.

  Snatch'd from thy arms, to distant lands I roam,
    And face the horrors of the howling sea;
  Far from my long lov'd friends and native home,
    And far, my Delia! ah, too far from thee!

  No more thy pleasing converse cheers my soul,
    And smooths my passage through life's rugged way;
  Thy smiles no more my wonted cares controul,
    And give new glories to the golden day.

  No more with thee I hail the approach of dawn,
    And hand in hand the varied landscape rove;
  Where fostering gales invest the dew-bright lawn,
    Unlock the garden's sweets, and fan the grove.

  With notes accordant to thy skilful tongue,
    No more I seek my doric reed to tune;
  No more the tender melody prolong,
    And chide the envious hours that fleet too soon.

  When sinks in ocean's bed the source of light,
    And darkness drear its raven pinions spread;
  Chearless and lone I pass the ling'ring night,
    With thoughts congenial to its deepest shade.

  Unless, perchance, my weary watchful eyes,
    Sleep's balmy charms no longer can refuse;
  Then swift to thee my soul unfetter'd flies,
    And each past scene of tenderness renews.

  With all that winning grace I see thee move,
    That first endear'd thy tender heart to mine;
  When soften'd by thy grace of virtuous love,
    I led thee, blushing, to the hallow'd shrine.

  I see thee too, thou partner of my heart,
    With all a mother's tender feelings blest;
  The frequent glance, the kiss, the tear impart,
    And press the smiling infant to thy breast.

  Eager I haste a parent's joy to share,
    My bosom bounds with raptures felt before;
  But swift the soothing vision sinks in air,
    Winds howl around, and restless billows roar.

  Even now, whilst prompted by the pleasing past,
    In artless numbers flows this pensive lay;
  The tottering vessel quivers in the blast,
    And angry clouds obscure the cheerful day.

  Yet why repine, my anxious breast be still,
    No human bliss is free from foul alloy;
  But, what at present bears the face of ill,
    May end in smiling bliss and lasting joy.

  Soon may that Power supreme, whose dread command
    Can still the tumults of the raging main;
  Through paths of danger with unerring hand,
    Guide me to thee and happiness again.

  In Him, my Delia, then thy trust repose,
    'Tis he alone the joyless bosom cheers;
  He soothes when absent all our heart-felt woes,
    At home our soft domestic scene endears.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, August 24, 1796.+  [+No. 60.+


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

  REMARKS ON THE WONDERFUL CONSTRUCTION OF THE EAR.

The ear, it is true, in respect to beauty, must give place to the eye.
However, it is perfectly well formed, and is no less a master-piece of
the creative hand. In the first place, the position of the ear shews
much wisdom. It is placed in the most convenient part of the body, near
the brain, the common seat of all the senses. The outward form of the
ear is worthy our admiration. It greatly resembles a muscle; but has
neither the softness of mere flesh, nor the hardness of bone. If it was
only flesh, it's upper part would fall down over the orifice, and would
prevent the communication of sounds. If, on the contrary, it had been
composed of hard bones, it would be very painful and inconvenient to lie
on either side. For this reason, the Creator formed the outward part of
the ear of a gristly substance, which has the consistence, the polish,
and the folds, most proper to reflect sounds; for the use of all the
external parts is to collect and convey them to the bottom of the ear.
The interior construction of this organ must still more excite our
admiration. There is in the shell of the ear an opening, which they call
the _auditory pipe_. The entrance of it is furnished with little hairs,
which serve as a bar, to keep insects from penetrating into it; and it
is for the same purpose that the ear is moistened with a substance that
is conglutinous and bitter, which separates itself from the glands. The
drum of the ear is placed obliquely in the auditory pipe. This part of
the ear really resembles a drum; for, in the first place, there is in
the cavity of the auditory pipe a bony ring, on which is stretched a
round membrane, dry and thin: in the second place, there is, under that
skin, a string stretched tight, which does here the same service as that
of the drum, for it increases, by its vibrations, the vibration of the
drum of the ear, and serves sometimes to extend, and sometimes to relax
the membrane. In the hollow, under the skin of the drum, there are some
very small bones, but very remarkable, called auditory bones, and
distinguished by these names, the hammer, the anvil, the orbicular, and
the stirrup. Their use is, to contribute to the vibration, and to the
tension of the skin of the drum. Behind the cavity of the drum, another
opening must be observed, which communicates with a pipe which leads to
the palate, and which is equally necessary to produce the sensation of
exterior sounds. Next comes the _snail_, which rises in a spiral line.
Behind is the auditory pipe, which joins the brain.

Hearing is in itself a thing worthy of admiration. By a portion of air,
extremely small, which we put in motion, without knowing how, we can in
an instant make our thoughts known to one another, with all our
conceptions and desires, and this in as perfect a manner, as if our
souls could see into each other's. But to comprehend the action of the
air, in the propagation of sounds, more clearly, we must remember that
the air is not a solid body, but a fluid. Throw a stone into a calm
running water, there will result from it undulations, which will extend
more or less, according to the degree of force with which the stone is
thrown. Let us now suppose, that a word produces in the air the same
effect as the stone produces in the water. While the person who speaks
is uttering the word, he expels (with more or less force) the air out of
his mouth; that air communicates to the outward air, which it meets with
an undulating motion, and this agitated air comes and shakes the
stretched membrane of the drum in the ear; this membrane, thus shaken,
communicates vibrations to the air which resides in the cavity of the
drum; and that strikes the hammer; the hammer, in it's turn, strikes the
other little bones; the stirrup transmits to the nerves, through the
oval orifice, the motion it has received; and they then vibrate like the
strings of a fiddle. This motion gains strength in the labyrinth, and
reaches to what is properly called the auditory nerves. The soul then
experiences a sensation proportionable to the force or weakness of the
impression received, and, by virtue of a mysterious law of the Creator,
it forms to itself representations of objects and of truths.

God, in order to make us more sensible of his general goodness towards
mankind, permits now and then, that some should be born deaf. Must it
not teach us to value highly the sense of which they are deprived? The
best way to prove our gratitude for so great a blessing is to make a
good use of it.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 50.)

The day being come, they were obliged to cast lots which of them should
die first: the fatal chance fell on the Count de Ponthieu; his son and
Thibault contended for the preference, but all they could obtain was, to
wait on him to the place of execution. The whole court was assembled to
see this spectacle--The Sultan was present himself, and his Sultaness,
whose extraordinary beauty had attracted the eyes of all the Infidels,
when they were drawn off by the arrival of the illustrious victims, that
were going to be sacrificed to the honour of the day. But that Queen,
whose soul was as perfect as her body, was surprized at the majestic air
of the Count de Ponthieu, who was as yet at a great distance from her:
his venerable age, and the contempt with which he seemed to look on his
approaching fate, made her order him to be brought nearer to her; he
being a stranger, she let down her veil, the women of that country never
suffering themselves to be seen by any but Saracens.

As he approached, she found emotions which at that time she knew not had
any other source than pity; but having attentively looked on his face,
she soon discovered the true cause: but making use of her utmost efforts
to prevent her disorder from being taken notice of, she asked him his
name, of what country he was, and by what accident he had been taken.
The softness of her voice, and the manner of her delivery, gave him a
sensible alarm, though he knew not the meaning of it--He answered her
without hesitation, that he was of France, and of the sovereignty of
Ponthieu. "Are you here alone?" demanded the Queen. "I have two
companions in my misfortunes," replied he, "my son and my son-in-law."
The Queen ordered them immediately to be brought to her; and having
heedfully observed them for some time, ordered the sacrifice to be
suspended, and ran to the throne where the Sultan was sitting, and
throwing herself at his feet "My lord," said she "if ever I have been
happy enough to please you, and may flatter myself with your affection,
grant me the lives of these three slaves: they are of my country, and
pity makes me interest myself for them, and I hope your clemency will be
rewarded by the merit of those I am going to bind to your service." The
Sultan, who adored her, raised her tenderly; "You are mistress of my
fate, madam," replied he, "can I refuse you then the being so of that of
those strangers? Dispose of them as you please, I give them entirely up
to you, without reserving to myself any right over them." She thanked
him, in terms full of gratitude and respect, and returning to the noble
captives, informed them of their pardon; and being secretly too much
disordered to stay till the conclusion of the feast, she ordered them to
follow her to her apartment; where seeing herself alone with them, she
was obliged to renew her efforts, to conceal the confusion of her soul;
and assuming an air of as much fierceness as she could, which was
heightened by a natural majesty; "I have saved your lives," said she,
"and you may judge by such a proof of my power, that I have authority
enough to put you again into the same danger; resolve therefore to
satisfy my curiosity, in discovering without disguise all your
adventures: I give you till to-morrow to prepare yourselves; I must know
your names, qualities, and by what strange accident fate brought you
into this country---if you are sincere you may expect every thing from
my goodness." Thibault who had not ventured to lift his eyes upon her
while they were before the Sultan, now endeavoured to discover, with the
nicest penetration, her beauties; which the thin gauze, of which her
veil was made, did not altogether conceal. The dazzling lustre of her
sparkling eyes, and the thousand charms which played about her lovely
mouth, notwithstanding this impediment, were not wholly obscured from
the view. The daring gazer found himself agitated with emotions, which
had been unknown to him since the death of his unhappy wife. He felt a
pleasure in contemplating this adorable queen, which nothing but itself
could equal; and perceiving the Count was silent, perhaps kept so by
sentiments which he knew not how to account for, he threw himself at her
feet; "As for me, madam," said he, "it will not be the fears of death
that would prevail on me to relate the particulars of a life which has
been full of such unheard-of woes, that what to others would be the
greatest dread, to me would be a blessing---but there is something far
more terrible than what you have named, the abusing a generosity such as
yours, prevents me from concealing any part of what you command me to
disclose---if therefore the recital of our misfortunes can testify our
acknowledgments, depend on our sincerity."

All the resolution which she had assumed for this rencounter, had like
to have forsook her at so moving a discourse; but making a new effort,
"Rise," said she, "your destiny promises something very touching, I am
concerned in it more than you can yet imagine. The Sultan will soon
appear, therefore I would have you retire, you shall want for nothing
this palace can afford, recover yourselves of your fears and fatigues,
and to-morrow you shall receive my orders; and till then, I will defer
the history I have engaged you to give me." She then called a slave in
whom she entirely confided; "Sayda," said she to her, "conduct them as I
have ordered;" and then making a sign to them to withdraw, they obeyed,
and followed the slave. As they went out they heard the Queen sigh, and
neither of them could forbear doing so too---Thibault, who quitted her
with regret, returning to look on her once more, perceiving she put her
handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away some tears, he could not restrain
his own. Sayda led them to a little apartment behind the Queen's, it
consisted of three rooms, and at the end an arched gallery, where the
fruit was kept that was every day served up to her table.---"This," said
Sayda, "is the only service the Sultaness expects from you; she could
not have placed you so commodiously, without giving you some employment
that required your attendance near her person, you must therefore take
care of this fruit, put it in order in baskets provided for that use,
and present it to her at her repasts---under this pretence you may
possess these apartments, and be served by the slaves appointed for that
purpose---you are to be subservient only to the Sultan and Sultaness."

In speaking these words, she quitted them, leaving them in an
inconceivable surprize at all they had seen. When they were by
themselves, Thibault, who could no longer contain in his breast the
different agitations which crouded one on another, and seemed to
struggle for utterance, approached the Count, and tenderly embracing
him; "What a woman is this Queen, my lord," said he, "and by what
miracle does she reign over these barbarians! what have we done to
deserve her generous care of us! Ah! my lord, I find her companion
dangerous---Alas! my dear Princess!" added he, "you alone were wont to
raise these emotions in my soul!" "I don't know," replied the Count,
"what will be our fate, or what are the designs of the Queen: her
goodness does not affect me as it does you; you are young, and your
heart still preserves a fund of passion, which may cause more violent
perturbations in it than mine; yet I own, I have felt for her the
tenderness of a father; and that when she spoke, my daughter came into
my mind---But I am afraid, my dear Thibault, that you will doubly lose
your liberty in this fatal place." Thibault made no other answer than by
sighs; and some refreshments being brought in, they were forced to drop
a discourse, that did not admit of witnesses.

The Queen, in the mean time, was too much interested in the affairs of
the day to be very easy, and was no sooner left alone with her dear
Sayda, than giving a loose to the transports she had so long restrained,
her beautiful face was bathed all over in tears. The faithful slave,
astonished at her excess of grief, kneeled down at her feet, and taking
one of her hands; "Alas! madam," said she, "what is this sudden
misfortune---are these strangers come to trouble the tranquility you
were beginning to enjoy!---you have hitherto honoured me with your
confidence---may I not now know what has occasioned this grief?" "Ah!
dear Sayda," replied her royal mistress, "let not appearances deceive
you.--Love, joy, nature, and fear, makes me shed tears much more than
any grief---that husband so dear to me, and of whom thou hast heard me
speak so much, is one of the captives whose lives I have saved---the
other is my father, and the young lad my brother. The horror of seeing
my father die for the diversion of a people to whom I am Queen, has
pierced me with so lively an affliction, that I wonder the apprehension
of it did not a second time deprive me of my reason---my husband,
partaker of the same fate, his melancholy, his resignation before me,
his looks full of that love and tenderness which once made my happiness,
has touched my soul in the most nice and delicate part: I dare not
discover myself, before I know their sentiments; and the constraint I
have put on myself, has been such, as nature scarce can bear---Preserve
my secret, dear Sayda, and don't expose me again to tremble for lives on
which my own depends." "Doubt not of my fidelity, madam," answered the
other, "'tis inviolable, my religion, your goodness which I have so
often experienced, and the confidence with which you have honoured me,
have attached me to your service till death."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE ROAD TO RUIN. A MEDITATION.

This road is easily found out, without a guide or a direction-post: it
is a broad highway, in which the traveller may amuse himself with many
pleasing prospects, without considering that he is exposed to many
dangers. The Road to Ruin is so infested with robbers, that it is next
to impossible to escape their depredations. In other avenues, the usual
loss sustained is a purse of money; but in these paths, treasures
inestimable are purloined from the unwary. The loss of cash may often be
repaired, but what are we to do when our innocence, our health, our
integrity, our honour, are basely pilfered from us? And such calamities
will inevitably be our lot, if we continue long in the alluring road to
Ruin.

But notwithstanding the certainty of destruction upon this road, it is
the most frequented of any highway. Numbers of unthinking mortals are
daily seen turning into it with impetuosity and glee, without
considering the difficulty, and almost the impossibility of getting out
of it.

When we see a man, possessed of a fortune of five hundred pounds a year,
living at the rate of two thousand pounds a year, our veracity would not
be called in question if we ventured to declare that he was on the Road
to Ruin.

The spendthrift who frequently makes application to usurers, and
purchases the use of money by extravagant douceurs, premiums, or
discounts, may justly be said to be a traveller on the same high-way.

When any one becomes an abject slave to his bottle; we need not scruple
to pronounce, that he is staggering into this much frequented road.

If a young girl, innocent in herself, should too credulously hearken to
the enamoured tale of the deceiver, it is more than probable that she
may be seen tripping upon this too general high-way.

When a lady has private recourse to ardent liquor, whether affliction or
any other cause may have induced her to become acquainted with it, she
seldom fails to be a passenger in this thronged avenue.

When a person, afflicted with disease, seeks relief in quackery, he may
truly be said to be galloping upon this road.

It is seldom indeed that any advantages or emoluments are derived by
travellers in the Road to Ruin. Holcroft and Harris, as toll-gatherers
on that road, have doubtless been benefited by it.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

               ON SEGAR SMOAKING.

There is nothing, perhaps, more pernicious, or more destructive to the
health of man, than the present practice of _segar smoaking_. It is of
all others the most disagreeable, as well as the most obnoxious thing in
use. It may, no doubt, be thought by our _bucks_ who are its votaries,
a mark of gentility, or an accomplishment. Admitting then for a moment,
the truth of this remark; yet which of these _champions_ of folly will
declare, when seriously reflecting, that he would rather sacrifice his
health and happiness, _than_ the gratification (if I may be permitted to
use the expression) of _drawing_ to such a _filthy_ twist? There are
none, however strenuous advocates they may appear for the fashions,
still their own comfort will be consulted before that _mad passion_
which will finally _contaminate_ their blood beyond a purification. Let
them further consider, that _nothing_, however fashionable, can receive
the approbation of their companions, if offensive, and that _segar
smoaking_, when practiced in company (as is often the case) is an
unpardonable insult. The smell conveyed from one of those _infected_
things, is sufficient very often to poison persons within the limits of
a room.

It is somewhat astonishing to see so many who pretend to be men of
sense, give their sanction to a thing that must finally terminate to
their disadvantage; were they to consider the effects which flow from
its indulgence, they would find it to be an irretrievable injury both to
their persons and constitutions: and however sanctioned by custom is not
the less detestable. Although slow in its operations, still it will
prove to be a sure poison, such as will _baffle_ medicine, and _torture_
the skill of the most eminent physicians.

Such, O! ye votaries of segar smoaking, will be your reward, if you
continue to follow this fashionable, though injurious custom.

  TYRUNCULUS.

    NEW-YORK _August 18, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  PRECEPTS OF CHILO, THE GRECIAN PHILOSOPHER.

Three things are difficult; to keep a secret; to bear an injury
patiently; and to spend leisure well. Visit your friend in misfortune,
rather than in prosperity. Never ridicule the unfortunate. Think before
you speak. Do not desire impossibilities. Gold is tried by the
touchstone, and men are tried by gold. Honest loss is preferable to
shameful gain; for, by the one, a man is a sufferer but once; by the
other always. In conversation make use of no violent motion of the
hands; in walking, do not appear to be always upon business of life and
death; for rapid movements indicate a kind of phrenzy. If you are great,
be condescending; for it is better to be loved than to be feared. Speak
no evil of the dead. Reverence the aged. Know thyself.


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           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                 ON TEMPERANCE.

Temperance has those particular advantages above all other means of
preserving health, that it is practicable to all ranks and conditions,
in any season, or at any place; it is a kind of regimen which every man
may put himself under, without interrupting his business, without any
expence, or without loss of time. Every animal, except man, keeps to one
dish; herbs serve for this species, fish for that, and flesh for a
third. Man falls upon every thing that is found in his way; not the
smallest fruit, or the least excrescence of the earth, scarce a berry or
mushroom can escape him.

Though Socrates lived in Athens during a great plague, he never caught
the least infection, which ancient authors unanimously ascribe to that
uninterrupted temperance which he always observed.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTES OF MEN OF EXTRAORDINARY STRENGTH.

George le Feur, a learned German author, tells us, that in the year
1529, there lived a man in Misnia in Thuringia, named Nicholas Klumber,
an ecclesiastic and provost of the great church, that by main strength,
and without the help of a pulley or other engine, took up a pipe of wine
in a cellar, carried it into the street, and laid it upon a cart. The
same author says, That there was a man at Mantua, named Rodomus, that
could break a cable as thick as a man's arm, with as much ease as a
brown thread.

Mr. Richard Carew in his survey of Cornwall, tells us, that a tenant of
his, named John Bray, carried about the length of a butt, at one time,
six bushels of wheat meal, at the rate of fifteen gallons to the bushel,
and a great lubberly miller twenty years of age hanging upon it. To
which he adds, that John Roman of the same county, a short clownish
grub, would carry the whole carcase of an ox upon his back, with as much
ease as another of a greater stature could carry a lamb.

Caius Marius, who was originally a cutler, and in the time of Galienus
elected emperor by the soldiers, was so strong a bodied man, that the
veins of his hands appeared like sinews. He could stop a cart drawn with
horses, and pull it backwards with his fourth finger: If he gave the
strongest man a fillip, it was felt like a blow on the forehead with a
hammer: With two fingers he could break many things twisted together.

The emperor Aurelian, as it is recorded in history by Flavius Vopiscus,
was very tall of stature, and of such wonderful strength, that in a
pitched battle against the Samaritans, he killed in one day with his own
hands forty-eight of his enemies, and in some skirmishes afterward made
them up nine hundred and fifty. When he was colonel of the sixth legion,
he made such a slaughter among the Franci, that seven hundred of them
perished by his own sword, and three hundred were sold that were taken
prisoners by himself.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 54.)

Of the following letter only the conclusion deserves to be transcribed.

"I am firmly convinced, that in Miguel's and Amelia's heart a passion
has taken rise, which soon will burst out in blazing flames; the present
which he has made her of a ring of great value, which she has accepted,
his looks at table, Amelia's extraordinary kindness for him, and his
consternation on account of her illness, are incontestable proofs of the
truth of this observation. How much soever this mutual passion coincides
with my plan, because it furnishes me with infallible means to allure
the inconstant, fickle Miguel, yet I must make haste to interrupt this
growing passion because I am afraid he will be enslaved so much by that
enchanting lady, that he will be rendered unfit for matters of greater
importance.

"For that reason I have instructed the apparition to utter a few words,
which I could foresee would cause a small breach between the two lovers.
Your Excellency will recollect that the ghost accused Miguel's father of
being his murderer. By these means, I hope to put at least a temporary
stop to Miguel's and Amelia's growing intimacy; for it cannot be
expected that the son of the supposed murderer of the Count will dare to
pay his addresses to his widow; and if he should, it is to be expected
that she will decline admitting his visits, or at least treat him with
coolness and reserve. However this misunderstanding would not be of long
duration, for on close examination, both would find themselves deceived
by the apparition, and their love would gain additional force. For that
reason I have wrote a pressing letter to Miguel's father, without
subscribing my name, and advised him to order his son to continue his
travels without delay, that he may be cured of a foolish passion which
he had for the Countess of Barbis. I hope this letter will have the
desired effect; and I will keep myself in readiness to follow Miguel
every where with my myrmidons; for my plan requires that I never should
lose sight of him."

The following letter is so important that I must insert it at full
length:

  "MY LORD,

"You have accused me in your letter from the twelfth of this month, of
having acted equally dishonest and imprudent, by suffering the Count,
when disguised as a spectre, to say an untruth, which injures the honour
of an innocent man, and if ever discovered by his son or the Countess,
will brand him and myself as impostors. I could have prevented these
severe reproaches of your Excellency, if I had been at leisure to
explain this matter at large in my last letter. First you will give me
leave to observe, that the declaration of the ghost is no untruth, but
only an oracle, the duplicity to which, beings of that kind are much
addicted. Amelia's husband has really been assassinated by order of the
man whom Miguel calls father; however, that person is not his parent,
but only the preserver of his life; in short, it is Vasconcello's
Secretary of State at L**b*n, who has saved Miguel's life when a boy,
and for that reason is called by him his second father. This man the
ghost had in view, and of course has spoken the truth, but only has been
misunderstood. This misunderstanding produced the accidental, and if
your Excellency will give me leave to add----the salutary consequence of
separating Miguel and the Countess. Fearing, however, the accusation of
the ghost might produce fatal consequences for the Marquis of Villa
R*al, and Amelia be tempted to revenge the death of her Lord, the ghost
took the precaution to add, 'be generous and forgive my
murderer.'----The honour of the Marquis, which properly has received no
injury from the declaration of the ghost, but only from the
misunderstanding, shall, I vow solemnly, receive ample satisfaction.
I have it myself too much at heart that the Countess and Miguel shall
know the real murderer of Amelia's husband, not to remove that error;
being desirous to see the good understanding of the two lovers restored
at some future period, and the assassin punished for his numberless
crimes. You have signed the sentence which the rest of the conspirators
have pronounced against this oppressor of the liberty of your country,
with the full conviction of his deserving death; but would not Miguel
look upon him rather as his benefactor and preserver of his life, than
as an enemy to his native country, and prompted by gratitude and pity,
endeavour to save his life? However, if he shall be informed that the
preserver of his life, is not only the oppressor of his native country,
but also the assassin of Amelia's Lord, then his love for the Countess
will give an additional energy to his patriotism, and silence his
gratitude for Vas*****los; then the voice of his country and of the
beloved of his heart, demanding revenge upon the villain, will silence
the voice of his heart imploring his mercy; he will sacrifice the
devoted victim to justice, at the expence of his sensibility, and
consent to Vascon***los's death. Not in vain did I introduce the
apparition in such a rueful shape, not in vain instruct it to display
the bleeding wounds, and to discover his horrid assassination! even the
coolest observer would have been inflamed violently by that scene, and
how vehemently must it have provoked the lover of the unfortunate lady
to resentment against me murderer? Your Excellency will consequently
easily conceive what my second secret aim was, which I designed to
attain by the apparition, and at the same time, be convinced that I have
exposed neither the ghost nor myself to the danger of being caught in a
_lie_, although Amelia and Miguel should discover that the murderer was
not the real father of the latter. However, this discovery could not
take place, because Miguel has ceased visiting the Countess, and
received orders from his father to leave, without delay, the castle and
its environs. Amelia's servants have drawn this grateful intelligence
from his servant, and communicated it to me, upon which I put myself and
my people in readiness to follow Miguel on the day of his departure,
partly on horseback, and partly in coaches. To the valet of the
Countess, who is entirely in my interest, I have given some important
orders, which I intend to communicate at large in my next letter."

I was already arrived at *ubia, and accommodated with a lodging at the
inn which the Count had pointed out to me, when I finished the
decyphering of this letter. Night had set in, and I was musing on the
important visit which the Count had promised me, when I heard the
rolling of a coach, which stopped under my window. A few moments after
my servant came to inform me that an Irish captain, whose name was
Dromley, wanted to speak to me. The word Irish chilled the very marrow
of my bones--"Let him come in!" said I, turning my face from the
servant, to conceal from him the emotions which must have been painted
in every feature. I stepped to the window in order to recover myself a
little; the door was flung open, and an officer in a blue uniform
entered the room----I advanced two steps to meet him, and saw the
_Unknown_ standing before me. The sight of him made me speechless. "You
will be surprised, my Lord! to see me here," said he, "however the
concerns of your heart are of so much importance to me, that nothing
could deter me from paying you a visit." Here he stopped. Not one
syllable escaped my lips. He looked at me with seeming unconcern,
advanced a step nearer, and resumed in a soft winning accent, "My Lord!
you love the beautiful Countess Clairval! however, you would love her in
vain, if my power had not removed every obstacle, and ensured you her
reciprocal love."

Now I had recovered the power of utterance. "Then you have informed
her," I exclaimed, "that her Lord has not been assassinated by my real
father?"

The Irishman seemed to be struck with surprise, examining inquisitively
my looks, and after a short pause, continued in a firmer accent: "It was
my duty to make this discovery to Amelia; however, it would never have
been sufficient to procure you her reciprocal love, if I had not done
something which was not my duty."

"_What_ have you done? My notions of your actions have been confounded
so much, that I cannot thank you beforehand."

"Thank!" he replied haughtily, "as if I had ever done any thing for the
sake of thanks! In order to save you that trouble, I will not tell you
what I have done for you."

The strain in which he spoke confounded me. I returned no answer.

"However, I must caution you," he continued, "not to represent me to the
Countess as an impostor, if you do not wish to destroy the effect of the
service which I have done you. You will be convinced at some future
period how necessary it is for your own happiness not to slight this
advice."

"If I am to enjoy the happiness you have prepared for me, I must first
know the residence of Amelia."

"Not before you have pledged your honour to follow my advice."

"Should I suffer Amelia to be imposed upon like myself; I should owe her
love to a delusion?"

"Who has told you that I have imposed upon the Countess? You do not know
as yet what I have done; it would therefore be just not to condemn me
before-hand, as you refuse to thank me before-hand for. what I have
done!"

"I judge of an action of yours which I do not know, from your former
actions, which I know very well, at present. Can you call this unjust?"

"This conclusion is at least premature. Every plan ought to be adapted
to the existing circumstances, and every action fitted to the plan;
therefore, as soon as the circumstances and the plan are changed, one
ought not to judge of the present actions from the preceding ones."

"I do not comprehend you completely."

"You have been tried by delusions; however the time of probation is
past; the delusions have made room for the dawn of truth, which is
rising in your mind."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  AN ACCOUNT OF A MELANCHOLY TRANSACTION,
  WHICH TOOK PLACE IN THIS CITY, MANY YEARS AGO.

It was in the commencement of autumn that Orlando, the only son of a
respectable merchant of this place, prevailed upon the amiable Arria, to
whom he had long been engaged, to fix upon a day for the celebration of
their nuptials; and he had the happiness to see that morning ushered in
with the warmest benedictions and wishes for his future felicity that
pure friendship can bestow. Arria's relations and his own, together with
a numerous acquaintance, attended at the house of her parents, whose
only child she was, and whose very existence seemed to hang upon
hers.--Unaffected satisfaction presided in the assembly, light-hearted
wit broke forth in a thousand brilliant sallies, while joy heightened
the flush on the cheek of youth, and smoothed the furrows on the brow of
age: nor did the sprightly fair one, who was just verging upon sixteen,
fail to exert herself to enhance the hilarity of the company.--When a
convenient time had elapsed, the priest arose in order to begin the
ceremony, but, upon looking round, observed that the young lady was not
present; one of the bride's maids was therefore dispatched to inform her
that the company were in waiting for her, but she returned with much
disorder, and told them that Arria was not to be found:--her mother,
offended at this seeming want of respect for their guests, went in quest
of her herself, as did several of the family; but they all, after
absenting themselves for a long time, returned with the surprising
account that none knew where she was.--The alarmed assembly then
separated to search for her, some supposing that a false delicacy might
have prevailed upon her to conceal herself, and others were apprehensive
that some fearful accident had befallen her; every apartment, therefore,
of the house in which they were, and likewise the neighbours, together
with the wells and cisterns were examined, but all to no purpose; for
when night spread her shadows upon the earth, there still appeared no
trace of her they sought.

For several succeeding days strict enquiries were made concerning her,
but all proving fruitless, Orlando and her parents gave her up for lost,
abandoning themselves to all the agonies of grief:---Sometimes, in
frantic anguish, they would accuse her of being false to Orlando, and
being with some more favoured lover; and again they would melt in the
tenderness of affection and bewail the unknown chance which had wrested
her from their bosoms; but suspence barbed the shafts of sorrow,--the
susceptible heart of Orlando sunk beneath its weight, and before the
next May opened upon the smiling year, he had sought

  "The dreary regions of the dead,
  "Where _all things_ are forgot."

It was in that month that the mother of Arria, having occasion to put
away some winter apparel, ascended to the garret, where in a remote
corner was placed a large sea-chest with a _spring-lock_;---believing it
to be empty, she attempted to open it, when finding that the spring had
catched, she had recourse to the key which lay by it---it unlocked---and
she partly raised the lid---but such a horrid smell of putridity burst
through the aperture, that the lid fell from her hand!----a frightful
idea flushed through her brain, and, uttering a death-like shriek, she
fell upon the floor!---Some of the family who were in the apartment
below, heard her and hasted to her assistance.---As soon as she was
capable of motion, she raised her hand, and pointing to the chest, they
instantly opened it, and beheld the ghastly skeleton of the once lovely
Arria!!! who, it seems, in a fit of frolic had thrown herself therein,
expecting every moment to be sought for! but, no doubt, she fainted as
soon as she heard the lock shut, and as the chest was too close to admit
any air, she must have suffocated before she had a full sense of her
deplorable situation!

    ANNA.

      NEW-YORK _Aug. 18, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE OF DR. JOHNSON.

You knew Mr. Capel, Dr. Johnson?---"Yes, Sir; I have seen him at
Garrick's." And what think you of his abilities? "They are just
sufficient, Sir, to enable him to select the black hairs from the white
ones, for the use of the periwig-makers. Were he and I to count the
grains in a bushel of wheat for a wager, he would certainly prove the
winner."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  UNACCOUNTABLE THIRST FOR FAME.

A Grecian named Erostratus being ambitious of a name, and finding he
could not obtain it by any laudable enterprize, resolved to do it by an
act of the highest villainy, and therefore destroyed by fire the famous
temple of Diana at Ephesus, in the year 398, from the foundation of
Rome. A pile of building that for the excellency of it, was reckoned
among the wonders of the universe. His confessing his design in being
the incendiary, was to render his name immortal: The Ephesians, by a law
forbid the citizens from ever naming him, to disappoint him of the glory
he sought after; but were mistaken in their politics, for the record
continued what they endeavoured to abolish.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

A few days since in this city, Mr. H. DE BERNARD, jun. late of the
island of St. Lucie, in the West-Indies, to the widow TRONSON, of this
city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 14th to the 20th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

         deg.  deg.  deg.  8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
            100   100
  Aug 14  75    83 75 80   sw. w. do.   clear, lt. wind, do. do.
      15  67    73    68   w. do. se.    cloudy, lt. wind, clear,
      16  67    74    68   se. do. do.  clear, lt. wind, do. do.
      17  64    70    67   se. do. do.  clear, lt. wind, do. do.
      18  67    73    70   se. do. do.  cloudy, lt. wind, clear.
      19  73    78    75   se. do. do.  cloudy, lt. wind, rain
      20  73    79    78   se. do. do.  cloudy, lt. wind, clear


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                 ANTICIPATION.

  Man's restless spirit, always on the wing,
  Insatiate, ever striving to be blest,
  With eager grasp lays hold on time to come,
  And fondly, with the future moment joins
  Some fancied pleasure, some expected bliss.
  In vain experience shews the grand mistake,
  And melts our air-built castles into nought;
  Hope beckons on, and man obsequious runs
  The same wild race, and with the same result;
  While tasteless creeps the present tiresome hour.--
  --Say, Moralist, with philosophic eye,
  From hence what useful lesson may be learn'd,
  And what inferr'd to cheer the hopeless heart;
  Has not th' all-wise Director of events
  Implanted deep within the human breast
  A hope of happiness, not here attain'd,
  To lead us on to seek some greater good,
  The bliss of Heav'n, the gift of Love divine?--
  And will he disappoint this ardent hope?

    VIATOR.

      NEW-YORK _Aug. 19, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                THE SETTING SUN.

  (_Written at the request of a young Lady._)

  Behold yon brilliant orb, whose matchless light
    O'er heaven's capacious arch its rays diffuse;
  Atchiev'd his constant round, he shews less bright,
    And half his splendor's wrapt in western dews.

  The lightly passing clouds, with gold array'd,
    Steal from their august Monarch as he dies;
  And ting'd with brightest hues they fly pourtray'd;
    And give a glow to circumambient skies.

  The Night too soon her darksome curtain drops,
    And, deep with mourning look, drives day away;
  But lo! the radiant moon with lustre stops,
    And adds new glory, though she shines less gay.

  In such a scene as this we learn, that man,
    Although he dies and moulders in the tomb,
  His fame and virtues shall complete the plan;
    And while he sleeps in death his name shall bloom.

  The seeds of well spent days shall rise apace,
    And like the moon of night on growth will shine,
  Although his body is despoil'd of grace,
    And mix'd with ashes, as was Heav'n's design.

    LUCIUS.

      Pine-Street, _Aug. 19, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  LINES ON THE CELEBRATED SHAKESPEARE.

  On a biforked hill, with Fame's ever-green crown'd,
    Encircled with azure serene,
  Whilst the Sylphs of his fancy play'd wantonly round,
    Willy Shakespeare enliven'd the scene.

  As all pensive he sat, keen-ey'd Wisdom drew near,
    Just sent from the regions above;
  And smiling she whisper'd this truth in his ear,
    Thy lays breathe the spirit of Jove.

  To his side came the Muse of the bowl and the blade,
    To hail him great Prince of her art;
  Whilst Comedy near, all those dimples display'd
    That gave a brisk pulse to the heart.

  Bright Genius approach'd him with pleasing respect,
    In her arms a young eagle she bore,
  To shew, if unshackl'd by icy neglect,
    To what wonderful heights she could soar.

  Recumbent before him, straight dropt the sweet maid,
    And expanding the wings of her bird
  "Take the Quill of Sublimity, Shakespeare," she said,
    "And go fashion the tear-starting word."

  To Genius he bow'd, as she pluckt forth the Quill,
    To the breeze were his vestments unfurl'd,
  Like a sun-beam, with Fancy he fled from the hill,
    To charm and illumine the world.

  For the good of mankind, he rare precepts convey'd,
    And his strains had such pow'r o'er the ear,
  That, whenever he pleas'd, from the concourse that stray'd,
    He could call forth a smile or a tear.

  Old Time knew his worth, with the sigh of esteem,
    From the earth bid sweet Willy arise;
  With his genius he fled, but has left us his theme,
    Which shall ever be dear to the wise.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  TO ELIZA.

  I ask'd a kiss, and scarce those lips comply'd,
    For instant fled the momentary joy;--
  Would thou hadst still the fatal bliss deny'd,
    And then, as now, been more severely coy!

  Can one slight show'r refresh the thirsty field?
    One single plant with verdure clothe the plain?--
  One star to yon wide arch its radiance yield?--
    Or one small rill supply the boundless main?

  The skies, unnumber'd, all their bounties pour;--
    In such profusion are their blessings given,
  Ev'n thankless man must own the wond'rous store
    Becomes the rich munificence of heaven.

  While you one kiss, and one alone, resign'd,
    Though fav'ring night enwrapp'd th'unconscious grove,
  Though well you knew not crowded millions join'd
    Could sate th' unrival'd avarice of love.

  Yet, once again the dang'rous gift renew;
    With kinder looks prolong the fleeting bliss!
  Let me too try, while all thy charms I view,
    Like Shakespeare's Moor, _to die upon a kiss_.

  Yet no such kiss as some cold sister grants,
    And colder brother carelessly receives;--
  Be mine the kiss for which the lover pants,
    And the dear soft, consenting mistress gives!

  'Tis else as well with ardent vows to press
    Th' unyielding bosom of the sculptur'd fair,
  Or court the walls whose pictur'd forms confess
    That _West_ or graceful _Reynolds_ has been there.

  In thy sweet kiss, oh! blend such fond desires
    As conquer youth, and palsied age can warm;
  Those arts which cherish love, like vestal fires,
    And bid, in virtue's cause, our passions arm.

  Such if thou giv'st--though closing air and sea
    Efface the arrow's path, and vessel's road,
  More faithful to their trust my lips shall be,
    And bear th'impression to their last abode.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON VICISSITUDE.

  In life what various scenes appear;
    How differs every day,
  We _now_, the face of comfort wear,
    To-morrow of dismay.

  As light and darkness each success,
    So pleasure follows pain;
  Our spirits, drooping while we bleed,
    They brisker flow again.

  Winter and summer have their turns,
    Each vale its rising hills:
  One hour the raging fever burnt,
    The next an ague chills.

  A mind at ease and free from care,
    Can paradise excel:
  But when in trouble and despair,
    A palace then is hell.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, August 31, 1796.+  [+No. 61.+


  +Rules for judging the beauties of painting, music, and poetry;
  founded on a new examination of the word thought, as applied to
  the fine arts.+

Thoughts are, generally speaking, all ideas sufficiently distinct to be
conveyed by signs. When speaking with a particular reference to the
belles lettres and polite arts, we mean, by thoughts, the ideas which
the artist attempts to raise by his performance, in contradistinction to
the manner in which they are raised or expressed.

In works of art, thoughts are what remain of a performance, when
stripped of its embellishments. Thus, a poet's thoughts are what remains
of his poems, independently of the verification and of some ideas,
merely serving for its decoration and improvement.

Thoughts, therefore, are the materials proposed and applied by art to
its purposes. The dress in which they appear, or the form into which
they are moulded by the artist, is merely accidental; consequently, they
are the first object of attention in every work of art; the spirit, the
soul of a performance, which, if its thoughts are indifferent, is but of
little value, and may be compared to a palace of ice, raised in the most
regular form of an habitable structure, but, from the nature of its
materials, totally useless.

While, therefore, you are contemplating an historical picture, try to
forget that it is a picture; forget the painter, whose magic art has, by
lights and shades, created bodies where there are none. Fancy to
yourself that you are looking at men, and then attend to their actions.
Observe whether they are interesting; whether the persons express
thoughts and sentiments in their faces, attitudes, and motions; whether
you may understand the language of their airs and gestures; and whether
they tell you something remarkable. If you find it not worth your while
to attend to the persons thus realised by your fancy, the painter has
thought to little purpose.

Whilst listening to a musical performance, try to forget that you are
hearing sounds of an inanimate instrument, produced only by great and
habitual dexterity of lips or fingers. Fancy to yourself, that you hear
a man speaking some unknown language, and observe whether his sounds
express some sentiments; whether they denote tranquility or disturbance
of mind, soft or violent, joyful or grievous affections; whether they
express any character of the speaker; and whether the dialect be noble
or mean. If you cannot discover any of these requisites, then pity the
virtuoso for having left so much ingenuity destitute of thought.

In the same manner we must judge of poems, especially of the lyric kind.
That ode is valuable, which, when deprived of its poetical dress, still
affords pleasing thoughts or images to the mind. Its real merit may be
best discovered by transposing it into simple prose, and depriving it of
its poetical colouring. If nothing remains, that a man of sense and
reflection would approve, the ode, with the most charming harmony, and
the most splendid colouring, is but a fine dress hung round a man of
straw. How greatly then are those mistaken, who consider an exuberant
fancy, and a delicate ear, as sufficient qualifications for a lyric
poet!

It is only, after having examined the thoughts of a performance in their
unadorned state, that we can pronounce whether the attire, in which they
have been dressed by art, fits, and becomes well or ill. A thought whose
value and merit cannot be estimated, but from its dress, is, in effect,
as futile and insignificant as a man who affects to display his merit by
external pomp.

  [[Source:

  Original (English translation): A General Theory of the Polite Arts,
    delivered in single Articles, and digested according to the
    Alphabetical Order of their technical Terms. By John George Sulzer,
    Fellow of the Royal Academy of Sciences at Berlin.
  Possible sources:
    1774: _The Critical review: or, Annals of literature_, Volume 38,
      ed. Tobias George Smollett
    1774: The Monthly Miscellany, 1774.
    1790: _The New magazine of knowledge concerning Heaven and Hell_,
      Vol. I. This seems the most likely direct source.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  ACTIVITY.

An ACTIVE life increases not only the powers of the body, but also those
of the mind; while indolence is the destruction of both. If a man love
his neighbour in a certain degree, and take the first opportunity of
putting that love into ACTION, he will then love his neighbour better
than he did before, or in a higher degree; and will therefore be more
ready to serve him on a future occasion, than if he had omitted the
first ACT of benevolence. This is an invariable truth, provided the ACT
proceed from disinterested motives; the reason of which is grounded in
this immutable law, that all influx is proportioned to efflux; or in
other words, That in proportion as man puts forth himself into ACTUAL
uses, in the same proportion the life which flows into him from the
Lord, becomes fixed within him, and forms a plane for the reception of
more life. A life of ACTIVITY, therefore, when under the direction of
genuine wisdom, enlarges every faculty of the human soul, and at the
same time capacitates man for the most noble and exquisite enjoyments.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 59.)

These assurances entirely satisfied the Queen, and they consulted
together on measures by which they might be at liberty to entertain the
illustrious slaves the next day. The Sultan's coming in, put an end to
their conversation for this time. This Prince, who had no other defect
than his being a Saracen, accosted her with that joy, which his having
had it in his power to oblige her, gave him---"Well madam," said he,
"can you doubt of my love!---may I flatter myself, that what I have done
will dispel the grief and melancholy that has so long possessed
you?"---"I owe you every thing, my lord," said she, "and my whole
endeavours shall be to express my gratitude." The Sultan, charmed to
find her in so good a humour, entertained her a little longer, and then
told her (for he was just come from council) that it was resolved to
oppose vigorously an irruption that a neighbouring prince had made into
his dominions, and that war was going to be declared immediately.

This news inspired the Queen with a thought, which succeeded to her
wish; and being willing to take advantage of the disposition she found
the Sultan in, of granting her every thing; "Heaven," said she, "favours
me in an extraordinary manner, in giving me an opportunity of
acknowledging your goodness. One of the captives, my lord, whom you have
given me, is the most valiant man of his time, nor is his conduct in war
inferior to his courage, which the wonders he has done evinces. I am
almost assured you will have the victory, if you permit him to combat
the enemy." The Sultan remonstrated to her the difference of their
religions, and the little assurance he could have in the faith of a
Christian. "I'll be the pledge of his fidelity; and the better to assure
you, I'll keep the two other captives, who are, I know, very dear to
him, as hostages." The Sultan seemed satisfied with these words, and
granted her request, leaving her absolute mistress to act in this affair
as she pleased; and retired to his apartment, much more affected with
the joy of obliging her, than disturbed at the success of the war.

The beautiful Queen passed the night in very different emotions; love
had renewed his forces in her soul, nature that did for a while revolt
at the remembrance of the cruelty inflicted on her, returned to its
obedience, and was wholly taken up with the fear of not being loved, and
remembered enough to be acknowledged, when discovered, with the joy she
wished.----The Counts of Ponthieu and St. Paul spent not their hours
more quietly. Thibault found himself agitated with the perturbations of
a dawning passion; he accused himself of it as a crime. The Count was no
less embarrassed about his, tho' he was very well assured they proceeded
not from love, but the prodigious resemblance he found between his
daughter and this lovely Queen, reminded him of the barbarity he had
been guilty of.----He could not imagine there had been a possibility of
saving that unhappy princess; but the tenderness with which the
Sultaness had inspired him, was so near that he felt for his daughter,
that it gave him an astonishment not to be conceived.

Day appearing, they rose, and set themselves about preparing the fruit,
as Sayda had ordered them; which done, they were not long before they
received a command to bring it to the Queen. Nothing could be more
pleasing than this commission; both found an undescribable impatience to
see her again, and followed the faithful slave 'till they came into her
presence. They found her dressed with an incredible magnificence,
resplendent with an infinite number of diamonds; she was reclined on a
sofa, and after having looked a moment on them, "Well," said she, "are
you ready to satisfy me?---I will not give you the pains of relating
your names and qualities, neither are unknown to me; only tell me by
what strange adventure you arrived at this place.---Count de Ponthieu,
it is to you in particular I address."

The Count was in a surprize which cannot be expressed, to hear himself
named, and finding there was indeed no room for dissimulation, told his
story with sincerity; but when he came to that part which concerned his
daughter, his sighs made many interruptions in his discourse, yet did he
forget no circumstance, but confessed the crime he had been guilty of,
in putting her to death: "But alas!" added he, "with what remorse has my
soul been torn since that fatal day!---my tenderness for her revived
with fresh vigour, and the torments I have endured, have been such, that
if her spirit has any knowledge of what is transacted in this lower
world, she must believe my punishment at least equal to my
guilt."---Then he told her of their vow, their voyage to Jerusalem, the
tempest, and their slavery and condemnation.---"This, madam," said he,
"is a faithful account of our misfortunes; and though they are of a
nature beyond the common rank of woes, yet they receive no
inconsiderable alleviation, by the concern your excessive goodness makes
you take in them."---And, indeed, the fair Sultaness, during the latter
part of his relation, had seemed drowned in tears, and was some time
before she could recover herself enough to speak; but at last---"I own,"
said she, "that what you have told me, very much touches me.--I
extremely pity the Princess of Ponthieu, she was young, her reason might
have returned to her; the generous proceeding of her husband, would
doubtless have reclaimed her in time: but Heaven has punished you for
your cruelty, you must not therefore be any more reproached with it. But
to prove your penitence sincere, what reception would you give that
Princess if by any miracle, which I cannot at present conceive, she
should have escaped that destiny your rashness exposed her to?" "Ah
madam!" cried the Count, "were there a possibility of such a blessing,
my whole life should be employed in rendering hers fortunate!" "And
you," said she to Thibault, who she saw overwhelmed in tears, "would
your wife be dear to you? Could you forgive her distracted behaviour?
Could you restore her to your heart, as fond, as tender as ever?--in
short, could you still love her?"--"Question it not, madam," answered
he, with a voice interrupted with sighs, "nothing but her presence can
ever make me happy."--"Receive her, then," cried she, casting aside her
veil, and throwing herself into his arms, "I am that unfortunate wife--I
am that daughter," added she, running to her father, "that has cost you
so many melancholy hours. Own her, my lord; take her to your breast, my
dear Thibault, nor let the sight of her dissipate the tenderness you
expressed for her when unknown."

Who can describe the joy and astonishment of these illustrious persons!
their eyes were now opened, the secret emotions they had felt, were now
easy to be accounted for.---She was acknowledged for the wife, blessed
as the daughter, with a torrent of inexpressible delight. Thibault threw
himself at her feet, bathing her hands in tears of joy; while the Count
held her in his arms, without being able to utter more than---my
daughter---my dear---my long lost daughter.---The young Prince kissed
her robe; and Sayda, only witness of this moving scene, dissolved in
tears of tenderness and joy.---At length the first surprise being over,
this mute language was succeeded by all the fond endearing things that
nature, wit, and love had the power of inspiring. The beautiful Queen
had now time to return the caresses of the young Prince her brother,
who, though she knew no otherwise than by her father's account, his
youth and beauty had very much affected her from the first time she saw
him.---After having a little indulged their transports, "It is time,"
said she, "to inform you of my adventures. The Sultan is taken up with
making preparations for a war he is obliged to enter into, so that we
may have the liberty of conversing, without the apprehension of being
interrupted."----Then having seated themselves, and Sayda being placed
on the outside of the cabinet, to give them notice if any suspicious
person should appear, the charming Sultaness addressing herself to the
Count, began her discourse in this manner:

"I will not repeat," said she, "the cause of your designing my death,
you are but too sensible of it, and the loss of my reason is too well
known to you for me to go about to renew the affliction it occasioned
you: I shall only say, that it was excess of love which caused my
distraction, and being prepossessed with an idea of being no longer
worthy of my husband's affection, imagining that I saw him reproaching
me with my misfortune, and endeavouring to get rid of me; I was so
abandoned by my senses, as to wish his death, as the only thing that
could restore me to my repose. This thought so wholly engrossed my soul,
that I looked on the sentence you inflicted on me, as caused by him; my
frenzy prevented the horror of my fate from making any impression on me;
and you may remember, Sir, that I neither endeavoured by intreaties or
strugglings to avert it, being rather in a state of insensibility than
any thing else. Which course my little vessel steered, or how long I
continued in it, I know not---all I can tell, is, that I found myself in
a real ship, in the midst of a great many unknown persons, busily
employed in bringing me to myself; but what is most surprising,
I recovered my sight, memory and reason, at the same instant; whether it
was owing to the common effect which the fear of death has, or to the
property of the sea, or, to judge better, the work of heaven: but all I
had said, or done, or thought, came into my mind, and I found myself so
guilty against you and my husband, that the first sign of life that my
deliverers perceived in me, was by shedding an excessive shower of
tears; which was the more violent, because I had never wept since that
fatal adventure in the forest: and indeed I thought, as did all about
me, that they would have suffocated me; but so much care was taken of
me, that without putting an end to my affliction, my life was out of
danger.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTES OF DR. GOLDSMITH.

As Goldsmith wrote for the book-sellers, he was looked on by many of
them as a literary drudge equal to the task of compiling and
translating, but little capable of original, and still less of poetical
composition: he nevertheless wrote one of the finest poems of the lyric
kind that our language has to boast of; the ballad, "Turn gentle Hermit
of the Dale;" and surprised his friends with "The Traveller," a poem
that contains some particulars of his own history. Johnson was supposed
to have assisted him; but he contributed to the perfection of it only
four lines; his opinion of it was, that it was the best written poem
since the time of Pope. The favourable reception which the essay of his
poetical talent met with, soon after tempted Goldsmith to the
publication of his "Deserted Village," the merits whereof, consist in
beautiful descriptions of rural manners; are sufficiently known.

His poems are replete with fine moral sentiments, and bespeak a great
dignity of mind; yet he had no sense of the shame, nor dread of the
evils of poverty.

He was buried in the Poet's Corner, in Westminster Abbey, and the
inscription on his monument was written by Johnson.

The Doctor used to say he could play on the German flute as well as most
men; at other times, as well as any man living: but, in truth, he
understood not the character in which music is written, and played on
that instrument, as many of the vulgar do, merely by air. Roubiliac, the
sculptor, a merry fellow, once heard him play; and minding to put a
trick on him, pretended to be charmed with his performance; as, also,
that himself was skilled in the art, and entreated him to repeat the
air, that he might write it down. Goldsmith readily consenting,
Roubiliac called for paper, and scored thereon a few five-lined staves,
which having done, Goldsmith proceeded to play, and Roubiliac to write;
but his writing was only such random notes on the lines and spaces, as
any one might set down who had ever inspected a page of music. When they
had both done, Roubiliac shewed the paper to Goldsmith, who looking it
over with great seeming attention, said it was very correct, and that if
he had not seen him do it, he never could have believed his friend
capable of writing music after him.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                  CONSCIENCE.

  "Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it,
  "The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder,
  "That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc'd
  "The name of prosper."

    TEMPEST.

The loss of fortune, dignity, glory, and all the pageantry of earthly
grandeur, is comparatively trifling when put in competition to that of
virtue: when the human mind first stoops to debasement, and wanders in
the paths of impiety, its progress to misery, although gradual, is too
fatally inevitable, the smallest crimes by becoming habitual increase in
time to the crimson tints of attrocity; then O conscience! thou most
incessant and excruciating torturer, thou never failing monitor, 'tis
then thine admonitions wound with remorse the breast of conscious vice;
thou establishest thine awful tribunal on the ruins of neglected virtue,
there to inflict a punishment far more severe than aught invented by the
ingenuity of man.

When lulled in apparent security, and revelling in the round of
transitory pleasure, thine awful presence intrudes itself upon the
harrassed imagination, and bids the lofty sinner reflect on the acts of
injustice of which he has been guilty. The veil of oblivion, which with
all the precaution of vice, he has endeavoured to cast over his crimes,
thou canst in one unguarded moment cause himself to remove; his deeds of
darkness, so cautiously enveloped with the specious garb of
dissimulation and hypocrisy, are frequently by thee laid open to the
scrutinizing eye of justice. His most secret recesses thou canst
penetrate, his every joy embitter, and render him who was once hardened
in iniquity, susceptible to the slightest emotions of fear. The man who
once was callous to the tender plaints of misery and injured innocence,
will, when under thy powerful influence, start at a shadow, tremble at
an "unreal mockery," and imagine the most trivial sound a solemn summons
of retribution.--Such, O conscience! is the form in which thou visitest
the child of iniquity; such the shape in which thou approachest the
votary of vice; how happy then the man, who void of guile, dreads not
thy reproaches: who, supported by the consciousness of unspotted
innocence, enjoys uninterrupted serenity and peace of mind; whose
slumbers are undisturbed by the phantoms of a disordered imagination,
and who looks forward with the ardour of hope and expectation to the
time when the virtues and vices of mankind shall receive their just
reward.

  ALEXIS.

    NEW-YORK _Aug. 22, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRAORDINARY EFFECT OF JEALOUSY.

Justina was esteemed the finest woman in Rome, but had the misfortune to
marry a jealous headed husband, who had no other cause of suspicion, but
that she was very beautiful. His disease increasing, for want of
prudence he grew desperate, and seeing her stoop at a certain time to
pull off her shoe, showed her wonderful white neck, and a fit of
jealousy seizing him, he drew his sword and at one blow cut off her head
from her body.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

            CHARACTER OF A RICH MAN.

Gito has a florid complexion, full-blown cheeks, a fixed bold eye, is
high-chested, and his gait is steady and deliberate; he speaks with
confidence, and pays but little regard to what others say; he spits at a
great distance from him, and sneezes very loud; at table and when
walking, he takes up more room than another man; when taking a walk with
his equals, he places himself in the center of them, he interrupts and
corrects those who are speaking, but he himself will not be interrupted,
and all listen to him so long as he thinks proper to talk; when seating
himself, he sinks into a large easy chair, and then knits his brows,
afterwards pulls his hat over his eyes, that he may not see any one,
then pushes back again his hat, in order to discover his haughty and
audacious front. He is sometimes jocose, laughs aloud, is impatient,
presumptuous, choleric, loose; he is of a political turn, and mysterious
with regard to the present times; he fancies himself possessed of
talents and genius----he is rich . . .

  NEW-YORK _Aug. 26, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE COURT OF LOVE.

This was a society formed by those high-priests of gallantry, the early
poets, or Troubadours of Provence. It was shortly imitated by similar
establishments in Gascony, Languedoc, Poictou, and Dauphiny. Picardy,
the constant rival of Provence, had also its Plaids et Gieux sous
l'Ormel, an institution differing from the former only in name.

These establishments consisted of knights and ladies of the highest
rank, exercised and approved in courtesy, who assumed an absolute
judicial power in matters of the most delicate nature; trying, with the
most consummate ceremony, all cases in love brought before their
tribunals. Nor did their decrees receive effect from the voluntary
submission only of their members; the general courtesy of the times
stamped them with unquestionable authority, nor did the legislature
itself disdain to sanction their decisions.

Of this a remarkable instance is recorded, which took place in France in
the year 1206; when application was made to the queen to reverse a
sentence deemed unjust by the party, and which had been pronounced in
the love pleas of one of these courts, in which the Countess of
Champagne presided. It was deemed, however, that decrees of this nature
admitted of no appeal; and her majesty declared, that she did not choose
to interpose in a matter of such consequence, nor to scrutinize the
decrees of a court whose power was absolute, and whose decisions were
final; adding, "God forbid that I should presume to contradict the
sentence of the Countess of Champagne."--So far may the manners, and
even prejudices, of an age, sometimes have a tendency to correct the
haughtiness even of despotic power!


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 62.)

"Who has authorised you to try me?"

"Who has authorised me to save you from the waves?"

"Why this question instead of an answer?"

"To tell you that every body is authorised to be useful to another
person, without his knowledge and permission."

"I hope you will not make me believe that you have deceived me in order
to promote my happiness!"

"If delusions are leading to truth, then they are undoubtedly means of
promoting happiness."

"Indeed! According to my notions, _real_ happiness never can be founded
upon delusion, as truth can never originate from error. Delusions and
errors are obstacles on the road to happiness and truth, but never will
be the means of promoting them."

"Then you must blame nature for acting after a plan entirely opposite to
your notions. Has she not made imagination, that mother of illusion, the
source of unspeakable pleasures. It is imagination alone that can afford
what reality never can give---never satiated enjoyment. Imagination
preserves, renews and improves every pleasure of the senses--What else
but imagination is the source of the purest and most sublime raptures of
love? Or do you perhaps think, that the perceptions which we receive
through our senses are free of illusion, that we are never deceived by
the organs which nature has given us? Your ideas would be just if we
could know by means of our senses, the objects themselves and not merely
their appearances; the essential substance, and not merely the
superficies of things; however, as our senses never shew us the thing
itself, but only its exterior appearance, the reality of sensible
perceptions is always very suspicious. And since, from our sensible
perceptions, even our plainest notions are abstracted, one must either
doubt the certainly of logical arguments, or allow that illusions are
the path leading to truth. Common experience teaches us, that one
improves in knowledge by committing errors. It is as incontrovertible
that error precedes truth, as it cannot be denied that darkness precedes
light. If therefore nature herself leads a man to truth and happiness by
way of delusions and errors, then you cannot blame me for having
endeavoured to lead you to that mark by the same road."

"But to what sort of happiness and truth? for no real happiness, and no
pure truth can exist if all our perceptions and notions are founded on
illusions."

"You are mistaken, my Lord, they really exist; however they differ
widely from what men generally believe to be truth and happiness."

"Then you are going to make me acquainted with a new kind of happiness
and truth, and to lead me to uncommon light by the common road of
illusion?"

"Man must be treated in a human manner, and improve by degrees. A sudden
transition from twilight to the radiant glare of the noon-tide sun, from
the land of sweet fancies to pure paradisiacal bliss, would transport
the son of dust beyond himself. For that reason, it was requisite you
should experience all the intermediate degrees of illusion, but not of
an ordinary one, in order to obtain possession of an extraordinary
treasure. That spot, where you will find the talisman which breaks the
magic charm whereby the treasure is withheld from you as yet, is the
highest pinnacle of illusion, and for that very reason the last degree
of it. He who has happily arrived at it, emerges from the mazy labyrinth
of enchantments, beholds a new heaven and a new earth, and, as if new
created, strides over into the kingdom of unadulterated truth and bliss;
where he enters the sacred porch of that eternal temple from which only
the grave separates him."

"I do not entirely comprehend your emblematical language; will you
explain yourself more at large?" So saying, I offered him a chair; we
sat down, and he began:

"The history of all ages and nations convinces us that all men strive to
be happy: but only the better and nobler part of mankind are in pursuit
of truth; not as if the latter sort did not also contend for happiness,
but because they find it in the contemplation of truth, and do not
believe that happiness can exist, without being founded on the base of
truth. The former class pursue happiness on different and opposite
roads, and when they fancy they have found it, embrace an airy phantom;
the latter class also go in pursuit of truth on different and opposite
roads, and when they fancy they have discovered it, are enraptured at an
_ignis fatuus_. Some of them perceive at last that they are deceived by
illusions, and others do not. The former continue their pursuit by the
road which they have once fallen in with, and finding nothing but new
phantoms and new illusions, spread at length the rumour, that no real
happiness and truth could be met with here below. But suppose a man of
an extraordinary genius, who had been firmly convinced that this
treasure can be found here below, should have attempted to go in search
of it through uncommon and never trodden paths, and at length, after
enormous deviations, which on the unbeaten paths he pursued could not be
avoided, should have found truth and happiness in their natural purity
and sisterly union, and entrusted the secret to his friends under the
condition to communicate it only to a few, and not even to them till
they should have been tried by uncommon delusions of different kinds,
like himself; would you then forgive me, my Lord, if I had deceived you
with that view?"

"Then I should not owe you forgiveness, but gratitude. But as the time
of probation (according to your own declaration) is past, will you not
be so good as to let me see only a few rays of that light, the full
splendor of which I am going to behold."

"I have orders not to disclose the secret to you before the liberation
of your country should be accomplished."

"Then my probationary time is not yet finished?"

"The time of delusion is past, and you are now to begin the epocha of
acting for which the former was designed to prepare you. Strain every
nerve to deliver your country, and the last trial will be finished."

"How can I save my country?"

"At M***d you shall be informed of it."

"I am going to depart for that town to-morrow morning."

"At ****, twelve miles from hence, you may stop for a short time--but
mark well, only for a short time. You will meet Amelia there"--

"Amelia?"

"And will find her differently disposed from what she would have been
without my interference."

"What do you mean by that?"

"The Countess has vowed to be faithful unto death to the man of her
heart. She has frequently renewed this rigorous vow at the tomb which
she has devoted to his memory, and thus promised to the dear departed
object of her love a sacrifice, which has driven to despair all those
whom her uncommon charms have enchanted. You would have shared the same
fate, my Lord, if my power had not dissolved the dreadful covenant which
Amelia has made with the departed spirit of her Lord."

I started up like a maniac--"_That_ you have done? _You_ have done
that?"

The Irishman rose coolly from his seat: "Moderate your joy," said he,
"for you don't know whether I have not deceived the Countess!"

"O forget what I have said in the heat of passion. Beings like you are
above slander. Forgive what I have said!"

"When you come to **** stop at the inn of St. James's, and then you
shall be convinced by my actions that I have forgiven you." So saying,
he shook hands with me and left my apartment.

"Who is that incomprehensible man?" said I to myself, "Have I not been
his mortal enemy half an hour ago, and now am again become his friend
and admirer, am again enchained with fetters of which I fancied I had
rid myself entirely? Is my weakness the source of this unaccountable
change, or is he in possession of a magic charm by which he rules with
secret power every heart?" O thou who once shall read this history,
whoever thou art, do not look scornfully upon my relapse. Thou hast not
seen the countenance of that man, hast not heard him speak: I have been
less enthralled by what he said, than by the manner in which he spoke.
The magic power which his looks, his mien, his accent, and every gesture
gave to his words, rendered credible even what was improbable, and
raised the latter to certainty. While he was speaking I little thought
to interrupt him, dwelling with secret pleasure upon the contemplation
of the seducing pictures which he placed before me, and only when in
cooler blood, I began to anatomize and to scan the train of his
arguments. I discovered defects, gaps, and improbabilities which shook
the very base of my belief, and overclouded the charming prospects which
he displayed before my enraptured eyes. How ever, there was one idea on
which I dwelled with joyful confidence. 'It will be accomplished,'
I exclaimed, 'although every other promise of the Irishman should prove
airy phantoms. I shall see Amelia, and be happy!'

But this hope too began to dwindle away, after I had waited the next day
at the inn to which I had been directed by the Irishman, from eight
o'clock in the morning till seven o'clock at night without having
received tidings from Amelia. I was just going to take up my guitar in
order to give vent to my melancholy sensations, when my servant came to
tell me that a girl wanted to speak to me. I ordered him to shew her to
my apartment. After many courtisies and circumlocutions, the unknown
fair one begged me at length to have the kindness to honour her lady
with a wish. Asking her who her lady was, she replied that she durst not
tell me her name, but would shew me the way to the castle. "Then _your
lady_ has sent you to me?" "God forbid," she replied, "my lady knows not
a syllable of my errand; and your Lordship must tell the servant to
announce you by the name of the Marchese Albertini." "Who was it then
that gave you that order?" "An officer in a blue uniform," she replied,
"who has paid a visit to my lady some time ago. He told me where I
should find your Lordship; but, for heaven's sake do not tell my lady of
it; for he has given me a louis d'or to conceal that circumstance from
her!" Now I knew what to think of the matter. I could have kissed the
little garrulous messenger. "There, take this;" said I, emptying my
purse in her apron, "shew me instantly to the house of your lady!" The
girl was enraptured with joy, hurried down stairs, and I followed her
with impatient steps.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  OBSERVATIONS ON THE BOILING POINT OF WATER.

Water when exposed to a sufficient degree of heat, is gradually heated
till it arrives at the 212th degree of Fahrenheit's thermometer, after
which it resolves itself into vapour, and becomes incapable of growing
hotter; supposing, however, that the gravity of the atmosphere remaining
the same; for upon high mountains it will boil, or assume the form of
vapour in a lower degree of heat; hence in a mean heat of the barometer,
the heat of boiling water has been always considered as a fixed and
invariable point, namely, equal to the 212th degree of the thermometer;
but Mr. Achard, willing to examine the truth of this position, or, in
other words, willing to observe whether the heat of boiling water was
subject to be altered by any other circumstance, besides the variable
pressure of the atmosphere, made many experiments, the summary of which
is, that the aperture of the vessel in which the water is boiled,
occasions a variation, amounting to nearly one degree; the heat being
greater when the aperture is narrower; and the substance of the vessel
is also the cause of considerable variation; for if the vessel be made
of glass, porcelain or other substance, which is a bad conductor of
heat, the boiling point of water will be a constant degree, but if the
vessel be of metal, all other circumstances being alike, then the heat
of boiling water will be fluctuating.


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           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                _TO TYRUNCULUS._

Your _elevated and most distinguished_ reflections on the _grand_ topic
of segar smoaking, affords a charming field for speculation. It appears
in the eye of reason to be truly self-partial, and the allusion to
_bucks_ alone, leaves an undescribable scope for contemplation, such as
must here lay dormant for want of a _palatable_ penetration to its
merits or demerits.-----If, friend Tyrunculus, segar smoaking is found
such a disagreeable and obnoxious weapon in your presence, does that
sanction your divulging its bad effects to exist on the rest of mankind?
Has experience, the grand teacher of science, actuated you to a
confirmation of its being a _poisonous twist?_ Or is its source derived
from your physical knowledge and sound reasoning? If the former, it must
be admitted, that your _title_ is good for a public demonstration, if
the latter, it must be concluded that you are a professed physician and
a man of eminent learning, in which case your annunciation in respect to
its bad or good effects might have had some weight, and at the same time
would have been considered an act of great charity. There are people,
who by nature cannot withstand the powerful effect of smoak, and there
are others who, by reason of their faculties being much impaired, are
not able to bear it, which of these ought to be attributed to you, is
best known to yourself--I say, it is an amusement not altogether so
_fashionable_ as beneficial, because it tends to support the
constitution, and is a bar against receiving the ill consequences
arising from those disagreeable stenches, which reign almost in every
part of the city, and therefore, is of immense utility to smoakers at
large. "This, the learned doctors and physicians will prove."---To
divert myself any longer on this _very interesting_ subject would only
be expending time, too precious for me at present to let glide away, as
such I have only to add, that in order to avoid being again _incommoded
and insulted_ by _segar smoak_, it will not be amiss if you take a piece
of good council from your _friend the subscriber_, that is, to refrain
from imposing on any society either public or private, as, probably, the
consequence may be attended with a piercing stroke of this woeful
dagger.

  Yours, &c.

    SEGAR.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ACCOUNT OF A <DW64>-WOMAN WHO BECAME WHITE.

This woman was cook-maid to colonel Barnes of Maryland; she was born in
Virginia, and is about forty years old, remarkably healthy and robust,
and originally as black as the blackest African. About fifteen years
ago, the skin next adjoining to the nails of the fingers became white,
her mouth soon after suffered the same alteration, which gradually
extended over the whole body, though not quite in an equal degree; four
parts in five of her skin are as white, smooth, and transparent, as in a
fair European; the neck and back along the vertebrae, are least changed;
her face and neck, in which the change is complete, discover the veins
under the skin; and are suffused with blushes, when any accident excites
the passions, either of anger or shame.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. CORNELIUS KINGSLAND,
to Miss ABIGAIL COCK, both of this city.

On Thursday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Totten, Mr. JOHN
FOUNTAIN, of Maryland, (travelling minister of the Methodist order) to
Miss ELIZABETH RICKHOW, of Staten-Island.

On Saturday evening the 20th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Foster, Mr. SILAS B.
HAND, Printer, to Miss RHODA COOK, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. WILLIAM PEACOCK,
jun. of the state of Georgia, to Miss MARY MOORE, of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 21st to the 27th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

         deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
            100   100   100
  Aug 21  74    80    78     se. do. do.  cloudy, lt. wind, clear
      22  76    82    78     se. do. do.  cloudy, lt. wind, clear,
      23  71    82    76     se. do. do.  cloudy, lt. wind, clear.
      24  73    80 75 80     se. do. do.  clear, lt. wind, do. do.
      25  70 50 79    78 50  se. do. do.  cloudy, lt. wind rain
      26  73    77 25 75     n. e. do.    cloudy, lt. wd do. do.
      27  70    76 75 75     e. s. do.    cloudy, lt. wd. do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MORNING DAWN.

  Along the turfy heath cool blows the gale,
    And dewy odours scent the morning air;
  No sound I hear, save from the willow'd vale
    The tinkle of a brook, that murmurs there.

  In lonely silence wrapt, yon little mill
    Looks pensive as the moulder'd pile below;
  Shades hide the forest, and the misty hill
    Still keeps retiring Night upon its brow.

  O'er the chill earth all comfortless, I tread;
    The Eye of Nature beams in other skies:
  I'll seek yon bending mountain's lofty head,
    And peep upon his beauties ere he rise.

  Forbear!--expiring stars proclaim him nigh,
    Faintly they wink, and lose their silver light;
  The streaky orient wears a deepen'd dye,
    Green looks the upland, and the river bright.

  O'er the brown wood he sheds a trembling ray,
    And with his tresses wipes the tearful thorn;
  Shrill soars the lark to greet the early day,
    And herald to the world return of Morn.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

      LINES ON REVISITING A NATIVE PLACE.

  Light blows the wavy breeze, and o'er the plain
    Pale twilight steals, in sober livery drest;
  All nature sinks beneath the pleasing reign
    Of silence---and in balmy slumbers rest.

  Save where, with plaintive note, the bird of woe
    Proclaims approaching fate, while, trembling, near,
  Some mournful native wand'ring pensive, slow,
    Starts at the voice he oft' was taught to fear.*

  Amid these wilds pale superstition reigns,
    Her influence e'en the hardy Indian owns;
  And ceaseless still prepares for man new pains,
    And, fiend-like, too, delights to hear his groans.

  'Tis past----the last faint ray of light is gone,
    And darkness now pervades the ambient air;
  Here let me wander, pensive and alone,
    And sighing, think on fleeting joys that were.

  That were--alas! that are no longer mine,
    Ah! days of happiness how swift ye flew;
  When erst I saw the sun of pleasure mine,
    And not a cloud its full effulgence knew.

  How sad remembrance thrills my aching heart,
    As o'er these scenes so lov'd I fondly stray;
  Methinks each object bids me quick depart
    And ev'ry sighing gale thus seems to say:

  "Retire, fond maid, nor here forever mourn,
    Forget thy woes, forget thy useless grief;
  Can ceaseless weeping cause the dead's return,
    Or sighs eternal give the heart relief."

  I go, adieu! ye much lov'd shades, adieu!
    From your wild beauties far tho' doom'd to stray,
  Still faithful memory shall your charms renew,
    And with the semblance cheer my lonely way.

    CLARA.

      PEARL-STREET, _August 23, 1796_.

  [* There is a tradition among the Indians, that the cries of the
  whip-poor-will are ominous of coming evil.]


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE HAPPY MAN.
  To Horatio.

  Blest with the joys impassion'd fathers know,
  And all that heaven could in a wife bestow:
  A wife endear'd to that congenial breast.
  In three sweet prattlers most supremely blest.

    Blest with enjoyments that on wealth attend,
  And blest by heaven with many a social friend;
  In calm delight, whose ever-smiling rays,
  Spreads a sweet sun-shine o'er thy happy days.
  And blest to know, that high enroll'd in fame,
  Ages shall love and venerate the name.
  To every friend thy memory dear shall be,
  And sweet the song be, when they sing of thee----
  Oh! read this verse, where blessings all combine,
  And view thyself in each descriptive line.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ELIZA IN ANSWER TO * * * *.

  And durst thou, then, insulting youth, demand
    A second spoil from love's impov'rish'd store?
  Shall strains like thine a second kiss command,
    Thankless for one, because I gave no more?

  One lamp eradiates all yon azure heav'n,
    One polar star directs the pilot's way;
  Yet what bold wretch complains no more are giv'n,
    Or doubts the blessing of each friendly ray?

  One tim'rous kiss, which multitudes might bode,
    At once thy sun and guiding star had prov'd,
  If, while thy lips beneath its pressure glow'd,
    And thy tongue flatter'd--thou has truly lov'd.

  The flame which burns upon the virgin's cheek,
    The rising sigh, half utter'd, half supprest,
  To him who fondly loves, will more than speak
    What wav'ring thoughts divide th' impassion'd breast.

  Such soft confusion could the Moor disarm,
    And his rough heart, like Desdemona's, move;
  But soon her easy weakness broke the charm,
    And, ere her life she lost, she lost her love.

  No--if I hate thee, wherefore should I press
    A treach'rous contract with love's fav'rite seal?
  And, if I wish thy future hours to bless,
    Ah! why, too soon, that anxious care reveal?

  A ready conquest oft' the victor scorns;
    His laurels fade whose foe ere battle yields;
  No shouts attend the warrior who returns
    To claim the palm of uncontested fields.

  But banish lawless wishes from thy soul,
    While yet my hate or love is undeclar'd;
  Perhaps, ere many years in circles roll,
    Thoul't think Eliza but a poor reward.

  For, oh! my kisses ne'er shall teem with art,
    My faithful bosom form but one design--
  To study well the wife's, the mother's art,
    And learn to _keep_ thee, ere I _make_ thee _mine_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPITAPH.

  Stop, stranger stop, let one sad tear bedew
  That sorrowing face, while this cold stone you view:
  Here death in icy arms confines that fair,
  Who once was lovely as the angels are;
  But think not strange--------ever to behold
  Transcendent worth on sculptur'd marble told;
  Ah no!--suffice it, if one mournful tear
  Shall mix with mine in tender sorrow here.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, September 7, 1796.+  [+No. 62.+


  AN EVENING MEDITATION.

Now all is hushed, and nature seems to make a pause; the sun has
withdrawn his radiance, yet the gloom from yonder western sky bespeaks
him still at hand, promising to return with his reviving warmth, when
nature is refreshed with darkness.

The moon borrows her light, and bestows it upon us; she arises in silent
majesty, humbly waiting to reign when he resigns his throne. No chorus
ushers in his reign, no rays pronounce her approach; gently she steals
on the world, and sits in silent majesty to view the good she does. She
lights the wandering traveller, she warms the earth with gentle heat,
she dazzles not the eye of the philosopher, but invites him to view and
to admire.---How still is nature! not a breeze! each tree enjoys its
shadow undisturbed, the unruffled rivers glide smoothly on reflecting
nature's face; here thro' this road, by the side of this fair stream,
let me steal gently, step by step, wrapped up in future thoughts.--A
time will come when earth, and seas, and sun, and stars will be no
more----what then will be my thoughts----Think, oh then
now!--Think--that time is nothing to eternity, think,----all nature,
sun, and earth, and man, and angels are nothing--to thy God.--Think,
that thou art to thyself thy all; thyself once lost, nothing can give
thee joy or pain from without, but all will be concentered in thy own
misery: if happiness be thy lot, then wilt thou be capable of enjoying
also the happiness of others, thus redoubling thy own.

Oh! my soul, behold yon spangled sky---count the number of the
stars----No---thy counting fails, then think on that eternity which
awaits thee in another world; think too now, how great is the goodness
of God, to grace our little world with beauties to attract the eye and
captivate the mind. Beauties by day to cheer, to enliven, to call forth
thy active powers, to bustle with the busy, beauties and blessings
inviting thee to see, to taste, to smell, to hear.---Beauties too, Oh
see, by night, beauties transcendant and glorious; such as draw up the
eye to yon vast concave, where the mind's eye follows in silent wonder,
quickly passing from star to star, till struck with the beauty of the
whole, it feels "the hand that made it is divine."

Passion, at this silent hour and awful scene, shrinks away unperceived,
and every light idea flies off. The mind takes the reins, and the body
seems for a while to partake of that spiritual nature it will have
hereafter. Listen then, while reason is uninterrupted, to the silent
councils of nature;---every shadow whispers, such are you! A breeze may
blow you away---to-morrow you may be no more; tread then,---as
now---with caution through the slippery paths of life; beware of the
briars and thorns that lie athwart your way; mistake not shadow for
substance. Brush away, as the dew on the ground, at every step, the
little affairs that momentary rise to check your progress towards
heaven.

This river too has its lesson to give, she is like the cool hour of
reflection, when conscience gives back the actions of our life in
legible characters. Oh may they be as smooth! See, says she, how fair is
my face! how transparent I am! You see my depth; even the ground whence
I spring is open to your view. Let your conscience be ever as smooth, as
clear, as open; let your breast need no disguise, so will no troubled
waters impede your heavenly voyage.

Now again behold the stars, they have a language; and with a powerful
tongue, they call on me to adore the Great King of Heaven and Earth,
whose name they write in golden characters legible to all mankind. They
proclaim him, _Creator of all Worlds, and the Friend of Man_.

Let me, then, often read their book and listen to their tale.---Let me,
like them, proclaim my maker's praise, by shining in the orb in which
his hand has placed me; nor ever leap the bound, nor strive to rise
above, nor dare to sink beneath the sphere wherein I am. So when the
sun, and stars, and earth shall be no more; my Creator shall raise me to
another world, "to shine like the stars for evermore."

  [[Source:

  Earliest source found, with same "gloom" for "gleam" error: The
    lady's magazine: entertaining companion, for the fair sex,
    appropriated solely to their use and amusement (London, vol. X,
    September 1779, pg 482), signed "An Old Correspondent".

  Notes: "The bold luminary of day has now withdrawn his radiance, yet
    the sinking crimson of yonder western sky...". This line was used
    in The Seasons of Life; With an Introduction on the Creation and
    Primeval State of Man, by Mary Ashdowne 1839
  Quotation: "the hand that made it is divine". Joseph Addison,
    "the hand that made us..."]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  _HAPPINESS._

The road to happiness is seldom strewed with flowers, nor perhaps ought
it to be so; as we should, in that case, be inclined to take our passage
for our port, and while we enjoyed the manna, we might neglect the
promised land.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 67.)

"The people of the ship had placed about me a young woman extremely
amiable;--the tenderness she expressed for the griefs she saw I was
involved in, made me conceive a very great friendship for her; and,
indeed, as she was the only woman there, it was natural for us to be
more than ordinarily pleased with each other. When she found me a little
composed, she informed me that we were with Flemish merchants, who were
trading to the Levant; that having perceived from deck my extraordinary
tomb, the hope of finding something valuable in it, had made them take
it aboard; but having opened it, they were surprised to see a woman
richly habited: that at first they thought me dead, because I was very
much swelled, but having placed me in the open air, a little motion of
my heart gave them hope of recovering me; that accordingly, with great
difficulty, they effected it; and finding, as they thought, some beauty
in me, they resolved, at the expence of my liberty, to make themselves
amends for having found nothing but me in the tun. ''Tis with this
design,' added she, 'that we are sailing towards Almeria, where these
merchants design to sell you to the Sultan of that place: it is now six
months since they took me away from the coast of France, which is my
native country, on the same account; but I very well foresee that your
beauty will preserve me from being exposed to the Sultan's desires: yet,
as I cannot avoid slavery, I beg, madam, that you will not let me be
separated from you. The Sultan will without doubt buy you; contrive it
so, that he may think I am a dependant of yours.' I was very glad to
have a French woman with me, so promised her, that whatever was my fate,
she should, if she pleased, share it with me; but what she had told me,
giving me great uneasiness, I desired to speak with the captain of the
ship. I began with thanking him for the succour he had given me, and
thinking to have gained him with the hope of a reward, I assured him it
should be made even beyond his wishes, if he would land me on the coast
of France. He answered me that he doubted not my generosity, nor my
being considerable enough to recompense the service he had done me; but
that he could not follow his own inclination in doing what I desired
him, because he was accountable to his companions, who had resolved to
sell me and the other young French woman to the Sultan of Almeria: that
they knew would be certain gain to them, without running the risque of
what my promises might produce. With these words he returned to his
companions, and gave me not leave no answer him; I made several other
efforts, but finding it impossible to persuade them to alter their
resolutions, I was obliged to submit to my ill destiny. In proportion,
as I recovered my reason, my affection to my dear Thibault resumed its
empire over my soul.--I was sensible of the whole extent of my
misfortunes, and my despair would perhaps have kept no bounds, if it had
not been for the prudence and good-nature of my young companion. Yet for
all her cares, I fell into such a melancholy, as frighted the merchant,
lest I should lose the lustre of my beauty, of which he proposed to
himself so great an advantage.

"At length they arrived at Almeria, and we were immediately led to the
Sultan. As he was accustomed to traffic with those people, he received
them perfectly well, and was so well pleased with their prize, that he
gave them their demand both for myself and Sayda. We were placed in the
palace of the Sultan's women, where he soon followed us; and I had the
misfortune of affecting him in so extraordinary a manner, that he seemed
to make his loving me an affair of state.--I call that a misfortune,
which any one but me would have looked on as the highest felicity: for I
owe the Sultan the justice to say, that he is full of merit, and adorned
with the most heroic virtues; but I was a christian, and prepossessed
with a passion, which left no room for any other; I therefore considered
his assiduity as my worst of troubles. This prince perceiving my regard
for Sayda, gave her to me; (Sayda is a name I made her assume to conceal
her own.) He placed me, in an apartment different from those the rest of
the women were lodged in, and commanded that I should be served as
queen. All these honours added to my uneasiness; yet the submission with
which he treated me, gave me sometimes a hope he never would have
recourse to force that which I was resolved never to grant; but alas!
this prince at last, worn out with his own consuming passion and the
continual murmurs of his subjects, who could ill endure he should
express so much consideration for a christian, resolved to speak to me
in stronger terms than he had hitherto done. My resistance had lasted a
whole year, and he thought he had sufficiently testified his respect, in
allowing me so long a time: he came to me therefore one day, and finding
me extremely melancholy, 'Madam,' said he, 'it is with great regret I
find myself obliged to exceed the bounds I have prescribed myself in
gaining your heart, but you must now consent either to marry me or
publicly abjure your religion; all my power cannot exempt you from the
laws which oblige the women of the seraglio to embrace our faith.---I
adore you, and though I ought to compel you to a change so beneficial to
you, yet I will not, since it is not your desire.--I promise you the
free exercise of your religion in private, provided you accept of the
crown I offer you;---my subjects, and all my court, will then believe
you have changed your religion, without seeking any further proofs, and
you will be at liberty to observe your own in secret:---this is the only
means to preserve you from the fury of a people, who, when enraged, have
no regard even for their sovereign. It would have been more agreeable to
me, if my love and attentions had engaged you; but I hope time will
inspire your heart with those sentiments, that will be conducive to my
felicity, and your repose.' I could not refrain from tears at this
discourse of the Sultan:---the choice appeared terrible to me; 'Is it
possible, my lord!' replied I, 'that among the number of beauties who
would be proud of the honour you offer me, you cannot find one more
worthy than myself? If you had not distinguished me, your subjects would
have thought nothing of me.---Consider, my lord, what glory you might
gain by subduing your passion, and suffering me to return to my native
country.---What felicity can it be, to live with a woman obtained but by
fear and force, who will always be regretting her parents and liberty.'

"The Sultan smiled at these words; 'I see, madam,' said he, 'that you
are ignorant of your own condition---you are in this place for
life---when once a woman has entered within these walls, there is no
hope of ever getting out again, law and custom have decreed it so.
Therefore you are more obliged to me than you imagined, for the respect
I have paid you, being from the first moment the master of your
destiny.' I then intreated he would give me three days to answer him; he
granted my request, and I spent them in prayers: but at length seeing
myself without any hope of relief, or ever returning to my country, that
my death there was thought certain, and that I had no means of letting
you know I was living, or if I had, could not promise myself, that,
since you had consented to my death, the news would find a welcome:
I looked on myself as utterly abandoned; and the facility of following
in private my own devotions, determined me, in submitting to the
Sultan's persuasions. The three days being expired, he came to me again,
and I then told him, that if he would swear never to force me to alter
my religion, I was ready to give him my hand. His joy at my consent was
inconceiveable; and though he saw plainly that what I did was out of
necessity, he assured me he thought himself the happiest man on earth,
and bound himself by an oath sacred in their law, to suffer me to
exercise my own religion, provided I took care not to be discovered.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  CONTEMPLATION.

To contemplate the Creator of heaven and earth in the magnificence of
his works, enlarges and elevates the soul---lifts it above the
impertinence of vulgar cares, and gives it a kind of heavenly
pre-existence. To consider the benevolent purposes for which he called
forth this variety and multitude of being, that comes under our
cognizance, must be a perpetual source of comfort. A rational creature,
that is conscious of deriving its existence from a being of infinite
goodness and power, cannot properly entertain any prospect but of
happiness. By the imperfection of its nature it may fall into temporary
evils, but these cannot justly be the subject of complaint, when we
reflect that this very imperfection was necessary to a probatory life,
and that without it, there could neither have been virtue, nor the
rewards of virtue. Every degree of excellence depends upon comparison.
Were there no deformity in the world, we should have no distinct ideas
of beauty: Were there no possibility of vice, there would be no such
thing as virtue; and were the life of a man exempt from misery,
happiness would be a term of which he could not know the meaning.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  INDIAN ELOQUENCE.

  _The following beautiful, simple, energetic, and affecting SPEECH
  was made by LOGAN, Chief of the Shawanesses, in the Year 1774, to
  Lord Dunmore, Governor of the Province of Virginia._

I now ask of every white man whether he hath ever entered the cottage of
Logan, when pressed with hunger, and been refused food; or, whether
coming naked and shivering with cold, Logan hath not given him something
to cover himself with? During the course of the late war, so long and so
bloody, Logan hath remained quiet upon his mat, wishing to be the
advocate of peace. Yes, such is my attachment for white men, that even
those of my nation, when they passed by me, pointed at me, saying,
_Logan is a friend to white men_. I had even thoughts of living amongst
you; but that was before the injury received from one of you. Last
summer Colonel Cressop massacred in cold blood, and without any
provocation, all the relations of Logan, without sparing either his wife
or his children. There is not now one drop of my blood in the veins of
any human creature existing. This is what has excited my revenge. I have
sought it; I have killed several of your people, and my hatred is
appeased. I rejoice to see the prospect of peace brighten upon my
country. But do not imagine my joy is instigated by fear. Logan knows
not what fear is. He will never turn his back in order to save his life.
But, alas! no one remains to mourn for Logan when he shall be no more.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON ENTHUSIASM OF CHARACTER.

The shades of human character are so numerous, and the advantages
resulting from an extensive acquaintance with them, of so much
importance, that few subjects, perhaps, are more worthy of attention or
speculation; and it would be a task of the highest advantage to society,
could we trace the source and causes of the diversities, and point out
the particular advantages resulting from each. By the former of these,
we should, in some degree, be enabled to train the mind to the fashion
most amiable and really advantageous; by the latter, we should have the
opportunity of directing to their proper objects of pursuit the passions
and dispositions as they are displayed before us.


       *       *       *       *       *

  BON MOT.

A gentleman who possessed a much larger quantity of nose, than nature
usually bestows upon an individual, contrived to make it more enormous
by his invincible attachment to the bottle, which also beset it with
emeralds and rubies. To add to his misfortunes, this honest toper's face
was somewhat disfigured by not having a regular pair of eyes; one being
black, and the other of a reddish hue. A person happening once to
observe, that his eyes were not _fellows_, congratulated him on that
circumstance. The rosy gilled old tipler demanded the reason. "Because,"
replied the jocular genius, "if your eyes had been _matches_, your nose
would certainly have set them in a flame, and a dreadful conflagration
might have been apprehended."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _Account of the COURTSHIP and MARRIAGE
  of the celebrated DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON._

Johnson had from his early youth, been sensible to the influence of
female charms. When at Stourbridge school, he was much enamoured of
Olivia Lloyd, a young quaker, to whom he wrote a copy of verses, which I
have not been able to recover; and I am assured by Miss Seward, that he
conceived a tender passion for Miss Lucy Porter, daughter of the lady
whom he afterwards married. Miss Porter was sent very young on a visit
to Litchfield, where Johnson had frequent opportunities of seeing and
admiring her; and he addressed to her the following verses, on her
presenting him with a nosegay of myrtle:

  "What hopes, what terrors does this gift create,
  "Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate:
  "Thy myrtle, ensign of supreme command,
  "Consign'd by Venus to Melissa's hand;
  "Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
  "Now grants, and now rejects a lover's prayer.
  "In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
  "In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain;
  "The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads,
  "Th' unhappy lovers' grave the myrtle spreads:
  "O then the meaning of thy gift impart,
  "And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart!
  "Soon must this bough, as you shall fix his doom,
  "Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb."

His juvenile attachments to the fair sex were, however, very transient;
and it is certain, that he formed no criminal connection whatsoever. Mr.
Hector, who lived with him in his younger days in the utmost intimacy
and social freedom, has assured me, that even at that ardent season his
conduct was strictly virtuous in that respect; and that though he loved
to exhilarate himself with wine, he never knew him intoxicated but once.

In a man whose religious education has secured from licentious
indulgences, the passion of love, when once it has seized him, is
exceedingly strong; being unimpaired by dissipation, and totally
concentrated in one object. This was experienced by Johnson, when he
became the fervent admirer of Mrs. Porter, after her first husband's
death. Miss Porter told me, that when he was first introduced to her
mother, his appearance was very forbidding: he was then lean and lank,
so that his immense structure of bones was hideously striking to the
eye, and the scars of the scrophula were deeply visible. He also wore
his hair, which was straight and stiff, and separated behind; and he
often had, seemingly, convulsive starts and odd gesticulations, which
tended to excite at once surprise and ridicule. Mrs. Porter was so much
engaged by his conversation that she overlooked all these external
disadvantages, and said to her daughter, "this is the most sensible man
I ever saw in my life."

Though Mrs. Porter was double the age of Johnson, and her person and
manner, as described to me by the late Mr. Garrick, were by no means
pleasing to others, she must have had a superiority of understanding and
talents, as she certainly inspired him with a more than ordinary
passion; and she having signified her willingness to accept of his hand,
he went to Litchfield to ask his mother's consent to the marriage, which
he could not but be conscious was a very imprudent scheme, both on
account of their disparity of years, and her want of fortune. But Mrs.
Johnson knew too well the ardour of her son's temper, and was too tender
a parent to oppose his inclinations.

I know not for what reason the marriage ceremony was not performed at
Birmingham; but a resolution was taken that it should be at Derby, for
which place the bride and bridegroom set out on horseback, I suppose in
very good humour. But though Mr. Topham Beauclerk used archly to mention
Johnson's having told him, with much gravity, "Sir, it was a
love-marriage on both sides," I have had from my illustrious friend the
following curious account of their journey to church upon the nuptial
morn. "Sir, she had read the old romances, and had got into her head the
fantastical notion that a woman of spirit should use her lover like a
dog. So, Sir, at first she told me that I rode too fast, and she could
not keep up with me; and, when I rode a little slower, she passed me,
and complained that I lagged behind. I was not to be made the slave of
caprice; and I resolved to begin as I meant to end. I therefore pushed
on briskly, 'till I was fairly out of her sight. The road lay between
two hedges, so I was sure she could not miss it; and I contrived that
the should soon come up with me. When she did, I observed her to be in
tears."

This, it must be allowed, was a singular beginning of connubial
felicity; but there is no doubt that Johnson, though he thus shewed a
manly firmness, proved a most affectionate and indulgent husband to the
last moment of Mrs. Johnson's life; and in his "Prayers and
Meditations," we find very remarkable evidence that his regard and
fondness for her never ceased, even after her death.

  [[Sources:

  Both articles about Johnson are taken from Boswell's _Life of
  Johnson_.
  Notes: Johnson's wife is called "double the age of Johnson". They
    were born in 1689 and 1709 respectively, met in 1732 and married
    in 1735.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANGER.

Lord SOMERS was naturally of a choleric disposition; and the most
striking part of his character, was the power of controuling his passion
at the moment when it seemed ready to burst forth. Swift, in his "Four
last Years of Queen Anne," has in vain endeavoured to blacken this
amiable part of that great man's character, as what the dean mistook for
a severe censure, has proved the greatest panegyric. "Lord Somers being
sensible how subject he is to violent passions, avoids all incitements
to them by teaching those, whom he converses with, from his own example,
to keep within the bounds of decency; and it is indeed true, that no man
is more apt to take fire upon the least appearance of provocation; which
temper he strives to subdue, with the utmost violence upon himself; so
that his breast has been seen to heave, and his eyes to sparkle with
rage in those very moments when his words and the cadence of his voice
were in the humblest and softest manner."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 70.)

She stopped in the second street at a large palace, telling me that we
were on the spot. I ordered the servant to tell his lady, the Marchese
Albertini would be glad to wait on her Ladyship, and was admitted.
I hastened through the first apartment with a panting heart, and the
second door being opened, was very kindly received by an old lady. I was
almost petrified by that unexpected sight, like a poor disappointed
wretch who, deceived by magic art, expects to rush into the arms of an
immortal beauty, suddenly embraces an old toothless beldam. The lady
seemed to be equally surprised. I did not know whether it was on account
of my person or my astonishment--and I begged her pardon, in a
faultering accent, for having committed that mistake, telling her that I
had taken the liberty to intrude upon her, in hopes of seeing the
Countess de Clairval, when----the door of a third apartment was opened,
and a lady beautiful as an angel, dressed in white satin, and of a
majestic form, made her appearance. I flew to meet her---and pressed
_Amelia_'s hand to my glowing lips.

Her lovely cheeks were covered with a crimson hue, and after a short
interval of silent astonishment, she exclaimed: "Is it possible, my
Lord! How does it happen that we have the honour of seeing you here?"

"I don't know it myself!" I exclaimed, "my life is an uninterrupted
train of wonders, and it was certainly one of the most fortunate that
brought me to your Ladyship!"

"You find me in the company of a friend," Amelia said, introducing me to
the old lady, "whom I had lost in my earlier youth, but found again four
months ago through a most singular accident, which however I think to be
one of the most fortunate of my life. You will recollect that when I
related to you the history of my youth, I mentioned a white lady who
appeared to me in the dusk of evening, in a grotto in my father's
garden, and who had directed and cheered me in my juvenile years like a
heavenly being---"

"And that white lady---"

"Is the Baroness de Delier, who is now standing before you."

"Is it possible?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, it is really so!" replied the lady archly smiling.

I now began to examine her face more attentively. Her physiognomy was
exceeding interesting, bearing strong marks of sensibility, and of
former beauty, the traces of which the voracious tooth of time had not
been able to destroy.

"My Lady," said I, "the Countess has related to me so much that is noble
and wonderful of you, that my astonishment is as natural as my curiosity
will be deemed pardonable by you."

"I dare say," Amelia interrupted me, "it will give you pleasure if I beg
the Baroness to be so kind as to explain that wonderful circumstance to
you?"

"Why not," replied Lady Delier, "let us sit down; old age is thought to
be talkative; however I shall be brief in my narrative:----A friend of
mine who knew Amelia, and was no stranger to the cruel treatment which
she received from her unnatural mother, lived in a house which was
separated from that of her parents only by two gardens. The description
which my friend gave me of the sufferings of the innocent girl, affected
me so much the more, as I ever have been uncommonly fond of children.
I resolved to alleviate the hapless fate of the poor child; and with
that view designed a plan, which I carried into execution, assisted by
her nurse, whom I bribed with fair words and a sum of money. The gardens
of my friend, and Amelia's parents, were separated only by a wall, which
had a little gate leading from the garden of the former to the grotto
which was in that of the latter. This gate was opened for me by the
nurse, who, according to my direction, always retired when I came, and
watched at the entrance of the garden to warn me by a signal against
sudden surprise. I dare say, my Lord, Amelia will have informed you of
my conversations and actions in the grotto."---

"But why did you conceal your name and rank from the Countess?"
I enquired.

"In order to prevent being found out, if the little girl in her childish
innocence should have spoken of her meetings with the white lady. When
Amelia advanced in years I continued the mystery, because I had observed
that it gave to my visits an additional value in her eyes, and rendered
my consolations and instructions more effective. However, I did not mean
never to disclose my name to her, and I had entrusted the solution of
the mystery to the sealed paper which I gave to the daughter of my heart
when I took leave of her, and which she afterwards lost."

"If I am not mistaken, you gave the sealed paper to the Countess, with
the injunction to open it when she should have found the man whom her
heart should choose for a partner in her happiness and affliction!"

"You are not mistaken! it contained some instructions which are very
useful to a girl in love."

"You foretold the Countess when you took leave of her, that her unhappy
fate would take a fortunate turn after three months, and that prediction
has really been accomplished by the aunt of the Countess."

"This was very natural, because the whole matter had been arranged
already by the intercession of my friend, who was very intimate with her
aunt."

"But why did you not continue your visits till the arrival of her aunt?"

"Because I went abroad with the Baron de Delier."

"And you have never seen the Countess since?"

"No! and we should perhaps never have met again, if important affairs
had not called me to **** after the decease of the Baron. I saw the
Countess accidentally when I was coming from the cathedral. O! my Lord,
what are all worldly pleasures, if compared to the happiness of such a
re-union? The emotions of my heart broke out so violently, that we were
obliged to get in the carriage, and to drive to Amelia's hermitage, to
prevent our being crushed to death by the gaping multitude."

"Indeed," exclaimed the Countess, shedding tears of sensibility, and
pressing the hand of the Baroness to her bosom, "I shall never forget
that day while this heart is beating!"

"And yet, would you believe it, my Lord," resumed the Baroness, after an
affecting pause, "I could scarcely prevail upon her to leave the castle
in the forest, and to remove to mine, where we are leading an happy and
contented life. My Amelia indeed was turned a downright hermit."

"I confess, my dear friend," replied the Countess, "I was so charmed
with my solitary residence, and the retired and quiet life I led suited
the state of my mind so well, that no one but my dear Baroness could
have persuaded me to change my situation."

The fleeting hours passed rapidly away amid pleasing discourses, and
evening was already far advanced before I could resolve to take leave of
Amelia and her amiable companion. At length I parted reluctantly, and
having been invited to repeat my visit the day following, returned to my
lodging in a trance of happiness and joy.

Amelia was the sole object of my thoughts before I fell asleep; Amelia's
image sweetened my rest; her name was the first sound that came from my
lips when I awoke, and in her presence I spent the greatest part of the
day in a trance of unspeakable bliss.

Her cheerfulness declined, however, with every new day; her serene looks
began to grow gloomy; her innate frankness and affability gave room to
reserve and melancholy, which she endeavoured in vain to conceal.
I surprised her several times fixing her eyes on me in a melancholy
manner, and casting down her looks with consternation when she perceived
that I observed it--she spoke little, and what she said was
incoherent--yet her behaviour was not repelling--her bosom seemed to
conceal some secret uneasiness, the cause of which I strove in vain to
explore. As often as I began to speak of the _Unknown_, Amelia looked
perplexed and timid at Lady Delier, who always turned the conversation
to a different object. I was certain that the Irishman had been in the
house; they even confessed that he had informed them of my elevation to
the ducal dignity; but this was all I could learn. This circumstance and
Amelia's behaviour gave rise to apprehensions which made me suffer the
torments of hell. I could not endure this situation longer than four
days; at the evening of the fourth day I took advantage of an
opportunity which I had to speak to Lady Delier in private, and pressed
her to unfold that mystery to me. After many fruitless persuasions,
I obtained at length the promise to be informed of what I so anxiously
wished to know, and was requested to meet her at twelve o'clock the next
day in the fir-grove behind the garden of the castle, when she would
satisfy my curiosity.

I awaited the noon-tide hour with impatience. At length the wished for
hour arrived, and with the last stroke I was going to hasten to the
fir-grove, however I met the Irishman on the stair-case. "Come with me,
my Lord!" he said, as soon as he saw me!

"Whither?"

"You will be surprised in a most pleasing manner. Make haste, my
carriage is waiting for you."

"I cannot accept your invitation before one o'clock. I must finish first
a business of great importance, which cannot be postponed."

"My business also cannot be postponed, and is of far greater importance.
I am going to take you to an old acquaintance whom you have ardently
wished to see this good while."

"An old acquaintance--whom I have ardently wished to see?---It is
not---"

"Your _tutor_ I mean. Come, make haste!"

I embraced the Irishman with a loud exclamation of joy, pressed him
vehemently to my heart, and leaped into the carriage.

We drove through the city gate; our horses gallopped at a furious rate,
and yet they were too slow for my impatience. "Is he far from hence?"
I exclaimed, "where does he live, is he well, does he know that I am
coming?" "All that you shall know presently!" said the Irishman,
ordering the coachman to stop.

We got out of the carriage, and the sun was overclouding like the face
of the Irishman. He uttered not a word, and made a silent signal to
follow him.

The place where we were was a lonely solitary spot in the suburbs. The
Irishman stopped at a high wall over which the tops of tall trees were
portending. My conductor looked at me with a melancholy air, and then
beat with his fist against a large gate. The folding doors burst open
with a dreadful noise, and I beheld a burying-place before me. The
Irishman entered. "What business have we here?" I exclaimed in a
faultering accent. "Come along and be a man!" so saying, he pulled me
after him, and the door was shut again by an invisible hand.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  BENEVOLENCE.

There is a beautiful story recorded in an ancient Pagan writer, "That
the deity who formed the first man out of the ground, reflecting at the
same time on the calamities which the unhappy creature was to undergo,
wept over his work, and tempered it with tears." By this accident man
was endued with a softness of disposition, and the most tender feelings:
his descendants inherited these benevolent qualities, that by mutually
relieving each other's sufferings, they might in some measure alleviate
their own; and that some amends might be made for the natural wants and
imperfections of their nature, by the pleasure which they receive from
soothing distress, and softening disappointment.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                   HAPPINESS.

  "Whatever diff'rent paths mankind pursue,
  "Oh, Happiness! 'tis thou they keep in view."

    Mrs. ROWE.

Thou art the being that the whole race of mortals are in search of, or
more properly, thou art the _phantom_ they seek! how different their
pursuit! The king endeavours to find thee in his palace, while
surrounded by his courtiers. The courtier thinks he is happy when paying
adulation to his prince. The statesman pursues thee, when fulfilling the
duties of his station. The citizen seeks thee in his family. The
debauchee frequents the brothel, in hopes to find thee. The seducer is
happy when betraying to the paths of infamy the unwary female. The
votary of religion imagines thou art no where to be found but in the
duties it enjoins. The poet seeks thee in his garret. The critic thinks
he has thee in possession while venom trickles from his pen. The mariner
is aiming at thee while he explores the "trackless path." The warrior is
so fascinated with thee that even rivers of blood cannot impede his
progress.

The beautiful SYLVIA was grasping at thee, while at her feet were
expiring a groupe of lovers, whom she affected to treat with cold
disdain; no kind looks, no tender glances were bestowed. She completely
acted the coquet. At length she promised her hand to SIGISMUND; but in
the short space of time that was to precede their nuptuals, she
manifested the greatest partiality for the libertine FREDERICK. She
afterwards said it was only done to try the firmness of her lover. Her
folly appeared obvious when too late. When SIGISMUND beheld himself
slighted after the promise she had made him, he imagined he was odious
in her eyes. He chose, therefore, for his partner, one that would not
act deceitfully, the blushing LYDIA became his bride.

Do these different characters follow after happiness. They do--And are
they happy?---Go to the monarch, seated on his throne, with his brows
encircled with a crown of gold; to him let the question be put. Should
he answer, "I am the only happy mortal," would it not induce you to
laugh in his face, and tell him that you were by far the happiest?

  L. B.

    NEW-YORK _Aug. 24, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  HUMAN LIFE.

The faint glimmerings of the pale-faced moon on the troubled billows of
the ocean, are not so fleeting and inconstant as the fortune and
condition of human life. We one day balk in the sun-shine of prosperity,
and the next, too often, roll in anguish on the thorny bed of adversity
and affliction. To be neither too fond of prosperity, nor too much
afraid of adversity, is one of the most useful lessons we have to learn
and practise in the extensive commerce of this world.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

At Norwalk, On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Burnet, OBEDIAH
WICKES, of Troy, to Miss SALLY RAYMOND, of Norwalk.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From August 28th to Sep. 3._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

           deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
              100   100   100
  Aug.  28  72 50 81    78     sw. do. s.  cloudy, lt. wind, clear
        29  79    89    82     sw. do do.  clear, lt. wind, thunder
        30  71    79 50 74     nw. do. n.  clear. lt. wind, do. do.
        31  58 50 66 75 67     n. sw. do.  clear. lt. wind, do. do.
  Sept.  1  62 71 71 50 69 50  sw. s. do.  clear lt. wind high do.
         2  72 50 72 50 71 25  s. do. do.  cloudy, high rain do.
         3  69 50 70    72     nw do. do.  cloudy, lt. rain cloudy


       *       *       *       *       *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  _For August 1796._
                                                            deg. 100

  Mean temperature of the thermometer at 8 A.M.              71    1
  Do. do. of the do. at 1 P.M.                               78   28
  Do. do. of the do. at 6 P.M.                               78    0
  Do. do. of the do. whole month                             75   76
  Greatest monthly range between the 12th and 29th and 31    30   50
  Do. do. in 24 hours 30 and 30                              12   50
  Warmest day the 29                                         89
  Coldest day the 31                                         58   50

   7 Days it rained, in this month, but not a large quantity.
   2 Do. it thundered and lightned, viz 11th and 19th.
  16 Do. the wind was to the Eastward of the North and South.
  15 Do. the do.  do.  to the westward of do.  do.
  26 Do. the wind was light at 8 1 and 6 o'clock.
   2 Do. it was a calm.
  16 Do. it was clear at do.  do.
   4 Do. it was cloudy at do.  do

The 29th at 1 P.M. the mercury was one degree higher than any day in
this summer, and 4 lower, than the warmest day in the last.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO ------.

  Think not, TRANSCENDANT MAID! my woe
    Shall ever trouble thy repose;
  The mind no lasting pang can know,
    Which lets the tongue that pang disclose.

  Sorrow is sacred when 'tis _true_,
    In deep concealment proudly dwells:
  And seems its passions to subdue,
    When most th' impulsive throb compels.

  For HE who dares assert his grief,
    Who boasts the anguish he may prove;
  Obtains, perhaps, the wished relief,
    But O! he surely does not love!

  The lover is a man afraid,
    Has neither grace, nor ease, nor art;
  Embarrassed, comfortless, dismay'd,
    He sinks, the VICTIM OF HIS HEART.

  He feels his own demerits most,
    When he should most aspire to gain;
  And is at length completely lost,
    Because he cannot urge his pain.

  And when, alas! her hand shall bless
    Some more attractive youth than HE;
  He never can adore the less,
    But glories in his agony.

  He sees her to the altar led,
    And still commands his struggling sighs;
  Nor will he let one tear be shed,
    He triumphs then, for then he dies!


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                     LINES

  _Addressed to a Gentleman who had been a Prisoner to the Indians,
  and was ransomed by the merchants of Detroit._

  When furious, eager, and athirst for blood,
  The panting Savage roams the howling wood;
  Could grace of form his kindled ire assuage,
  Or polish'd manners mitigate his rage:
  Or moral worth his rugged spirit move
  To the soft touch of sympathy and love.
  This pow'r, engaging stranger, had been thine,
  In whom united worth and sense combine;
  But, ah! estrang'd to all the charms of art,
  To every gentle virtue of the heart,
  When the fell Savage, in that dreadful shade
  Where midnight darkness added horror spread.
  Stole silent through the deep surrounding gloom,
  Intent to finish thy unhappy doom,
  Had not some favouring power repell'd the stroke,
  His force averted, and his purpose broke.
  With Mitchel, hapless youth! thy corse had lain,
  Pale and unburied on that fatal plain;
  Where torn from early life's alluring charms,
  When hope incites us, and when pleasure warms;
  Unnoted, cold, the wretched sufferer lies,
  And sleep eternal seals his weeping eyes.

    Where now the prospects youth and fortune gave,
  A life of honour, a distinguish'd grave?
  In hopeless dark oblivion sunk away,
  The faint short radiance of a winter's day!

    But thou, preserv'd by ruling heaven's decree,
  A fairer, happier fate attends on thee;
  Thine be a life of honourable ease,
  Still pleas'd and tranquil, as secure to please,
  The duteous children, the unblemish'd wife,
  And all the dear regards of social life;
  And in thy tranquil days serene decline;
  The peace of conscious rectitude be thine.

    MATILDA.

      MONTREAL.


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                    TO EMMA.

    "To all the council that we two have shar'd,
  "The sister vows, the hours that we have spent,
  "When we have chid the hasty footed time
  "For parting us:----Oh! and is all forgot?"

    SHAKESPEARE'S MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

  Yes! 'tis too true--forgotten all
    The hallow'd joys of friendship's shrine;
  Insensate to her gentle call,
    The heart that own'd her power divine.

  The bright illusive hopes that charm'd
    My soul--all glide in clouds away;
  No more this heart with rapture warm'd,
    Shall bless the beam of rising day.

  Nor dewy eve, nor Cynthia's light,
    Reflected on the gliding wave,
  Nor spring's sweet buds, nor flow'rets bright,
    With glowing hues, can pleasure give.

  The lonely heart no pleasure knows,
    Pleasure can never be my lot;
  To Emma still my heart will turn,
    And fondly ask, "Is all forgot."

  The sister vows, the swift-wing'd hours,
    Illum'd by friendship's brightest beam;
  When fancy cull'd her fairest flowers,
    And Emma ever was my theme.

  Are all forgot!----oblivion throws
    Her dusky shade o'er pleasures flown;
  But sad remembrance lifts the veil,
    To view the scenes of rapture gone.

  Yet Emma, dear ungrateful maid,
    Though thou art fickle, I am not:
  Nor till I sink in death's dark shade,
    Shall Emma's image be forgot.

    CLARA.

      PEARL-STREET, _Sept. 1, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                     LINES

  _On the Death of a young Lady who fell a victim
  to the effects of Lightning._

  Charm'd by the vocal notes of plumag'd birds,
    Almyra to the grove one morn had stray'd:
  Nor thought to sleep in death where lowing herds
    And sportive lambs with pleasing freedom play'd.

  Beneath a lofty tree, whose shades composed,
    O'ercome by heat, Almyra sunk in sleep;
  When lo! the clouds with glowing rage opposed,
    And roaring thunders bid the heavens to weep.

  Amid these scenes the fair-one op'd her eyes,
    Her home afar was seen, to which she hied;
  To steal concealment from th' inclement skies,
    But, by the lightning's rage she fell--and died!

  How impious 'tis for man to ask why heav'n,
    Who rules aright amid the whirling storm,
  Should snatch away the object it had given,
    And let obnoxious worms destroy that form.

  Then let me pause--and think, alas! how soon
    The hand of that same God may sweep me down;
  Although with health I'm blest, but ere the noon,
    Some pitying Bard may say--"his spirit's gone!"

    LUCIUS.

      PINE-STREET, _Sept. 7, 1796_.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, September 14, 1796.+  [+No. 63.+


  A PEEP INTO THE DEN OF IDLENESS.

Yonder! under those ragged rocks, where the baleful yews waving their
sable branches of mournful cypress throws an awful gloom; a den dark and
ghastly opens its horrid mouth! 'Tis there idleness is lodged, the great
thief of time, and destroyer of innocence and human felicity.

What a dreadful cave!----how it yawns amid the noisome lakes and shaggy
bushes! Vice and sin breed here; like monsters they hiss with impudence,
and howl with too late repentance. Security and Carelessness, Sloth and
Ignorance, joined hand in hand, stalk around. Hark how their mingled
yells echo, in the caverns of the rocks, and drive downy footed Silence
far away! Prodigality and Wantonness hover aloft, and call their
votaries to the scene of irrevocable loss, and to the prison of
unavoidable destruction, which at a little distance opens before them:
there crowds led on by Error, and intoxicated with Folly sport to ruin.

But what frightful figure is that now emerging from the cave!---Riot and
Noise attend him, and Bacchus (jolly god), and Venus, (bewitching queen)
appear in the rear. That figure is Idleness, for defiance appears in his
looks, and temerity and effrontery are stampt in indelible characters on
his brow. Ebriety too with flushed cheeks and staggering gait appears in
the group, whilst light-footed Mirth, led on by Gaiety, dance to the
warbling notes of the birds of pleasure.

All around see the traps and gins put up to catch the imprudent, the
giddy, and the thoughtless! Artfully are they covered over! but Wisdom's
keen eye sees the dangerous snares, and turns back with abhorrence. And
see yonder the deceiving waters of pleasure and filthy lakes of
impurity; a sink of vice and sin where evil conceptions breed, and
hell-bred monsters sport in the sordid waves. I am shocked to my very
heart at the sight!---Come, heaven-born peace and meek-eyed Religion,
oh! come and destroy this horrid den, this rueful spot, where
destruction secretly lurks, and where crowds daily unwaringly resort to
inevitable and delicious ruin.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _A FRAGMENT ON BENEVOLENCE._

He gives his mite to the relief of poverty. Joy enlivens his
countenance, and sparkles in his eye. He can lay his hand upon his
heart, and say, "I have done a good thing." But who can do justice to
his feelings? None but those whose lips the God of Israel hath touched
with sacred fire! None but those whose pens are guided by the
inspiration of the Almighty! And though at this moment my heart expands
with the delightful sensation, I am totally unable to express it. Most
devoutly do I thank thee, O Lord, that thou hast given me feeling. The
sensation, indeed, is sometimes painful; but the intellectual pain far
excels the most delightful sensual pleasure.---Ye kings and princes of
the earth, possess your envied grandeur! Let the epicure gratify his
palate; let the miser hoard his gold in peace. Dear sensibility! do thou
but spread thy benign influence over my soul, and I am sure I shall be
happy.

He held out his hat. "Pity me," said he, but turned away his face, to
hide his blushing countenance, and the tear which stole down his cheek.
I saw it; and that little tear, with a force as powerful as the
inundations of the Nile, broke through all the bounds of cautious
prudence. Had the wealth of the Indies been in my pocket, I could hot
but have given it. I gave all I had. He cast his glistening eyes upon
me. "You have saved a family: may God bless you!" with my then
sensations I could have been happy through eternity. At that instant I
could have wished all the wheels of Nature to have stopped.


       *       *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS SUPERSCRIPTION ON A LETTER.

  (Taken from an Irish Paper.)

A letter with the following curious superscription on it was put in the
post office of Balbriggen.

  "To Mr. John Winters,
    Newtown Gore---county Leitrim, to be forwarded to Terence Sheanan,
or to John Owen, or Mary Sheanan, all brothers, in Corrocopel, or
elsewhere, near or about Newtown Gore, or somewhere else in that
country." !!!


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Continued from page 75.)

"This news was soon blazed through all Almeria, and fated ever to be
guilty of constrained infidelities, I was proclaimed and crowned Sultana
Queen, with a magnificence that would have dazzled any one but the
Princess de Ponthieu. During the whole ceremony, the image of Thibault
never quitted me, I spoke to it, begged its pardon, in short, I was so
lost in thought, that Sayda has since told me I had more the appearance
of a statue than a living person. As for you, my lord, I often
reproached your cruelty, that had brought me to the precipice in which I
found myself. There has not passed one day in the nine years I have been
married to the Sultan, on which I have not talked of my dear Thibault to
the faithful Sayda, with a torrent of tears. The Sultan has kept his
word with me, all his court thinks me a Renegada, he alone knows the
truth, and without reproaching me with my melancholy, has done his
utmost to disperse it. The same respect and complaisance has always
accompanied his actions, and you yourselves have been witnesses of my
power, by his granting me without hesitation your lives. I knew you
again the first moment I saw your faces, and should have discovered
myself yesterday, but had a mind to know whether my memory was yet dear.
These are my unhappy adventures; but this is not all I have to say: You
must, my dear Thibault, in order to regain your wife and liberty, expose
your life to fresh dangers: speak, do you think me worthy of so great a
testimony of your continued love and tenderness?" "You cannot make a
doubt of it," answered he, "without being guilty of a greater offence
than all your distraction made you act----I swear to you, my dear
Princess, by the pleasure I had in obtaining you from your father, by
the felicity I enjoyed in being beloved by you, by my misfortune, and by
the joy I feel in seeing you again, that I never adored you with more
ardour than I now do----Fear not therefore to explain yourself, command
me, dispose of me as you please." The fair Sultaness was charmed with
this tender assurance, and there being nobody present that she
suspected, she again embraced her much loved husband, and then told him
what she had proposed to the Sultan. "'Tis of the utmost importance,"
added she, "that you should gain his confidence by some signal service,
that my designs may the better succeed--he has already lost several
battles, through the ill conduct of his generals; but if you fight for
him I doubt not of the victory.--He cannot refuse you his esteem, which
will enable me to put my project in execution."

The Count and Thibault approved of what she said; but the young Prince
begged she would contrive it so, that he might accompany his brother to
the army, his youthful heart burning with impatience to behold so noble
a sight; but the Queen told him she could not possibly gratify those
testimonies of so early a courage, though she admired them, because she
had given her promise to the Sultan, that both he and his father should
remain at court as hostages for the fidelity of Thibault. After some
further discourse, and renewed embraces, she ordered them to retire, it
growing towards the hour in which the Sultan was used to visit her. They
were scarce out of the room, before that Prince entered; and having
asked her if the valiant captain agreed with her intentions: "Yes, my
lord," replied she, "he is impatient to express by his services the
grateful sense he has of his obligation to us." The Sultan immediately
commanded they should all three be brought before him; and observing
them more heedful than he had done before, was infinitely charmed with
their good mien: the venerable age, and commanding aspect of the Prince
of Ponthieu, excited his respect; the beauty and vivacity of the young
Prince, his admiration; but in the noble air, and manly graces of the
accomplished Thibault, he fancied he discovered an assurance he would be
able to answer the character the Sultaness had given of him--The more he
considered him, the more he found to increase his love and esteem for
him.---"The Sultaness," said he, "who has saved your life, will needs,
out of love for me, and respect for you, have you expose it in my
service.---I see nothing about you but what serves to convince me I do
not err, when I place entire confidence in you: therefore you must
prepare to set out to-morrow, I have in my council declared you general.
My subjects are fatigued, and heartless with continual losses, and
though you are a christian, my soldiers will with joy obey you, if your
valour does but answer their expectations, and the character they have
of you." After Thibault had in the most handsome and submissive manner
assured him of his zeal and fidelity, that prince proceeded to give him
those instructions which were necessary; and retiring, left him, to
receive those of the Sultaness.

He was no sooner gone, than turning towards Thibault, "You are going to
fight against infidels," said she, "tho' you fight for one; but, my dear
husband! consult my repose as well as your own courage, and fight to
conquer, not to die;---remember I expose you, that I may the better save
you." He thanked her for her obliging fears, and promised to combat only
to preserve his honour, and gain the opportunity to deliver her.---It
being time to retire, they quitted the Queen's apartment, and returning
to their own, a slave brought up Thibault, a stately vest and sabre,
adorned with precious stones, a present to him from the Sultan; he put
them on, and attended that prince at dinner, who saw him with pleasure.
They discoursed on the different methods of making war, and the Sultan
found his new general so consummate in the art, that he assured himself
of victory: he then presented him to the chief men of his court. The
rest of the day was employed in reviewing the troops that were in
Almeria. As he was to go the next, he begged of the Sultaness by Sayda,
that he might be permitted to bid her adieu without any witnesses; the
fair Queen, who desired it with equal ardour, appointed night for the
interview:---so when all was quiet in the palace, he was introduced by
that faithful slave into the apartment of his dear Princess. Then it
was, that this long separated husband and wife, now more in love, if
possible, than ever, renewed their protestations of everlasting
affection, and, forgetting the rest of the world, gave a loose to the
raptures of being once more blessed, and the soft hope of re-uniting
themselves, no more to be divided. Thus the best part of the night
passed, and day would have surprised them, had not Sayda given them
notice it was time to part. The Sultaness wept, and Thibault was
extremely moved, but reason reassuming its empire, they embraced and
bade each other adieu, and begged heaven they might soon meet again. He
went not to bed, employing the remaining hours in taking leave of the
Count de Ponthieu, and the young Prince his son.---He recommended his
dear Princess to the former, intreating him to neglect no opportunities
of being with her. He then repaired to the Sultan, to receive his last
commands, and set out with a cheerfulness that seemed to presage
success.

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  LOCAL CURIOSITIES.

The indifference with which even the crime of murder is regarded among
the lower classes of the Italians, is remarkably illustrated by the
following anecdote: A gentleman of Naples, in passing occasionally
before the king's palace, had frequently noticed a man of singular
appearance at work. He was chained to some others, and assisted in
removing rubbish, and bringing stones for a new building, the foundation
of which had been just laid. The man, by having often seen him pass,
recollected his person, and always took off his hat as he found an
opportunity. The gentleman not knowing how to account for his attention,
was induced one day, to inquire the cause of his civility and of his
chains. To the first part of the query he answered, in the Neapolitan
style, that it was "il suo dovere, his duty;" and to the second he said,
that he was in that predicament for "una minchioneriae, a trifle. Ho
ammazanta solamente una donna," said he "I have only killed a woman."

Necessity is the prompter and guide of mankind in their inventions.
There is however, such inequality in some parts of their progress and
some nations get so far the start of others in circumstances nearly
similar, that we must ascribe this to some events in their history, or
to some peculiarities in their situation, with which we are
unacquainted. The people in the Island of Otaheite, in the southern
Pacific Ocean, far excel most of the Americans in the knowledge and
practice of the arts of ingenuity; and yet, when they were first
discovered by captain Wallis, it appeared, that they had not invented
any method of boiling water; and having no vessel that would bear the
fire, they had no more idea that water could be made hot, than that it
could be made solid.

  [[Source:

  Original: _A Comparative Sketch of England and Italy, with
    Disquisitions on National Advantages_ (London, 1793), ii, 37-39.
  This passage is also quoted in _The Analytical Review_, September
    1793.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARK.

Friendship is to love, what an engraving is to a painting.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  TACITURNITY.----AN APOLOGUE.

  _Translated from the French of Abbe Blanchet._

At Amadan was a celebrated academy, the first statute of which ran thus:

_The Academicians are to think much, write little, and, if possible,
speak less._

This was called the Silent Academy, nor was there a sage in Persia who
was not ambitious of being admitted a member. Zeb, a famous sage, and
author of an excellent little book, intitled _The Gag_, heard, in the
distant province where he lived, there was a vacancy in the silent
academy. Immediately he departed for Amadan, and, arriving, presented
himself at the door of the hall where the academicians were assembled,
and sent in the following billet to the president:

Zeb, a lover of silence, humbly asks the vacant place.

The billet arrived too late; the vacancy was already supplied. The
academicians were almost in despair; they had received, somewhat against
their inclination, a courtier, who had some wit, and whose light and
trifling eloquence had become the admiration of all his
court-acquaintance; and this learned body was now reduced to the
necessity of refusing the sage Zeb, the scourge of bablers, the
perfection of wisdom.

The president, whose duty it was to announce this disagreeable news to
the sage, scarcely could resolve, nor knew in what manner best, to
perform his office. After a moment's reflection he ordered a flagon to
be filled with water, and so full that another drop would have made the
water run over. He then desired them to introduce the candidate.

The sage appeared with that simple and modest air which generally
accompanies true merit. The president rose, and, without speaking a
word, pointed, with affliction in his looks, to the emblematical flagon
so exactly full.

The sage understood from thence, the vacancy was supplied, but, without
relinquishing hope, he endeavoured to make them comprehend that a
supernumary member might, perhaps, be no detriment to their society. He
saw on the floor a rose leaf, picked it up, and with care and delicacy
placed it on the surface of the water, so as not to make it overflow.

All the academicians immediately clapped their hands, betokening
applause, when they beheld this ingenious reply. They did more, they
broke through their rules in favour of the sage Zeb. The register of the
academy was presented him, and they inscribed his name.---Nothing
remained but for him to pronounce, according to custom, a single phrase
of thanks. But this new, and truly silent academician, returned thanks
without speaking a word.

In the margin of the register he wrote the number one hundred (that of
his brethren) then put a cypher before the figures, under which he wrote
thus:

  0100
  _Their value is neither more nor less._

The president, with equal politeness and presence of mind, answered the
modest sage, by placing the figure 1 before the number 100, and by
writing under them, thus:

  1100
  _Their value is ten-fold._

  [[Source:

  Original: Apologues et contes orientaux, etc. 1784 by Francois
    Blanchet (1707-1784) and others.
  Possible source: Burke's _Annual Register_ 1788 with full subtitle
    "...extracted from Tales, Romances, Apologues, &c. from the French,
    in two vols."

  Notes: "the figure 1 before the number 100... 1100"
  The _Annual Register_ has the same words and numbers. Both seem like
    an error for "1000" (a cipher after 100).]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                  THE BEGGAR;

      A Fragment in Imitation of Sterne.

**** "We are poor ourselves!" exclaimed the lady of the house, "and have
therefore nothing to give." Wretched being! methinks you receive none
other alms from many people of fashion!

"He has had the assurance to come to my door twice to-day. He might have
known at the first denial, that a repetition would not make him a whit
the better off."

"It might have been that when he came the second time he expected your
ladyship was better disposed to give," said a gentleman
present.--"Perchance he imagined the human heart could not remain so
insensible to the woes of others," thought I, and it had nearly reached
my lips, but prudence bade it go no farther.

She again began to ring in my ears a long string of invectives against
the poorer class of people, when I hastily took my leave. "For what
purpose did Heaven form the rich with such unfeeling hearts?" asked my
friend. "That they might be set up as a mark to others; and teach them
the danger of riches."

The man was a few paces before us.

"Surely the lady finds, ere this, that we despise her contracted soul,"
said my companion. "You are mistaken in that point," said I; "this is
not the only time I have been a witness of her narrow-mindedness.
I dined there some days since, with several other visitors: before the
cloth was removed, I heard a slight rap at the door---no one attended to
it---it seemed to foretell the approach of poverty--"

"What were the servants doing?" interrupted my friend.

"Their mistress had enjoined it upon them to attend to none but
_fashionable knocks!_"

"Pray what are her _fashionable knocks?_"

"That I never learned. She has, no doubt, instructed her menials on that
head."

"But go on with your story. I despise from my soul her baseness."

The man was a few paces before us.

"I sat opposite the entrance. In a few minutes an emaciated figure,
cloathed meanly, but her dress clean, and adjusted in as neat a manner
as possible, walked feebly along, until she reached the room-door; and
then necessity compelled her to seek support from the posts. I could not
behold the sight unmoved---"

We had now reached the beggar. We stopped. He held out his hat. I threw
in something; my friend did the same. "May Heaven forever prosper your
honours!" uttered the pauper. "Amen!" We both responded, and passed on.

"If I had her riches what a deal of good would I do with it! The poor
should not depart empty from my door."

"And perhaps," said I, "if you had double the wealth she is possessed
of, your disposition would be similar to hers."

  _New-York_, Sept. 1, 1796.

    L. B.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS ANECDOTE OF MR. HANDEL.

It was Mr. Handel's usual custom, when engaged to dine out with any
nobleman or gentleman, to take a little of something by way of
refreshment, and to operate as a damper, that he might not display his
vast powers as a gormandiser among people of puny appetites. For one of
these previous dinners, or dampers, he ordered at the Crown and Anchor
tavern a dozen large mackarel, a duck, and two roasted chickens. One of
the waiters, judging from the quantity of victuals ordered, what number
of people would probably be expected to dine, laid the cloth, and
furnished the table with eight plates, &c. Mr. Handel arrived punctually
at the hour he had named for the appearance of his repast, and was
informed that none of the company were come, but himself; the landlord
therefore humbly suggested to him that the dinner might be kept back,
till some more of the company dropped in, "Company!" declaimed the
dealer in harmony. "What company?---I expect no company! I ordered these
few articles by way of relish for myself, and must beg to be excused
from the intrusion of any company whatsoever!"

The _twelve_ mackarel were first introduced, and Mr. Handel paid his
devoirs to each of them. He swallowed every one of them with the
expedition of a real artist, and seemed almost equal to the task of
swallowing the _twelve_ judges. The skeletons of the fish being then
removed, in came the duck and the two chickens: the bones of all these
were picked with great dexterity; the bill was called, and discharged,
and after that the poor gentleman fasted for almost an hour and a
quarter, when he repaired to the house of lord H--------n, to complete
the dinner which he had began at the Crown and Anchor.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON IMAGINATION.

The imagination is a quality of the soul, not only a brilliant but an
happy one, for it is more frequently the cause of our happiness, than of
our misery; it presents us with more pleasures than vexations, with more
hopes than fears. Men of dull and heavy dispositions, who are not
affected by any thing, vegetate and pass their lives in a kind of
tranquility, but without pleasure or delight; like animals which see,
feel, and taste nothing, but that which is under their eyes, paws, or
teeth; but the imagination, which is proper to man, transports us beyond
ourselves, and makes us taste future and the most distant pleasures. Let
us not be told, that it makes us also foresee evils, pains, and
accidents, which will perhaps never arrive: it is seldom that
imagination carries us to these panic fears, unless it be deranged by
physical causes. The sick man sees dark phantoms, and has melancholy
ideas; the man in health has no dreams but such as are agreeable; and as
we are more frequently in a good, than a bad state of health, our
natural state is to desire, to hope, and to enjoy. It is true, that the
imagination, which gives us some agreeable moments, exposes us, when
once we are undeceived, to others which are painful. There is no person
who does not wish to preserve his life, his health, and his property;
but the imagination represents to us our life, as a thing which ought to
be very long; our health established and unchangeable; and our fortune
inexhaustible: when the two latter of these illusions cease before the
former, we are much to be pitied.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 78.)

The stillness of eternal rest, and the horrors of corruption which were
hovering around me, whispered audibly in my ear that this was not a
residence fit for living beings. "Is my tutor here?" I enquired after a
dreadful pause. The Irishman remained silent, "Hiermanfor! is my tutor
here?"

"He is."

"Alas! then he is dead!" I stammered, staggering against a tomb-stone to
support myself.

The face of the Irishman began to brighten up; he took me by the hand;
"Come, my Lord, and convince yourself, that even on this spot, where
common men behold nothing but death and corruption, the flower of life
is blooming!" With these words, he led me round the corner of a small
chapel, and I beheld what at first appeared to me the delusion of a
dream, my tutor standing five paces distant from me upon a tomb; he was
dressed in a white garment, and seemed to await me in tranquil
expectation: "Antonio! my friend!" I exclaimed, quivering with joy, and
flew with expanded arms to the tomb, but shuddered with horror when I
grasped through an airy phantom, instead of embracing my friend.

"Don't be afraid, Miguel!" said the ethereal being without once opening
his lips, or making the least motion, "I am no apparition from the other
world. I am yet living; however, the more solid parts of my body are
above 600 miles distant. My spirit has assumed this form in order to
communicate her ideas to thee. Thou wilt at some future period
comprehend this mystery if thou dost follow the directions of
Hiermanfor. Young man, there exists a felicity upon earth more sublime
than the love of women. Leave Amelia and hasten to Ma***d. Endeavour to
break the abominable fetters whereby thy country is chained to the
throne of a despot. Down into the dust with Vascon**llos, who has forged
these chains, and encreases their weight every day. Thou shalt see me
again when thy country is restored to liberty, and I will lead Amelia to
thy arms. 'Till then, Miguel, farewell!"

The vision was not dissolved, nor did it sink into the ground, nor rise
aloft, and yet it was removed in the twinkling of an eye. "Antonio, my
friend!" I exclaimed, "if thy spirit is still hovering around me, tell
me whether I may confide blindly in Hiermanfor?"

The vision re-appeared on the tomb as quick as thought. "Follow the
advice of Hiermanfor," he said, "he will supply my place. I have
mistaken him like thyself; however, thou shalt know him too as he is
known to me; and then we shall be united by stronger ties."

The vision disappeared, and I heard the _Unknown_ calling to me from the
other side of the chapel.

I felt like one who is suddenly roused from a dream, and looked around
me with uncertain, examining eyes, searching for the Irishman. He
perceived it and came towards me.

The sudden change of the most opposite sensations, particularly the last
scene, had affected me very much, and I sat myself down upon a tomb. "Is
it not true, Hiermanfor?" said I after a long silence, "I have dreamed?"

"Dreamed?" he replied with astonishment, "and _what_ have you dreamed?"

"Methought my tutor was standing upon this tomb, and talking strange
things."

"I have had the same _vision_."

"Hiermanfor! don't sport with my understanding."

"It is as I have said."

"It cannot be!" I exclaimed vehemently, "it was an illusion. Don't think
that I am still as credulous as I have been. Confess only that the
vision was a new illusion, whereby you wanted to try me."

"An illusion requires the assistance of machines: and I give you leave,
nay, I beseech you to search for them. You may ransack the whole burying
ground, but your labour will be lost."

"That may be! It has perhaps been one of your finest artifices, but
nevertheless it was mere delusion."

"It was delusion, because you will have it so."

"Hiermanfor! what do you wish me to believe?"

"Whatever you _can_ believe."

"Here the figure of my tutor was standing, and there I stood and
conversed with him."

"You may have been dreaming, it was perhaps one of my finest artifices."

"What can you say against it?"

"Nothing, my Lord, nothing!"

"I conjure you, what can you say against it?"

"On one part I could find it improbable that two people should have the
same dream while they are awake; on the other, that the most consummate
juggler would find it difficult to produce by day-light, and on an open
spot, an airy vision which resembles your friend exactly, talks in a
sensible manner, answers questions which are put to it, and appears a
second time at your desire."

"True, very true! however the apparition is not less mysterious to me if
I deem it _no_ illusion."

"You will comprehend it one time, said Antonio."

"But when? I am dying with a desire to have the mystery unfolded."

"May I speak without reserve, my Lord."

"I wish you always had spoken without disguise, and acted openly."

"What I am going to say may perhaps offend you; Yet I must beg you to
give me leave to speak freely. I am not going to address Miguel, but the
Duke."

"Frankness and truth are equally acceptable to the latter as they are to
the former; speak without reserve."

"It is not fondness of truth, but vain curiosity that has driven you
upon the _dangerous ocean_ of knowledge, where you are cruising about
without either rudder or compass, in search of unknown countries, and
enchanted islands. I met you some time since on your voyage, and
captured you. You could as well have fallen in with somebody else, who
would have forged heavier fetters for you. I have not misused my power
over you. You have indeed worked in the fetters which I have chained you
with, but not in my service, not for me, but for your country, which
you, I am sorry to say, would never have done voluntarily. You have
attempted nothing, at least very little, to break those chains, but you
struggled hard to avoid serving your country. I endeavoured to keep you
in its service by strengthening your chains; however, unforeseen
accidents liberated you from your bondage, and then I appeared first to
you a lawless corsair, who had made an unlawful prize of you, although
you had supposed me, before that time, to be a supernatural being, to
whose power you fancied you had surrendered voluntarily. My dear Duke,
I am neither a villain, nor am I a supernatural being; however, you are
not able to judge of me. It is true that I possess important arcana, by
the application of which I can effect wonderful things; but I am not
allowed to make use of them before I have tried in vain every common
means of attaining my aim. According to my knowledge of your Lordship,
the artifices of natural magic were sufficient for carrying my point;
but now, as the veil is taken from your eyes, and those delusions by
which your will has been guided, have lost their influence upon you, now
I could make use of my superior power, by which I have been enabled to
effect the apparition of your tutor. However, you judge of my deeds
equally wrong as of myself. At first you mistook real delusions, for
miracles, and now you mistake the effect of a great and important
arcanum, for delusion. Whence these sudden leaps from one extreme to the
other? What is it that constantly removes from your eyes the real point
of view from which you ought to see things? The source of this evil is
within yourself; I will point it out to you, lest you discover it too
late. You have an innate propensity, which has been nursed up by your
lively imagination, a propensity which is agitating powerfully within
you, and struggles for gratification, the propensity to the wonderful.
Your tutor strove too late to combat it by the dry speculations of
philosophy, instead of guiding and confining it in proper bounds. My
God! your friend is an excellent man, who had your real happiness at
heart; however, his philosophy was not altogether consistent.
A preconceived contempt of all occult sciences prevented him examining
them with impartiality, and declaring all events contrary to the common
course of nature, to be the effects of imposition. He committed a sin
against philosophy, premising as demonstrated, what was to be proved.
Your own feeling, my Lord, made you sensible of the defects and
exaggerations of his arguments; your reason was not sufficient to
rectify, or to refute them; and thus you have adopted the principles of
your tutor, not from conviction, but from a blind confidence in his
learning and honesty, and believing the assertions of your instructor,
you believed in his philosophy."

"Hiermanfor! I think you are right."

"Give me leave to proceed. It was consequently not philosophical
conviction that made you suspect your inclination to the wonderful; but
faith was opposed to faith. The former was founded on the authority of
your tutor, and the latter on the secret voice of your heart. Regard for
your friend, and the ambition of being looked upon as a philosopher,
impelled you to adopt the principles of your tutor, and an innate
instinct spurred you to yield to the voice of your heart, and thus you
embraced by turns, the opinion of your instructor and the faith which
originated from your heart, according to the strength of motive which
prevailed on either side. However, these motives were never pure
undoubted arguments of reason, but mere sentiments, which made you shift
from one side to the other, in the same measure in which your sentiments
of one or the other kind, received nourishment or additional strength
from without. As soon as I began to play off my magical machineries your
belief in miracles began to prevail; but as soon as your tutor
recapitulated his lectures, philosophy resumed her former sway. You were
a ball which flew alternately in his and my hands, because you wanted
firm conviction, to fix yourself upon. Nevertheless I should have
succeeded at last in getting an exclusive power over you merely by means
of my delusions, because your predilection for the wonderful, and your
imagination, which found an excuse and a gratification in my works,
would have prevailed over the philosophical sentences which you have
been taught. Paleski discovered to you what you ought to have discovered
yourself, that my arts were mere delusions, and now you conclude that I
can produce nothing but delusions. Perhaps you go still farther, and
deny even the possibility of apparitions, because I have raised in
Amelia's house a ghost who was none. At bottom you keep firm to your
character; you came over to my party because your _feelings_ found their
account in doing so; you find you have been deceived, and you fly back
again to the opposite party because you _fancy_ to find truth there.
However you are really guided only by a blind instinct, by sentiment and
opinion. And with _these_ guides do you fancy you can penetrate to the
sanctuary of truth and happiness?----Unhappy young man! you are doomed
to deceive yourself and to be deceived."

After a short pause the Irishman resumed:

"Pardon my frankness, my Lord! I have done."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

            CHARACTER OF A POOR MAN.

Rhebo is hollow-eyed, lank and meagre of visage. He sleeps little, and
his slumbers are very short. He is absent, he muses, and, though a man
of sense, has a stupid air. He imagines himself troublesome to those he
is conversing with. He relates every thing lamely, and in a few words.
No one listens to him, he does not raise a laugh. He applauds and smiles
at what others say to him, and is of their opinion. He runs, he flies,
to do them little services. He is complaisant, bustling, and a
flatterer. There is no street how crowded soever, but he can easily pass
through it without the least trouble, and slips away unperceived. When
desired to sit, he scarce touches the frame of the chair. He speaks low
in conversation, and is inarticulate; yet sometimes he discourses freely
on public affairs, and is angry at the age. He coughs under his hat, and
spits almost upon himself, he endeavours to sneeze apart from the
company; and puts no person to the trouble of saluting, or paying him a
compliment.----He is poor.


       *       *       *       *       *

  GLEANINGS.

A good author should have the style and courage of a captain, the
integrity of a dying man, and so much sense and ingenuity, as to impose
nothing, either weak or needless, on the world.

The best of authors are not without their faults, and if they were, the
world would not entertain them as they deserve. Perfection is often
called for, but nobody would bear it. The only perfect man that ever
appeared in the world was crucified.

The man whose book is filled with quotations, may be said to creep along
the shore of authors, as if he were afraid to trust himself to the free
compass of reasoning. Others defend such authors by a different
allusion, and ask whether honey is the worse for being gathered from
many flowers?

A few choice books make the best library: a multitude will confound us,
whereas a moderate quantity will assist and help us. Masters of great
libraries are too commonly like booksellers, acquainted with little else
than the titles.

He who reads books by extracts, may be said to read by deputy. Much
depends on the latter, whether he reads to any purpose.

Satire is the only kind of wit, for which we have scripture authority
and example, in the case of Elijah ridiculing the false gods of Ahab.

He that always praises me, is undoubtedly a flatterer; but he that
sometimes praises, and sometimes reproves me, is probably my friend, and
speaks his mind. Did we not flatter ourselves, others would do us no
hurt.

Men are too apt to promise according to their hopes, and perform
according to their fears.

Secrecy has all the prudence, and none of the vices either of
simulation, or dissimulation.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  _An Enigmatical List of amiable young Ladies in this City._

  1. Miss C-l-e S-m-n,
  2. Miss S-r-h B-r-r,
  3. Miss L-e-a B-z-r,
  4. Miss M-r-a C-e-n,
  5. Miss M-r-a B-k-r,
  6. Miss M-r-a B-e-n,
  7. Miss C-h-e D-v-s,
  8. Miss N-n-y P-g-e,
  9. Miss S-r-a T-y-r,
 10. Miss M-r-y U-t.

  (A solution is requested.)

    _Sept. 12, 1796._

      A. D.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

At Elizabeth Town, on Saturday evening the 3d inst. by the Rev. Mr.
Rayner, Mr. BEZA E. BLISS, of this city, to Miss BETSEY JELF THOMAS, of
that place.

On Sunday evening the 21st ult. by the Rev. Mr. Schenck, Mr. JOEL
SCIDMORE, of Crab-Meadow (L.I.) to Miss HANNAH HOYT, of Dicks-Hills,
(L.I.)

On Saturday evening the 3d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Captain DANIEL
HAWLEY, of Connecticut, to Miss CATHARINE GILBERT, daughter of William
W. Gilbert, Esq. of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 31st ult. by the Rev. Mr. Burnet, Mr. JOSEPH
WICKES, of Troy, to Miss SUSANNAH RAYMOND, of Norwalk, (Connecticut.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 4th to the 10th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

           deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
              100   100   100
  Sept.  4  67    75    72 50  nw. do. ne.  clear, do. do
         5  63    70 75 69     ne. nw. do.  clear do. do.
         6  63 50 71 25 70 50  ne. do  do.  clear do. do.
         7  63 25 74    68 25  ne. do. se.  cloudy, clear do.
         8  66    71    66 50  e. do. do.   cloudy, lt. wd. do.
         9  71 50 75 50 75 50  se. n. w.    high wd. & rn. at night
        10  67 25 78 75 73     nw. w. do.   clear, lt. wd. do.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                    TO EMMA.

  With thee, my Emma, lovely fair, with thee
  Life's varied path I'll tread contentedly;
  When rising morn her blooming tints displays,
  And clads all nature with enlivening rays;
  Or when the threatning storm in dark attire,
  Beclouds the scene, and hurls etherial fire:
  Sweet innocence, bright beaming from thine eye,
  Shall heavenly hope and fortitude supply;
  --Together then, my Emma, let us stray,
  Where heaven and virtuous love shall point the way.

    VIATOR.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                     ELEGY

        On the Death of Mr. Peter Abeel,
      Who Ceased to Exist on the 30th Ult.

  The awful sound of death--the tolling bell,
    With solemn sadness strikes the list'ning ear:
  While sighs responsive to its gloomy knell,
    Proclaim the loss of what was held most dear.

  In prime of life, e'er manhood had begun,
    A virtuous youth was number'd with the dead;
  E'er nineteen years their wonted course had run,
    ABEEL's chaste soul to other regions fled.

  Untainted yet by pleasure's 'witching smile,
    Of manners easy, affable and free
  A conscience pure, and void of specious guile,
    An upright heart, and noble mind had he.

  But, ah! integrity can nought avail,
    Nor innocence arrest the fleeting breath!
  E'en purity like his we now bewail
    Could not repel the pow'rful shaft of death.

  That form which late with youthful vigour teem'd,
    The fierce attack of sickness could not brave;
  The eye in which bright animation beam'd,
    Has lost its splendour in the silent grave.

  Oh! Death, couldst thou not stay thine active arm,
    'Till age had strew'd its winters o'er his head:
  Till life's enjoyment could no longer charm,
    And earthly pleasures had forever fled.

  Then thine approach more welcome would have been,
    And less regretted thy reverseless doom;
  Age would have render'd thy attack less keen,
    And smooth'd the rugged passage to the tomb.

  But youth--luxuriant season of delight,
    When pleasing fancies fill the teeming brain;
  Was soon by thee transform'd to endless night--
    To night, on which no morn shall dawn again.

  But through th' obscurity of this dark gloom,
    The eye of hope can safely penetrate;
  And far beyond the precincts of the tomb,
    A gleam of comfort checks the pow'r of fate.

  For virtue ne'er shall unrewarded be,
    Nor innocence in death forego its charms;
  Soon may we hope in heav'n our friend to see,
    Securely resting in his Maker's arms.

    ALEXIS.

      NEW-YORK _Sept. 8, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPIGRAM.

  "O, that a glove I to that hand were prest,
  "On which reclin'd, that lovely cheek might rest!"
  'Twas thus the youth his amorous wish preferr'd,
  A glove--so cold a suit could ne'er be heard;
  Ah, surely _bosom friends_ were then unknown,
  That teach the breast a mutual warmth to own.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                THE RISING MOON.

  Where yonder clouds adorn the eastern sky,
    The slowly rising moon, with solemn pace,
  Scans the fair face of heav'n in silent majesty,
    And like a light emits her favouring grace.

  High though her throne, the sparkling stars,
    Proud of their leader, shine more bright;
  (Devoid of clouds whose influence mars,)
    While mortals share her useful light.

  Slow in her train the moving planets all
    Glide in their spheres, ambitious to pursue
  Their faithful trav'ller as she scans the ball,
    And with their lustre combat to outdo.

  So man may shine with intellectual light,
    And all his virtue to the world impart;
  That distant fires his relicts may excite
    To study God, and humanize the heart.

    L. LE FEVRE.

      PINE-STREET, _Aug. 30, 1798_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE BATCHELOR'S WISH.

  Free from bustle, care and strife,
  Of this short various scene of life,
        O, let me spend my days.
  In rural sweetness with a friend,
  To whom I may my mind unbend,
        Not censure heed, or praise.

  Though not extravagant, or near,
  Yet through the well-spent checquer'd year,
        I'd have enough to leave.
  To drink a bottle with a friend,
  Assist him in distress, not lend,
        But rather freely give.

  Riches bring care, I ask not wealth,
  Let me enjoy but peace and health;
        I envy not the great.
  'Tis peace alone can make me bless'd.
  The rich may take to east, or west,
        I claim not wealth or state.

  I too would chuse to sweeten life,
  A tender, mild, good-natur'd wife,
        Young, sensible, and fair.
  One who would love but me alone;
  Prefer my cottage to a throne,
        And soothe my every care.

  Thus happy with my wife and friend;
  My days I carefully would spend,
        By no sad thoughts oppress'd.
  If heaven has bliss for me in store,
  Grant me but this, I ask no more,
        And I am truly bless'd.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, September 21, 1796.+  [+No. 64.+


  AN ENQUIRY INTO THE EFFECTS OF LOVE ON LIFE AND MANNERS.

There is something irresistibly pleasing in the conversation of a fine
woman: even though her tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes
teaches wisdom. The mind sympathizes with the regularity of the object
in view, and struck with external grace, vibrates into respondent
harmony.

Whether love be natural or no, it contributes to the happiness of every
society into which it is introduced. All our pleasures are short, and
can only charm at intervals: love is a method of protracting our
greatest pleasure; and surely that gamester, who plays the greatest
stake to the best advantage, will at the end of life, rise victorious.
This was the opinion of Vanini, who affirmed that, "every hour was lost
which was not spent in love." His accusers were unable to comprehend his
meaning, end the poor advocate for love was burned in flames, alas! no
way metaphorical. But whatever advantages the individual may reap from
this passion, society will certainly be refined and improved by its
introduction; all laws, calculated to discourage it, tend to embrute the
species and weaken the state. Though it cannot plant morals in the human
breast, it cultivates them when there: pity, generosity, and honour,
receive a brighter polish from its assistance; and a single amour is
sufficient entirely to brush off the clown.

But it is an exotic of the most delicate constitution; it requires the
greatest art to introduce it into a state, and the smallest
discouragement is sufficient to repress it again. Let us only consider
with what ease it was formerly extinguished in Rome, and with what
difficulty it was lately revived in Europe: it seemed to sleep for ages,
and at last fought its way through tilts, tournaments, dragons, and all
the dreams of chivalry. The rest of the world, are, and have ever been,
utter strangers to its delights and advantages. In other countries, as
men find themselves stronger than women, they lay a claim to rigorous
superiority: this is natural, and love which gives up this natural
advantage, must certainly be the effect of art. An art, calculated to
lengthen out our happier moments, and add new graces to society.

Those countries where it is rejected, are obliged to have recourse to
art to stifle so natural a projection, and those nations where it is
cultivated, only make nearer advances to nature. The same efforts, that
are used in some places to suppress pity and other natural passions, may
have been employed to extinguish love. No nation, however unpolished, is
remarkable for innocence, that has not been famous for passion; it has
flourished in the coldest, as well as the warmest regions. Even in the
sultry wilds of southern America, the lover is not satisfied with
possessing his mistress's person, without having her mind.

  In all my Enna's beauties blest,
    Amidst profusion still to pine;
  For though she gives me up her breast,
    Its panting tenant is not mine.

The effects of love are too violent to be the result of an artful
passion. Nor is it in the power of fashion, to force the constitution
into those changes, which we every day observe. Several have died of it.
Few lovers are unacquainted with the fate of the two Italian lovers, Da
Corsin and Julia Bellamano, who, after a long separation, expired with
pleasure in each other's arms. Such instances are too strong
confirmations of the reality of the passion, and serve to shew that
suppressing it, is but opposing the natural dictates of the heart.


       *       *       *       *       *

  AUTHENTICATED ETYMOLOGIES.

When the seamen on board the ship of Christopher Columbus, after a
series of fatigues, came in sight of St. Salvador, they burst out into
exuberant mirth and jollity. "The lads are in _a merry key_," cried the
commodore. _America_ is now the name of half the globe.

The famous Hannibal took his name from that of his mother, _Hannah
Bell_, a poor Scotch garter knitter at Carthage.

Dionysius Hallicarnassus derives the word _Mediterranean_ from this
event: Two girls of Syracuse used every morning to pour tea and other
slops from an upper window into the street: Whenever, therefore, the
neighbours heard the sash of their apartments lifted up, they would cry,
"_Maid or two rain on!_" The learned very well know how soon a word is
combined, and becomes general.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

  _Translated from the French._

  (Concluded from page 83.)

During his absence, the watchful policy of the fair Sultaness contrived
to acquire a great number of creatures, ready to undertake any thing to
serve her; she caused several favours to be conferred on them, through
the interest the Count had with the Sultan. He was now grown
prodigiously in his favour--The Sultan used frequently to divert himself
with hunting, it was an exercise he extremely loved, and the Count
understanding it perfectly, was always one of the party.--The expresses
which were continually brought of the victories Thibault had gained over
the enemy, increased the Sultan's esteem for the two hostages. Three
months passed thus, with creating new friends on the Queen's side, and
confidence on the Sultan's; but the joy of both, though for different
reasons was compleated, when a courier arrived with the news that the
conquering Thibault had entirely vanquished, cut the whole army of the
foe in pieces, killed their prince with his own hand, and not only
recovered the dominion they had taken from the Sultan, but also added
that of the bold invader to his empire.---These glorious actions were
celebrated in Almeria by great rejoicings;--nothing was talked of but
the bravery of the captive, and the obligations both king and people had
to him. As for him, when he found no more enemies to combat, he made
haste to garrison the conquered places, and having deputed such
governors as he thought were faithful, returned in triumph to Almeria.
The Sultan received him as his guardian angel, restored him his liberty,
and pressed him to accept the greatest places in his empire, if he would
change his religion; but the other gave him to understand, though with
the greatest respect, that he could not embrace his favours, but assured
him he would stay at his court as long as he should be wanted. This
refusal was so far from incensing, that the Sultan gave him the greater
esteem for it; and this illustrious warrior became so considerable at
the court of Almeria, that nothing was done but by his advice. The
Sultaness finding the success of her project, now thought it time to put
the finishing stroke to it. She pretended to be with child, and that the
air of Almeria did not agree with her; a Renegada physician, that she
had gained to her interest, assured the Sultan that her life would be in
danger, if she did not remove from where the was; that prince alarmed by
the tenderness he had for her, begged her to make choice of any of his
houses of pleasure, to go and reside in.--The Sultaness pitched on one
which was by the seaside, and the way to which was by sea.--The Sultan
immediately gave orders for the equipping a galley, and the Queen took
care to fill it with persons entirely devoted to her interest.--When
every thing was ready, she begged the Sultan that she might be
accompanied thither by the French cavalier, for the security of her
person; as for the Count de Ponthieu and his son, there was no occasion
for asking leave for their attendance, because they belonged immediately
to her. The Sultan made no scruple of granting every thing she desired,
and she embarked with her father, her brother, and husband, and the
faithful Sayda; taking with her a son of seven years old, which she had
by the Sultan, leaving in Almeria a daughter that was still at the
breast. Heaven seeming to favour their designs, they were no sooner got
to sea, than our warriors, seconded by the Queen's creatures, obliged
the slaves of the galley to row directly to Brindes, where they happily
arrived. The Princess gave the christian slaves their liberty, and put
in their places all the Saracens she could purchase, with orders to give
the Sultan the following letter:

_The Princess of Ponthieu to the Sultan of Almeria._

"If I had only your generosity to have combated, I would have discovered
to you the cause which urged me to this flight--convinced, that you
would rather have favoured than opposed it; but your love and religion
being insurmountable obstacles, I was obliged to make use of artifice to
be just.--I quit you not, my lord, through inconstancy, I follow my
husband, my father, and my brother, who were the three captives whose
lives you granted me; my husband having exposed his for your glory, and
the security of your dominions, has, in part, acquitted me of the
obligations I owe you.--I am a christian, and was a sovereign before
your wife; judge therefore, whether my rank and religion did not demand
this of me.---I shall always with gratitude remember the honour you have
done me; I have left you my daughter, being obliged to abandon her on
account of her youth:---Look on her, I intreat you, with the eyes of a
father.---I wish you all the happiness you deserve, and shall with
fervency beg of Heaven to bless you with that divine illumination, which
is the only thing in which your heroic virtues are deficient.

  "PONTHIEU."

The Sultan saw the galley return, and received the Princess's letter,
while she was prosecuting her journey to Rome; he was inconceivably
afflicted at the news, but his reason at length getting the better of
his despair, he endeavoured to comfort himself, by transplanting all the
tenderness he had paid the mother to the little daughter. In the mean
time, our illustrious fugitives arrived at Rome; where they were
received by the Pope with extraordinary honours; and after having
reconciled the Princess and Sayda to the bosom of the church, they
departed, loaded with presents and favours to Ponthieu, where the
unanimous joy of the people for their return is not to be expressed. The
Count dying some time after, his son inherited his dominions; but that
young prince not long surviving, he left the sovereignty to the Princess
his sister, who with her husband reigned a long time in perfect glory
and happy unity. The son she had by the Sultan, married a rich Heiress
of Normandy, from whom are descended the lords of Preau; and the
princess, who was left behind with the Sultan, was married to a Saracen
prince, and from a daughter of that princess was born the famous
Saladin, Sultan of Egypt, so known and dreaded by all christianity.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

               REMARKS ON MUSIC.

The influence of music on our affections is a truth established both by
sacred and profane history, and confirmed by its constant use in all
religious rites where the passions are most deeply interested. If this
art has power to direct the emotions of the heart, does it not deserve
our most earnest attention to preserve its proper influence, and direct
it to the good purposes intended by the wise and kind Author of all
things? And this can only be done by preventing the art itself from
being corrupted by the caprice and absurdity of human frailty, and by
directing the powers of its purity to assist us in the habits of virtue
and religion. Plutarch tells us, that a man who has learned music from
his infancy, will ever after have a proper sense of right and wrong, and
an habitual persuasion to decorum; this is undoubtedly true if we
consider the ancient manner of inculcating the laws of their country,
the great actions of heroes, the praises of their deities, which were
the subjects of this art; not to mention its mathematical principles,
which made a part of the Greek education, and induced the youths to
serious enquiry, and led them to noble truths. The same author has also
told us, that the manners of a people are best denoted by the prevailing
music of their country: and this is certainly true; as the mind will
always seek its repose and delight in pursuits the most similar to its
general tendency and direction. This reflection leads us to consider the
present state of music in this country, and how far it may be made
subservient to the ornamental part of education; and at the same time a
means of inducing the mind to the sober pursuits of virtue and religion,
which ought to be the true intention of parents in forming the minds of
their children.

Music is to be understood as a powerful assistant to sentimental
expression, which by the power of its charms enforces our attention to
some particular subject, adapted to some natural passion of mankind.
Under such consideration we are strongly impressed with the ideas of
love, pity, fear, or some other natural affection. But to produce the
effects of nature, the means must be unnatural: and to raise the ideas
of certain passions, the means should be consonant to the passion
itself; and confined within the simple bounds of nature. If this be not
the case in music, its true end is defeated, it ceases to be an
assistant to sentimental expression, and we absurdly admire its mere
sounds, rather than powerfully feel its proper effects.

  A. O.

  (_To be continued._)

    NEW-YORK _Sept. 15, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  IMITATION.

The more we follow the example of others, without being able to give a
reason for what we do, the more we detract from the dignity of thinking
beings; and the more we neglect to analyze and examine the manners of
the world we live in, the more we neglect one of the most important
duties of human life.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS HISTORICAL ANECDOTE.

In the reign of Edward the First of England, the gallant Robert Bruce
formed a conspiracy against that monarch, to effect the liberation of
his country: Of this Edward was secretly informed, and planted spies to
watch the motions of Bruce and his coadjutors: But a young nobleman,
a particular friend of the latter, understanding by some means the
situation of affairs respecting both parties, and unwilling to act
disloyally towards his sovereign, yet solicitous for the safety of his
friend, sent him as a present a pair of gilt spurs and a purse of gold.
This Robert Bruce considered as a warning to make his escape, which he
effected by ordering his horses to be shod with their shoes turned
backwards, to prevent his being tracked in the snow which had just
fallen.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE OF VOLTAIRE.

A young Frenchman in Paris conceived the most ardent desire to see and
speak with the celebrated M. Voltaire. Without any friends who knew the
philosopher, he could not hope for an introduction to his person;
resolved however not to be disappointed in his favourite object, he went
to the house and demanded to see the valet, to whom, having disclosed
his unconquerable longing, he presented a few livres, begging to be led
to the chamber door of the great man. The valet complied with his
request, and the youth tremblingly knocked at the door, "Who's there?"
vociferated a loud voice; he knocked again, "Who disturbs me with such a
noise? Come in," cried the philosopher, who happened to be in rather a
sullen humour. The young man, hesitatingly opened the door, and with a
faultering step and trembling voice addressed the object he so earnestly
wished to see--"I have long ardently desired to behold and speak with
the very celebrated M. Voltaire; excuse my intrusion." "For three sous,"
angrily replied the poet, "you may gain admission so see any beast."
"Here, Sir, are six, for this interview, and six more for another sight
tomorrow," replied the youth with some presence of mind. The sage was so
struck with his prompt reply, and perhaps his vanity not a little
flattered, that he immediately admitted him into the circle of his most
intimate friends, and continued ever after to shew him particular marks
of friendship and regard.


       *       *       *       *       *

  BEST MEANS OF ACQUIRING HAPPINESS.

The mind is undoubtedly the seat of happiness and misery, and it is
within our power to determine, which shall hold the empire there. To
maintain an uniform conduct, through all the varying stations of
life--to content ourselves with what comes within our reach, without
pining after what we cannot obtain, or envying others what they
possess---to maintain a clear unsullied conscience---and to allow for
the infirmities of others, from a retrospect of our own, are perhaps
some of the best rules we can lay down, in order to banish misery from
this mortal frame, and to acquire such a degree of happiness, as may
enable us to perform our terrestrial journey with some degree of
satisfaction so ourselves and others.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  MILITARY ANECDOTES.

We use the word _Panic_ or _Panic Fear_, for a needless or ill-grounded
fright. What marshal Saxe terms _le coeur humain_ is no other than fear
occasioned by surprise. It is owing to that cause that an ambush is
generally so destructive; intelligence of it before hand renders it
harmless. At the siege of Amiens by the Gauls, Caesar came up with his
army, which did not exceed 7000 men, and began to intrench himself in
such a hurry, that the barbarians judging him to be afraid, attacked his
intrenchments with great spirit. During the time they were filling up
the ditch, he issued out with his cohorts; and, by attacking them
unexpectedly, struck a panic that made them fly with precipitation, not
a single man offering to make a stand. At the siege of Alesia, the
Gauls, infinitely superior in number, attacked the Roman lines of
circumvallation, in order to raise the siege. Caesar ordered a body of
his men to march silently and to attack them on the one flank, while he,
with another body, did the same on the other flank. The surprise of
being attacked when they expected a defence only, put the Gauls into
disorder, and gave an easy victory to Caesar.

A third instance may be added no less memorable. In the year 846, an
obstinate battle was fought between Xamire king of Leon and Abdoulrahman
the Moorish king of Spain. After a long conflict, the night only
prevented the Arabians from obtaining a complete victory. The king of
Leon, taking advantage of the darkness, retreated to a neighbouring
hill, leaving the Arabians masters of the field of battle. Next morning,
perceiving that he could not maintain his place for want of provisions,
nor be able to draw off his men in the face of a victorious army, he
ranged his men in order of battle, and, without losing a moment, marched
to attack the enemy, resolved to conquer or die. The Arabians,
astonished to be attacked by those who were conquered the night before,
lost all heart. Fear succeeded to astonishment; the panic was universal;
and they all turned their backs almost without drawing a sword.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _SIMPLICITY._

Genuine simplicity is that peculiar quality of the mind, by which some
happy characters are enabled to avoid the most distant approaches to
every thing like affectation, inconsistency, or design, in their
intercourse with the world. It is much more easily understood, however,
than defined; and consists not in any specific tone of the voice,
movement of the body, or mode imposed by custom, but is the natural and
permanent effect of real modesty and good sense on the whole behaviour.

It has been considered, in all ages, as one of the first and most
captivating ornaments of the sex. The savage, the plebeian, the man of
the world, and the courtier, are agreed in stamping it with a preference
to every other female excellence.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  MEANINGS OF THE WORD MAKE.

The word _make_ is perhaps used in a greater variety of senses than any
other word in the English language. For instance:

"To _make, fabricate, form, render, create_, &c. These words though
sometimes used indifferently for each other, yet are by no means
synonymous.

The taylor, _makes_ a coat, the shoemaker a pair of shoes, the carpenter
a joint-stool, &c. _ad infinitum_.

We say a man _makes a shift_, but they must not suppose that he _makes
use_ of his wife's needle, and _makes_ her a shift. The words are used
figuratively, and only imply, that when he has no shirt, he _makes_ a
shift without it.

Again, kings _make_ war, and children _make_ a noise; but it would be
absurd to say, that kings _fabricate_ a war or that children _fabricate_
a noise.

A lady bids her housekeeper _make_ or distil some peppermint, or any
other _simple_ water; or to _make_ her some _water-gruel_ in her silver
saucepan, but it would be rather indelicate simply to bid her _make
water_ in the saucepan.

We may say, indifferently, either to _make_ or to _form_ a party at
cards, or on the water. And the word _render_ may sometimes be
substituted for make; as _making_ love _makes_ or _renders_ an old man
ridiculous.

I believe the phrase is to _give_, not to _make_, a rout or a ball. And
though if a lady loses her thimble she sometimes _makes a rout_ about
it, yet that, I believe, is rather a _vulgarism_; like making a _fuss_
or a _bustle_ about trifles.

We say, such a thing _makes_ me sick, or _makes_ me laugh.

If a man has a _good_ wife, he should _make_ much of her; if a _bad_
one, he should _make_ the best of it; or at least _make_ himself easy,
but not _make_ away with her.

To _create_, means to _make_ something out of nothing. Hence we say,
metaphorically, to _create_ a dispute, that is, to dispute about
nothing.

But it is time to _make an end_ of this article.


       *       *       *       *       *

  DETACHED THOUGHTS.

The Swiss, who shot himself because he was tired of dressing and
undressing, would have done so long before, had he not had so much
employment. Our Creator, knowing what sort of particles he composed us
of, obliged us to labour, not only for the support of 'life,' but of
existence itself. Were we cloathed by nature like the other animals, and
subsisted on the spontaneous herbage of the field, we should lose our
patience before fifty, and hang or drown ourselves in dread of three
score.

Maids should be seen and not heard, they say. This is comparing them to
peacocks.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _REMARKS._

Some prejudices seem to be to the mind what the atmosphere is to the
body; we cannot feel without the one, as we cannot breathe without the
other.

Many persons complain against fortune merely to conceal their indolence.
If you will be content to do nothing, how can you expect the rewards of
diligence.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 86.)

"You have made me behold myself in a view to which I was an utter
stranger, and which terrifies me. Hiermanfor, tell it me frankly, if you
have to add any thing farther; the more unreserved you shall be, the
more my gratitude will increase."

"Yes, my Lord, you deserve a better fate than what you are preparing for
yourself. You possess a noble quality which is but rarely the property
of princes, the courage of listening to disagreeable truths; a noble
heart is panting in your bosom; you possess more desire for knowledge
than you ought; your intention is good, however, you will be ruined in
spite of all these noble qualities. You are destitute of firmness of
mind; you fluctuate like a wave of the sea, which is driven and tossed
to and fro with the wind. You are doomed to be constantly the sport of
others, and never to steer your own course. That unshaken firmness of
resolution which is the effect of well founded conviction, is not in the
catalogue of your virtues. Your reason prevails too little on your
sensuality and imagination, which are hurrying you rapidly along through
bye ways. Nay, I even maintain that your rage for occult knowledge has
had as yet no other source but sensual pleasure; it gratified your
ambition to know more than other people; it flattered your self-love to
have the powers of nature at your command; it was a pleasing sight to
your eyes to witness extraordinary events, as children delight to hear
tales of giants and enchanted castles. And could you, in that
disposition of mind, think yourself worthy to be introduced to a
sanctuary, which even serious disinterested love of truth dares not
enter without being first purified. You have experienced what _you_ did
deserve, you merited to be put off with mystic words, with juggling
tricks and slights of hand; and you were satisfied with these gewgaws.
First after the veil had been removed from your eyes by other people,
you were highly displeased at my having taken the liberty to sell you
delusions for truth--for truth! as if ever _pure love for truth_ had
guided you, and what you mistook for it had been any thing else but
_vain curiosity_. Notwithstanding this, I have given you a specimen of
my superior power, and shown you the ghost of your living friend, who is
many hundred miles distant from hence, and you prove instantly how
little you deserve this condescension. You find not the least difference
between this vision and the former juggling tricks, mistaking it for a
dream, for a new delusion. Young man, learn first to discern truth from
illusion, and acquire a proper knowledge of the preparatory sciences,
before you attempt at occult wisdom; get first a proper knowledge of
yourself, before you strive for knowledge of occult things; endeavour to
bridle your imagination by cool reflection, and your sensuality by
self-denial, before you dare to grasp at the sway over the powers of
nature."

"How insignificant do I appear to myself, Hiermanfor! don't spare me,
and let me feel my whole nothingness."

"Man has gained a great advantage, if he has learned to be sensible of
his weakness, however he ought also to remain no stranger to his
strength. My Lord, we are endowed with a heavenly gift, which is called
_reason_; but how widely does it differ from what one commonly thinks it
to be; reason ought first to be purified, and divested of every thing
that is not herself, before she can become to us an infallible guide.
Assisted by her, we subdue our sensuality, and soar above visible
nature. Sensuality is the only thing terrestrial in us: reason raises us
to the communication with superior spirits. The more we learn to subdue
the former, the more sway do we obtain over the powers of nature; the
more we purify the latter, the more intimately are we connected with
superior beings. Man is an intermediate being between an angel and an
animal; is the sole creature that, by means of his senses, is connected
with the physical world, and through his reason with higher spirits, and
consequently can act upon both. Do you divine nothing, my Lord? These
words imply an important truth; however it would lead me too far, if I
should attempt to unfold it at large."

"O let me taste only a few drops from that sacred fountain!"

"At some other time, my Lord! important affairs bid me at present to
leave you. Will you accompany me to town?"

"With pleasure."

His coach had been waiting for us at some distance from the
burying-place.--The Irishman ordered his coachman to make haste, and
told me on the road that I must depart for Ma***t in two days. At the
same time he promised to meet me the following night at eleven o'clock,
and to continue the subject on which he had been speaking. He set me
down at my house and took leave.

The time which Lady Delier had fixed for our interview was past. This
would have been extremely painful to me in any other situation of mind,
but now my thoughts were employed by objects of greater importance. What
I had seen and heard at the burial-place had made a deep impression upon
me. The more I reflected on the vision, the more did it surpass my power
of conception. Deception is afraid of the light, seeking the dusk of
evening, or the darkness of night, in order to blind the eyes of the
deluded person; deception plays off its machineries in places which are
shut up, and previously have been fitted for the purpose; at the same
time it endeavours to harrow the mind, by solemn preparations, in a
disposition answerable to the deception; but here I could not perceive
any thing of that kind. The vision appeared at noon, and in an open
place, and when the Irishman called me away to the burial-place, I was
going to inform myself of a love affair, and of course, in a disposition
very unpropitious for apparitions or ghosts; deception takes care to
prevent the beholder from coming near its works, and I was near enough
to touch the phantom; deception never exposes its secret machines to the
danger of being discovered, and the Irishman invited me to make the
strictest investigation. And the vision itself, as it appeared, a living
human figure, and yet so incorporeal, that my arms penetrated it without
leaving a vestige behind----the resemblance to Antonio so great, that it
seemed to be the living original; and this figure spoke and returned
answers so adequate to my questions;----it did not, indeed, move its
lips, and the voice differed a little from that of Antonio; however, its
speaking organs were materially different from his natural ones. At
last, the disappearing and re-appearing at my desire----did it not
denote a free will of the vision?----In short, the longer I reflected on
the matter, the less did it appear to me the work of deception.

And if it were no fiction, what _I have_ seen; what an astonishing
mystery does it imply? How is it possible for a living, absent man to
appear to his friend, as the deceased are reported to do? How can his
soul disembody herself for a short time, and inclose herself in an
imitated shape? The Irishman has, indeed, given me a hint concerning the
possibility of such miracles; but how unfit was I to comprehend that
distant hint, and how much did my soul thirst for the promised
continuation of his discourse? He is in the right, I did not, as yet,
deserve to be instructed in the mysteries of occult knowledge; I merited
to be put off with vain delusions. How little did my impetuous curiosity
agree with a disciple of occult knowledge; how insignificant must I have
appeared to him! How great did he shew himself to me! With what an
astonishing omniscience did he read my most hidden thoughts; with what a
great sagacity has he laid open my weakness, and with how much frankness
told me my defects! If it were his intention to deceive me any farther,
he would silently have taken advantage of my blind side, and carefully
avoided to open my eyes. He certainly could not have given me a more
unsuspicious and convincing proof of the goodness and purity of his
sentiments towards me.--This openness, this noble sincerity, deserves,
undoubtedly, my unbounded gratitude. Yes, _Antonio, he shall guide me in
thy room! I will confide in him as I have confided in thee._

In the evening I went to Amelia, to inform her of my impending
departure. She was just playing on the harpsicord, and received me with
a silent smile, without suffering herself to be interrupted in her play.
The Baroness, however, received me with cold civility; I could guess the
reason of it; however I had no opportunity to make an excuse. The
affecting pieces, which Amelia played with an unspeakable charm, began
to melt my soul, and to thrill me with a sweet melancholy. But suddenly
the recollection of the Irishman, of my resolution, and of my departure
flushed through my head: I left my dangerous post, and Amelia ceased
playing. I had placed myself at the open window----she followed me
thither.

"So immersed in meditation, my Lord?"

"I am thinking of my departure."

"You are not going to leave us?"

"I must depart the day after to-morrow. Business of great importance
requires my personal attendance at Ma***t."

This news produced surprise and silence. The coldness of Lady Delier
began to thaw. "I hope your business, my Lord," said she, "is not so
very pressing."

"Alas! it is so pressing that it suffers not the least delay."

"Alas!" Amelia repeated, "one should think your departure was painful to
your heart!" She blushed, as if she had said something imprudent.

"Alas! it is too painful to my heart; but who cares for my heart?"

"Indeed," Lady Delier replied, "you think very unkind of us."

"It is a gloomy night," said Amelia, going to the window, and the thread
of our conversation was cut off at once. I endeavoured to lead it again
to its former channel; however I perceived that the conversation grew
irksome and dull; it turned on a hundred most insignificant trifles, but
the Countess avoided carefully to touch the former string, although I
sounded it repeatedly, softer or louder. At length I took leave. Lady
Delier was so kind as to see me down stairs; I told her that an
important visit from the Irishman, whom I had endeavoured in vain to put
off, had prevented me from keeping the appointment. She took my excuse
very kindly, and made me promise to meet her the next morning at ten
o'clock at the fir grove.

Uneasiness and curiosity drove me thither at the appointed hour. The
Baroness was waiting for me. "The Countess is at church," said she, "let
me take advantage of her short absence, and commit a little treachery;
but take heed not so betray me to my friend!"

"Certainly not," I replied, my curiosity being harrowed up to the
highest degree by this exordium.

"All that I have to disclose to you is contained in two words: you are
beloved, my Lord!"

"My Lady!"---

"Give me leave to relate the matter in a proper manner." The Baroness,
seemed delighted with my astonishment, continued, "recollect your first
interview with the Countess; you have not been indifferent to her
already, at the time when she accepted the ring which you offered her;
however, the good Countess did not know it then herself. She fancied her
sentiments to be merely the effects of the gratitude which she imagined
the owed you, because you have been the primary cause of the long wished
for apparition of her deceased Lord. However, that apparition which
declared you, afterwards, the son of the murderer, made thereby Amelia
think it her duty to restrain her kindness for you. The difficulty which
she had to submit to the voice of duty, told her plainly, that in her
heart something more than gratitude was panting for you. Fortunately,
the ghost himself had desired her to forgive the murderer; she imagined,
therefore, it would be but just to extend the forgiveness to the son.
She did not foresee that her tenderness for you, covered by that
pretext, would find so much the less difficulty to steal again into the
heart which it scarcely had been expelled. Not before Amelia's
tenderness for you rose to a degree, which left no room for doubt of her
attachment for you, did she perceive that her readiness to be reconciled
to you, originated less from the request of the ghost, than from that of
her own heart. You may believe me, my Lord, that it was no easy matter
to draw these particulars from Amelia's lips. She concealed carefully in
her bosom a passion, the existence of which she trembled to confess. She
had made a vow of eternal fidelity to her late Lord, and although she
fancied she had not violated her promise by voluntary sentiments, yet a
confession of these sentiments, though deposited only in the bosom of an
intimate friend, appeared to her a profanation of her solemn
declaration. However her speaking frequently of you with evident marks
of partiality, made me, nevertheless, suspect a part of the secret,
which the Irishman's vision unfolded entirely to me.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  MISFORTUNE.

To fly from misfortunes, and endeavour to console ourselves by retiring
from the world, is undoubtedly encreasing the evil we wish to lessen.
This has often been the case of disappointed lovers. They have vainly
imagined, that there must be something very soothing to the afflicted
mind, in listening to the plaintive sound of some purling and meandering
stream, or in uttering their plaints to the gentle breezes and the
nodding groves. But, alas! these delusive consolations only contribute
to feed the disorders of the mind, and increase the evil till melancholy
takes deep root in their souls, and renders their complaints incurable.

The society of the polite and refined of both sexes is the only relief,
at least the principal one, for any uneasiness of the mind. Here a
variety of objects will insensibly draw our attention from that one
which tyrannises in our bosom, and endeavours to exclude all others.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRAORDINARY THIRST FOR FAME.

Pausanias, a domestic, and near attendant upon the person of Philip,
king of Macedon, enquired of Hermocles, which was the most expeditious
way to be famous in the world on a sudden? Who answered he must kill
some eminent person, and then the glory of that man would fall upon
himself; hereupon, forgetting his duty and obligations, he murdered his
sovereign and master king Philip, and had what he aimed at, being as
well known in succeeding ages by his horrid parricide, as Philip was by
his great virtue.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Sunday evening, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. LEONARD ROGERS to Miss
BETSEY OAKLEY.

Not long since, Capt. JAMES WARD, of Middle-Point, (N.J.) to Miss JANE
VANPELT, of that place.

On Thursday 7th inst. Mr. FRANCIS ST MARY, to Miss ELIZABETH ROUSSEAU,
of Cayenne.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 11th to the 17th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

           deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
              100   100   100
  Sept. 11  72    81    79     w. do. do.   clear, lt. wd. do. do. do.
        12  74 75 82    81     sw. w. do.   cloudy, lt. wd. do. do.
        13  70 25 76    72 75  sw. do. se.  rn lt. wd. clear cloudy do.
        14  76    83    73 50  sw do. w.    clear do. rain thun & lt.
        15  73    78 50 76     w. do. do.   thun. lt. rain at night do.
        16  64    71 25 70 50  nw. do w.    clear lt. wd. do. do. do.
        17  67 25 73 25 63 50  s. sw. w.    clear h. wd. do. l. wd.

                   *   *   *

_N.B._ On Wednesday last, at about 5 o'clock P.M. a very violent
whirlwind seemed to concentrate within the vicinity of the house in
which the Balloon was suspended, in the suburbs of this city.--Such was
its violence, that it threw down and rent in pieces the said house, in
all directions; the fence around it was also destroyed. The Balloon was
suspended, and at this time was compleatly filled with atmospheric air;
by the fall and rending of the house the Balloon was totally separated
in several pieces, and otherwise so torn and rent as to be totally
irreparable. Such was the dreadful violence of the wind at this place,
and but for a moment, that a round tin gutter, which was well fastened
to the house adjoining, and which had resisted other storms, was totally
broken in several pieces, and part of it carried 50 yards distant. The
fence at this house was rent and torn very much. This storm was attended
with very violent thunder and lightning, which continued nearly an hour,
and a great quantity of rain. In the night following a very heavy storm
of thunder, lightning, very high wind, and rain.

It may very justly be presumed, that there was as great a quantity of
thunder and lightning in eight hours, as ever was experienced in so
short a time; and it evidently appears to have left a charming,
agreeable and healthy atmosphere, and, doubtless, great public good will
result therefrom.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                    _ELEGY_

           ON MISS MARGARETTA HERVEY,

    Who Departed This Life _March 14, 1796_.

  Vain are the loveliest virtues of the heart,
    The charms of beauty and of youth are vain
  To stop thy progress Death, to turn thy dart,
    Or the beloved spirit to retain.

  Else Margaretta still had blest our sight,
    Nor sad affection wept upon her tomb;
  Yet boast not, Death, for hope's celestial light
    Points to a place where thou canst never come.

  There friends shall meet on Heaven's eternal shore;
  There we shall triumph when thou art no mare.

    New-York, _Sept. 17, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  WRITTEN DURING THE STORM ON WEDNESDAY LAST, THE _15th_ INST.

  The awful thunder rolls repeated peals,
  And by its grandeur wakes the careless soul
  To sense of thee, the Author all divine:
  Thee the dispenser of such mighty pow'r,
  To man's dark soul incomprehensible.
  Now fierce and keen the livid lightning flies
  In course irregular--the blazing heav'ns
  Seem wrapt in flame; the timid earth,
  Affrighted at the scene, beneath our feet,
  Shakes with the strong convulsion;
  Now renew'd, with still increasing force,
  Is heard the dreadful near approaching sound,
  Which swiftly following the repeated fire,
  Calls up dread apprehension of th' effect;
  Perhaps this moment--on our friend awaits
  Instant destruction--by the mighty hand
  Of Heav'n remov'd, inseparate to view
  Thy glory rolling in bright realms above;
  Or, under covert of some lofty oak,
  Th' affrighted cattle find their last retreats;
  And in the gen'ral conflict swift expire.
  Not so the soul refin'd, the views serene,
  The solemn scene around--in wonder lost,
  And contemplation of the great Supreme.
  Thou whose strong arm supports these numerous worlds,
  Rolling the year in periods various:
  Thou who canst keep her 'midst ten thousand fears,
  Safe from all harm, secure from ev'ry woe,
  Thee She adores--and trusting all to thee,
  In pious resignation waits th' event.----

    S----


       *       *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

                     LINES

  _On hearing a young Lady singing a favourite Song._

  Mild o'er the scene calm twilight reigns,
    Her music wanders through the air;
  While echo still repeats the strains,
    That warbling charm "attention's ear."

  The falling note, that cadence sweet,
    The tuneful melody prolong;
  My dying pulses slowly beat,
    Such is the magic power of song.

  A louder strain now swells the air,
    My waken'd senses with it rise;
  Such sweet confusion ransoms care,
    And mitigates all rising sighs.

    AMELIA.

      PEARL-STREET, _Aug. 18, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  PADDY'S REMARK ON A TREBLE RAP AT THE DOOR.

  When first simple Paddy was brought to the city,
  He was told to be smart, and he wish'd to be witty:
  _Arrah_ tell me, says Pat, what the reason can be,
  At one rap I'm let in, and the _Measter_ gives three.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

                   *   *   *

          THE TRIBUNAL OF CONSCIENCE.

  When retrospection casts a guilty eye
  On crimes of youth and days of lawless sport,
  Blessings abus'd, and time profusely squander'd;
  Th' Almighty's image in the human breast
  Polluted, and false deities ador'd;
  What solid satisfaction can the joys,
  The glittering trifles of this life afford?
  --Not regal splendour, nor enormous heaps
  Of shining ore, nor reputation earn'd
  By smooth hypocrisy, nor pleasures strain'd
  By art's device, to satiate the sense
  Beyond the bounds of reason, can afford
  Aught of serenity or peace of mind.
  In vain invention furnishes new schemes
  To drown reflection: these abortive prove,
  And leave unadvocated and abash'd,
  At the dread bar of Conscience, him who late
  Defy'd her power and spurned her admonitions.
  --Now prostrate falls the culprit in the dust,
  While thund'ring through his soul the awful voice
  Shatters his stubborn will, and breaks the bands
  Which tie his darling vices to his heart.
  Nor is this call the signal of destruction--
  'Tis but the voice of love omnipotent,
  Once speaking in a still small voice, but now
  Rising with power t' accuse and to deride;
  Which once intreated, now commands attention,
  And wretched, doubly wretched is the man
  Who still endeavours to evade its influence.

    VIATOR.

      NEW-YORK _Sept. 15, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE SHIELD OF SORROW.

    _By W. P. Carey._

  When Heav'n dissolves the sacred tie
    Which binds two faithful souls in one,
  Where shall the sad survivor fly,
    The arrows of despair to shun?

  Oh! can the musing hours of grief
    A pause from keen remembrance know?
  Or rooted sorrow find relief
    From empty forms of outward woe?

  Can fortune's smile his peace recall?
    Or can the sprightly song and dance,
  Where pleasure's festive train in all
    The mazy rounds of joy advance?

  Ah no!--this world no cure bestows;
    In vain is ev'ry human art;
  From pure religion only flows
    A balm to heal the wounded heart.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _On a Lady putting a White Rocket in her Bosom._

  When the sweet scented Rocket so fair,
  To her breast, dear Sophia applied,
  Overcome with soft whiteness there;
  It drooped, lost its beauty and died.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, September 28, 1796.+  [+No. 65.+


  _THE LADIES' MONITOR._

  Addressed to Every Fair Reader, Whether Single or Married.

A multitude of admirers is an object too generally coveted by young
females, yet it is certainly a very improper method to be taken by such
as wish to be happy in matrimony. Sensible and well-meaning, worthy and
sincere men, are seldom attracted within the circle of those who adopt
this conduct; if they should fall within it, it is very seldom that they
long retain the slight chains of such a love.--In particular, it is
remarkably improper and absurd for a woman, who has already a sensible
lover, to languish for a number of flatterers to admire her---should she
miss of her aim, she fancies herself unhappy: should she succeed, she is
likely to be really so. A man who values his own honour, or the dignity
proper for the female whom he addresses to assume, will by no means
admit of this plurality of lovers, any more than the laws will admit of
a plurality of husbands.

A neatness, without excess, in point of dress, a prudent restraint of
the tongue, a moderation in taking diversions, and an unaffected ease
and politeness, joined to the usual accomplishments, must complete the
character of an accomplished lady in a single state; and will, in the
end, outweigh the transitory, though delightful charms of a beautiful
person.

However, it frequently happens that women, as soon as they are married,
seem to think their task is entirely done, yet it is no less common for
them to find that it is just then to begin again. It is often an easier
matter to win a man than to keep him; and those who have found little
trouble in conquering a sweetheart, have had no small difficulty in
preserving the affections of a husband.

In the first place, there is nothing more proper, than to observe, with
the utmost nicety, the temper of the person to whom you are to be joined
in matrimony---For this is the very key to happiness in that state, and
if it be not found, all other efforts will be ineffectual. It is in vain
to conclude, that, from the apparent disposition of the former lover,
you may draw that of the husband. It is not so, it cannot be so; for,
besides that the best humours of the former are only seen, circumstances
being altered, will doubtless make an apparent alteration in the same
person, to which the knowledge of his natural disposition must lead you.
It is to this alone you must expect to owe that empire which you wish to
maintain over the heart you have conquered; though, amongst the variety
of dispositions observeable in men, there are but few, where an even
mildness on the side of the female, will best secure her sway; and she
will always rule most perfectly, who seems not ambitious of
governing---Jealousy is what every married woman should beware of; when
once she admits of it, she treasures up anxiety in her mind---Should she
entertain it in her bosom, it will be perpetually preying, as it were,
upon her vitals; if she is imprudent enough to avow it, there will ever
be found a number of officious people, who will fill her ears with tales
which will destroy her peace. The fond wife will then be looked upon as
a kind of domestic foe; for her husband will shun her accordingly, and
whenever they are together, they will be the mutual torment of each
other.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRACT FROM A ROYAL GRANT OF LAND IN CARNATA,
  Translated from the Sanskrit by Sir William Jones.
  _Written on Palmyra leaves, with a stylus._

  PROSPERITY attend you!
  Adoration to Ganesa!

  STANZAS!

1. Adored be the god Sambhu, on whom the city of the three worlds rested
in the beginning, as on its main pillar, and whose lofty head is adorned
with a crescent, that kisses it, resembling the point of a waving
Chamara.

2. May the tusks of that boar whose form was assumed in sport by Heri,
when the raised earth was his gorgeous umbrella, with Hermadri (or the
golden mountain) for the ornament of its top, be a staff to keep you
secure.

3. May the luminous body of that God, who though formed like an
elephatst, was born of Parvati, and is revered even by Heri,
propitiously dispel the gloom of misfortune.

4. There is a luminary which rose like fresh butter from the ocean of
milk, churned by the gods, and scattered the gloom from around it.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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


  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

My history presents a frightful example of the instability of fortune.
It is indeed very flattering, but it is also sometimes very dangerous,
to have an ancient title to sustain, and a large estate to preserve. The
sole descendant of an illustrious family, whose origin is lost in the
darkness of remote ages, I have a right to aspire to, and to occupy the
first employments in the republic which gave me birth, and yet I behold
myself condemned to languish in a foreign country, amidst an indolent
and inglorious obscurity.

The name of Lovzinski is honourably mentioned in the annals of Poland,
and that name is about to perish with myself! I know that an austere
philosophy either rejects or despises vain titles and corrupting riches;
and perhaps I should console myself if I had lost only these; but,
I weep for an adored spouse, I search after a beloved daughter, and I
shall never more revisit my native land. What courage is capable of
opposing griefs like mine?

My father, the Baron de Lovzinski, still more distinguished by his
virtues than his rank, enjoyed that consideration at court, which the
favour of the prince always confers, and which personal merit sometimes
obtains. He bestowed all the attention of a tender parent on the
education of my two sisters; and in regard to mine, he occupied himself
with the zeal of a man of family, jealous of the honour of his house, of
which I was the sole hope, and with the activity of a good citizen, who
desires nothing so ardently as to leave to the state a successor worthy
of him.

While I was pursuing my studies at Warsaw, the young P---- distinguished
himself among the rest of my companions by his amiable qualities. To the
charms of a person at once noble and engaging, he joined the graces of a
cultivated understanding. The uncommon address which he displayed among
us young warriors, that rare modesty with which he seemed desirous to
conceal his own merit from himself, on purpose to exalt the abilities of
his less fortunate rivals, who were generally vanquished by him in all
our exercises; the urbanity of his manners, and the sweetness of his
disposition, fixed the attention, commanded the esteem, and rendered him
the darling of that illustrious band of young nobility, who partook of
our studies and our pleasures.

To say that it was the resemblance of our characters, and the sympathy
of our dispositions, that occasioned my attachment to M. de P---- would
be to pay myself too flattering a compliment; however that may be, we
both lived together in the most intimate familiarity.

How happy, but how fleeting is that time of life, when one is
unacquainted with ambition, which sacrifices every thing to the desire
of fortune and the glory that follows in her train, and with love, the
supreme power of which absorbs and concentres all our faculties upon one
sole object! that age of innocent pleasures, and of confident credulity,
when the heart, as yet a novice, follows the impulse of youthful
sensibility, and bestows itself unreservedly upon the object of
disinterested affection! Then, surely, friendship is not a vain name!

The confidant of all the secrets of M. de P----, I myself undertook
nothing without first intrusting him with my designs; his counsels
regulated my conduct, mine determined his resolution; our youth had no
pleasures which were not shared, no misfortunes which were not solaced,
by our mutual attachment.

With what chagrin did I not perceive that fatal moment arrive, when my
friend, obliged by the commands of a father to depart from Warsaw,
prepared to take leave of me! We promised to preserve for ever that
lively affection which had constituted the chief happiness of our youth,
and I rashly swore that the passions of a more advanced age should never
alter it.

What an immense void did the absence of M. de P---- leave in my heart!
At first it appeared that nothing could compensate for his loss; the
tenderness of a father, the caresses of my sisters, affected me but
feebly. I thought that no other method remained for me to dissipate the
irksomeness of my situation, than to occupy my leisure moments with some
useful pursuit. I therefore cultivated the French language, already
esteemed throughout all Europe; I read with delight those famous works,
the eternal monuments of genius, which it had produced; and I wondered
that, not withstanding such an ungrateful idiom, so many celebrated
poets, so many excellent philosophers and historians, justly
immortalized, had been able to distinguish themselves by its means.

I also applied myself seriously to the study of geometry; I formed my
mind in a particular manner to the pursuit of that noble profession
which makes a hero at the expence of one hundred thousand unfortunates,
and which men less humane than valiant have called the grand art war!
Several years were employed in these pursuits, which are equally
difficult and laborious; in short, they solely occupied my thoughts. M.
de P----, who often wrote to me, no longer received any but short
replies, and our correspondence began to languish by neglect, when at
length love finished the triumph over friendship.

My father had been for a long time intimately connected with Count
Pulaski. Celebrated for the austerity of his manners, famous on account
of the inflexibility of his virtues, which were truly republican,
Pulaski, at once a great captain and a brave soldier, had on more than
one occasion signalized his fiery courage, and his ardent patriotism.

He trusted in ancient literature, he had been taught by history the
great lessons of a noble disinterestedness, an immoveable constancy, an
absolute devotion to glory. Like those heroes to whom idolatrous but
grateful Rome elevated altars, Pulaski would have sacrificed all his
property to the prosperity of his country; he would have spilled the
last drop of his blood for its defence; he would even have immolated his
only, his beloved daughter, Lodoiska.

Lodoiska! how beautiful! how lovely! her dear name is always on my lips,
her adored remembrance will live for ever in my heart!

From the first moment that I saw this fair maid, I lived only for her;
I abandoned my studies; friendship was entirely forgotten. I consecrated
all my moments to Lodoiska. My father and hers could not be long
ignorant of my attachment; they did not chide me for it; they must have
approved it then? This idea appeared to me to be so well founded, that I
delivered myself up, without suspicion, to the sweet passion that
enchanted me: and I took my measures so well, that I beheld Lodoiska
almost daily, either at home, or in company with my sisters, who loved
her tenderly:--two sweet years flew away in this manner.

At length Pulaski took me one day aside, and addressed me thus: "Your
father and myself have formed great hopes of you, which your conduct has
hitherto justified; I have long beheld you employing your youth in
studies equally useful and honourable. To-day--(He here perceived that I
was about to interrupt him) What would you say? Do you think to tell me
any thing I am unacquainted with? Do you think that I have occasion to
be hourly witness of your transports, to learn how much my Lodoiska
merits to be beloved? Is it because I know as well as you the value of
my daughter, that you never shall obtain but by meriting her? Young man,
learn that it is not sufficient that our foibles should be legitimate,
to be excusable; those of a good citizen ought to be turned entirety to
the profit of his country; love, even love itself, like the basest of
the passions, is either despicable or dangerous, if it does not offer to
generous hearts an additional motive to excite them towards honour.

"Hear me: Our monarch, for a long time in a sickly habit of body, seems
at length to approach towards his end. His life, become every day more
precarious, has awakened the ambition of our neighbours. They doubtless
prepare to sow divisions among us; and they think that by over-awing our
suffrages, they will be enabled to force upon us a king of their own
chusing. Foreign troops have already dared to appear on the frontiers of
Poland; already two thousand Polish gentlemen have assembled, on purpose
to punish their audacious insolence. Go and join yourself with those
brave youths; go, and at the end of the campaign return covered with the
blood of our enemies, and shew to Pulaski a son-in-law worthy of him!"

I did not hesitate a single moment; my father approved of my
resolutions, but being unable to consent without pain to my precipitate
departure, he pressed me for a long time against his bosom, while a
tender solicitude was depicted in all his looks; his adieus seemed to be
inauspicious; the trouble that agitated his heart seized upon my own;
our tears were mingled on his venerable cheeks. Pulaski, who was present
at this moving scene, stoically reproached us for what he termed a
weakness. Dry up your tears, said he to me, or preserve them for
Lodoiska: it belongs only to childish lovers who separate themselves
from each other for five or six months, to weep in this manner! He
instructed his daughter in my presence, both of my departure, and of the
motives which determined me to it. Lodoiska grew pale, sighed, looked at
her father with a face suffused with blushes, and then assured me in a
trembling voice, that her vows should be offered up for my safe return,
and that her happiness depended on the safety of Lovzinski.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANGER.

It was a memorable saying of Peter the Great; "I have civilized my
country, but I cannot civilize myself." He was at times vehement and
impetuous, and committed, under the impulse of his fury, the most
unwarrantable excesses; yet we learn, that even he was known to tame his
anger, and to rise superior to the violence of his passions! Being one
evening in a select company, when something was said which gave him
great offence, his rage suddenly kindled, and rose to it's utmost pitch:
though he could not command his first emotions, he had resolution enough
to leave the company. He walked bare-headed for some time, under the
most violent agitation, in an intense frosty air, stamping on the ground
and beating his head with all the marks of the greatest fury and
passion; and did not return to the company until he was quite composed.


       *       *       *       *       *

  AUTHENTICATED ETYMOLOGIES.

Antiquarians say, that an old <DW64> at Cape Cod, whenever his master
required any thing of him, would exclaim, "_Massa chuse it_." Thence in
time the name of _Massachusett_.

The city of _Albany_ was originally settled by Scotch people. When
strangers on their arrival there asked how the new comers did? the
answer was, "_All bonny_." The spelling we find a little altered, but
not the sound.

When Julius Caesar's army lay encamped at _Ticonderoga_, near a thousand
years ago, the deserters were commonly tied up upon a battering ram and
flogged: When any culprit was brought out, the commanding centurion
would exclaim, _Tie on the rogue!_ The name, we see, has worn well.

A fat landlady, who about the time of the flight of Mahomet from Mecca,
lived between new Orleans and the Chicasaw cliffs, was scarcely ever
unfurnished with pigeon sea pye; and thence got the name of _Mrs. Sea
Pye_. The enormous river Mississipi, owes its name to the fat landlady.

In the reign of Dermot O'Mullogh, in the kingdom of Connaught, about the
beginning of the second century, a noisy fellow by the name of _Pat
Riot_, made himself very conspicuous; the word _Patriot_ has come down
to us perfect and unimpaired.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

             +JULIET.----A Story.+

The sun had descended just below the horizon--all nature was wrapped in
solemn silence--when Juliet hastened to the tomb of her dear friend.
Having seated herself upon the green turf near his head, and looking
with anxiety to the grave, she exclaimed-- "Oh Lovemore!-- Why leave
your Juliet thus to mourn?-- Answer me, my dear, this once--how cruel to
separate us!-- Oh Death, thou welcome messenger to those who are
troubled--thou finisher of grief and despair--thou antidote to all
future evils-- Why thus delay thy second coming?--- Or, why didst thou
come so soon?-- What have I been guilty of, that thus thou dost
torment?-- If Lovemore received the summons, why not Juliet?-- Oh
Lovemore!--- thou who wert once the boast of creation, now to be no
more!-- Thou who were once the delight of all who had the pleasure of
thy acquaintance---now to be a companion for worms.--- Cruel fates thus
to deprive me of my all--- If the summons must be obeyed, why was not
the tomb of Lovemore made the receptacle for Juliet too.---
Lovemore---he is gone---alas! he's gone---never to return---never to
behold his Juliet again.--- Lovemore! Lovemore!--- why thus callous to
the cries of her whom it was ever thy wish to please?--- Must Juliet,
thy beloved Juliet, weep in vain?--- And must those lips which never
spoke of Lovemore but with affection and delight, be silenced without a
reply?--- Surely you have not grown disdainful to her whom you once
adored?--- If still thou art the Lovemore whom Juliet once beheld---if
still thy affection for her is pure, why thus be silent?--- I conjure
you by those tender vows which once you made, answer me now."----
"Juliet--- Juliet"---- "Hark!--- What voice is that I hear calling on
Juliet's name?"---- "Why thus repine at the will of Heaven?--- and why
thus dictate to thy Creator how to act?--- Consider thy presumption in
reproving him.--- Will your repeated cries to heaven restore new vigour
to that inanimate, cold, and putrified clay?--- No;--- all will be in
vain.--- I charge you, reflect."---- "Have I erred?--- Oh! righteous
Heaven, and have I been guilty of accusing thee of injustice?--- Have I
called in question thy power?--- Yes;--- it is too true--- I have.---
Why did Juliet murmur, and why oppose thy just decrees?--- O Heaven, was
it not for the affection she bore to thee, Lovemore, that caused her
thus to transgress?--- Yes, it was, Juliet loved him, and Juliet still
loves him---but her will must be submissive to the will of Heaven.--- He
who gave thee birth, O Lovemore! has called you hence--- You have
answered your mission.--- The summons served, the debt of nature's
paid.--- Juliet will no longer grieve.--- Lovemore, soon shall you find
thy Juliet in thy arms:--- then that tomb which is now the receptacle of
thy body, shall be mine--- And that tear which was seen on Juliet's
cheek shall be changed to joy.--- She who now weeps over thy cold clay,
shall then be thy companion for ever." Here Juliet embraced the grave of
Lovemore, and summoning up the virtues of resignation and patience to
her aid, she silently quitted the spot---and calmly mourned, not
murmured, till Heaven united her spirit with that of her departed lover.

  TYRUNCULUS.

    NEW-YORK _Sept. 21, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  A RURAL PICTURE.

On a spacious lawn, bounded on every side by a profusion of the most
odoriferous flowering shrubs, a joyous band of villagers were assembled;
the young men dressed in green; youth, health, and pleasure in their
air, led up their artless charmers, in straw hats adorned with the
spoils of Flora, to the rustic sound of the tabor and pipe. Round the
lawn, at equal intervals, were raised temporary arbours of branches of
trees, in which refreshments were prepared for the dancers; and between
the arbours, seats of moss for their parents, shaded from the sun by
green awnings, on poles, round which were twined wreaths of flowers,
breathing the sweets of the spring. The surprise, the gaiety of the
scene, the flow of general joy, the sight of so many happy people, the
countenances of the enraptured parents, who seem to live anew again, the
sprightly season of youth in their children, with the benevolent looks
of the noble bestowers of the feast, filled my eyes with tears, and my
swelling heart with a sensation of pure, yet lively transport, to which
the joys of the courtly belles are mean.


       *       *       *       *       *

  GLEANINGS.

When a man is disposed to reveal a secret, and expects that it shall be
kept, he should first enquire whether he can keep it himself. This is
good advice, perhaps a little in the Irish way.

All the wisdom in the world will do little while a man wants presence of
mind. He cannot fence well that is not on his guard. Archimedes lost his
life by being too busy to give an answer.

Notwithstanding the difference of estate and quality among men, there is
such a general mixture of good and evil, that in the main, happiness is
pretty equally distributed in the world. The rich are as often unhappy
as the poor, as repletion is more dangerous than appetite.

It is wonderful how fond we are of repeating a scrap of Latin, in
preference to the same sentiment in our own language equally well
expressed. Both the sense and words of Omnia vincit amor (love conquers
all) are worthy only of a school-boy, and yet how often repeated with an
affectation of wisdom!

Revenge, speaking botanically, may be termed wild justice, and ought to
be rooted out, as choaking up the true plant. A first wrong does but
offend the law, but revenge puts the law out of office. Surely, when
government is once established, revenge belongs only to the law.

For more than a century, has Billingsgate been proverbial for the
coarseness of its language. Whence is this? What connexion is there
between fresh fish and foul words? Why should the vending of that useful
commodity, and elegant luxury, prompt to oaths, execrations, and every
corruption of language, more than any other? And to think that the
parties concerned are of the fair sex---O fye!

Reason has not more admirers than there are hypocrites. Hypocrites
admire only the profits of wisdom, and approve just so much of her, as
is agreeable and serviceable to their ends.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 95.)

"You know that he has been in our house some time ago, informing us of
your exaltation to the ducal dignity, and at the same time, placed the
declaration of the ghost, concerning the murder, in its proper point of
view. However, you are still ignorant of the most important
circumstance. I will not dwell on the uncommon praise he bestowed on
your family, and you in particular, but only mention that he concluded
his panegyrics with the observation, that the Countess herself would
deem you deserving her love, if she should be acquainted more intimately
with your Grace. This unexpected turn perplexed Amelia evidently. She
replied, she did not doubt the amiable qualities of the Duke, however
she vowed eternal fidelity to the Count. 'If that is your sole
objection,' the Irishman replied, 'then I shall soon remove it. The
deceased himself shall release you from your vow, from the performance
of which he can derive neither benefit nor pleasure; it is in my power
to make him declare it himself.' 'No, no!' exclaimed Amelia, terrified,
'the rest of the deceased shall not be interrupted; I should not be able
to stand the sight of him.' 'No apparition, my Lady,' the Irishman
replied, 'you shall neither hear nor see the deceased!'--With these
words he took a blank piece of paper out of his pocket-book, requesting
Amelia to write upon it the following words:----'Spirit of the Count of
Clairval, shall I preserve my heart and hand faithful to thee till
death, according to my vow?' As soon as the Countess had been persuaded
to it with great difficulty, and wrote these words, the Irishman
prevailed upon her to carry the paper to an apartment to which no one
could have access without her knowledge and leave. Amelia chose the
apartment contiguous to her bed-chamber. The shutters were bolted from
within, the paper placed upon a table, and the room strongly fumigated
by the Irishman, who uttered some mysterious words. When they had
retired, the Irishman requested her to return and look after the paper;
however she could see nothing but the words written by herself, upon
which she shut the door, and put the key in her pocket.

"'Sleep easy,' the Irishman added, 'and don't open the chamber before
to-morrow morning, when you will find an answer to your question.'

"The Irishman left us at eleven o'clock, and Amelia went to her
bed-room, which she left not for a moment all night.--She went to bed,
but uneasiness and curiosity did not suffer her to close her eyes. Not
the least noise was heard in the adjoining apartment, and when Amelia
entered it early in the morning, she had observed beneath the lines she
had wrote, pale but legible characters, which she instantly knew to be
the hand-writing of her deceased Lord------'Thy vow, which binds me to
be a living being upon earth, and, thee to one who is deceased, shackles
my liberty. I break these chains. The man by whose orders I have been
assassinated is Vasco**ellos.'

"Imagine how Amelia was astonished at an incident which evidently was
the effect of a superior power; the apartment, the shutters, and the
door of which had been carefully secured, and which was guarded by
Amelia herself, being entirely inaccessible to any mortal, except by
violent means, of which no traces could be perceived on the window
shutters. This miraculous event was decisive for my friend, who
professed herself entirely at liberty from that moment.

"Your Grace will easily believe me, that the tender attachment to you,
which had found access to her heart, guarded by a solemn vow, acquired
additional activity when the shackles were thrown off. The ghost himself
appeared to have silently approved, by naming the real murderer, the
passion for a Prince, whose father had been injured by an unjust
suspicion. Amelia endeavoured, nevertheless, to conceal from me the real
state of her heart, and, out of caprice, rather would leave me to guess,
than to confess herself, what might have been misinterpreted as a
weakness. However, that very constraint which she experienced by
concealing a secret that struggled to break its confinement, some words
which she dropped unknowingly, her gloomy looks and silent
melancholy----in short, all those traits which seem to have told you so
very little of Amelia's secret sentiments, convinced me soon that love
was the silent tormentor of her heart. I communicated my discovery to
her, and she confessed at last that I was not mistaken."

"Gracious Heaven!" I exclaimed, "she confessed---"

"And at the same time desired me earnestly to conceal it carefully from
you; and do you know for what reason?"

"No!"

"Amelia feared she was not beloved by you. Your having proceeded on your
travels during her illness without so much as taking leave of her, made
her already suspect your indifference. This suspicion gained additional
strength by your never having wrote a single line to her after your
departure. Your behaviour during your present stay with us too, has
cured her of that error as little as the information of your departure."

"Should it be possible my love could have escaped Amelia's looks?"

"It did not escape my observation.----I gathered carefully all the marks
of it, and communicated them to my friend. However, they appeared to her
to be nothing farther than proofs of gallantry, which every
well-educated man is wont to offer at the shrine of beauty. 'Is it
possible,' she said, 'that true, ardent love, could refrain so long from
coming to an explanation?' And indeed, my Lord, can you say any thing
against this objection?"

"My Lady, I could not entertain the least idea of such an explanation,
while the misunderstanding concerning the murderer of Count Clairval was
not removed, although I had not been ignorant of the residence of
Amelia, which was unknown to me ever since the removal from the castle
in the forest, and the mysterious conduct of the Countess has prevented
me from declaring now, what I ardently wished to avow publicly ever
since I got acquainted with her. What has made _you_ guess my happiness
has induced _me_ to apprehend my misfortune----I even feared to offend
the Countess by my presence. I expected secret dislike to me, at most
pity, but never a return of my love."

"I see you are but a novice in love," Lady Delier said smiling, "and I
have of course acted wisely that I opened your eyes!"

"O! my dearest Baroness!" I replied, kissing her hand, my gratitude will
end only with my life."

"Silence! Silence!" she exclaimed, putting her hand on my lips, "I have
told you, as yet, only good news----the worst is coming now!"

"What can that be?" I asked with consternation.

"You shall hear Amelia's own words: 'The Duke' said she, 'does not love
me, and even if he should have a passion for me, and avow it, he should
hear the confession of my reciprocal tenderness, but never receive my
hand. I am indeed released of my vow, but my present liberty will raise
my fidelity to my deceased Lord, which was till now mere duty, to merit,
and I will remain constant to him, as far as it will be in my power.
I cannot command my love for the Duke, however my hand is at my
disposal."

"Heavens! how you have damped my happiness!" I replied after a painful
pause.

"Should a mere whim of the Countess really be able to dishearten your
Grace? You do not consider how soon the love of a living adorer can
subdue the fidelity to a deceased husband. Amelia's heart is yours, and
her hand will certainly follow."

"It is not only this incertitude that makes me uneasy; the Countess
loves me because she cannot help it. Can a love which I do not owe to a
voluntary attachment render me happy?"

"How you are roving! what ought to make you proud and happy damps your
spirits. What was it that impelled Amelia irresistibly to love you? can
it have been any thing else but the consciousness of your perfections,
and an irresistible sympathy which has united your hearts; and what can
be more desirable, what more sincere and durable than such bonds? My
Lord, love has done every thing for you, and you have done nothing for
love. Disclose to Amelia your sentiments, communicate to her your
tenderness, and her involuntary attachment to you will soon be changed
into a voluntary passion."

"My dearest friend! My comforter!" I exclaimed, "what friendly genius is
it that speaks through you, and animates my whole nature?"

"The genius of love--I have loved too, and know how to advise in affairs
of the heart. But tell me sincerely, my Lord, would your father consent
to a match beneath your dignity?"

"It would be of no consequence if he should not; I am Duke."

"I understand you; however I fear Amelia would never consent to a union
which should be destitute of the benediction of the Marquis of
Villa**al."

"My father loves me, and he will never oppose his only son in a matter
upon which depends the happiness of his life."

"Well then! I will leave you to your good fortune. I shall not fail to
contribute as much as is in my power to promote that union. However,
(added she with dignity) I expect from your candour, that you will not
misinterpret my interview with you, and the interest I take in that
affair."

"I look upon it as a proof of your inestimable friendship."

"O! my children!" the Countess resumed with great emotion, "I love you
as a mother. I could not bear any longer that two people, who seem to
have been born for each other, should misunderstand one another in a
manner so tormenting to both of you. You will render Amelia happy, my
Lord, or I am dreadfully mistaken in my opinion of you. With this hope I
put the fate of my friend entirely in your hands. I confide to your care
an angel, whose early improvement was my work; and constitutes my pride,
and whose perfections you scarcely know by half. I entrust to you a
being of the purest and most excellent of hearts. Conclude from this,
upon the confidence I repose in you."

"I shall endeavour to deserve it."

"Retire now, else we shall be surprised by Amelia; but take care not to
make her suspect our interview and conversation. You even must not visit
us this evening earlier than usual."

I promised it, and retired. My whole frame had been in a feverish tremor
from the beginning of our conversation. I could scarcely utter the most
necessary answers to the discourses of the Baroness. To be beloved by
Amelia! This intelligence imparadised me, and my heart could scarcely
contain the unspeakable bliss which had been showered down upon me.
I went home like a dreaming person, went again abroad, and my feet
carried me, unknowing to me, to the spot whither a secret impulse urged
me to go. However, the severe command of the Baroness had drawn a large
circle around Amelia's abode, which repelled me. I hovered at the margin
of it like a spell-bound spirit, and sighed for the arrival of the
appointed hour. Never had the setting in of night been expected with
more impatience, and the sun appeared to me to retire unusually late
from the horizon.

At length the wished-for hour arrived; however, the moment when I was
going to the house which contained all that was dear to me, an
unspeakable anxiety damped suddenly my rapturous joy. I had promised not
to betray by my behaviour the intelligence which the Baroness had
imparted to me, and yet I deemed it impossible to preserve such a
dominion over myself if the vehemency of my state of mind should not
abate. This was the source of my anxiety, which added to the danger of
exposing myself, because it deprived me of the small remnant of self
dominion which my rapturous joy had left me. I entered the house. The
woman of the Countess told me her Lady was in the garden. I went through
several rows of trees without finding her. The moon peeped now and then
through the fleecy clouds, and concealed her silvery orb again. The
great extent of the garden, and the impetuous state of my mind,
increased the difficulty of finding the idol of my heart. At length,
stepping forth from a side path, enclosed with high hedges, I fancied I
saw something stirring at a distance, near a statue. Having advanced
some paces the light of the moon reflected from the marble statue upon
Amelia, removed every doubt. I approached with tottering steps, and
found Amelia reclining against a pedestal of a Diana, and immersed in
profound meditation. The rustling of the dry leaves beneath my
footsteps, roused her from her reverie.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

               REMARKS ON MUSIC.

  (Continued from page 91.)

The present universal passion for this art, and the fashion of making it
a necessary part of education, induces me to consider it as relating to
the fair sex, more particularly. Parents are naturally inclined to make
their children partake of those amusements the most prevailing and
fashionable. As music in this age comes under that denomination, it is
no wonder we find every attention paid to this qualification at the
earliest period of life. The most eminent masters are obtained; and much
time and expence bestowed to acquire this accomplishment. The fond
parent, anxious to embellish the darling child, and render her fit for
polite company, compels her to perseverance, without discriminating the
propensity of her own nature, but vainly imagines, that a proficiency is
certainly to be obtained in proportion to the reputation of her
instructor. Under this delusion the young lady is too often brought into
public company, and exhibits her own performance, to the well-bred,
amidst the admiration and astonishment of the ignorant many, and the
silent pity of the judicious few. Here again let us call to mind the
observation of Plutarch, and consider how far the manners of a people
are denoted by the state of their music. The present state of
dissipation in the fashionable world, and the agitation of spirits ever
attendant on crouded assemblies and pleasurable pursuits, elevate the
mind and taste above the standard of sober thoughts. Every thing is
sought which can assist the temporary frenzy, and nothing deemed worth
our knowing but how to forget ourselves. This unhappy situation renders
the generality of our fashionable people lost to any serious examination
of true or false impression, while they are indiscriminately led to
approve or condemn whatever the multitude of fashion establishes by its
sanction. It is not now sought as a repose for the mind after its
fatigues, but to support its tumults; and the imagination is now to be
surprised with the wonderful execution of the performer, whilst the
effect is totally neglected.

Since the supreme Being has formed many of his most beautiful works
according to the principles of harmony, from whence some of our most
pure and affecting pleasures arise, can it be looked upon as unbecoming,
that our youth of both sexes should bestow some portion of their time to
the study of what was manifestly intended by Providence to allure us to
love of order, according to the Platonic doctrine quoted by Plutarch?
surely not; the younger part of the female sex, who discover the least
propensity to music, or shew any signs of having a good ear, should
certainly learn music, not for the sake of rendering these fit for the
fashionable world, nor for parade and ostentation; but should so learn
as to amuse their own family, and for that domestic comfort they were by
Providence designed to promote; and to relieve the anxieties and cares
of this life, to inspire cheerfulness, and elevate the mind to a sense
of love of order, virtue and religion.

  A. O.

  (_To be continued._)

    NEW-YORK _Sept. 26, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

A few days ago by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. RICHARD ELLIS to Miss
CATHARINE VAN TUYL.

Also Mr. PETER VANDERVOORT LEYDARD to Miss MARIA VAN TUYL---both the
ladies, daughters to Andrew Van Tuyl, Esq. of this city.

On Wednesday last by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. ROBERT WARDELL to Miss
LAVINIA WOODS, daughter to John Woods, Esq.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 18th to the 24th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

           deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
              100   100   100
  Sept. 18  55    58 25 53 75  nw. do. do.  cloudy, h wd. do. do.
        19  52 50 64    53 50  w. nw. do.   clear, h. wd. do. do. lt w.
        20  57 75 68    66 75  nw. do. do.  clear, h. w. do. do. do.
        21  57    67 50 63 50  nw. sw. ne.  clear, lt. wd. do. do. do.
        22  66    73 75 58 50  s. sw. sw.   clear, rn. very high. wd.
        23  50    63    59     n. do. do.   clear, lt. wd. do. do.
        24  53 25 67 75 64     w. sw. do.   clear, lt. wd. do. do.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                   TO CLARA.

  And could'st thou think our commerce thus should end,
    Oblivion thus blot out the sacred fire,
    Thy virtues, worth, and merit that expire,
  That does adorn my lovely charming friend:
        Ah no! while mem'ry holds her seat
          Within the precincts of this breast,
        The soft sensation e'er will beat,
          And e'er remain my steadfast guest;
      Nor, while the blood flows round my heart,
      With the blest image will I part:
  While o'er each raptur'd scene will fancy play,
  And friendship's consecrated flame shall light the way.

  Alas! my mind recalls with rapturous joy
    Those early times when tender Clara smil'd;
  Nor pain nor sorrow did our souls annoy,
    When social converse the soft hours beguil'd.
  Where oft' when Sol's bright beams illum'd the morn,
  Together we have tripp'd the pearly lawn;
  With rapturous joy have hail'd the new-born day,
  And tun'd to nature's God the vocal lay:
  And oft' when evening's sable humid cloud
  The glowing sun retiring did uncloud,
  On airy pinions borne, by fancy rais'd,
  With solemn awe and adoration gaz'd
  At that great power, whose mandate does controul,
  Combine, connect, and regulate the whole.
        Thus did our bosoms mutual glow
          With sacred friendship's flame;
        We only wept for others' woe,
          Not did we weep in vain:
  For white-rob'd charity, borne by the breeze along,
  Heard and approv'd the sympathizing song.

        Those early joys, alas! are o'er,
          For fate's barb'd arrows struck my soul;
        Pale sorrow does my bosom gore,
          And anguish all my mind controul:
  My heart's unstrung, no more can music charm,
  Nor mirth nor pleasure my cold bosom warm;
  For melancholy's poison to me clings,
  And sorrow's dark veil'd mantle round me flings:
        For, O alas! unpitying Heav'n
          Has clos'd in everlasting sleep,
        The gentlest soul that e'er was giv'n
          O'er misery's sad form to weep:
  Though kind, though chaste, to virtue strict allied,
  To Death's unerring shafts--she bow'd--and died!

  Yes, dear Maria, though thou art no more,
    Reflection e'er will prey upon my heart;
  Until we meet upon that blissful shore,
    In joys uninterrupted, ne'er to part.
  But hark, what magic sound
  Thrilling the ambient air around,
  So soft, so gentle--now more loud,
  Some seraph, surely, rides upon the cloud;
  Or, is it Orpheus with his heav'n-born lay,
  Driving the mystic shades of pain away:
  Or is it friendship's dulcet voice, whose strain
  Can thus raze out the troubles of the brain;
  O yes, 'tis friendship--friendship's hallow'd song,
  To her alone such heavenly powers belong.

  Angelic maid, again strike the wrapt wire,
  Let music's softest notes flow from thy lyre;
  With sweet vibrations cut the liquid air,
  And banish from our souls corroding care;
  For when thy flowing numbers ride the gale,
  The woe-struck heart forgets her tragic tale;
  To black-rob'd melancholy bid adieu,
  We catch the rapturous sound, and only think of you.

    EMMA.

      NEW-YORK _Sept. 24, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                    SONNET.

  Thou fading mount, whose variegated brow
    The rage of rude autumnal blasts betrays,
  How justly emblematical art thou
    Of life's dire changes, and its sad decays.
  When on the pensive visage time pourtrays
    His stealing languor, and the sickning heart,
    Dead to the smiles of joy, and charms of art,
  To blooming hope, and pleasure's soft controul,
    No more with sweet emotion can impart
  A gleam of comfort to the chearless soul;
    Still holds the allusion when thy honours bow
  Beneath the early storm's despoiling rage,
    And sad affliction, life consuming woe,
  Forestals the influence of declining age.

    MATILDA.

      MONTREAL.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE CAPTIVE'S COMPLAINT.
  (_Inscribed to Anna._)

  Hark, the chains rattle round as I turn on my side,
    And the pains of captivity now are my doom;
  My cell and my bed are scarcely as wide
    As yon willow-tree grave I discern through the gloom.

  I was borne from my home, the frail child of despair,
    O'er the main I was driv'n, whose limits are wide;
  The winds and the waves all augmented my care,
    And the chains of injustice hung hard by my side.

  The tyrant, stern grief, my little children attends,
    And tears from their eyes impatiently glide;
  They weep and they mourn without comforting friends,
    While I in despair shake the chains by my side.

  The days and the nights too slow pass away,
    And death, though hard by, my pains won't decide;
  Oh! why will he pause and his purpose delay,
    For the chains rattle hard which cling to my side.

  The morning may dawn when the Heav'ns more kind,
    May unfetter the pris'ner whose anguish is wide;
  Shake those chains far away, and give ease to a mind
    Grown callous by grief, and the chains of his side.

    L. LE FEVRE.

      PINE-STREET, _Sept. 23, 1796_.


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, October 5, 1796.+  [+No. 66.+


  +On Singularity of Manners.+

There are few people of such mortified pretensions, as patiently to
acquiesce under the total neglect of mankind; nay so ambitious are most
men of distinction, that they chuse to be taken notice of, even far
their absurdities, rather than to be entirely overlooked, and lost in
obscurity, and, if they despair of exciting the attention of the world,
by any brilliant or useful accomplishment, they will endeavour to regain
it by some ridiculous peculiarity in their dress, their equipage or
accoutrements.

But if we must distinguish ourselves from the rest of mankind, let it be
by our intrinsic virtue, our temperance and sobriety, and a
conscientious regard to every relative duty; but as we ought "to think
with the wise, and talk with the vulgar," let us also act differently
from a great part of the world in matters of importance, but conform to
them in trifles. This is what Seneca so forcibly inculcates in his fifth
epistle to his friend Lucilius.

"I both approve of your conduct, and sincerely rejoice that you
resolutely exert yourself; and, laying aside every other pursuit, make
it your whole study to improve yourself in wisdom and virtue. And I not
only exhort, but earnestly intreat you to persevere in this course.

Give me leave however, to caution you not to imitate those pretended
philosophers, who are more solicitous to attract the notice of the
world, than to make a progress in wisdom; nor to affect any thing
singular in your dress, or in your manner of life. Avoid that
preposterous ambition of gaining applause, by your uncouth appearance,
your hair uncombed, and your beard neglected; nor be always declaiming
against the use of plate, of soft beds, or any thing of that kind. The
very name of a philosopher is sufficiently invidious, though managed
with the greatest modesty and discretion.

Suppose we have entered upon our stoical plan, and began to sequester
ourselves from the conversation and customs of the vulgar; let every
thing _within_ be dissimilar; but let our _outward_ appearance be
conformable to the rest of the world. Let not our apparel be splendid or
shewy, nor yet mean or sordid. Let not our plate be embossed with gold;
but let us not imagine, that the mere want of such expensive plate is a
sufficient proof of our frugality. Let us endeavour to live a better
life, not merely a life contrary to that of the vulgar; otherwise,
instead of conciliating the favour of those whom we wish to reform, we
shall excite their aversion, and drive them from our company; we shall
also deter them from imitating us in any thing, when they are afraid
that they are to imitate us in every thing.

The first advantages which philosophy promises are, a just sense of the
common rights of mankind, humanity, and a sociable disposition; from
which advantages, singularity and dissimilar manners will entirely
seclude us. Let us beware, lest those peculiarities by which we hope to
excite the admiration, should expose us to the ridicule and aversion, of
mankind.

Our object is to live according to nature; but to torture our bodies, to
abhor cleanliness in our persons, when attended with no trouble, or
affect a cynical filthiness in our food; this sure is living contrary to
nature. As it is a mark of luxury to hunt after delicacies, to reject
the common unexpensive comforts of life is a degree of madness. Our
stoic philosophy requires us to be frugal, not to mortify ourselves; but
there is such a thing as an elegant frugality. This moderation is what I
would recommend."


       *       *       *       *       *

  SOCIETY.

Society has been aptly compared to a heap of embers, which, when
separated, soon languish, darken, and expire; but, if placed together,
glow with a ruddy and intense heat, a just emblem of the strength, the
happiness, and the security, derived from the union of mankind. The
savage, who never knew the blessings of combination, and he, who quits
society from apathy or misanthropic spleen, are like the separated
embers, dark, dead, and useless; they neither give nor receive any heat,
neither love or are beloved.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 99.)

Encouraged in this manner, what dangers had I to fear? I departed
accordingly, but in the course of that campaign, there happened nothing
worthy of narration; the enemy, equally careful with ourselves to avoid
any action which might produce an open war between the two nations,
contented themselves with fatiguing us by means of frequent marches: we,
on the other hand, bounded our views to following and observing them;
and they only seemed to oppose themselves to us, in those parts where
the open country afforded them an opportunity of making good their
retreat.

At the end of the campaign, they prepared to retire on purpose to take
up their winter-quarters in their own country; and our little army,
composed almost wholly of gentlemen, separated soon after.

I returned to Warsaw full of joy and impatience; I thought that Love and
Hymen were about to bestow Lodoiska on me.----Alas! I no longer had a
father. I learned, on entering the capital, that Lovzinski died of an
apoplexy on the night before my arrival. Thus I was deprived of even the
sad consolation of receiving the last sighs of the most tender of
parents; I could only offer up my sorrows at his tomb, which I bathed
with my tears!

----"It is not," says Pulaski to me, who was but little moved with my
profound sorrow; "it is not by means of barren tears that you can do
honour to a father such as thine. Poland in him regrets a Citizen----
----a hero, who would have been of immense service during the critical
moment which now approaches. Worn out with a tedious malady, our monarch
has not a fortnight to live, and on the choice of his successor depends
the happiness or misery of our fellow-citizens.

"Of all the rights which the death of your father transmits to you, the
most noble is undoubtedly that of assisting at the Diet, in which you
are to represent him; it is there where he will revive in you; it is
there, where you ought to exhibit a courage infinitely more difficult to
be sustained than that which consists only in braving death in the field
of battle!

"The valour of a soldier is nothing more than a common virtue; but they
are not ordinary men who on awful emergencies, preserving a tranquil
courage, and displaying an active penetration, discover the projects of
the powerful who cabal, disconcert the enterprises of the intriguing,
and confront the designs of the factious; who, always firm,
incorruptible, and just, give not their suffrages but to those whom they
think most worthy of them; whom neither gold nor promises can seduce,
whom prayers cannot bend, whom menaces cannot terrify.

"These were the virtues which distinguished your father; this is the
precious inheritance which you ought to be desirous of sustaining. The
day on which the states assemble for the election of a king, will be the
epoch on which the pretensions of many of our fellow-citizens, more
occupied with their private interests than jealous of the prosperity of
their country, will be manifested, as well as the pernicious designs of
the neighbouring powers, whose cruel policy it is to destroy our
strength by dividing it.

"I am deceived, my friend, if the fatal moment is not fast approaching,
which will for ever fix the destinies of our country,----its enemies
have conspired its ruin; they have secretly prepared for a
revolution;----but they shall not consummate their purposes while my arm
can sustain a sword! May that God, who is the protector of the republic,
prevent all the horrors of a civil war! But that extremity, however
frightful it appears, may perhaps become necessary; I flatter myself
that it will be but a short, although perhaps a violent crisis, after
which the regenerated state will assume its ancient splendour.

"You shall second my efforts Lovzinski; the feeble interests of love
ought to disappear before more sacred claims. I cannot present my
daughter to you during this awful moment of suspense, when our common
country is in danger; but I promise to you, that the first days of peace
shall be marked by your union with Lodoiska."

Pulaski did not speak in vain. I felt that I had now more essential
duties to fulfil than those of love; but the cares with which my mind
was occupied, were hardly able to alleviate my grief. I will even avow
to you, without blushing, that the sorrow of my sisters, their tender
friendship, and the caresses more reserved but no less pleasing of my
mistress, made a stronger impression on my heart than the patriotic
counsels of Pulaski. I beheld Lodoiska tenderly affected with my
irreparable loss, and as much afflicted as myself at the cruel events
which forced us to defer our union; my chagrin, by being thus divided
with that lovely woman, seemed insensibly to diminish.

In the mean time the king dies, and the Diet is convoked. On the day
that it was to open, at the very instant when I was about to repair to
the assembly, a stranger presented himself, and desired to speak to me
in private. As soon as my attendants were retired, he enters my
apartment with precipitation, throws himself into my arms, and tenderly
embraces me. It was M. de P----! Ten years, which had elapsed since our
separation, had not so much changed his features as to prevent me from
recognizing him, and testifying my joy and surprise at his unexpected
return.

"You will be more astonished," says he to me, "when you know the cause.
I have arrived this instant, and am about to repair to the meeting of
the Diet;--would it be presuming too much on your friendship to reckon
on your vote?"

"On my vote! and for whom?"

"For myself," continues he with vivacity; "it is not now time to account
to you the happy revolution that has taken place in my fortune, and
which at present permits me to entertain such exalted hopes: it is
sufficient to observe, that my ambition is at least justified by a
majority of suffrages, and that it is in vain that two feeble rivals
would attempt to dispute with me the crown to which I pretend.

"Lovzinski," adds he, embracing me again, "if you were not my friend,
and I esteemed you less, perhaps I should endeavour to dazzle you by
means of promises; perhaps I should recount to you the favours which I
intend to heap upon you, the honourable distinctions that are reserved
for you, and the noble and glorious career that is about to offer itself
to your ambition;----but I have not any need of seducing, and I only
with to persuade you.

"I behold it with grief, and you know it as well as myself, that for
several years past our Poland, become enfeebled, owes its safety to
nothing else than the distrust of the three great powers* which surround
it, and the desire to enrich themselves with our spoils, may in one
moment re-unite our divided enemies.

  [* Russia, Prussia, and the House of Austria.]

"Let us prevent, if we can, this inauspicious triumvirate from
dismembering the republic. Undoubtedly, in more fortunate times, our
ancestors were able to maintain the freedom of their elections; it is
necessary however that we should yield to that necessity which is become
inevitable.

"Russia will necessarily protect a king, whom she herself has elevated;
in receiving the sovereign of her choice, you will defeat the views of
that triple alliance which will render our perdition certain, and we
shall acquire a powerful ally, who will oppose herself with success to
the two enemies that remain to us.

"These are the reasons which have determined my conduct; I do not
abandon part of our rights, but to preserve the most precious of them.
I wish not to ascend a fickle throne, but with the intention, by the
means of a sage policy, to give it stability; I consent not to alter the
constitution of the commonwealth, but to preserve the kingdom entire."

We repaired to the Diet together; I voted for M. de P----. He in effect
obtained the majority of the suffrages; but Pulaski, Zuremba, and some
others, declared themselves in favour of Prince C----. Nothing was
decided amidst the tumult of this first meeting.

When the assembly broke up, M, de P---- invited me to accompany him to
the palace, which his secret emissaries had already prepared for him in
the capital**. We shut ourselves up together during several hours, and
renewed the promises of a friendship that should endure for ever. I then
too informed M. de P---- of my intimate connection with Pulaski, and of
my love for Lodoiska. He repaid my confidence with more important
communications; he informed me of the events which had led to his
approaching grandeur; he explained to me his secret designs; and I left
him, convinced that he was less occupied with the desire of his own
elevation, than with that of restoring Poland to its ancient prosperity.

  [** The diet for the election of the kings of Poland is held half
  a league from Warsaw, in the open air, on the other side of the
  Vistula, near to the village of Vola.]

Possessed with these ideas, I flew towards my future father-in-law,
burning with the desire of adding him to the party of my friend. Pulaski
was walking at a great pace up and down the chamber of his daughter, who
appeared equally agitated with himself.

"Behold," said he to Lodoiska, the moment that he saw me enter, "behold
that man whom I esteem, and whom you love! He has sacrificed us both to
his blind friendship." I was desirous to reply, but he went on--"You
have been connected from your childhood with M. de P----. A powerful
faction is about to place him on the throne; you know you are acquainted
with his designs; this very morning, at the diet, you voted for
him;--you have deceived me:--but do you think that you shall deceive me
with impunity?"

I besought him to hear me, and he constrained himself so far as to
preserve a stern silence: I then informed him that M. de P----, whom I
had for a long time neglected, had agreeably surprised me by his
unexpected return.

Lodoiska appeared charmed to hear me commence my justification.--"You
shall not deceive me in the same manner as if I were a credulous woman,
says Pulaski.--But it signifies not---proceed."

I then recounted to him the particulars of the short conversation that I
had with M. de P------ before I repaired to the assembly of the states.

"And these are your projects!" exclaims he. "M. de P------ sees no other
remedy for the misfortunes of his fellow-citizens than their slavery! He
proposes this, one of the name of Lovzinski, approves of it; and they
despise me so much as to tempt me to enter into this infamous plot!
Shall I behold the Russians commanding in our provinces in the name of a
Pole?"

"The Russians, say I with fury; the Russians reign in my country!" On
this Pulaski, advancing towards me with the greatest impetuosity, cries
out: "Perfidious youth! you have deceived me, and you would betray the
state! Leave my house this very moment, or know that I shall order you
to be dragged out of it!"

I frankly acknowledge that an affront so cruel, and so little merited,
disarmed me of my prudence: in the first transports of my fury, I placed
my hand upon my sword; and quicker than lightning Pulaski brandished his
in the air.

His daughter, his distracted daughter, rushed forward, and precipitated
herself upon me, crying out: "Lovzinski, what are you about to do?" On
hearing the accents of a voice so dear to me, I recalled my wandering
reason; but I perceived that a single instant was about for ever to
bereave me of my Lodoiska! She had left me to throw herself into the
arms of her father. He, cruel man, beheld my grief, and strove to
augment it: "Go, traitor!" says he, "be gone---you behold Lodoiska for
the last time!"

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

               REMARKS ON MUSIC.

  (Continued from page 103.)

Music is capable of a variety so infinite, so greatly does the most
simple differ from the most complex, and so multiplied are the degrees
between those two extremes, that in no age could the incidents
respecting that fascinating art have been few or uninteresting: But,
that accounts of these incidents should be handed down to us, scanty and
imperfect, is no matter of surprize, when we recollect that the history
of music is the history only of sounds, of which writing is a very
inadequate medium; and that men would long employ themselves in the
pleasing exercise of cultivating music before they possessed either the
ability or the inclination to record their exertions.

No accurate traces, therefore, of the actual state of music, in the
earlier ages of the world, can be discerned. Our ideas on the subject
have no foundation firmer than conjecture and analogy.

It is probable, that among all the barbarous nations some degree of
similarity is discernable in the stile of their music. Neither will much
difference appear during the first dawnings of civilization. But in the
more advanced periods of society, where the powers of the human mind are
permitted without obstacle to exert their native activity and tendency
to invention, and are at the same time affected by the infinite variety
of circumstances and situations which before had no existence, and,
which in one case accelerate and in another <DW44>; then that
similarity, once so distinguishable, gives place to the endless
diversity of which the subject is capable.

The practice of music being universal in all ages and all nations, it
would be absurd to attribute the invention of the art to any one man. It
must have suffered a regular progression, through infancy, childhood,
and youth, before it could arrive at maturity, the first attempts must
have been rude and artless; probably the first flute was a reed of the
lake. Music is supposed to have taken its rise in the earliest periods
of society. "Juba," we find soon after the creation of the world; "was
the father of all such as handle the harp and the organ;" and it is more
than probable that Moses, the most ancient of all writers, was well
acquainted with this art. The Egyptians, were the promoters of science
in the Hebrew nation, and Moses was instructed in all the learning of
the Egyptians. The sublime and animated song of Moses on the overthrow
of Pharoah in the red sea, was, we believe, adapted to the sweet strains
of music; for we are told it was sung by Moses and the children of
Israel:---- After the conclusion of the song, "Miriam the prophetess,
the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went
out after her with timbrels and with dances; and Miriam answered them,
Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his
rider hath he thrown into the sea."

We read in the Mosaic law of the sounds of trumpets in approaching the
field of battle, and the power of trumpets in its religious observances.

  A. O.

  (_To be continued._)

    NEW-YORK _Sept. 26, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  FRIENDSHIP.

Friendship, among people who have not been corrupted by those artificial
vices which fatally wait upon civilized life, exists in the greatest
possible purity and constancy. The Abbe Fortis gives some curious
particulars relative to the friendships of the Morlacchi, a people who
inhabit the mountainous part of inland Dalmatia. Friendship is lasting
among the Morlacchi. They have even made it a kind of religious point,
and tie the sacred bond at the foot of the altar. The Sclavonian ritual
contains a particular benediction, for the solemn union of two male or
two female friends, in the presence of the congregation. The Abbe says,
that he was present at the union of two young women; who were made
_Posestre_ in the church of Perussich. The satisfaction that sparkled in
their eyes when the ceremony was performed, gave a convincing proof,
that delicacy of sentiments can lodge in minds not formed, or rather not
corrupted by society, which we call civilized. The male friends thus
united are called _Pobratimi_, and the females _Posestreme_, which mean
half-brothers and half-sisters. Friendship between those of different
sexes are not bound with so much solemnity, though perhaps in more
ancient and innocent ages it was also the custom. From these consecrated
friendships among the Morlacchi, and other nations of the same origin,
it should seem that the _sworn brothers_ arose, a denomination frequent
enough among the common people in many parts of Europe. If discord
happens to arise between two friends among the Morlacchi, it is talked
of all over the country as a scandalous novelty; and there have been
some examples of it of late years, to the great affliction of the old
Morlacchi, who attribute the depravity of their countrymen to their
intercourse with the Italians. Wine and strong liquors of which the
nation is beginning to make daily abuse, after our example, will, of
course, produce the same bad effects as among us.

Nor is the Abbe mistaken. When these simple people become more men of
the world, the romantic part of their friendships will degenerate into
that motly unintelligible thing which many people call Friendship.
Whoever, therefore, wishes to enjoy real friendship, must in the first
place expect no more from man than the frailty of his nature will admit;
and in the second place, he must not expect friendship from those, who
from their ignorance are not enabled, or from their wickedness are not
disposed, to perform acts of mutual benevolence in trying situations.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 103.)

"Good evening, my Lord," said she with evident confusion, "have you not
met Lady Delier?"

"No, my Lady! I have not."

"She left me some time since, and might already have returned."

"Very strange! I am come to take leave, and meet you first by accident."

"Leave?" she replied with surprise, "Then you are determined to depart
to-morrow."

"I must."

A long pause.

"And you are going to Ma***t?"

"To Ma***t, and from thence to my native country."

A second pause. At length she said with emphasis and affection: "Heaven
protect you on your journey."

"Dearest Countess--"

"What is the matter with you, my Lord?" Amelia exclaimed, fixing her
eyes on me, "Good God, how pale you look!"

The emotions of my heart were dreadful; my working bosom threatened to
burst. "God knows," I replied with a faltering voice, "whether I shall
see you again."

"We shall certainly meet again," said she, looking up to heaven.

"Merciful God! should my hopes blossom first beyond the grave."

"What hopes?" she exclaimed with inquisitive astonishment.

"And do you not divine how this separation will wound my heart?"

Amelia looked anxiously around, as if seeking Lady Delier; and then
fixed her eyes again doubtfully on me.

"My Lord, your words and your behaviour are mysterious to me."

"Then receive their explanation kindly," I replied, letting myself down
on one knee, and taking hold of her hand, "I love you."

The Countess was struck dumb with surprise.----"And this you tell me
when taking _leave!_" she lisped at length.

I fancied I perceived a soft pressure from her hand, and returned it
with glowing lips. She bent her taper form to raise me up, and Lady
Delier stepped suddenly between us. "What do I see?" she exclaimed,
dissembling astonishment, "a declaration of love?"

Amelia remained silent, and the Baroness repeated her question.

"A declaration, my Lady!" I replied, but no answer.

"My sweet friend," she whispered archly in Amelia's ear, "I hope you
will not let him despair."

"I cannot conceive, my Lord," Amelia replied, "why you make this
declaration when taking _leave!_"

I told her nearly the same I had said to the Baroness in the morning.
Amelia viewed me a long time with silent astonishment, and at length
replied:

"A misunderstanding, a misunderstanding on both sides! very strange
indeed!" she shook her head smiling.

"My dearest love," the Baroness exclaimed, "look at the Duke, how he
watches every word of yours in hope of receiving an answer."

Amelia seemed to hesitate what to reply; however, after a short silence,
said to me with the innate dignity of a noble, generous mind: "My Lord,
if you want to have a consort, then I must beg you to forget me. But if
you are in quest of a loving heart, then--" added she in a low accent,
and with crimsoning cheeks, "you have found it."

I don't know what I replied, nor can I recollect what I said afterwards;
for from the moment she had pronounced the confession of her reciprocal
love, I thought myself transported to Paradise, and breathed in a new
and better sphere. The possession of Amelia's heart, ensured to me by
the declaration of her own lips, had expelled from my breast every
terrestrial wish; my whole nature seemed to me exalted and purified of
all earthly dregs, and the flame which had penetrated my frame, was a
sacred fire cleared of every particle of sensuality. O! innocent love,
thou offspring of the sacred affinity of two congenial souls, thou art
perhaps the sole species of union and enjoyment, which is capable to
afford us here below a notion of the union and the pleasure of the
inhabitants of the heavenly regions. How natural therefore, if we,
particularly in the first moments of enjoyment, are incapable to express
such sentiments by words. However, my faltering accents, my confused
expressions, and my incoherent sentences, seemed nevertheless to be as
well understood by Amelia, as if she were reading in my soul, which I
could conclude from her words, and the still plainer speaking play of
her mien. Love had diffused over her countenance new and unspeakable
charms, which surrounded her with a glory that made her appear to me a
more than mortal being. And to be beloved by her--that bliss would have
overpowered me, if I had not been made acquainted with my happiness in
the morning.

Lady Delier, who had left us to ourselves all the time, interrupted us
at length. "Children!" said she, "do you know that it is not far from
eleven o'clock?" I started up as if some grisly spectre had surprised
me, because I recollected the _Unknown_, eleven o'clock being the time
when I had promised to meet him at the place of rendezvous at a
considerable distance.

To take leave!--without knowing whether I should ever see her again, for
I was to depart the next morn with the dawn of day. This idea
overpowered me so much, that I promised Amelia and myself to visit her
once more to-morrow before my departure. Our separation was,
nevertheless, so afflicting, the parting on both sides so difficult, and
the last adieu pronounced with quivering lips.--Alas! a secret
presentiment seemed to whisper in my ear that we should meet no more.
How many times did I attempt to go and stopped again--how many times did
I go and return again to assure Amelia that I should certainly see her
once more!--Her emotions seemed, indeed, to be less vehement than mine,
however, I could not be deceived, and observing the secret workings of
her soul, perceived the pearly tear that started from her eye, and the
violent heaving of her bosom.

Lady Delier did not long remain an idle spectator, exhorting us to
dedicate the present moment to joy, and to yield to our grief to-morrow,
tearing the Countess from my arms, and wishing me a good night.

I stopped once more on the terrace, saw the two ladies retiring to a
grove, of beech-trees, and Amelia turned twice, beckoning to me. My
tears flowed fluently, my arms were expanded for her, the darkness of
the night concealed her from my wishful looks. I rushed mechanically
into the street, and arrived at the place of rendezvous without knowing
how. It was lonely spot covered with trees. The Irishman soon joined me.

"My time is short," he said, "and I have to tell you a great deal; let
us sit down." So saying he led me to a stone bench beneath a spreading
oak, and we seated ourselves.

He seemed to observe my being violently agitated, and kept a long and
solemn silence to give me time to recover.--"I wish, my dear Duke!"--he
at length began, "that you may not expect more from this interview than
I am allowed to give. I must confine myself merely to the theoretical
part of that occult science to which I have promised to initiate you
after the time of probation shall be finished. However, it is here as it
is with all other sciences; the pupil of sense guesses by the theory,
what he may expect from the practical part of the science--as a painter
beholds in a sketch the picture which is to be drawn, or as an architect
sees in the plan drawn on the paper the building which is to be
constructed; be therefore satisfied with what I dare impart to you for
the present."

"I do not desire you to disclose to me, more than I am able to bear at
present."

The Irishman paused again, and then began thus:

"If our powers of perception were confined only to our senses, the
visible world would then encompass all our ideas, sentiments, wishes and
hopes. No idea of spirits, of God and of immortality would raise us
above the sphere of materiality. In order to produce and to conceive
these ideas, a supersensible faculty is required. This faculty which, if
closely examined, bears not the least resemblance to the rest of our
intellectual powers, is called _reason_. The idea of the whole sensible
world offers nothing to us that is not corporeal, finite, and
perishable. However the territory of reason opens to us a prospect to a
world without bounds, and of an everlasting duration; displays to us a
kingdom of spirits which is governed by _one_ Infinite Spirit after wise
and sacred laws. An unknown world of which we had not the most distant
notion, of which sensation gives us not the least hint, and for which
our senses have no perception nor scale, opens to our view when our
reason begins to unfold itself. You see, therefore what faculty of the
soul must be our guide in our present investigation, if we wish to
penetrate, by means of it, to the kingdom of spirits."

"Reason!"

"Certainly! there is no other choice left; and therefore let us learn to
value and to use this light that illuminates the darkness in which every
object disappears from the eyes of mere sensitive men, or at most
appears very _obscure_ to them. That man whose reason is overdarkened,
or discomposed by sensuality, either will deny the existence of spirits
and our relation to them, or attribute to them the contradictory shape
which his disordered imagination has hatched out, like the blind-born,
who denies the existence of colours as ridiculous and absurd, or if he
believes the unanimous testimony of those that see, imagines colours to
bear some resemblance to sounds. Unbelief and superstition afford us
numberless instances of people of that description. Only the more
impartial have always maintained that one ought not to judge
precipitately of these objects, and only the wisest of mankind have been
able to form a just judgment of them."

"O Hiermanfor! introduce me to the circle of the latter. I have already
in the different periods of my life adhered to all the other parties. In
the days of my earlier youth I believed in apparitions, like the most
ignorant of the lowest class. In a more advanced period of life I
fancied I was convinced of the impossibility of apparitions, and ever
since I got acquainted with you, I have been wavering between unbelief
and superstition. It was but lately that I resolved to postpone my
judgment on these subjects, till I should be better convinced, and this
conviction I expect of you."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  RUNNERS REMARKABLE FOR SWIFTNESS.

Philippides being sent on a message from the Athenians to the republic
of Sparta, to gain their assistance against their enemies the Persians,
ran within the compass of two days an hundred and fifty Roman miles and
an half.

Under the emperor Leo, the same that succeeded Marcian, there was a
Greek named Indacus, a man of extraordinary courage, and of wonderful
nimbleness of foot. He was to be seen at parting, but vanished in the
twinkling of an eye; he rather seemed to fly than run over mountains and
dangerous precipices, and would run farther in a day than any post could
ride, though he staid not a minute to change his horse, and having
performed his journey, would return back the next day, though there was
no occasion for making so much haste, merely because he took delight in
running, and never complained of being weary.

In Peru they have Casquis, or foot posts, to carry letters or messages
from place to place, who have houses about a league and an half asunder,
they running each man to the next, will run fifty leagues in a day and a
night.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                  A FRAGMENT.

  "Child of a day--the being of an hour,
    He hurries swiftly through life's troublous scene
  Treads the same path which thousands trod before,
    Then dies, and is as though he ne'er had been."

    Mrs. FAUGERES.

--"But just launched on time's wide ocean!" exclaims the expiring
EDWARD, "and, Oh! must the farewell be now? Must I now take a long,
a last adieu of all I hold dear in life? 'Tis true! He that lays the
king on a level with the beggar now calls on me. My glass is almost run;
the sands fall fast; the last one now trembles to be gone; tis near the
bottom!--it drops! 'tis gone!"----"And there fled thy spirit too,"
sobbed out MATILDA.

How despotic does Death wield his sceptre! but with what impartiality!
It matters not; "the flower just opening into bloom," or the hoary head
that has long been ripening for the grave: He strikes indiscriminately;
the young and the aged are alike exposed.

The silken bands of matrimony had but just fastened EDWARD to MATILDA.
No tender pledge of their mutual loves had yet blest them. Happiness
seemed within their grasp. But, how transient are our pleasures! how
fleeting are our joys!--Business had called EDWARD to the metropolis: On
his return he was taken sick. A skilful physician was procured, who gave
it as his opinion that his patient had caught the malignant distemper
which so greatly prevailed in the capital. But it might give way to
medecine, and it was liberally administered for that purpose. Unavailing
were the efforts of the doctor to revive the almost expiring lamp of
life. In a few days EDWARD laid down his mortal life, and his spirit
took its flight to happier regions.

His amiable partner, to shew the love she bore him, had a marble slab,
plain and neat, placed over his grave, on which is this inscription:

  Near to this place
  Reposeth
  EDWARD BLACKRIDGE.
  A pattern of unfeigned
  Love:
  Who was robbed of existence,
  While yet in his
  Prime.

And at intervals MATILDA steals to this spot, and bathes the stone with
her tears.

  L. B.

    NEW-YORK _Oct. 1, 1796_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARK.

The tears which we strive to hide are the most affecting. The violence
we thus do ourselves shows both courage and sensibility.--In like
manner, laughter is never more strong than when we endeavour to suppress
it. Every opposition strengthens desire: the wave which meets with
obstacles, foams, becomes impetuous, or rises into the air.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening last by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Doctor WILLIAM DOLL of
Colchester, to Miss SOPHIA CHRISTINA BAUMAN, daughter of Col. Sebastian
Bauman of this city.

At Norwalk, on Monday evening the 26th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Ogilvie, Mr.
JAMES JARVIS of this city, to Miss BETSEY MOTT of that place.

  May blessings, without ceasing,
    Upon their heads descend;
  And pleasures, ne'er decreasing,
    With love and friendship blend.

  Soon a fair train surrounding,
    May they enraptur'd see;
  In antic races bounding,
    Or prattling on the knee.

  And when, with heads declining,
    And silver'd o'er with age,
  Their latest breath resigning,
    They quit this mortal stage;

  May the angelic legions
    Their happy souls convey
  High to the blissful regions
    Of everlasting day.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 25th ult. to the 1st inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

           deg.  deg.  deg.    8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
              100   100   100
  SEPT. 25  57 25 73    72     w. sw. w.    clear, do. do.
        26  54    65 50 62 75  nw. do. do.  clear, do. do.
        27  56 50 67    63     se. s. do.   rain, do. do.
        28  58 50 64    50     ne. sw. do.  great rain cloudy do.
        29  57 25 65 25 61 25  nw. do. do.  clear, do. do.
        30  53    63 50 60     n. do. nw.   cloudy, do.
  *OCT.  1  46    54           n. do.       cloudy do.

  [* This observation has been made at 6 A.M. or about Sun-rise, and
  3 P.M. on the supposition, that those hours will better shew the
  state of our climate, as it is generally supposed, that at or nearly
  Sun-rise, it is the coldest, and at 3 P.M. the warmest time of the
  day.

  This change in the periods of observation, will be continued in
  future.]


       *       *       *       *       *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  _For Sept. 1796._
                                                            deg. 100

  Mean temperature of the thermometer at 8 A.M.              63    2
  Do. do. of the do. at 1 P.M.                               71   12
  Do. do. of the do. at 6 P.M.                               67   65
  Do. do. of the whole month                                 66   92
  Greatest monthly range between the 14th & 23d              33    0
  Do. do. in 24 hours, between the 22d & 23d                 23   75
  Warmest day the 14th.                                      83    0
  The coldest do. the 23d                                    50    0

   9 Days it has rained in this Month, and a considerable quantity
       has fallen.
  One day it thundered, and lightned the 14th, and it is presumed
       there was as great a quantity, as ever was experienced within
       eight hours.
  17 days it was clear, at 8, 1 & 6 o'clock,
   5 days it was cloudy at 8, 1 & 6 o'clock.
   3 do.  the wind was high, at ditto,
  18 do.  the wind was light at do.
  20 Days the wind was to the westward of North and South.
  10 Do   the wind was to the Eastward of do.  do.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                 MILITARY FAME.

  O thou that sigh'st to join the scenes of war,
    And gain the glories of the martial train;
  Reflect what woes surround the trophied car,
    What crimson tints the wish'd-for circlet stain.

  If tender sympathy be not unknown,
    If heaven-born mercy in thy bosom glow,
  Reject the impurpl'd wreath, the laurel crown
    Can flourish only in the scenes of woe.

  Wert thou the noblest bravest son of Mars,
    Did fear precede thee, conquest still attend;
  All the long glories of successive wars
    On fickle Fortune's favouring smile depend.

  Ev'n godlike Paoli's confest her sway,
    By her they flourish and by her they fade;
  The adverse fortune of one hapless day
    Condemns thee to oblivion's dreary shade.

  Such is a brittle bubble blown in air,
    Such the bright lustre of the morning skies;
  So some tall tree may vernal honours bear,
    And bloomy verdure charm the wondering eyes:
  But, ah! how fleeting the illusive glare
    When the clouds gather, and the storms arise!

    MATILDA.

      NEW-YORK.


       *       *       *       *       *

  REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH-YARD.

  All hail ye peaceful scenes, in whose still plain
    Sweet solitude and melancholy dwell;
  Where uncontrolled awe doth pensive reign,
    And rev'rence muses in each silent cell.

  With mem'ry's retrospective eye I view
    These ghastly figures--(loathsome to the eyes)
  These are the skulls of those I lately knew,
    The once adored, beautiful, and wise!

  The statesman and the clown here peaceful lie,
    The slave for liberty don't here dispute:
  With death's decree Neptune and Mars comply,
    And patriotic eloquence lies mute!

  When Sol the East with blushes does adorn;
    The rose expands her leaves to every ray:
  Tho' thus compos'd of beauty in the morn,
    At eve she bows her head and doth decay.

  So lies the maid who once with beauty blest,
    And at whose feet youths supplicating lay,
  While beauty reign'd she was by them carest:
    But none pays tribute to her breathless clay.

  Each silent tomb methinks lets fall a tear,
    While ev'ry grave in plaintive accents say;
  "In pride of youth like you we did appear,
    "But you like us, must moulder and decay."

  "Ye sons of dissipation, new pursue
    "The paths of rectitude--for short's the span,
  "Remember while these monuments you view,
    "The chiefest study of mankind is man."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ON MY BEARD.--A SONNET.

  The orb of day seven times, this fatal morn,
    Has sped his course thro' each revolving sign,
  Since first in evil hour, reluctant torn,
    The down of youth forsook these cheeks of mine.

  Ah! fashion! had I view'd thy sneers with scorn,
    Unravag'd still the sacred growth would shine:
  The majesty of manhood, still unshorn,
    Shou'd sweep my breast luxuriant as the vine.

  Now, woe is me! a dupe to impious zeal,
    Unequal war with Nature do I wage;
  While, as each sun returns, the ruthless steel,
    To waste her produce, plies its whetted rage.
  Like Grecia's godlike sages dare I feel,
    My shaggy chin shou'd mock this silly age.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE DOCTORS' DUEL.

  Two Doctors fought, and thrice from each
    A deadly ball was sent,
  Though keenly aim'd, the bullets' force
    In air impassive spent.

  Ye sons of Mars forbear to smile,
    Since every man must know;
  'Tis not by pistol, sword, or gun,
    A Doctor kills his foe.

  For had they been on death intent,
    How surely might they kill,
  Or by a gentle cooling draught,
    Or mild _Saturnian Pill_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE EXTENT OF LIFE'S VARIETY.

  Just this little, and no more,
  Is in ev'ry mortal's pow'r,
  Each to say, I tasted breath,
  But the cup was fraught with death;
  I have sigh'd, have laugh'd, have wept,
  Wak'd to think, and thinking slept;
  Slept my wearied limbs to rest,
  Wak'd with labour in my breast;
  Met with sorrows, happ'ly o'er,
  Mix'd in pleasures now no more;
  Hop'd and fear'd, with equal sense,
  Dup'd by many a slight pretence:
  Soon shall my soul her veil throw by,
  My body with its kindred lie;
  Of this I'm certain, but the rest
  Is lock'd within a higher breast.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPIGRAM.
  On Seeing the Servant of a Scoundrel Beat his Master's Coat.

  Why merciless thwack PETER's coat?
    My friend you surely jest!
  I'd rather beat the Losel's back,
    And let his vestment rest.

  The Castigator look'd and smil'd;
    Said he, "You've wrong premis'd;
  "For 'tis the _habits_ of the man
    "That make the man despis'd.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, October 12, 1796.+  [+No. 67.+


  _HYMNS_

  Of the native Peruvians, used at the solemn worship of the Sun,
  which they adore as chief of their Gods. Extracted from the INCAS,
  by Marmontel, a beautiful work, combining all the elegancies of
  language, the embellishments of fancy, and the charms of historical
  narration. It it intended for publication in 2 vols. by the Editor.

  CHORUS OF THE INCAS.

Soul of the universe! thou which from the heights of Heaven ceases not
to pour forth, in one great stream of light, the principles of warmth,
of life, and of fertility; O Sun! receive the vows of thy children, and
of a happy people who adore thee!

  PONTIFF ALONE.

O King! whose lofty throne blazes with immortal splendor, with what
awful majesty dost thou reign in the vast empire of the sky! When thou
appearest in thy glory, and shakest the sparkling diadem that adorns thy
head, thou art the delight of the earth! thou art the pride of Heaven!
Whither are they fled, those fires which so late bespangled the veil of
night? Could they abide the majesty of thy presence? Did it not please
thee to retire, and give them liberty to come forth and shew themselves,
they would remain swallowed up for ever in the abyss of thy effulgence.
Their place would be no where to be found.

  CHORUS OF VIRGINS.

O delight of the world! Happy the wives who reign in thy celestial
court! How beautiful art thou at thy awaking! How magnificent the
ceremonies of thy rising! What charms are scattered by thy presence! The
fair companions of thy slumbers undraw the purple curtains of the
pavilion where thou reposest, and thy first looks dispel the vast
obscurity of night. Oh, with what joy must nature have been transported
at receiving thy first visit! Surely she remembers it: nor ever does she
greet thy return without experiencing those tender yearnings which a
fond daughter feels at the return of her long absent father.

THE PONTIFF ALONE.

Soul of the universe! but for thee, the vast ocean were but a motionless
and frozen lump: the earth a barren heap of sand and mud; the atmosphere
a gloomy void. Thou cherishedst the elements with thy vivifying and
genial warmth; the air became fluid and insinuating, the waters moist
and yielding, the earth animated and fruitful. Every thing took life;
every thing wore the face of beauty. The elements, those universal
parents which till then had lain fast locked in the chill arms of rest,
now moved into alliance. The fire slid into the bosom of the waters: the
waters parting into vapour, flew aloft, and spread themselves through
the air: from the air, the earth received into her womb the precious
rudiments of fertility: then began she to bring forth the unceasing
fruits of that ever-renewing love, first kindled by thy rays.

  CHORUS OF INCAS.

Soul of the universe! O Sun! art thou alone the Author of all the good
thou bringest us? Or art thou but the minister of a First Cause; an
intelligence superior to thee? If it be thy own will that guides thee,
receive the effusions of our gratitude: if thou dost but accomplish the
will of a Supreme Invisible Being, cause our vows to come unto him; how
should it but please him to be adored in thee, his brightest image?

  THE PEOPLE.

Soul of the universe! Father of Manco! Father of our kings! O Sun!
protect thy people, and make thy children prosper!


       *       *       *       *       *

DISCONTENT.

Dionysus Senior, though he was the richest and most potent tyrant in his
time, yet was exceedingly afflicted and discontented in his mind,
because he could not make better verses than the poet Philoxenus, and
dispute more learnedly than Plato the philosopher; therefore in great
wrath and vexation, he threw one into a dungeon, and drove the other
into banishment.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 107.)

I returned home in a state of desperation. The odious names which
Pulaski had lavished on me, returned unceasingly to my reflection. The
interests of Poland, and those of M. de P----, appeared to be so
intimately connected together, that I did not perceive in what manner I
could betray my fellow-citizens by serving my friend; in the mean time I
was obliged either to abandon or renounce Lodoiska for ever. What was I
to resolve? what part should I take? I passed the whole night in a state
of the most cruel uncertainty; and when the day appeared, I went towards
Pulaski's house, without yet having come to any determination.

The only domestic who remained there informed me, that his lord had
departed at the beginning of the night, with his daughter, after having
first dismissed all his people. Think of my despair on hearing this
news. I asked to what part Pulaski had retired. But my question was in
vain, he informed me that he was certainly ignorant of the place of his
destination.

"All that I can tell you," says he, "is that you had scarce gone away
yesterday evening, when we heard a great noise in the apartment of his
daughter. Still terrified at the scene which had taken place between
you, I approached the door, and listened. Lodoiska wept: her furious
father overwhelmed her with injuries, bestowed his malediction upon her,
and I myself heard him exclaim: 'To love a traitor, is to be one!
Ungrateful wretch! I shall conduct you to a place of safety, where you
shall henceforth be at a distance from seduction.'"

Could I any longer doubt the extent of my misery? I instantly called for
Boleslas, one of the most faithful of my domestics: I ordered him to
place trusty spies about the palace of Pulaski, who should bring an
account of every thing that passed there; and commanded that if the
count returned to the capital before me, he should follow him wherever
he went. Having given these instructions, and not yet despairing of
still finding the family at one of their seats in the neighbourhood of
the metropolis, I myself set out in pursuit of my mistress.

I accordingly searched through all the domains of Pulaski, and asked
concerning Lodoiska of all the passengers whom I met, but without
success. After having spent eight days in fruitless enquiry, I resolved
to return to Warsaw, and I was not a little astonished, on my arrival,
to find a Russian army encamped on the banks of the Vistula, almost
under the very walls of that city.

It was night when I entered the capital: the palaces of the grandees
were all illuminated, an immense multitude filled the streets; I heard
the songs of joy; I beheld wine flowing in rivulets in the public
squares: every thing announced to me that Poland had a king.

Boleslas, who expected me with impatience, informed me that Pulaski had
returned alone on the second day after my departure; and that he had not
stirred from his own palace but to repair to the diet, where, in spite
of his efforts, the ascendancy of Russia became every day more manifest.
"During the last assembly held this very morning," adds he, "M. de P----
united almost all the suffrages in his favour, and was about to be
declared king, when Pulaski pronounced the fatal _Veto_: at that instant
twenty sabres were brandished in the air. The fierce palatine of
--------, whom the count had insulted in the former assembly, was the
first to rush forwards, and gave him a terrible wound on the head.
Zaremba, and some others, flew to the defence of their friend; but all
their efforts would have been unable to have saved him, if M. de
P-------- had not ranged himself on their side, exclaiming at the same
time, that he would sacrifice, with his own hand, the first person who
dared to approach him. On this the assailants retired. In the mean time
Pulaski, fainting with the loss of blood, was carried off the field in a
state of insensibility. Zaremba departed also, swearing to avenge his
friend. Having thus become master of the deliberations, the numerous
partisans of M. de P--------, instantly proclaimed him sovereign.

"Pulaski, who had been carried to his palace, was soon restored to life;
and the surgeons who attended him, declared that his wounds, although
dangerous, were not mortal. In that state, although languishing under
the most cruel torments, contrary to the advice of all his friends, he
ordered himself to be lifted into his carriage, and before noon he left
Warsaw, accompanied by Mazeppa and a few male-contents."

It was scarcely possible to have announced worse news to me. My friend
was upon the throne, but my reconciliation with Pulaski appeared
henceforth impossible, and in all appearance Lodoiska was lost for ever.
I knew her father so well as to be under apprehensions lest he should
proceed to extremities with his daughter. I was affrighted at the
present, I durst not look forwards towards the future; and my heart was
so devoured with chagrin, that I did not go out, even to felicitate the
new king.

One of my people, whom Boleslas dispatched after Pulaski, returned at
the end of the fourth day: he had followed him fifteen leagues from the
capital; when, about that distance, Zaremba, who perceived a stranger at
a little distance from the carriage, began to conceive suspicions. As
they proceeded, four of his followers, who had concealed themselves
behind the ruins of an old house, surprised my courier, and conducted
him to Pulaski. He, with a pistol in his hand, forced him to acknowledge
to whom he belonged. "I shall send you back to Lovzinski," said the
fierce republican, "on purpose to announce from me, that he shall not
escape my just vengeance." At these words they blindfolded my servant,
who could not tell where they had carried him. At the end of
four-and-twenty hours they resumed, and tying a handkerchief once more
about his eyes they put him into a carriage, which having stopped at
length, after a journey of several hours, he was ordered to descend.
Scarce had he put his foot upon the ground but his guards departed at a
full gallop; on which he removed the bandage, and found himself
precisely on the same spot as that on which he had been first arrested.

This intelligence filled me with uneasiness; the menaces of Pulaski
terrified me, much less on my own account than on Lodoiska's, who
remained in his power: in the midst of his fury he might sacrifice her
life! I resolved therefore to expose myself to every species of danger,
on purpose to discover the retreat of the father, and the prison of his
only child.

On the succeeding day, after informing my sisters of my design, I left
the capital: Boleslas alone accompanied me, and I passed for his
brother. We wandered over all Poland, and I then perceived that the
fears of Pulaski were but too well justified by the event. Under
pretence of obliging the inhabitants to take the oath of fidelity to the
new King, the Russians, scattered about in the provinces, desolated the
country, and committed a multitude of exactions in the cities.

After having spent three months in vain enquiries, despairing of being
able to find Lodoiska, touched with the most lively grief for the fate
of my country, and weeping at one and the same time for her misfortunes
and my own, I was about to return to Warsaw, to inform the new king of
the excesses committed by those foreigners in his states, when an
adventure that at first seemed to be very inauspicious, forced me to a
very different resolution.

The Turks having declared war against Russia, the Tartars of Budziac and
the Crimea made frequent incursions into Volhynia, where I then was.
Four of those robbers attacked us one afternoon, as we were leaving a
wood near Ostropol. I had imprudently neglected to load my pistols; but
I made use of my sabre with so much address and good luck, that in a
short time, two of them fell covered with wounds. Boleslas encountered
the third: the fourth attacked me with great fury; he gave me a slight
cut upon the leg, but received a terrible stroke in return, that
dismounted him from his horse, and felled him to the ground. Boleslas at
the same moment perceived himself disencumbered from his enemy, who, at
the noise made by his comrade's fall, took to flight. He whom I had just
vanquished, then addressed me in very bad Polish, and said: "a brave man
like you ought to be generous. I beg my life of you; instead of putting
me to death, succour me, relieve me, bind up my wounds, and assist me to
arise."

He demanded quarter with an air so noble, that I did not hesitate for a
moment. I accordingly descend from my horse, and Boleslas and myself
having helped him to arise, we dressed his wounds. "You behave well!"
says the Tartar to me; "you behave well!" As he spoke we beheld a cloud
of dust, and in a moment after more than three hundred Tartars rushed
upon us at full speed. "Be not afraid, dread nothing," says he whom I
had spared; "I am chief of this troop." Accordingly, by means of a sign,
he stops his followers, who were on the point of massacring us; and
speaking to them in their own language, which I was unable to
comprehend, they instantly open their ranks on purpose to permit us to
pass.

"Brave man," exclaims their captain, addressing himself to me once more,
"had I not reason to say that you behaved well? You left me my life, and
I now save yours; it is sometimes right to spare an enemy, and even a
robber! Hear me, my friend: in attacking you, I followed my profession,
and you did your duty in conquering me. I pardon you, you have already
pardoned me; let us therefore embrace."--He then adds: "The day is
wasting, and I would not advise you to travel in these cantons during
the present night. My people are about to repair each to his respective
post, and I cannot answer for their discretion. You perceive a castle on
a rising ground, towards the right: it belongs to a certain Pole of the
name of Dourlinski, for whom we have a high esteem, because he is very
rich. Go, demand an asylum from him; tell him that you have wounded
Titsikan, and that Titsikan pursues you. He is acquainted with my name:
I have already made him pass many an uneasy night. As to the rest, you
may rely on it, that while you remain with him, his castle shall be
sacred; but be careful not to come forth on any account before the end
of three days, and not to remain there longer than eight.---Adieu!"

It was with unfeigned pleasure that we took leave of Titsikan and his
companions. The advice of the Tartar was a command: I therefore said to
Boleslas; "Let us immediately make for the castle that he has now
pointed out to us; I am well acquainted with this same Dourlinski by
name, Pulaski has sometimes spoken to me concerning him: he perhaps is
not ignorant of the place to which the Count has retired; and it is not
impossible but that with a little address we may be able to draw the
secret from him. I shall say at all events that we are sent by Pulaski,
and this recommendation will be of more service to us than that of
Titsikan: in the mean time, Boleslas, do not forget that I am your
brother, and be sure not to discover me."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARK.

There are people, whose conversation or presence always excites languor
in others: these are men who, by the void in their minds, communicate
weariness; or who are fatiguing by a superabundance of uninteresting
conversation; thus want and superfluity are sources of languor.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  PERFECT FRIENDSHIP.

Seneca has observed, and justly, that a great man struggling with
adversity, and bearing its attacks with fortitude, is a sight worthy of
the gods. But a sight, as interesting, if not more so, is that of a
virtuous mind, oppressed by calumny, with the ability to elude its
shafts, yet cheerfully opposing itself to their force, for some secret
but worthy purpose.

Fouquet, intendant of the finances to Lewis the Fourteenth, after living
in the greatest splendor, enjoying the unlimited favour and confidence
of his master, and seeing his levees crowded by the first nobles in the
land, fell into disgrace, and was sent to the Bastile. He experienced
the common fate of all favourites in disgrace; forsaken by his friends,
and persecuted by his foes, the courtiers in general viewed his ruin
with pleasure, and charitably resolved to complete his destruction. The
envious and the disappointed had found means to prejudice his sovereign
against him, and his displeasure was the signal of hatred and
persecution to the fawning crew that surrounded his throne. Adulation is
coeval with monarchy; and no king probably ever deserved implicit
obedience from his subjects more than Lewis the Fourteenth*, on whom
nature had conferred every quality that could excite awe, or command
respect; the majesty of his person seemed one of his first claims to
sovereignty. It has been remarked, that but very few of those who were
so unfortunate to incur the displeasure of this prince, could survive
the loss of his favour**. Fouquet is one of the few. He was well aware,
however, of the extreme danger to which he was exposed; and among an
infinity of motives for serious apprehension, the intendant regarded the
examination of his papers as one of the most certain causes of his ruin.
This consideration greatly encreased the anxiety occasioned by his
confinement; if he could but have destroyed those unfortunate papers
previous to his detention, he should not have so much dreaded the
machinations of his enemies, however ingeniously formed, or inveterately
pursued.

  [* The reader must recollect that these are the sentiments of a
  Frenchman, before the late revolution! The character of Lewis the
  Fourteenth, as a promoter of the arts and sciences, is certainly
  respectable--but as a monarch--who should prefer the welfare and
  felicity of his subjects to the gratification of his own ambitious
  views--it is DETESTABLE!]

  [** It is certain that the famous painter, Le Brun, having lost the
  favour of Lewis the Fourteenth, who had been particularly kind to
  him, died thro' despair, at the Gobelins. The death of Racine,
  the celebrated dramatic poet, which happened not long after the
  production of Athalia, one of his best pieces, was owing to the
  same cause; and the haughty Louvois only survived his disgrace three
  days.]

In the midst of these alarms for his situation, he received the dreadful
news that Pelisson, his secretary, and his friend, had openly declared
himself his accuser, and was soon to be confronted with him. Shocked at
the intelligence, his courage forsook him, and he gave way to despair.

This action of Pelisson's soon made a noise in the world, and excited
the most lively sensations of resentment in the minds of the public, who
so seldom interest themselves in the fate of the unfortunate. Every body
exclaimed that he was the most base and most criminal of mankind! Loaded
with the benefactions of his master, honoured with his particular
confidence,--his friend, in short--he stands forward in the infamous
light of a public informer, and is about to stab him to the heart.

Pelisson, could not be ignorant of these reports to his prejudice, which
encreased every day; at length they attained to such a height, that some
worthy members of society took the resolution publicly to reproach him
with the baseness of his conduct, wherever they met him. The secretary,
though now an object of contempt, preserved his tranquility, and
appeared wholly indifferent to every thing that was said to him. The few
friends who still remained true to the interests of the unfortunate
minister, went to Pelisson's house, and by alternate threats,
entreaties, and supplications, endeavoured to deter him from his
purpose, but in vain; he remained firm, and persisted in his resolution
of speaking the truth, and of accusing Fouquet to his face. It must be
observed that the prisoner, during this time, was invisible to every one
but his judges, who were his greatest enemies, and many of whom, in
violation of every principle of justice, had openly declared their
intention of finding him guilty.

At length the day arrived on which Pelisson was to prefer his
accusation, and incur the atrocious sin of ingratitude. The doors of the
Bastile are opened to him: he is confronted with his master, who
exclaims, "Ah Pelisson, is it you? Are you my enemy, too?--Alas!
I mistook you for my friend!"--The secretary, far from being
disconcerted at this exclamation, began to fulfil the task he had
undertaken, with all the impudence of the most hardened calumniator; he
taxed Fouquet with crimes which were totally destitute of foundation,
and which he hastened to contradict, with the manly firmness of
conscious innocence. "That is not true," said he, interrupting Pelisson,
"you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus
gross, and not blush with shame?"--"Oh," replied Pelisson, whose
countenance betrayed the most violent indignation, "you would not dare
to contradict me, with so much assurance, if you did not know that your
papers were burnt."

These last words flashed conviction on the mind of Fouquet, who
immediately perceived the wonderful address of Pelisson, and the
generosity of his soul. He perceived that his secretary, firm and
unshaken in his friendship, had burned his papers, and had conceived the
design--the only one that could be possibly adopted--of becoming the
accuser, in order to gain admittance to his inaccessible prison, that he
might make him acquainted with the important service he had rendered
him. The intendant, ashamed of his unjust suspicions, and anxious to
make amends for them, cast a look on Pelisson, which gave him to
understand that he had perfectly understood him, and was penetrated with
the most lively sensations of gratitude for his conduct.

The secretary, feeling the complete satisfaction at the success of his
project, still continued to expose himself to the scorn and indignation
of the public. Considered as the basest of mankind, he experienced every
species of insult; while conscious integrity insured to him that
serenity of soul, which was regarded as the hardened effrontery of a
mind wholly callous to shame.

It was not till some time after that the truth came to be known. The
scene then changed. Pelisson became the object of general admiration,
and of enthusiastic esteem, that bordered on veneration; but he still
preserved the same serenity of mind, and displayed the same indifference
to merited praise, as he had before shewn to unmerited censure. Whenever
his friends expatiated on his unshaken firmness, and extraordinary
heroism, the worthy stoic replied--"That man must appear of little
consequence in his own eyes, whose moral existence depends merely on the
opinion of others! It is our place to fix a just value on ourselves
before others attempt to appreciate us. I did but fulfil my duty in
serving a man to whom I did not chuse to be an impotent or useless
friend: the title of friend imposes on those who bear it essential
obligations, which I have endeavoured to discharge; I have given more
than my life: I have suffered myself to be polluted by the imputation of
vice and dishonour; because it was the only means of serving the friend
I loved. What made me amends for the mean opinion which the public
entertained of me?--The good opinion I entertained of myself. That paid
me amply for the effects of prejudice which was founded in injustice.
Virtue is but mental fortitude; and I exerted the whole of mine, to be
able to brave the opinion of all mankind. You now see, there are
occasions which require a man to raise himself above that _solemn_
judgment to which every human being must generally submit. You must
permit me, however, to give you one piece of advice. Another time be
less prompt to decide on the merits of a man who enjoys some reputation
for probity; and be assured, that he can never be on a sudden converted
into the vilest of rogues. The friend of Fouquet could not act in a
manner so contrary to his natural disposition."

Philosophy--adds the relator of this anecdote--will have attained to its
highest degree of perfection, when it shall have enforced the
conviction. That virtue is infinitely superior to talents. By virtue
alone can the duties we owe to society, and to ourselves, be properly
discharged.


       *       *       *       *       *

  GLEANINGS.

Man is not more superior to a brute, than one man is to another by the
mere force of wisdom. Wisdom is the sole destroyer of equality, the
fountain of honour, and the only mark by which one man, for ten minutes
together, can be known from another.

Were men always skilful they would never use craft or treachery. That
men are so cunning, arises from the littleness of their minds, which, if
it can conceal itself in one place, quickly discovers itself in another.

Cunning men, like jugglers, are only versed in two or three little
tricks, while wisdom excels in the whole circle of action.

The cunning man and the wise man differ not only in point of honesty,
but ability. He that can pack the cards, does not always play well.

I have a right to hold my tongue, and to be silent at all times; but if
I speak to another, I have no right to make him answer for me just as I
please.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 110.)

"I will not disappoint your hope; however, I must repeat once more that
I can lead you to truth by no other road but that of reason purified
from all sensual dregs. You will find it difficult to pursue that road,
and it will be no easy task to me to guide you. I shall be obliged to
avoid all emblematic language, in order to convey to your mind these
supersensible notions in their natural purity, and it will be necessary
that you should know how to apply the abstractest and purest notions,
although they should contradict your present manner of perception."

"I shall at least not be wanting in attention and good-will."

"First of all it will be necessary to agree in the notion of what is
called _spirit_. The best method of fixing that notion will be to
examine what the word spirit means according to the general rules of
language. If one man says, man consists of body and spirit, by the
former a corporeal, and by the latter an incorporeal being is
understood. We have, therefore, a common point from which we can proceed
in our investigation. _Spirit_ is opposite to body. In this point we
agree according to the most general meaning and use of the word."

"I do."

"Let us see what follows thence! Every _body_ is a compounded, extended,
impenetrable being, subject to the laws of motion, consequently, every
_spirit_ is a simple, unextended and penetrable being, not subject to
the laws of motion."

"Exactly so!"

"Bodies are extended, that is they occupy a _room_, and the proportion
which one body bears to the other in point of _room_, constitutes its
_place_; spirits are not extended, and consequently exist in no _room_,
and in no _place_."

"How am I to understand this?"

"Just as I have said.--But let me elucidate my argument. Why cannot two
bodies exist at the same time, in the same space? Because they exclude
each other on account of their extension and impenetrability. Two bodies
must, of course, occupy two different places, if existing at the same
time; that is, every individual body must occupy its own individual
place. And why must every body occupy its _own_ place?"

"Because of its expansion and impenetrability."

"Very well! But these two qualities cannot appertain to a spirit, and,
consequently, a spirit can occupy no place."

"This seems really to follow."

"This argument can also be stated thus: a spirit has, as a simple being,
neither a right nor left, neither a front nor a back side, and
consequently can have no relation from _no side_ to any thing that
occupies a space. The conclusion is very palpable."

"Then a spirit could occupy no room in the whole material world?"

"Would you perhaps assign to spirits a place in the immaterial world?
How could you imagine, without contradiction, that space or place can
exist in _such_ a world? If one spirit does not occupy a room, then all
spirits together can occupy none, how could therefore any proportion
exist among them with relation to space or place?"

"I comprehend and do not comprehend you. You want to convince me of the
possibility of apparitions of spirits, and deny the existence of
spirits; for if they do occupy no place either in the visible or
invisible world, _where_ else can they exist?"

"How sensitive and confused your ideas are! Don't you perceive that your
question is equal to this: _in which place_ do spirits exist? and that,
of course, you premise in your question what I have just clearly proved
to be absurd. Do you not comprehend that _room_ and _place_ are nothing
else but _external_ qualities, only relations of _material_ things? and
do you believe that the existence of any being depends merely on
external qualities and material relations?"

"Have patience with me!"

"I have; for I am well aware how difficult it is to abstract from
material ideas; however, since they cannot be applicable to spirits we
must renounce them, else we cannot pass over the bounds of the material
world."

"I intreat you, Hiermanfor, to go on!"

"From our investigation we have learnt, as yet, nothing farther than
what a spirit is _not_, and what attributes _cannot_ be ascribed to it.
We now must endeavour to state what _real_ qualities constitute the
nature of spirits. One of them we have already touched upon; I mean,
independence of the laws of physical nature, or _arbitrary choice_. A
second quality presses upon us, namely the _faculty of perception_,
which our soul is endowed with like all other spirits. And now we are
enabled to form a notion of spirits, which, however imperfect it be, yet
is determined: a spirit is a simple being, endowed with _arbitrary
choice_, and the _faculty of perception_. Don't you think that this
definition answers the common manner of speaking."

"An additional proof of its fitness."

"In the same manner in which the body evinces its existence, by the
material effect it produces in the room, the spirit likewise proves its
existence by the manifestation of its faculty of perception and of free
will. However evident and generally received this proposition is, yet it
is misapplied very frequently; for it is, according to my premises,
absolutely false, and nothing else but a kind of optic illusion, if we
imagine our soul to be inclosed in the human body, nay even in some
particular place of it. This illusion may be opposed by another: there
are diversions of thought, in which the thinking principle leaves our
body so entirely, that only the animal powers are active in the latter,
and on the return of our awakening self-consciousness, the soul seems to
return from far distant regions. However, this too is mere illusion. We
can say nothing farther of the union which subsists between our soul and
body, than that our soul is sensible of the existence of a corporeal
organ, the mutations of which harmonise exactly with her ideas and
resolutions; however, as you never will suppose that your spirit is
inclosed by the walls of Amelia's distant habitation, where your whole
soul, with all her sentiments and ideas, is, as it were, translated to;
so your spirit can also not be supposed to be inclosed in your body,
which seems to be its common residence. No, no, my Lord, that cannot be!
the bonds of space can never fetter an immaterial being to a material
one."

"This is indeed the natural conclusion which flows from your premises;
but by _what_ bonds should then the communion between body and soul be
preserved?"

"Your question refers to a fact, the answer to it, consequently, belongs
to the practical part of this philosophy. Yet," added the Irishman after
some reflections, "I can give you a hint upon that head, which will
throw some light upon it: Every substance, consequently the body too,
must possess an internal activity, that is the invisible cause of its
external actions, which are visible in the space. This internal
principle of the body, acts upon the spirit in the same manner in which
the spirit acts upon this principle. Soul and body, consequently, cannot
act upon each other _immediately_, but only by means of this principle.
As all material beings, concretively taken, compose a great totum, which
is called the physical world, so the concrete of all immaterial beings
composes what we call the immaterial world. It follows from the
antecedent, that the order, regularity, and union which are seen in the
former world, are entirely different from the order, regularity, and
union which prevails in the latter world. All material beings are
subject to the sceptre of stern necessity, and kept in order by physical
laws; the rank which these beings maintain towards one another, is
founded either on innate qualities, or such as have been attributed to
them by general agreement; and they are nearer each other, or more
distant from one another, according to their relations constituted by
space and time. How different is this in the material world! rational
beings, endowed with free will, are subject to no other laws but to
those of morality; the prerogatives and degrees which subsist among
them, depend on the different degrees of their wisdom and virtue, and
according to the similarity or difference of their manner of thinking,
and of their sentiments, they are nearer each other, or more distant
from one another; that is, they harmonize, or disharmonize. Man belongs,
by virtue of his body and soul, to both of these worlds, and,
consequently, is connected with the material and immaterial world. It
may therefore happen, that the same person who acts an important part on
earth, in virtue of his physical or political situation, occupies at the
same time the lowest degree among the super-terrestrial beings; that the
soul of a body whose beauty charms every eye here below, is an
indifferent, or a contemptible object in the spiritual world; that the
soul of an inhabitant of Saturn, and that of an inhabitant of the earth,
with regard to their spiritual communion, are oftentimes, nearer
neighbours than the souls of those whose abode is beneath the same
roof."

"This is very plain!"

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

             CHARACTER OF A GOOD MAN.

Agatho makes the interest of mankind, in a manner, his own; and has a
tender and affectionate concern for their welfare; he cannot think
himself happy, whatever his possessions and his preferments are, while
he sees others miserable; his power and wealth delight him chiefly, as
the poor and indigent are better for it; and the greatest charm of
prosperity is the advantage it affords of relieving his
fellow-creatures; and to give assistance and support, according to the
various exigencies of those with whom he converses, is his constant
endeavour; and that he may practice the more large and generous charity,
he retrenches useless pomp and expence, esteeming that a much more
sublime and noble gratification than the amusements and gallantries of a
vain and luxurious age. In fine, he is unwearied in his endeavours to
promote the happiness of others, and he not only takes all opportunities
that present themselves of doing good, but seeks all occasions to be
useful, though he has frequently met with ungrateful returns----He is
good.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE.

Sir William Lilly, a famous painter in the reign of king Charles I. had
at a certain agreement drawn the picture of a rich citizen of London to
the life, that was not indebted to nature either for face or proportion
of body; but when the citizen came to fetch it away, he refused to give
Sir William so much money, as they had agreed for, because, as he
alleged, if the owner did not buy it, it would lie upon his hands.
"That's your mistake," says the painter, "for I can sell it for double
the price I demand." "How can that be," says the citizen, "for 'tis like
nobody but myself?" "'Tis true," says Sir William, "but I will draw a
tail to it, and then it will be the best piece for a monkey in England."
Upon which the citizen rather than be exposed, paid down his money and
took away his picture.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MAXIMS.

What gold is in the crucible that refines it, the learned man is in his
country.

The wise and learned in his own opinion, is but an ignorant person in
the eyes of God and men.

It is less difficult to divert a wicked man from his iniquitous schemes,
than to dispel the sorrows of a heart that permits grief to prey
upon it.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Wednesday last, by the Rev. Mr. Beach, Mr. GARLAND DAVIES, to Miss
ELIZABETH BARTON, both of this city.

On Thursday evening, the 29th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Woodhull, Mr. WILLIAM
LAWRENCE, merchant, to Miss MARGARET VAN HORNE, daughter of Mr. James
Van Horne, merchant, late of this city, deceased.

On Saturday evening last by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, DANIEL PARIS, Esq. of
Montgomery county, to Miss KITTY IRVING, daughter of Mr. William Irving
of this city.

The same evening, by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, Mr. JONAS MAPES, to Miss
ELIZABETH TYLEE, daughter of Mr. James Tylee of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. THOMAS RINGWOOD,
Printer, to Miss CATHARINE HERBERT, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 2d to the 8th inst._

    _Days of the Month._
      _Thermometer observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
        _Prevailing winds._
          _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

        deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
           100   100
  Oct 2  54    60 75  ne. do.  cloudy lht. wd. do.
      3  53    54     ne. do.  rain high wd. do.
      4  51    65     n. do.   cloudy h. wd. do. do.
      5  53    63 75  sw. e.   cloudy calm do. do.
      6  52    63     nw. w.   cloudy lt. wd. clear do.
      7  46    59     nw. do.  clear, light wind do.
      8  44    57     n. w.    clear, light wd. do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO A YOUNG LADY,
  On the Author's Reading to her Sterne's Beautiful Story of Maria.

  As Sterne's pathetic tale you hear,
    Why rudely check the rising sigh?
  Why seek to hide the pitying tear,
    Which adds new lustre to the eye?

  Tears that lament another's woe,
    Unveil the goodness of the heart:
  Uncheck'd, Maria, these should flow--
    They please beyond the pow'r of art.

  Does not yon crimson-tinted rose,
    Whose opening blush delights the view,
  More splendid colouring disclose,
    When brightly gem'd with morning dew?

  So shall Maria's beauteous face,
    Drest in more pleasing charms appear;
  When aided by the magic grace
    Of pity's sympathizing tear.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE REPARTEE.

  Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean,
    What reason can be given,
  Since Marriage is a holy thing,
    That there are none in Heaven?
  There are no women he replied.----
    She quick returns the jest--
  Women there are, but I'm afraid
    They cannot find a priest.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                    TO EMMA.

  Charm'd by returning Friendship's gentle voice,
    Each waken'd pulse with new-born rapture beats;
    My lonely heart the welcome stranger greets,
  And bids each quiv'ring, trembling nerve rejoice.
        Emma again shall meet my view,
        Still beats her heart to Friendship true,
        All the gay scenes by hope pourtray'd,
        Late hid by sorrow's sombre shade,
        Revive upon my raptur'd sight,
        In glowing colours now more bright
  Than when we erst in early Friendship's bands,
  First join'd our hearts and lock'd our infant hands.

  Friend of my heart, that time again returns,
    Again we'll taste the joys of Friendship pure;
  And tho' Maria's loss my Emma mourns,
    Time and fond sympathy her grief shall cure.
        There she was pity's mildest form,
        Her heart with ev'ry virtue warm,
        And well deserv'd affection's tear,
        The tender thought and sigh sincere;
        I too her early fate deplore,
        And mourn fair Virtue's child no more:
  In tender sympathy with thee I'll join,
  "Give tear for tear, and echo sighs to thine."

  The subject sad my early woes revives;
    I too, my friend, have felt misfortune's dart,
  Still in my soul the sad remembrance lives
    Of objects dear;--Ah! doom'd how soon to part:
        Still in the melancholy hour
        Memory exerts her tyrant pow'r;
        Recalls thy form, Oh! parent dear,
        Still bids the much-lov'd shade appear,
        And prompts the deep-drawn sigh sincere,
        While down my pale cheek flows the tear:
  Deep in the grave my tender parent sleeps,
  While o'er the sod each kindred virtue weeps.

  Soon too Selina did thy early worth
    The blooming beauty heaven its favourite gave,
  Seek the dark confines of the chilling earth,
    And join our much lov'd parents in the grave:
        Ye oft I meet, beloved shades,
        When wandering through the moonlight glades;
        Pale shadows shoot athwart my view,
        I start, I sigh, and think of you,
        And oft my wilder'd fancy brings
        Your dear lov'd forms, and o'er them flings
        Bright robes of heavenly radiance fair,
        Anon they vanish into air:
  Thus fled my joys, I cry, and tears pursue,
  The pleasing phantoms melting from my view.

  Have I not cause, my friend, to grieve,
    To bid the mournful numbers flow,
    In solemn strains of dirge like woe,
  And tears the wounded heart relieve:
        But resignation, heaven born maid,
        Still sooths me with her cheering aid,
        She calls my wandering fancy home,
        To scenes of bliss beyond the tomb,
        And bids my rapt thought soar away,
        "In visions of eternal day."
  Emma's dear friendship too shall calm my woe,
  Forbid the sigh to heave, the tear to flow.

  Yes, charming maid, thy love returned bestows
    A cheering ray my darken'd path to light,
    As from the cloud, the sun breaks forth more bright,
  And all the sky with borrowed lustre glows:
        Again shall please, the sweets of spring,
        And fancy ever on the wing,
        Assay to cull Pierian flowers,
        And spend the chearful smiling hours;
        When at the muses' shrine I bow,
        In waving garlands for thy brow:
  Nor thou my friend, the humble boon refuse,
  Tho' mean the gift, pure are the giver's views.

  Yet think not, partial friend, thy Clara vain,
    Ah! well she knows, she wants the muses fire,
    Some abler hand should strike the sounding lyre,
  And with my Emma's praises swell the strain:
        Yet though my lay be wild and rude,
        By friendship's partial eye when view'd,
        Emma may smile--no more I ask,
        I will repay the pleasing task:
  More than the applauding world her smile I prize,
  Than the morn the mildness of her eyes.

    CLARA

      NEW-YORK Oct. 3, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SOLILOQUY TO LOVE.

  O thou, or fiend, or angel, by what name
  Shall I address thee? how express thy powers?
  Strange compound of extremes! of heat and cold,
  Of hope and fear, of pleasure and of pain!
  Nought can escape thy prying scrutiny;
  Wretched, should aught but thwart thine ardent wish;
  And oh! how ravish'd if thou mark'st one glance,
  Which tells the latent longings of the soul!
  In that high fever, the delirious brain
  Coins gaudy phantoms of celestial bliss,
  Of bliss that never comes--for now, e'en now
  From airy joys he wakes to solid pain.
  Quick to his sight up springs, in long array,
  A tribe of horrid ills--the cold reply;
  The unanswer'd question; the assenting nod
  Of dull Civility; the careless look
  Of blank Indifference; the chilling frown
  That freezes at the heart; the stony eye
  Of fixt Disdain; or more tormenting gaze
  Bent on another. These, with all the train
  Of fears and jealousies that wait on Love,
  Are no imagin'd griefs; no fancied ills
  These; or, if fancied, worse than real woes
  Such art thou, Love; then who, that once has known
  Thy countless rocks and sands that lurk beneath,
  Would ever tempt thy smiling surface more?
  Long toss'd on stormy seas of hopes and fears,
  How willingly at last my wearied soul
  Would seek a shelter in forgetfulness!
  Oh! bland Forgetfulness, Love's sweetest balm,
  Through all my veins thy pow'rs infuse; close up
  Each avenue to Love; purge off the lime
  That clogs his spirit, which fain would wing its flight
  To Sense, to Reason, Liberty and Peace.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, October 19, 1796.+  [+No. 68.+


  REFLECTIONS ON THE HARMONY OF SENSIBILITY AND REASON.

  SINCERITY.

A little judgment, with less sensibility, makes a man cunning; a little
more feeling, with even less reason, would make him sincere.

Some have no more knowledge of humanity, than just serves them to put on
an appearance of it, to answer their own base and selfish purposes.

He who prefers cunning to sincerity, is insensible to the disgrace and
suspicion which attend craft and deceit, and the social satisfaction
which the generous mind finds in honesty and plain-dealing.

Men who know not the pleasures of sincerity, and who traffic in deceit,
barter an image of kindness for a shadow of joy, and are deceived more
than they deceive.

  PASSION.

Let us suppose an end of Passion, there must be an end of reasoning.
Passion alone can correct Passion. Thus we forego a present pleasure, in
hopes that we shall afterwards enjoy a greater pleasure, or of longer
duration: or suffer a present pain, to escape a greater; and this is
called an act of the judgment. He who gives way to the dictates of
present passion, without consulting experience, listens to a partial
evidence, and must of course determine wrongfully.

Some, in order to pay a false compliment to sentimental pleasures,
attempt altogether to depreciate the pleasures of sense: with as little
justice, though with like plausibility, have men endeavoured to decry
the natural passions and affections as inconsistent with human felicity.
Not from our natural desires and passions do we suffer misery; for,
without these, what pleasure can we be supposed to enjoy? But from false
desires, or diseased appetites, acting without the aid of experience and
understanding.

He who commits an action which debases him in his own mind, besides its
other evil consequences, lays up a store of future misery, which will
haunt him as long as the memory of the deed remains.

Along with the present effects of any action, in order to judge of it
aright, we must put in the balance also its future consequences, and
consider, on one side, the satisfaction and honour; on the other, the
evil and disgrace that may attend it.

Magnanimity exercises itself in contempt of labours and pains, in order
to avoid greater pains, or overtake greater pleasures.

  TEMPERANCE.

The great rule of sensual pleasures is to use them so as they may not
destroy themselves, or be divorced from the pleasures of sentiment; but
rather as they are assisted by, and mutually assisting to, the more
refined and exalted sympathy of rational enjoyment.

Men ever refine the meaning of the word pleasure to what pleases
themselves: gluttons imagine, that by pleasure is meant gluttony. The
only true epicures are such as enjoy the pleasures of temperance. Small
pleasures seem great to such as know no greater. The virtuous man is he
who has sense enough to enjoy the greatest pleasure.

Superfluity and parade among the vulgar-rich pass for elegance and
greatness. To the man of true taste, temperance is luxury, and
simplicity grandeur.

Whatever pleasures are immediately derived from the senses, persons of
fine internal feelings enjoy besides their other pleasures; while such
as place their chief happiness in the former, can have no true taste for
the delicious sensations of the soul.

They who divide profit and honesty, mistake the nature of the one or the
other. We must make a difference between appearances and truths: the
really profitable and the good are the same.

False appearances of profit are the greatest enemies to true interest.
Future sorrows present themselves in the disguise of present pleasures,
and short-sighted folly eagerly embraces the deceit.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 115.)

We soon arrived at the ditch of the castle; the servants of Dourlinski
demanded who we were; I answered that we were come from Pulaski, and
wished to speak to their lord, and that we had been attacked by robbers,
who were still in pursuit of us. The drawbridge was accordingly let
down; and having entered, we were informed that at present we could not
see Dourlinski, but that on the next day at ten o'clock he would give us
audience. They then demanded our arms, which we delivered up without any
difficulty, and Boleslas soon after took an opportunity of looking at my
wound, which was found to be but superficial.

In a short time a frugal repast was served up for us in the kitchen. We
were afterwards conducted to a lower chamber, where two beds were
prepared for us. The domestics then left us without any light, and
immediately locked the door of the apartment.

I could not close my eyes during the whole night. Titsikan had given me
but a slight wound, but that which my heart had received was so very
deep! At day break, I became impatient in my prison, and wished to open
the shutters, but they were nailed up. I attacked them, however, so
vigorously, that the fastenings gave way, and I beheld a very fine park.
The window being low, I cleared it at a leap, and in a single instant
found myself in the gardens of the Polish chieftain.

After having walked about for a few minutes, I sat down on a stone
bench, which was placed at the foot of a tower, whose ancient
architecture I had been some time considering. I remained for a few
seconds enveloped in reflection, when a tile fell at my feet. I thought
that it had dropped from the roof of this old building; and, to avoid
the effects of a similar accident, I went and placed myself at the other
end of the seat. A few moments after, a second tile fell by my side. The
circumstance appeared surprising: I arose with some degree of
inquietude, and attentively examined the tower. I perceived at about
twenty-five or thirty feet from the ground, a narrow opening. On this I
picked up the tiles which had been thrown at me, and on the first I
discovered the following words, written with a bit of plaister;

  "+LOVZINSKI, is it you! Do you still live!+"

And on the second these:

  "+Deliver me! save Lodoiska.+"

It is impossible to conceive how many different sentiments occupied my
mind at one and the same time: my astonishment, my joy, my grief, my
embarrassment, cannot be expressed. I examined once more the prison of
Lodoiska, and plotted in my own mind how I could procure her liberty.
She at length threw down another tile, and I read as follows:

"At midnight, bring me paper, ink, and pens; and to-morrow, an hour
after sun-rise, come and receive a letter.--------Begone."--

Having returned towards my chamber, I called to Boleslas, who assisted
me in re-entering through the window. I then informed my faithful
servant, of the unexpected accident that had put an end to my
wanderings, and redoubled my inquietude.

How could I penetrate into this tower? How could we procure arms? By
what means were we to deliver Lodoiska from captivity! How could we
carry her off under the eye of Dourlinski, in the midst of his people,
from a fortified castle? and supposing that so many obstacles were not
unsurmountable, could I attempt such an enterprize during the short
delay prescribed by Titsikan?

Did not the Tartar enjoin me to stay with Dourlinski three days, but not
to remain longer than eight?

Would it not be to expose ourselves to the attacks of the enemy, to
leave this castle before the third, or after the expiration of the
eighth day? Should I release my dear Lodoiska from a prison, on purpose
to deliver her into the hands of robbers, to be forever separated from
her either by slavery or death? This would be a horrible idea!

But wherefore was she confined in such a frightful prison? The letter
which she had promised would doubtless instruct me: It was therefore
necessary to procure paper, pen and ink. I accordingly charged Boleslas
with this employment, and began to prepare myself for acting the
delicate part of an emissary of Pulaski in the presence of Dourlinski.

It was broad day-light when they came to set us at liberty, and inform
us, that Dourlinski was at leisure and wished to see us. We accordingly
presented ourselves before him with great confidence; and we were
introduced to a man of about sixty years of age, whose reception was
blunt, and whose manners were repulsive. He demanded who we were. "My
brother and myself," replied I, "belong to Count Pulaski. My master has
entrusted me with a secret commission to you. My brother accompanies me
on another account. Before I explain, I must be in private, for I am
charged not to speak but to you alone."

"It is very well," replies Dourlinski: "your brother may retire, and you
also," addressing himself to his servants; "begone! As to him (pointing
to a person who was his confident), he must remain, and you may speak
any thing before him."

"Pulaski has sent me."--------"I see very well that he has sent you,"
says the palatine, interrupting me----"to demand of you--"
"What?"--------"news of his daughter."--"News of his daughter! Did
Pulaski say so?"--------"Yes my lord, he said that his daughter was
here."---I perceived that Dourlinski instantly grew pale; he then looked
towards his confident, and surveyed me for some time in silence.

"You astonish me," rejoins he at length. "In confiding a secret of this
importance to you, it necessarily follows that your master must have
been very imprudent."

"No more than you, my lord, for have not you also a confident? Grandees
would be much to be pitied if they could not rely upon any of their
domestics. Pulaski has charged me to inform you, that Lovsinski has
already searched through a great part of Poland, and that he will
undoubtedly visit these cantons."

"If he dares to come here," replies he with great vivacity, "I will
provide a lodging for him, which he shall inhabit for some time. Do you
know this Lovsinski?"

"I have seen him at my master's house in Warsaw."--"They say he is
handsome?"

"He is well made, and about my size."

"His person?---is prepossessing; it is--------"

"He is a wretch," adds he, interrupting me in a great passion------"O
that he were but to fall into my hands!"

"My lord, they say that he is brave---"

"He! I will wager any sum of money that he is only calculated to seduce
women!---O that he would but fall into my hands!" Then, assuming a less
ferocious tone, he continued thus. "It is a long time since Pulaski
wrote to me---where is he at present?"

"My lord, I have precise orders not to answer that question: all that I
dare to say is, that he has the strongest reasons for neither
discovering the place of his retreat, nor writing to any person, and
that he will soon come and explain them to you in person."

Dourlinski appeared exceedingly astonished at this information; I could
discover some symptoms of fear in his countenance. At length, looking at
his confident, who seemed equally embarrassed with himself, he
proceeded: "You say that Pulaski will come here soon?"---"Yes, my lord,
in about a fortnight, or a little later." On this he again turned to his
attendant; but in a short time affecting as much calmness as he had
before discovered embarrassment; "Return to your master," added he;
"I am sorry to have nothing but bad news to communicate to
him--------tell him that Lodoiska is no longer here." I myself became
surprised in my turn at this information. "What! my lord,
Lodoiska--------"

"Is not longer here, I tell you!--------To oblige Pulaski, whom I
esteem, I undertook, although with great repugnance, the talk of
confining his daughter in my castle: nobody but myself and he (pointing
to his confident) knew that she was here. It is about a month since we
went, as usual, to carry her provisions for the day, but there was
nobody in the apartment. I am ignorant how it happened; but what I know
well is, that she has escaped, for I have heard nothing of her
since.---She must undoubtedly have gone to join Lovsinski at Warsaw, if
perchance the Tartars have not intercepted her in her journey."

My astonishment on this became extreme. How could I reconcile that which
I had seen in the garden, with that which Dourlinski now told me? There
was some mystery in this business, which I became exceedingly impatient
to be acquainted with: I was however extremely careful not to exhibit
any appearance of doubt. "My lord," said I, "this is bad news for my
master!"--------"Undoubtedly, but it is not my fault."

"My lord, I have a favour to ask of you."

"Let me hear it."------"The Tartars are ravaging the neighbourhood of
your castle--they attacked us------we escaped as it were by a miracle.
Will you permit my brother and myself to remain here only for the space
of two days?"

"For two days only I give my consent."

"Where do they lodge?" says he to his attendant. "In an apartment below
ground," was the reply.

"Which overlooks my gardens?" rejoins Dourlinski, interrupting him with
great agitation.

"The shutters are well fastened," adds the other.

"No matter--------You must put them elsewhere." These words made me
tremble.

"It is not possible, but,"------continues the confident, and then
whispered the rest of the sentence in his ear.

"Right," says the Baron; "and let it be done instantly." Then,
addressing himself to me, "know that your brother and you must depart
the day after to-morrow: before you go, you shall see me again, and I
will give you a letter for Pulaski."

I then went to rejoin Boleslas in the kitchen, where he was at
breakfast, who soon after presented me with a little bottle full of ink,
several pens, and some sheets of paper, which he had procured without
difficulty. I panted with desire to write to Lodoiska; and the only
difficulty that now remained, was to find a commodious place where I
might not be discovered by the curiosity of Dourlinski's people.

They had already informed Boleslas that we could not again be admitted
into the apartment where we had spent the preceding night, until the
time should arrive when we were to retire to rest. I soon, however,
bethought myself of a stratagem which succeeded to admiration.

The servants were drinking with my pretended brother, and politely
invited me to help them to empty a few flasks.

I swallowed, with a good grace, several glasses of bad wine in
succession: in a few minutes my legs seemed to totter, my tongue
faltered: I related a hundred pleasant and improbable tales to the
joyous company; in a word, I acted the _drunken man_ so well, that
Boleslas himself became a dupe to my scheme, and actually trembled lest,
in a moment when I seemed disposed to communicate every thing, my secret
should escape.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

               REMARKS ON MUSIC.

  (Continued from page 108.)

The sacred scriptures afford almost the only materials from which any
knowledge of the Hebrew music can be drawn. In the rapid sketch,
therefore of ancient music which I mean to exhibit, very few
observations are all that can properly be given to that department of
the subject.

Moses was educated by Pharoah's daughter in all the literature and
elegant arts cultivated in Egypt. It is probable, therefore, that the
taste and style of Egyptian music would be infused in some degree into
that of the Hebrews. Music appears to have been interwoven thro' the
whole tissue of religious ceremony in Palestine. The priesthood seem to
have been musicians hereditarily and by office. The prophets appear to
have accompanied their inspired effusions with music; and every prophet
like the present Improvisatori of Italy, seems to have been accompanied
by a musical instrument.

Music, vocal and instrumental, constituted a great part of the funeral
ceremonies of the Jews. The pomp and expence used on those occasions
advanced by degrees to an excessive extent. The number of flute-players
in the procession amounted sometimes to several hundreds, and the
attendance of the guests continued frequently for thirty days.

The Hebrew language abounds with consonants, and has so few vowels, that
in the original alphabet they had no characters, it must, therefore,
have been harsh and unfavourable to music. Their instruments of music
were chiefly those of percussion, so that the music must have been
coarse and noisy: The vast numbers of performers too, whom it was the
taste of the Hebrews to collect together, could not with such language
and instruments produce any thing but clamour and jargon. According to
Josephus, there were 200,000 musicians at the dedication of the temple
of Solomon.

The history of King David furnishes us with very striking proofs of his
attachment to music. Saul being troubled in his mind, and melancholy,
was advised to apply to music as a remedy for his disorder: "David took
his harp, and played tunes of sweet melody, and Saul was comforted."

The Psalms of David, which glow with ardour of genius, of an elevation
of the most becoming sentiments, were, it is more than probable, set to
the most sublime and expressive music, such was the attachment of the
Hebrews to this art, and such was the proficiency they made in it; and
when they were in captivity in Babylon, they regretted the loss of those
songs which they had sung with rapture in the temple of Jerusalem. Such
are the circumstances from which only an idea of the Hebrew music can be
formed, for the Jews neither ancient nor modern have ever had any
characters peculiar to music; and the melodies used in their religious
ceremonies have at all times been entirely traditional.

  A. O.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                THE RENCOUNTER.

  "Shame! Where is thy blush?"

How degrading to human nature! Worse than the brute is he who endeavours
to draw another into a contest!

An instance occurred a few days since of a _battle_ between two persons,
who (as I withhold their real names) I shall distinguish by the titles
of Willet and Martin. Willet had long been a visitor at the house of the
other, for what purpose I know not; but be it what it may, his
intentions, no doubt, were honourable. Martin has an amiable sister, and
report says, the heart of Willet has been smitten by her charms; and
when time permitted, and she consented, he intended to have made her his
bride.

His visits, it seems, were not very pleasing to the brother of the young
lady, who took an opportunity of loading him with a series of epithets
consisting of "_mean, low_," &c. &c. To these Willet scarcely deigned a
reply. When Martin found the object of his malice removed by his vile
insinuations, he challenged him to _fight_. He was forced to comply,
though much against his inclination, and both quitting the house, he
found himself instantly attacked in the open street, where a scene
ensued that would have made the unprincipled savage, were he present,
blush with indignation.

In short, the challenger was worsted; he was not a match for his
antagonist, though he had the better of him in years. His mother and
sister saw the conflict from a window, and endeavoured to restore him to
reason, but without effect; he was quite transported with excess of
passion.

Martin was the aggressor, and his punishment was just. When he became
sensible that he had suffered sufficiently, he was conveyed home,
without enjoying the pleasure of beholding that bright luminary, the
sun, the cuffs he had received having entirely closed up the organs of
sight; to all appearance, a few more would have made him an inhabitant
of the world of spirits; but by a lucky turn of the wheel of fortune,
they were restrained.

  THEODORE.

    NEW-YORK Oct. 12, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

  FRAGMENTS OF EPICHARMUS.

  Moral Maxims.

Be sober in thought; be slow in belief; these are the sinews of wisdom.

It is the part of a wise man to foresee what is to be done, so shall he
not repent of what is done.

Throw not away thine anger upon trifles--Reason and not rage should
govern.

  AN ANTITHESIS.

It demands the strength of a lion to subdue the weakness of love.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 119.)

"The human soul, of course, is already, in this life, connected with the
members of the invisible world, and this connection is lasting and
essential, while that with the body is accidental and transient. However
a union of substances, that is, of active natures, cannot be supposed to
exist without a reciprocal influence; consequently the human soul must
have an effective influence upon the spirits to whom she is linked, and
the members of the spiritual world must act reciprocally on our soul.
But why are we not equally sensible of these reciprocal influences and
communications, as of those which subsist between our soul and body? The
cause of this is very obvious. The human spirit can have a clear idea
only of the objects of the material world, because of its corporeal
organ; it is, therefore, not even capable of a clear immediate
contemplation of its own self, much less of its immaterial relations to
other spirits: the difference which exists between those ideas which
arise in our soul by means of its immateriality, and its communion with
spiritual beings, and the ideas which it receives by the medium of the
body, or abstracted from material objects, is so essential, that the
ideas of the former kind cannot come in connection with those of the
latter; for which reason we have either no notion at all of them, or, at
most, a very obscure one; however, we become plainly conscious of them
as soon as the union of the soul and its corporeal organ ceases."

"This, Hiermanfor, seems, in some measure to be the case when we are
sleeping, and the sensitive organs are resting from their occupations.
Should therefore those philosophers of antiquity, who have believed that
in our dreams we are capable of being influenced by superior beings, and
of receiving supernatural inspirations, be mistaken?"

"There is, certainly, some truth in this remark. I must, however,
observe, that we do not possess that capacity when dreaming, but when we
are fast asleep. It is commonly thought that we have only obscure
notions in the latter state, and this opinion arises from our not
recollecting them when we awake; however, on what ground can we conclude
therefrom that they have not been clear while we were sleeping? Such
ideas, perhaps, may be clearer and more extensive, than even the most
perspicuous when we are awake, because the activity of our soul is
neither modified nor confined by any thing whatever, the sensitive
organs being intirely at rest. However this very rest of our sensitive
organs, is the cause which prevents the re-production of these ideas
when we are awake, our sleeping body having no share in them, and,
consequently, being destitute of its concomitant notion of them; they,
of course, remain insulated in our soul, having no connection at all
with those ideas which arise within ourselves before and after we are
fast asleep, and in which our body takes a greater or a smaller share.
This is not the case with our dreams; for when we are dreaming, the
faculties of the soul do not act so pure and uncontrouled as when we are
fast asleep. Dreaming is an intermediate state between waking and
sleeping. We have then already, in some measure, clear ideas, and
interweave the actions of our soul with the impressions of our exterior
senses, whereby a strange, and sometimes ridiculous mixture is
engendered, which we partly recollect when we awake."

"You have, as yet, proved only the probability of clear notions during
our being fast asleep; could you not also prove their reality?"

"Certainly! however these arguments do not belong to the theoretical
part of our philosophy. Yet I must beg of you to recollect, en passant,
the actions of some noctambulos, who sometimes, during the profoundest
sleep, shew more understanding than at any other time, but cannot
recollect those actions when awake?"

"This is true!" I exclaimed, "this throws an astonishing light upon this
matter."

"Yet not only while asleep," the Irishman continued, "but also when
awake, many people can be capable of having a clear notion of their
connection with the spiritual world, and the influence of spirits upon
them. Yet the essential difference which exists between the notions of
_spirits_ and those of _men_ is a great impediment, which, however, is
not at all insurmountable. It is true than man cannot have an
_immediate_ notion of those spiritual ideas, because of the co-operation
of his corporeal organs; however they can, in virtue of the law of the
association of ideas, produce in the human mind those images which are
related to them and consequently procreate analogical representations of
our senses, which, although they be not the spiritual actions
themselves, yet are their symbols."

"I perceive what you are aiming at."

"Examples will render the matter more intelligible to you. Experience
teaches that our superior intellectual notions, which are near a-kin to
the spiritual ideas, commonly assume a bodily garb, in order to render
themselves perspicuous. Thence the poet transforms wisdom into the
Goddess Minerva, the stings of conscience into furies, and personifies
virtues and vices; the mathematician describes time by a line, and is
there any philosopher who always forms an idea even of the Godhead,
without intermixing human qualities? In that manner ideas, which have
been imparted to us by spiritual influence, may dress themselves in the
symbols of that _language_ which is common to us, and the presence of a
spirit which we perceive, assume the image of a _human shape_--witness
the late apparition of your tutor.----Thus the theory of all
supernatural inspirations and visions is ascertained; consequently the
apparitions of spirits have that in common with our dreams, that they
represent to us effects which are produced within ourselves, as if
happening _without ourselves_; however, at the same time, they differ
from them with respect to their being really founded upon an effect from
_without_, a spiritual influence. However this influence cannot reveal
itself to our consciousness immediately, but only by means of associated
images of our fancy, which attain the vivacity of objects really
perceived. You see, therefore, what an essential difference there is
between the phantoms of our dreams, and the apparitions of spirits. But
here is the boundary of theory. The criterion whereby apparitions of
spirits, in every particular case, can be distinguished with certainty,
from vain phantoms, and supernatural inspirations from natural ideas,
and the means of effecting apparitions, and of obtaining assistance and
instructions from spiritual beings; these and several more things belong
to the practical part of the occult philosophy.

"Here, my Lord, I must conclude for the present, and drop the curtain.
Stress of time obliges me to abbreviate my discourse on a subject which
would not be exhausted in many days; however I may safely leave to your
own understanding the finishing and enlargement of this sketch. Suffice
it that I have enabled you to comprehend the apparition of your friend,
and to see that reason does not pronounce judgment against subjects of
this nature, but rather is the only mean which affords us light and
certainty with respect to them. The theory which I have given you may,
at the same time, serve you to judge whether it will be worth your
trouble to be initiated in the mysteries of the practical part of this
philosophy. However, I must tell you, that no mortal who has not
sanctified himself by bridling his sensitive nature, and purifying his
spiritual faculties, can be admitted to that sanctuary. Are you resolved
to do this?"

  "I am, put me to the test!"

"Then depart with the first dawn of day for Ma**id, without taking leave
of the Countess."

The Irishman could not have chosen a severer trial, nor demanded a
greater sacrifice. The combat which I had to fight with my heart, before
I could come to a resolution, was short but dreadful.---I promised the
Irishman to execute his will.

"Well!" said he, "then hear what measures you are to take. As soon as
you shall be arrived at Ma**id, you must, without delay, wait upon the
Prime Minister, Oliv**ez, and the Secretary of State Suma*ez, but take
care not to discover your political views to either of them; pretend
that you intend to stay some time at Ma**id merely for the sake of
amusement. Repeat your visits till you have gained their confidence.
Your winning demeanor, my Lord, and your intimate connection with
Vascon*ellos will render this conquest easy.---Farewell, at Ma**id we
shall meet again!"

We parted. The Irishman returned once more. "Your manner of life while
at Ma**id," said he, "will require great expences, and you must be well
provided with money. I have taken care that you shall be well supplied
with that needful article. You will find in your apartment a sum which
you may dispose of at pleasure." So saying, he left me suddenly.

On coming home, I found on my table two bags with money, each of them
containing a thousand ducats. Pietro told me they had been brought by a
servant of the Irish Captain.

No one will doubt that I was now entirely devoted to the Irishman. By
his discourse at the burying place he had _persuaded_, and by his
liberality _convinced_ me, that I could not do better than to let myself
be guided entirely by him; and as I at first had been determined to this
by the conquering superiority of his soul, so I was now confirmed in it
by the applause of my reason. Nay, if the Irishman should now have
offered to break off all connection with me, I should have courted his
friendship, so much had I been charmed by the profound wisdom of his
discourse. Not the least vestige of mistrust against his secret power
was left in my soul, and the very regard for philosophy which but lately
had prejudiced me against him, was now one of the strongest bonds that
chained me to him. How agreeably was I surprised to find in _Reason_
herself, whom I formerly had thought to be the principal adversary of
the belief in miracles, the most convincing arguments for the same, and
to have been conquered with the same weapons which I had been fighting
with against the Irishman, without having the least reason to reproach
him with having had recourse to any stratagem whatever. The frankness
and strength of argument which distinguished every step of his
philosophical instruction, were to me the most unexceptionable security
for the justness of the result. If he had delivered his arguments in a
flowery and mysterious language, supported by the charms of declamation,
then I should certainly have suspected them; however he had made use of
the cool, simple and clear language of reason, divested of all
sophistical artifices; started from principles which are generally
received, drew no conclusions to which he was not entitled by his
premises, combatted errors and prejudices upon which he could have
founded surreptious conclusions; nay, it appeared as if he, unmindful of
what he was to prove, had left it entirely to the course of his
impartial inquiry whither it would lead him, and I beheld myself, with
astonishment, on the conclusion of it, at the mark from which the road
we had taken threatened to lead us astray.

I cannot describe the wonderful bold ideas which the instructions I had
received produced in my mind, nor the awfully agreeable sensations which
those ideas were accompanied with. The rising sun surprised me in that
indescribable state of mind, and reminded me by his rays, that it was
time to set off.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ARABIAN MAXIMS.

The car of Hope is always escorted by Want.

Consider the man that flatters you as an enemy.

If there were none but wise men in the world it would soon be desert.

Would you censure others? Examine your own conduct first.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

         METAMORPHOSIS OF CHARACTERS.

How much is man the creature of incidents!----The solitary student
becomes a Hypochondriac, a Misanthropist; the world seems to him a
prison, and its inhabitants a parcel of rogues and vagabonds; he no
longer views mankind with complacency, with a fellow feeling for their
infirmities and pity for their misfortunes, but considers them with the
severity of a Censor.----But let him emerge from his closet, let him
enter into the concerns of life and undergo the salutary agitation of
gentle exercise, while he beholds his neighbours industriously and
chearfully employed, and he becomes quite another man. If we now
penetrate his mind we find him no longer disturbed by imaginary evils,
or vexed with supposed injuries. He begins to view mankind as his
brethren, and fellow travellers; and feels a disposition to assist the
weary, and to recall the wanderer to the right path, with a friendly
commiseration for his errors. Scrupulosus was once a crabbed, morose
_sceptic_; he would believe nothing but what had undergone the ordeal of
his own reason, nor trust any man farther than he could see
him.--Necessity drove him into the busy world, and a concurrence of
events, placed him in the matrimonial state.--He now finds fewer
difficulties, than formerly, to encounter; and perceives that his
self-sufficiency, and conceit had involved many things in an
impenetrable mist.--Connections multiply, and a smiling progeny
surrounds him.---Scrupulosus, is no longer a cavilling sceptic---he is a
christian.

What a change is this! what a metamorphosis of characters! Neither is it
the fiction of imagination, but the delineation of what daily occurs in
real life.---The traveller is quite a different being from the sedentary
man, because he is active, and constantly excited by a variety of
objects.

Our ideas of the Almighty, are not less influenced by the circumstances
which surround us. Behold the torpid monk, seeking the favour of a God
of vengeance, by the rigours of an austere life. On the other hand, see
the chearful friend of man, addressing the father of his
fellow-creatures, with a heart full of love and gratitude, and a lively
hope of his favour and protection. Such, then, is the penalty imposed on
immoderate study, and thus the solitary pursuit of knowledge, when
excessive, will entirely frustrate our expectations, and destroy the
health of both body and mind.

  VIATOR.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MORAL MAXIMS.

Mankind are more indebted to industry than ingenuity: the gods set up
their favours at a price, and industry is the purchaser.

A man without merit may live without envy; but who would wish to escape
on these terms?


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last by the Rev. Bishop Provost, Captain JOHN
SANDERS, of Exeter, (England) to the amiable Miss CATHERINE LIVINGSTON,
of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _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
  Oct.  9  43    55     ne. s.   clear, light wind do. do.
       10  37 50 51     ne. do.  clear, lht. wd. cloudy do.
       11  48    55 75  ne. se.  cloudy lt. wd. do. do.
       12  46    58     n. se.   clear lt. wd. do. do.
       13  55    66     ne. se.  foggy light wind calm do.
       14  55    70 75  w. s.    cloudy light wind clear calm
       15  53    61 50  n s.     foggy calm clear light wind


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

  LA FAYETTE----A SONG.
  By William Bradford, Esq.
    Late Attorney General of the United States.

  As beside his cheerful fire,
    'Midst his happy family,
  Sat a venerable sire,
    Tears were starting in his eye;
  Selfish blessings were forgot
  Whilst he thought on Fayette's lot,
  Once so happy on our plains,
  Now in poverty and chains.

  Fayette (cried he) honoured name,
    Dear to these far distant shores:
  Fayette, fired by Freedom's flame,
    Bled to make that freedom ours;
  What, alas! for thee remains,
  What, but poverty and chains!

  Soldiers, in the field of death,
    Was not Fayette foremost there?
  Cold and shivering on the heath,
    Did you not his bounty share?
  What for this your friend remains,
  What, but poverty and chains!

  Born to honours, ease, and wealth,
    See him sacrifice them all,
  Sacrificing even health,
    At his country's glorious call.
  What reward for this remains,
  What, but poverty and chains!

  Hapless Fayette! 'midst thy error,
    How my soul thy worth reveres;
  Son of Freedom, tyrant's terror,
    Hero of both hemispheres.
  What, alas! for thee remains,
  What, but poverty and chains!

  Thus with laurels on his brow,
    Belisarius begged for bread;
  Thus, from Carthage forced to go,
    Hannibal an exile fled:
  Fayette thus, at once sustains,
  Exile, poverty, and chains!

  Courage, child of Washington,
    Though thy fate disastrous seems,
  We have seen the setting sun
    Rise and shine with brighter beams;
  Thy country soon shall break thy chain,
  And take thee to her arms again.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  When the Author of the following Elegy finds it is committed to
  print, he will not, I am persuaded, be offended, after I remind
  him of the conversation we had some time since:--And also when he
  reflects on the injury he does the Public, by keeping any of his
  productions from their view.


  ELEGY
  Addressed to the Calliopean Society,
  on the Death of Doctor Joseph Youle.

  Within these walls let awful stillness reign:
  _Sorrow_, thy louder extacies restrain:
  Each sound that on the solemn scene would break
  Be hush'd----let Silence more emphatic speak.
  Ev'n thou, upon thy pensive lyre reclin'd,
  (Dark cypress with thy drooping laurel twin'd,)
  Our guardian Muse! let not a trembling note
  Through the still air in plaintive sweetness float;
  Save when Affliction's deep collected sigh
  Low breathing in symphonious melody,
  With faint vibrations agitates the chords,
  While Friendship's mourning voice our lot records.

  On the cold couch of death our brother sleeps;--
  Chill o'er his grave the gale of midnight sweeps.

  Oh, Death! if 'tis thy glory to destroy
  The fairest opening bud of human joy;
  If 'tis thy boast severely to display
  And wide diffuse the terrors of thy sway,
  High o'er this grave thy proudest trophy rear,
  And tell with exultation _who lies here_.

  Ye whom _Philanthropy_ benignant guides,
  Ye in whose hearts fair _Piety_ presides,
  Children of genius, friends of _Science_, come,
  With silent step approach the hallow'd tomb.----
  _He was your brother_----generous was his mind,
  Warm with benevolence to all mankind.
  Gently to raise affliction's drooping head,
  To comfort sickness on the lonely bed,
  To lead the ignorant in virtue's way,
  On the dark mind to pour instruction's ray,
  The paths of science to extend and smooth,
  And wide diffuse the genial light of truth;
  These were his objects, these his noble pride;
  For these he labour'd, and for these he died.

  And ye whose virtuous efforts here combine
  To cultivate those faculties divine,
  _Friendship_ and _Science_ breathe a deeper sigh--
  He was _your_ brother by a dearer tie:
  With you he trod the same delightful road;
  For you his heart with love peculiar glow'd.
  Can you forget how many social hours
  Derived new joys from his instructive pow'rs?
  Can you upon these scenes look back unmoved,
  Scenes, where, so oft, delighted and improv'd,
  Attention fondly on his accents dwelt,
  And every breast the warmth of friendship felt;
  While Fancy, led by Hope, the theme pursu'd,
  And future prospects more delightful view'd?
  Fancy! where now are thy illusive dreams?
  Where, Hope! thy visions bright with golden gleams?
  Friendship, thy prospects?--Fame, thy laureate wreath?
  All past----all faded in the shades of Death.

  'Tis past--the sigh is breath'd, the tear is shed,
  The last sad tribute to a brother dead.--
  _Our loss_ demands--receives the mournful strain:
  Let sounds of triumph celebrate _his gain_.
  the _Spirit_, starting from its bonds of clay,
  Traces with Angel guides the lucid way;
  Exalted notes from harps celestial rise,
  And _kindred spirits_ hail him to the skies.
  _There_, Earth's embarrassments no more controul
  The great exertions of the active soul:--
  By weak humanity no more confin'd,
  Enlarg'd, enlarging still, his opening mind;
  With strength encreasing through creation soars,
  Infinite space, eternal times explores;
  More nearly contemplates the great _First Cause_,
  More clearly comprehends his sacred laws;
  With _Newton_ darts among the Worlds of light,
  Systems on systems blazing on his sight;
  With Franklin, mitigates the whirlwind's force,
  Averts the lightning's flash, and turns the thunder's course;
  Or joins with extacy the holy throng
  Who to Jehovah's throne exalt the song,
  Shout the loud victory o'er the bounds of earth,
  And joyful celebrate their heavenly birth.

  Is this a subject for the plaints of woe?
  Can friendship _here_ the tear of grief bestow?
  No----elevated by the glorious theme,
  We hope, ere long, to die---to rise, like him,
  To join with transport his celestial flight,
  Again to meet him in those realms of light
  Where widow'd friendship ceases to deplore,
  Affection feels the parting pang no more,
  Hush'd is the sigh of grief--the groan of pain,
  And Virtue dwells with Joy in everlasting reign.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _A +Lady+ having received a Bouquet from a +Boy+,
  sent him the following Verses._

  Next your dear image in my breast,
  Your fancied flowers I fondly plac'd,
    But mourn my adverse fate,
  Who by compulsive atoms hurl'd,
  Was forc'd so soon into this world,
    Where you arrived too late.

  _The ANSWER, by a Friend of the BOY._

  Permit me, dear madam, to tell you you've err'd
    In this hardy censure on Fate,
  Which though my arrival is somewhat deferr'd,
    By no means has sent me too late.
  Here Providence wisely has acted its part,
    Well knowing, or I'm much mistaken,
  That Woman, however she may have the start,
    Would willingly be overtaken.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPITAPH ON MR. W---- N----

  Poor N---- beneath this stone
    A quiet nap is taking,
  His wife requests you may not moan,
    For fear of his awaking.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, October 26, 1796.+  [+No. 69.+


  A SENTIMENTAL FRAGMENT.

It was low ebb when our vessel made the offing of Dublin bay, and it
being then night, we lay at anchor till morning. The moon shone
remarkably bright, and reflected in silver shades upon the sea, which
waved with a gentle heaving---a murmur---it was nature sighing with a
love-creating respiration.

For some leagues on each side the harbour's mouth it was encircled with
a fleet of herring boats, and I not being inclined to sleep, accompanied
the captain in the yawl, to visit them.

The drawing of the herring nets, is, perhaps, the most pleasing and
beautiful sight the human mind can conceive: the fish, as they are
hawled up the vessel's side, sparkle like diamonds.

I could not but express my surprize to the captain at the quantity
taken; and by him was informed, that these sculls approached the coast
by millions and tens of millions, extending many miles, and swimming
several fathoms deep over one another. They make their way through the
sea, as men do on earth, each individual striving to be uppermost, and
with this stronger circumstance of similarity, that the fish which gets
uppermost is always in most danger.

"I shall eat half a dozen of these herrings," said the captain, as he
took about a dozen out of a net without leave or notice, to the boatman,
who made no objection. "I shall eat half a dozen of these herrings,"
said he, "when I return to my vessel."---"What, captain, must six lives
be sacrificed to satisfy your appetite at one meal?"

For half a moment I was converted by this reflection to the religion of
the Indian Bramins, who refuse all animal food; but the captain who was
a philosopher, as suddenly induced me to apostatize from my new opinion.

A number of large porpoises or sea hogs, were sporting round.---"Why not
eat them?" said the captain, pointing to the porpoises; "those creatures
feed upon herrings, and innumerable great fish feed upon them; and it is
the same to the herring, whether he is eaten by a porpoise or by a man."

"Very true," said I, "there are sea monsters, who live upon their
fellow-creatures as well as land monsters, who devour each other."

"It is impossible to understand those affairs, or the reason of them,"
observed the captain; "I have got a microscope on board, and I'll prove
to you that innumerable animals perish at every suction of your breath.
The great difference between voracious fish, voracious quadrupeds,
voracious birds, and voracious man, is this: the first three classes eat
to satisfy hunger only, and devour without preparation; but the cruelty
which man inflicts upon those creatures Providence has empowered him to
use for his sustenance, may be considered as a species of ingratitude,
which of all crimes merits the severest punishment."


       *       *       *       *       *

  +Wisdom and Virtue.+

Wisdom or virtue is nothing more than the disposition to attain and
enjoy the greatest happiness, with the knowledge how to attain and to
bestow it.

Wisdom has ever some benevolent end in her purposes and actions; on the
contrary, folly either mistakes evil for good, or, when she assumes the
nature of vice, entertains a malevolent intention.

The advantages and defects of nature mould be considered as common to
society: the weak have a claim to the assistance of the strong; the
strong derive a pleasure from assisting the weak; and the wise are so
far happy as the well disposed partake of their wisdom.

There is no one virtue that includes not, in a general sense, all other
virtues. Wisdom cannot subsist without justice, temperance, and
fortitude, for wisdom is the sum of all these. It is impossible to be
just without temperance, or temperate without fortitude, and so
alternately of the rest.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MORAL MAXIMS.

A man without merit may live without envy; but who would wish to escape
on these terms?

Live so as to hold yourself prepared either for a long life or a short
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 126.)

I made, without delay, the requisite preparations, and in a quarter of
an hour, stepped in my carriage. I looked once more back to the spot
where Amelia resided, and drove through the city-gate.

At the first stage I wrote to her that an unforeseen important accident
had forced me to set out on my journey so early in the morning that it
would have been unbecoming to pay her the promised farewell visit;
I vowed to return on pinions of love, as soon as my business at M****d
should be settled. I painted with lively colours all the pains of
separation, and all the tenderness of an afflicted heart, in order to
convince Amelia, that I had been forced by stern necessity to depart
without seeing her once more. Alas! the farther the rolling carriage
removed me from the dear object of my love, the more I grew sensible of
the greatness of the sacrifice which I had made to the Irishman.
I examined my letters and papers in order to divert my gloomy thoughts,
and found one more copy of a letter from the Irishman which I had not
yet decyphered. The following is the result of my endeavours to unfold
its contents:

  "MY LORD,

"My designs on Miguel had very near been ruined by the loss of his life,
and in some measure I myself have been the cause of his having been
hurried to the brink of destruction. But who could have foreseen such an
event! With the leave of your Excellency, I shall relate the incident at
large.

"I had sent one part of my servants to follow Miguel on his journey.
I myself staid behind in order to make an attempt of restoring the
health of the Countess, for whose life the ignorance of her physicians
had made me tremble. The success I met with surprised my most sanguine
expectation. Some drops of an electuary which I poured into the mouth of
the Countess produced so sudden an effect, that, in a few hours, the
most unequivocal signs of returning health were perceived. As soon as I
had been informed of this desirable change, I followed Miguel with the
rest of my people; having previously ordered the valet of the Countess
to write three days after to the Duke, that the Countess was dead--and
in a few days later, that I had recalled her to life. At the same time I
requested him to desire his dismission from Amelia, and to follow me,
because I wanted his assistance in the execution of my designs. The view
I had in commanding him to inform the Duke of Amelia's pretended death,
was to convince myself by the manner in which he should receive that
intelligence, whether his love to the Countess had been only a transient
attachment, or whether his passion for her was of a more serious nature,
and what degree it had attained. I need not explain to your Excellency,
how necessary this knowledge was to me. The second commission had no
other aim, than to pour balsam in Miguel's wound, and at the same time,
to make me appear to him a miracle-working being, and his and Amelia's
friend; whereby I expected to gain his confidence.

"I pursued my road with so much speed, that I overtook Miguel before he
had finished one half of his journey, and joined my people, who preceded
me. As soon as the Duke had arrived at the place of his destination, and
we along with him, I quartered my people in different places in such a
manner, that he was surrounded by them from all sides. I took a
convenient house in the suburbs for myself, in order to escape his looks
with greater safety.

"On the third day after our arrival, Miguel received the letter by which
he was informed of the Countess's death. The effects which this
intelligence produced upon him must have been a kind of frenzy. One of
my people who watched all his steps, informed me late in the evening, he
had seen Miguel rushing out of his house with every mark of despair in
his countenance, and running with such a velocity that he and his
comrade hardly had been able so follow him. He added, that Miguel after
two hours roaming about, had stopped not far from hence, at the banks of
a river, where he was walking up and down, absorbed in profound reverie.

"Soon after a second messenger told me, Miguel had plunged into the
river, but one of his comrades who had watched him narrowly, and leaped
after him, had saved him, and was going to carry him to my house. A few
minutes after, Miguel was brought by some of my people. He resembled a
corpse, the palpitation of his pulse was scarcely perceptible, and he
was entirely bereft of his recollection. I ordered him instantly to be
carried to a spacious empty vault, and while some of my men endeavoured
to restore him to the use of his senses, I was making preparations to
chastise him severely when he should have recovered from his stupor.

"As soon as my servants perceived that he was recovering, I ordered him
to be carried into the middle of the vault, and placed myself in deep
disguise opposite him at a considerable distance, making a signal to
those who were present to retire to an adjoining apartment, and to take
the candles with them. No sooner was every thing in order, than I
perceived by a deep groan of Miguel, that he had recovered his
recollection. His state of mind when awaking, must have been very
strange. His recollection told him, that he had plunged into the river,
in a place where he saw nobody present, and now he awoke in a dry,
empty, and spacious dark room: he must have fancied he awoke in another
world; and this idea seems to have thrilled him with its acutest
pungency, for he uttered a loud scream which made the vault resound.*
This was the signal for which my people had been waiting in the
adjoining chamber. They kindled a pole which was fixed near an aperture
in the wall, and enveloped with flax, and wetted with spirit of wine,
which spread a faint light through the spacious vault. The astonishment
which Miguel was seized with, when looking all around and seeing nothing
but a man wrapt in a scarlet cloak, surpasses all powers of description.
His anxiety encreased when he saw me staring at him without replying a
word to his questions, and heard one of my people exclaim, in a doleful
accent, woe! woe! woe! When I at last stepped forth and made myself
known to him, he prostrated himself, as if in the presence of a superior
being. I read him a severe lecture on his rash deed, and at the same
time endeavoured to rouse his ambition for the service of his country,
in which I succeeded. A soft music began at once in the adjoining
chamber, on a signal which I made to my people. The melodious strains of
a harp and a flute were accompanied by the sweet notes of an harmonious
voice, which announced to the astonished Miguel that Amelia was alive.
His rapture bordered on frenzy. I ordered him to be silent, blind-folded
him and delivered him to the care of a servant, whom I secretly ordered
to conduct him to his hotel, and to return no answer to his questions.
My deputy acquitted himself extremely well of his trust. He led him
silently to his hotel, and when Miguel turned round the corner of the
house, unfastened the bandage which blind-folded his eyes, and concealed
himself in a house, the door of which was open. Miguel must have been
strangely situated, when after a few steps the bandage dropped from his
eyes and nobody was seen around him. Very fortunately the night was far
advanced, and the whole affair remained concealed.

  [* This is a mistake, for we know by the Duke's own account, that
  he uttered this scream because he felt himself pulled down by an
  invisible hand when he was going to get up. The Irishman having
  known nothing if this circumstance, it is probable that the unknown
  cause of this pulling down, was no other than a foot of the Duke,
  with which he, in his stupor, kept his cloak down, when he was
  getting up, without knowing it.]

"Thus happily ended an adventure which had begun in a manner so
inauspicious.

"However, Paleski has committed a foolish trick, which I cannot forgive
him. He desired his dismission from the Countess, which being refused by
his Lady, who imagined him to be a faithful servant, he left her
_clandestinely_. He shall smart for this inconsiderate action.

"I am with the greatest respect,

  "&c. &c. &c."

As far as this letter informed me that no superior power had had a share
in the above mentioned adventure, it contained nothing that was new to
me, for the Irishman himself had not concealed from me, that all the
wonderful adventures which had happened to me before Paleski's
confession had been the effect of illusion; however, it was important to
me to learn _how_, and by what artifices I had been deceived. I cannot
but confess that this natural explanation of the whole affair excited my
astonishment at the Irishman, not less than those adventures had
surprised me at the time when I believed him to be a supernatural being,
and that I ardently wished to have cleared up several other events of
that epocha which I could not unriddle.

Soon after my arrival at M****d, I went to pay a visit to the minister.
He received me very kindly, and discoursed above an hour with me,
although he was so over charged with state-affairs that no stranger
could get access to him. I was not less successful with the Secretary of
State, in whose favour I ingratiated myself so much in the course of
half an hour, that he professed himself extremely happy in having got
acquainted with me. Both of them invited me to visit them frequently
during my stay at M****d, an invitation which I took care to make the
best use of.

I perceived soon with astonishment and joy, that I was getting nearer
the mark much sooner than I had expected first. Though I am of opinion
that the visibly growing favour of these two courtiers was partly
founded on personal attachment, yet the Irishman had not been mistaken
when he told me, that the relation which existed between myself and
Vascon*ellos would render the access to their confidence easier.
Sum**ez, the Secretary of State, enjoyed the most intimate confidence of
the Minister, and was related to Vascon*ellos. Therefore the friendship
of the latter paved for me the road to Sum**ez, and the friendship of
Sum**ez to Oliva*ez. The two secretaries of State were the chief
administrators of the government; Sum**ez in the council of Sp**n, at
Ma***d, and Vascon*ellos in the council of state at L*sbon, and
consequently were the vice-tyrants of my native country, who jointly
executed the designs of Oliv**ez, who in the name of the King of Sp**n
was at the helm of despotism.

That the Irishman had very well calculated these concatenations, will
appear by the subsequent plan which he founded upon them. I had wrote to
Amelia, and Lady Delier, as soon as I had arrived at M****d, and now
received an answer from both of them. Every line of the former breathed
heavenly love and kindness; the tender and amiable sentiments of her
soul, purified by the trials of misfortunes, were palpably displayed in
her letter, as in an unspotted mirror. O! how many a time did I kiss,
read, and re-peruse it, till at length, what a sweet delusion of my
enraptured imagination! I fancied I saw the amiable writer before me,
and heard from her lips the words which were written upon the paper.--

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  AUTHENTICATED ETYMOLOGIES.

The term _hurricane_, is supposed to take its rise from one _Harry
Kane_, a turbulent Irishman who lived at _Antigua_, the name of which is
now well known to be derived from an avaricious old female planter who
once lived on the island, and was called by the sailors _Aunt Eager_.

A jolly West-Indian, whenever the neighbouring girls came to his
plantations, insisted upon their sipping his choicest syrups, and
reiterated the terms "_My lasses_;" thence the name of that syrup. Few
words have aberrated from their primaries less than this.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

           MARIA; OR, THE SEDUCTION.

                 +A Fragment.+

  "How curst the monster, who with specious guile,
    "Employs _Seduction's_ soul-degrading arts,
  "To drench in tears the cheek that once could smile,
    "To blast the joy that innocence imparts!"

**** I saw she was falling, and hastened to her assistance. I caught her
in my arms, and led her into the house. By the application of salts she
recovered---"He refused to listen to me!" she exclaimed, when her powers
of utterance had returned, "and but for him I still might have been
happy." I asked who the person was she spoke of? "Ah!" replied she, "it
was the wretch that seduced me from the paths of rectitude."---When she
had regained sufficient strength I requested her to relate to me her
misfortunes, and she gratified me as follows---

  MARIA'S NARRATIVE.

Under the specious pretext of love, Frederick has bereaved me of all the
happiness and comfort of life. While I fondly dreamed of future bliss he
became a visitor at our house. I knew not then that 'twas to see me
alone he came, as he had not given me the least hint of it; but my
parents imagined he was wooing me to become his bride.

It was some time before he paid any direct addresses to me. He then said
that he had long been in love with me, but forbore to mention it sooner
as he feared I would discard him; and ended with asking if he might be
permitted to hope. I gave him no positive answer, until he enquired
whether I had a partiality for any other. I told him I had not. His
countenance brightened at this. He took my hand, and with all the fervor
of love raised it to his lips. When he departed, he said, that was the
happiest moment of his life.

After this his visits were more frequent. One evening I was left
entirely alone, the family had gone to the theatre. Mrs. M----, a lady
from England, made her first appearance on the New-York stage. A slight
indisposition occasioned my not being of the party. Frederick, it seems,
knew I was alone, and came in just after they had departed.

The next week had been appointed for our nuptials. He entered rather
dejected. I enquired the reason of his melancholy. He said he was
fearful I did not love him sincerely. I asked if I had ever given him
reason for such a suspicion; and said that all beside him were
indifferent to me. Here his countenance again assumed its wonted
brightness. "Do you then indeed behold me with pleasure?" said he.
"I know that on you alone depends my felicity---should you be cruel,
Frederick would cease to exist." He took my hand, and imprinted on it a
profusion of kisses. To me he appeared sincere, and I viewed him as
singled out by fate for my companion thro' life.

"Ah! my Maria!" continued he, still holding my hand clasped in his, "did
you but know the happiness your words have given me---It is
indescribable.---Still manifest for me your love, and every hour of my
life will study to deserve it. Should I ever prove myself unworthy your
tender regard, I should abhor myself." He continued protestations of his
love---the minutes were swift--and ere the evening had elapsed he
triumphed over my innocence and credulity---in fine, he left me
miserable.

When my parents returned I beheld myself degraded below them, and unfit
for their company. I sat in a musing posture. They attributed my want of
spirits to the head-ach, which had occasioned my staying at home, and
endeavoured to enliven me by giving an account of the entertainments,
and the excellent performance of Mrs. M----. I paid no attention to what
they said. To bed I went, but not to close my eyes: Sleep had fled me.
In the morning I had a slight fever, and was at times delirious. In a
few days I recovered sufficiently to learn that Frederick had set out
for France the day after he rendered me so completely miserable. This
occasioned a relapse, and I had approached the verge of the grave. My
friends were weeping over me, expecting every moment to be my last.
I wished not for life; I sought for death as the only means to conceal
my shame. But it pleased Heaven to raise me, contrary to all
expectation. In two weeks from the time I began to mend, I had strength
sufficient to leave my room, I then found it too true that my deceiver
had left home, and did not expect to return in two years.

I dreaded staying any longer where I expected the resentment of my
father, when he should become acquainted with my disgrace. I left the
house under cover of the night, unperceived. I took with me a small
bundle of clothes, and some trifle in cash, which were my own. By
working I hoped to subsist until Frederick's return; for I still thought
his voyage was of necessity, and unexpected. The money was soon gone,
and almost every article I could possibly spare. I expected to starve.
In this dilemma, I chanced to hear of a place where a young woman was
wanted for the upper servant in the kitchen. I applied, and obtained it.
The wages were liberal, and I had not the more laborious part;
I endeavoured to give satisfaction to my employer, I lived in this
manner until I was taken ill, when I gave birth to this child--I called
him after his father.

My recovery was slow; and when I could walk I was unable to work as
before; consequently I was forced to give up my place. Since then I have
wholly subsisted on the charity of others.

This morning, by accident, I beheld the cause of my woes. I determined
to speak with him although he was in company. When I first accosted him,
he disregarded me. I told him I was in a poor state of health, and
requested only a small boon. "Is that your child?" he asked. "Yes,"
I replied, "and his name is Frederick." He looked me in the face, for I
perceived until then he did not know me--"I have nothing for you!" he
exclaimed in an angry tone, and passed on with his companions. My head
felt light, and I certainly should have dropped on the pavement, had not
heaven sent you to my relief----

  L. B.

    _October 17, 1796._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 123.)

"Gentlemen," said he, to the astonished Bacchanals, "my brother's head
is not very strong to-day: it is perhaps in consequence of his wound;
let us not therefore either speak to or drink any more with him; for I
am afraid of his health, and indeed you would oblige me exceedingly if
you would assist me to carry him to his bed."--"To his own bed?" says
one of them: "that is impossible! But I will most willingly lend him my
chamber." They accordingly laid hold of me, and conveyed me into a
garret, of which a bed, a table, and a chair, formed the sole movables.
Having shut me up in this paltry apartment, they instantly left me. This
was all that I wanted, for the moment that I was alone, I immediately
sat down to write a long letter to Lodoiska.

I began by fully justifying myself from the crimes of which I had been
accused by Pulaski: I then recounted every thing that had occurred since
the first moment of our separation, until that when I had entered the
castle of Dourlinski: I detailed the particulars of my conversation with
the Baron: I concluded by assuring her of the most tender and the most
respectful passion, and swore to her, that the moment she gave me the
necessary information concerning her situation, I would expose myself to
every danger, in order to finish her horrid captivity.

As soon as my letter was sealed, I delivered myself up to a variety of
reflections, which threw me into a strange perplexity. Was it actually
Lodoiska who had thrown those tiles into the garden? Would Pulaski have
had the injustice to punish his daughter for an attachment which he
himself had approved? Would he have had the inhumanity to plunge her
into a frightful prison? And even if the hatred he had sworn to me had
blinded him so much, how was it possible that Dourlinski would thus have
condescended to have become the minister of his vengeance?

But, on the other hand, for these three last long months, on purpose to
disguise myself, I had only worn tattered clothes: the fatigues of a
tedious journey, and my chagrin, had altered me greatly; and who but a
mistress could have been able to discover Lovzinski in the gardens of
Dourlinski? Besides, had I not seen the name of Lodoiska traced upon the
tile? Had not Dourlinski himself acknowledged that Lodoiska had been a
prisoner with him? It is true, he had added that she had made her
escape; but was not this incredible? And wherefore that hatred which
Dourlinski had vowed against me, without knowing my person? What
occasioned that look of inquietude, when it was told him, that the
emissaries of Pulaski occupied a chamber that looked into his garden?
And why above all that appearance of terror, when I announced to him the
arrival of my pretended master?

All these circumstances were well calculated to throw me into the
greatest agitation. I ruminated over this frightful and mysterious
adventure, which it was impossible for me to explain. For two hours,
I unceasingly put new questions to myself, to which I was exceedingly
embarrassed to make any reply; when at length Boleslas came to see if I
had recovered from my debauch. I had but little difficulty in convincing
him that my inebriety was mere affectation; after which we went down
together to the kitchen, where we spent the rest of the day. What a
night! none in my whole life ever appeared so long, not even that which
followed.

At length the attendants conducted us to our chamber, where they shut us
up, as on the former occasion, without any light: it was yet two tedious
hours until midnight. At the first stroke of the clock, we gently opened
the shutters and the casement. I then prepared to jump into the garden;
but my embarrassment was equal to my despair, when I found myself
obstructed by means of iron bars. "Behold," said I to Boleslas, "what
the cursed confident of Dourlinski whispered in his ear! behold what his
odious master approved, when he said, _let it be done instantly!_ behold
what they have been working at during the day! it was on this account
that they prevented us from entering the chamber."

"My lord, they have stood on the outside," replies Boleslas; "for they
have not perceived that the shutter has been forced."

"Alas! whether they have perceived it or not," exclaim I with violence,
"what does it signify? This fatal grating destroys all my hopes: it
insures the slavery of Lodoiska--it insures my death."

"Yes, without doubt, it insures thy death!" repeats a person, at the
same time opening the door; and immediately after, Dourlinski, preceded
by several armed men, and followed by others carrying flambeaux, enter
our prison _sabre in hand_. "Traitor!" exclaims he, while addressing
himself to me with a look in which fury was visibly depicted, "I have
heard all--I know who you are,--your servant has discovered your name.
Tremble! Of all the enemies of Lovzinski, I am the most implacable!"

"Search them," continues he, turning to his attendants: they accordingly
rushed in upon me; and as I was without arms, I made an useless
resistance. They accordingly robbed me of my papers, and of the letter I
had just written to Lodoiska. Dourlinski exhibited a thousand signs of
impatience while reading it, and was scarce able to contain himself.

"Lovzinski," says he to me, endeavouring to smother his rage, "I already
deserve all your hatred; I shall soon merit it still more: in the mean
time, you must remain with your worthy confident in this chamber, to
which you are so partial."

After uttering these words, he left me; and having double-locked the
door, he placed a centinel on the outside, and another in the garden,
opposite to the window.

Figure to yourself the horrible situation into which Boleslas and myself
were now plunged. My misfortunes were at their height; but those of
Lodoiska affected me more than my own! How great must be her uneasiness!
She expects Lovsinski, and Lovsinski abandons her! But no--Lodoiska
knows me too well; she can never suspect me of such base perfidy.
Lodoiska! she will judge of her lover by herself; she will think
Lovsinski partakes her lot, since he does not succour her---Alas! the
very certainty of my misfortunes will augment her own!

On the next day, they gave us provisions through the grating of our
window; and by the quality of the viands which they furnished us with,
Boleslas augured the most sinister events. Being, however less unhappy
than myself, he supported his fate much more courageously. He offered me
my share of the mean repast which he was about to make; I would not eat:
he pressed me; but it was in vain! for existence was become an
insupportable burden to me.

"Ah! live!" said he at length, shedding a torrent of tears: "live; and
if not for Boleslas, let it be for Lodoiska!" These words made the most
lively impression on my mind; they even re-animated my courage; and hope
having once more re-entered my heart, I embraced my faithful servant.
"O my friend!" exclaimed I at the same time with transport, "my true
friend! I have been the occasion of thy ruin, and yet my misfortunes
affect thee more than thine own! Yes, Boleslas! yes! I will live for
Lodoiska; I will live for thee: if just Heaven shall restore me to my
fortune and rank, you shall see that your master is not ungrateful!" We
now embraced once more.

Ah! how much do misfortunes connect men together! how sweet it is, when
one suffers, to hear another unfortunate address a word of consolation
to him!

We had groaned in this prison for no less than twelve days, when several
ruffians came to drag me forth on purpose to conduct me to Dourlinski.
Boleslas wished to follow, but they repulsed him with violence: however
they permitted me to speak to him for a single moment. I then drew from
a private pocket a ring which I had worn for ten years, and said to
Boleslas:---"This ring was given me by M. de P. when we were at college
together at Warsaw: take it, my friend; and preserve it for my sake. If
Dourlinski this day consummates his treason by my assassination, and if
he should at length permit you to leave this castle, go, find your king,
recall to his memory our ancient attachment, recount my misfortunes to
him; he will recompense you, and succour Lodoiska. Adieu my friend!"

After this, I was conducted to the apartment of Dourlinski. As soon as
the door opened, I perceived a lady in a chair, who had just fainted
away. I approached her---it was Lodoiska! Heavens! how much did I find
her altered!---but she was still handsome! "Barbarian!" exclaimed I,
addressing myself to Dourlinski; and at the voice of her lover, Lodoiska
recovered her senses.

"Ah, my dear Lovsinski," says she, looking wistfully at me, "do you know
what this infamous wretch has proposed? do you know at what price he has
offered me your liberty?"

"Yes," cries the furious chieftain, "yes, I am determined upon it: you
see that he is in my power; and if in three days I do not obtain my
wishes, he shall be no more!" I endeavoured to throw myself on my knees
at the feet of Lodoiska; but my guards prevented me: "I behold you
again, and all my ills are forgotten, Lodoiska---death has now no longer
any thing terrifying in its aspect."

"Wretch," added I, looking sternly at Dourlinski, "know that Pulaski
will avenge his daughter! know that the king will avenge his friend!"

"Let him be carried away!" was the only reply made by the ferocious
palatine.

"Ah!" exclaims Lodoiska, "my love has been your ruin!" I was about to
answer, but the attendants dragged me out, and re-conducted me to
prison.

Boleslas received me with inexpressible transports of joy; he avowed to
me that he thought me lost for ever, and I recounted to him how that my
death was but deferred. The scene of which I had been a witness,
confirmed all my suspicions; it was evident that Pulaski was ignorant of
the unworthy treatment which his daughter experienced; it was also
evident that Dourlinski, old, amorous, and jealous, was determined, at
any rate, to satisfy his passions.

In the mean time, two of the days allowed by Dourlinski for the
determination of Lodoiska, had already expired; we were now in the midst
of the night which preceded the fatal third; I could not sleep, and I
was walking hastily about my prison. All at once I heard the cry of "To
arms! to arms!" The most frightful howlings prevailed on the outside,
and a great commotion took place within the castle. The centinel placed
at our window, left his post. Boleslas and I were able to distinguish
the voice of Dourlinski, calling and encouraging his followers; and we
soon distinctly heard the clashing of swords, the cries of the wounded,
and the groans of the dying. The noise which at first was very great
seemed at length to die away. It recommenced soon after; it redoubled;
and at length we heard a shout of "Victory!"

To this frightful tumult, a still more frightful silence ensues. In a
short time, a low crackling sound is heard to approach us; the air seems
to hiss with violence; the night becomes less dark; the trees in the
garden assume a red and warm tint; we fly to the window: the flames are
devouring the castle of Dourlinski! they approach the chamber in which
we were confined, from all sides; and, to overwhelm me with new horror,
the most piercing shrieks are uttered from that tower in which I knew
that Lodoiska was imprisoned!

The fire becoming every moment more violent, was about to communicate to
the chamber in which we were shut up, and the flames already began to
curl around the base of the tower in which Lodoiska was immured!

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  MILITARY ANECDOTE.

During the late war in America, when drafts were made from the militia
to recruit the continental army, a Captain gave liberty to the men, who
were drafted from his company, to make their objections, if they had
any, against going into the service. Accordingly, one of them who had an
impediment in his speech, came up to the captain and made his bow. "What
is your objection?" said the captain. "I ca-a-ant go,"--answers the man,
"because I st-st-stutter." "Stutter," says the captain, "you don't go
there to talk, but to fight." "Ay, but they'll p-p-put me upon
g-g-guard, and a man may go ha-ha-half a mile before I can say wh-wh-who
goes there?" "Oh that is no objection, for they will place another
sentry with you, and he can challenge, if you can fire." "Well, b-b-but
I may be ta-ta-taken, and run through the g-g-guts, before I can cry
qu-qu-quarter." This last plea prevailed, and the captain, out of
humanity (_laughing heartily_), dismissed him.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO THE EDITOR.

  SIR,

Being told that I am supposed, by many, to be the author of a piece
signed "Theodore," which appeared in your last, under the title of "THE
RENCOUNTER;" I hereby inform them that I had no hand either directly or
indirectly therein. Far be it from me to wish to expose the failings of
_any_ of my fellow creatures; and much more so of those for whom I
entertain no small degree of esteem.

  WALTER TOWNSEND.

    _October 25, 1796._


       *       *       *       *       *

  +To the Editor.+

  SIR,

Having learned that the piece in last week's Magazine, entitled "THE
RENCOUNTER," has given considerable offence to one of the parties, whom,
through misinformation, I pictured as the aggressor; I sincerely beg his
pardon, as I have since heard he was innocent---Therefore I now assure
him that the charge I exhibited against him, is void of foundation, and
was related to me with all the appearance of truth.

  THEODORE.

    Monday morning, Oct. 24, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Thursday the 13th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Rogers, Mr. A. M'GREGOR,
merchant, to Miss JANET WILSON, both of this city.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. EDWARD MEEKS, cabinet
maker, to Miss SUSANNAH COOPER, daughter of Mr. Cornelius Cooper, both
of this city.

Same evening, Mr. JOHN MUNROE, of this city, merchant, to Miss OLIVIA
ROE, daughter of the Rev. Azel Roe, of Woodbridge, New Jersey.

At Horse-Neck, on Sunday evening, the 16th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Lewis,
Mr. BREZELIEL BROWN, to Miss CHARLOTTE MARSHALL, both of that place.

On Saturday se'nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Woodhull, Mr. GIDEON HALLETT, to
Miss POLLY PUGSLEY, both of New-Town, (L.I.)

On Saturday evening, by the Rev. Mr. Abeel, Mr. JOHN TENBROOK, Merchant,
to Miss ALITHEA SICKLES, daughter of Mr. John Sickles, all of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _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
  Oct. 16  60    62 50  s. do.   cloudy high wd.  rn. small do.
       17  49    56 75  nw do.   clear, high wind  do. lht. wd.
       18  41 50 49     n. do.   clear, light wind  do. do.
       19  44 50 55 75  sw. do.  foggy calm  cloudy lt. wd.
       20  49    57     ne. do.  cloudy light wind  do. do.
       21  50    54 50  ne. se.  cloudy light wind  do. do.
       22  54    57     e. se.   cloudy lt wd. rn.  cly. lt wd.


       *       *       *       *       *

  CONTENTED IN THE VALE.

  While envy and ambition fire,
    The wealthy and the proud,
  I to my humble cot retire,
    To shun the selfish croud.

  Secure, I envy not a king,
    While o'er my nut brown ale,
  I merrily and jocund sing,
    Contented in the vale.

  Let senators and statesmen great
    Together disagree,
  While I remain in humble state
    Both unconcerned and free.

  No duns to interrupt my joy,
    Nor troubles to assail,
  I'd live retir'd from care and noise,
    Contented in the vale.

  The stately oak that proudly held
    Dominion o'er the plains,
  Is by the furious tempest fell'd,
    The humble reed remains.

  Then may I envy not the hill,
    Nor at my fortune rail,
  But unconstrain'd continue still,
    Contented in the vale.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                  TO CLARA.

  'Twas near the cool Aonian fount reclin'd,
    Courting dull melancholy's devious shade;
  While misery and grief usurp'd my mind,
    And dark despair my every thought pourtray'd.
  The neighbouring dells responsive to each moan,
  Vibrate each sigh and echo'd groan for groan:
  Wrapt in affliction, stranger to repose,
  In solitude's dark cell wept o'er my woes;
  'Till lovely Clara's heaven-born lyre
  With melting softness and Apollo's fire
  Expell'd the ebon shades of darken'd night,
  And heavenly glories burst upon my sight:
  When she strikes the trembling strings,
  When through tepid air it rings,
  When it vibrates through the gale,
  When it does our ears assail,
  When, borne upon the ambient breeze along,
  Entranc'd we listen to the magic song;
  Forget our cares and lull our griefs to sleep,
  While fancy learns of sacred truth to weep:
  Serene amid the angry storm,
    She checks the frenzied passion's scope;
  And radiant as an angel form,
  Smiles on the death carv'd urn of hope:
  As when Favonius joins the solar blaze,
  And each fair fabric of the frost decays.

  And shall we then again be friendship's guests,
  Again with Clara's smiles shall I be blest;
  Again together hail each raptur'd scene,
  Where happiness' bright rays shall on us beam;
  Again wipe the big drop from misery's eye,
  And shed the soften'd tear of sympathy.
  Like the bright Ledean stars together roam,
  And Clara and her Emma be but one;
  And when bright Cynthia's lucid light
  Breaks through the opaque clouds of night,
  And throws a fulgent radiance round,
  At death's cold tomb will we be found:
  And o'er our relative's sad bier,
  Together shed the sacred tear:
  Through night's dark vista thus pour out our soul,
  While sorrow's magic power our minds controul;
  And when the sun's returning light
    Drives each humid cloud away,
  We together will unite,
    And bless them with the new-born day:
  And with soft cadence through the solemn glade,
  Perform a requiem to their lifeless shade.

  Yes, lovely maid, thy Emma's heart
  Friendship's soft sympathy 'll impart;
  Will catch the tear's effulgent glow,
  Repress the bosom's swelling flow.
  In dark oblivion's grave her woes confine,
  And bow fore'er at friendship's hallow'd shrine:
  For her she'll seek the flow'ret's bloom,
  The woodbine's delicate perfume;
  The jasmine breathing sweets divine,
  And the rubic eglantine.
  Then quickly fly, swift as old winged time,
  And round her temples the fair wreathe entwine.
  And didst thou think thy Emma could refuse
  The gift sent by thy heavenly muse;
  So valued--with so kind a view,
  To thy poor friend--alas! not due;
  Who if to thy soft soothing lay
  The trembling wire she did essay;
  To strike--perchance one casual note,
  Upon the liquid air to float:
  Inspir'd by thy sweet muse supreme,
  Of happiness might dart a gleam.
  To thy mellifluous harp the sounds belong,
  For thou alone attun'd the friendly song:
  As the pale moon that does illume the night
  From heaven's bright radiant orb receives her light,

    EMMA.

      NEW-YORK Oct. 17, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO THE EDITOR.

If you think the inclosed ELEGY, the production of a _Boy_, deserving a
place in your Magazine, you are welcome to publish it. I believe few, if
any, in this city have seen it.

  MATILDA.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF MISS POLLY MARTIN,
  WHO DIED IN THE 18th YEAR OF HER AGE.

  Forgive a youth, although the effort's vain,
    Who dares to raise the sympathetic lay;
  Though lost with Shenstone in th' elegiac strain,
    And loose unstrung reclines the lyre of Gray.

  Yet when fair virtue animates the line,
    Say, shall the muse withhold her wonted fire;
  When cherubs drooping o'er the urn recline,
    Shall she unwilling strike the golden lyre.

  Here lies the maid who late the village charm'd
    From whose remains the virgin lily springs,
  Emblem of her who envy's pow'r disarm'd,
    While round her turf the mournful robin sings.

  Chaunt your sweet vespers through the ambient air,
    Ye wild companions of the tufted grove;
  Sing how your Polly once was heavenly fair,
    Form'd of compassion, tenderness and love.

  Yet what avails the muse's plaintive song,
    Can she to life these loved remains restore,
  These mouldering relics to the earth belong,
    The young, the lovely Polly is no more.

  Her placid eye, bright as the orient day,
    Too finely wrought for such a world as this,
  Was clos'd by saints, who bore her form away,
    Serenely gliding through the realms of bliss.

  By fancy form'd I view her from above,
    Bending from clouds her parents to implore,
  Breathing rich fragrance of seraphic love,
    And soft pronouncing, "mourn for me no more.

  "Look on religion's wide-extended page,
    "Where faith triumphant shews th' uplifted cross;
  "Let hope of future bliss thy grief assuage,
    "Think Polly lives, no more deplore thy loss."

    SALEM, July 10, 1794,

      Washington County, State of N.Y.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, November 2, 1796.+  [+No. 70.+


  AN ESSAY ON PATIENCE.

The man of a frantic heated imagination considers patience as flowing
from a meanness of soul, a dastardly disposition, the last resource of
cowards. But the man of real sagacity, who can view things through a
dispassionate medium, discovers in it all the genuine marks of a noble
mind. It is supported by hope, and is entirely unacquainted with every
species of despair, the constant companion of the lowness of sentiment.
Patience is so strong a barrier against every kind of disgrace, that all
our ills lose the greatest part of their power by opposing this virtue
to them; it combats all opponents, and every conflict is a victory. It
honourably resists the greatest hardships of this world, and sweetens
the bitters of adversity in such a manner, that we scarce perceive we
are unfortunate. It is one of those virtues that constantly carries its
own reward; for the very practice of it makes us sensible of its
benefits. The Emperor M. Aurelius often said, that Caesar acquired the
empire by the sword, Augustus by inheritance, Caligula by the merits of
his father, Nero by tyranny, Titus by having vanquished Judea, but for
his part, though of low extraction, he had obtained it by patience.

Whatever crosses and misfortunes we meet with, and however heavy their
burden, they cannot overwhelm us whilst we are not abandoned by
patience: on the contrary, they become proportionally lightened as we
resolutely exercise this virtue. As every thing in nature has its
contrast, so patience is the opposite to despair; wherefore the
Christians consider it as an heavenly grace, and the philosophers of
antiquity pronounced it the last efforts of a firm and generous soul. It
is very nearly allied to courage, which cannot shine without opponents;
in like manner this virtue disappears as soon as misfortunes desert us.
Patience is the most generous of all friends, never appearing in
prosperity; but when our miseries attain a pitch that threatens all our
future happiness, she never fails to offer her assistance to those
really inclined to avail themselves of her kindness. Patience is the
birthright of the wise, an inheritance precluded from fools, who are
never the architects of their own good fortune, but frequently of their
own misery.

The _Spectator_ observes, that resolution in an assassin is, according
to reason, quite as laudable as knowledge and wisdom exercised in the
defence of an ill cause. Those men only are truly great who place their
ambition rather in acquiring to themselves the conscience of worthy
enterprises, than in the prospect of glory which attends it. These
exalted spirits would rather be secretly the authors of events which are
serviceable to mankind, than, without being such, to have the public
fame of it. Where, therefore, an eminent merit is robbed by artifice or
detraction, it does but encrease by such endeavours of its enemies; the
impotent pains which are taken to sully it or disguise it among a croud,
to the injury of an individual, will naturally produce the contrary
effect; the fire will blaze out and burn up all the attempts to smother
what they cannot extinguish. There is but one thing necessary to keep
the possession of true glory, which is to hear the opposers of it with
patience, and preserve the virtue by which it was acquired. When a
person is thoroughly persuaded that he ought neither to admire, wish
for, nor pursue any thing but what is exactly his duty; it is not in the
power of seasons, persons, or accident, to diminish his value. He only
is a great man who can neglect the applauses of the multitude, and enjoy
himself independent of its favours. This is indeed an arduous task, but
it should comfort a glorious spirit that it is the highest step to which
human nature can arrive. Triumph, applause, acclamations, are dear to
the mind of man; but it is still a more exquisite delight to say to
yourself, you have done well, than to hear the whole human race
pronounce glorious.


       *       *       *       *       *

  PRIDE.

It is the sullen pleasure of the proud man to insult and oppress those
who have less power than himself. The man of a rational and manly
spirit, could not give pain to the weak and the helpless without
stabbing his own heart. The pride which God disapproves, cringes to
titles and enormous wealth. Laudable spirit is most resolute and
inflexible, in repelling any attack on his rights, when the invasion is
made by formidable power.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 131.)

The following passage in Lady Delier's letter struck me particularly:
"I neither have read Amelia's letter, nor has she read mine; however, if
she has been sincere, she will have wrote to you many fond things, as I
can guess by her grief at your departure, and by the warmth with which
she is animated when she speaks of you. I think that Amelia's resolution
not to marry again will be dropt, as soon as the murderer of her late
Lord ceases to live, if not sooner. However, I would not have you think
that Amelia ever has mentioned any thing to that purpose, or that I
believe that a noble spotless soul like hers, could harbour sentiments
of revenge; but I suppose only that the amiable enthusiast perhaps
fancies that the ghost of her murdered Lord will not enjoy a perfect
tranquility and happiness, before the perpetrator of that villainous
deed has received the just reward of his atrocious crime. Endeavour, my
Lord, to settle your affairs at Mad**d as soon as possible, in order to
gladden our hearts by a speedy return."

With regard to the latter point I wrote to Amelia: "My affairs make a
rapid and successful progress, and I shall soon see your Ladyship again.
See Amelia again! What happiness do these words imply! Heavens, how
great would my felicity be if I constantly could fix my eyes on the
loveliest of women! How superlatively happy should I be if I were
Amelia's brother, in order that I could be constantly about her, and
speak to her: or her slave, that I could breathe under the same roof
with her, follow her every where, and anticipate every wink and every
wish of hers."

I had been about three weeks at Mad**d when I visited the minister one
evening, and found him in company with a person who, by his dress,
appeared to be a man of rank. He seemed to be very old and infirm, but
conceive my astonishment, when, on approaching nearer, I fancied I
discerned the features of the Irishman, though every thing else was so
entirely changed, that he appeared to be quite a different person; a wig
covered his head, his dark eye-brows were changed into grey, his
complection yellowish, his voice weak, and frequently interrupted by a
hectic cough. The minister met me with the words: "My Lord Duke, I have
the honour to present to your Grace the Marchese Ricieri, who lately is
returned from a journey through your native country." The Marchese rose
with difficulty, as it appeared, from his seat, and after reciprocal
civilities, and a short conversation, took his leave.

My looks followed him with astonishment to the anti-chamber, and I found
it extremely difficult to conceal my emotions from the minister, who
told me that the Marchese had brought bad news from Port***l, where the
spirit of sedition was said to be very busy. Not knowing how far I durst
disclose my thoughts on that head without blundering upon the design of
the Irishman, I returned an indifferent answer, and endeavoured to turn
the conversation to some other object. Fortunately company was
announced, I staid an hour longer, and then took leave.

On my way to the hotel, somebody tapped me on the shoulder, and a
well-known voice said, "I am glad to see your Grace well." I turned
round and the Irishman stood before me, dressed in black, and wrapt in a
scarlet cloak. I was seized with astonishment. "I give you joy, my
Lord;" said he in a friendly accent, "how do your affairs go on?"
"Extremely well!" I replied, adding after some hesitation, "will you
come with me to my hotel?" He accepted my invitation.

"Be so kind," said he when we were arrived at my apartment, "to take
care that we are not interrupted, nor over-heard!" This preamble made me
expect to hear important matters, and I was not deceived. Having
communicated to him how I had succeeded with Oliva*ez, and Suma*ez, he
approved my diligence and discretion, adding, "it is now time to come
nearer to the point. I am going to entrust you with two commissions,
both of which are equally important."

"Let me hear what I am to do!"

"First of all you must endeavour to prompt the minister to publish a
royal edict, by which the Port****e nobility are ordered, under the
penalty of losing their estates, to enter into the military service of
Sp**n."

"Good God, what do you mean by that?"

"Then," he added, without noticing my exclamation, "you must advise the
minister to seize the person of the Duke of Brag**za."

I flared at the Irishman, "Then the revolution is to be given up!" said
I, after a pause of anxious astonishment.

"Not at all, it rather is to be promoted by these means."

"I cannot comprehend you;" I exclaimed, "you either are counteracting
your own plan; or the revolution will be destroyed in the bud."

"My good Duke, one must frequently _appear_ to counteract a plan in
order to carry it into execution with greater safety. I will explain
myself more distinctly." So saying, he pushed his chair closer to me,
and continued in a lower accent; "Let us take a short view of the
situation of your country. Not to mention the enormous loss of its
possessions abroad, which it has suffered during the subjection to
Sp**n, the interior state of the empire is deplorable beyond
description. The King of Sp**n looks upon your country as a conquered
province, and takes the greatest pains to exhaust it entirely, in order
to keep it in inactivity with more ease; the royal revenues of Port***l
are either distributed among the favourites of the King, or mortgaged;
more than 300 gallies, and 2000 cannons have been carried to Sp**n; the
nobility are injured by the most unjust demands; the clergy must see
their benefices in the possession of foreigners; the people are beggared
by enormous taxes--in short matters have almost been carried to the
highest pitch. So much the better, for this is a sign that our
undertaking is ripe for execution. Let us strain the strings a little
more, and they must break."

"And what then?" said I with ardour. "General commotion, and at the same
time universal confusion will be the consequence; and it is very obvious
that thus my country will not regain its liberty, but rather be plunged
in a more oppressive state of slavery. If the people are not supported
by the nobility, and both parties not united under one common head, the
furious unbridled populace will rage till the Sp**sh goads shall have
reduced them again to obedience."

"You have divined my most secret thoughts," the Irishman replied. I was
as if dropt from the clouds. "Then I have entirely misconstrued your
words," I replied, "I am to endeavour to obtain an edict in virtue of
which, the Port****ze nobility are to be bound to enter in the service
of Sp**n, under the penalty of losing their estates; I am to advise the
minister to seize the Duke of B----a! Did you not say so?"

"Exactly so!"

"However, if the P---e nobility should enter into the Sp***sh service,
how are they to be active in the service of _their country?_ If the Duke
of Bra***za should be seized, how will it be possible that he should
become the head of the conspirators?"

"Heaven forbid your _ifs_ should be realized!"

"But why the preparations for it? Indeed I do not comprehend you."

"You soon shall; only suffer me so go on. The people must be supported
by the accession of the nobility and clergy, and all parties guided by a
common leader; thus far you are perfectly right: and in order to effect
that purpose every preparation has been made, and the general commotion
will be effected in a harmonious and regular manner, if _ever it can_ be
effected. But, dearest Duke, you look upon what _may_ happen as already
existing. I was saying just now, that matters have _almost_ been carried
to the highest pitch! one moment of rashness may ruin the most prudent
plan. It is true, that the people and the clergy are waiting anxiously
for the signal of a revolution; however, the nobility are not
sufficiently exasperated. Once already have they been ordered to enter
into the service of Sp**n against the Cata**nians; however, they were
satisfied to evince their displeasure silently, by obeying the edict
reluctantly and negligently. If in this situation of affairs that edict
should be renewed, and the transgressors punished by the seizure of
their estates, their resentment, which is burning under the embers, will
soon burst out into a blaze; then all the states of the empire will be
equally provoked, and it will be seasonable for the Duke of Bra***za to
give the signal for a general commotion."

"But is not this very Duke to be seized and imprisoned?"

"Neither is he to be seized, nor are the Port****ze nobility to enter
into the Sp**sh service, but both parties are to be provoked, by the
severest oppression, in such a manner that their resentment may break
out into open revolt."

"His father would not have wanted such a violent incitement; the Duke
has, however, inherited very little of the spirit of his parent*."

"A rash resolution is not always the firmest, nor is a precipitate deed
always the best. And besides, the undertaking of the Duke of Bra***za is
of such a nature, that he risks nothing less than his own and his
family's welfare; it requires therefore a more mature consideration."

"But if he should flinch back!"

"His retreat must be entirely cut off, and this is to be effected by the
execution of the second commission which I have given you."

  [* The Grandmother of the Duke of Brag**za had already attempted to
  enforce her claim to the throne; she was, however, obliged to yield
  to superior power. His father was hurt so much at the loss of the
  crown, that he had formed the design to seize the King of Sp**n when
  he stopped at his palace at Vi**ciosa, on his journey to Li*bon, and
  not to set him at liberty till he should have renounced to him the
  crown of Por***al. His friends represented to him how impossible it
  would be to accomplish this design; however, he could not be
  persuaded to desist from all farther attempts of getting possession
  of the sceptre of Port***al, and his people were frequently
  instigated by him to quarrel with the King's Officers at Li*bon, on
  which occasion the populace evinced clearly how strong their
  attachment to the family of Bra***za was. But matters were never
  pushed any farther, the proper time when the crown of Por***al,
  should be restored to its lawful possessors being not yet arrived.
  The old Duke was so much grieved at his unsuccessful attempt, that
  at length his reason was disordered. He spoke constantly of war and
  arms, and ordered his family, on his death-bed, to bury him with
  Royal pomp, which was actually done, though in secret.]

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  _EULOGY ON BUFFON, the celebrated Naturalist._

Le Compte de la Cepede, in his description of the Four Lamps suspended
in the Temple of Genius, erected in the bosom of France, has given the
following Eulogy of Buffon:

"It was no longer night: a star created by nature to illuminate the
universe, shone with majesty. His course was marked by dignity; his
motion by harmony, and his repose by serenity: every eye, even the
weakest, was ready to contemplate it. From his car, resplendent over the
universe, he spread his magnificence. As God enclosed in the ark all the
works of creation, he collected, on the banks of the Seine, the animals,
vegetables and minerals dispersed in the four quarters of the globe.
Every form, every colour, all the riches and instincts of the world were
offered to our eyes, and to our understandings. Every thing was
revealed; every thing ennobled; every thing rendered interesting,
brilliant or graceful. But a funeral groan was heard---Nature grieved in
silence---with Buffon, the last lamp was extinguished."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

               REMARKS ON MUSIC.

  (Continued from page 124.)

Some Historians affirm that music was first known in Egypt, and by
comparing the accounts of Didorus Siculus, and of Plato, there is reason
to suppose, that in very ancient times the study of music in Egypt, was
confined to the Priesthood, who used it only on religious and solemn
occasions; that, as well as sculpture, it was circumscribed by law: that
it was esteemed sacred, and forbidden to be employed on light or common
occasions; and that innovation in it was prohibited; but what the style
or relative excellence of this very ancient music was, there are no
traces by which we can form any accurate judgment. After the reigns of
the Pharoahs, the Egyptians fell by turns under the dominion of the
Ethiopians, the Persians, the Greeks, and the Romans. By such
revolutions, the manners and amusements of the people, as well as their
form of government, must have been changed. In the age of the Ptolemies,
the musical games and contests instituted by these monarchs were of
Greek origin, and the musicians who performed were chiefly Greeks. The
most ancient monuments of human art and industry, at present extant at
Rome, are the obelisks brought there from Egypt, two of which are said
to have been erected by Sesostris at Heliopolis, about 400 years before
the siege of Troy. These were by the order of Augustus brought to Rome
after the conquest of Egypt. One of them called _guglia rotta_, or the
broken pillar, which during the sacking of the City in 1527 was thrown
down and broke, still lays in the Campus Martius. On it is seen the
figure of a musical instrument of two strings and with a neck. It
resembles much the calascione still used in the kingdom of Naples.

This curious relict of antiquity is mentioned, because it affords better
evidence than, on the subject of ancient music, is usually to be met
with, that the Egyptians at so very early a period of their history, had
advanced to a considerable degree of excellence in the cultivation of
the arts. By means of its neck, this instrument was capable, with only
two strings, of producing a great number of notes.

These two strings if tuned fourths to each other, would furnish that
series of sounds which the ancients call _heptichord_, which consist of
a conjunct tetrachord as B. C. D. E; E. F. G. A; if tuned in fifths;
they would produce an octave, or two disjunct tetrachords. The annals of
no other nation than Egypt, for many ages after the period of the
obelisk at Heliopolis, exhibit the vestige of any contrivance to shorten
strings during performance by a neck or finger board. Father Montfaucon
observes, that after examining 500 ancient lyres, harps, and citheras,
he could discover no such thing.

  A. O.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

            THE ROSE--A REFLECTION.

                   *   *   *

             Addressed to Mr. ----.

This morning it unfolded its beauties to the eastern sun; it exhaled its
rich perfume; I beheld the beautiful flower with pleasure. A person past
my window, and, no doubt, to please me, plucked it from the stalk. He
gave it me; I placed it in my bosom. It faded--it died away--and when
evening came it was no longer charming.

Vain man! in this flower thou mayest behold an emblem of thyself. Thou
too in the morning of thy days wast amiable. But when thou hadst arrived
at mature age, then thou wast severed from conscious innocence; then
thou didst imbibe the vices of the age. As the flower lost its crimson
hue, thou wast fast losing thy hold of virtue. And as the rose had
entirely faded, so rectitude, integrity, innocence, and every amiable
virtue became strangers to thy heart; and left thee, entirely, a man of
the world.

  L. B.

    _October 25. 1796._


       *       *       *       *       *

  GENEROSITY.

Generosity is the part of a soul raised above the vulgar. There is in it
something of what we admire in heroes, and praise with a degree of
rapture.

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and it is an action
attended with no sort of glory. Should _Lysippus_ satisfy his creditors,
who would be at the pains of telling it to the world? Generosity is a
virtue of a very different complexion. It is raised above duty, and,
from its elevation, attracts the attention and the praises of us little
mortals below.


       *       *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS OBSERVATIONS.

The word _Pat_, has a peculiarity hardly belonging to any other; read it
which way you will, though it forms different words, yet they are
exactly of the same import, for a _Pat_, or a _Tap_, it is well known,
signify a gentle stroke.

The word _murmur_ read backwards, repeatedly names a liquor that some
people are remarkably fond of, viz. _rum rum_; and when this dear
delightful beverage cannot be had, read it forwards, and it will shew
you what they will be very apt to do, viz. _murmur_.

Again in the word _glass_---this is what some men love exceedingly, and
if we use what is called the _aphoerisis_, or the taking away of a
letter, it will then be what most men love, viz. a _lass_, but take away
the _l_, and the remainder will shew what he is who loves neither a
_glass_ nor a _lass_, viz. an _ass_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 135.)

Lodoiska uttered the most dreadful groans, to which I answered by cries
of fury. Boleslas rushed from one part of the prison to another, like a
madman; he sent forth the most terrible howlings; he attempted to burst
open the door with his hands and feet. As for myself, I remained at the
window, and shook, amidst my transports of fury, those massive iron-bars
which I was unable to bend.

All of a sudden, the domestics, who had lately mounted the battlements,
descend with precipitation, and open the gates: we heard the voice of
Dourlinski himself, begging for quarter. The victors instantly
precipitate themselves amidst the flames; and being at length attracted
by our cries, they force open the door of our prison with their
hatchets.

By their dress and their arms, I know them to be Tartars: their chief
arrives----it is Titsikan!

"Ah! ah!" exclaims he; "it is my brave friend!"

I instantly throw myself on his neck:--"Titsikan!----Lodoiska!----a
lady!----the fairest of women!----in that tower!----about to be burnt
alive!"

These were the incoherent expressions by which I made my feelings known.

The Tartar instantly gives the word of command to his followers----they
fly to the tower---I fly along with them---Boleslas follows us. They
burst open the doors; and near to an old pillar we discover a narrow,
winding stair-case, filled with smoke.

The Tartars, affrighted at the danger, start back: I prepare to ascend.

"Alas! what are you about?" exclaims Boleslas.

"To live or die with Lodoiska!"

"And I will either live or die with my master!" was the reply of my
generous servant.

I rush on---he follows me! At the risk of suffocation, we ascend about
forty steps; by the light of the flames we discover Lodoiska in a corner
of her prison; who feebly utters; "Who is it that approaches me?"

"It is Lovzinski! it is your lover!"

Joy instantly lends her new strength; she rises and flies into my arms:
we carry her away; we descend a few steps; but volumes of smoke now fill
all the stair-case, and we are forced to re-ascend with precipitation.
At that very instant, too, a part of the tower gives way!---Boleslas
utters a dreadful shriek, and Lodoiska falls into a swoon.

That which was on the point of destroying, saved us! The flames,
formerly smothered, began to extend with greater rapidity; but the smoke
was dissipated.---Laden with our precious burden, Boleslas and I descend
in haste---I do not exaggerate; every step trembled under our feet! the
walls were all on fire! At length we arrived at the gate of the tower;
Titsikan, trembling for our safety, was expecting us there: "Brave
men!"---exclaimed he, on seeing us appear again.----I place Lodoiska at
his feet, and fall down lifeless by her side!

I remained nearly an hour in this situation. They tremble for my life;
and Boleslas weeps aloud. I again recover my senses, on hearing the
voice of Lodoiska, who, returning to herself, calls me her deliverer.
The appearance of every thing was altered; the tower was entirely in
ruins. The Tartars, however, had stopt the progress of the flames; they
had destroyed one part of the castle, on purpose to save the remainder;
in fine, we had been carried into a large saloon, where we were
surrounded by Titsikan and some of his soldiers. Others of them were
occupied in pillaging and in bringing away the gold, silver, jewels,
plate, and all the precious effects which the flames had spared.

Near to us Dourlinski, loaded with fetters, and uttering repeated
groans, beheld this heap of riches, of which, he was about to be
despoiled. Rage, terror, despair, all the passions which can tear the
heart of a villain suffering under punishment, were visibly depicted in
his wild and wandering looks. He struck the earth with fury, dashed his
clenched hands against his forehead, and, uttering the most horrible
blasphemies, he reproached Heaven for its just vengeance.

In the mean time, my lovely mistress holds my hand clasped in hers.
"Alas," says she at length, with tears in her eyes, "alas! you have
saved my life, and your own is still in danger! Nay, even if we escape
death, slavery awaits us!"

"No, no, Lodoiska, be comforted, Titsikan is not my enemy; Titsikan will
put a period to our misfortunes--"

"Undoubtedly, if I am able," exclaims the Tartar, interrupting me: "you
are in the right, brave man! (adds he) I see that you are not dead, and
I am happy: you always say, and do good things; and you have there
(turning to Boleslas), you have there a friend who seconds you
admirably."

On this I embrace Boleslas:--"yes, Titsikan, yes, I have a friend, who
shall always be dear to me!--"

The Tartar again interrupts me: "What! were not you both confined in an
apartment below ground, and was not this lady in a tower? What was the
reason of that? I will lay any wager, continues he with a smile, that
you have taken this female from that old wretch, (pointing to
Dourlinski), and you are in the right; for he is a dotard, and she is
beautiful! Come--inform me of every thing."

I now discover my own name to Titsikan, that of Lodoiska's father, and
every particular that had occurred to me until that moment. It belongs
to Lodoiska, I observe in conclusion, to make us acquainted with what
she has been obliged to suffer from the infamous Dourlinski, ever since
she has been in his castle!

"You know," replies Lodoiska, "that my father me to leave Warsaw, on the
day that the diet was opened. He first conducted me to the territories
of the Palatine of --------, at only twenty leagues distance from the
capital, to which he returned, on purpose to assist at the meeting of
the states.

"On that very day when M. de P------ was proclaimed king, Pulaski took
me from the castle of the palatine, and conducted me here, thinking that
I should be better concealed. He charged Dourlinski to guard me with
extraordinary strictness; and, above all things, to take especial care
to prevent Lovzinski from discovering the place of my retreat. He then
left me, as he informed me, on purpose to assemble and encourage the
good citizens to defend his country, and to punish traitors. Alas! these
important avocations have made him forget his daughter, for I have never
seen him since.

"A few days after his departure, I began to perceive that the visits of
Dourlinski had become more frequent than usual; in a short time, he
hardly ever quitted the apartment assigned me for a prison. He deprived
me, under some trifling pretext, of the only female attendant whom my
father had left me; and to prevent any person (as he said) from knowing
that I was in his castle, he himself brought me the food necessary for
my subsistence, and passed whole days along with me. You cannot
conceive, my dear Lovzinski, how much I suffered from the continual
presence of a man who was odious to me, and whose infamous designs I was
suspicious of: he even dared to explain himself to me one day: but I
assured him that my hate should always be the price of his tenderness,
and that his unworthy conduct had drawn upon him my sovereign contempt.

"He answered me coldly, that in time I should accustom myself to see
him, and to suffer his assiduities; nay, he did not in the least alter
his usual conduct, for he entered my chamber in the morning, and never
retired until night. Separated from all I loved, I had not even the
feeble consolation of being able to enjoy the sweet recollection of past
happiness. A witness to my misfortunes, Dourlinski took pleasure in
augmenting them.

"'Pulaski,' says he to me, 'commands a body of Polish troops; Lovzinski
betraying his country, which he does not love, and a woman concerning
whom he is indifferent, serves in the Russian army, where he will be cut
off during some bloody engagement: besides, if he survives, it is
evident that nothing can ever reconcile your father to him.'

"A few days after, he came on purpose to announce to me, that Pulaski,
during the night, had attacked the Russians in their camp; and that,
amidst the confusion that ensued, my lover had fallen by the hand of my
father. The cruel Palatine even made me read a narrative of this event,
drawn up with every appearance of truth, in a kind of public gazette,
which doubtless he had procured to be printed expressly for the purpose:
besides, on perceiving the barbarous joy which he affected on this
occasion, I thought the news but too true.

"Pitiless tyrant! cried I, you enjoy my tears and my despair; but cease
to persecute me, or you will soon see that the daughter of Pulaski is
herself able to avenge her own injuries!

"One evening that he had left me sooner than usual, after I retired to
bed, I heard my door open very softly. By the light of a lamp, which I
kept always burning, I beheld my tyrant advancing towards my bed. As
there was no crime of which I did not believe him to be capable, I had
foreseen this event; and I had even taken measures to render it
unsuccessful. I accordingly armed myself with a long sharp knife, which
I had the precaution to conceal beneath my pillow; I overwhelmed the
wretch with the reproaches which he so justly merited; and I vowed, if
he dared to advance, that I would poniard him with my own hand.

"He retired, with surprise and affright visibly delineated on his
countenance: 'I am tired,' said he as he went out, 'with experiencing
nothing but scorn; and if I were not afraid of being overheard, you
should soon perceive what a woman's arm could effect against mine! But I
know a way of vanquishing your pride! By and by you will think yourself
but too happy in being able to purchase your pardon, by the most
humiliating submissions.'

"He now withdrew. A few moments after, his confident entered with a
pistol in his hand. I must, however, do him the justice to say, that he
wept while he announced to me the orders of his lord.

"'Dress yourself, Madam; you must instantly follow me!'--This was all
that he was able to say to me.

"He then conducted me to that very tower, where, without you, I should
this morning have perished: he shut me up in that horrible prison; it
was there that I had languished for more than a month, without fire,
without the light of heaven, and almost without clothes; with bread and
water for my food; for my bed a few trusses of straw: this was the
deplorable state to which the only daughter of a grandee of Poland was
reduced!

"You shudder, brave stranger, and yet believe me, when I assure you,
that I do not recount to you any more than a small part of my
sufferings. One thing, however, rendered my misery less insupportable:
I no longer beheld my tyrant. While he expected with tranquility that I
should solicit my pardon, I passed whole days and nights in calling on
the name of my father, and in bewailing my lover!                   *
*   *                   *   *   *                   *   *   *
       *   *   *                   *   *   *   *   *   O Lovzinski! with
what astonishment was I seized; with what joy was my soul penetrated, on
that day when I once more beheld you in the gardens of Dourlinski!"
             *   *   *                   *   *   *                   *
*   *                   *   *   *   *

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

          THE FOLLY OF FREETHINKING:

                   *   *   *

                 +An Anecdote.+

                   *   *   *

Among words which in their present acceptation are remote from their
original and rigid meaning, none perhaps are more striking than Deism
and Freethinking. The former, which in its strict import signifies
nothing more than a belief in the existence of the Deity, in opposition
to Atheism (and in this sense every christian is a Deist) is now
universally understood of all persons who reject the christian
revelation; and the word Freethinking, which should convey the idea of a
man of liberal and ingenuous disposition, free from vulgar prejudice and
unmanly bigotry, and investigating truth with virtuous view, and a deep
veneration of the Supreme Being, is now commonly appropriated to those
persons, who from a love of singularity, an affectation of superior
understanding, or innate malignity of mind, would combat truths the most
universally received and revered in all ages and in all countries, and
would dissolve those sacred ties by which society is united, and destroy
those hopes of immortality which God hath given as incentives to virtue,
and the best security of our happiness here and hereafter.

The conduct of the Freethinker, whether actuated by such motives or not,
is replete with extreme folly, to give it no harsher appellation. An
anecdote of the late Mr. Mallet affords a remarkable instance of the
truth of this observation, and cannot fail to convey some useful advice.
This gentleman was a great Freethinker, and a very free speaker of his
free thoughts. He made no scruple to disseminate his opinions wherever
he could introduce them. At his own table, the lady of the house (who
was a staunch advocate for her husband's opinions) would often in the
warmth of argument, say, 'Sir, we Deists.' The lecture upon the non
credenda of the Freethinkers was repeated so often, and urged with so
much earnestness, that the inferior domestics became soon as able
disputants as the heads of the family. The fellow who waited at the
table being thoroughly convinced, that for any of his misdeeds he should
have no after account to make, was resolved to profit by the doctrine,
and made off with many things of value, particularly the plate. Luckily
he was so closely pursued, that he was brought back with his prey to his
master's house, who examined him before some select friends. At first,
the man was sullen, and would answer no questions; but, being urged to
give a reason for his infamous behaviour he resolutely said, 'Sir, I had
heard you so often talk of the impossibility of a future state, and that
after death there was no reward for virtue, or punishment for vice, that
I was tempted to commit the robbery.' 'Well; but you rascal,' replied
Mallet, 'had you no fear of the gallows?' 'Sir,' said the fellow,
looking sternly at his master, 'what is that to you, if I had a mind to
venture that? You had removed my greatest terror; why should I fear the
least?'


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Wednesday the 19th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Moore, of Hempstead, Mr.
ISAAC HAGNER, to Miss HANNAH TOFFY, daughter of Mr. Daniel Toffy, both
of Herricks, (L.I.)

On Saturday se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. GEORGE STEWART, to
Miss NANCY BRANT, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Milledoler, Mr. CASPER
SEMBLER, to Miss HANNAH SMITH, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The SONNET by ANNA, is received, and shall appear in our next.

THEODORE's remarks on Mr. Townsend's note, we must be excused from
publishing. Personal feuds can by no means be interesting to the public,
and are ever totally inadmissible; we recommend to the parties, an
amicable reconciliation which will assuredly be productive of more
satisfaction than sullen revenge can ever afford.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 23d to the 29th ult._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

         deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
            100   100
  Oct 23  52 50 70     s. w. do.  clear, light wind  do. lt. wd.
      24  57    76     s. w. do.  clear, calm  do. high wd.
      25  58    77     sw. nw.    foggy light wind  clear do.
      26  56    58 25  e. se.     cloudy lt. wd.  do. do.
      27  49 50 55     ne. n.     clear do.  high wind light wd.
      28  37    47     n. sw.     clear lt. wd.  do. do.
      29  44 50 58     sw. w.     clear lht. wind  cloudy do.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

              EVENING.--EXTEMPORE.

  The sun retires behind the western hills,
  And lengthening shadows shew the parting day;
  A hollow sound echoes from murm'ring rills,
  Which fall from distant rocks and glide away.

  Now sol's faint beams scarce glisten o'er the glade,
  All nature's various beauties sink from sight;
  The verdant vales are wrapt in gloomy shade,
  And day retires before the mists of night.

  Thus life's vain pleasures short delight impart:
  Those scenes, which once so brilliant did appear,
  Return no more to chear the pensive heart,
  And memory recalls them with a tear.

    J. P.

      NEW-YORK Oct. 29, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

              TO MISS A---- H----.

  Though F----s muse may grief assume,
    And teach his plaintive soul to mourn;
  No wreath I make for Anna's tomb,
    Nor weep upon her chilly urn.

  'Tis not for me to mourn as dead,
    The fair whom blooming I survey,
  Nor with a turf to grace her head,
    Nor change her limbs to mould'ring clay.

  Let friendship's artless voice inspire
    My muse to sing in diff'rent strains:
  While as a friend I here admire
    Her more--than on the Etherial plains.

  Far distant may the period be,
    When Anna's form shall lose its bloom;
  And F----s frantic verse we see
    Sadly inscribed upon her tomb.

    ANNA.

The above address was occasioned by the following Epitaph, written
by a Clergyman, and presented to the young lady whose tomb it was
to adorn.

  Reader, if thou are _good_, and _wise_, and _witty_,
  Drop on this sable hearse some tears of pity;
  For know kind reader, that it is a duty
  To the remains of innocence and beauty.


       *       *       *       *       *

  +Epitaph on a Celebrated Coach-Maker.+

  Once in the gilded chariot high,
    I sat in worldly state;
  Now in the darksome tomb I lie,
    The _chariot_ built by fate.

  Yet in this _carriage_ form'd of dust
    I hope one day to gain
  The place where dwell the good and just;
    And endless pleasures reign.

  This is the _chariot_ that must bring
    The GREAT and SMALL at last,
  Before their JUDGE and Heav'nly KING:
    When earthly joys are past.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON A GOOD CONSCIENCE.

  The solid joys of human kind,
  Are those that flow from peace of mind;
  For who the sweets of life can taste,
  With vice and tim'rous guilt opprest?
  'Tis virtue softens all our toils,
    With peace our conscience crowns;
  Gives pleasure when our fortune smiles,
    And courage when it frowns;
  Calms every trouble, makes the soul serene,
  Smooths the contracted brow, and chears the heart within.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  MATERNAL AFFECTION.

  Now swiftly fled the shades of night,
  Before the sun's transparent light,
  Fresh with the glitt'ring dews of morn,
  More fragrant bloom'd the verdant thorn.

  The tender DELIA waking, smil'd,
  And flew to clasp her lovely child;
  Asleep the angel infant lay,
  Fair as the glowing dawn of day.

  A soothing lullaby she sung,
  And o'er the cradle fondly hung:
  What eye could view a fairer sight?--
  How pure her innocent delight!

  In happy wedlock early join'd,
  A mother, with a virgin mind,
  Just sev'nteen summers had she seen,
  And tall and graceful was her mien.

  She paus'd a while, and strove to trace
  The father in her infant's face;
  'How sweet,' she cried, 'a mothers bliss!
  'And sweet, oh sweet, my cherub's kiss!

  'Sleep on! my babe, securely rest!
  'I feel thee mantling in my breast;
  'Sleep on, and with each hour improve--
  'My first--my only pledge of love!

  'How could I bear from thee to part,
  'Thou dearest treasure of my heart?
  'Yet, ah! I tremble when I know
  'What ills my babe must undergo!

  'What sickness, and what days of pain,
  'What chances too, must thou sustain?
  'How can I hope my child to save,
  'When thousands meet an early grave?

  'And must--ah must these busy fears
  'Still grow with thy encreasing years?
  'Must they my bosom still annoy,
  'And mingle with a mother's joy?

  'Secure in the Almighty hand,
  'The offspring of his high command;
  'Will not his name become thy shield,
  'His terrors strong protection yield?

  'Unto the will of Heav'n resign'd,
  'Let doubt no more disturb my mid;
  'This precept soothes my troubles breast,
  'Whatever God ordains is best.

  'Sleep on--then sleep, my baby fair,
  'May Heav'n thy infant beauty spare.
  'Sleep on--sleep on, thy mother's pride,
  'May Heav'n thy future being guide.'


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, November 9, 1796.+  [+No. 71.+


  AN ESSAY ON HOPE.

There is, perhaps, no word in our language more generally understood
than the term HOPE. The idea represented by this word is so well known
from its pleasing effects on the mind, and so indiscriminately
experienced in one or other of its degrees, that any explanation of it
seems to be unnecessary. All know that Hope signifies an expectation
indulged with pleasure.

In all the works of Nature we can find no two objects exactly similar.
The surprising diversity proceeds from a degree almost imperceptible, by
a slow gradation, down to direct opposition in the minutest
circumstances; so that in the amazing variety, we can find no object,
whether of sense or imagination, which has not its direct reverse.

With respect to the sensations of the mind, I know none more directly
contrasted than that expressed by the word Hope. Its reverse is Fear.
And though Love and Hatred--Joy and Sorrow--Light and Darkness are not
more opposed to each other than those two passions; yet it will appear a
little remarkable, that they not only spring from the same source, but
are _really_ and _identically_ the same in some of the original steps or
gradations. The same passion or power of the mind varies its name in the
different stages of its advancement. Every thing has its state of
infancy. In their pristine state, Hope and Fear are both called Esteem.
This may be termed the _infant state_ of attachment to any object.
Esteem soon advances to its second stage, in which it takes the name of
Love. In a third gradation it is called Desire; Love ever produces the
desire of enjoyment. Those are the original and _common_ steps of Hope
and fear; nor is there yet any sort of distinction either with respect
to _object_ or _sensation_: but here the difference begins.--They are no
longer the same. The strong dissimilarity of different minds may render
the subsequent stages of operation as different as contradiction itself.
Mark the progression of Desire in two minds of different textures. Let
us suppose the object the same. Let us suppose it Riches; or (if that
will animate the idea) a person of a different sex. In the one mind
Desire improves to Hope; in the other it degenerates to fear. In the one
instance, Hope advances to a state of superior sensation, which we term
Joy; in the other, fear sinks down the rugged declivity to that dreary
region called despair.

Thus one man looks with pleasure and fortitude beyond his present
difficulties; and though his hopes, in some instances, may be decidedly
blasted, what then? he never anticipated the disappointment, nor will
the happy turn of his mind permit him to indulge its vexations. His
active passions soon find another object of exercise and pursuit. Very
frequently he gains the summit of felicity in the enjoyment of his
favourite object; and still he has the _independent_ happiness arising
from the constant exercise of Hope. A person of the above description is
never heard to complain of this _troublesome, woeful, sinful world_; he
has no such bad opinion of life in general, as promotes a desire of
quitting it; or of going to another, to avoid the disappointments of
this---the common source of all such wishes. No: he acts his part as a
man; enjoys life as man was designed to do; contributes to the happiness
of all around him, and secures his own.

Let us now take a slight view of the other side of the picture---the man
of an opposite cast. We left him in despair of possession; he yields his
cowardly heart a victim to the vulture; and, if his distress is not
somewhat alleviated by transferring his attention to some other object,
he either abridges his life with a pistol or halter, or drags along a
miserable existence indeed. These are no exaggerated or imaginary
ideas.---This is reason, truth, fact---Human Nature.

The above simple remarks may convince us, that the same passions are
very different (in point of degree) in different persons. What
predominates in one, is counteracted and overpowered in another; and men
are happy or otherwise, as Hope or Fear happens to be the most powerful
passion.

Those to whom the important charge of education is committed, may
perhaps draw some useful inferences from the above observations. It is
much in their power (if calculated for the serious business) to
suppress, to a proper degree, any abstract passion of an unhappy
tendency, whether in itself or its consequences.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 139)

"How am I to understand this?"

"You think this measure would be too harsh and violent, however it is
not a mere arbitrary artifice, but adapted to the situation in which the
Duke of Bra***za is at present. The minister of Sp**n is not ignorant of
the fermentations in Po****al, and suspecting the Duke to be the chief
source of them, his principal attention is directed to him.--But what
could Oliva*ez have attempted against him as yet? Open force would have
been fruitless, and not only forwarded the general revolt, but also
justified the actions of the Duke. He was therefore forced to have
recourse to art. At first he conferred the government of Mi*an upon the
Duke, in order to have an opportunity of getting him in his power;
however that keen-sighted nobleman declined that honour, pretending not
to have sufficient knowledge of the country to acquit himself honourably
of a trust of so much importance. Soon after the minister found another
opportunity of laying a new snare. The King of Sp**n having resolved to
chastise the rebellious Catal*nians in person, the Duke was very civilly
invited to accompany him in the field; but he begged to be excused,
alledging that this would be attended with great expences, and that his
finances were very low. However Oliva**z was not discouraged by this
refusal, and has lately made a third attempt. A rumour having been
spread all over the country, that a Fren*h fleet was approaching the
coasts of Po****al, probably with a view to make a descent, Oliva**z
conferred upon the Duke an almost unlimited power to make the requisite
preparations against the impending invasion, and particularly to review
all the ports, to fortify and to garrison them. Meanwhile the Sp**ish
Admiral, Don Lopez Oz**co had received secret orders to carry his fleet
to a port where the Duke should be, to invite him to review it, and when
he should have seized him, to sail with his prisoner to Sp**n. This plan
was however rendered abortive by a dreadful storm which dispersed the
fleet, and forced the Admiral to desist from his design of visiting the
Port****ze ports. No new attempt has been made since, and the minister
is silently hatching other artifices. Yet this calm is, without
comparison, more dreadful than all the attempts which have been made.
I know that he has an emissary in Por***al, who watches secretly every
step of the Duke,* whose liberty and life are in imminent danger. The
ruin of the head of the conspiracy would be a mortal blow to the whole
revolutionary society; even the imprisonment of the Duke would unnerve
the hands of the conspirators. If, therefore, the revolution is to take
place, the Duke must be secured against the secret machinations of the
minister; I say the _secret_ machinations, for if they should be carried
on publicly, as it has been the case as yet, his snares may easily be
evaded. For which reason it will be matter of great importance to
persuade the minister to carry on his attempts in the usual way, and to
effect this will be in your power. Nay, you yourself must frame and
direct the designs upon the Duke."

  [* This emissary will soon be introduced to the reader.]

"I fear," said I to the Irishman, "you expect more from my feeble
exertions than I shall be able to perform."

"Hear first my plan! You are to go, the day after tomorrow, to Oliva*ez,
and to inform him that you have received intelligence of the commotions
in Por***al--"

"Besides," I interrupted him, "Oliva*ez has told me to-day that he has
received an account of these commotions from a certain Marchese Ricieri,
who is returned from his travels through Por***al."

"So much the better!" he replied, without returning my inquisitive look,
or changing his countenance at the name of Ricieri, "so much the better!
then you have a prefacer to whose introduction you can link your
discourse. Tell, therefore, the minister, that the letter which you have
received from Por***al makes it very plain to you, why the Duke had
declined all the invitations which the court had given him. Oliva*ez
will request you to explain these words, and then you must reply, that
you suspect the Duke of Brag**za to avoid the neighbourhood of the
Court, because he is sensible he has deserved the resentment of the King
by his disloyalty. At the same time you must add, that you are very
sorry to be obliged to declare against so near a relation as the Duke;
that, however, the voice of your conscience has more weight with you
than that of consanguinity, and that your allegiance to the King of
Sp**n and your country, which has been reduced to the greatest distress
by the constant internal commotions, does not suffer you any longer to
regard as a friend, the man who was the chief cause of all these
troubles. Thus you will gain the confidence of the minister, and he will
ask you what measures for seizing the Duke you think would be most
proper and safe. Take hold of that opportunity to convince the minister
that, and for what reason, violent measures of any kind, would produce
the worst consequences. Approve of the means which the wisdom of his
policy has already adopted as the safest, by which the Duke ought to be
persecuted till no farther evasion should be left for him. Oliva*ez will
desire you to give him your opinion more at large, and then you must
address him to the following purpose:--'I am of opinion that you ought
to inform the Duke of the misfortune which has befallen the fleet, and
to charge him, under the pretext that this had rendered the situation of
the empire very perilous, with the commission to inspect all the strong
places of the kingdom, and to fortify them where he shall think it
requisite. At the same time you will do well to order all the commanders
of the fortified towns to seize the Duke as secretly as possible. In
order to prevent any evasions under the pretext of want of money, you
must send him, at the same time, a sum sufficient for defraying the
expences of his journey."

"But suppose," said I, "this proposal should be accepted, how could the
Duke of Brag**za escape the snare?"

"Can we not apprize him of his danger? If he cannot find means to escape
the snare by dint of art, he must have recourse to open force, and call
to arms. Thus the revolution will begin, and our chief aim be attained."

"One can predict," the Irishman continued, "with some degree of
certainty, that Oliva*ez will not reject that proposal, which is nothing
but a continuation of his former plan, and of course, will flatter his
conceit. As soon as you shall have carried this point, you must
endeavour to effect the promulgation of the edict against the nobility;
which will be no difficult task, if you pretend to have been informed by
letters from Por***al, that the major part of the nobility is entirely
devoted to the Duke, and will support him if a revolt should break
out.--Hence you may draw the conclusion that the fermentation in
Por***al will never cease, and the wisest measures against him, though
ever so successful, will not have the desired effect, while the nobility
shall not be employed somewhere else, and forced to submit to the edict
by which they are ordered to enter into the service of Sp**n. I advise
you, at the same time, to add, that the indulgence which has been shewn
to those who have refused to obey the proclamation of the Court, will
render the nobility more daring, and the Duke of Brag**za more
dangerous. In short, you must exert every power of persuasion to incite
the minister to renew and to enforce that edict."

After a short pause the Irishman added:--"This advice would appear
suspicious, if proposed by any other person but yourself. You have
gained, already, his confidence to such a degree, that it will derive
additional strength from your apparent zeal. And indeed every thing that
can contribute to remove all traces of suspicion from you concurs in
your person! The proposals which you are to make have not only the
appearance of destroying the design of the Duke and the conspirators,
but you have also been on your travels when they were fabricated, and of
course, cannot be suspected of having the least share in them. While you
have been here your time has been spent in amusements and diversions,
how could you, therefore, be supposed to have been capable of paying any
attention to deep laid intrigues of state? On the contrary, the minister
is no stranger to your father's fidelity to the King of Sp**n, and to
the secret hatred which your family harbours against the Duke of
Brag**za; how could, therefore, your proposal appear to him otherwise
than natural and sincere? Your friendship for Velas*os alone would be
sufficient to make him believe so."

"I need not remind you," added the Irishman, when he was going to leave
me, "not to forget to interest the Secretary of State, Suma*ez, for your
transactions."

"But suppose," I replied, "I should acquit myself of my charge to your
satisfaction, how am I to conceal the matter from my father?"

The Irishman replied after a momentary consideration: "If the minister
should approve your proposals, you must request him frankly not to
mention any thing to the Marquis, pretending to intend to surprise him
in an agreeable manner, by an oral account, when the whole affair shall
be happily concluded."

Before he took leave, he enjoined me to be circumspect, courageous, and
active.

I cannot say whether it was owing to the execution of this advice, to
the facility of the task, or to favourable accidents, that I carried my
point without difficulty. The minister approved my plan; the Duke of
B----a received the above mentioned order along with 40,000 ducats, and
the edict concerning the nobility was renewed. However, the Duke of
B----a again escaped the snare. He did, indeed, execute the orders of
the Sp***sh court, travelled all over P****l, and observed every where
how the people were devoted to him; the money he had received, and the
power that was entrusted to him, enabled him to gain many friends, and
he entered the fortified towns so well escorted, that none of the
Sp***sh governors dared seize him.

The Irishman who gave me this information, provided me at the same time
with instructions how to act if the minister should complain of the
miscarriage of my plan, which soon happened. Oliva*ez acquainted me very
peevishly, with the bad success of our undertaking. "We may yet carry
our point," I replied, after some reflection, with seeming unconcern.
"If you wish to pursue your plan, you may easily lay a new snare for
him, from which the Duke will not be able to extricate himself. You have
the best opportunity of sending him an order to repair to Mad**d, and to
make to his Majesty an oral report of the state of Port**l."

The minister approved of this advice, and carried it into execution
without delay. The Duke of B----a, who was well aware that the order
from the Sp***sh court could not be declined any longer, sent his
Chamberlain to Mad**d in order to hire a palace, to engage a number of
servants, and to make every preparation for his pretended arrival, but
nevertheless did not come. One time he pleaded ill health, at another
time want of money; and at last, wished to know what rank he was to hold
at Mad**d. However, I was so fortunate as to guide the minister in such
a manner that every obstacle was removed at last, and the Duke received
6000 ducats for defraying the expences of his journey.

"Now," said the Irishman to me, "the Duke will find it impossible to
shift any longer, and either must repair to Mad**d, which he will take
care not to do, or give the signal for the revolution. Your business, my
Lord, is finished, and nothing further will be required of you than the
strictest secrecy. When your country will be free, we shall meet again,
and then you may expect to see all my promises accomplished."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

      CURIOUS OBSERVATIONS ON MAKING LOVE.

                   *   *   *

               +From The Tatler.+

I fell in the other evening with a party who were engaged in examining
which was the handsomest style of addressing the Fair, and writing
Letters of Gallantry.--Many were the opinions immediately declared on
this subject: Some were for a certain softness; some for I know not what
of delicacy; others for something inexpressibly tender: When it came to
me, I said there was no rule in the world to be made for writing
Letters, but that of being as near what you speak face to face as you
can; which is so great a truth, that I am of opinion, writing has lost
more Mistresses than any one mistake in the whole legend of Love. For
when you write to a Lady for whom you have a solid and honourable Love,
the great idea you have of her, joined to a quick sense of her absence,
fills your mind with a sort of tenderness, that gives your language too
much the air of complaint, which is seldom successful. For a man may
flatter himself as he pleases, but he will find, that the women have
more understanding in their own affairs than we have, and women of
spirit are not to be won by mourners.--Therefore he that can keep
handsomely within rules, and support the carriage of a companion to his
mistress, is much more likely to prevail, than he who lets her see the
whole relish of his life depends upon her. If possible therefore, divert
your mistress, rather than sigh to her. The pleasant man she will desire
for her own sake; but the languishing lover has nothing to hope for but
her pity. To shew the difference I produced two Letters a Lady gave me,
which had been writ to her by two gentlemen who made love to her, but
were both killed the day after the date at the battle of _Almanza_. One
of them was a mercurial gay-humoured man; the other a man of a serious
but a great and gallant spirit. Poor _Jack Careless!_ This is his
letter: You see how it is folded: The air of it is so negligent, one
might have read half of it by peeping into it, without breaking it open.
He had no exactness.

  _MADAM_,

'It is a very pleasant circumstance I am in, that while I should be
thinking of the good company we are to meet within a day or two, where
we shall go to loggerheads, my thoughts are running upon a Fair Enemy in
_England_. I was in hopes I had left you there; but you follow the camp,
tho' I have endeavoured to make some of our leaguer Ladies drive you out
of the Field. All my comfort is, you are more troublesome to my Colonel
than myself: I permit you to visit me only now and then; but he
downright keeps you. I laugh at his honour as far as his gravity will
allow me; But I know him to be a man of too much merit to succeed with a
woman. Therefore defend your heart as well as you can, I shall come home
this winter irresistibly dressed, and with quite a new foreign air. And
so, I had like to say, I rest, but alas! I remain, _Madam_,

  _Your most Obedient, Most Humble Servant_,

    JOHN CARELESS.

Now for Colonel _Constant's_ Epistle; you see it is folded and directed
with the utmost care.

  _MADAM_,

'I do myself the honour to write to you this evening because I believe
to-morrow will be a day of battle, and something forebodes in my breast
that I shall fall in it. If it proves so, I hope you will hear I have
done nothing below a man who had a love of his country, quickened by a
passion for a woman of honour. If there be any thing noble in going to a
certain death; if there be any merit, I meet it with pleasure, by
promising myself a place in your esteem; if your applause, when I am no
more, is preferable to the most glorious life without you; I say, Madam,
if any of these considerations can have weight with you, you will give
me a kind place in your memory, which I prefer to the glory of _Caesar_.
I hope, this will be read, as it is writ, with tears.'

The beloved Lady is a woman of a sensible mind; but she has confessed to
me, that after all her true and solid value for _Constant_, she had much
more concern for the loss of _Careless_. Those great and serious spirits
have something equal to the adversities they meet with, and consequently
lessen the objects of pity. Great accidents seem not cut out so much for
men of familiar characters, which makes them more easily pitied, and
soon after beloved. Add to this, that the sort of love which generally
succeeds, is a stranger to awe and distance. I asked _Romana_, whether
of the two she should have chosen had they survived? She said, She knew
she ought to have taken _Constant_; but believed, she should have chosen
_Careless_.

                   *   *   *

  ARABIAN MAXIMS.

The monument which a wise man is ambitious to leave behind him, is not a
numerous posterity, but the lasting honours of a virtuous fame.

In learning to know yourself, you learn to know God.

Do good; and your reward shall be, if not the plaudits of men, the
approbation of God.

It is lost labour to endeavour to give understanding to him that has
none; especially, if he thinks himself more sensible than you.

Nobility does not consist in magnificence of dress or eminence of rank.
Art thou virtuous? Thou art sufficiently noble.

The life of man is a journal: good actions only should be written in it.

He who sows duplicity will reap calamity.

Whatever is not God, is nothing.

There are three things of which we cannot be certain but in three
circumstances; courage can be conspicuous only in the combat; wisdom,
when you are offended; and friendship, in adversity.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 142.)

Titsikan was listening to the story of our misfortunes, with which he
appeared to be deeply affected, when one of his centinels approached,
and sounded an alarm. He immediately left us in great haste, on purpose
to run to the drawbridge. We heard a great tumult, and began already to
presage some inauspicious event.

While we remained plunged in consternation,---"Lovzinski, Lodoiska,
cowardly and perfidious pair!" exclaims Dourlinski, unable to contain
his joy---"you have hoped to be able to elude my vengeance, and escape
my chastisement. Tremble! you are once more about to fall into my hands.
At the noise of my captivity and misfortunes, the neighbouring nobility
are undoubtedly assembled, and have now come to succour me."

"---They can only revenge you, villain!" cries Boleslas, interrupting
him in the midst of his threats, and seizing, at the same time, an iron
bar, with which he prepared to knock him down; I, however, instantly
interposed and prevented him from executing this act of justice.

Titsikan returned in a few minutes: "It is only a false alarm," said he
to us; "it is nothing more than a small detachment which I dispatched
yesterday, on purpose to scour the country---they had orders to rejoin
me here; and they have brought me some prisoners: every thing is quiet,
and the neighbourhood does not appear to be in the least commotion."

While Titsikan yet spoke to me, a number of unfortunates, whose luckless
fate had delivered them into the hands of the enemy, were dragged before
him. We first beheld five, who, being unbound, walked by the side of
their conquerors, with a downcast and melancholy aspect. The Tartars
told us, that one of their companions had been overcome with great
difficulty, and that was the reason why he was bound hand and foot!

The sixth now appeared: "O Heavens! it is my father!" exclaims Lodoiska,
running at the same time towards him.---I, too, threw myself at the feet
of Pulaski. "Are you Pulaski?" says the Tartar chieftain, "'tis well;
the event is lucky! Believe me, my friend, it is not more than a quarter
of an hour since I first heard of you. I know however, that you are
proud and hot-headed, but no matter! I esteem you; you possess both
courage and abilities; your daughter is beautiful, and does not want for
understanding; Lovzinski is brave---braver than myself, as I have
already experienced. Attend to what I am about to say----"

Pulaski, motionless with astonishment, scarcely heard the sound of the
Tartar's voice; and struck, at the same time, with the strange spectacle
that offered itself to his view, he began to conceive the most horrible
suspicions.

He repulsed my caresses with the most significant disgust: "Wretch!"
exclaims he at length, "you have betrayed your country, a woman who
loved you, a man who prided himself in calling you his son-in-law; it
was only wanting to fill up the measure of your crimes, that you should
league with robbers!"

"With robbers!" cries Titsikan---"with robbers indeed, if it so please
you to call us: but you yourself must acknowledge that description of
people to be good for something; for without me, perhaps, your daughter,
by to-morrow's sun, would no longer have been a maiden! Be not alarmed,"
said he, addressing himself to me: "but I know that he is proud, and I
therefore am not angry."

We had by this time placed Pulaski in a chair; his daughter and myself
bathed his manacles with our tears; but he still continued to frown at
and to overwhelm me with reproaches.

"What can you wish for?" cries the Tartar, once more addressing his
captive: "I tell you that Lovzinski is a brave man, whom I intend to see
married; and as for your Dourlinski, he is a rogue, whom I am about to
order to be hanged.

"I repeat to you once more, that you alone are more _hot-headed_ than us
three put together. But hear me, and let us finish this business, for it
is necessary that I should depart. You belong to me by the most
incontestible right, that of the sword. But if you promise me, upon your
honour, that you will be sincerely reconciled to Lovzinski, and give
your daughter to him for a wife, I will restore you to your liberty."

"He who can brave death," replies the haughty Pulaski, "can support
slavery. My daughter shall never be the wife of a traitor."

"Do you love better that she should be a Tartar's mistress?---If you do
not promise to give her, within the space of eight days, to this brave
man, I myself shall espouse her this very night! When I am weary of you
and of her, I will sell you to the Turks. Your daughter is handsome
enough to find admittance into the _haram_ of a bashaw: and you yourself
may perhaps superintend the kitchen of some janissary."

"My life is in your hands; do with it whatsoever you please. If Pulaski
falls beneath the sword of a Tartar, he will be lamented, and even his
enemies will agree that he merits a more glorious destiny: but if he
were to consent: No! no! I rather choose---I prefer death!"

"I do not desire your death! I wish only that Lovzinski should espouse
Lodoiska. What!---Shall my prisoner give the law to me? By my
sabre!---this dog of a Christian---but I am in the wrong---he is
furious, and is assuredly deprived of his reason."

I now beheld the Tartar's eyes sparkle with fury, and therefore recalled
to his memory the promise he had made me, that he would not give way to
his passion.

"Undoubtedly! but this man wearies out the patience of a favourite of
our prophet! I am but a robber!---Yet Pulaski, I repeat it to you again,
that it is my command that Lovzinski espouse your daughter. By my sabre,
he has fairly gained her; but for him she had been burnt last night."

"But for him!"

"Yes! Behold those ruins; there stood a tower in that place; it was on
fire, and no person dared to ascend it: he, however, mounted the
stair-case, attended by Boleslas---and they saved your daughter!"

"Was my daughter in that tower?"

"Yes! that hoary villain had confined her there; that hoary villain, who
attempted to violate her!---Some of you must relate the whole to him;
but make haste, as it is necessary that he should decide instantly;
I have business elsewhere, for I do not intend that your militia* shall
surprise me here: it is otherwise in the plains; there I should laugh at
them."

  [* The troops stationed on purpose to watch over the safety of the
  frontiers of Podolia and Volhnia, and preserve them from the
  incursions of the Tartars, are called Quartuaires.]

While Titsikan ordered the rich booty which he had taken, to be stowed
in little covered waggons, Lodoiska informed her father of the crimes of
Dourlinski, and mingled the recital of our affection so artfully with
the history of her misfortunes, that nature and gratitude at one and the
same time began to besiege the heart of Pulaski.

Affected in the most lively manner with the misfortunes of his daughter,
and sensible of the important services which I had rendered her, he
embraces Lodoiska, and at length beholding me without resentment, he
seemed to wait impatiently for an opportunity to be reconciled to me.

"O Pulaski!" I exclaim, "you whom Heaven hath left me, on purpose to
console me for the loss of the best of fathers; you for whom I have an
equal friendship and veneration; why hast thou condemned thy children
unheard? Why hast thou supposed a man who adores thy daughter, guilty of
the most horrible treason?

"When my vows were offered up in favour of that prince who now fills the
throne, I swear to you, Pulaski, by her whom I love so tenderly, that I
looked upon his elevation to be an event highly auspicious to the
happiness, the safety, and the prosperity of my country.

"The misfortunes which my youth did not foresee, thy experience had
anticipated: but because I have been wanting in prudence, ought you to
accuse me of perfidy? Ought you to have reproached me for loving my
friend? Can you now look upon it as a crime, that I still give him my
esteem? For the three last months, I have beheld the misfortunes of my
country in the same point of view as yourself: like you, I have mourned
over them; but I am sure that the king is still ignorant of their
extent, and I shall go to Warsaw on purpose to inform him of all that I
have seen."

Pulaski here interrupts me:---"It is not there that you ought to repair:
you tell me that M. de P*** is not informed of the wrongs done to his
native country, and I believe you: but whether he is acquainted with, or
whether he is entirely ignorant of them, is now but of little
consequence. Insolent foreigners, cantoned throughout our provinces,
strive to maintain themselves in the republic, even against the king,
whom they have caused to be elected. It is no longer in the power of an
impotent or a mal-content king, to chase the Russians from my country!

"Let us trust only to ourselves, Lovzinski; and let us either avenge our
country, or die in her defence. I have assembled 4000 noble Poles in the
palatinate of Lublin, who wait but for the return of their general, to
march against the Russians: follow me to my camp----on this condition I
am your friend, and my daughter shall be your wife!"

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  CONJUGAL AFFECTION.

Lady Fanshaw, whose husband was Clerk of the Council to Charles the
First and Second, and translator of the Pastor Fido, relates the
following extraordinary circumstance in some MSS memoirs of herself,
addressed to her son. The transaction took place during a voyage that
Lady Fanshaw made from Galway to Malaga, in the spring of the year 1649.

"We pursued our voyage with prosperous winds.--When we had just passed
the Straits, we saw coming towards us, with full sails, a Turkish galley
well manned, and we believed we should be carried away slaves; for the
captain had so laden his ship with goods for Spain, that his guns were
useless, though the ship carried 60 guns. He called for brandy, and
after he had well drunken and all his men, which were near 200, he
called for arms, and cleared the deck as well as he could, resolving to
fight rather than lose his ship, which was worth 30,000l. This was sad
for us passengers, but my husband bid us be sure to keep in the cabin,
and not appear, which would make the Turks think we were a man of war,
but if they saw women, they would take us for merchants and detain us.
He went upon deck, and took a gun, a bandelier, and sword, expecting the
arrival of the Turkish man of war. The beast of a Captain had locked me
up in the cabin---I knocked and called to no purpose, until the
cabin-boy came and opened the door. I, all in tears, desired him to be
so good as to give me his thrum cap and his tarred coat, which he did,
and I gave him half a crown, and putting them on, and flinging away my
night-clothes, I crept up softly, and stood upon the deck by my
husband's side, as free from sickness and fear as, I confess, of
discretion, but it was the effect of that passion which I could never
master. By this time the two vessels were engaged in parley, and so well
satisfied with speech and sight of each other's force, that the Turks
men tacked about, and we continued our course. But when your father saw
it convenient to retreat, looking upon me, he blessed himself, and
snatched me up in his arms, saying, "Good God, that love can make this
change!" and though he seemingly chid me, he would laugh at it as often
as he remembered that voyage."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _ANECDOTE_
  OF MRS. D'ARBLAY (LATE MISS BURNEY),

  The much admired Authoress of EVELINA, CECILIA, and a work of still
  greater merit, entitled CAMILLA; OR, A PICTURE OF YOUTH: the latter
  has but just appeared in London, is now in the press, and will
  shortly be published by the EDITOR.

Miss Burney, who has lately married M. D'Arblay, a French Emigrant, is
daughter to the late Dr. Burney, so well known in the annals of music.
At an early age she was passionately fond of reading novels, which drew
on her the censure of her father, who looked on those then extant, as
but ill calculated to afford any solid improvement or rational
amusement. Soon after, Miss Burney, without the knowledge of her parent,
wrote the much admired history of Evelina---, which was immediately
published in London, without disclosing the name of the author, as she
dreaded incurring her father's displeasure.

Dr. Burney, soon after the publication of Evelina, having accidentally
entered a bookseller's shop, was presented with this work, and strongly
recommended to purchase it; his general dislike to novels, prevented his
compliance, till strongly urged by the bookseller to give it even a
cursory review: but no sooner had he perused a few pages, than he made
his bargain, and having gone through the whole performance, he called
his daughter, and recommended it to her as the only production of the
kind that merited her attention; observing, that "the other books she so
much read, were entirely beneath her notice, but that he was now happy
in being able to present her with a novel, possessed of such intrinsic
merit, as to render it well worthy her most attentive perusal."

How great was Miss Burney's surprize, on being presented with the work
of her own pen, produced during many a stolen hour snatched from
pleasures or from sleep! yet how flattering and how grateful to her
sensible mind must the eulogium of so excellent a judge have proved!

Encouraged by his approbation, she disclosed the secret to the joy of a
doating parent, who felt proud at having a daughter possessed of a
genius capable of producing a piece which he deemed inimitable. Evelina
went through four editions in the course of the first year, and Cecilia
met with the most unbounded applause. The Queen, hearing so much in
favour of our heroine, gave her the appointment of reader to her
Majesty, with a large salary annexed, but interdicted her from
publishing any thing, as derogatory to the dignity of her station.

Her marriage with Mr. D'Arblay, a gentleman suited to so amiable a
partner, occasioned the loss of her place at court. This circumstance
may be considered as a very considerable advantage to the republic of
letters.

As the sun after a long concealment behind the darkening cloud, breaks
forth with redoubled lustre, to the joy and exhilaration of mankind---so
does this amiable writer appear to the votaries of taste and literature,
holding in her hand the interesting history of Camilla---depicting in
the most striking and variegated colours the feelings and propensities
of the youthful mind, whether actuated by the celestial principles
inspired by heaven, or stimulated by the bias of evil examples or
vicious inclinations. Nor does she here omit the opportunity of
displaying virtue in the most fascinating garb, while vice is depicted
in the most forbidding and hateful dress. The sentiments she here
inculcates, are of the most noble, refined and exalted nature---such as
if generally diffused, would contribute to instil in the heart of man,
the divine attributes of his maker, and render him as happy as would be
consistent with the frailty of his probationary state. In fine, we may
pronounce Camilla a _chef d'oeuvre_, worthy the perusal of all who are
desirous of rational entertainment, or anxious to have the feelings of
the heart awakened to impressions of the most delightful and charming
nature.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Wednesday last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Capt. ALEXANDER
DON, to the amiable Miss MARIA BERRIMEN, both of this city.

  That union sure, completely blest must prove,
  Founded on Virtue just esteem and love.
  Happy, thrice happy, may you be thro' life,
  He the best husband, you the kindest wife.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. WILLIAM SHATZEL,
to Miss ELSIE HALL, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  LINES FROM THE REV. MR. BISHOP TO HIS WIFE,
  WITH A PRESENT OF A PENKNIFE

  A knife, dear girl, cuts love they say,
  Mere modish love perhaps it may:
  For any tool of any kind
  Can sep'rate what was never join'd--
  The knife that cuts our love in two
  Will have much tougher work to do;
  Must cut our softness, worth and spirit,
  Down to the vulgar size and merit;
  To level yours with modern taste,
  Must cut a world of sense to waste,
  And from your single beauty's store
  Chip what would dizen out a score.
  The self same blade from me must sever
  Sensation, judgment, sight forever!
  All mem'ry of endearments past,
  All hope of comfort long to last,
  All that makes fourteen years with you
  A summer--and a short one too;
  All that affection feels and fears,
  When hours without you, seem like years;
  Till that be done, (and I'd as soon
  Believe this knife will chip the moon)
  Accept my present undeterr'd,
  And leave their proverbs to the herd.

  If in a kiss (delicious treat)
  Your lips acknowledge the receipt,
  Love, fond of such substantial fare,
  And proud to play the glutton there,
  All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
  Save only--_cut and come again_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                    SONNET.

     Extracted from a Novel in Manuscript.

  Winter, thy reign is past, and graceful spring
    Comes all attir'd to bless expectant May;
  From every Vale the Zephyrs odours bring,
    And birds sit twittering on each budding spray.

  Wide stream the splendors from the Orb of Day,
    To warm the chilly bosom of the earth;
  While smiling FLORA, greets the genial ray,
    And calls her timid beauteous favourites forth.

  But I hail not the glories of the SUN,
    Nor bless the spicy breeze that skims the heath:
  For I, an exile, unbelov'd--unknown,
    Am hastening to the cold--cold realms of _death!_

  I sink into the grave without a name,
  The hapless victim of a Sacred Flame.

    ANNA.

      July 17th, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE EVE OF HYMEN.

  'Tis late--and my DELIA now hastens to rest,
    Rapt into sweet visions, I wander alone,
  Love soothes the fond wishes that glow in my breast,
    With transports, to wealth, and to grandeur unknown.

  Soft--soft be thy slumbers, dear, innocent fair,
    Descend, smiling peace, on my bosom's delight,
  Hope sheds her pure beams on each long nourish'd care,
    As day brightly dawns on the shadows of night.

  Reclin'd on her pillow, now mute is that voice,
    Whose sounds my affection insensibly stole,
  And clos'd are those eyes, in whose beams I rejoice,
    And veil'd are those lips which enrapture my soul.

  Conceal'd are those cheeks where luxuriantly glow
    The tenderest graces of beauty and youth,
  And hidden from me is that bosom of snow,
    The mansion of purity, virtue, and truth.

  She's absent, yet lovely and graceful to view,
    Kind fancy restores the fair pride of my heart,
  Spring calls forth the verdure of nature anew,
    Her smiles to my senses fresh pleasures impart.

  No more shall soft sorrow my verses inspire,
    Despondence has clouded my spirits too long
  In extacy sweeping the soul-breathing lyre,
    Love, Hymen, and rapture enliven my song.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO A VIOLET.

  Tho' from thy bank of velvet torn,
    Hang not, fair flower, thy drooping crest;
  On Delia's bosom shalt thou find
    A softer sweeter bed of rest.

  Tho' from mild Zephyr's kiss no more
    Ambrosial balms thou shalt inhale,
  Her gentle breath, whene'er she sighs,
    Shall fan thee with a purer gale.

  But thou be grateful for that bliss
    For which in vain a thousand burn,
  And, as thou stealest sweets from her,
    Give back thy choicest in return.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE SNOW-DROP AND PRIMROSE.

  A Primrose, ever sweet to view,
  Beside a lovely Snow-drop grew.
  They were the boasted pride of Spring,
  Fann'd by the zephyr's balmy wing;
  Each thought itself the choicest flower
  That ever drank the spangled shower;
  And vied for beauty, fought for praise,
  Beneath the sun's resplendent rays.
  At length the Snow-drop, fraught with ire,
  Began to vent its jealous fire.

      'You, Primrose! are not blest as I,
    'Who can delight each gazing eye;
    'Superior beauties I may claim,
    'But you were born to meet disdain!
    'That yellow tinge which courts the air,
    'Is nothing but the type of care!
    'Review my innocence and worth,
    'Know that I sprung from purer earth;
    'While you from coarser mould arose--
    'The truth your fallow visage shows
    'A grov'ling paltry flow'r, and pale,
    'The jest of ev'ry nipping gale!
    'I am the youthful Poet's theme,
    'Of me the bard delights to dream;
    'In lofty verse he sings my praise,
    'And paints me in his choicest lays;
    'But you, the early bud of care,
    'Are never seen to flourish there!'

    The Primrose heard, with modest ear,
    And, 'Flow'r,' it said, 'tho' sprung so near,
    'I still coeval praise may claim,
    'Nor was I born to meet disdain!
    'Know that we both, tho' now so gay,
    'Shall soon be lost, and fade away;
    'And if for beauty's meed you vie,
    'What boots it? since next eve you die!
    'The Rose is lovely to behold.
    'The Cowslip too, which boasts of gold,
    'The Tulip and the Lilly fair,
    'All yield their fragrance to the air;
    'But soon their beauty fades away,
    'And then, proud Snow-drop, what are they?'

    Celia, be wise, from pride refrain,
  Nor of your matchless face be vain!
  Beauty is short, and soon you'll find,
  The greatest centers in the mind.
  Let Virtue be your sov'reign guide,
  Make her your friend, your boast and pride;
  Then will the brightest deed be done,
  And all the beauties shine in One.


       *       *       *       *       *

  AN APPEAL.

  What must he---who in secret passion dies,
  Who doats, yet dares not to reveal his sighs?
  Love urges forward to declare his pain,
  Fear trembling chides his passion to restrain.
  Thus Love, more noble, towards Fate would bend,
  But Fear repels it least it should offend.
  What then, ye Gods! must he in secret pine,
  Or bravely dare and live---or life resign?


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, November 16, 1796.+  [+No. 72.+


  ON CONVERSATION.

That conversation may answer the ends for which it was designed, the
parties who are to join in it must come together with a determined
resolution to please, and to be pleased. If a man feels that an east
wind has rendered him dull and sulky, he should by all means stay at
home till the wind changes, and not be troublesome to his friends; for
dulness is infectious, and one sour face will make many, as one cheerful
countenance is soon productive of others. If two gentlemen desire to
quarrel, it should not be done in a company met to enjoy the pleasures
of conversation. It is obvious, for these reasons, that he who is about
to form a conversation party should be careful to invite men of
congenial minds, and of similar ideas respecting the entertainment of
which they are to partake, and to which they must contribute.

With gloomy persons, gloomy topics likewise should be (as indeed they
will be) excluded, such as ill health, bad weather, bad news, or
forebodings of such, &c. To preserve the temper calm and pleasant, it is
of unspeakable importance that we always accustom ourselves thro' life
to make the best of things, to view them on their bright side, and to
represent them to others, for our mutual comfort and encouragement. Few
things (especially if, as christians, we take the other world into
account) but have a bright side; diligence and practice will easily find
it. Perhaps there is no circumstance better calculated than this to
render conversation equally pleasing and profitable.

In the conduct of it, be not eager to interrupt others, or uneasy at
being yourself interrupted; since you speak either to amuse or instruct
the company, or to receive those benefits from it. Give all, therefore,
leave to speak. Hear with patience, and answer with precision.
Inattention is ill manners; it shews contempt; contempt is never
forgiven.

Trouble not the company with your own private concerns, as you do not
love to be troubled with those of others. Yours are as little to them,
as theirs are to you. You will need no other rule whereby to judge of
this matter.

Contrive, but with dexterity and propriety, that each person may have an
opportunity of discoursing on the subject with which he is best
acquainted. He will be pleased, and you will be informed. By observing
this rule, every one has it in his power to assist in rendering
conversation agreeable; since, though he may not choose or be qualified,
to say much himself, he can propose questions to those who are able to
answer them.

Avoid stories, unless short, pointed, and quite _a-propos_. He who deals
in them, says Swift, must either have a very large stock, or a good
memory, or must often change his company. Some have a set of them strung
together like onions; they take possession of the conversation by an
early introduction of one; and then you must have the whole rope; and
there is an end of every thing else, perhaps, for that meeting, though
you may have heard all twenty times before.

Talk _often_ but not _long_. The talent of haranguing in private company
is insupportable. Senators and barristers are apt to be guilty of this
fault; and members, who never harangue in the house, will often do it
out of the house. If the majority of the company be naturally silent, or
cautious, the conversation will flag, unless it be often renewed by one
among them who can start new subjects. Forbear, however, if possible, to
broach a second before the first is out, lest your stock should not
last, and you should be obliged to come back to the old barrel. There
are those who will repeatedly cross upon, and break into the
conversation with a fresh topic, till they have touched upon all, and
exhausted none. Oeconomy here is necessary for most people.

Laugh not at your own wit and humour; leave that to the company.

When the conversation is flowing in a serious and useful channel, never
interrupt it by an ill-timed jest. The stream is scattered, and cannot
be again collected.

Discourse not in a whisper, or half voice, to your next neighbour. It is
ill breeding, and, in some degree, a fraud; conversation-stock being, as
one has well observed, a joint and common property.

In reflexions on absent people, go no farther than you would go if they
were present. 'I resolve,' says bishop Beveridge, 'never to speak of a
man's virtues to his face, nor of his faults behind his back;' a golden
rule! the observation of which would, at one stroke, banish flattery and
defamation from the earth.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 147.)

I thanked him, and when he was going to leave me, asked him, "how does
our royal hermit do?"

"He----is well, and you shall hear from him as soon as the Duke of
B----a shall have dispossessed the King of Sp---n of the throne of
P---t------."

"But my old friend------"

"Will soon press you again to his bosom."

"And Amelia?"

"Considering the terms on which you already are with her, you will not
be in want of the assistance of my power." So saying, he took,
a friendly leave of me.

It was indeed high time that the Irishman released me from my
engagement, for my stay at Mad---d began so grow extremely irksome to
me. An irresistible power urged me to return to her who had inthralled
me with magic bonds. My separation from her, and the letters I received
from the dear woman, had heated my passion to the highest degree. Her
letters, breathing nothing but tenderness and affection, were indeed
entirely destitute of that fiery impetuosity of love which characterised
mine; however, this was just adding fuel to the flame, which consumed
me. I felt that I could not live without her. She did not indeed
encourage my hope of getting possession of her hand, yet she did not
repel it entirely, and several hints which Lady Delier had given me,
served to support it. I was already computing with rapture the effect
which my unexpected arrival would produce on Amelia, and made the
necessary preparation, for my return to her without apprising her of it;
however, my soul preceded these preparations, and only the lesser part
of it was remaining at Mad---d; no wonder therefore, that the letters of
my father, and the Marquis of Ferei*a, which recalled me to Port----l,
had no effect upon me.

"I cannot divine," the Marquis wrote to me, "what may have induced your
father to return this year to the capital much earlier than usual.
However, I can tell you that you will scarcely know him again when you
shall see him. Ever since he pretends to have seen the ghost of Count
Santeval, he is changed most wonderfully. He is in a state of utter
apathy, gloomy and reserved, and I may truly say, superstitious. He
avoids, since his late illness, as much as decency will permit, all
conversation, even mine. There is but one person who has free access to
him, and seems to have possessed himself entirely of his confidence. Let
me give you a description of that man.

"Imagine to yourself an elderly man above the middle size, with a long,
thin face, a yellow complexion, a strongly-furrowed brow, hollow, small,
and red eyes, and staring, almost deadened features, which, when he
smiles, changes into a kind of grinning. This physiognomy, of which no
faithful verbal description can be given, and which has been stamped in
a most unfavourable manner by nature's forming hand, is softened by an
affected air of piety; however, if examined minutely and narrowly, peeps
with increased horrors through the borrowed veil. This countenance
appears to me like a dreadful mystery, and I cannot behold it without
secret terror. The _tout ensemble_ of that man exactly fits this
head---a sneaking gait--a stooping neck--a grey coat---but you must and
will see him yourself. I hate him from the bottom of my soul, and think
that he is not capable of a good action, and that his mere presence must
be sufficient to dispel even from the hearts of others every noble
sentiment. It would be a mystery to me, how your father can converse
with him, if I did not know that he has been blinded by his hypocrisy
and devout discourses. That man (he calls himself _Alumbrado_) pretends
to be regenerated, and talks a great deal of the gifts of supernatural
light. Your father, who takes for sterling truth whatever comes from his
lips, seems to be more charmed with him every day. O hasten, my friend,
to deliver your father from this ignoble, and, as I fear, dangerous
enchantment. I think that an emotion like that which the sight of you
after so long a separation, must cause in the mind of your father will
be necessary to rouse from his apathy, &c. &c. &c."

My situation rendered this letter, as I have already mentioned,
ineffectual. The apprehensions of the Marquis appeared to me
exaggerated; his unfavourable judgment of Alumbrado, originating from
physiognomical reasons, unjust, and uncharitable, and my father old and
sensible enough to see and avoid the danger, if any should be existing.
I deemed the return to the Countess much more pressing than the journey
to P--------l, took leave of Oliva*z and Suma*ez, assuring them that the
affair concerning the Duke of B----a had been pushed to a point where it
soon would come to a crisis without our assistance. They were of the
same opinion, and dismissed me in a very obliging manner.

I had already made every preparation for setting out the next morning,
when a letter from Amelia and Lady Delier defeated my design. The former
informed me that a pressing letter from her uncle, who was on the brink
of eternity, and desired to see her once more before his death, rendered
it necessary for her to hasten to Cadiz. In the letter of the Baroness,
which, amongst others, contained the direction of the Countess at Cadiz,
the portrait of Amelia was enclosed.

Amelia's portrait! the image of those heavenly charms, the contemplation
of which would afford delight even to angels, and the lifeless imitation
of which filled my soul with rapture. O! with what an unspeakable
delight did my entranced eyes imbibe them! how did the sight of him
recall to my enraptured bosom all those sweet emotions which the
presence of the original had formerly excited in my breast.

This softened the blow which repelled me so suddenly from the port of
happiness which I fancied I had almost reached. Alas! this blow
inflicted a deep wound on my heart, which at once found all the sweet
presentments of meeting again changed into the nameless throes of a new
separation. However, the sight of the picture representing to me the
absent darling of my heart, and the secret meaning of that gift gave me
some comfort, and inspired me with new hopes. Who else but my Amelia
could have sent me that present? Her letter did, indeed contain only a
few distant hints, and the picture was enclosed in that of Lady Delier;
yet this did not misguide me, for I was too well acquainted with
Amelia's delicacy. I resolved now to return to my father, and to prepare
him for my union with the Countess.

I acted wisely in surprising him by my sudden arrival, for otherwise he
would, probably, not have received me with that kindness to which my
unexpected appearance impelled him. No sooner were the first moments of
mutual fondness past, when he said, with apparent coldness, "the world
must have had very irresistible charms for you?"

"The charms of novelty, my dear father."

"It must have been very painful to you to return to your paternal house;
for it seems you had almost forgot your way homeward."

"I had much to see, and have experienced a great deal!"

"I do not doubt it; you have had very little leisure for thinking of
your father."

I endeavoured to refute his reproach which I had expected, and succeeded
pretty well. The Marquis grew warmer and more affectionate; he enquired
after my tutor and Count Clairval. It seemed to wound him deeply that I
could give no satisfactory account of the former. With regard to the
latter, I told him that important family affairs had called him from me
unexpectedly.

My father appeared then not to be in a favourable disposition for
listening to an account of my connection with the Countess, and how
strongly soever the impulse of my heart pressed me to speak on that
subject, yet prudence advised me to wait for a more favourable
opportunity. The following morning appeared to me propitious for that
purpose. My father was very cheerful, and I contrived being surprised by
him with Amelia's picture in my hand.

"What have you there?" he asked me.

"The picture of the Dowager Countess of Clairval."

"How far is she related to your travelling companion?"

"She was married to his brother."

"So young, and already a widow?" said he, looking at the picture;
"I should have mistaken it for the picture of a girl of seventeen years.
However, the painters are used to flatter."

"I assure you, the original possesses numberless charms which have
escaped the artist."

"Then the Countess must be extremely handsome."

"She is an angel."

"The face is more interesting than handsome."

"Handsome and interesting to a high degree."

"You are in love with her."

"My father--"

"I should be very sorry at it."

"For what reason?" I asked, thunderstruck.

"The young Princess of L**** --what do you think of her?"

"I don't like her at all."

"This would grieve me extremely, for I have chosen her for your wife."

"My heart has already chosen. Your consent, my father--"

"The Countess of Clairval? Never!"

"You don't know her. Her family and fortune are very considerable."

"I hope you will not liken her, in that respect, to the Princess
of L****?"

"Not at all! but the amiable character of the Countess--"

"The character of the Princess is without blame. My dear son, consider
the splendor and the honour which our family would derive from that
alliance. Consider that you will render me happy by that union. When
you, by my desire, broke off your connection with a certain Darbis, you
revived my hope of seeing you allied to the family of L****; do not
thwart my plan by a new love, do not cross my fondest wishes. You are,
indeed, your own master, and may chuse for yourself; you must, however,
not expect my consent and a father's blessing, if you do not marry the
Princess of L****. I am sensible that it will give you pain to renounce
the Countess, and for that reason will not press you farther at present.
I shall not desire you to come to a resolution before the end of seven
weeks. Till then, do not mention a word about the matter."

Seeing that I was going to reply, he took me by the hand. "Be a man,"
said he, "who knows how to conquer juvenile passions. Gain my regard as
you have gained my affection. My life is joyless, do not make me hate
it. My dear son, I have sacrificed much for you, sacrifice now in return
a little for your father!" So saying, he left me.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  MAXIM.

False appearances of profit are the greatest enemies to true interest.
Future sorrows present themselves in the disguise of present pleasures,
and short-sighted folly eagerly embraces the deceit.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

               REMARKS ON MUSIC.

  (Continued from page 140.)

The monaulos, or single flute, called by the Egyptions photinx, was
probably one of the most ancient instruments used either by them or any
other nation. From various remains of ancient sculpture, it appears to
have been shaped like a bull's horn, and was at first, it may be
supposed, no other than the horn itself.---Before the invention of
flutes, as no other instruments except those of percussion were known,
music must have been little more than metrical, when the art of refining
and lengthening sounds was first discovered, the power of Music over
mankind, from the agreeable surprize occasioned by soft and extended
notes was probably irresistable. At a time when all the rest of the
world was involved in savage ignorance, the Egyptians were possessed of
musical instruments capable of much variety and expression.----Of this
the astonishing remains of the city of Thebes, still subsisting, afford
ample evidence. In a letter from Mr. Bruce, ingrossed in Dr. Burney's
history of Music, there is given a particular description of the Theban
harp, an instrument of extensive compass, and exquisite elegance of
form. It is accompanied with a drawing taken from the ruins of an
ancient sepulchre at Thebes, supposed by Mr. Bruce, to be that of the
father of Sesostris.

On the subject of this harp, Mr. Bruce makes the following striking
observation. "It overturns all the accounts of the earliest state of
ancient music, and instruments in Egypt, and is altogether in its form,
ornaments, and compass, an incontestable proof, stronger than a thousand
Greek quotations, that geometry, drawing, mechanics, and music, were at
the greatest perfection when this harp was made; and that what we think
in Egypt was the invention of arts, was only the beginning of the era of
their restoration."

Indeed, when the beauty and powers of this harp, along with the very
great antiquity of the painting which represents it, are considered,
such an opinion as that which Mr. Bruce hints at, does not seem to be
devoid of probability.

It cannot be doubted, that during the reigns of the Ptolemies, who were
voluptuous Princes, Music must have been much cultivated and encouraged.
The father of Cleopatra, who was the last of that race of Kings, derived
his title of Auletes, or flute player, from excessive attachment to the
flute. Like Nero, he used to array himself in the dress of a Tibicien,
and exhibited his performance in the public musical contests.

The Greeks are indebted to the Egyptians for their knowledge of music;
Homer, the most ancient author unconnected with the sacred writers, has
given us very striking descriptions of the efficacy of music. We are
told Apollo invented the Lyre, and instructed Orpheus to play upon it.
The Lyric and Dramatic poets were all after the time of Homer,
proficients in music, and in all probability contributed much to the
perfection of that art in Greece. We are well assured, that in the days
of Philip, and his son Alexander the Great, Music had arrived to its
highest degree of perfection. From Greece it made its way to Rome, and
from Rome it spread abroad over all the countries of Europe.

  A. O.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON CONTENTMENT.

The world has been often, and properly enough, compared to a theatre, in
which men step forth to public view, and act their several parts. These
parts are allotted by the Governor of the Universe, who best knows the
characters to which we are suited; and it is our greatest wisdom to
acquiesce in them, and to endeavour to sustain them with propriety,
whilst we are upon the stage of this life.---Happiness is distributed
with a more impartial hand than we generally imagine. It consists not in
the possession of riches and honours, in outward shew and splendor: it
is something internal. It is seated in the mind, and if we seek it
elsewhere, we shall seek it in vain. The contented peasant in his humble
cot is happy with a sufficiency, whilst the greatest Lord in the
Universe, in the midst of all his wealth and grandeur, is often a prey
to anxiety and discontent. Does not the poor beggar, with all his
apparent want, frequently enjoy more real happiness than the rich miser
in the midst of his abundance? The latter is continually tormented with
the fear of losing his superfluous treasures: eager of adding to his
store, he even denies himself common necessaries, and leads a miserable
life; whilst the former, unmindful of future wants, is heard to sing
over his scanty meal. Contentment is a most valuable blessing. It is the
sovereign medicine of afflictions. By bearing them with patience and
resignation, we in a great measure lessen their weight, and are better
prepared to withstand any future adverse stroke of fortune. But instead
of alleviating, we only add to our troubles by repining. Often do we
wantonly contrive to be our own tormentors, by looking with an envious
ill-natured eye, upon the condition of others, or by contemplating only
the dark side of our own. Often, too often, do we reject our own
happiness, by neglecting every substantial blessing that is within our
reach; and court misery, by creating imaginary wants to ourselves, and
hunting after some fugitive enjoyment, which, like a shadow always flies
from us in proportion to the swiftness with which it is pursued.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TASTE.

The force of custom, of fancy, and of casual associations is very great
both upon the external and internal taste. An Eskimaux can regale
himself with a draught of whale-oil, and a Canadian can feast upon a
dog. A Kamtschatkadale lives upon putrid fish, and is sometimes reduced
to eat the bark of trees. The taste of rum or green tea, is at first as
nauseous as that of ipecacuanha to some persons, who may be brought by
use to relish what they once found so disagreeable.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 150.)

"Pulaski, I am ready to obey you: I swear to follow your fortunes, and
to participate in your dangers. And think not that it is Lodoiska alone,
who has exacted from me this oath: I love my country as much as I adore
thy daughter; I swear by her, and before you, that the enemies of the
republic have always been, and shall never cease to be mine: I swear
that I will spill the very last drop of my blood, to chase those
foreigners out of Poland, who reign there in the name of its king!"

"Embrace me, Lovzinski! I now recognise you; I adopt you for my
son-in-law--My children, all our misfortunes are at an end!"

Pulaski desired me to unite my hand to Lodoiska's, in token of our
union; and we were embracing the brave palatine at the very moment that
Titsikan re-entered.

"Good! good!" exclaims the chieftain: this is what I wished; I am fond
of marriages. Father, I shall instantly order you to be unbound.

"By my sabre!" adds the Tartar, while his followers were cutting the
cords with which the hands and feet of Pulaski were tied; "by my sabre!
I shall do a noble action, but it will cost me a world of wealth! Two
grandees of Poland! a beautiful maiden! They would have produced me a
large ransom!"

"Titsikan, such a thought is not worthy of you!" says Pulaski,
interrupting him.

"No! no!" rejoins the Tartar, "it is a mere reflection only---it is one
of those ideas which a robber cannot prevent.---My brave and unfortunate
friends, I demand nothing from you---nay, more, you shall not retire on
foot; I have some charming horses, with which I intend to present
you.---And, for this lady, if you please. I will give you a litter, on
which I myself have been carried for these last ten or twelve days. This
young man here had given me such a wound, that I could no longer sit on
horseback.---The litter is indeed a bad one, clumsily constructed, by
means of branches of trees; but I have nothing except that or a little
covered waggon, to offer you: choose which ever of them you please."

In the mean time, Dourlinski, who had not as yet uttered a single word,
remained with his eyes fixed upon the ground, while an air of
consternation was spread over his countenance.

"Unworthy friend!" says Pulaski to him, "how could you so cruelly abuse
the confidence I reposed in you? Were you not afraid to expose yourself
to my resentment? What demon blinded you?"

"Love!" replies Dourlinski, "an outrageous love! You, perhaps, do not
comprehend to what excess the passions may hurry on a man, violent and
jealous by nature. This frightful example, however, ought to teach you,
that a daughter so charming as yours is a treasure which one ought not
to entrust to any person.

"Pulaski, I have, indeed, merited your hatred; but I am still worthy of
your pity. I have rendered myself exceedingly culpable; but you behold
me cruelly punished. I lose, in one single day, my rank, my riches, my
honour, my liberty! more than all this, I lose thy daughter!

"O, Lodoiska! lovely maiden, whom I have so much outraged, will you
deign to forget my persecutions, your danger, and your grief? Will you
deign to grant to me a generous pardon?

"Ah! if there are no crimes which a sincere repentance cannot expiate,
Lodoiska, I am no longer criminal. I would I were able, at the price of
all my blood, to redeem those tears which I have occasioned you to shed.
Amidst the horrible state to which Dourlinski is about to be reduced,
shall he not be permitted to carry with him the consoling recollection
of having heard you tell him, that he is no longer odious to you?

"Too amiable, and until this present moment, too unfortunate maiden!
however great my wrongs may have been in regard to you, I have it in my
power to repair them all by means of a single word---advance---approach
me---I have a secret which can only be entrusted to your private ear: it
is exceedingly important that it should be revealed to you!"

Lodoiska, without the least distrust, now leaves my side, and advances
towards him without suspicion.

At that very moment I beheld a poniard glittering in the hand of
Dourlinski!

I precipitate myself upon him.---It was too late; for I could only parry
the second thrust; and the lovely Lodoiska, wounded immediately above
the left breast, had already fallen senseless at the feet of Titsikan!

Pulaski, furious at the horrid treason, drew his sabre quick as
lightning, on purpose to avenge his daughter's fate.

"No! no!" exclaims the Tartar, at the same time withholding his arm:
"you are about to make this wretch suffer too gentle a death!"

"It is well," says the infamous assassin, addressing himself to me, and
at the same time contemplating his victim with a cruel joy. "Lovzinski
you appeared but now eager to be united with Lodoiska; why do you not
follow her? Go, my too happy rival, go and accompany your mistress to
the tomb! Let them prepare my _punishment_; it will appear pleasant to
me: I leave you to torments no less cruel, and infinitely longer than
mine."

Dourlinski was not allowed to utter another sentence, for the Tartars
rushed in upon him, and threw him into the midst of the burning ruins.
   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

What a night! how many different cares, how many opposite sentiments
agitated my unhappy mind during its continuance! How many times did I
experience the successive emotions of fear, hope, grief and joy! After
so many dangers and inquietudes, Lodoiska was at length presented to me
by her father, and I was intoxicated with the near hope of possessing
her:---a barbarian had but now assassinated her in my pretence!

This was the most cruel and unfortunate moment of any during the whole
course of my life!---But my happiness eclipsed, as it were, in a single
instant, was not long in shining forth with all its former splendor.

Amidst the Tartars belonging to Titsikan, was one somewhat conversant in
surgery. We sent for him; on his arrival he examines the wound, and
assures us that it is but a slight one. The infamous Dourlinski,
constrained by his chains, and blinded by his despair, had happily been
prevented from giving any other than an ill-directed blow.

As soon as Titsikan was informed that the life of Lodoiska was not in
any danger, he prepared to take leave of us.

"I leave you," said he, "the five domestics who accompanied Pulaski;
provisions for several days, arms, six excellent horses, two covered
waggons, and the people belonging to Dourlinski in chains. Their base
lord is no more! Adieu! the day is about to appear; do not leave this
place until to-morrow; I shall then visit the other cantons. Adieu,
brave Poles! tell to your countrymen that Titsikan is not so bad as he
has been represented to them; and that he sometimes restores with one
hand what he takes with another. Adieu!"

At these words he lifts his hand to his head, and having saluted us
gracefully after the manner of his country, he gives the signal to
depart: the Tartars mount their fleet coursers in an instant, pass along
the drawbridge, and make for the neighbouring plain at a full gallop.

They had been gone scarcely two hours when several of the neighbouring
nobility, supported by a detachment of militia, came on purpose to
invest the castle of Dourlinski.

Pulaski himself went out to receive them: he related the particulars of
all that had occurred; and some, gained over by his eloquence, promised
to follow us to the palatinate of Lublin.

They asked for only two days to prepare every thing necessary for the
expedition, and actually came and rejoined us at the appointed time, to
the number of sixty.

Lodoiska having assured us that she was now able to undergo the fatigues
of a journey, we placed her in a commodious carriage, which we had
luckily been able to procure for this purpose.

After having restored Dourlinski's people to liberty, we abandon the two
covered waggons to them, in which Titsikan, acting with his usual
generosity, had left part of his immense booty: this we divided among
them in equal proportions.

We arrived, without meeting with any accident, at Polowisk, in the
Palatinate of Lublin, this being the place which Pulaski had appointed
for the general rendezvous.

The news of his return having gone abroad, a crowd of malecontents in
the space of less than a month flocked to and increased our little army
to such a degree, that we soon found it to amount to no less than 10,000
men.

Lodoiska entirely cured of her wound, and perfectly recovered from her
fatigues, had regained her usual spirits, and appeared in possession of
all her former beauty. Pulaski one day called me into his tent, and
spoke as follows. "Three thousand Russians have appeared, as you well
know, upon the heights above, and at no greater distance than half a
league from us: take, in the course of the ensuing night, three thousand
chosen men, and go and chase the enemy from the advantageous posts which
they now occupy. Recollect that on the success of a first attempt
depends almost always that of the campaign; recollect that you are about
to avenge your country's wrongs; recollect too, my friend, that
to-morrow I shall learn thy victory, and that to-morrow also thou shalt
espouse Lodoiska!"

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE FIERY ORDEAL;
  A Judicial Anecdote.

Towards the end of the Greek Empire at Constantinople, a general, who
was an object of suspicion to his master, was urged to undergo the fiery
proof of the Ordeal by an archbishop, a subtle courtier. The ceremony
was this; three days before the trial the patient's arm was inclosed in
a bag, and secured by the royal signet; he was expected to bear a red
hot ball of iron three times, from the altar to the rails of the
sanctuary, without artifice and injury. The general eluded the
experiment with pleasantry. 'I am a soldier,' said he, 'and will boldly
enter the lists with my accusers; but a layman, a sinner like myself, is
not endowed with the gift of miracles. Your piety, holy prelate, may
deserve the interposition of heaven, and from your hands I will receive
the fiery globe, the test of my innocence.' The archbishop stared, the
emperor smiled, and the general was pardoned.


       *       *       *       *       *

  POWER.

Power is no good quality by itself; it is the Power of doing good,
alone, that is desirable to the wise. All vice is selfishness, and the
meanest is that which is most contractedly selfish.

Great minds can reconcile sublimity to good-humour; in weak ones, it is
generally coupled with severity and moroseness.

Sublime qualities men admire; they love the gentler virtues. When Wisdom
would engage a heart, she wooes in a smile. What the austere man advises
with his tongue his frown forbids.

The vulgar-rich call the poor the vulgar: let us learn to call things by
their proper names; the rude and ungentle are the vulgar, whether, in
fortune, they be poor or rich.

The truly poor and worthless are those who have not sense to perceive
the superiority of internal merit to all foreign or outward
accomplishments.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE OF DR. GOLDSMITH.

Those in the least acquainted with the private character of the doctor,
knew that _economy_ and _foresight_ were not amongst the catalogue of
his virtues. In the suite of his pensioners (and he generally enlarged
his list as he enlarged his finances) was the late unfortunate Jack
Pilkington, of scribbling memory, who had served the doctor so many
tricks, that he despaired of getting any more money from him, without
coming out with a _chef d'oeuvre_ once for all. He accordingly called on
the doctor one morning, and running about the room in a fit of joy, told
him his fortune was made, "How so, Jack?" says the doctor. "Why," says
Jack, "the duchess of Marlborough, you must know, has long had a strange
_penchant_ for a pair of _white mice_; now, as I knew they were
sometimes to be had in the East Indies, I commissioned a friend of mine,
who was going out then, to get them for me, and he is this morning
arrived with two of the most beautiful little animals in nature." After
Jack had finished this account with a transport of joy, he lengthened
his visage by telling the doctor all was ruined, for without _two
guineas_ to buy a cage for the _mice_, he could not present them. The
doctor unfortunately, as he said himself, had but half a guinea in the
world, which he offered him. But Pilkington was not to be beat out of
his scheme; he perceived the doctor's watch hanging up in his room, and
after premising on the indelicacy of the proposal, hinted, that if he
could spare that watch for a week, he could raise a few guineas on it,
which he would repay him with gratitude. The doctor would not be the
means of spoiling a man's fortune for such a trifle. He accordingly took
down the watch, and gave it to him, which Jack immediately took to the
pawn-brokers, raised what he could on it, and never once looked after
the doctor, till he sent to borrow another half guinea from him on his
death-bed; which the other, under such circumstances, very generously
sent him.


       *       *       *       *       *

  FUGITIVE TRIFLES.

Every species of vice originates either from insensibility, from want of
judgment, or from both. No maxim can be more true than that all vice is
folly. For either by vice we bring misery more immediately on ourselves,
or we involve others in misery; if any one bring evil on himself, it is
surely folly; if his present pleasure be to make others miserable, were
he to escape every other punishment, he must suffer for it by remorse,
or it is a certain proof he is deprived of that sense or sympathy which
is the opposite to dullness; in either of which cases, it is evident
that all vice is folly.

Whatever pleasures are immediately derived from the sense, persons of
fine internal feelings enjoy, besides their other pleasures; while such
as place their chief happiness in the former, can have no true taste for
the delicious sensations of the soul.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Thursday the 3d inst. at his Excellency John Jay's, Esq. by the Rev.
Dr. Rodgers, JOHN LIVINGSTON, Esq. of the Manor of Livingston, to Mrs.
CATHARINE RIDLEY, daughter of his Excellency William Livingston,
Esquire, late Governor of New-Jersey.

On Saturday evening the 5th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. PETER
WARNER, of Boston, to Miss ELIZABETH AMELIA FIELDING, of this city.

On Sunday evening the 6th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. THOMAS LLOYD,
to Mrs. SARAH ELLIS, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Ireland, Mr. WILLIAM WATSON, of this city,
to Miss JEMIMA HONEYWELL, daughter of Israel Honeywell, Esq. of
West-Chester.

On Monday the 7th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Ogden, of Newark, Mr. JOHN
STEVENSON, of this city, to Miss HANNAH KINGSLAND, daughter of Mr.
Joseph Kingsland, of Second River, New-Jersey.

On Tuesday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, ROBERT LEE,
Esq. to Mrs. CAROLINE BETTS, both of this city.

On Friday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Rattoone, EBENEZER BROWN, Esq.
of Philadelphia, to Miss ESTHER ANN WATSON, sister to James Watson, jun.
of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 30th ult. to the 12th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 8, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  Oct. 30  46    57     w. do.   clear light wind. do. do.
       31  44    54     w. sw.   cloudy lt. wind do do.
  Nov.  1  37    45     n. do.   clear high wind do. lt. wd.
        2  35    49     nw. w.   clear light wind. do. do.
        3  41    52     sw. w.   clear high wind, do. lt. wd.
        4  43    44     w. do.   cloudy lt. wind, clear do.
        5  47    53 50  w. nw.   cloudy high wd. cr. lt. wd.
        6  45 50 46 25  sw. nw.  clear lt. wd. do. high wind.
        7  32    44     nw. do.  clear high wd. do. lt. wind.
        8  38    50 25  sw. do.  clear lt. wd. cloudy do.
        9  46    48     sw. do.  cloudy lt. wd. do. do.
       10  43 75 56 50  sw. e.   cloudy lt. wd. do. do.
       11  48 75 53     e. do.   cloudy lt. wd. do. do.
       12  43 50 52     n. do.   cloudy lt. wd. clear lt. wd.


       *       *       *       *       *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  _For October 1796._
                                                            deg. 100

  Mean temperature of the thermometer at Sunrise:            49   18
  Do. do. of the do.  at 3 P.M.                              58    5
  Do. do. for the whole month                                53   61
  Greatest monthly range between the 25th & 28th             40
  Do. do. in 24 hours, the 25th                              24
  Warmest day the 25th                                       77
  The coldest do. the 28th                                   37

   2 Days it has rained, and but a small quantity.
  11 days it was clear at the observation hours.
  11 do.  it was cloudy at the same  do.
  18 do.  the wind was light, at do.  do.
   2 do.  the wind was high  do.  do.
  18 Days the wind was to the westward of North and South.
  18 Do. the wind was to the Eastward of do.  do.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  [The Editor is exceedingly thankful to MONIMIA for the three
  different views of Winter, which she has so beautifully contrasted.
  --The first is presented to the admirers of Poesy, the two latter
  shall follow in rotation.]


  THE BELLE'S INVOCATION TO WINTER.

  Winter, dear season of delights,
  Of joyous days and brilliant nights!
  Oh haste, on swiftest pinions haste,
  For summer's lingering hours are past,
  And dreary Autumn ready stands
  To yield the sceptre to thy hands.
  Too long by potent heats subdued,
  I've sought refreshment in the wood;
  Where dull retirement's drowsy charms
  Have raised no bustling dear alarms.

  Then winter haste, and bring again
  Enchanting pleasure's golden reign:
  Oh! waft me on thy snowy wings,
  To charming York's bewitching scenes;
  Where fashion all her offerings brings,
  And dulness never intervenes.

  The sprightly dance, the magic song,
  Shall then the festive night prolong;
  The tragic muse shall lend her aid,
  In JOHNSON's matchless charms array'd;
  Or MELMOTH rouse the tender tear,
  Now melt in woe--now start with fear;
  While every sportive Thalian grace,
  In either HODGKINSON we trace.

  Enticing cards shall next invite
  To scenes of ever new delight,
  We'll spend the night at dear _vingt-un_,
  Retire at two, and sleep till noon.
  Now seated in the social sleigh,
  To Haerlem or the Bridge, away;
  While frolic joy usurps the hour,
  Unaw'd by form's despotic power;
  For though her laws we all obey,
  We sometimes love a holiday.

  At thy approach, dear winter, too,
  The Beaux present themselves to view:
  Their nerves by piercing Boreas brac'd,
  And summer's languor's all eras'd;
  They then, attendant at our side,
  Through every scene of pleasure glide;
  Admire our dress, our beauty more,
  And (as in duty bound) _adore_.

  Since such delights I tasted last,
  Near eight insipid months have past;
  Each circling hour a dreary void,
  Despis'd, neglected, unenjoy'd:
  But when the heart in transport swims,
  How light, how active are the limbs!
  And fashion's mutable commands
  Finds business for the head and hands.
  Then, Winter, haste thy golden reign,
  And bring those halcyon days again.

    MONIMIA.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE COMPLAINT.

  Oft has the splendour of a court,
  Where wealth and elegance retort,
    And bliss ideal reigns;
  Midst sparkling gems and brilliant toys,
  Been deem'd inferior to the joys
    Which sport on rural plains.

  But ah! our share of bliss below,
  Bears no proportion to the woe
    That rankles in the heart:
  For all the happiest man can boast,
  Is but a partial bliss at most--
    A happiness in part!

  Say, has that God, whose word from high
  With orbs unnumber'd gem'd the sky,
    And bade the waters flow;
  In mercy, or in wrath, decreed
  That ev'ry heart by turns must bleed,
    And taste the cup of woe?

  Tho' what we wish attend our pray'rs
  A something yet the joy impairs,
    And spreads a dark'ning gloom.
  Our fears are ever on alarm,
  And always point to future harm,
    Which yet may never come.

  Let Casuists inform me why
  Our bliss is tainted with alloy;
    Why mingled thus with woes?
  For such the fate of all our joys,
  That what most ardently we prize,
    We always fear to lose.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ADDRESS TO A FAVOURITE CANARY BIRD.

  Sweet Bird! devoid of ev'ry care,
    You feel no idle rage
  To wander in the fields of air;
    You're happy in your cage.

  You cheerful hop, and plume your wing,
    And all your wants assuage,
  Pick up your food, and drink and sing,
    And revel in your cage.

  Your heart no female charms allure,
    No vain desires engage;
  And many evils, I endure,
    Are strangers to your cage.

  Tho' free to rove, I cannot find,
    On life's disastrous stage,
  Such calm content and peace of mind,
    As rest within your cage.

  Then well you may your song pursue,
    With ills no war you wage;
  And Kings, my Bird! may envy you
    The blessings of your cage.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, November 23, 1796.+  [+No. 73.+


  ON LAUGHING.

To form a true judgment of a person's temper, begin with an observation
on his _laugh_; for the people are never so unguarded as when they are
pleased; and laughter being a visible symptom of some inward
satisfaction, it is then, if ever, we may believe the face; but for
method sake, it will be necessary to point out the several kinds of
laughing, under the following heads:

The dimplers.--The smilers.--The laughers.--The grinners.---The
horse-laughers.

The dimple is practised to give a grace to the features, and is
frequently made a bait to entangle a gazing lover. This was called by
the ancients, the chain-laugh.

The smile is for the most part confined to the fair sex, and their male
retinue; it expresses our satisfaction in a silent sort of approbation,
and does not disorder the features too much, and is therefore practised
by lovers of the most delicate address.

The grin is generally made use of to display a beautiful set of teeth.

The horse-laugh is made use of with great success, in all kinds of
disputation. The proficients in this kind, by a well-timed laugh, will
baffle the most solid argument. This, upon all occasions, supplies the
want of reason, and is received with great applause in coffee-house
disputes; that side the laugh joins with, is generally observed to gain
the better of his antagonist.

The prude has a wonderful esteem for the chain-laugh or dimple; she
looks upon all other kinds of laughter as _excessives_ of levity, and is
never seen upon the most extravagant jests, to disorder her features
with a smile; her lips are composed with a primness peculiar to her
character; all her modesty seems collected into her face, and but very
rarely takes the freedom to sink her cheek into a dimple. The effeminate
<DW2>, by the long exercise of his countenance at the glass, is in the
same situation, and you may generally see him admire his own eloquence
by a dimple.

The young widow is only a chain for a time; her smiles are confined by
decorum, and she is obliged to make her face sympathise with her habit;
she looks demure by art, and by the strictest rule of decency is never
allowed to smile, till the first offer or advance to her is over.

The wag generally calls in the horse-laugh to his assistance.

There are another kind of grinners, which some people term sneerers.
They always indulge their mirth at the expence of their friends, and all
their ridicule consists in unseasonable ill-nature; but they should
consider, that let them do what they will, they never can laugh away
their own folly by sneering at other people's.

The coquette has a great deal of the sneerer in her composition; but she
must be allowed to be a proficient in laughter, and one who can run
through all the exercise of the features: she subdues the formal lover
with the dimple---accosts the <DW2> with a smile--joins with the wit in a
downright laugh:---to vary the air of her countenance, she frequently
rallies with a grin---and when she hath ridiculed her lover quite out of
his understanding, she, to complete his misfortunes, strikes him dumb
with the horse-laugh.

At present the most fashionable is a mixture of the horse-laugh and the
grin, so happily blended together, that the teeth are shown without the
face being distorted.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRAVAGANCE AND AVARICE.

Some rich men starve to-day for fear of starving to-morrow, (as a man
leaps into the sea to avoid being drowned) and the indigent often
consume in an hour what they may feel the want of a year: as if old
people hoarded money because they cannot want it, and young men throw it
away because it is necessary to their subsistence.

He is rich enough that needs neither flatter nor borrow, and truly rich
that is satisfied: want lies in desire.

History tells us of illustrious villains, but there never was an
illustrious miser in nature.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 155.)

O! Why did he request me _such_ a manner to make him a sacrifice which
would have rendered me miserable! I wished then the first time in my
life, that he had spoken to me in a menacing, domineering, or only in a
harsh tone, then I should have had a pretext for resisting him, and
enforcing my own will. But how could I have had the courage to
contradict that tender solicitation, that entreating persuasion of a
father. And yet, was I not necessitated to do something worse, to
counteract my parent? I never felt more strongly than at that moment,
that it was utterly impossible for me to renounce the possession of
Amelia. Alas! never was a situation more unfortunate than mine, and
never has a human heart been reduced to such a dreadful conflict with
itself by two people so dear as my father and Amelia were to me.

I looked around with weeping eyes in search of a person to whom I could
unbosom my straitened heart. I went to the Marquis of Ferei*a.*

  [* Here I have expunged a picture which the painter has drawn of me,
  with too much partiality.

    MARQUIS OF FEREI*A.]

I had not informed him of my return; he uttered a scream of joy when he
saw me enter his apartment. However, his satisfaction at my return made
room to sorrow, when I acquainted him with my deplorable situation.
"Yes, my friend!" said he, after he had viewed me some minutes with
looks of pity, "if it is in your power to subdue that passion, then let
me implore you--"

"Don't finish that sentence!" I interrupted him, "it is impossible!"

"If that is the case, then only two ways are left to you to attain the
consent of your father; one of which is tedious and rugged, but
straight."

"Name it!"

"You must endeavour to work upon the nerves of the paternal heart in
such a manner, that his affection for you gets the better of his
ambition."

"And the second---"

"It is a bye-road which will lead you soon and safely to the
mark---serpents are, however, lurking on that road, and tygers lying in
ambush---"

"Don't name it!"

"I will name it, in order to caution you against it---it is called
Alumbrado. O my friend!" squeezing my hand affectionately, "go take the
straightest road."

"That I will, you have given me a very bad character of that Alumbrado."

"And would not retract a syllable of what I have wrote."

"Where is he, I have not yet seen him."

"He is abroad."

"I am curious to get acquainted with him."

"Don't come near him, lest he catch you in the same snare in which he
has caught your father."

"Fear nothing, I shall endeavour to deliver my father from that shameful
captivity."

"O! if you could do it! But be on your guard, lest he whom you are going
to draw out of the pit, drag you after him into the abyss."

I promised it, and he clasped me in his arms.

Previous to my departure from P----l, I had promised the Marquis to keep
a journal, and to insert the most remarkable incidents, which I was to
communicate to him after my return. He enquired now after that journal.

"It abounds with remarkable incidents," I replied, "and you will learn
strange things on perusing it: I have not mentioned a syllable of them
in my letters to you, in order to surprise you. However, you must curb
your curiosity till I shall have arranged my papers."

The Marquis consented to my request.

My noble friend! you will forgive me that artifice. It was a mere
pretext, in order to stay your curiosity till the revolution should have
taken place; for I had promised the Irishman to observe the strictest
silence till then. It was no mistrust that influenced me, but duty
imposed upon me by the promise I had made; and the event proved that I
acted wisely in doing so.

Four days after my first meeting with my friend, the Irishman stopped me
one evening in going home. His eyes flashed like lightning, his features
were distorted, his countenance was truly dreadful. "Have you," said he,
grinding his teeth, "betrayed the conspiracy to Vascon*ellos?" "No,"
I replied. "Have you warned him of the impending danger in some other
manner?" "No." "Have you disclosed the secret to one of your friends?"
"To no man living." "Can you pledge your honour for the truth of your
declaration?" "I can."

These questions succeeded each other rapidly, and he left me with equal
haste. I was almost petrified at this incident. My astonishment,
however, soon gave place to a different sensation, for I concluded from
the words, and the perturbation of the Irishman, nothing less than that
the plot had been discovered. The intelligence which I gained afterwards
seemed to confirm this conjecture. Vasconcel*os had left his castle
suddenly and crossed the river Ta*o, a circumstance that justly had
raised the suspicion of his having discovered the plot through one of
his numberless spies, and instantly made preparations for seizing the
conspirators. However, this apprehension was refuted that very night.
Vasconcel*os had only been at a feast, and returned late at night in
high spirits, and preceded by a band of musicians, not suspecting that
he would be a dead man at that hour the following night. I myself did
not imagine that the revolution would break out so soon, although I knew
that event to be drawing near. The day following, (December 1, 1640) at
eight o'clock in the morning, the conspirators repaired in small
divisions from all parts of the town to the Ducal Palace, partly on
horseback, and partly on foot, but most of them in coaches or chairs, in
order to conceal their arms. The number of noblemen, most of whom were
the chiefs of their families, amounted to fifty, and that of the
citizens to two hundred. As soon as it had struck eight by the clock of
the cathedral, Pinto Rib**ro, one of the Duke's privy counsellors, gave
the last signal for the attack by firing a pistol, and the conspirators
marched to the different places of their destination.

Pinto Rib**ro repaired with his troop to the palace of Vascon*ellos, who
was so little prepared for the unexpected attack, that he scarcely could
get time to conceal himself in a chest. However, he was discovered,
saluted with a pistol shot, stabbed with a number of poniards, and
thrown out of the window amid the loud exclamation; "The tyrant is dead!
long live liberty and King John, the new Sovereign of Port***l!"

The populace who were assembled under the windows of the palace,
repeated these words with loud acclamations of joy. In order to protect
the corpse against the fury of the mob, the society of charity pressed
their way thro' the crowd, and carried it away on a bier, which is only
used at the burials of slaves.

Meanwhile another troop had penetrated into the palace of the
Vice-Queen. The Archbishop of Bra*a, who was with her, and as a near
relation of Vasconcel**s, had also been doomed to destruction, was saved
with great difficulty from the fury of the conspirators by the
intercession of Miguel d'Al*eida. The Vice-Queen turned to the
conspirators when they rushed into her apartment, declaring that
Vasconce*los had deserved their hatred, but that they would be treated
as rebels if they should proceed a step farther. She however was told,
that so many nobles had not assembled merely on account of a wretch who
ought to have been executed by the public hangman, but in order to
restore the crown to the Duke of Bra--za, who was the lawful owner of
it. The Vice-Queen began to talk of the power which she had been
entrusted with by the king of Spa*n. The reply was, that no one could be
acknowledged as King but John, Duke of B----a. She now offered to run
out of the apartment in order to implore the assistance of the people;
however, some of the noblemen stopped her, telling her it would be
dangerous to suffer her to appear before a people who had been oppressed
many years, and were highly exasperated.---"And what could the people do
to me?" she said with scornful looks. "Nothing else but throw your
highness out of the window;" one of the noblemen replied. The Archbishop
of Bra*a was so much exasperated at this speech, that he seized a sword
in order to avenge the Vice-Queen. Almei*a however embraced and
entreated him to retire, because he had had great difficulty to persuade
the conspirators to spare his life. This discovery disarmed at once the
zeal of the Prelate.

Meanwhile the chiefs of the Spani--ds had been seized, and the
conspirators requested the Vice-Queen to send an order to the Commander
of St. Ge* to surrender; for that castle, which commanded the whole
town, was still in the possession of the Spani--ds. The Vice-Queen
refused to comply with their request; yet when she was told that her
refusal would be the signal for killing all the imprisoned Spani--ds,
she drew up the desired order, expecting that no attention would be paid
to it. However the commander of the castle, who did not dare to defend
himself, executed her order literally, and thus the town was freed of
all fear. It is almost incredible how quickly and easily the four troops
of the confederates took the posts allotted to them, and gained their
aim. But much more astonishing is the readiness and the quickness with
which not only the whole kingdom, but also all foreign settlements
followed the example of the capital. The revolution no sooner had begun
than it was accomplished. It is the only one in its kind, and a similar
one never will happen.---The execution of it proves with how much wisdom
it has been designed and conducted.

It was, however, like a sudden clap of thunder to my father, and
affected him with redoubled force, because it happened so unexpectedly.
The slow rising of the tempest, the silent brewing on the political
horizon had been concealed from him by his retirement from the world,
and even the visible forerunners of it, which at last forced themselves
upon his eyes, appeared to him to be nothing but the lightning arising
from transient vapours. The sudden eruption of the tempest, and its
consequences almost petrified him. His silent stupor soon gave room to
the loudest manifestations of his dissatisfaction; and nothing but
repeated persuasions to yield to stern necessity and superiority, could
prevail upon him to remain quiet.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  COMPASSION---AN ANECDOTE.

A respectable character, after having long figured away in the gay world
at Paris, was at length compelled to live in an obscure retreat in that
city, the victim of severe and unforeseen misfortunes. He was so
indigent, that he subsisted only on an allowance from the parish. Every
week a quantity of bread was sent to him sufficient for his support, and
yet at length he demanded more. On this the curate sent for him. He
went: "Do you live alone?" said the curate; "With whom, sir," answered
the unfortunate man, "is it possible I should live? I am wretched; you
see that I am, since I thus solicit charity, and am abandoned by all the
world." "But, sir," continued the curate, "if you live alone, why do you
ask for more bread than is sufficient for yourself?" The other was quite
disconcerted, and at last, with great reluctance, confessed that he had
a dog. The curate did not drop the subject. He desired him to observe,
that he was only the distributor of the bread that belonged to the poor,
and that it was absolutely necessary that he should dispose of his dog.
"Ah, sir," exclaimed the poor man, weeping; "and if I should lose my
dog, who is there then to love me?" The good pastor melting into tears,
took his purse, and giving it to him, "take this, sir," said he; "this
is mine---this I can give."


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARK.

The wisdom of Solomon has produced few things more just, than that 'we
should not judge of a man's merit by his great qualities, but by the use
he makes of them.'


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  EXTRAORDINARY INSTANCES OF GRATITUDE.

  _From 'WATKINS' Travels into Swisserland, Italy, Sicily,' &c._

Lorenzo Musata, a native of Catania, in Sicily, was, in the year 1774,
taken in a Maltese ship by an Algerine corsair. When the prize was
carried into port, he was sold to a Turkish officer, who treated him
with all the severity that the unfeeling disposition of a barbarian,
rendered intolerable by bigotry, could inflict. It happened fortunately
for the Sicilian, that his master's son Fezulah, (about ten years old)
became extremely fond of him; and, by numberless little offices of
kindness, alleviated his slavery. Lorenzo, in consequence, became as
much attached to the boy, as the boy was to him; so that they were
seldom separate from each other. One day, as Fezulah (being then
sixteen) was bathing in the sea, the current carried him off; and he
certainly would have perished, had not Lorenzo plunged in, and saved
him, at the hazard of his life. His affection was now heightened by
gratitude, and he frequently interceded with his father for his
deliverer's emancipation, but in vain. Lorenzo often sighed for his
country, and Fezulah determined that he should return there. With this
resolution, he one night conveyed him on board an English merchant-ship
that lay off Algiers; and having embraced him with tears, retired with
all that exquisite glow of pleasure and self-approbation, which virtue
feels in acting with gratitude and generosity. The Sicilian returned to
his country, where he found that a relation had bequeathed him a small
tenement; upon which he settled, and enjoyed the sweets of competency
and repose, rendered infinitely more grateful, than they otherwise would
have been, by the remembrance of his past slavery. At length growing
tired of a sedentary life, he accompanied his kinsman, a master of a
vessel, to Genoa. On landing in the D'arsena, he heard a voice cry
out--'Oh, my friend, my Lorenzo,' and instantly found himself in the
arms of Fezulah. He was at first lost in surprize and joy; but how rapid
was the transition to grief, when he perceived by his chains that
Fezulah was a slave!--He had been taken by a Genoese galley on his
voyage to Aleppo. You have already seen that the ruling passions of
Lorenzo's breast were generosity and gratitude; and to these he now
determined to sacrifice every other consideration. Having divided his
purse with his former companion, he took his leave, telling him he
should be again at Genoa within two months. And so he was. He returned
to Sicily; sold his little tenement, though to great disadvantage, and
with the money ransomed his friend, whom he sent back to his country.
Fezulah has lately visited Lorenzo at Catania, where they now are, and
has not only re-purchased for him his estate, but considerably enriched
him.

These actions might by some, who have more prudence than philanthropy,
be deemed enthusiastic; I must however, consider them as genuine virtue,
and am only sorry I cannot be an associate in the friendship of Fezulah
and Lorenzo.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _ANECDOTE of the Celebrated JOHN de WITT._

This illustrious pensionary of Holland, when he was one day asked how he
could get through with ease the immense load of business, that would
oppress most other men; replied, by doing one thing at a time. Another
of his maxims, in the conduct of life, and of still more value than all
his political ones, was to be careful of his health, but careless of his
life. This great man well knew the importance of health to the mental as
well as to the corporeal functions, and at the same time was convinced
that in certain situations, where the duty to one's country, to one's
relations, to one's friends, and to one's self, demands it, that a
sacrifice of those is justly and honourably made, and that not to make
it is "propter vitam vivendi perdere causam." The manner of life of this
great man, was so simple, that though his name appeared by the side of
that of emperors and of kings in many public acts, that he used to walk
from his own house to that of the States at the Hague, attended only by
a single servant, and that one man and one maid-servant composed his
whole domestic establishment.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON IMAGINATION.

The imagination is a quality of the soul, not only a brilliant but an
happy one, for it is more frequently the cause of our happiness, than of
our misery; it presents us with more pleasures than vexations, with more
hopes than fears. Men of dull and heavy dispositions, who are not
affected by any thing, vegetate and pass their lives in a kind of
tranquility, but without pleasure or delight; like animals which see,
feel, and taste nothing, but that which is under their eyes, paws, or
teeth; but the imagination, which is proper to man, transports us beyond
ourselves, and makes us taste future and the most distant pleasures. Let
us not be told, that it makes us also foresee evils, pains, and
accidents, which will perhaps never arrive: it is seldom that
imagination carries us to these panic fears, unless it be deranged by
physical causes. The sick man sees dark phantoms, and has melancholy
ideas; the man in health has no dreams but such as are agreeable; and as
we are more frequently in a good, than a bad state of health, our
natural state is to desire, to hope, and to enjoy. It is true, that the
imagination, which gives us some agreeable moments, exposes us, when
once we are undeceived, to others which are painful. There is no person
who does not wish to preserve his life, his health, and his property;
but the imagination represents to us our life, as a thing which ought to
be very long; our health established and unchangeable; and our fortune
inexhaustible: when the two latter of these illusions cease before the
former, we are much to be pitied.


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARK.

A man who pretends to know every thing, never knows any thing. A man of
general information, as he is called, has, in reality, never any upon a
particular subject.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (_Continued from page 158._)

I began my march about ten o'clock.---At midnight we surprised our
enemies in their camp. Never was a defeat more complete: we killed seven
hundred men; we took nine hundred prisoners; we seized all their cannon,
the military chest, and the ammunition.

At break of day Pulaski marched out to join me with the remainder of the
troops: he brought Lodoiska along with him: we were married in Pulaski's
tent. All the camp resounded with songs of gladness: valour and beauty
were celebrated in joyous epithalamiums: it seemed to be the festival of
Venus and Mars; and it might be truly said, that every soldier appeared
to be impressed with the same sentiments as myself, and that they all
partook of my happiness.

After I had given up the first days of so dear an union entirely to
love, I began to think of recompensing the heroic fidelity of Boleslas.
My father-in-law presented him with one of his castles, situate at some
leagues from the capital; and Lodoiska and myself added to this princely
donation a considerable sum in ready money, on purpose to enable him to
lead an independent and tranquil life.

He first refused to leave us; but we commanded him to go and take
possession of his castle, and live peaceably in that honourable retreat
which his services had so amply merited. On the day of his departure I
took him aside:---"You must go in my name," said I, "and wait upon our
monarch at Warsaw: inform him that I am united in the bonds of Hymen to
the daughter of Pulaski: state to him that I am armed on purpose to
chase out of his kingdom those foreigners who are ravaging it; and tell
him, in particular, that Lovzinski, a foe to the Russians, is not the
enemy of his King."

The recital of our operations during eight succeeding years of bloody
war would be uninteresting.---Sometimes vanquished; much oftener
victorious; equally great in the midst of a defeat, as formidable after
a victory, and always superior to events, Pulaski attracted and fixed
the attention of all Europe, whom he astonished by his long and vigorous
resistance. Obliged to abandon one province, he made incursions into,
and performed new prodigies of valour in another: and it was thus that,
in marching successively throughout all the palatinates, he signalized
in each of them, by some glorious exploit, that eternal hatred which he
had sworn against the enemies of Poland.

Wife of a warrior, daughter of a hero, accustomed to the tumult of a
camp, Lodoiska accompanied us every where. Of five children which she
had borne me, an only daughter alone remained to us, about eighteen
months old. One day, after a most obstinate engagement, the victorious
Russians precipitated themselves towards my tent, on purpose to plunder
it. Pulaski and myself, followed by some nobles, flew to the defence of
Lodoiska, whom we saved with difficulty: my daughter, however, had been
carried off.

This lovely child, by a sage precaution which her mother had wisely made
use of in those times of intestine commotion, had the arms of our family
impressed, by means of a chemical preparation, under her left breast:
but my search after my daughter has hitherto been ineffectual. Alas!
Dorliska, my dear Dorliska, either exists in slavery, or exists no more!

This loss affected me with the most lively sorrow. Pulaski, however,
appeared almost insensible to my misfortunes; either because his mind
was occupied at this moment with the great project which he soon after
communicated to me, or because the miseries of his country alone could
affect his stoic heart. He, as usual, re-assembles the remains of his
army, takes possession of an advantageous post, employs several days in
fortifying, and maintains himself in it for three whole months, against
all the efforts of the Russians.

It, however, became at length necessary that he should abandon this
situation, as provisions were beginning to be scarce.---Pulaski, on this
occasion, came to my tent; and, having ordered every one to retire, when
we alone remained, he addressed me as follows:

"Lovzinski, I have just reason for complaining of your conduct. Formerly
you supported, along with me, the burden of command, and I was enabled
to divide with my son-in-law a part of my laborious avocations: but, for
these two last months, you do nothing but weep; you sigh like a woman!
You have abandoned me in a critical moment, when your assistance was
become the most necessary! You see how I am attacked on all sides;
I fear not for myself; I am not unhappy for my own life: but if we
perish, the state has no longer any defenders.

"Awake, Lovzinski! hew nobly you once participated in my cares! Do not
now remain the useless witness of them. We are indeed bathed in Russian
blood: our fellow citizens are avenged; but they are not saved: nay,
even in a short time we may be able no longer to defend them."

"You astonish me, Pulaski! Whence these sinister auguries?"

"I am not alarmed without reason. Consider our present position: I am
forced to awaken in every heart the love of its country; I have found no
where but degenerate men born for slavery, or weak ones, who, although
penetrated with a sense of their own misfortunes, have bounded all their
views to barren complaints.

"Some true citizens are, indeed, ranged under my standards; but eight
long and bloody campaigns have lessened their number, and almost
extinguished them. I become enfeebled by my very victories:--our enemies
appear more numerous after their defeats."

"I repeat to you, Pulaski, once more, that you astonish me! In
circumstances no less disastrous, no less unhappy, than the present,
I have beheld you sustain yourself by your courage.   .   .   .   .
   .   ."

"Do you think that it now abandons me? True valour does not consist in
being blind to danger, but in braving it after it has been foreseen. Our
enemies prepare for my defeat; however, if you choose, Lovzinski, the
very day which they point out for their triumph shall perhaps be that
destined to record their ruin, and achieve the safety of our
fellow-citizens!"

"If I choose! Can you doubt my sentiments? Speak! what would you have
done?"

"To strike the boldest stroke that I ever meditated! Forty chosen men
are assembled at Czenstachow along with Kaluvski, whose bravery is well
known; they want a chief, able, firm, intrepid---It is you whom I have
chosen."

"Pulaski, I am ready."

"I will not dissemble to you the danger of the enterprize; the event is
doubtful, and, if you do not succeed, your ruin is inevitable."

"I tell you that I am ready, therefore explain yourself."

"You are not ignorant, that scarce four thousand men now fight under my
command: with these undoubtedly I have still an opportunity of
tormenting our enemies; but with such feeble means, I dare not hope to
be ever able to force them to leave our provinces. All the nobility
would flock beneath our banners, if the King were in my camp."

"What do you say? Can you hope that the King would ever consent to
repair hither?"

"No: but he must be forced to do so."

"Forced!"

"Yes! I know that an ancient friendship connects you with M. de P----:
but since you have supported, along with Pulaski, the cause of liberty,
you know also that you ought to sacrifice every thing to the good of
your country; that an interest so sacred--------"

"I know my duty, and I am ready to fulfil it; but what is it that you
now propose to me? The King never leaves Warsaw."

"True; and it is, therefore, at Warsaw that you must go and find him: it
is from the heart of the capital that he must be forced."

"What preparations have you made for so great an enterprise?"

"You behold yon Russian army, three times as strong as mine, and which
has been encamped three months in sight of us: its General, tranquil at
present within his entrenchments, impatiently waits until, forced by
famine, I shall surrender myself at discretion.

"Behind my camp are marshes which he thinks impracticable: the moment
that it is night, we shall traverse them. I have disposed of every thing
in such a manner that the enemy will be deceived, and not perceive my
retreat until it is too late. I hope therefore to be able to steal more
than an hour's march upon them, and, if fortune seconds me, perhaps a
whole day. I shall advance straight forward to Warsaw by the great road
that leads to the capital, notwithstanding the efforts of the little
Russian bands who hover continually in its neighbourhood. I shall either
encounter and conquer these separately, or, if, they form a junction on
purpose to stop my progress, I shall at least be able to occupy their
attention in such a manner that they will not be able to impede your
operations.

"In the mean time, Lovzinski, you will have preceded me. Your forty
followers disguised, and armed only with sabres, poniards and pistols
concealed under their clothes, shall have arrived at Warsaw by different
roads. You must wait there until the King has left his palace; you are
then to carry him off, and to bring him to my camp. The enterprise is
bold---rash, if you please so to term it: the march to Warsaw is
difficult; the stay in it dangerous; the return from it extremely
perilous. If you are vanquished, if you are taken prisoner, you will
perish, Lovzinski, but you will perish a martyr to liberty! and Pulaski,
jealous of so glorious an end, sighing at being obliged to survive you,
shall send Russians, thousands of Russians, to accompany you to the
tomb!

"But on the contrary, if an all-powerful Deity; if a God, the protector
of Poland, has inspired me with this hardy project, to terminate her
evils; if thy good fortune shall procure a success equal to thy courage,
what a glorious prosperity will be achieved by means of this noble
daring!

"M. de P*** will not see in my camp, other than citizen-soldiers, the
foes of foreigners, but still faithful to their king: under my patriotic
tents, he will respire, as it were, the air of liberty, and the love of
his country: the enemies of the state shall become his; our brave
nobility, ashamed of their indolence, will readily combat under the
royal banners, for the common cause; the Russians shall either be cut
in pieces, or be obliged to pass the frontiers---my friend, in thee thy
country shall behold her saviour!"     *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Pulaski kept his word. That very night he accomplished his retreat, with
equal skill and success, by traversing the marshes in profound silence.
"My friend," said my father-in-law to me, as soon as we were out of the
reach of the enemy, "it is now time that you should leave us. I know
well that my daughter has more courage than another woman; but she is a
tender wife, and an unfortunate mother. Her tears will affect you, and
you will lose in her embraces that strength of mind, that dignity of
soul, which now becomes more necessary to you than ever: I advise you,
therefore, to be gone, without bidding her farewell."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  HUMANITY.

As pain is what we are all naturally averse to, our own sensibility of
it should teach us to commiserate it in others, not wantonly or
unmeritedly to inflict it. But the absurd barbarity of our prejudices
and customs often leads us to transgress this rule.--When we are under
apprehension that we ourselves shall be the sufferers of pain, we
naturally shrink back at the very idea of it: we can then abominate it,
we detest it with horror; we plead hard for mercy; and we feel that _we
can feel_. But when man is out of the question, humanity sleeps, and the
heart grows callous.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  INSTANCE OF BENEVOLENCE.

A gentleman, being at Marseilles, hired a boat with an intention of
sailing for pleasure; he entered into conversation with the two young
men who owned the vessel, and learned, that they were not watermen by
trade, but silversmiths; and that when they could be spared from their
usual business, they employed themselves in that way to increase their
earnings. On expressing his surprise at their conduct, and imputing it
to an avaricious disposition; "Oh! sir," said the young men, "if you
knew our reasons, you would ascribe it to a better motive. Our father,
anxious to assist his family, scraped together all he was worth;
purchased a vessel for the purpose of trading to the coast of Barbary,
but was unfortunately taken by a pirate, carried to Tripoli, and sold
for a slave. He writes word, that he is luckily fallen into the hands of
a master who treats him with great humanity; but that the sum which is
demanded for his ransom is so exorbitant, that it will be impossible for
him ever to raise it; he adds, that we must therefore relinquish all
hope of ever seeing him, and be contented, that he has as many comforts
as his situation will admit. With the hopes of restoring to his family a
beloved father, we are striving by every honest means in our power, to
collect the sum necessary for his ransom, and we are not ashamed to
employ ourselves in the occupation of watermen." The gentleman was
struck with this account, and on his departure, made them a handsome
present.

Some months afterwards the young men being at work in their shop, were
greatly surprised at the sudden arrival of their father, who threw
himself into their arms; exclaiming, at the same time that he was
fearful they had taken some unjust method to raise the money for his
ransom, for it was too great a sum for them to have gained by their
ordinary occupation. They professed their ignorance of the whole affair,
and could only suspect they owed their father's release to that
stranger, to whose generosity they had been before so much obliged.

After Montesquieu's death, an account of this affair was found among his
papers, and the sum actually remitted to Tripoli for the old man's
ransom. It is a pleasure to hear of such an act of benevolence performed
even by a person totally unknown to us; but the pleasure is infinitely
increased, when it proves the union of virtue and talents in an author
so renowned as Montesquieu.


       *       *       *       *       *

  RETROSPECTION.

Happy is it for those who have committed material errors, if they have
the inclination and opportunity of seriously reflecting and repenting;
but still more happy are those who can (as far as human frailty will
permit) look back with satisfaction on their past life, and thus avoid
the misery of bitter reflections, which is an almost insupportable
addition to the natural calamities of this world. A lady once said to a
pious friend, "I should like to die your death, but I should not like to
live your life;" meaning, that it was too dull and insipid for her.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

  MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 2d inst. by the. Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. CEPHAS
ROSS, to Miss MARY BOWMAN, both of this city.

On Saturday se'nnight, at Greenwich, by the Rev. Mr. Woodhull, Mr.
NEHEMIAH DENTON, of Brooklyn, (L.I.) to Miss ELIZA BERTIS, daughter of
Mr. Peter Bertis of that place.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. MICHAEL SHATZEL, of this
city, to Miss BARBARA WOOD, of Harvestraw.

On Tuesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Coles, Mr. JAMES MITCHELL, of
Dosoris, to Miss RHODA HALL, daughter of Darius Hall, Esq. of Oak-Neck,
Oyster Bay, (L.I.)

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Phoebus, Mr. THOMAS SEAMAN,
to Miss ELIZABETH LOWREY, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, JACOB HOCHSTRASSER, Esq. of Albany,
to Miss ELIZA T. MILLER, of this city.

On Thursday evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, GEORGE SIMPSON, Esq. to
Miss MARY PENN, both late of England, now of this City.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 13th to the 19th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  Nov. 13  36 50 50     ne sw.  clear cloudy, lt. wind calm.
       14  47    50     nw. s.  cloudy do. light wind do.
       15  48    52 75  s. sw.  foggy do. lt wd. do. sm. rn.
       16  43    43     nw. n.  clear do. high wind ditto.
       17  26 50 40     ne. e.  clear cloudy, light wind do.
       18  46 50 50 50  sw s.   cloudy cr. do. lt wd. sm. rn.
       19  40    56 75  s. do.  foggy clear, light wind do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SONNET TO MARIA.

  How oft, dear maid, enamour'd bards have sung,
    The blooming beauties of their fav'rite fair;
  Petrarch to Laura's charms his lyre has strung,
    And Prior's muse oft braided Cloe's hair.

  Let others sing the cheek, whose roseate hue
    Transcends the blushing beauties of the rose,
  The lip, like cherries dipt in balmy dew,
    From whence a breath more sweet than violets flows.

  Whilst I, a youthful bard, to fleeting fame,
    And flattery's menial arts alike unknown;
  All common-place analogy disclaim,
    Comparing you---unto yourself alone:
  For who but folly's sons would needless toil,
  To place the sterling gem beneath the foil?


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

       THE POOR MAN'S ADDRESS TO WINTER.

  Oh stay a while--unfeeling Winter--grant
    A little respite to a hapless wretch;
  Who now, though doom'd to misery and want,
    On the bare ground his weary limbs can stretch.

  He _now_, when bath'd in night's unhealthful dews,
    Can point his bosom to the solar ray;
  That friendly ray shall warmth and life infuse,
    And with its cheerful influence bless the day.

  He _now_, at "stern necessity's command,"
    Can roam in quest of his precarious food;
  Claim a small pittance from some generous hand,
    And for a moment feel each pang subdu'd.

  But when thy snows and biting frosts descend,
    Where shall he lay his unprotected head?
  What blazing hearth its welcome flames shall lend,
    What careful hand prepare the needful bed?

  And how, when Famine shews his haggard face?
    Shall these frail knees assay the treacherous ice;
  How bear me safely to some distant place,
    Amid the cruel sports of youthful vice?

  And oh! how oft shall anguish rend this breast,
    When luxury shall pass triumphant by,
  In all the pride of costly ermine drest,
    And cast on poverty a scornful eye.

  But keener pangs, alas! this heart shall feel,
    When some poor partner in affliction's lot
  Shall scenes of equal misery reveal,
    And pour of deep despair the mournful note.

  Oh then, how freely would this hand bestow
    A little aid to soothe a brother's grief,
  Wipe the moist traces from the cheek of woe,
    And send to every want a kind relief!

  But e'en this comfort cruel fate denies,
    And nought but powerless pity can I give;
  Still doom'd to hear the wretch's piercing cries,
    To hear--and, oh distraction! not relieve.

  Then yet a while, unfeeling Winter, rest
    Thy hoary head on Zembla's frozen lap--
  But hark! I hear from far thy voice unblest,
    And see thy thick'ning storms the heavens enwrap.

  Oh! then, in dreadful pity aim thy blow:
    Let thy keen blasts congeal this vital dream,
  Then o'er these limbs thy snowy mantle throw,
    More useful far than Sol's refulgent beam.

  Thus let me leave a world of care and strife,
  And wake to scenes of everlasting life.

    MONIMIA.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ODE TO BACCHUS.

  Sportive Bacchus, hail to thee,
  Wine's supreme divinity!
  Bards mistaken oft have sung
  Thee, for ever blithe and young,
  Jovial, ruddy, gay and free,
  Always fraught with mirth and glee,
  Blest with power to impart
  Balm that heals the wounded heart!

    Shall brain-wove fiction then alone inspire
      The enraptur'd poet's adulating lays?
    If heav'n-born Truth attune her golden lyre,
      Where are his boasted honours, where his bays?
  Like conscious guilt, which seeks the shades of night,
  They fly from truth's investigating light.

  Now let the god himself appear,
    Midst all the sport of mingled dance:
  What sounds discordant strike mine ear,
    As Bacchus and his crew advance.

  Behold! the god approaching nigh,
    His face with deadly paleness fraught,
  No pleasure sparkling in his eye;
    A thinking being void of thought.

  And next his car, so! madd'ning rage,
  (Prepar'd on rape or murder to engage)
  High brandishes his angry arm,
  And spreads around the dire alarm.

  While white-rob'd Virtue, child of Heav'n!
    Whose pow'rs untainted joys obtain,
  By noise and dissipation driv'n,
    Fearfully flies the giddy train.

  Reason, fair Virtue's bright compeer!
    Beholds and joins her rapid flight,
  Intent to seek some happier sphere,
    Where mirth and innocence unite.

  Still as they go, with pitying eye
    They view the Bacchanalian crew,
  For these they heave the parting sigh,
    And kindly look their last adieu.

  Next dire diseases crowd his train,
    With inexhausted hoards of woe;
  Fevers replete with burning pain,
    Lingering consumptions, sure tho' slow,

    And last, to close the horrid scene,
    With haggard eye, and frightful mien,
    Lo! the grim tyrant Death appears;
    A ghastly smile his visage wears,
  Whilst in his hand exultingly he shews;
  Emblem of timeless fate! the wither'd half-blown rose.

    If such th' attendants which belong
  To Bacchus, "roseate god of wine,"
  O make me, rose-lipp'd Temp'rance, thine,
    And shield me from so dire a throng--
  Till youth, with all its joys are flown,
  And age has mark'd me for his own.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, November 30, 1796.+  [+No. 74.+


  THE GOOD HUSBAND.

The good husband is one, who, wedded not by interest but by choice, is
constant as well from inclination as from principle; he treats his wife
with delicacy as a woman, with tenderness as a friend: he attributes her
follies to her weakness, her imprudence to her inadvertency; he passes
them over therefore with good nature, and pardons them with indulgence:
all his care and industry are employed for her welfare; all his strength
and powers are exerted for her support and protection; he is more
anxious to preserve his own character and reputation, because her's is
blended with it: lastly, the good husband is pious and religious, that
he may animate her faith by his practice, and enforce the precepts of
Christianity by his own example: that as they join to promote each
other's happiness in this world, they may unite together in one eternal
joy and felicity in that which is to come.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE GOOD WIFE.

The good wife is one, who, ever mindful of the solemn contract which she
has entered into, is strictly and conscientiously virtuous, constant,
and faithful to her husband; chaste, pure, and unblemished in every
thought, word, and deed; she is humble and modest, from reason and
conviction; submissive from choice, and obedient from inclination; what
she acquires by love and tenderness, she preserves by prudence and
discretion; she makes it her business to serve, and her pleasure to
oblige her husband; as conscious that every thing which promotes his
happiness, must in the end contribute to her own: her tenderness
relieves his cares, her affection softens his distress, her good humour
and complacency lessen and subdue his affliction; she openeth her mouth,
as Solomon says, "with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness;
she looketh well to the ways of her husband, and eateth not the bread of
idleness: her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also,
and he praiseth her." Lastly, as a good and pious Christian, she looks
up with an eye of gratitude to the great dispenser and disposer of all
things, to the husband of the widow, and father of the fatherless,
intreating his divine favour and assistance in this and every other
moral and religious duty; well satisfied, that if she duly and
punctually discharges her several offices and relations in this life,
she shall be blessed and rewarded for it in another.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

After Sir Philip Sidney was wounded near the walls of Zetphen, the horse
he rode upon being rather furiously choleric than bravely proud, forced
him to forsake the field, but not his back, as the noblest and fittest
bier to carry a martial commander to his grave. In this sad progress,
passing along by the rest of the army, where his uncle, Robert, earl of
Leicester, the general, was, and being thirsty with excess of bleeding,
he called for drink, which was presently brought him. But, as he was
putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along,
who had been wounded at the same time, ghastly casting up his eyes at
the bottle: sir Philip perceiving this, took it from his head, before
drinking, and delivered it to the poor man, with these words: "THY
NECESSITY IS YET GREATER THAN MINE."

This generous behaviour of the gallant knight ought not to pass without
a penegyric. All his deeds of bravery, his politeness, his learning, his
courtly accomplishments, do not reflect so much honour upon him, as this
one disinterested and truly heroic action. It discovered so tender and
benevolent a nature: a mind so fortified against pain; a heart so
overflowing with generous sentiments to relieve, in opposition to the
violent call of his own necessities, a poor man languishing in the same
distress, before himself, that none can read it without the highest
admiration. Bravery is often constitutional: fame may be the motive to
seats of arms; a statesman and a courtier may act from interest; but a
sacrifice so generous as this, can be made by none but those who are
good as well as great; who are noble minded, and gloriously
compassionate, like Sidney.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SELF-LOVE.

Nothing is so capable of diminishing self-love as the observation, that
we disapprove at one time what we approve at another.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 163.)

His resentment against the new King remained however rankling in his
heart; he did homage to the Sovereign with visible satisfaction, and, as
I suspect, not without secret reservation, while I swore to him the oath
of allegiance, in hopes that I should soon renew it to the lawful King,
who was still concealed. My country now was delivered from the Span--sh
yoke, but my heart remained in the thraldom of love. The fetters which
it was chained with were, indeed, nothing but garlands, but nevertheless
stronger than bonds of adamant; how was it therefore to be expected,
that I should have been inclined and capable to obey my father, who
wanted me to break them? This bondage was so sweet to me, and my sharing
it with an adored woman, rendered it dearer to me than the most
unbounded liberty; it was my sole and most ardent wish to tie the bonds
by which we were united still faster. But alas! my father desired me not
to mention a syllable of a union with Amelia, and without his sanction I
durst not expect her consent! The Marquis of Ferei*a exhausted in vain
all his eloquence in order to melt the flinty heart of my inexorable
parent. In that wretched situation I sent several times for Alumbrado's
assistance, yet I always shrunk back at the idea of owing any obligation
to that man. His first visit confirmed the remarks of the Marquis, and
all the civilities he lavished upon me, served only to strengthen my
antipathy against him. My soul was as gloomy as my exterior situation.
The view of my heaven was overdarkened by clouds which grew darker and
darker. Only one star was glimmering through the blackness of that
dismal night; one single star to which I could direct my weeping eyes.
I was confident that the Irishman could be no stranger to my comfortless
situation, and would aid me by his power, imagining that he now had the
best opportunity of rewarding my reliance in him, and would undoubtedly
conduct me over insurmountable obstacles to the promised land of
happiness. Meanwhile the time when my father expected my declaration for
the Princess of L*** was approaching with gigantic strides, and the
Irishman did not appear. Anxiety struggled with my hope. I enquired
every where for my protector, but I enquired in vain, and my anxiety
increased to black despair.

   *   *   *   *   *
     *   *   *   *

    CONTINUATION

  By the MARQUIS of FEREI*A.

Here a great deal is wanting in the memoirs of the Duke of Cami*a, which
I cannot leave unsupplied, otherwise an important part of his history
will be lost, and the rest remain obscure. To fill up this empty space,
will be the last duty of friendship I shall be able to perform for that
unhappy man. I shall, therefore, continue his mournful tale, till I can
connect again the thread of my narration to the remaining papers of the
Duke.

The grief assailing the heart of my unhappy friend soon depicted itself
so strongly in his countenance, that I began to tremble for his health.
Alas! my apprehension was but too soon realized, his sufferings being
increased, by an information he received from the brother of the new
King, to a degree which entirely overcame his enfeebled spirits.

"My dearest friend," the Prince wrote to him, "I have not discontinued,
since your departure, the inquiries after your tutor, which I began when
you were here. However, I should undoubtedly have continued them with
the greatest prudence and activity, without coming any nearer to the
mark, if the very man whom I had been endeavouring to find out had not
spared me that fruitless talk.

"Yes, my friend, your tutor has personally surprised me in a most
pleasing manner. But, O! my friend, moderate your joy when reading these
lines. The meeting with that dear man was like airy vision, which
appears and vanishes again after a few moments. Your tutor came, and
went to those realms from whence no mortal can return.

"Five days are now elapsed, since he astonished me, one morning, by his
unexpected visit. I soon observed with surprise, that he returned the
manifestations of my joy with much restraint, while his inquisitive
looks were doubtfully directed at me. His relation soon unfolded this
mystery.

"Will you believe it, my friend, that in that very night, when we
expected him in vain with so much impatience and anxiety, he had been
taken up secretly, carried off, and imprisoned? He was on his way to my
house, when he met a carriage which he mistook for mine. In this opinion
he was confirmed, when the coachman stopt the horses, and a servant in
my livery opened the coach door for him. Two unknown gentlemen, who were
sitting in the carriage, begged him to get in, pretending to have been
sent by me to fetch him. He joined them without hesitation, and when the
coachman drove out of the town gate, instead of taking the road to my
house, he was told that one more guest was to be fetched. This pretended
guest made his appearance in the suburbs, and as soon as he had got in
the carriage, pointed a dagger at the heart of your tutor, while his two
associates seized and tied his hands. All this was effected before Count
Galvez could gain time for resistance, which would have been equally
dangerous and fruitless. He was told that if he would submit silently to
his fate, no injury should be offered him, but that he would be stabbed
without mercy if he should cry for assistance; at the same time he was
blind-folded, and after about half an hour's ride the carriage stopped,
when your tutor was taken out of it, and conducted over several flights
of steps, through long passages, in a room where he was shut up, and
left alone.

"When Count Galvez removed the bandage from his eyes, he found himself
in a spacious apartment, lighted with lamps; two smaller rooms were on
each side, but none of them had windows. Some time after his arrival,
two masked men brought him victuals and drink, which afterwards was
repeated every noon and evening. He was in want of nothing, liberty
excepted. He could not leave his apartments, which were bolted on the
outside, and having not been able to persuade his masked attendants to
answer to his questions, he could not learn where he was imprisoned. The
frequent chiming of bells, the singing of hymns, which seemed to be very
near him, and several other circumstances, made him, however, suppose
that he was confined in a cloister.

"It is remarkable, that during his confinement, he was obliged to sit to
a sculptor, who executed his statue so masterly, that it resembled him
in the most striking manner. The artist too was masked and nothing could
persuade him to tell for what purpose the statue was designed.

"At length the wished for hour of enlargement arrived. The prisoner was
called up between one and two o'clock in the morning, and ordered to
prepare for his departure. He was blindfolded and conducted to the
street, where he was placed in a coach, and threatened with instant
death if he should dare to utter a syllable. After half an hour's ride
he was taken out of the coach, upon which, his conductors drove away at
a furious rate. As soon as he perceived that he was alone, he removed
the bandage from his eyes, and found himself in a lonely part of the
suburbs, and with the first dawn of day called at my house.

"As soon as Count Galvez had finished his extraordinary tale, I summoned
my servants, in order to clear myself from a suspicion which afflicted
me severely, and examined them rigorously in his presence. It was,
however, proved that my horses and carriages, as well as my servants,
had been at home at the hour when the Count was carried off, which
rendered it very probable that the _Unknown_ must have imitated my
equipage and livery, in order to ensnare the Count with greater ease.

"Your tutor enquired much, and with great affection after you: I told
him as much as I knew, but he was not satisfied with it. The following
morning he departed for Lisb*n, in hopes of meeting you there, after a
long and painful separation. I rode on horseback by his carriage in
order to accompany him a few miles; the impatient desire of seeing you
soon made your tutor urge the postillion to press his horses onward; the
fellow was offended at the incessant solicitations of the Count, and
drove slower, which vexed our friend to such a degree, that he exhorted
the postillion rather warmly to proceed faster, adding some menaces. The
postillion being provoked by your tutor's threats, whipped his horses
furiously, without taking proper notice of the neighbourhood of the
precipice, which you will recollect; the animals grew wild, and the
carriage was precipitated into the abyss. The Count scarcely breathed,
when he received assistance, and the postillion was dashed to pieces
against the rocks.

"I ordered instantly all possible care to be taken of our friend;
however, a violent vomiting of blood, the consequence of a contusion on
his breast, put an end to his life the subsequent day. A few minutes
before his death, he wrote the following note, but was soon interrupted
by a fainting fit.

"'Ere while we were separated by men, but now we are going to be
disunited by God. I do not murmur; yet I should have been happy to see
you once more. On the brink of eternity I am expanding my hands,
blessing thee, excellent young man! Weep not at my death; we shall meet
again in yon blissful mansions, where all good men shall be reunited for
ever. Honour my memory by keeping firm to my principles, which from my
soul, flowed over in your mind.'"

Two mortal wounds like those which the ill-fated love affair, and the
death of Count Galvez inflicted on the heart of my friend, confined him
to a sick bed. Now happened what I had dreaded, without my having been
able to prevent it. Alumbrado, who was returned from his journey,
intruded on my friend, and soon traced out the safest road to his heart.
My friend was weak enough to communicate to him the situation in which
he was with regard to Amelia; and Alumbrado hesitated not a moment to
procure him the consent of his father. The power exercised by that man
over the Marquis was so great, that the latter suffered himself to be
persuaded to write to the Countess, and to invite her in the most
honourable and flattering manner, to render his son happy by giving him
her hand.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON HYPOCRISY.

Mr. Addison somewhere observes, that hypocrisy at the fashionable end of
the town, is very different from hypocrisy in the city. The fashionable
hypocrite endeavours to appear more vicious than he really is; the other
kind of hypocrite more virtuous. The former is afraid of every thing
that has a shew of religion in it, and would be thought engaged in any
criminal gallantries and amours, of which he is not guilty. The latter
assumes a face of sanctity, and covers a multitude of vices, under a
seemingly religious deportment. There is a third sort of hypocrites, who
not only deceive the world, but very often impose upon themselves. These
different kinds of hypocrisy cannot be too much detested. The first is a
flagrant depravity of mind, which induces a man to prefer the appearance
of vice to virtue, and despicable to an amiable character. The second
disgraces and abuses virtue by assuming her resemblance; the last,
though not more criminal, is more dangerous than either of the former,
as it is accompanied with mental blindness, and self deception.


       *       *       *       *       *

  NATURE.

Nature only is lovely, and nothing unnatural can ever be amiable. The
genuine expressions of truth and nature are happily calculated to
impress the heart with pleasure.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  VIRTUE REWARDED:
  A Pastoral Tale:

  [From the German of Gesner.]

Glicera was beautiful and poor. Scarce had she numbered sixteen springs,
when she lost the mother who had brought her up. Reduced to servitude,
she kept the flocks of Lamon, who cultivated the lands of a rich citizen
of Mitylene.

One day, her eyes flowing with tears, she went to visit her mother's
solitary tomb. She poured upon her grave a cup of pure water, and
suspended crowns of flowers to the branches of the bushes she had
planted round it. Seated beneath the mournful shade, and drying up her
tears, she said, 'O thou most tender of mothers, how dear to my heart is
the remembrance of thy virtues! If ever I forget the instructions thou
gavest me, with such a tranquil smile, in that fatal moment, when
inclining thy head upon my bosom, I saw thee expire; if ever I forget
them! may the propitious Gods forsake me, and may thy sacred shade
forever fly me! It is thou that hast just preserved my innocence. I come
to tell thy manes all. Wretch that I am! Is there any one on earth to
whom I dare open my heart?

'Nicias, the Lord of this country, came hither to enjoy the pleasures of
the autumn. He saw me; he regarded me with a soft and gracious air. He
praised my flocks, and the care I took of them: he often told me that I
was genteel, and made me presents. Gods! how was I deceived! but in the
country who mistrusts? I said to myself, how kind our master is! may the
Gods reward him! all my vows shall be for him; 'tis all that I can do;
but I will forever do it. The rich are happy, and favoured by the
immortals. When bountiful, like Nicias, they deserve to be happy. This
to myself I said, and let him take my hand, and press it in his. The
other day I blushed, and dared not look up, when he put a gold ring upon
my finger. See, he said, what is engraved on this stone? A winged child,
who smiles like thee; and 'tis he that must make thee happy. As he spoke
these words, he stroaked my cheeks, that were redder than the fire. He
loves me; he has the tenderness of a father for me; how have I deserved
so much kindness from a Lord, and so rich and powerful? O, my mother,
that was all thy poor child thought. Heavens! how was I deceived! this
morning he found me in the orchard; he chuck'd me familiarly under the
chin. Come, he said, bring me some new-blown flowers to the myrtle
bower, that I may there enjoy their sweet perfumes. With haste I chose
the finest flowers; and, full of joy, I ran to the bower. Thou art, he
said, more nimble than the Zephyrs, and more beautiful than the Goddess
of flowers. Then, immortal Gods! I yet tremble at the thought; then he
catch'd me in his arms, and pressed me to his bosom, and all that love
can promise, all that is soft and seducing, flow'd from his lips.
I wept; I trembled. Unable to resist such arts, I had been forever lost.
No, thou wou'dst no longer have had a child, if thy remembrance had not
watch'd over my heart. Ah! if thy worthy mother had even seen thee
suffer such disgraceful caresses! that thought alone gave me power to
force myself from the arms of the seducer and fly.

'Now I come; O with what comfort is it that I still dare! I come to weep
over thy grave. Alas! poor and unfortunate as I am, why did I lose thee
when so young. I droop like a flower, deprived of the support that
sustain'd its feeble stalk. This cup of pure water I pour to the honour
of thy manes. Accept this garland! receive my tears! may they penetrate
even to thy ashes! Hear, O my mother, hear; 'tis to thy dear remains,
that repose beneath those flowers, which my eyes have so often bedewed:
'tis to thy sacred shade I here renew the vows of my heart. Virtue,
innocence, and the fear of the Gods, shall make the happiness of my
days. Therefore poverty shall never disturb the serenity of my mind. May
I do nothing that thou wou'dst not have approv'd with a smile of
tenderness, and I shall surely be, as thou wast, belov'd of Gods and
men: For I shall be gentle, modest, and industrious, O my mother, by
living thus, I hope to die like thee, with smiles and tears of joy.'

Glicera, on quitting the place, felt all the powerful charms of virtue.
The gentle warmth that was diffused over her mind, sparkled in her eyes,
still wet with tears. She was beautiful as those days of spring, when
the sun shines through a transient shower.

With a mind quite tranquil, she was hastening back to her labour, when
Nicias ran to meet her. 'O Glicera!' he said, and tears flowed down his
cheeks, 'I have heard thee at thy mother's tomb. Fear nothing, virtuous
maid! I thank the immortal Gods! I thank that virtue, which hath
preserved me from the crime of seducing thy innocence. Forgive me,
chaste Glicera! forgive, nor dread in me a fresh offence. My virtue
triumphs through thine. Be wise, be virtuous, and be ever happy. That
meadow surrounded with trees, near to thy mother's tomb, and half the
flock thou keepest, are thine.

'May a man of equal virtue complete the happiness of thy days! weep not,
virtuous maid! but accept the present I offer thee with a sincere heart,
and suffer me from henceforth to watch over thy happiness. If thou
refusest me, a remorse for offending thy virtue will be the torment of
all my days. Forget, O vouchsafe to forget my crime, and I will revere
thee as a propitious power that hath defended me against myself.'

  [[Sources:

  Original: Daphne, prose, by Salomon Gessner 1730-1788.
  Translations: Aminta, prose, in Gessner's works, 1802 (different
    translation than the one given here);
  prose, "Nicias and Glicera";
  verse, "Daphne, or the Orphan".]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE MISER AND PRODIGAL.

The hoarding miser torments himself, and the spendthrift punishes the
innocent. The hoarder heaps up for others; and the prodigal scatters
what others had heaped. The hoarder thinks so much of the time to come,
as to forget the present; the squanderer has his thoughts so much taken
up with the present, as to forget the future. The first lives as if he
were never to die, and the last as if he had but a day to enjoy. Both
are unprofitable members of society; the one occasioning a stoppage in
the circulation, and the other an haemorrhage. The hoarding miser is like
a fog that infests the air; the prodigal resembles an outrageous storm
that overturns all in its way. The hoarding miser is a ridiculous
creature, and the prodigal a noxious animal.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 166.)

Pulaski pressed me, but in vain, for I was unable to consent. As soon as
Lodoiska knew that I should depart alone, and perceived that we were
resolved not to inform her whither, she shed torrents of tears, and
strove to detain me. I began to hesitate.

Lovzinski, cries my father-in-law at this critical moment, Lovzinski,
depart! Wife, children, relations, all ought to be sacrificed, when it
is necessary for the salvation of your country.

I instantly mount my horse, and make such haste, that I arrive by the
middle of next day at Czenstachow. I here found forty brave men waiting
for me, and determined for the most hazardous enterprise.

"Gentlemen," said I to them, "we are now met on purpose to carry a king
out of the midst of his own capital. Those capable of attempting such a
bold enterprise, are alone capable of effecting it: either success or
death awaits on us!"

After this short harangue we prepare to depart. Kaluvski, forewarned of
our design, had already procured twelve waggons, loaded with hay and
straw, each of which was drawn by four good horses.

We instantly disguise ourselves as peasants; we hide our clothes, our
sabres, our pistols, and the saddles of our horses, in the hay with
which our waggons were partly filled; we agree upon certain signs, and I
give them a _watch-word_, to be used according to circumstances.--Twelve
of the conspirators, commanded by Kaluvski, enter into Warsaw,
accompanied by as many waggons, which they themselves conduct. I divide
the rest of my little troop into several brigades, on purpose to avert
suspicion: each is ordered to march at some distance from the other, and
to gain the capital by different gates.

We depart, and on Saturday the 2d of November, 1771, arrive at Warsaw,
and lodge together at a convent belonging to the Dominicans.

On the next day, which was Sunday, and which will for ever form a
memorable epoch in the annals of Poland, one of my people of the name of
Stravinski, being covered with rags, places himself near the collegiate
church, and soon after proceeds demanding charity even at the gates of
the royal palace, where he observes every thing that passed. Several of
the conspirators walked up and down the six narrow streets, in the
neighbourhood of the great square, where Kaluvski and myself were
posted. We remain in ambuscade during the whole day, and part of the
afternoon.

At six o'clock at night the king leaves the palace; he is followed, and
is seen to enter the hotel of his uncle, the grand chancellor of
Lithuania.

All our followers receive notice of this event, and assemble instantly:
they throw off their miserable clothes, saddle their horses, and prepare
their arms, in the large square belonging to the convent, where their
movements are entirely concealed. They then sally forth, one after the
other, under favour of the night. Too well known in Warsaw to hazard
appearing there, without disguising my self, I still wear my peasant's
dress, and I mount an excellent horse, caparisoned, however, after the
common manner.

I then point out my followers the different posts in the suburbs, which
I had assigned them before our departure from the convent, and they were
dispersed in such a manner, that all the avenues to the palace of the
grand chancellor were carefully and strictly guarded.

Between nine and ten o'clock at night, the king comes forth on purpose
to return home; and we remark, with joy, that his attendants were far
from being numerous.

The carriage was preceded by two men, who carried _flambeaux_, some
officers of his suit, two gentlemen and an esquire followed. I know not
what was the name of the grandee in the coach along with the king. There
were two pages, one to each door, two haydukes running by the side of
the equipage, and three footmen, in the royal livery behind.

The king proceeds slowly: part of my people assemble at some distance;
twelve of the most determined spring forward: I put myself at their
head, and we advance at a good pace.

As there was a Russian garrison at that very moment in Warsaw, we affect
to speak the language of those foreigners, so that our petty troop might
be mistaken for one of their patroles.

We overtake the carriage at about a hundred and fifty paces from the
grand chancellor's palace, and exactly between those of the bishop of
Cracow and of the late grand general of Poland.

All of a sudden we pass the heads of the foremost horses, so that those
who preceded, found themselves separated from those who surrounded the
royal equipage.

I instantly give the signal agreed upon. Kaluvski gallops up, with the
remainder of the conspirators: I present a pistol to the postillion, who
instantly stops; the coachman is fired upon, and precipitated beneath
the wheels. Of the two haydukes who endeavoured to defend their prince,
one drops, pierced with two balls; the other is overturned by means of a
backhanded stroke from a sabre, which he receives on the head; the steed
belonging to the esquire falls down covered with wounds; one of the
pages is dismounted, and his horse taken; pistol-balls fly about in all
directions--in short, the attack was so hot, and the fire so violent,
that I trembled for the king's life.

He himself, however, preserving the utmost coolness in the midst of the
danger, had now descended from his carriage, and was striving to regain
his uncle's palace on foot. Kaluvski arrests and seizes him by the hair;
seven or eight of the conspirators surround, disarm, overpower him, and,
pressing him between their horses, make off at a full gallop towards the
end of the street.

During this moment, I confess that I thought Pulaski had basely deceived
me; that the death of the monarch was resolved upon, and that a plot had
been formed to assassinate him.

All of a sudden I form my resolves; I clap spurs to my horse, overtake
the little band, cry out to them to stop, and threaten to kill the first
person who should dare to disobey me.

That God who is the protector of good kings, watched over the safety of
M. de P***! Kaluvski and his followers stop at the sound of my
well-known voice. We mount the king on horseback, make off at full
speed, and regain the ditch that surrounded the city, which the monarch
is constrained to leap, in company with us.

At that moment a panic terror takes possession of my troop; at fifty
paces distant from the ramparts, there were no more than seven who
surrounded the person of the king.

The night was dark and rainy, and it was necessary to dismount every
instant, on purpose to sound the morass with which we were surrounded.

The horse on which the monarch rode fell twice, and broke his leg at the
second fall: during these violent movements, his majesty lost his
_pelisse_, and the shoe belonging to his left foot.

"If you wish that I should follow you," says he to us, you must furnish
me with another horse and a pair of boots.

We remount him once more, and, on purpose to gain the road by which
Pulaski had promised me to advance, we resolve to pass through a village
called Burakow; but the king exclaims, "Do not go that way; there are
Russians there!"

I immediately change our _route_; but in proportion as we advance
through the wood of Beliany, our number continues to diminish. In a
short time, I perceive nobody around me but Kaluvski and Stravinski:
a few minutes after, we are challenged by a Russian sentinel on
horseback, at whose voice we instantly stop, greatly alarmed for our
safety.

"Let us kill him!" cries the ferocious Kaluvski, pointing to the king.
I instantly avow to him, without disguise, the horror which such a
proposition inspired me with. "Very well, you may then take upon you the
task of conducting him," adds this cruel hearted man, who immediately
after precipitates himself into the woods. Stravinski follows him, and I
alone remain with the king.

"Lovzinski," says he, addressing himself to me, as soon as they were out
of sight; "it is you, I can no longer doubt it; it is you, for I will
remember your voice!" I utter not a single word in reply. He then mildly
adds, "It is certainly you Lovzinski! Who would have thought this ten
years ago?"

We find ourselves at that moment near to the convent of Beliany, distant
no more than a single league from Warsaw.

"Lovzinski," continues the king, "permit me to enter this convent, and
save yourself."

"You must follow me," was my only answer.

"It is in vain," rejoins the monarch, "that you are disguised; it is in
vain that you endeavour to assume a feigned voice: I know you well, I am
fully assured that you are Lovzinski: ah, who would have said so ten
years since? You would then have lost your life, on condition of
preserving that of your friend."

His majesty now ceases to speak; we advance some time, in profound
silence, which he again breaking, exclaims. "I am overcome with
fatigue--_if you wish to carry me alive, permit me to repose myself for
a single moment_."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE OF CAESARE ARETHUSI.

Caesare Arethusi, was invited by the duke of Ferrara, to visit his court,
and received there with extraordinary respect. That prince sat to him
for his portrait, admired the performance highly, gave him evident
proofs not only of his favour, but of his friendship and esteem; and
having, at last, concluded that his generous treatment must inevitably
have secured his gratitude (if not his affection) he freely acquainted
him with his real inducement for inviting him to Ferrara. Confiding in
the integrity of the painter, he told him there was a lady in the city
whose portrait he wished to possess; but that it was to be procured in a
manner so secret, as neither to be suspected by the lady herself, nor
any of her friends. He promised an immense reward to Arethusi, if he was
successful and retentive; he threatened him with the utmost severity of
his resentment, if ever he suffered the secret to transpire.

The artist watched a proper opportunity to sketch the likeness of the
lady, unnoticed by any; and having shewn it to the duke, he seemed
exceedingly struck with the resemblance, as well as the graceful air of
the figure, and ordered Arethusi to paint a portrait from that sketch,
as delicately as he possibly could, but, above all things, recommended
it to him, to keep it from every eye except his own.

When the picture was finished, the painter himself beheld it with
admiration, and thought it would be injurious to his fame to conceal
from the world, a performance which he accounted perfect; and through an
excess of pride and vanity shewed it privately to several of his
friends, who could not avoid commending the work, while they detested
the folly and ingratitude of the artist.

The secret thus divulged, circulated expeditiously; it soon reached the
ears of the lady, and her family, who were exceedingly irritated; and
the duke appeared so highly enraged at the treachery of Arethusi, that
he was almost provoked to put him to death; but he only banished him for
ever from his dominions.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ADVICE.

When you come or find yourself coming full bat, it is called, against
another person, you endeavour to get out of the way. Let an old man
advise you not to do so. Stand still. He will endeavour to get out of
your way, and, by your standing still, he will effect it. If you both
endeavour to get by at the same time, as there are but two sides, it is
an even wager you run against each other.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

             ON THE ORIGIN OF LOVE.

Helvetius, who has scrutinised the effects of first impressions, with an
acuteness which few of our moral philosophers can boast, led me, the
other day, to consider on his theory, the origin of those refined and
delicate sensations, which, in the mutual attachment of the sexes, give
birth to the choicest blessings of humanity. According to his way of
reasoning, I should suppose our ideas of beauty, and those expressions
of the countenance which captivate the heart, should be ascribed to the
earliest impressions on the mind. Every one's experience will suggest to
him the proof of this assertion. The first impression I can recollect
when my eyes opened upon this world, was the sight of a beautiful
mother, who hung over me with looks of the most fervent love. A face
like hers, to me therefore, naturally became the most agreeable object
in nature: And it must be to some secret analogy of feature that I owe
that delirium of love, which I have since experienced from the charms of
a mistress, whose countenance bore all those striking expressions of
tenderness which characterised hers.

So much for the definition.---I cannot but add, how truly deplorable it
is, that a passion which constitutes almost the only honourable _trait_
in human nature, should now be every where trampled upon by avarice. For
my part, altho' I have suffered more from the _fancied_ than ever I
shall probably again from the real preference of a wealthy rival, yet,
I trust I shall not witness, as our country advances, the same instances
of legal prostitution as I have done in some other parts of the world.
With us it is still more unpardonable; as the means of bettering our
fortunes are so much more easy or certain. If there are those who are so
far insensible to the refinements of sentiment as to give a preference
to those enjoyments which are to be purchased, let them recollect, that
by renouncing an union of the same taste and disposition, they abandon
the only hope they can confidently entertain of nuptial constancy and
domestic sunshine. If any one objects to me, that I may frequently be
mistaken in this result of sincere love, I should still exclaim

  "O mentis gratissimus error!"--and wish for
  "Tribus _Anticyris_ caput insanabile nusquam."

    Yours, &c.

      PETRARCH.


       *       *       *       *       *

  POLITICS.

"Politics," says the elegant and ingenious Mr. Grenville, in his Maxims,
"are the food of sense exposed to the hunger of folly." And indeed they
seem to be devoured with so voracious an appetite, that no good
assimilation or chylification of them takes place in the body politic in
consequence of it. The appetite is great, the digestion imperfect.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE.

No object can be more pleasing to a virtuous mind, than to behold a
well-directed benevolence, productive of a grateful and happy heart;
while the smiling scenes of cultivation and society succeed to the
solitary wastes of savage nature. Mr. Wood, a free merchant of Decca,
coming thence to Calcutta, where the Ganges flows thro' vast tracks of
uncultivated and marshy woods, which render the navigation peculiarly
difficult and dangerous, happened to fall in with a poor native
wood-cutter. In the course of conversation, the latter said, that if he
had but fifty rupees (5l.) he could make a comfortable settlement. The
fifty rupees Mr. Wood lent him. When this worthy man, after staying some
time at Calcutta, returned to Decca, he saw the pleasing effects of his
bounty in an advanced settlement, on a small eminence newly cleared from
standing trees. Unsolicited, he lent the wood-cutter fifty rupees more.
The next voyage, Mr. Wood was delighted to behold the rapid progress of
the settlement, and astonished to meet the wood-cutter offering to pay
half the small, but generous loan. Mr. Wood refused to receive it at
that time, and lent him 100 rupees more. About eighteen months after the
commencement of the settlement, he had the inexpressible satisfaction of
seeing his industrious wood-cutter at the head of five populous
villages, and a spacious tract of fine land under cultivation, drained
and cleared of swamps and woods. The woodcutter now repaid the principal
he had borrowed, and tendered the interest, while tears of gratitude and
humble affection stole down his venerable, his happy and expressive
countenance. But how inexpressible the feelings of the benevolent
merchant! Let those plunderers, who return with the wealth of nations
sinking under their cruelty and oppression, while they wanton in all the
luxuries of life---let them still

  In palaces lie straining their low thought
  To form unreal wants----

To sensations like his they must ever be strangers. An enjoyment so
exquisite, so pure, so permanent, not all the riches of the East can
purchase.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

  MARRIED,

On Saturday the 12th inst. at Schenectady, by the Rev. Dr. Smith, Mr.
JEREMIAH VAN RENSSELAER, son of Gen. Robert Van Rensselaer, of
Claverack, to Miss SIBELLA A. KANE, daughter of Mr. John Kane of that
place.

On Thursday evening the 17th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, GEORGE
SIMPSON, Esq. to Miss MARY PENN, both of this city.

On Sunday evening the 20th inst. Mr. THOMAS MAHAN, to Miss HANNAH
CURTIS, both of this place.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  The reader will easily recollect the addresses to Winter published
  in our two last numbers. The following forms

  ANOTHER WINTRY PROSPECT.

  The joys which summer lately gave,
    Autumnal winds have swept away;
  And Sol, in haste his steeds to lave,
    Flings to the earth the shorten'd day.

  Then let us leave these naked plains,
    And to the crowded town repair;
  Here frightful desolation reigns,
    But happier scenes await us there.

  When winter with tremendous ire
    Shall Heaven's enchanting face deform,
  The sheltering roof, the social fire,
    Shall shield us from the raging storm.

  And then affection's brightened chain,
    From long forgetfulness restor'd;
  Shall join our parted friends again
    Around the hospitable board.

  And oft to cheat the tedious hours,
    Shall knowledge spread "her ample page,"
  And from her undecaying bowers
    Produce the fruits of every age.

  But when with every comfort blest,
    That peace and plenty can bestow,
  Shall pity never be a guest,
    Nor lead us to the house of woe?

  Oh yes--we'll seek the dreary cell,
    Where helpless penury retires;
  Affliction's morbid glooms dispel,
    And kindle Hope's extinguish'd fires.

  Grateful for every blessing sent,
    We'll strive that blessing to impart;
  And with the balsam of content
    Restore to joy the wounded heart.

  Thus every pleasure sweetly shar'd
    A more delightful form shall wear,
  And Virtue's Heavenly smiles reward
    The deeds which her own impress bear.

  Then Winter, seal old Hudson's tides,
    Haspedoc's rapid course arrest;
  And where their streams triumphant glide,
    Be thy restricting powers confest.

  We then, from all intrusion free,
    Will consolation find in this,
  That thy severe, though kind decree,
    Confines us to ourselves and bliss.

    MONIMIA.

      New-York, Nov. 9th, 1796.

  [[The quoted words "her ample page" are from Gray's _Elegy_.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE SEASON OF DELIGHT,
  A SONG.

  Recitative.

  Once, happy as the playful fawn,
    Which tastes no sorrow, knows no care,
  Fair Mira's heart was pleasure's throne,
    Till love usurp'd dominion there:
  Then oft its cares employ'd her tongue,
  And thus the alter'd Mira sung.

  Air.

  In youth, gay season of delight!
    How sweetly glide the hours along;
  Joy, mirth, and innocence unite,
    To prompt the care-untainted song.

  Yet e'en in youth a danger lies,
    For then the tend'rest passions move,
  Destructive to our sportive joys,
    Which fly before the cares of love.

  Thus oft beneath the smoothest seas,
    Where scarce an eddy plays around;
  Obedient to the flutt'ring breeze,
    The unsuspected rock is found.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SONNET
  TO HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

  Enchanting Williams! Nature's darling child,
    Foster'd by Genius, and matur'd by Taste,
  Who kindly on thy earliest efforts smil'd,
    And with their choicest gifts thy fancy grac'd:

  Gave thee a pow'r to steal upon the soul,
    Mild as descend the evening's dewy stores,
  And yet resistless as the waves that roll
    O'er ocean's bed, when loud the tempest roars.

  Taught thee to form, beyond the pow'r of art,
  The tale that, as it melts, amends the heart--
  The tale that, spite of Envy's self shall live,
    Blest with th' approving Critic's smile benign;
  For O! dear maid, 'tis thine alone to give
    To energetic force a grace divine.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO MARIA.

  They tell me love's a transient flame,
    Just kept alive by beauty's ray,
  As fleeting as the breath of fame,
    Which meets the ear, then dies away.

  But if to beauty sense be join'd,
    Secure the hallow'd flame shall rest,
  Tho' time, and fell disease, combin'd,
    Assay to force it from the breast:

  As we then tread the vale of life,
    Our souls in unison shall move,
  Who most can please be all our strife,
    And rivet thus the chains of love.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, December 7, 1796.+  [+No. 75.+


  +Extraordinary Intrepidity of the Jomsburgians.+

History informs us, that Harold, surnamed Blaatand, or Blue Tooth,
(a king of Denmark, who reigned in the middle of the tenth century) had
founded on the coast of Pomerania, which he had subdued, a city named
Julin or Jomsburg; where he sent a colony of young Danes, and bestowed
the government on a celebrated warrior named Palnatoko. This new
Lycurgus had made of that city a second Sparta, and every thing was
directed to this single end, to form complete soldiers. The author who
has left us the history of this colony, assures us, that "it was
forbidden them so much as to mention the name of fear, even in the most
imminent dangers." No citizen of Jomsburg was to yield to any number,
however great, but to fight intrepidly without flying, even from a very
superior force. The sight of present and inevitable death would have
been no excuse with them for making any the least complaint, or for
shewing the slightest apprehension. And this legislator really appears
to have eradicated from the minds of most of the youths bred up under
him, all traces of that sentiment so natural and so universal, which
makes men think on their destruction with horror. Nothing can shew this
better than a single fact in their history, which deserves to have place
here for its singularity. Some of them having made an irruption into the
territories of a powerful Norwegian lord, named Haquin, were overcome in
spite of the obstinacy of their resistance; and the most distinguished
among them being made prisoners, were, according to the custom of those
times, condemned to death. The news of this, far from afflicting them,
was, on the contrary, received with joy. The first who was led to
punishment was content to say, without changing countenance, "why should
not the same happen to me as did to my father? he died, and so must I."
A warrior named Thorchill, who was to cut off the head of the second,
having asked him what he felt at the sight of death, he answered, "that
he remembered too well the laws of Jomsburg to utter any words that
denoted fear." The third, in reply to the same question, said, "he
rejoiced to die in glory, and that he preferred such a death to an
infamous life like that of Thorchill's." The fourth made an answer much
longer and more extraordinary. "I suffer with a good heart; and the
present hour is to me very agreeable. I only beg of you," added he,
addressing himself to Thorchill, "to be very quick in cutting off my
head; for it is a question often debated by us at Jomsburg, whether one
retains any sense after being beheaded. I will therefore grasp this
knife in my hand; if, after my head is cut off, I strike it towards you,
it will shew I have not lost all sense; if I let it drop, it will be a
proof to the contrary. Make haste, therefore, and decide the dispute."
'Thorchill, adds the historian, cut off his head in the most expeditious
manner, but the knife, as might be expected, dropped from his hand.' The
fifth shewed the same tranquility, and died rallying and jeering his
enemies. The sixth begged of Thorchill that he might not be led to
punishment like a sheep; "strike the blow in my face," said he, "I will
sit still without shrinking; and take notice whether I once wink my eyes
or betray one sign of fear in my countenance. For we inhabitants of
Jomsburg are used to exercise ourselves in trials of this sort, so as to
meet the stroke of death without once moving." He kept his promise
before all the spectators, and received the blow without the least sign
of fear, or so much as winking his eyes. The seventh, says the
historian, was a very beautiful young man, in the flower of his age. His
long fair hair, as fine as silk, floated in curls and ringlets on his
shoulders. Thorchill asked him what he thought of death? "I receive it
willingly," said he, "since I have fulfilled the greatest duty of life,
and have seen all those put to death whom I would not survive. I only
beg of you one favour, not to let my hair be touched by a slave, or
stained with my blood."

  [[Notes:

  The place name is generally spelled Jomsborg (Denmark). This account
    is probably not historical.
  The "powerful Norwegian lord, named Haquin" is the historical Haakon
    Jarl.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  COMMUNION WITH OUR OWN HEARTS.

If we could but learn to commune with our own hearts, and know what
noble company we can make them, we should little regard the elegance and
the splendors of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call
life a passage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude still may
be improved, when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like
travellers that are going towards home; the wicked but by intervals
happy, like travellers that are going into exile.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 171.)

The Duke wrote only the following few lines:

"My dearest love! I address myself to you on the brink of the grave;
your hand can save or hurl me down; my doom rests with you. O! come,
angelic woman, and lead me from the gate of death to a paradisiacal
life; come and reward my love, which alone supports my breaking heart."

P.S. "Vasconcel*os has bled under the avenging sword of the redeemers of
my country."

The answer of the Countess was to the following purport:

"O! that this letter could fly on the pinions of love, in order to carry
instantly to my friend health and joy. Yes, your request is granted.
Receive, my dearest Duke, to whom my HEART has yielded, receive my HAND
too, and the vow of eternal fidelity. My uncle having recovered his
health, nothing shall detain me from embarking in the first vessel which
shall sail for Port***l. The idea that your best wishes, the blessing of
your father and my uncle, and the guardian genius of love, will conduct
me on my voyage, will assist me to conquer my fear of the sea. I should
never have done writing if this letter did not require expedition, and
my friend, who arrived here the day before yesterday, insisted upon
adding a few words to those of

  "Your

    "AMELIA CLAIRVAL."

"Give me leave, my Lord, to add only my sincerest congratulations, and
to ask your Grace, whether you do not acknowledge now as a soothsayer

  "Your humble and obedient servant,

    ANNA DE DELIER."

The Duke had begun to mend rapidly ever since the Marquis consented to
his union with Amelia; the letter of the Countess restored his health
entirely. No mortal could be more happy and cheerful than the Duke of
Cami*a. It was natural that Alumbrado, who, as the author of his
happiness, had no small claim to his gratitude, should acquire in his
eyes a value, which entirely dispelled the antipathy he at first had
conceived against him. I soon was made sensible of that change, when I
took one time the opportunity of dropping a few words concerning
Alumbrado. "I cannot conceive," the Duke replied warmly, "why you are so
much prejudiced against that man; it is true his physiognomy does not
speak much in his recommendation; it is, however, very unphilosophical
to condemn a person merely on account of his features." "Say whatever
you will," I replied, "an undescribable repelling sensation, which
certainly does not deceive me--" "You have conceived an antipathy
against him," the Duke interrupted me, "and that cannot be refuted by
arguments; however, I will remind you of a fact, which here will be in
its proper place. Socrates, whose physiognomy, as you will recollect,
was very much to his disadvantage, happened once to be in a company of
friends, when a philosopher, who pretended to be a physiognomist, took
the word; he was requested to delineate the character of Socrates, who
was a stranger to him. The philosopher named several vices which he
pretended to read plainly in his face. A general laughter was the effect
of his judgment; however, Socrates remained serious, and declared that
he really had felt a natural propensity to those vices, but had got the
better of it by unremitted assiduity. The application of this instance,
I leave to your own good sense."

"How?" I exclaimed with surprise, "you compare Alumbrado with Socrates,
an absurd ascetic with a reverend sage, hypocrisy with virtue?" This
enormous infatuation vexed me to such a degree, that I could not help
giving vent to my just resentment. However, I perceived soon that my
words did not make the least impression on my misguided friend. Being
therefore obliged to desist from my endeavours to change the opinion of
the Duke, I strove with additional assiduity to cut off his connection
with Alumbrado, at least till he should be united to Amelia, expecting
that this angel would soon drive away that demon of darkness. I proposed
to the Duke a journey to **ina, for the benefit of his health, and
offered to accompany him. He consented to it without difficulty,
expecting to beguile by exercise and diversions, the time which, from
his impatience of seeing Amelia arrive, appeared to him to creep on with
snail-like slowness. My aim would however have been attained without
this expedient, Alumbrado leaving Li*bon unexpectedly; yet we set out on
our proposed journey.

We had not been seven days at **ina when the Duke was already impatient
to leave that place. However improbable it was Amelia could arrive so
soon, yet this idea left him no rest. We returned on the eighth day, and
travelled day and night.

It was five o'clock in the morning, when we alighted at his palace.
Scarcely had we entered his apartment when his Secretary brought a
letter which he said had been left by a pilot at a late hour last night.
The Duke reddened and grew pale alternately, while he opened it.---"She
is arrived, she is arrived!" he exclaimed, and the letter dropped out of
his hand trembling with rapture. "She is arrived!" he repeated, taking
it up and re-perusing the gladful lines. The emotions of his mind were
so violent, that he was obliged to sit down. "Amelia is arrived!" he
exclaimed again, rising and straining me to his bosom. The letter was
couched in the following words:

"Has not your heart told you, my dearest Duke that I am near you?
I should already have pressed you to my panting heart, if the Captain
had suffered me to go in the boat which will set the pilot on shore. But
he has opposed my design, on account of the swelling sea and the great
distance. If Heaven favours us you will see me to-morrow.

Your

  AMELIA."

"Well, my friend," said the Duke, when I returned the paper to him, "has
my presentiment deceived me? have not I done well to urge our
return?--But why do we tarry here? (he added) let us fly to the
harbour!"

The horses were instantly saddled, and we mounted them in our travelling
dress. We rode in full speed, and each of us indulged silently his
sentiments.--The sky was gloomy, and the universal stillness, not
interrupted by the least breeze of air, seemed to presage no good. At
length we fancied, with astonishment, we heard the distant rolling of
thunder; however we soon perceived that it was the echo caused by the
report of guns. The distant firing of cannon, and the forerunners of a
rising tempest, thrilled my heart with chilling anxiety, for I
apprehended the ship must be in great danger. Soon after the firing
ceased, but this calm was more dreadful to me than the report of the
cannon. We spurred our horses, without uttering a word, for neither of
us dared to confess his apprehensions. Being at length arrived at the
sea shore---Heavens! what a scene of horror did we behold! the surge was
dreadful, the cliffs and the strand were covered with a white spume. The
rays of the sun could not penetrate the fog which overspread the surface
of the sea. We could, therefore, not discover the island where the ship
was lying at anchor, it appearing to us in the shape of a black cloud,
which seemed to be a mile distant from the shore. The veil which
concealed the danger of the ship from our eyes only served to augment
our anxiety.

A troop of mariners and soldiers under the command of Men*os, were
arrived with us at the shore. The drums beat, and a general volley was
fired. A flash of lightning darted instantly over the sea, and
immediately after it the report of a gun was heard. We all hastened to
the side where we had perceived the signal, and observed, through the
fog, the body and the main-yard of a large ship. We were so near that we
could hear the whistling and the acclamations of the sailors, in spite
of the roaring of the mountainous billows. The ship's crew fired a gun
every three minutes, as soon as they perceived that assistance was near.

I admired my friend's firmness of mind with which he, at a sight that
ought to have rendered him almost distracted, shewed the greatest zeal
to save the crew, ordering a large fire to be lighted on the cliffs, and
boards, cables, empty casks and provisions to be kept in readiness.

An impending hurricane seemed to be lurking in the air. The middle of
the clouds was of a horrid blackness, and their edges were of a copper
colour. The leaves of the trees were moving, and yet not a breath of air
was felt. The cries of the sea fowls, who were resorting to the island
for protection, resounded through the air.

At length we heard suddenly a dreadful roaring, as if foaming torrents
were rushing down from the summit of a lofty mountain, and every one
exclaimed, this is the hurricane! In the same moment a violent whirlwind
removed the foggy veil which had concealed the island from our eyes. We
had now a clear view of the ship; her whole deck was covered with
people, her colours were hoisted, her fore-part was secured by four
anchors, and her stern by one. Her stem opposed the billowing waves
which came roaring from the sea, and was raised so high above the
surface of the water, that one could see her whole keel, while the stern
was almost entirely buried in the foaming billows. The dangerous
situation of the vessel rendered it impossible for her to put out to
sea, or to run on store.

The howling of the wind, and the roaring of the waves, which were
swelling higher every moment, was dreadful. The whole channel between
the island and the shore was a mass of white thick froth, cut through by
black and hollow waves. The appearance of the horizon prognosticated a
long lasting storm. Some waves of a dreadful shape separated from the
main every now and then, and darted with the velocity of lightning
across the channel, while others remained immoveable like enormous
rocks. Not one blue spot could be descried in the firmament; a pale
faint glimmer enlightened heaven, earth and sea.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  INSTANCE OF UNCOMMON FRIENDSHIP.

Two Jewish soldiers, in the time of _Vespasian_, had made many campaigns
together; and a participation of dangers, at length, bred an union of
hearts. They were remarked throughout the whole army, as the two
friendly brothers; they felt and fought for each other.--Their
friendship might have continued, without interruption, till death, had
not the good fortune of the one alarmed the pride of the other, which
was in his promotion to be a centurion under the famous _John_, who
headed a particular party of the Jewish male-contents.

From this moment their former love was converted into the most
inveterate enmity. They attached themselves to opposite factions, and
sought each other's lives in the conflict of adverse party. In this
manner they continued for more than two years, vowing mutual revenge,
and animated with an unconquerable spirit of aversion. At length,
however, that party of the _Jews_, to which the mean soldier belonged,
joining with the _Romans_, it became victorious, and drove _John_, with
all his adherents, into the temple. History has given us more than one
picture of the dreadful conflagration of that superb edifice. The
_Roman_ soldiers were gathered round it; the whole temple was in flames,
and thousands were seen amidst them, within its sacred circuit. It was
in this situation of things, that the now-successful soldier saw his
former friend upon the battlements of the highest tower, looking round
with horror, and just ready to be consumed with flames. All his former
tenderness now returned; he saw the man of his bosom just going to
perish; and, unable to withstand the impulse, he ran spreading his arms,
and crying out to his friend, to leap down from the top, and find safety
with him. The Centurion from above heard and obeyed; and, casting
himself from the top of the tower, into his fellow-soldier's arms, both
fell a sacrifice on the spot; one being crushed to death by the weight
of his companion, and the other dashed to pieces by the greatness of his
fall.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  HISTORY OF THE BEARD.

The respect which has been shewn to the Beard in all parts of the
civilized, and in some parts of the uncivilized world, is well known to
the slightest erudition; nay, a certain prejudice in its favour still
exists, even in countries where the razor has long been omnipotent. This
impression seems to arise very naturally from the habit of associating
with it those ideas of experience and wisdom of which it is the emblem.
It cannot wait upon the follies of youth; its bushy and descending
honours are not known to grace the countenance of early life; and tho'
it may be said, in some degree, to grow with our growth, and strengthen
with our strength, it continues to flourish in our decline, and attains
its most honourable form and beauty when the knees tremble, the voice
grows shrill, and the pate is bare.

When the bold and almost blasphemous pencil of the enthusiastic painter
has aimed at representing the Creator of the world upon the canvass,
a flowing beard has ever been one of the characteristic and essential
marks of the Supreme Divinity. The Pagan Jupiter, and the graver
inhabitants of Olympus, would not be known without this majestic
ornament. Philosophy, till our smock faced days, has considered it as
the appropriate symbol of its profession. Judaic Superstition, Egyptian
Wisdom, Attic Elegance, and Roman Virtue, has been its fond protectors.
To make it an object of dissention, and alternately to consider it as a
sign of orthodoxy or the standard of heresy, was reserved for the
fantastical zeal of the Christian Church.

In more modern times, not only provincial and national, but general
Councils have been convened, Synods have been summoned, ecclesiastical
Congregations and cloistered Chapters of every denomination have been
assembled, to consider, at different periods, the character of this
venerable grown of the human visage. Infinite disputes have been, of
course, engendered, sometimes with respect to its form, at other times
with regard to its existence. Religion interested herself in one age, in
contending for that pointed form to which Nature conducts it: at a
succeeding period, anathemas have been denounced against those who
refused to give it a rounder shape; and to those, other denunciations
have followed, which changed it to the square or the scollop. But, while
religious caprice--for religion, sorry am I to say it, seems to be
troubled with caprices---quarrelled about form and shape, the disputes
were confined within the pale of the European Church: but, when the
beard lessened into whiskers, and the scythe of ecclesiastical
discipline threatened to mow down every hair from off the face, the East
sounded the alarm, and the churches of Asia and Africa took up the
cause, and supported, with all the violence of argument and
remonstrance, those honours of the chin that they still preserve, and to
which the existing inhabitants of those climates offer up a perpetual
incense.

In the history of the Gallic Church, the scenes of religious comedy
still live in description. For example:--a bearded Bishop appears at the
door of a Cathedral in all the pomp of Prelacy, and demands installation
to the diocese to which he is appointed. He is there met by a troop of
beardless Canons, and refused admittance, unless he will employ the
golden scissors they present to him, to cut that flowing ornament from
his face, which they would think a disgrace to their own, as well as to
the religion they profess. This same history, also, is not barren of
examples, where the sturdy prelate has turned indignant from the
disgraceful proposal, and sought the enforcing aid of sovereign power,
which has not always been able, without much difficulty, to compel the
reluctant chapter to acknowledge a bearded Diocesan. Others, unwilling
to risk or delay the power and wealth of an episcopal throne for the
sake of a cumbrous bush of hair, have, by the ready sacrifice of their
beards, been installed amid acclamations and hosannas, as disgraceful as
they were undeserved. It may appear still more ridiculous, but it is no
less true, that some of these bishops have compounded the matter with
their refractory clergy, in giving up the greater part of the beard, but
retaining the growth of the upper lip in the form of whiskers. The idea
of a bishop 'en moustaches' must trouble the spirit of a modern
christian; but such there have been, who, in the act of sacrificing to
the God of Peace, have exhibited the fierce terrific aspect of a German
Pioneer.

At length, the persecuted Beard, which has been the object of such
faithful veneration, finds in Europe, if we except part of Turkey, its
only asylum in the Capuchin Cloister; unless we add the casual
protection which is given to it by the fanatical Jew, or mendicant
Hermit.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _The following beautiful character is extracted from Mrs. D'Arblay's
  new work, entitled Camilla, or a Picture of Youth; Publishing by
  the Editor on wove paper._

The form and the mind of Lavinia were in the most perfect harmony. Her
polished complexion was fair, clear, and transparent; her features were
of the extremest delicacy, her eyes of the softest blue, and her smile
displayed internal serenity. The unruffled sweetness of her disposition
bore the same character of modest excellence. Joy, hope, and prosperity,
sickness, sorrow, and disappointment, assailed alike in vain the uniform
gentleness of her temper: yet though thus exempt from all natural
turbulence, either of pleasure or of pain, the meekness of her
composition degenerated not into insensibility; it was open to all the
feminine feelings of pity, of sympathy, and of tenderness.


       *       *       *       *       *

  REFLECTION ON THE EARTH.

The Earth, gentle and indulgent, ever subservient to the wants of man,
spreads his walks with flowers, and his table with plenty; returns with
interest every good committed to her care; and, though she produces the
poison, she still supplies the antidote; though constantly teazed more
to furnish the luxuries of man than his necessities, yet, even to the
last, she continues her kind indulgence, and, when life is over, she
piously covers his remains in her bosom.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 174.)

I assist him to descend from his horse; he sits down upon the grass, and
making me sit down by his side, he takes one of my hands and presses it
between his own:

"Lovzinski, you whom I have so much loved, you who know better than any
one the purity of my intentions, how comes it about that you have taken
up arms against me? Ungrateful Lovzinski! shall I never find you but
amongst my most bitter enemies? Do you return but on purpose to
sacrifice me?"

He then, in the most affecting language, recapitulates the pleasures of
our early youth; our more intimate connection at an age approaching to
manhood, the tender friendship which we had sworn to each other, and the
regard which he had ever treated me with since that period. He spoke to
me of the honours with which he would have loaded me during his reign,
if I had been ambitious to merit them: he reproached me more
particularly respecting the unworthy enterprise of which I appeared to
be the leader, but of which, he said, he was well assured that I was no
more than the instrument.

He threw all the horror of the plot upon Pulaski, representing to me, at
the same time, that the author of such an attempt was not the sole
culpable person; that I could not charge myself with its execution
without committing a crime; and that this odious complaisance, so highly
treasonable in a subject, was infinitely more in a friend. He concluded
by pressing me to restore him to his liberty: "Fly," said he to me; "and
be assured, if I encounter any of the Russians patroles, I shall tell
them that you have pursued an opposite road from that which you have
taken."

The king continued to press me with the most earnest entreaties: his
natural eloquence, augmented by the danger of his situation, carried
persuasion to my heart, and awakened the most tender sentiments there.

I confess that I staggered; I balanced the circumstances for some time
in my own mind, but Pulaski at length triumphed.

I thought that I still heard the fierce republican reproaching me with
my pusillanimity. The love of one's country has perhaps its fanaticism
and its superstitions: but if I was then culpable, I am still so; I am
more than ever persuaded that in obliging the king to remount his horse
again, I performed an action that reflected honour on my patriotism.

"Is it thus," says he to me, in a melancholy accent, "that you reject
the prayer addressed to you by a friend? that you refuse the pardon
offered to you by your king? Well then, let us begone. I deliver myself
up to my unhappy fate, or rather, I abandon you to yours."

We now re-commence our journey once more; but the entreaties of the
monarch, his arguments, his reproaches, his very menaces, the struggles
which I felt within myself, affected me in such a manner, that I no
longer could discern my way. Wandering up and down the country, I kept
no one certain road: after half an hour's fatigue we found ourselves at
Marimont, and I was greatly alarmed at seeing us thus return towards
Warsaw, instead of leaving it at a distance.

At about a quarter of a league beyond this, we unfortunately fell in
with a party of Russians. The king immediately discovers himself to the
commanding officer, and then instantly adds. "In the course of the
preceding afternoon, I happened to bewilder myself during the chace;
this good peasant, whom you see here, insisted on my partaking a frugal
repast in his cottage; but as I thought that I perceived some of the
soldiers of Pulaski roaming in the neighbourhood, I was desirous of
returning to Warsaw immediately, and you will oblige me much by
instantly accompanying me thither.

"As to you, my friend," continues he, turning at the same time towards
me, "I am not at all sorry that you have given yourself this useless
trouble, for I am as much pleased at returning to my capital attended by
these gentlemen (pointing at the same time to the escort), as in
accompanying you any farther. However, it would be improper that I
should leave you without any recompence; what are you desirous of?
Speak--I will grant you any favour which you may demand of me!"

It will be easy to conceive hew much I was alarmed, for I was still
doubtful of the king's intentions. I endeavoured therefore to discover
the true meaning of his equivocal discourse, which must be either full
of a bitter irony, or a magnanimous address. M de P*** left me for some
time in this cruel uncertainty: "I behold you greatly embarrassed,"
continues he at length, with a gracious air; "you know not what to
choose! Come then, my friend, embrace me: there is indeed more honour
than profit in embracing a king (adds he with a smile); however, it must
be allowed, that, in my place, many monarchs would not be at this moment
so generous as myself!" On uttering these words, he instantly departs,
leaving me penetrated with gratitude, and confounded with so much true
greatness.

However the danger which the king had so generously relieved me from,
began every moment to assail me again. It was more than probable that a
great number of couriers expedited from Warsaw, had spread about on all
sides the astonishing news of the king's having been carried off.
Already, without doubt, the ravishers were warmly pursued. My remarkable
dress might betray me in my flight, and if I once more fell into the
hands of any of the Russians, better informed of the circumstance, all
the efforts of the king would not be able to save me. Supposing Pulaski
had obtained all the success which he expected, he must still be at a
great distance; a journey of ten more leagues at least regained for me
to perform, and my horse was entirely spent with fatigue: I endeavoured
however to spur him on, but he had not got five hundred paces before he
fell under me.

A cavalier, well mounted, happened to pass along the road by the side of
me, at this very moment; he perceived the poor animal tumble down, and,
thinking to amuse himself at the expence of an unfortunate peasant, he
began to banter me about my situation. Piqued at this buffoonery,
I resolved to punish him for his raillery, and secure my own flight at
one and the same time: I, therefore, instantly present one of my pistols
to his breast, and obliged him to surrender his own horse to me; nay,
I acknowledge to you, that, forced by the peculiarity of my situation,
I despoiled him even of his cloak, which being very large, hid all my
rags beneath it, which otherwise might have discovered me. I then cast
my purse full of gold at the feet of the astonished traveller, and
sprang forward as fast as my new horse could carry me.

Luckily for me, he was fresh and vigorous.---I dart forward twelve
leagues, with all the swiftness of an arrow: at length I think I hear
the firing of cannon, and I instantly conjecture that my father-in law
was at hand, and was employed in fighting the Russians.

I was not deceived---I arrive on the field of battle at the very moment
when one of our regiments had given way. I instantly discover myself to
the fugitives, and having rallied them beneath a neighbouring hill,
I attack the enemies in flank, while Pulaski charges them in front with
the remainder of his troops. Our manoeuvres were so well concerted, and
so admirably executed, that the Russians were entirely routed, after
experiencing a terrible carnage.

Pulaski deigned to attribute to me the honour of their defeat: "Ah!"
cries he, embracing me, after hearing the particulars of my
expedition---"ah! if your forty followers had but equalled you in
courage, the king would have been at this very moment in my camp! But
the Deity does not will it. I am grateful, however, that you have been
preserved to us; and I return you thanks for the important service which
you have rendered me: but for you, Kaluvski would have assassinated the
monarch, and my name would have been covered with an eternal opprobrium!

"I might have been able," added he, "to have advanced two miles farther;
but I rather chose to take possession of this respectable post, on
account of the security of my camp. Yesterday, in the course of my
march, I surprised, and cut in pieces, a party of Russians; this morning
I beat two more of their detachments; but another considerable corps
having collected the remainder of the vanquished, took advantage of the
night, on purpose to attack me. My soldiers, fatigued with the toil of a
long march, and three succeeding engagements, began to fly; but victory
returned to my camp at your approach. Let us entrench ourselves here; we
will wait for the Russian army, and fight while we yet have a drop of
blood remaining!"

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  MILITARY ANECDOTE.

Gonsalvo, who was lieutenant-general to the celebrated Spanish general,
the marquis of Spinola, and governor of Milan, in 1624, intending to
take possession of a little walled village in the Palatine, called
Ogershiem, dispatched an officer, at the head of some troops upon that
errand. On the first alarm, nine tenths of the inhabitants removed to
Manheim, leaving behind them about twenty insignificant people, and a
poor shepherd, who, beside being a brave fellow, was a man of humour.
The shepherd in good time fastened the gates, let down the drawbridge,
and made a wonderful shew of resistance. A trumpeter summoned the
village in form, upon which the few inhabitants that remained made their
escape through a postern-gate, and left only the shepherd, and the
shepherdess, big with child. This unaccountable peasant, in a style of
the representative of a garrison, gave audience, from the walls, to the
military herald, and made his terms of capitulation, inch by inch,
stipulating, at the same time, for the preservation of the state, and
the free exercise of the protestant religion. Imagine, therefore, what
must be the surprise of the Spaniards, when they entered the village,
and found him and his wife only in it! Yet the droll peasant preserved
the muscles of his countenance inflexible; and, some weeks afterward,
when his wife lay in, he desired the great Gonsalvo to be godfather;
which honour the pompous Spaniard, for the jest's sake, could not
decline, but on the contrary, sent her some very handsome presents. This
account, the historian (_Mr. Spanheim, Hist. de l' Elect. Palet._) says,
might appear a little romantic to posterity, if the notoriety of it had
not been a circumstance indisputable at the time it happened.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _SINGULAR ACCOUNT OF LA MAUPIN._

  From Burney's History of Music.

La Maupin seems to have been a most extraordinary personage. "She was
equally fond of both sexes, fought and lived like a man, and resisted
and fell like a woman. Her adventures are of a very romantic kind.
Married to a young husband, who soon was obliged to absent himself from
her, to enter on an office he had obtained in Provence, she ran away
with a fencing master, of whom she learnt the small sword, and became an
excellent fencer, which was afterwards a useful qualification to her on
several occasions. The lovers first retreated from persecution to
Marseilles; but necessity soon obliged them to solicit employment there,
at the opera; and, as both had by nature good voices, they were received
without difficulty. But soon after this she was seized with a passion
for a young person of her own sex, whom she seduced, but the object of
her whimsical affection being pursued by her friends, and taken, was
thrown into the convent at Avignon, where La Maupin soon followed her;
and having presented herself as a novice obtained admission. Some time
after, she set fire to the convent, and availing herself of the
confusion she had occasioned, carried off her favourite. But being
pursued and taken, she was condemned to the flames for contumacy:
a sentence, however, which was not executed, as the young Marseillaise
was found and restored to her friends.

"She then went to Paris, and made her first appearance on the opera
stage in 1695, when she performed the part of Pallas, in Cadmus, with
the greatest success. The applause was so violent, the she was obliged,
in her car, to take off her casque to salute and thank the public, which
redoubled their marks of approbation. From that time her success was
uninterrupted. Cumeni, the singer, having affronted her, she put on
men's clothes, watched for him in the Place des Victoires, and insisted
on his drawing his sword and fighting her, which he refusing, she caned
him, and took from him his watch and snuff-box. Next day, Dumeni, having
boasted at the opera-house, that he had defended himself against three
men who attempted to rob him, she related the whole story, and produced
his watch and snuff-box in proof of her having caned him for his
cowardice. Thevenard was nearly treated in the same manner, and had no
other way of escaping her chastisement, than by publicly asking her
pardon, after hiding himself at the Palace Royal during three weeks. At
a ball given by Monsieur, the brother of Louis XIV. she again put on
men's clothes, and having behaved impertinently to a lady, three of her
friends, supposing La Maupin to be a man, called her out. She might
easily have avoided the combat by discovering her sex, but she instantly
drew, and killed them all three. Afterwards returning very coolly to the
ball, she told the story to Monsieur, who obtained her pardon."


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE OF MONS. DE SARTINE.

An Irish gentleman, who wished to purchase an estate in France, lodged
his money in the hand of a banker, who took it, as common on the
continent, without giving the gentleman a voucher; but lodged it in an
iron chest, and gave to the gentleman the key. When the contract for the
purchase was made, he called on his banker to receive his cash, when the
latter peremptorily denied his having received any such sum, or having
any money transaction whatever with the gentleman.----In this dilemma
the injured party was advised to apply to M. de Sartine, and he
accordingly did so, and told him his story. The minister sent for the
banker, and asked him, if he had not received such a sum? The banker
steadily denied it. "Very well (replied M. de Sartine), then sit down
and write a letter which I shall dictate to you, and you shall continue
in the room with me, until the answer arrives." Paper was brought, and
Sartine dictated, and made him write a letter to his wife, to the
following effect:--"My dear wife, you must immediately send to me the
sum which Mons. ---- left in my hands, and which was deposited
originally in the iron chest, in the compting-house, but was removed you
know whither. You must send it instantly, or else I shall be sent to the
Bastile. I am already in the hands of justice." The banker
stared----"Mon Dieu! (says he) must I send this letter to my
wife?"----"You must (says the minister): I dare say, if you are guilty
of the robbery, your wife, who is remarkable for her ingenuity, was
privy to it, and she will obey your commands: if you are innocent, she
cannot comprehend the order which you send, and will say so in her
answer. We will make the experiment, and if you resist, you shall go
immediately to the Bastile."

The resolution was decisive. The letter was sent, and in less than an
hour the money was brought in the bags in which it was originally
sealed, and restored to the original owner. M. de Sartine discharged the
banker, telling him the matter should be kept a secret, provided he
acted with more faith and honesty for the future.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Saturday evening the 19th ult. at Florida, (Ulster County) by the
Rev. Mr. Jaline, Mr. BENONA BRADNER, of Sugar-Loaf, to Miss MARY JEANS,
of that place.

On Thursday evening the 24th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. JOSHUA
PARKER, to Miss SALLY VAN AULEN, daughter of Mr. Cornelius Van Aulen,
both of this city.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Phoebus, Mr. JAMES WHITING, to
Miss DEBORA ALLEN both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON THE DEATH OF A BABY NINE DAYS OLD.

  The cup of life just to her lip she press'd,
  Found the taste bitter, and declind'd the rest;
  Averse, then turning from the face of day,
  She gently sigh'd her little soul away.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _ON A BEE_
  Having Stung the Thigh of an Old Maid.

  On the annals of fame with Columbus you stand,
    Who sought the American shore;
  Advent'rous like him, you explore a new land,
    Where none ever travell'd before.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _EPIGRAM._

  Women were born, so fate declares,
  To SMOOTH our linen and our cares;
  And 'tis but just, for, by my troth,
  They're very apt to RUFFLE both.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ODE TO POESY.

  I.

    Hail Poesy! celestial maid!
      Who loves, reclin'd near purling stream,
    To rest beneath the beachen shade,
      "Wrapt in some wild fantastic dream."
    Howe'er intent on other cares,
    Still deign to hear a suppliant's pray'rs!
    Who fain would view thy ample store,
    And all thy secret haunts explore,
    Where, as enraptur'd bards have told,
      Whose eyes have peer'd thy stores among,
    Gnomes, sylphs, and sprites, their dwelling hold,
      Till call'd by thee to grace their song;
    Where fairies, clad in bright attire,
    Faint lighted by the glow-worm's fire,
    Are seen to gambol to the breeze,
    Which nightly plays amongst the trees;
  And while, with silent step, their round they pace,
  The flitting dew-drops gem the consecrated place.

  II.

    Or, if thou rather chuse to dwell
      Intent to hear the beating wave,
    In sparry grot, or rocky cell,
      Or in the subterraneous cave,
    Where to relieve perpetual night,
    Dim lamps emit a feeble light;
    While bound with necromantic tie,
    A thousand weeping virgins lie,
    Who, to enjoy the blaze of day,
      To view once more the azure sky,
    And drink the sun's all-cheering ray,
      Oft heave the unavailing sigh;
    Till some advent'rous knight shall dare
    (Long try'd in tournaments and war)
    Assay to break the magic chain,
    And give them liberty again;
  In ruin wide the self-built structure spread,
  And bid despondency erect her drooping head.

  III.

    Or, if those scenes delight thee more,
      Which erst thy Ariosto drew,
    O teach my muse like his to soar,
      And ope thy treasures to her view!
    For all that captivates the mind,
    In his aspiring verse we find;
    Where, wrapt in fancy's pleasing guise
    Conceal'd, the useful moral lies;
    Where chivalry's proud hosts, array'd
      In all the dignity of war,
    Appear, a splendid cavalcade,
      Adorn'd with many a trophy'd car;
    Where fair Alcina's radiant charms,
    With lawless bliss the bosom warms,
    Till, in Atlanta's reverend form,
    Melissa abrogates the charm;
  Recals the soul, for nobler deeds design'd,
  And writes the glowing moral on the mind.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  IV.

    If such thy votaries of old,
      Some portion of their fire impart;
    Then sportive fancy, uncontroll'd,
      Shall spurn the rigid rules of art:--
    But if in vain thy suppliant plead,
    And if thy mandate has decreed
    These magic stores conceal'd must lie,
    Impervious to another's eye;
    Still, O celestial maid! display
      Those tranquil scenes where beauty reigns,
    And triumphs, with unrivall'd sway,
      O'er rising hills and flow'ry plains,
    And streams that, murm'ring as they flow,
    Might lure the mourner from his woe;
    Let pointed satire too be mine,
    Aided by Johnson's nervous line:--
  And mine the pow'r to wake the tender sigh,
  And call the pearly tear from Pity's melting eye.

  V.

    Then lead me near some winding stream,
      Whose surface, ruffled by the breeze,
    Reflects chaste Dian's silver beam,
      Faintly beheld thro' shadowy trees:
    Then as I view, with joy serene,
    The beauties of this tranquil scene:
    If contrast aid the pow'rs of rhyme,
    To make the beautiful sublime--
    Bid the hoarse thunder loudly roar,
      And driving clouds invest the skies;
    While swelling torrents round me pour,
      From rugged rocks their fresh supplies;
    Which bursting on the plains below,
    The lightning's transient flashes shew,
    Unfolding to th' astonish'd sight
    A cataract of foaming light.--
  Be scenes like these thy suppliant's award!
  And give thine other stores to some more happy bard.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _BEAUTY._
  A SONG.

  When fascinating beauty smiles,
    Tho' deem'd a transient flow'r,
  Vain man, with all his boasted might,
    Submissive owns its pow'r.

  Beauty makes misers quit their gold,
    And cruelty its rage,
  And gives the ardent fires of youth
    To antiquated age.

  Th' imposter Mahomet, who knew
    The sweets and pow'r of love,
  With ever-blooming beauties fill'd
    His blissful courts above.

  Aright this great observer judg'd
    That beauty's promis'd charms,
  Would lure whole millions to his aid,
    And bless his conqu'ring arms.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, December 14, 1796.+  [+No. 76.+


  _From CAMILLA, or a Picture of Youth--just publishing by the EDITOR,
  are extracted the following striking observations on the superiority
  of mental accomplishments to personal attractions:--_

"Indeed, Sir--and pray believe me, I do not mean to repine I have not
the beauty of Indiana; I know and have always heard her loveliness is
beyond all comparison. I have no more, therefore, thought of envying it,
than of envying the brightness of the sun. I knew, too, I bore no
competition with my sisters; but I never dreamt of competition. I knew I
was not handsome, but I supposed many people besides not handsome, and
that I should pass with the rest; and I concluded the world to be full
of people who had been sufferers as well as myself, by disease or
accident. These have been occasionally my passing thoughts; but the
subject never seized my mind; I never reflected upon it at all, till
abuse, without provocation, all at once opened my eyes, and shewed me to
myself! Bear with me, then, my father, in this first dawn of terrible
conviction! Many have been unfortunate---but none unfortunate like me!
Many have met with evils---but who with an accumulation like mine!"

Mr. Tyrold, extremely affected, embraced her with the utmost tenderness:
"My dear, deserving, excellent child," he cried, "what would I not
endure, what sacrifice not make, to soothe this cruel disturbance, till
time and your own understanding can exert their powers?" Then, while
straining her to his breast with the fondest parental commiseration; the
tears, with which his eyes were overflowing, bedewed her cheeks.

Eugenia felt them, and sinking to the ground, pressed his knees. "O my
father," she cried, "a tear from your revered eyes afflicts me more than
all else! Let me not draw forth another, lest I should become not only
unhappy, but guilty. Dry them up, my dearest father; let me kiss them
away."

"Tell me, then, my poor girl, you will struggle against this ineffectual
sorrow! Tell me you will assert that fortitude which only waits for your
exertion; and tell me you will forgive the misjudging compassion which
feared to impress you earlier with pain!"

"I will do all, every thing you desire! my injustice is subdued! my
complaints shall be hushed! you have conquered me, my beloved father!
Your indulgence, your lenity shall take place of every hardship, and
leave me nothing but filial affection!"

Seizing this grateful moment, he then required of her to relinquish her
melancholy scheme of seclusion from the world: "The shyness and the
fears which gave birth to it," said he, "will but grow upon you if
listened to; and they are not worthy the courage I would instil into
your bosom---the courage, my Eugenia, of virtue---the courage to pass
by, as if unheard, the insolence of the hard-hearted, and ignorance of
the vulgar. Happiness is in your power, though beauty is not; and on
that to set too high a value would be pardonable only in a weak and
frivolous mind; since, whatever is the involuntary admiration with which
it meets, every estimable quality and accomplishment is attainable
without it: and though, which I cannot deny, its immediate influence is
universal, yet in every competition and in every decision of esteem, the
superior, the elegant, the better part of mankind give their suffrages
to merit alone. And you, in particular, will find yourself, through
life, rather the more than the less valued, by every mind capable of
justice and compassion, for misfortunes which no guilt has incurred."

Observing her now to be softened, though not absolutely consoled, he
rang the bell, and begged the servant, who answered it, to request his
brother would order the coach immediately, as he was obliged to return
home; "And you, my love," said he, "shall accompany me; it will be the
least exertion you can make in first breaking through your averseness to
quit the house."

Eugenia would not resist; but her compliance was evidently repugnant to
her inclination; and in going to the glass to put on her hat, she turned
aside from it in shuddering, and hid her face with both her hands.

"My dearest child," cried Mr. Tyrold, wrapping her again in his arms,
"this strong susceptibility will soon wear away; but you cannot be too
speedy nor too firm in resisting it. The omission of what never was in
our power cannot cause remorse, and the bewailing what never can become
in our power cannot afford comfort. Imagine but what would have been the
fate of Indiana, had your situations been reversed, and had she, who can
never acquire your capacity, and therefore never attain your knowledge,
lost that beauty which is her all; but which to you, even if retained,
could have been but a secondary gift. How short will be the reign of
that all! how useless in sickness! how unavailing in solitude! how
inadequate to long life! how forgotten, or repiningly remembered in old
age! You will live to feel pity for all you covet and admire; to grow
sensible to a lot more lastingly happy in your own acquirements and
powers; and to exclaim, with contrition and wonder, time was when I
would have changed with the poor mind-dependent Indiana!"

The carriage was now announced; Eugenia, with reluctant steps,
descended; Camilla was called to join them, and Sir Hugh saw them set
off with the utmost delight.


       *       *       *       *       *

  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 179.)

The death-like paleness of the Duke's countenance, his perturbated mien,
his steps now slow and now moving with vehemence, and the contortions of
his lips, bespoke the tempest raging in his soul, as exceeding the
violence of the hurricane that was lashing the ocean. The hapless man
now looked up to heaven, and now cast his anxious looks around, as if in
search of some person, and I heard him pronounce repeatedly the name of
Hiermanfor. This sight wounded my heart deeply, and pressed burning
tears from my eyes.

Meanwhile a dreadful accident happened on the sea. The anchors which the
fore-part of the ship was moored with were torn from the cables by the
violent agitation of the vessel, which, riding now only with the small
bower, was dashed against the adjacent rocks. A general piercing cry
filled the air when this lamentable incident happened. The Duke was
going to plunge into the sea, and I retained him with great difficulty
by his right arm. Seeing, however, that his despair rendered him callous
against our ardent prayers not to rush into the very jaws of death,
Pietro and myself tied a long rope round his body, taking hold of one
end. He now plunged into the boiling waves, which instantly devoured,
and soon after cast him up again. Thus he advanced daringly towards the
ship. He seemed several times to have a chance of forcing his way to the
vessel, the irregular motions of the sea leaving him on the dry rocks;
however the towering billows then returned with additional fury, and
buried him beneath an enormous mass of water, which flung the Duke half
dead upon the shore. But no sooner had he recovered his senses, than he
darted up, hastening with new courage towards the vessel, which,
however, began to separate, torn by the violence of the furious waves.
The ship's crew, who now despaired of saving their lives, plunged in
crowds into the sea, grasping in the agony of despondency the floating
chests, casks, and whatsoever they could lay hold on.

I shall never forget that horrid scene of woe! Two ladies now made their
appearance on the stern of the vessel: one of them was the Countess and
the other Lady Delier. Amelia expanded her arms towards her lover, who
exerted all his strength to join the darling of his soul.--She seemed to
have known the Duke by his undaunted courage. The baroness wrung her
hands looking anxiously at the spectators, and pointing at Amelia, as if
she wanted to say: leave me to my fate, but save my friend! Amelia was
standing on the deck without betraying the smallest sign of fear, and
seemed to be resigned to her impending deplorable doom, beckoning to us,
as if she wanted to bid us an eternal adieu. All the spectators wept,
and rent the air with doleful cries and lamentations. The Duke summoned
the last remains of his strength, struggling with the frothing waves, in
order to save his mistress from the brink of fell destruction; but a
mountainous billow of an enormous bulk forced its way through the space
betwixt the island and the coast, darting at the ship. In the same
moment Amelia rushed into Lady Delier's arms encircling her friend in
wild agony, and in that situation they were buried in the abyss along
with the vessel.

The stupefaction of horror which we were seized with, rendered us almost
incapable of dragging the Duke on shore. The spirit of the hapless man
seemed to have fled to better regions, along with that of his ill-fated
bride. He was stretched out on the ground, violently bleeding, and
seemingly a lifeless corpse.

I dropped down by his side, seized with terror and grief, imprinting
kisses on his ash-pale face, contorted by pains, I called his, mine, and
at last Amelia's name in his ear; but seeing him without the least
motion at the sound of the latter, I really feared that he was dead.
Pietro beat his breast, tore his hair, and rent the air with doleful
lamentations. The bye-standers crowded upon us, and perceiving, after
many fruitless trials, some faint vestiges of life in the Duke, we
carried him to the next house and put him to bed. The contusions and
wounds he had received, by having been dashed against the rocks, were
examined by a surgeon, who declared they were not mortal. I uttered a
loud shout, throwing myself on my knees, and offering fervent thanks to
God. The Duke opened his eyes and closed them again. The surgeon desired
us to retire, and not to disturb his rest.

While Pietro went on horseback to the house of the Marquis, in order to
inform him of the accident that had happened to his son, I repaired to
the strand, in hopes that the bodies of Amelia and Lady Delier would be
driven on shore. However the wind having shifted suddenly, as is usual
in hurricanes, I was obliged to give up the hope of procuring an
honourable burial to those unhappy ladies.

The Duke was in a senseless stupor, when I returned. Alas! his spirit
seemed to tarry reluctantly in a world which separated him from his
adored Amelia. But why should I tear open again my half-cicatrised
wounds? I shall not enter into a description of his situation, I still
fancy I hear the shrieks of horror, and the wild shouts which he uttered
during a burning fever, when he fancied he saw his Amelia either in
dangerous or in happy situations. His imagination and his lips were
constantly occupied with her. When, at length, his fever abated, and his
recollection returned, he really fancied the history of Amelia's hapless
fate to be the delusion of a feverish dream. Although I was very
cautious to dislodge this delusive opinion only gradually, yet the
discovery of his error affected him so violently, that I apprehended it
would deprive him, if not of his life, at least of his understanding.

Here I cannot omit mentioning a scene which happened at the beginning of
his amendment. The Marquis had ordered him to be carried to his house as
soon as he began to mend, and nursed him with paternal care. He came,
one day, when the Duke was sleeping, and I sitting by his bed-side, to
enquire how his son did; as he bent over the sleeper, and seemed to look
anxiously whether any signs of returning health appeared in his face, he
observed on the bosom of his son a blue ribbon. He pulled it carefully
out, and the picture of the Queen of Fr**ce was suspended to it. The
countenance of the Marquis resembled at first that of a person who is
dubious whether he is awake or dreaming; but soon after I saw his face
grow deadly pale, and his whole frame quiver violently. No sooner had he
recovered the power of utterance, then he begged me to retire. Two hours
after he left the apartment in violent agitation, without observing me.
On my entrance into the sick room I found the Duke bathed in tears. The
ribbon was still fastened round his neck, but the picture of the Queen
was taken from it.

I signified to him my astonishment. He squeezed my hand tenderly, and
said:--"You are my only friend, for whom I wish to have no secrets; and
yet I am so unhappy as to have this wish too denied me. Don't press me
to tell you what has been transacted between me and my father; I have
been obliged to promise with a dreadful oath to take the secret along
with me in my grave--In my grave!" he added a little while after, "I am
impatient to occupy that habitation ever since Amelia and Antonio have
made it their abode."

"Miguel" I exclaimed, straining him to my heart, "dispel these gloomy
thoughts. You shall learn that one has not lost every thing when in
possession of a friend like me."

"I know you, and I thank you," he replied, with emotion, "let us die
together; this world is not deserving to contain us. What business have
we in a world (he added with a ghastly look) in which vice only
triumphs, and good men find nothing but a grave?"

Reader, do not fancy this language to have originated merely from a
transient agitation of mind; alas! it originated from a heart
exasperated by the concurrence of the most melancholy misfortunes, and
this exasperation was rooted deeper than I had fancied at first. It
generated in his soul poisonous shoots which injured his religion. He
declared it to be impossible a good God could designedly make good men
so unhappy as he had been rendered. He ascribed the origin of his
misfortunes to a bad principle, which, having a share in the government
of the world, had appropriated his understanding merely to the execution
of its bad purposes. He maintained that it was contrary to the nature of
an infinitely good being to effect even the best purposes by bad means;
and if there were in this world as much disorder, imperfection, and
misfortune, as harmony, perfection and happiness, this would be an
undeniable proof that the world was governed, and had been created
jointly by a good and bad principle. In short, he subscribed entirely to
the system of the _Manichees_.

I perceived this new deviation of his mind with astonishment and grief,
and thought it my duty to lead him back in the path of truth as soon as
possible, because this error deprived him of the last consolation in his
sufferings. For which reason I endeavoured to convince him, that the
ideas of a bad and a good principle annul each other; that it is a
downright contradiction to believe in the existence of a bad God: that
consequently, the fundamental ideas of his system were absurd, and, of
course, the system itself unsupported. I proved to him that the evil in
this world is not inconsistent with the goodness and providence of God,
and that even the happiness of the wicked, and the sufferings of the
good, ought not to undermine our belief, but rather to strengthen our
hope of a life hereafter, in which every one will receive the just
reward of his actions. But how convincing soever my arguments would have
been to any unprejudiced person, yet they made very little impression on
the Duke, whom the disharmony and gloominess of his mind had too much
prepossessed for his comfortless system. Far from finding the least
contradiction in it, he was firmly persuaded that the belief in a bad
principle served to defend God against the complaints and reproaches of
the unfortunate, while he found a great consolation in venting his
resentment against the bad principle, whom he believed to be the author
of his sufferings. He was therefore firmly resolved to refute the
arguments which I had opposed to his system; and as soon as he was able
to leave his bed, began to arrange his ideas on that head, and to secure
them by a proper train of arguments against my objections. He had almost
finished his work when Alumbrado returned from his journey.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  TO THE EDITOR OF

  _The +New-York Weekly Magazine.+_

  SIR,

Of a situation in life respectable only because it is honest, I am
neither depressed by a sense of inferiority nor elated with the idea of
superior importance--Of feelings, not yet blunted by habits of
depravity, I have a smile for beauty, and a tear for distress; and,
I trust, there are some who will bear me witness, that I have a heart
for friendship and for love--fond of society, and by no means an enemy
to study, my time is usually divided between mankind, my books, and my
thoughts. Of passions strong and lively, pleasure has to me peculiar
charms; and though my charitable dispositions may be often disobliged,
perhaps neither my mental nor corporeal constitution has cause to
complain, that my finances do not co-extend with my desires.
A commencement like this, may probably impress you with no very
favorable idea of the purport of this address; and, suspecting its
contents as no way likely to interest your readers, you may be induced
to throw by this paper as a tax upon your patience: but, if you can
summon fortitude sufficient to continue your perusal, I trust you will
find reason, not only to excuse, but even to approve the egotism of my
preamble.

To introduce their work with some account of the author, has, I believe,
been generally the practice of those who offer to the public what are
called periodical writings. I have conceived a similar design, and offer
this for your acceptance as introductory to a course of numbers, with
which, I hope, through the blessing of patience and the permission of
indolence, from time to time to present you. Yet, it was not to gratify
curiosity alone that I thought fit to delineate my conduct and my
feelings. I believed that, like the exordium of the orator, it might
prepare for my offspring a favorable reception.

The first and least interesting part of my egotistic narrative is my
situation in life: From this, the only recommendation I can hope to
derive is, that sentiment will at least not be corrupted by the habits
of profession.

Secondly--To an author of sensibility, surely no objection can be found;
a capacity to enjoy the sweets of friendship and the raptures of love
will be no disadvantage in the eyes of the virtuous and the fair.

Thirdly--From commerce with man I may gain some knowledge of his tempers
and propensities; from reading I will imbibe the sentiments of those
much wiser than myself; and by comparing my own deductions with their
abstract conclusions, I may, in converse with myself, give some degree
of clearness, correctness, and solidity to my conceptions.

To the last feature in my character, which is properly the result of
situation, I believe I may with truth ascribe the greater part of my
literary acquirements, and what is not quite so honourable to myself, my
presumption in becoming an author. To it I shall certainly be indebted
for opportunities to exert the attention necessary for the execution of
my design. And should not my papers afford instruction or entertainment
to others (a persuasion of which I am not vain enough to entertain) they
will at least procure improvement to myself. Convinced of the latter,
and with a wish to the former, I offer myself a candidate for an office
in your literary dispensary.

That subjecting one's-self to the odium of mankind is the infallible
consequence of reprobating his vices and ridiculing his follies, though
often asserted, is by no means the fact. In the moment of calmness,
uninfluenced by passion, man acknowledges and condemns his errors; and
they are not angels alone who _weep_ for the apishness of humanity. It
is in such a state of mind that we usually read; and the author need not
fear for his censures or his laugh---strange that he should, when he has
often occasion to expose those weaknesses in which he participates, and
those crimes which disgrace himself. If, therefore, from reflection on
my own conduct or observation of that of others in those hazardous
moments when reason leaves the helm, I should at any time be induced to
choose these themes, I shall have less reason to fear a frown for my
intentions than contempt for my incompetency. And should I not pay a
tribute to your fancy of one pathetic tale of hapless love, or of the
wondrous adventures of one heroic knight, look not ye fair with disdain
upon my labours. I love your sex, and deem their favour not the least of
those few blessings that raise a wish for life: And, though now a
hopeless thought, if in some happy hour I should conceive imagination
equal to the task, I may attempt to gratify myself by pleasing you.

  CANDIDUS,

    New-York, Dec. 10, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MAN.

Man is the lord of all the sublunary creation; the howling savage, the
winding serpent, with all the untameable and rebellious offspring of
nature, are destroyed in the contest, or driven at a distance from his
habitations. The extensive and tempestuous ocean, instead of limiting or
dividing his power, only serves to assist his industry, and enlarge the
sphere of his enjoyments. Its billows, and its monsters, instead of
presenting a scene of terror, only call up the courage of this little
intrepid being; and the greatest danger that man now fears on the deep,
is from his fellow-creatures. Indeed, when I consider the human race as
Nature has formed them, there is but very little of the habitable globe
that seems made for them. But when I consider them as accumulating the
experience of ages, in commanding the earth, there is nothing so great,
or so terrible. What a poor contemptible being is the naked savage,
standing on the beach of the ocean, and trembling at its tumults! How
little capable is he of converting its terrors into benefits; or of
saying, behold an element made wholly for my enjoyment! He considers it
as an angry Deity, and pays it the homage of submission. But it is very
different when he has exercised his mental powers; when he has learned
to find his own superiority, and to make it subservient to his commands.
It is then that his dignity begins to appear, and that the true Deity is
justly praised for having been mindful of man; for having given him the
earth for his habitation, and the sea for an inheritance.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (_Continued from page 182._)

In the mean time, the camp resounded with the cries of gladness, and our
victorious soldiers mingled my praises with those of Pulaski. At the
noise of my name, repeated by a thousand tongues, Lodoiska ran to her
father's tent. She convinced me of the excess of her tenderness, by the
excess of her joy at our meeting; and I was obliged once more to
commence the recital of the dangers from which I had escaped. She could
not hear of the singular generosity of the monarch, when I was in the
power of the Russians, without shedding tears: "How magnanimous he is!"
exclaims she, amidst a transport of joy; "how worthy of being a king, he
who so generously pardoned you! How many sighs has he spared a wife whom
you forsake! how many tears the loving wife whom you are not afraid of
sacrificing! Cruel Lovzinski, are not the dangers to which you daily
expose yourself sufficient----"

Pulaski here interrupts his daughter with a certain degree of harshness:
"Indiscreet and weak woman!" exclaims he, "is it before me that you dare
to hold such a discourse as this?"

"Alas!" replies she in a mild accent; "alas! must I forever tremble for
the life of a father and a husband?" Lodoiska also made the most
affecting complaints to me, and sighed after a more happy futurity,
while fortune was preparing for us the most cruel reverse.

Our Cossacks, placed at the out-posts, now came in from all parts, and
informed us that the Russian army was approaching. Pulaski reckoned on
being attacked at the break of day; but he was not: however, about the
middle of the following night I was informed that the enemy was
preparing to force our entrenchments.

Pulaski, always ready, always active, was actually defending them:
during the course of this fatal night, he achieved every thing that
might have been expected from his valour and experience.

We repel the assailants no less than five different times, but they
return unceasingly to the charge, pour in fresh troops at every new
attack, and, during the last one, penetrate into the heart of our very
camp by three different avenues, at one and the same time.

Zaremba was killed by my side; a crowd of nobles fell in this bloody
action; the enemy refused to give any quarter. Furious at seeing all my
friends perish before my eyes, I resolved to precipitate myself into the
midst of the Russian battalions.

"Heedless man!" exclaims Pulaski, "what blind fury urges you towards
your destruction? My army is entirely routed---destroyed---but my
courage still remains! Why should we perish uselessly here? Let us be
gone! I will conduct you into climes where we may raise up new enemies
against the Russian name. Let us live, since we can still serve our
country! Let us save ourselves, let us save Lodoiska."

"Lodoiska! am I capable of abandoning her?"

We instantly run to her tent--we are scarce in time: we carry her off,
precipitate ourselves into the neighbouring woods, and on the next
morning we venture to sally forth, and present ourselves before the gate
of a castle that was not altogether unknown to us.

It indeed belonged to a noble Pole, who had served during some time in
our army. Micislas instantly comes forth, and offers an asylum, which he
advises us, however, to make use of for a few hours only. He informs us,
that a very astonishing piece of news had spread abroad on the former
evening, and began to be confirmed, according to which the king himself
had been carried away out of Warsaw, that the Russians had pursued the
conspirators, and brought back the monarch to his capital; and that, in
fine, it was talked of putting a price upon the head of Pulaski, who was
suspected of being the author of this treason.

"Believe me," says he, "when I assure you, whether you have engaged or
not in this bold plot, that you ought to fly; leave your uniforms here,
which will assuredly betray you: I will instantly supply you with
clothes which are less remarkable: and as to Lodoiska, I myself will
conduct her to the place which you have chosen for your retreat."

Lodoiska now interrupts Micislas: "The place of my retreat shall be that
of their flight, for I will accompany them every where."

Pulaski represents to his daughter, that she was not able to sustain the
fatigue incident to such a long journey, and that besides we should be
liable to continual dangers.

"The greater the peril is," replies she, "the more I ought to partake it
with you. You have repeated to me a hundred times, that the daughter of
Pulaski ought not to be an ordinary woman. For the last eight years I
have constantly lived in the midst of alarms; I have seen nothing but
scenes of carnage and horror. Death has environed me on all sides, and
menaced me at every moment: will you not permit me to brave it now by
your side? Is not the life of Lodoiska connected with that of her
father? Lovzinski, will not the stroke that fells you to the ground send
your wife to the grave? and am I no longer worthy----"

I now interrupt Lodoiska, and join with her father, in stating the
reasons which determined us to leave her in Poland. She hears me with
impatience: "Ungrateful man," exclaims she at length, "will you fly
without me?" "You shall remain," replies Pulaski, "with Lovzinski's
sisters, and I prohibit you----"

His daughter, now frantic with grief, would not permit him to finish the
sentence.

"I know your rights, my father! I respect them; they shall always appear
sacred to me: but you do not possess that of separating a wife from her
husband."

"Ah, pardon me! I see that I offend you---my reason no longer maintains
its empire---"

"But pity my grief---"

"Excuse my despair---"

"My father! Lovzinski! hear me, both of you; I am determined to
accompany you every where!

"Yes, I will follow you every where, cruel men! I will follow you in
spite of yourselves!

"Lovzinski, if your wife has lost all the rights she had over your
heart, recollect at least her who was once the mistress of your
affections.

"Recal to your remembrance that frightful night, when I was about to
perish in the flames; that terrible moment when you ascended the burning
tower, crying out, let me live or die with Lodoiska!

"That which you felt at that terrible moment, I now experience! I know
no greater evil than that of being separated from you; and I now exclaim
in my turn, let me either live or die with my father and my husband!

"Unfortunate wretch! what will become of me, if you should forsake me.
Reduced to the cruel situation of bewailing you both, where shall I find
a solace for my miseries? Will my children console me? Alas! in two
years death hath snatched four away from me; and the Russians, equally
pitiless as death itself, have bereaved me of the last! I have only you
remaining in the world, and even you wish to abandon me! my father! my
husband! Will such dear connexions as these be insensible to my
sufferings! Have compassion, take pity on your own Lodoiska."
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

Her tears now intercepted her speech. Micislas wept; my heart was torn
with anguish. "You are resolved to accompany us, my daughter---be it so;
I consent," says Pulaski, "but I wish that heaven may not punish me for
my complaisance!"

Lodoiska now embraces us both with as much joy at if all our ills had
been at an end. I leave two letters with Micislas, which he undertook to
transmit according to the direction: the one was addressed to my
sisters, and the other to Boleslas. I bade them adieu, and I recommended
to them, to neglect no means to endeavour to recover my dear Dorliska!

It was necessary that I should disguise my wife---she assumes a
masculine dress; we change our own, and we employ all the means in our
power to disfigure ourselves in such a manner as to elude research, and
prevent discovery.

Thus altered in our appearance, armed with our sabres and our pistols,
provided with a considerable sum in gold, with some trinkets, and all
the jewels of Lodoiska, we take leave of Micislas, and make haste to
regain the woods.

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  OBSERVATION.

He whose passions are mild, whose fortune is equal to his desires and
situation, who passes his life with his relations and friends, and dies
in their arms without remorse, fear or pain, is a happy man.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  PLEASURE.

The enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by intervals. The highest rapture
lasts only for a moment, and all the senses seem so combined, as to be
soon tired into languor by the gratification of any one of them. It is
only among the Poets we hear of men changing to one delight, when
satiated with another. In nature, it is very different; the glutton,
when sated with the full meal, is unqualified to feel the real pleasure
of drinking; the drunkard, in turn, finds few of those transports which
lovers boast in enjoyment; and the lover, when cloyed, finds a
diminution of every other appetite. Thus, after a full indulgence of any
one sense, the man of pleasure finds a languor in all, is placed in a
chasm between past and expected enjoyment, perceives an interval which
must be filled up. The present can give no satisfaction, because he has
already robbed it of every charm. A mind thus left without immediate
employment, naturally recurs to the past or the future: the reflector
finds that he was happy, and knows that he cannot be so now; he sees
that he may yet be happy, and wishes the hour was come: thus every
period of his continuance is miserable, except that very short one of
immediate gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, none has more
frequent conversations with disagreeable _self_ than he: his enthusiasms
are but few and transient; his appetites, like angry creditors,
continually making fruitless demands for what he is unable to pay; and
the greater his former pleasure, the more strong his regret, the more
impatient his expectations. A life of pleasure is, therefore, the most
unpleasing life in the world.

Habit has rendered the man of business more cool in his desires; he
finds less regret for past pleasures, and less solicitude for those to
come. The life he now leads, though tainted in some measure with hope,
is yet not afflicted so strongly with regret, and is less divided
between shortlived rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures he has
enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has to expect cannot consequently
create so much anxiety.

The philosopher, who extends his regard to all mankind, must have still
a smaller concern for what has already affected, or may hereafter affect
himself; the concerns of others make his whole study, and that study is
his pleasure; and this pleasure is permanent in its nature, because it
can be changed at will, leaving but few of those anxious intervals which
are employed in remembrance or anticipation. The philosopher, by these
means, leads a life of almost continued dissipation; and reflection,
which makes the uneasiness and misery of others, serves as a companion
and instructor to him.


       *       *       *       *       *

  CONVERSATION OF A FINE WOMAN.

There is something irresistibly pleasing in the conversation of a fine
woman; even though her tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes
teaches wisdom. The mind sympathises with the regularity of the object
in view, and, struck with external grace, vibrates into respondent
harmony.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  PANEGYRIC ON MARRIAGE.

  "O time roll on thy sluggish wheels, and haste the day
  "When joys like these shall decorate MY way."

If it be true, that our pleasures are chiefly of a comparative or
reflected kind--How supreme must be theirs, who continually reflect on
each other, the portraitures of happiness---whose amusements---

  "Tho' varied still---are still the same---in infinite progression."

How tranquil is the state of that bosom, which has, as it were, a door
perpetually open to the reception of joy, or departure of pain, by
uninterrupted confidence in, and sympathy with, the object of its
affection! I know of no part of the single or bachelor's estate, more
irksome than the privation we feel by it, of any friendly breast in
which to pour our delights, or from whence to extract an antidote for
whatever may chance to give us pain---The mind of a good man, I believe
to be rather communicative than torpid:---If so, how often may a youth,
of even the best principles, expose himself to very disagreeable
sensations, from sentiments inadvertently dropped, or a confidence
improperly reposed!---What, but silence, can be recommended to them;
since, in breaking it: so much danger is incurred, among those little
interested in our welfare? A good heart, it is true, need not fear the
exposition of its amiable contents:---But, alas, is it always a security
for us, that we mean well, when our expressions are liable to be
misconstrued by such as appear to lie in wait only to pervert them to
some ungenerous purpose?

The charms, then, of social life, and the sweets of domestic
conversation, are no small incitements to the marriage state.--What more
agreeable than the conversation of an intelligent, amiable, and
interesting friend? But who more intelligent than a well-educated
female? What more amiable than gentleness and sensibility itself? Or
what friend more interesting than such a one as we have selected from
the whole world, to be our steady companion, in every vicissitude of
seasons or of life?

"Give me some companion," says Sterne, "in my journey, be it only to
remark to, how our shadows lengthen as the sun goes down; to whom I may
say, how fresh is the face of nature! How sweet the flowers of the
field! How delicious are these fruits!"

If either of these parties be versed in music, what a tide of innocent
delight must it prove,---to soothe in adversity, to humanize in
prosperity, to compose in noise, and to command serenity in every
situation. If books have any charms for them, (and must they not be
tasteless, if they have not) well might the poet of nature place them in
company like this:

  "An elegant sufficiency, content,
  "Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
  "Ease, and alternate labour, useful life,
  "Progressive virtue, and approving heaven."

What a transition is it from what a Shakespear wrote, to what a Handel
played! How charming a relaxation from the necessary avocations of
business!----"Of business do you say?"---Yes; for I number this too,
among the pleasures of the happily married. Let the lady find agreeable
employment at home, in the domestic oeconomy of her household, but let
the gentleman be pursuing by unremitted and honest industry, new
comforts for her, for his children, and for himself.

Is there not some gratification too, in reflecting, that the blessings
of the marriage state, are more secure and permanent than most others,
which fall within the compass of human life?---it is the haven of a sea
of gallantries, of turbulence, and fears. Other friendships are seen to
fade, to languish, and to die, by removal of abode, by variance of
interest, by injuries, or even by mistakes: but this is co-equal with
life, the present existence has been called a state of trial, and of
preparation for a better, marriage is the perfection of it, here our
education is completed, all the sympathies and affections of the
citizen, the parent, and the friend, have their fullest spheres assigned
them; and, doubtless, that pair, who in this engagement, are truly happy
and irreproachable, must have so qualified themselves by a thousand
instances of mutual affection and forbearance, for an improved state of
manners and society, that they may be pronounced to have reached the
pinnacle of human felicity, from whence to Heaven, the transition will
neither be difficult nor strange; for that is the _home_ to which the
best improvements of social life are only framed to conduct us.---

    "Evening comes at last, serene and mild,
  "When after the long vernal day of life,
  "Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells,
  "With many a proof of recollected love;
  "Together down they sink in social sleep;
  "Together freed, their gentle spirits fly
  "To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign."


       *       *       *       *       *

  _NEW-YORK._

  MARRIED,

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. JAMES HEWITT, to
the very amiable and accomplished Miss ELIZA KING, daughter of the late
Major King, of England.

  Lo, the lovely blooming maid,
  Full in beauty's grace array'd.
  Softly treads to Hymen's shrine,
  Radiant as the Ophirian mine.

  Happiest youth, with haste away,
  Seize the blushing, dazzling prey;
  Loves and graces all unite,
  Charm with rapturous delight.

  Bless, O bless, ye powers above,
  Each in others endless love;
  And when time dissolves the pair,
  Bliss eternal may they share!


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO CORRESPONDENTS.

*** The beautiful lines of ALEXIS, on the Scottish Bard, are received,
and shall appear in our next. We flatter ourselves CANDIDUS will not
forget his promise to bring forward a series of Essays; we shall deem as
a high favour, a continuation of his correspondence.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                _THE AMARANTH._*

                   TO MARIA.

                   *   *   *

  "Immortal Amaranth! a flow'r which once
  "In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
  "Began to bloom; but soon, for man's offence,
  "To Heav'n remov'd, where first it grew, there grows,
  "And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life;
  "And where the river of bliss, thro' midst of Heav'n,
  "Rolls o'er Elysian flow'rs her amber stream:
  "With these, that never fade, the spirits elect
  "Bind their resplendent locks, inwreath'd with beams."

    MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

                   *   *   *

  Say, lovely fair! whene'er you rove,
    Along the flow'r-enamell'd vale,
  Or, careless tread the perfum'd grove
    Whose sweets impregnate ev'ry gale:

  As then the varying scene you view,
    Does not instruction freely pour,
  From ev'ry shrub that tastes the dew,
    The treasures of his copious store?

  Let these attract the mental eye,
    These prompt Maria's thought profound
  To call the gems, which ambush'd lie
    In Nature's vegetable round.

  But then, as myriads confuse,
    And each the other's sweets annoy,
  Wilt thou condemn the friendly muse
    Who aids thee in the great employ?

  Who bids thee now neglect the rose,
    Which long has claim'd the moral lay,
  For the bright amaranth, that glows
    In regal purple ever gay--

  Bright boasted flow'r, of boasted plains!
    Whilst myriads around thee fade,
  Thy living lustre still remains
    Untainted by, or sun, or shade!

  The dappled pink, and lily pale,
    With ev'ry gaudy-tinted flow'r
  That decks the hill, or scents the dale,
    If gather'd, fade to bloom no more.

  But thou, Elysian flow'r divine!
    If sprinkled o'er with balmy dew,
  Again thy wonted colours shine,
    Again thy purple beams anew!

  --Let this instructive flow'r, my fair,
    A grateful secret thus impart,
  How you may beauty's charms repair,
    Unaided by cosmetic art.

  When time (that worst of female foes)
    Has torn, with ruthless hand, away
  From beauty's cheek the blushing rose,
    Which far outvies the blooms of May,

  For orient, renovating dew,
    Which purples o'er this regal flow'r;
  Let mild good humour beam in you,
    Aided by virtues magic pow'r.

  These, lasting beauties will create,
    These, give new lustre to the eye;
  The cheeks bright bloom reanimate,
    And plant the rose that ne'er will die.

  Thus, lovely maid, where'er you rove,
    'Cross verdant hill, or fragrant dale,
  Make the gay flowrets of the grove,
    More useful than to scent the gale.

  [* "A flower of purple velvet colour, which, though gathered,
  keeps its beauty; and when all other flowers fade, recovers
  its lustre by being sprinkled with a little water."

    NOTES ON MILTON.]


       *       *       *       *       *

  VIRTUE AND ORNAMENT; AN ODE.
  TO THE LADIES.

  The diamond's and the ruby's rays
    Shine with a milder, finer flame,
  And more attract our love and praise
    Than Beauty's self, if lost to fame.

  But the sweet tear in Pity's eye,
    Transcends the diamond's brightest beams;
  And the soft blush of modesty
    More precious than the ruby seems.

  The glowing gem, the sparkling stone,
    May strike the sight with quick surprise,
  But Truth and Innocence alone
    Can still engage the good and wise.

  No glitt'ring ornament or show
    Will aught avail in grief or pain:
  Only from inward worth can flow
    Delight that ever shall remain.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _On the recovery of an only Child from the Small-pox._

  When sickness pal'd thy rosy cheek,
    And stole the lustre from thine eye,
  The minutes of each tedious hour
    Were mark'd by sad anxiety.

  For all thy soft endearing smiles,
    Which spoke with such expressive grace,
  Alas! were fled, and only pain
    Was trac'd upon thy cherub face.

  When near the doubtful crisis drew,
    And keener anguish fill'd my breast;
  In trembling hope, the fervent prayer
    My agonising soul address'd.

  'Twas heard--and health again restores
    The sprightly look, the rosy hue:
  Father of Heaven, to thee alone,
    All gratitude, all praise is due.


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, December 21, 1796.+  [+No. 77.+


  +Animated Letter from the Hon. Miss B-- to Sir Richard P---+

                   *   *   *

            [From an English Paper.]

                   *   *   *

The various passions which agitated my distracted soul have subsided and
I now am calm. I am alone, and in no danger of interruption: the
insignificants that fluttered around me are fled; and their departure
gives me no uneasiness.

I am at leisure to consider what I have been, and what I am; admired,
applauded, courted; avoided, despised, pitied. However, when I take a
view of my own heart, the prospect is less gloomy. I have been
incautious, but not abandoned; indiscreet, but not vicious; faulty, but
not depraved. If female virtue consists, as I have sometimes been told,
in female reputation, my virtue is gone: but if, as my soberer reason
teaches, virtue is independent of human opinion, I feel myself its
ardent votary, and my heart is pregnant with its noblest principles. The
children of ignorance cannot, and the children of malevolence will not,
comprehend this; but I court not their approbation, nor fear their
censure.

My soul, it must be owned, was formed of sensibility, formed for all the
luxury of the melting passions; but it is equally true, that the
severest delicacy had ever a place there. The groves of Br-----n can
witness, that whenever the loves presided at the entertainment, the
graces were not absent: that in the very delirium of pleasure, the
rapture was chastened, and the transport restrained.

My understanding was never made the dupe to my fonder wishes; nor did I
ever call in the wretched aids of a sceptical and impious philosophy to
countenance my unhappy fall. Though nature was my goddess and my
law-giver, I never dreamt of appealing from the decisions of positive
institutions. My principles were uncorrupted, whilst my heart was warm;
and if I fell as a woman, you know at the same time that I fell, like
Caesar, with decent dignity.

I write not to justify myself to you; you deserve not, you desire not
any such justification; but whilst I open my heart, I beg of you to
examine your own. The hour of reflection seldom comes too soon; and what
must your sensations be, when you recollect that you have violated all
laws divine and human, broken through every principle of virtue, and
every tie of humanity; that you have offered an insult to the kind
genius of hospitality, the benevolent spirit of good neighbourhood, and
the sacred and dignified powers of friendship! I mean not to reproach
you, but suffer me to ask, was it not sufficient that you had added my
name to the list of your infamous triumphs (for infamous they are, in
spite of sophistry, gaiety, and the world), that you had ranked me among
the daughters of wretchedness and ignominy, deprived me of my father, my
all of comfort, and my all of hope; were not these things, I say,
sufficient, without adding to them the meanness and baseness of publicly
speaking of me, in language that a gentleman would not have used to the
vilest wanton? weak, unhappy man, I am now indeed ashamed of my defeat!

For myself, I am well aware that "the world is not my friend, nor the
world's law." I expect not nor desire its favour: it never forgives
offences of this kind. My own sex, in particular, is inexorable; for
never did female kindness shed a tear of genuine commiseration upon
misfortunes like mine. The insolent familiarity of some, and the
cautious reserve of others, the affected concern, the self-approving
condolence, sufficiently teach me what is the friendship of women. But I
have no anxiety on this account: the remainder of my days I give to
solitude: and if Heaven will hear my most ardent prayer, if my presaging
heart and declining strength deceive me not, this remainder will not be
long. Sister angels shall joyfully receive me into their happy choirs,
though my too virtuous sisters in this world avoid my company as
contagious. In the mean time, never shall the returning sun gild the
roof of my humble habitation, but I will drop a tear of deep repentance
to the fatal indiscretion which robbed me of my peace, and plunged a
whole family in misery: and, when the hour of my delivery comes, if an
offended parent will but take me in his arms, and pronounce me forgiven,
my heart shall again be sensible of comfort, joy shall once more sparkle
in the eyes of

  MARIA.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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 187.)

It is almost incredible, with how much appearance of truth and
cordiality he manifested his grief at the hapless fate of the Duke. He
affected such a tender fellow-feeling, and so much friendship for
Miguel, that the latter was charmed with him, and fancied the favourable
opinion he had conceived of Alumbrado to be fully justified. The
hypocrite not only pitied him, but at the same time, endeavoured to
afford him comfort. Mentioning, however, among other arguments, how
wonderful the ways of Providence are, and how God promoted our
happiness, even through the evils of this world; the Duke shook his
head. Alumbrado was surprised at it, and enquired what objection he had
against that doctrine? The Duke, who thought him deserving of his
confidence, was so imprudent as to unfold to him his new creed; nay, he
carried his inconsideration so far as to read to him part of his tract
which he had wrote on that subject. Although I was very much terrified
at it, yet I was impatient to know Alumbrado's opinion and behaviour on
this occasion. My astonishment rose to the highest degree, when he
refuted the arguments of the Duke with a frankness which generally is
supposed to arise only from love of truth, and defended the goodness and
providence of God, with an evidence and warmth which can originate only
from the light of religion. The dignity and energy with which he spoke
had an irresistable effect on the Duke; he cast his eyes upon the ground
in dumb amazement, and appeared to be confounded and ashamed.

I cannot but confess that I myself began to believe I had been
egregiously mistaken in my opinion of Alumbrado's character. I begged
his pardon in my heart, and though I could not love him, yet I thought
it my duty not to refuse him my regard any longer.

However, soon after two accidents happened which gave me reason to
apprehend that I had changed my opinion too prematurely. I got
intelligence that Alumbrado visited the house of a man whose character
was very much suspected. Baeza was his name. The important office which
he kept at the custom-house, and the extensive trade he carried on all
over Europe, had rendered his house respected, wealthy, powerful, and
honoured. He was a Jew by birth, but changed his religion from political
motives. His conduct, at least, did not refute the opinion that he
confessed only with his lips the Roman Catholic religion, and it had
given rise to much scandal when Oliva*ez conferred on him the order of
Christ. The connection between him and this minister was very intimate
and not at all shaken by the revolution; but continued, only with more
assiduity and circumspection, which was no difficult task to a
consummate hypocrite like Baeza. It will be obvious that Alumbrado's
connection with this man displeased me for more than one reason. Another
circumstance contributed to strengthen my suspicion of Alumbrado's
honesty. The Duke missed a sheet of his tract on the system of the
_Manichees_. Alumbrado had visited him frequently, had been alone in his
study many a time where the manuscript was lying on the writing desk.
The Duke, far from suspecting him, fancied he had mislaid the paper, and
having renounced that system on Alumbrado's persuasion, did not care
much for that tract.

Although my repeated exhortations and my avowed antipathy had not been
able to prevail on my friend to drop all connections with that dangerous
man, yet they had retained him from being too intimate with him;
however, since he knew that I had conceived a more favourable opinion of
Alumbrado, he attached himself more closely to him. The old Marquis
observed this change with great satisfaction, but, at the same time, saw
with greater grief the recovery of his son's health make but very slow
progress. The cause of it was a secret, but rooted melancholy, into
which the overflowing exasperation of his heart and furious agony of
mind had changed ever since he had adopted the principles of the
Manichean system. This melancholy corroded his vitals like the slow
poison of a cancer, and stopped not only the circulation of the vital
powers, but also the energy of the soul of my unhappy friend in its
wonted activity. The situation of his mind was therefore merely passive,
which rendered him the more susceptible for those external impressions
which fitted the situation of his mind, the less power of resistance and
self-activity he possessed. Thus he was an instrument which Alumbrado
could play on at pleasure. The latter seemed, however, not yet
determined what measures he should take for attaining his aim; but,
unfortunately, the Duke himself put him afterwards on the right track.
He found particular pleasure in conversing with his new confidant on the
happiness which loving souls would derive from their reunion in a better
world, and he neglected me now for no other reason but because I could
say but very little on that subject, while Alumbrado's imagination and
eloquence were inexhaustible. I had no hope of giving the mind of the
Duke a different turn; his natural vivacity, which formerly so
frequently avocated his attention from one object, and oftentimes
directed it irresistably to another of a nature entirely opposite, this
vivacity was entirely extinguished; a gloomy sameness, which was
immoveably fixed to the object which once had attracted his attention,
having stept in its place. Every terrestrial joy had fled with Amelia,
Lady Delier and Antonio; the source from which he at present derived his
pleasure, originated beyond the grave. How joyfully would he have
overleaped the cleft which separated him from the darlings of his heart,
if he had not been kept back by mine and Alumbrado's persuasions. This
state of mind encreased his anxious desire of discovering an artificial
bridge of communication with the kingdom of spirits. In short, all the
ideas he had imbibed in the school of the Irishman awoke in his mind
with redoubled force. What at first had been to him a mere object of
knowledge, became now the most important concern of his heart. One time
he surprised Alumbrado with the question whether he thought it possible
to converse with spirits before our death? However the artful man
extricated his neck with great dexterity from the sling, replying, that
such a question could not be answered in general, nor with a few words.
I perceived that Alumbrado viewed the Duke attentively and began to
muse, although he had cut off abruptly the thread of the conversation.

No one can conceive how ardently the Duke longed for the arrival of the
Irishman, of whom he expected to receive the final solution of that
problem. One rather should think that the Irishman ought to have lost
all credit with him, on account of his treacherous behaviour; for not
only his first promise to put the Duke in possession of Amelia by means
of his supernatural power; but also the second, that he would initiate
him in the practical mysteries of his supernatural wisdom, as soon as
the revolution should have been accomplished, was still incompleted.
However, the Duke excused him, instead of suspecting his having deceived
him. "Hiermanfor," he said, "is not all powerful; how could he
therefore, avert that fatal blow from Amelia's head? Hiermanfor has not
fixed the day of his return; perhaps he has been detained by business of
the greatest consequence, or means to try the measure of my confidence
in him; but whatever may be the reason of his non-arrival, he certainly
will not omit to make good his word." Alumbrado asked him who that
Hiermanfor was? and the Duke related to him at large his adventures with
that man, without betraying the share he had had in the revolution.
I expected that Alumbrado, who at once was made acquainted with so
dangerous a rival, would do his utmost to ruin his credit; but I was
mistaken; all that he ventured to say, was, indeed, very much against
him; but he added, that one ought not to judge prematurely on so great
and deep a character.

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

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

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

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _ABSTRACT of the ABBE BERTHOLON's PAPER on FIRES,
  and the MEANS of extinguishing them._

  Published in the Lausanne Memoirs.

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  SPECIMENS OF SPEECH OR SPEAKINGS.
  _Imprimis. Oratio Floridensis._

  GENTLEMEN,

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  LIFE.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 190.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philosophers have no belief in forebodings.

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

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

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

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

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  FRIENDSHIP.

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  NATURE.

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  AFFECTION.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 20th ult. to the 10th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

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

                   *   *   *

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                     LINES
            ON THE LATE SCOTCH POET.

                   *   *   *

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

    GRAY.

                   *   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    ALEXIS.

      New-York, Dec. 6, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  MORAL VERSES, ADDRESSED TO YOUTH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  AN EPIGRAM.

    [By Dr. Byrom.]

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


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

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


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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  HAPPINESS.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 195.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Count consented to it.

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

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

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

"Undoubtedly! but why do you wish for his visit?"

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

"No, my Lord."

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

"Yes!" the Count replied, after a pause.

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

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

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

"I know it from Hiermanfor."

"And by whom has _he_ been informed of it?"

"By your Grace."

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

"Not directly; however, you have betrayed yourself."

"On what occasion?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then the Irishman has not been taken up seriously?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I suppose, very soon!"

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

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

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

"O! as for that juggling trick---"

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

"How can you be surprized at this discovery?"

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

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

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

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 198.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Zoporiskaia we heard of the capture of <DW12> and Oczakow, the
conquest of the Crimea, the defeat and subsequent death of the Vizir
Oglou.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  (To be concluded in our next.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  EXTRAORDINARY RECOMPENCE ACCORDED TO MERIT.

                   *   *   *

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  SOCIETY.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 11th to the 24th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 6, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

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


       *       *       *       *       *

                    SONNET.

                   *   *   *

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                     SONG.

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

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

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

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

    ANNA.

      NEW-YORK, DEC. 22, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON LOSING A FRIEND.

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  SONNET.

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _The Bachelor's Soliloquy. In imitation of a celebrated Speech._

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPITAPH.

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


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

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


  THE NETTLE AND THE ROSE:
  An Essay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  DISINTERESTED ACTION.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 203.)

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

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

"Certainly!"

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

"Yes, my Lord."

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

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

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

"Your Grace will allow me to leave this question unanswered!"

"For what reason?" the Duke asked with seeming coolness.

"Because my answer would explain nothing to you."

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

"They concerned only things which you were able to comprehend."

"Indeed! you pay me a very bad compliment!"

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

"I did, but what follows thence?"

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

"Don't pretend to persuade me that this apparition has been effected by
supernatural means."

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

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

"The appearance of Antonio was no deception."

"You will never make me believe it."

"I cannot blame you for it."

"Why not?"

"Because I have forfeited the right of deserving credit."

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

"How far are you connected with Hiermanfor?"

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

"Do you serve him with reluctance?"

"With devotion."

"Then you will know to whom you are devoted?"

"I don't know much more of him than your Grace."

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

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

"I protest I should see glad to know them."

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

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

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

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

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

"It certainly has been performed by Hiermanfor's accuteness, though not
through him alone."

"And the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard---"

"Has been effected by his supernatural power."

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

"That it was affected by his supernatural power!"

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

"I have confessed every thing already."

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

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

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

"I believe _that_ apparition to have been effected by Hiermanfor's
supernatural power," replied the Count after a short silence.

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

"I am in your power."

"Where you will not be entreated to speak the truth?"

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

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

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

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

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  _DIGNITY OF MAN._

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  Interesting History Of
  _THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

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

  (Continued from page 206, and concluded.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saying this he expires.*

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  _The candid acknowledgment of an Old Batchelor._

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

  STEPHEN SORROWFUL.


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARKS.

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                   CANDIDUS.

                    No. I.

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

  (_To be concluded in our next._)

  [[Notes:

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE.

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


       *       *       *       *       *

                   NEW-YORK.

                   *   *   *

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

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

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

  The Public's obliged,

    Humble Servant,

      JOHN BULL.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _TO THE PUBLIC, AND PATRONS_
              of
  The New-York Weekly Magazine.

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

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

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

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

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

  I am, with profound respect,

    Their Obedient, Humble Servant,

      +THOMAS BURLING, Jun.+

        New-York, Jan. 2, 1797.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MARRIED,

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO CORRESPONDENTS.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  WINTER; AN ODE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  DESPAIR.

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ODE TO CONTEMPLATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  +Epigram on a false mistress.+

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


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

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


      _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                     ESSAY.

                     No. I.

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

    SWIFT.

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

  A. D.

    DECEMBER 31, 1796.

  [[Notes:

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  JUSTICE.

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  +DEATH of a PHILOSOPHER.+

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 211.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She is a woman who mistakes you."

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

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

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

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

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

"It is Hiermanfor's answer to the letter you have been reading."

I read the letter aloud.

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

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

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

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

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE OF VOLTAIRE.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  OSMIR.
  An Original Essay.

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  SELECT REFLECTIONS ON EDUCATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [[Source:

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                   CANDIDUS.

                     No. I.

  (Concluded from page 214.)

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  INDUSTRY.

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  SINCERITY.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  OBSERVATION.

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


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 25th ult. to the 7th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

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

                   *   *   *

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

              TO THE SETTING SUN.

  I.

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

  II.

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

  III.

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

  IV.

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

  V.

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

    CLARA.

      New-York, Oct. 12, 1796.

  [[The quoted line "And sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun" is
  from Shenstone, _Elegy 26_ ("I sigh in...").]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE ADIEU--TO A FAVOURITE GROVE.

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _An Elegy to the Memory of a Friend._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  SONNET.--TO THE MOON.

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

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

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

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


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


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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

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


  HUMANITY.

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

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

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

It is founded on a sense of what we owe to him who made us, and to the
common nature of which we all share.--It arises from reflection on our
own failings and wants, and from just views of the condition and duty of
man.---It is native feeling heightened and improved by principle. It is
the heart which easily resents; which feels for every thing that is
human; and is backward and slow to inflict the least wound. It is
affable in its address, and mild in its demeanour; ever ready to oblige,
and be obliged by others; breathing habitual kindness towards friends,
courtesy to strangers, long suffering to enemies.

It exercises authority with moderation;---administers reproof with
tenderness; confers favours with care and modesty.---It is unassuming in
opinion, and temperate in zeal.---It contends not eagerly about trifles;
slow to contradict, and still slower to blame; but prompt to allay
dissention and restore peace.---It neither intermeddles unnecessarily
with the affairs, nor pries inquisitively into the secrets of
others.---It delights above all things to alleviate distress; and, if it
cannot dry up the falling tear, to soothe at least the grieving heart.

Where it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome.---It
seeks to please rather than shine and dazzle, and conceals with care
that superiority, either of talents or of rank, which are oppressive to
those who are beneath it.---It is a great avenue to mutual enjoyment:
amidst the strife of interfering interests, it tempers the violence of
contention, and keeps alive the seeds of harmony.---It softens
animosities, renews endearments, and renders the countenance of a man a
refreshment to man.---It prepossesses and wins every heart.---It
persuades when every other argument fails; often disarms the fierce, and
melts the stubborn.

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  FAITH, PIETY, AND ACTIVE VIRTUE.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 219.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wish to have it answered by you."

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

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

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

"You disapprove of my connection with that man."

"Very much."

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

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

"I don't want your forbearance. Speak."

"At another time, my friend, at another time."

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

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

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

"Undoubtedly."

"That this occult science consists merely in juggling tricks?"

"In _natural_ arts of all kind."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You astonish me."

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

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

"Both of them has told you a barefaced lie."

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

"By proving that pretended miracle to be a juggling trick."

"You have raised my expectation to the highest pitch."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You want to evade my question."

"Indeed not!"

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

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

"Certainly."

"That I deny."

"You think that no man living has that capacity."

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

"You cut it very short."

"My argument is valid."

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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


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

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

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

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

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

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  An Essay
  ON PITY AND BENEVOLENCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARKABLE OCCURRENCE.

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  A PLEASING REVERIE.

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  SATIRE.

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


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 8th to the 14th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  A CHARM FOR ENNUI.

  A MATRIMONIAL BALLAD.

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

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

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

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

  If a cool _non-chalance_ o'er your _sposa_ should spread,
  (For vapours will rise e'en on Jupiter's head,)
  O ever believe it, from jealousy free,
  A thin passing cloud, not the fog of _Ennui_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ELEGY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

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

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


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

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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

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


      _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  ESSAYIST. No. II.

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

    MASON.

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

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

  A. D.

    _Jan. 15, 1797._


       *       *       *       *       *

  FELICITY EQUALLY DISTRIBUTED.

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 227.)

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

"This I grant without the least hesitation, for daily experience proves
it. We see _men_, of course we see spirits in _bodily clothing_."

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

"What we _see_ is always nothing but the bodily covering; but we must
_conclude_ by other marks and circumstances, whether it be inhabited by
a spirit. Besides, there is in the whole dominion of our _sensible_
knowledge not one being that answers our idea of a spirit; this idea has
been produced merely by _reasoning_, and therefore a spirit never can
become an object of our _perception_."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perfectly!"

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

"Very right."

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

"I perceive what you are aiming at."

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

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

"Don't you see that _superstition_ thus would be at full liberty to
exercise its sway over us, because we would be led to believe that even
the most absurd delusions of our imagination _could possibly_ be founded
on a spiritual influx?"

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

"And don't you see that it would be impossible to discern a ghost-seer
from a lunatic?"

The Duke started up: "How, from a lunatic?"

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

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

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

"The event will prove how much you wrong him."

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

"If you could do this---"

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

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

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

"This, I think, cannot be disputed."

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

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

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  REASON.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  (Continued from our last.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  All the lowly children of the vale.

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

  E. H."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTES OF THE LATE EMPEROR OF GERMANY.

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

             ORIGINAL OBSERVATION.

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

  E.


       *       *       *       *       *

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

                   *   *   *

_My dear charmin Cratur,_

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

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

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

  Your's whether livin or dyin,

    _Sir ROUKE O'----L, Barrownite._

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE.

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


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 15th to the 21st inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  ELEGIAC SONNET.

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  +To the Editor,+

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  AN ELEGY.

    [by the same.]

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ODE TO REFLECTION.

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

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

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

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


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

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


  _UTILE DULCI._

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

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


  THE PIEDMONTESE SHARPER.

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  ALMANZOR, THE ARABIAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 235.)

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

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

"A belief that has no firm foundation is absurd."

"You then think every apparition, however it be shaped--"

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

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

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

"And the supernatural power he is boasting of--?"

"Is nothing but a skilful application of that knowledge!"

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

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

I smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I thank you for it."

"Your obstinacy and my frankness may prove fatal to me."

"How so?"

"It will perhaps cost me my life and liberty."

"I do not comprehend you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Again, an apparition--?"

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

"You mean the apparition of Count San*?"

"The very same."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE OF MR. FERGUSON.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  (Continued from our last.)

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

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

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

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

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

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

  (Continued from our last.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  [[Sources:

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE TEMPLE OF HOPE,
  A Vision.

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

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  EXTRACT.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ON WEALTH.

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

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

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

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  TRUE MEEKNESS.

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

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

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

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

Meekness may be called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which
levels every obstruction, and smooths every difficulty that might impede
their entrance, or <DW44> their progress. Honours and dignities are
transient;---beauty and riches frail and fugacious;---but this amiable
virtue, is permanent. And surely the truly wise would wish to have some
one possession, which they might call their own in the severest
exigencies. This can only be accomplished by acquiring and maintaining
that calm and absolute self-possession, which, as the world had no hand
in giving, so it cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power,
take away.

  [[Source:

  "True and False Meekness" in Hannah More, _Essays Principally
  Designed for Young Ladies_ (1777). "Compassion" (p. 401, no. 103)
  is from the same source.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

                   NEW-YORK.

                   *   *   *

  TO CORRESPONDENTS.

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

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 22d to the 28th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

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


       *       *       *       *       *

  FRIENDSHIP.

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


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

    Then needless artifice, dear maid, forbear
  What charms the lover best, adorns the fair.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

  Haste, pallid nymph, forego thy moss-crown'd cell,
      Clad in thy milk-white vest,
      By Nature woven, by the Graces drest:
    Come seek the adust retreat of these lone groves,
  Where Shenstone breath'd, ere Fate had rung his knell,
    And join the requium of confederate loves.

  Can you forget how oft in wooing you,
    He artless led the passions in a throng?
  No suppliant ever felt a flame more true,
    And wit and beauty mingled in his song.

  Tho' Nepthe blaz'd, her brows with myrtle twin'd,
  Not all her loveliness could shake his constant mind.

      In the meridian of his quiet day,
    When gentle Reason had matur'd his youth;
      The relatives of Onus bless that lay
    He gave to you, and gave it with his truth.

  Pure were his morals as the Patriarchs thought,
  And heaven approv'd the dogma Fancy taught.

    Ah me, that breast which glow'd with patriot fire,
      Beneath this grass-green mantle lies entom'd!
    Cold is that nerve which harmoniz'd the lyre,
      And all his bright'ning faculties consum'd:
  Come then, such fallen excellence deplore,
  His harp's unstrung, his minstrelsy is o'er.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ODE TO HAPPINESS.

  Tho' all men aim at happiness,
  And some their boasted schemes profess,
  Yet few, alas! too few we find,
  Take the right course, by nature blind.

  Th' ambitious man directs his way
  Thro' title, honours, night and day:
  The miser hovers o'er his gold,
  With heaps on heaps, each farthing told:

  But sooner or later they'll perceive,
  These trifling things the mind bereave
  Of ev'ry solid, dear delight,
  The soul o'erspread with gloom of night;

  That envied titles, honours, fame,
  Are but a sounding, empty name:
  That riches fly on wings away;
  The brightest name will soon decay:

  Yet riches ne'er will satisfy,        }
  Tho' e'er so certain, still they cloy }
  The dupe, that on them doth rely.     }
  Still surer doth the sensualist
  His pleasures, and his good resist;
  With loss of health, misfortunes rues
  The man, who sensual paths pursues:

  For pleasures dissipate the mind,
  Bring on diseases, death unkind;
  Ruin his fortune, robs his soul
  Of all true joy, without controul.

  The philosophic sage also,
  Unless the fear of God he know,
  Unless his Maker's works he scan,      }
  Is but a poor bewilder'd man;          }
  Much knowledge will more sorrows gain. }

  But he who would true pleasure find,
  Delight of a superior kind,
  Must firmly virtue's steps pursue,
  To worldly folly bid adieu;
  Dispos'd, all heav'n's decrees to meet
  With fortitude, or harsh, or sweet;

  If fortune blows in prosp'rous gales,
  Or adverse wind his skiff assails,
  Still he is happy, pleas'd, content,
  With what kind heav'n, not him hath sent;

  Nor pines with grief, himself alone      }
  Bears all the shock of fortune's frown,  }
  Untouch'd, resign'd, God's will his own: }
  In patience tastes a greater joy,
  Than all the world's variety.

  Religion doth a good afford,
  To all, with gladsome pleasure stor'd,
  Such as the world to give in vain     }
  May boast for all its pleasures pain, }
  Compar'd with virtue's smiling train, }
  Of joy refin'd, of peace and health,
  The greatest good, the best of wealth.

  For there's that sweetness, and that peace
  In virtue's blessed, wholesome ways,
  Which no disaster can defeat,
  Its transports so divinely great.

  Who would not then this course pursue,
  Which only leads to bliss, and pleasures ever new?


NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+--
where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be
gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+._

       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  _UTILE DULCI._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, February 8, 1797.+  [+No. 84.+


      For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

              ESSAYIST. No. III.

  "Fav'rite of heaven and friend of earth!
  Philanthropy, benignant power!
  Whose sons display no doubtful worth,
  The pageant of the passing hour."

    HALEY's ode to HOWARD.

In man there appears to be a natural affection for his fellow creatures,
this as a general remark is evident, when the whole bulk of mankind is
considered; but if we descend to particulars and examine how his
affection exists, with regard to individuals, how often do we find him
defective. Some under the smiling aspect of friendship conceal the
envenomed sting of hatred, while others openly declare their enmity. But
philanthropy extends its kindness to all whether friend or foe. It
encircles in the arms of love, alike the rich and poor--the bondman and
the free. Anger, revenge, and all the rougher passions which divest the
mind of its serenity, and immerse it in gloom and despondence, as if
driven by supernatural power, fly at its approach. It delights to assist
the distressed and infuse hope and comfort into the heart almost broken
by misfortune. The soul that is warmed by the genial sparks of
philanthropy and benevolence, looks with pleasure on his companions,
feels himself interested in all their transactions, and participates in
their prosperity. The persecuted are ever sure to find in him a
protector, and the wretched a friend. He exposes himself to the breath
of contagion, that he may bring assistance to those who are sinking
under the accumulated load of poverty and disease. He explores the
gloomy dungeon and softens the bonds of the captive: his whole life
presents a series of benevolent and worthy actions. Such is the
philanthropist; justly admired by the world at large, and sincerely
beloved by the small circle of his friends.

And such was Howard---the benevolent, the philanthropic Howard--more
worthy of our admiration and more deserving of our envy, while imbibing
the deadly vapours of the lazaretto, or exposing his constitution to the
chill damps of the subterranean dungeon, than pompous royalty clothed
with the ensigns of power and encircled with all the splendors of a
court.

  A. D.

    JANUARY 26.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ON AMBITION.

The best of all good things, says M. Retz, is repose. All the pleasures
which nature can bestow, become insipid to him who is agitated by
ambition, who is tormented by vanity, or torn by envy. You shall see a
man on whom fortune has been prodigal of her choicest favours, to whom
nature has given a sound and vigorous body; who is beloved by his wife
and his children, whom he cherishes; whose presence spreads pleasure and
joy in his family, where he is only an apparition; who, if he lived on
his own domains, would enjoy the pleasure of doing good to a set of
vassals, but he there makes his appearance only three or four times in a
year; and is then scarcely seen till he is gone again. This man does not
feel the value of health; he does not enjoy his fortune. His life which
might flow on in that kind of animated leisure, which results from the
exercise of acts of beneficence, is consumed in agitation and in fear.
Independent by his riches, he devotes himself to servitude, and is
tormented by chagrin. His sleep, which ought to be pleasing, is troubled
by envy and disquietude. He writes, he cringes, he solicits, he tears
himself from pleasures, and gives himself up to occupations that are not
suited to his taste; he in a measure refuses to live during forty years
of his life, in order that he may obtain employment, dignities, marks of
distinction, which, when he obtains them, he cannot enjoy.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TRUE VIRTUE AND HONOUR.

Men possessed of these, value not themselves upon any regard to inferior
obligations, and yet violate that which is the most sacred and ancient
of all---religion.

They should consider such violation as a severe reproach in the most
enlightened state of human nature; and under the purest dispensation of
religion, it appears to have extinguished the sense of gratitude to
Heaven, and to slight all acknowledgment of the great and true God. Such
conduct implies either an entire want, or a wilful suppression of some
of the best and most generous affections belonging to human nature.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
  _OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
  Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 243.)

"I will not pretend to say that this class of men qualify themselves for
ghost-seers by the mortifications you have been mentioning; it is
however certain, that they are in a fair way of becoming fanatics and
madmen. At the same time, I think it very imprudent to sacrifice every
earthly pleasure, to neglect the duties we owe to human society, on
account of the possibility of a matter, the reality of which is founded
on no arguments whatever. It is no absolute impossibility that I should
one time be made a Mandarin of China, yet the bare possibility of it
will certainly not induce me to trouble my head with the study of the
Chinese state-politics in order to qualify myself for that dignity.
Moreover, it is not only possible, nay, it is probable that the moon is
inhabited by rational beings, I shall nevertheless certainly not be
anxious to give any offence to the man in the moon by my actions. But to
be serious, my friend, the point of your question is not, whether it be
possible spirits should have an influence on us and external objects,
but whether we really do possess a certain and decisive criterion
whereby we can ascertain the reality of that influence; and I think I
have sufficiently proved that we possess none. Nay I even maintain, that
if something should not only be possible, but also really exist, yet its
existence is no concern of mine, while I cannot ascertain its existence
by a sufficient ground, while it does not manifest its existence to my
knowledge by certain and indubitable criterions."

"But your objection," I resumed after a short silence, "may be pursued
still further. You maintain that I could not prove the internal
impossibility of the influence of spirits on human beings, and thus far
you are right; but I have an equal right to maintain that you also
cannot prove their real possibility; for in that case it would be
requisite to know not only what a spirit is according to our idea, but
also what it is in itself; and that only the Author of spirits can know.
We know our own soul only by its effects, and no mortal can explain the
essential nature of this first cause of all our ideas and actions. For
that very reason it ever will be concealed from us whether it is related
at all to spirits here below, and what the nature of that relation is?
Here, my friend, are the limits of human reason, beyond which we cannot
proceed without falling in with the empty space of sophistical phantoms.
While you shall remain within the lawful boundaries, you never will have
reason to complain of the insufficiency of human reason, as you have
done just now. It is criminal arrogance to overleap the sacred limits,
to which Providence has confined it; for the eternal wisdom of God is
equally entitled to our regard by what it has denied, as by what it has
granted us. Descend, therefore, my friend, descend from the empty space
to which the Irishman had seduced you, to the firm ground of experience
and common sense! Happy is he who looks upon this ground as a post
allotted to him, which we can never transgress without being punished,
and which implies every thing that can afford us satisfaction while we
keep firm to what is useful."

About six weeks after this conversation, I happened one night to sup
with the Marquis in the company of his son and Alumbrado. Our discourse
on the new government was growing very warm, when the clock in the room
struck ten. Alumbrado suddenly grew deadly wan, and seemed to be struck
dumb; his eyes stared at one spot, and he resembled a lifeless statue.
We looked at each other with astonishment; the old Marquis was the first
who called to him, but received no answer, and started up seized with
terror. The Duke and myself followed his example; our endeavours to
restore Alumbrado to recollection were, however, fruitless; he remained
in profound stupefaction. Not knowing what had happened to him, we were
going to send for a physician, when he rose from his chair like a person
to whom nothing uncommon has happened, and told us with the greatest
unconcern, "This very moment a strange accident has happened 300 miles
from hence. At *li*, at the Sun Tavern, the picture of the new king
which was hung up in the dining room, give occasion to a discourse
concerning him. One of the guests said a great deal to his praise,
manifesting, at the same time, a strong apprehension that the King of
S--------n might not submit so quietly to the loss of the crown of
P--------l, and perhaps, reclaim it by force of arms. Another guest
declared this to be a vain idea, maintaining that the new King was as
firmly fixed on his throne as his picture opposite him on the wall: but
no sooner had he pronounced these words, when the picture suddenly fell
to the ground with a tremendous noise."

Here Alumbrado stopped. While we were standing around him in dumb
astonishment, he eyed us with the firm look of a person who has related
an incident of which he has been an eye witness. Astonishment and horror
seized me, and I did not know what to say. The Duke recovered first from
his surprise, asking him by what means he had got that intelligence.
"I must beg you," Alumbrado replied in a low accent, "to suppress a
question to which I can give no satisfactory answer. However," he added
with emphasis, "you may rely on the truth of my intelligence."

He had not deceived us. On the sixth day after this extraordinary
incident, letters from *li* arrived confirming the same event, and nine
days after, it was reported in the foreign newspapers. It really
happened on the same evening, and the same night when Alumbrado had
informed us of it.

Being unexpectedly honoured by the new King with a commission that
obliged me to leave the kingdom of P----l, soon after this extraordinary
incident had happened, I was not at leisure to investigate the source of
Alumbrado's prophecy; nor could I learn the Duke's opinion of it; my
deluded friend beginning to grow very close and reserved in my presence.
It grieved me to be obliged to leave him in Alumbrado's power, under
such critical circumstances, I could however, not delay my departure.
The Duke tore himself from my embraces with weeping eyes, and promised
to write frequently to me.

A week after my arrival at the place of my destination, I received a
letter from my friend, which I am going to transcribe faithfully.

"I have had to-day a most important conversation with Alumbrado. The
principal subject of it was the old concealed King of P--------l, for
whose restoration I had interested myself. 'Can you seriously
believe---' Alumbrado said, 'that the person with whom you have
conversed at the Hermitage, has really been the old King of P--------l?
It seems you did not even suspect that the introduction of the old man
was a juggling farce, which was acted with a view similar to those of
the other delusions of the Irishman? Although we should suppose that the
King had not been killed in the field of battle, and that he himself had
been the identical person who was confined at the castle of St. Lukar,
which however, has not been proved, yet the whole affair would still
bear a very suspicious aspect. Not to mention the great improbability of
his escape from a well-guarded Castle, where he was kept in close
confinement, and of his having attained an age of 108 years
notwithstanding the hardships he suffered in the field of battle, and in
his prison. I only beg you to consider who it was that introduced him to
you as King of P--------l? Was not the Irishman that person? At the same
time, give me leave to recal to your recollection, that Count Clairval
has confessed that the pretended King acted in concert with that
impostor, and then tell me sincerely, what ground you have to believe
such an improbability on the testimony of two cheats? Perhaps you will
appeal to his great resemblance to the late King? But have not three
persons before him pleaded similar marks as proofs of the identity of
their person, and nevertheless been unmasked as impostors? My good Duke,
on mature consideration it seems that the Irishman relied very much on
your youth and the absence of your tutor, when he imposed upon you by
that juggling trick.'

"Ah! what ideas do you recall to my memory! I exclaimed, that letter
from the Queen and the answer of the Irishman."

"Very right! Alumbrado interrupted me, these letters sufficiently prove
that you was considered as a young man who promised to be a fit
instrument for executing their design. And it is no longer a secret what
that design was, and in whose head it has been hatched out. The proud
Duchess of B----za had a longing for the crown of P--------l, and it was
she who persuaded the Duke to form a plan of seizing it. Your
assistance, my dear Duke, was wanted for attaining that aim, but the
conspirators foresaw at the same time, that you would refuse it, your
antipathy against your illustrious relation being no secret to them. For
that reason they pretended that the Duke of B----a had no other view but
to replace the old King on the throne of his ancestors. It was necessary
you should be made to believe that he was still alive and in safety; for
that purpose the hermit was brought on the stage, and acted his part
with no common skill."

"Damned complot!" I exclaimed, with rising indignation. "Compose
yourself my Lord," Alumbrado resumed, "your anger will now avail you
very little. Take care not to manifest your indignation too loudly, lest
the new King might forget that you are his relation, and have assisted
him to ascend the throne. You can do nothing else at present, but to
submit humbly to his authority; and I advise you at the same time not to
neglect paying due regard to the Queen, for she rules the King and the
empire. Do not expect that the present King will yield the sceptre he
has usurped to any man living. If you don't believe me, you may inquire
of him after the old King, and he will tell you, that he has resigned
the government to him, because he feels himself unequal to the arduous
task of ruling a large kingdom, on account of his advanced age, or
perhaps that he is dead."

"My dear Marquis, what do you think of this? I fear Alumbrado is not
mistaken, and I am in a state of mind that would render it imprudent for
me to appear at court; but as soon as the tempest that ruffles my mind
shall be subdued, I will pay a visit to the new King in order to come to
the bottom of the truth.

"P.S. You will be so kind to continue to direct your letters to Li*bon,
for neither I nor my father shall leave the town this summer."

Before I could return an answer to this letter, I received a second, the
contents of which were as follow:

"Will you believe, my friend, that I desired three times to have an
audience, before my royal cousin condescended to admit me to his
presence? This utter want of regard and gratitude, re-kindled my
indignation, in such a manner, that I entered the royal apartment in a
way that was not very consonant with the court etiquette. The King,
however, received me very courteously, pretending to be extremely sorry
that the accumulated affairs of state had not allowed him to receive my
visit sooner, declaring at the same time that he was very glad to see
me. 'I am come, I replied, in order to tell you that I am surprised that
the old King has not yet made his appearance, and released you from the
heavy burden of state business.'

"Don't you know that he is dead?"

'The emotions that I felt at these words are beyond all description; and
my astonishment, the paleness that overspread my face, and my silence
must have betrayed them to the King.'

"At what are you astonished thus? not at the death of an old man of a
hundred and eight years?"

"No," I replied after a pause, "but I am surprised that he died at so
seasonable a period."

"Will you explain yourself more distinctly?"

"I think it is a very strange accident that the royal hermit should have
entered the kingdom of heaven, and left your Majesty the terrestial
crown, just when he was to show himself to the people as their lawful
King."

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _The Power of Music; or, the History of Belario and Lucetta._

Belario was a youth who had been bred up under his father's eye,
according to the most rigid morals. Old Syphax had, in the early part of
his life, been a great dupe to the fair sex; he had fancied himself a
_beau garcon_, and imagined he had a right to captivate every female he
thought proper to address. In this opinion he was greatly mistaken, and
meeting with a variety of coquettes and jilts, he found himself often
deceived by his own artifice, and after having squandered considerable
sums upon them, discovered he was only laughed at for his vanity and
folly. He, however, pursued the career of a general lover for upwards of
a dozen years; in the course of which time he had much injured his
fortune, in dangling after beauties who despised him, and substituting
in their place professed harlots. At length he closed the circle of his
amours in marrying, out of mere spight, his own cook-maid, by whom he
had Belario.--His consort, though she had approved herself an excellent
cook, turned out a dreadful wife. She no sooner attained the summit of
her ambition, which she had long aimed at, and which she obtained by the
most servile flattery, and the greatest humility imaginable, than she
threw off the independant, and soon convinced Syphax, she knew the
difference between a servile state and that of a mistress. In a word,
she was the modern Zantippe, and probably Socrates never led half so
wretched a life, as did poor Syphax, after the connubial knot was tied.
He now took an aversion to the whole sex, swore eternal enmity to them,
and made a solemn vow, after separating from his wife, soon after the
expiration of the honey moon, never to associate or speak to a woman in
the course of his future life. Upon the birth of his son he immediately
sent for him, and would never let him know who was his mother.

As Belario advanced towards maturity, he had him educated under his own
roof, having resolved that he should not be trained at a public school,
lest, by associating with the world, he might imbibe their notions in
favour of the female sex. He never suffered him to read any books that
had the least allusion to the tender passion, and constantly represented
women, whenever they were mentioned, as monsters in human forms, and
more to be dreaded than wolves and tigers. In this opinion whenever
Belario beheld a female at a distance, he fled from her with the
greatest swiftness, fearful that even the air might be contaminated with
her breath. Yet he thought that there was something enchanting in woman,
which he could not account for; but if he hinted such a thought to his
father, Syphax depicted them as Syrens, who allured unwary travellers to
approach them for their destruction.

Tutored with these extraordinary notions, Belario had attained his
eighteenth year, when Syphax paid the great debt of nature, and left his
son in possession of an easy fortune. He began now to relax from the
severity of those studies, to which he had been confined. He read
novels, Ovid's Art of love, and many other books, that soon made him
suspect his father's doctrine had been fallacious. Belario had not,
however, the fortitude to dare approach a female so nearly, as to enjoy
the contemplation of her charms, or the enchanting raptures of her
conversation; when one day walking in a pensive mood, in a grove
adjacent to his abode, his ears were assailed with such harmoneous
accents as involuntarily attracted not only his attention, but, by a
secret impulse, led him to the spot where the seeming celestial notes
proved to issue.

He had scarce reached the hawthorn of melody, before he perceived the
lovely Lucetta singing, accompanied by her guittar. Now, in despight of
all his father's tenets so carefully inculcated, he found the impulse of
nature, and the power of music, operate far beyond all the sophistry of
Syphax's reasoning against the lovely sex.

He intuitively approached the beauteous maid, and instantly became a
captive to her charms---a votary to love and harmony.

Lucetta at first received him with some reserve; but after a fervent
declaration of his passion, which soon became sympathetic, she listened
to his addresses; when he revealed to her how much he had been imposed
upon by Syphax, who represented the most amiable part of the creation as
monsters, more dangerous than serpents and crocodiles, and that in this
opinion he had shunned them to this very hour; but that he now flattered
himself he should make ample amends in paying his devotions to such an
angelic being as the divine Lucetta.

This young lady was the only daughter of a gentleman of property in an
adjacent village, whom Belario, with the approbation of Lucetta, waited
upon to obtain his consent for their nuptials. Her father received the
young man with politeness and hospitality, and told him he should have
no objection to the match, if he could obtain his daughter's consent.
Happy in such a reply, he flew to his adored Lucetta, and acquainted her
with the glad tidings, which she received with as much transport as he
communicated them.

To be brief, in a few days their nuptials were solemnized, and they have
now enjoyed the most permanent felicity the connubial state can confer,
for upwards of two years, in which time the lovely Lucetta has given to
the world two pledges of their mutual fondness, in a delightful boy, and
a still more beautiful girl. Here we shall leave them, to enjoy that
unsullied happiness which ever attends the purest virtue, and the
sincerest love.


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARK.

The enjoyments or misfortunes of men, are to be computed from their
different degrees of feeling. What can they mean who speak of the
happiness of the insensible? Can there be a greater absurdity, than to
envy the enjoyments of such as want the power to enjoy!


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  +The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
  [Written by Herself.]

  (Continued from our last.)

I resolved to conceal Harland's visit, but my father heard of it from
his servant. He accused me of having concerted it, I declared my
innocence. He vowed if I saw Harland my husband should be acquainted
with it. How cruel such harshness. Mr. Mordaunt soon left the castle, he
brought me to London; he loved dissipation, and I entered into it,
I thought it would banish painful reflections. At the expiration of a
year Heaven blest me with a lovely infant. My health was now so
delicate, the physicians ordered me to Bristol. Mordaunt accompanied me
thither, not indeed out of tenderness, but ostentation; he wished the
world to think him perfect, and yet counterfeited a love for me, which
in reality existed not, as his heart was too depraved to be long
susceptible of a virtuous passion. My father accompanied us. We had a
house one mile from Bristol. Each morning I went to the rooms, the
remainder of the day was spent in weeping, and praying over my child, in
lulling her to sleep, and hushing her feeble cries.

I had just entered the room one morning, and was conversing with a young
lady, when turning round, I was startled by the figure of Harland.
Struck by his appearance, various emotions rushed upon me, I could
scarcely stand, trembling I leaned upon my companion--the alteration of
his looks too visibly manifested the disorder of his mind; despair
tinged every feature, and the lustre of his eyes was totally
extinguished. I hurried from the room---I forgot my resolution---we
cannot always command our feelings---the power above makes allowances
for human frailty. I would have discontinued going to the rooms, only I
feared exciting the prying eyes of suspicion. I again went, beheld him,
and returned more unhappy. In the afternoon, walking alone in the
garden, I saw a bit of paper thrown over the hedge, I snatched it up,
and perceiving Harland's writing, I started, I hesitated whether to open
it---imagination pictured his sufferings---I broke the seal, and perused
the following lines:

"Julia, the miserable Harland is on the point of eternally quitting his
native kingdom, he flies to remote regions, far distant from an object
who has banished peace--will she yet be cruel, or will her nature, once
gently kind, comply with the last request of one, whose last sigh will
be for her. Oh Julia! to leave this kingdom without bidding you adieu,
is more than I can support---I sicken at the idea. Refuse me not,
I conjure you, one parting interview, to sooth the solitary hours of my
life, I have wandered on bewildered with misfortune, marked for
affliction from the earliest dawn---nought but the long dark night can
efface them. If you comply, as ah! surely you must, leave a note where
you received this, and at any hour or place you shall appoint, I will
meet you. Adieu, most loved and most lamented object of my soul."

I could not refuse his last request---I was not proof against such
entreaties, I might be censured, but I could not conquer the tender
feelings which compelled me to comply. After supper, I stole to a little
shady bower, situated in a shrubbery, and seldom frequented by any but
myself. Here Harland waited for me---our meeting it is impossible to
describe---he began with gentle upbraidings. Unable to bear the idea of
his thinking me faithless, I declared the compulsive power which forced
me to the precipice of despair. His feelings at this discovery overcame
him---he raved at the cruelty of that parent, who, actuated by motives
of avarice and ambition, had sacrificed the happiness of his child for
ever---he implored my forgiveness for ever thinking me inconstant---he
almost wept at my sufferings---he besought the being above to inspire me
with fortitude and resignation to sustain them. The time approached for
our separation---it was absolutely necessary on my account. Harland
attempted to bid me adieu, but his words were inarticulate, he took my
hand and prest it to his palpitating heart, I had endeavoured to summon
resolution, his distress conquered me, a last interview, an eternal
farewell from the dearest object of my love---the dreadful idea
overpowered me, and I sunk fainting on his bosom, he claspt me to it,
the emotions of our souls could not be restrained, my pallid cheek was
wet with tears of misery, I forgot the world, I only remembered the
cruelty of my fate. At that instant Mr. Mordaunt and my father rushed
into the bower, their frantic rage, I shuddered at the recollection of.
The former flew at Harland from whose arms I had sunk, full of the most
direful apprehensions. He attempted to remonstrate, but in vain, the
sword was at his breast, the instructive impulse of self-preservation
prompted his defence, it was too dreadful to behold. I fainted, and in a
happy insensibility was conveyed to my chamber. Returning life made me
too soon acquainted with the fatal consequences of the combat, they were
both wounded---a shocking tale had spread to my dishonour, it was
credited, appearances so much against me, infamy branded till then my
unspotted character, my father's proud soul swelled at the ignominy of
his daughter, he considered me as an everlasting disgrace to his family,
as having sullied that blood, of whose purity he so often boasted---he
rushed to the apartment, where I sat stupified with the horrid events of
the night, myself the fatal cause---there, there was the arrow which
pierced me to the soul, his whole face was distorted with passion---rage
flashed from his eyes, in a voice scarce intelligible, he exclaimed,
"wretch, cursed be the day on which you were born, you have branded the
illustrious names of your ancestors with infamy; from this hour I
renounce and curse you in the bitterness of my soul, and swear in the
sight of heaven never more to see you." For a moment I stood transfixed
like a statue---a shriek wild and piercing then broke from me, and I
fell senseless on the floor. When a little recovered, I called for my
cruel father, I implored him to withdraw his curses, but he was
gone---reason could not retain the shocks she had received. A violent
fever succeeded---for a month my life was despaired of: the Almighty,
however, thought fit to prolong existence. The first use I made of
returning sense, was to enquire for my cruel connexions. Sir George and
Mr. Mordaunt had both left the house with solemn asseverations of never
again beholding me. Harland, dear ill-fated Harland, had paid the last
sad debt of nature. My husband had stood his trial, but possessed of
interest and wealth, he was soon acquitted; my child he had taken with
him, and left orders for me to quit the house on my recovery; also a
paper wherein I was informed of the settlement made on me, and the
person on whom I was to draw for it. Miss Rivers, my faithful friend,
neglected me not in the hour of severe calamity; she had me conveyed to
a family in Wales, who had just retired there, and had no objection to
receive me as a boarder. Heartbroken, I forsook a world where my dearest
hopes were blasted, yet I left it with no impious repinings against my
destiny. I confessed myself properly punished, humbled to the dust--I
felt the impropriety of having ever placed myself in a suspicious
situation; but I was thoroughly penitent for having (though I trusted in
a slight degree) deviated from the path of rectitude--Heaven, I fancied,
accepted my contrition, by placing me in a family of love, such as I
shall now describe.

Captain Harley, after a life of activity in the service of his country,
retired to a sweet retreat in South Wales, to enjoy the closing evening
of a busy day; his family consisted of a wife, the faithful companion of
all his sorrows, and one daughter, who being the only survivor of a
numerous offspring, was doubly endeared to them. She was the staff of
their age, the doating of their hopes, and they bore her continually on
their hearts, to that heaven which they knew would alone protect her
from those calamitous strokes they had so often experienced in the
course of their lives.

The retreat they had chosen, was by its seclusion, calculated for the
narrowness of their income, and by its beauty for the promotion of their
pleasure.

He rented but as much land as would supply his household wants, this he
delighted in cultivating himself, assisted by an old trusty servant who
had been a soldier in his regiment. Conrade was the veteran son of
calamity, and his misfortunes strengthened the claim his services had
given him upon the affections of his master. During a late contest,
a brave and only son had fallen by his side in the field of battle;
scarcely could he survive the blow, but consolation effected what
fortitude had no power to do. Captain Harley was not only a good soldier
but a good christian, and by pointing out the path to heaven, gave poor
Conrade full assurance, by faithfully discharging the humble duties of
his station, he should obtain a passport to rejoin his brave and beloved
son.

Louisa at the period of their retirement was fifteen; her mind and form
were opening to perfection, and both promised to contain the fairest
loveliness of ingenious innocence, and graceful symmetry.

The lilly and the rose gave their most beautiful tints to her
complection; her fine black eyes beamed with the sensibility of her
soul, never did she hear the tale of sorrow without emotion.

Harley had little to give, of that little he gave abundantly--not the
largeness of the gift but real inclination of the donor, he knew was
regarded by the power above. Like the benevolent pastor of Auburn
village, to him repaired the needy and the wanderer, and found a ready
welcome--often too, the weather beaten soldier in journeying to his
native home, to lay his bones among those of his forefathers, turned in
hither, and cheared by hospitable fare,

  "Shoulder'd his crutch, & shew'd how fields were won."

Harley knew what it was to have the unsheltered head exposed to the
chill blast and sharp bitings of the wintry frost.

Such was this little family of love, who retired amidst Welch mountains,
enjoyed that content and happiness which the votaries of fashion, misled
by dissipation, can never experience.

Louisa was my constant companion--like a ministering seraph she hushed
the turbulence of anguish, and whispered peace to my perturbed soul.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTES.

"My father desired me, Sir, to _ax_ you," said a physical disciple to a
certain eminent pharmacopolist, "that I might attend you to all your
patients, as you know, Sir, it is the last year of my time"---"You
shall, Bob, you shall," replied the master; "Come, get your hat." They
entered the sick man's chamber, and the usual circumstances occurred,
such as feeling the pulse, _et cetera_; After assuming an appearance of
profound thought, the vender of galenicals told the wife of the sick
man, with much gravity, that her husband was in extreme danger, and that
she had contributed to his malady by giving him oysters: The woman, in
much confusion, at last owned the fact. When they had quitted the house,
Bob enquired with much earnestness of his master, how he could possibly
know that the patient had eaten oysters. "You foolish boy," replied the
other, "I saw some shells under the bed." The next time Bob went alone,
and returned to his master with a ghastly visage, and told him the
patient was dead by eating a horse---"A horse, Bob," rejoined the
esculapian chief, "how do you know that?" "Oh, easy enough, Sir,
I looked under the bed, and saw a bridle and saddle!"

A Gentleman of Angiers, who did not trust to his memory, and wrote down
all that he was to do; wrote in his pocket-book, "Memorandum, that I
must be married when I come to Tours."

Before the conquest by the Normans, the land in Norfolk was so light and
fine, that the farmers usually ploughed it with two rabbits and a case
knife.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  A GRAMMATICAL EPISTLE
  To _Miss_ SALLY SYNTAX.

  MADAM,

Amongst the _numeral propositions_ towards a matrimonial _union_ with
your amiable _person_, I hope you'll not _decline_ the _interjection_ of
my preliminary pretences. I should not wish to be a mere _noun
adjective_ to you in all _cases_, but I _positively_ declare, that
_comparatively_ speaking, I should be _superlatively_ happy to agree
with you in the _subjunctive mood_. I trust you'll not opiniate me
singular, for desiring to have the _plural_ in my family; I shall
fabricate no _verbal_ oration, to prove how I long to have our
affections in _common of two_: but I presume, that in case of a
_conjunction copulative_, you'll use no _indicative_ solicitation to be
in the _imperative mood_, as I am determined to be in the _potential
active_, while you are in the _future passive_, or in the _supine_: for
it is the _optative_ of my soul to become your _relative_, by the
_antecedent_ of _regular conjugation_, as this alone can constitute a
_lawful concord_ with the _feminine gender_, and afford us a
_participle_ of _substantive_ happiness. Every _article possessive_ or
_genitive_ shall become a _dative translation_ to you; nothing shall be
_accusative_ against your _government_; and your sweet _nominative_
without a _pronoun_ or even _adverb_ shall be my _vocative_, till death
the great _ablative_ of all living, by the _gradual declention_ of our
corporeal nature, puts a _final termination_ to the _present tense_, and
time, thro' an _infinite progression_ of ages, may render us
_preterperfect_ in the _future tense_; in the interim, my _principal
part of speech_ in its _primitive_ or _derivative extension_ is, to the
end, that you may put the most charitable _construction_ on this _simple
proposition_, and that your _definitive resolution_ may be _consonant_
to the wishes of your very _indeclinable_ lover

  MICHAEL DE MARIBUS.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTES.

On the first night of the representation of the comedy of the Suspicious
Husband, Foote sat by a plain, honest, well meaning citizen, whose
imagination was strongly impressed by the incidents of the play. At
dropping of the curtain, the wit complained to his neighbour of the
impropriety of suffering Ranger to go off as he came on, without being
reclaimed. "Could not the author," said he, "throw this youth, in the
course of his nocturnal rambles, into some ridiculous scene of distress,
which might have reclaimed him? As he now stands, who knows but the
rogue, after all the pleasure he has given us, may spend the night in a
round house;" "Then," says the Citizen, "if it happens in my Ward, I'll
release him, for I'm sure he is too honest a fellow to run away from his
bail."

A young woman lately applied to the manager of a Theatre to be engaged
as a vocal performer---When required to give an instance of her ability,
she began Mr. Incledon's celebrated ballad of _Ma chere amie_ my
charming fair, thus---"March after me, my charming fair;"---The manager
bowed, and the lady became scarce.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  GRACEFULNESS.

He who seeks to know the origin of Gracefulness, must look for it in his
own mind; whatever is graceful there, must be so in expression. It is a
quality analogous to the most exquisite tenderness of affliction; that
sweet enthusiasm of action which goes hand in hand with beauty; or, if
we may be allowed the phrase, it is the _soul_ of beauty, the _emphasis_
of pleasing expression.----Grace is the sublimity of beauty; the modest
pride of virtue; the gentle dignity of love. An attitude expressive of
the pensive and pleasing melancholy, a sentiment peculiar to the finest
souls, is ever most graceful. The loveliest of the graces has on her
face a cast of sadness mixed with the sweetest joy.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 31st ult. by the Rev. Dr. Beach, LUCAS ELMENDORF,
Esq. of Esopus, to Miss ANN WADDLE, of this city.

                   *   *   *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 29th ult. to the 4th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  Jan. 29  30    44     e. do.  clear, calm, sm. rn. lt. wd.
       30  27    35 50  nw. w.  clear high wind, do. do.
       31  24 50 30     e. do.  cloudy lt. wd. sm. rn. & sn.
  Feb.  1  30    30     e. do.  cloudy high wind, rain do.
        2  37    49     w. do.  rain cm. clear high wind.
        3  32    44     w. do.  clear light wind, do. do.
        4  31    40     w. do.  clear light wind, do. do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON INNOCENCE.

  Sweet INNOCENCE, thou child of Peace!
  Companion of the infant breast,
  Fond parent of domestic ease,
                          And tranquil rest!

  Say, in some solitary cell,
  Dost thou with Piety reside,
  Far from the sons of Vice, who dwell
                          With Pomp and Pride?

  There dost thou smooth the brow of Care,
  Beam hope serene on Virtue's woes,
  And lull the transports of Despair
                          To soft repose?

  Dost thou in some sequester'd grove,
  With rural tenderness retire,
  There fan the sparks of infant love
                          And pure desire?

  Or with the nymphs in jocund play,
  Hide from their swains amid the bowers,
  Or with the blooming lasses stray,
                          To cull sweet flowers?

  Where, lovely stranger! hast thou fled,
  Since weeping Eden saw thee rove:
  Then pensive beauty droop'd her head,
                          And left the grove?

  Return, my once beloved guest!
  Bring thy fair friend Content with thee,
  Bring back those happy hours, which blest
                          My infancy.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE SEASONS OF SORROW.

  When hope, when health, when youth prevail,
    How fleet the dancing moments pass;
  Ere grief and care the heart assail,
    At ebb the sands of Time's frail glass!

  Once, brightly rose my morning ray,
    My noon of life serenely shone;
  Yet clouds on clouds o'ercast the day,
    Ere yet declin'd the setting sun.

  Did gentle zephyrs waft the Spring,
    How bright each landscape glow'd around!
  What sweets could Summer seasons bring,
    What beauties Autumn, harvest crown'd!

  Not hoary Winter's dreary form,
    Shivering in snowy mantle dress'd,
  Could freeze my joys, or raise a storm
    To shake the calmness of my breast:

  For then my bliss a Brother shar'd,
    A Friend his comforts could impart;
  If Fortune's frowns that bliss impair'd,
    A gentle Mistress sooth'd my heart.

  With these, whilst every care was charm'd,
    The choicest gifts of Heaven combin'd,
  Higeia's power my bosom warm'd,
    And love spread sunshine o'er my mind.

  In yonder vale Philander lies,
    Embalm'd with friendship's choicest tear;
  Where those o'er-arching shades arise,
    I sorrow'd o'er a brother's bier.

  Yet stream'd my eyes, yet bled each wound,
    When Fate another arrow sped;
  A timeless grave my Delia found,
    My love was number'd with the dead!

  My love!--a dearer name she own'd,
    Pattern of constancy end truth!
  Her image, in my heart enthron'd,
    The dear-priz'd consort of my youth!

  That heart thus rent--What yet remains,
    While still our short-liv'd pleasures die?
  While grief in mournful notes complains,
    And sorrow heaves the heart-felt sigh?

  The glorious sun puts on in vain
    His richest robes, and gilds the day;
  Sad melancholy's sable reign,
    Prevailing, blots his brightest ray.

  With roses crown'd, the blushing spring
    To every new-born joy invites;
  Delia more balmy sweets could bring,
    For her I pine amidst delights.

  When Summer radiance paints the skies,
    Or Autumn swells the lusty year;
  Still flow my tears, still heave my sighs,
    Philander--Delia--is not here!

  When Winter the gay train employs,
    In scenes of social mirth to blend;
  Can I forget who shar'd those joys,
    My Brother, Mistress, and my Friend?

  Unheeded still the seasons roll,
    Unmov'd each various change I see;
  Can they relieve my troubled soul,
    Or smile upon a wretch like me?

  Ah, no! To sorrow still a prey,
    My few remaining years I waste;
  Count by my sighs each passing day,
    And wish that each may be my last.

  The torch funereal, cypress gloom,
    Are now familiar to my sight;
  These eyes, long gazing on the tomb,
    Now sicken at the morning light,

  Does fancy make the shapes well known,
    That sudden flit, and disappear?
  Does fancy form the solemn tone
    Which vibrates on my aching ear?

  Howe'er it be---aloud they call---
    To quit in haste this mortal coil,
  And rise above the earthly ball,
    The scene of sorrow, pain, and toil.

  Philander, Dorus, Delia bless'd!
    I hear the voice, and haste away,
  To scenes where Sorrow's children rest,
    In realms of never-ending day.

  But Virtue, from the seats on high
    Descended, shall assert her reign;
  Though worlds in mighty ruin lie,
    And still her sacred sway maintain.

  Then shall her sons in every age,
    In every clime, with lustre rise;
  And quit, at once, this mortal stage,
    For scenes immortal in the skies.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SONNET TO PUBLIC VIRTUE.

  Is this the land for arts and arms renown'd,
    The Saint's, the Hero's and the Patriot's pride?
    Is this where Pulaski, Warren, and Montgomery died?
  Where Liberty defends her favourite mound?

  Here let me kneel, and kiss the hallow'd ground!
    Old Earth shall sooner drink this purple tide,
  Than faction with impunity shall wound
    Thy fame, Columbia! parent! patron! guide!

  Unlike th' aspiring prelate, meanly proud,
    The soldier, jealous of a brother's fame;
  The popularian, voluble and loud;
  The Christian, martial, patriotic soul,
    Disdains the vulgar tribute of acclaim,
  Mean Envy, and Ambition's mad controul!


NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+--
where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be
gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+._

       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  _UTILE DULCI._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, February 15, 1797.+  [+No. 85.+


  PLEASURES OF OLD AGE.

Though, in old age, the circle of pleasure is contracted, yet within its
limits many of those enjoyments remain which are most grateful to human
nature.

Temperate mirth is not extinguished by advanced years; the mild
pleasures of domestic life still cheer the heart. The entertainments of
conversation and social intercourse continue unimpaired. The desire of
knowledge is not abated by the frailty of the body, and the leisure of
old age affords many opportunities for gratifying that desire. The
sphere of observation and reflection is so much enlarged by long
acquaintance with the world, as to supply, within itself, a wide range
of improving thought. Whilst the aged are engaged in such employments as
best suit the infirmities of their nature, they are surrounded, perhaps
with families, who treat them with attention and respect; they are
honoured by their friends; their characters are established, and are
placed beyond the reach of clamour and the strife of tongues; and free
from distracting cares can calmly attend to their eternal interests.

No age is doomed to total infelicity provided that we attempt not to do
violence to nature, by seeking to extort from one age the pleasures of
another, and to gather in the winter of life those flowers which were
destined to blossom only in its summer or its spring.


       *       *       *       *       *

  WIT.

Wit is the most dangerous talent we can possess. It must be guarded with
great discretion and good nature, otherwise it will create many enemies.

Wit is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy; yet they are
seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who
possess it become intoxicated, and lose all self-command.

Though it is the most captivating, yet it is the most dreaded of all
talents: the most dangerous to those who have it, and the most feared by
those who have it not. He who is grown rich without it, in safe and
sober dulness, shuns it as a disease, and looks upon poverty as its
invaluable concomitant.

The moralist declaims against it as the source of irregularity; and the
frugal citizen dreads it more than bankruptcy itself: for he considers
it as the parent of extravagance and beggary. The Cynic will ask of what
use is it? Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet
it is allowed, as an object of innocent amusement, and delightful
recreation.

A woman who possesses this quality has received a most dangerous
present, perhaps not less so than beauty itself; especially if it be not
sheathed in a temper peculiarly inoffensive, chastised by a most correct
judgment, and restrained by more prudence than falls to the common lot.

This talent is more likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for
there is much more danger that folly should arise from the confederation
of what is our own, than of what we borrow. But wit, like learning, is
not near so common a thing as is imagined. For flippancy, pertness, and
impudence are often mistaken for this brilliant quality; and people
often imagine they are witty, only because they are indiscreet, and this
makes the name of wit so cheap, while its real existence is so rare.

But those who happily possess this talent, cannot be too abstinent in
the use of it. It often makes admirers, but never makes friends; and
she, who does not desire friends, has a sordid and insensible soul; but
she, who is ambitious of making every man her admirer, has an invincible
vanity and a cold heart.


       *       *       *       *       *

  GRATITUDE.

Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The sense of being distinguished by the
kindness of another, gladdens the heart, warms it with reciprocal
affection, and gives to any profession, which is agreeable in itself,
a double relish, from its being the gift of a friend. Favours, though
conferred by men, may become burdensome; but nothing of this kind can
affect the intercourse of gratitude with heaven. Its favors are wholly
disinterested. The Almighty aims at no end but the happiness of those
whom he blesses, and who desires to return from them but a devout and
thankful heart.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
  _OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
  Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (_Continued from page 251._)

"It was an accident."

"And a very fortunate one for your Majesty."

"What do you call fortunate? My family had a lawful claim to the crown
of P--------l, and I have an additional right to the possession of it
because I have torn it from the head of the usurper at the risk of my
life. I would, however, have resigned it cheerfully to my grand uncle if
his death had not destroyed that plan. You are mistaken if you think the
lot of a King to be so enviable. The burden of government lies heavy on
my shoulders."

"O! there are means of alleviating that load."

"Of which I shall make as little use as possible, for it will be the
chief object of my cares, and will afford me the greatest pleasure to
render my people happy."

"Who could doubt it? Yet I think one ought to make the death of the
deceased King publicly known."

"If we could but first convince the people that he has been alive
lately. The profound incognito behind which he concealed himself, throws
an insurmountable bar in our way. No one would believe us."

"Upon my honour, I almost disbelieve it myself any longer."

"You are right; one needs not to believe what one is convinced of, for
you have seen him with your own eyes. If fate had suffered him to show
himself in public, every one would have acknowledged him to have been
the person that he really was, the old lawful King of P--------l.
Having, however, lived and died in obscurity, the whole matter may
remain a secret, and that so much the more because the discovery would
be intirely useless. It is therefore my royal pleasure that no mention
whatever be made of it. Farewell!" he added after a short pause, "you
will always find me your affectionate King."

'Thus ended my audience. Do not desire me, my friend, to disclose to you
the ideas and sensations which it produced within me. I shall endeavour
to obliterate even the recollection of that scene.

'Alumbrado is very much displeased with the manner in which I have
spoken to the King. "Do you imagine," said he, "that his offended pride
ever will forgive you the torments of that self-denial which the
patience he has opposed to your galling language has cost him? The
sacrifice which he has made to his policy by that painful forbearance,
will certainly cost you dear. Henceforward, you must renounce every hope
of being promoted; for he will be careful to keep in submission, and at
a proper distance, a man of spirit, as you must have appeared to him.
This is perhaps the least misfortune that threatens you; your warmth,
your ill-timed frankness, may produce consequences of a more serious
nature. Alas! why have you not been on your guard? Have I not advised
you to appear with humility in his presence?"

'Alumbrado had certainly the most friendly view in reprimanding me thus:
he did not know that every word of his wounded my heart like a two-edged
dagger.

'I have been interrupted by the visit of a Prelate of very high rank. He
came to inform my father and myself that the Vice Queen of P--t--l had
been imprisoned by the order of the King, because she has had the
imprudence to declare that the new King had usurped the throne in a
fraudulent manner, and that it was the duty of every inhabitant of
P--t--l to acknowledge only the King of Sp--n as his lawful sovereign,
because the voluntary oath of allegiance the P--t--se had sworn to the
latter, could not be made void by that which the Duke of B- - - a had
obtained by artifice and force. "I cannot conceive," the Prelate added,
"what reasonable objection can be alledged against this declaration; but
nevertheless, no one dares to affirm it, for fear of sharing the fate of
the Vice-Queen."

'The Vice-Queen and the Prelate, appear to me to be in the right.
However, what can be done? Farewell, my friend, and let it not be long
before you favour me with an answer.

'P.S. This very moment I received an answer to a letter I had wrote to a
friend near the place where the hermit lived. He informs me that the old
man expired four months since, worn out with age.'

I suspected already from the first letter, but more so from the second,
that the Duke was in danger of taking a course from which he could not
return too soon. I imagined I had discovered the design which Alumbrado
had formed upon him and shuddered at the idea that he might carry his
point. Yet my suspicion against Alumbrado was also a mere supposition,
which gave me no right to accuse him. After mature consideration I
thought, however, it would be best to deliver the Duke, against whom his
plan appeared so be chiefly directed, from his clutches, and thus
expected to gain two advantages by one stroke: not only to cut the
sinews of Alumbrado's undertaking asunder, but also to guard the Duke
against the snare which was laid for him.

With that view I wrote to the latter:

'Your letters have been very important to me; I must, however, beg you
to fetch my answer yourself. Don't refuse my request, and hasten to the
arms of your friend, whose happiness in a place on which nature seems to
have lavished all her blessings, would be complete if you were present.
Here we will discuss the political concerns which give you so much
uneasiness, for I have more than one reason for not doing it by way of
letter, and my affairs threaten to detain me here some time longer. The
journey will not only improve your health, but it will also ease your
mind, which is bent down at present by a gloomy sameness of ideas, and
very much wants amusement and diversion. I am convinced that your
melancholy will not pursue you to the paradise that blossoms here. And
if only your gloominess of mind shall have left you, you will view
things that now appear to you in a frightful shape, in a more pleasing
light. At the same time you may expect that the commission the King has
charged me with, will enable me to explain to you many political objects
which I dare not do in writing. Come, my friend, you certainly will not
regret your having undertaken this journey, &c. &c. &c.'

My letter produced the desired effect. The Duke returned me a very
affectionate answer, and promised, to begin the journey in a fortnight.
How joyfully and impatiently did my heart pant for his arrival! but I
was disappointed. He did not come, but sent me a letter, which I am
going to communicate to the reader.

'Why am I not yet arrived? Ask Heaven that question, but not me, for I
have done every thing in my power to fulfil my promise. In spite of
Alumbrado's remonstrances, I went on board of the ship to convey me to
my friend. A favourable breeze that swelled our sails enlivened my hopes
of embracing you soon. Evening set in, and the wind and the sky
continued to be propitious. The second and the third night stole upon us
amid the same favourable auspices.

'I do not know how it happened, that on the third night the recollection
of my sainted Amelia awoke within my mind with additional vivacity. It
was not, however, associated with painful, but with bitter-sweet
sensations, which frequently afford to feeling minds a more delicious
pleasure than joys unmixed. I proceeded insensibly from sensations to
the realms of fancy. I looked at the star of love, and imagined I beheld
Amelia's sainted spirit enthroned in its silver lustre. My soul soared
above the immense space that separated us, and anticipated the bliss of
the celestial spirits. O! why has she so soon been rendered insensible
of the limits of her power, which obliged her to return to our sublunary
globe?

'I felt a faintness which invited me to rest, and having bid adieu to
the starry firmament and the ocean, I went to my cabin, where the
solacing hand of sleep soon closed my eyes.

'I awoke an hour before the dawn of morn. Finding myself entirely
refreshed I left my couch and returned on deck in order to hail the
stars once more, before they should be dispelled by the majestic king of
day. But what a scene did my gazing eyes behold! The firmament appeared
no longer to be over us, but we seemed to ride upon it. I did not know
whether I was dreaming or awake, rubbing my eyes repeatedly. In vain,
the scene remained unaltered: intense darkness covered the sky, all its
stars and galaxies appeared to be on the water.

'O nature! thy grateful son never will forget the enjoyment which this
undescribable spectacle has afforded him! I gazed a long time in silent
wonder at the illuminated surface of the ocean, before I could examine
the individual beauties of that grand scene. Whithersoever I directed my
gazing looks, I beheld fiery streaks. However, all parts were not
equally illuminated; some spots emitted quick flashes of light, while
others continued some minutes to sparkle. The separated water gushed
before us in luminous streams, and the furrow which the vessel drew
formed a white bright streak behind us, which was interspersed with
sky-blue spots. The multifarious and dazzling light was skipping on the
curling waves; the spume which the little bubbles produced on the
surface of the water, glittered like silver- snow. I could have
plunged in the watery abyss in order to sink down in that heaven.

'The rising sun put a stop to that enchantment. My fellow travellers
began to stir. I hastened to tell them what a scene they had missed.
A reverend old man, who was present when I related what I had seen,
smiled. "One can see," said he, "that this is your first voyage; this
phenomenon is nothing uncommon in all seasons, and particularly in
warmer climes; nevertheless the naturalists still differ in their
opinion of its cause, some believing that it proceeds from small
luminous insects, and others from an oily substance that separates from
rotten animal bodies.--Many pretend this phenomenon to be the forerunner
of an impending tempest, but this is false."

'The old man may not have been mistaken, yet this time he was refuted by
experience. The little clouds which were swimming singly in the sky,
united by degrees and overdarkened the sun. A black tempest began to
gather in the north. The crew were just going to prepare against the
storm, when suddenly a violent gale of wind arose, and hurried the
vessel with incredible rapidity over the ruffled surface of the sea. We
lost one of our anchors, which fell from the deck with a thundering
noise. Some loud peals of thunder gave the signal for the breaking out
of the storm. The light of day disappeared, the billows of the swelling
sea were rolling one upon another with a roaring noise; the dreadful
flashes of lightening seemed to dye the surface of the ocean with blood,
and each clap of thunder threatened to shiver the mast to atoms. The
foaming of the waves, the rolling of thunder, and the howling of the
winds, seemed to announce to that part of the world the return of old
chaos.

'The strong flashes of lightning made us suddenly observe that land was
near. How welcome soever such a discovery is in fair weather, yet it was
to us the most dreadful incident that could have happened, on account of
imminent danger of being wrecked. Our cables seemed not to be able to
resist long the fury of the winds and waves which availed the vessel.

'All these circumstances contributed to recall to my mind the
recollection of a similar incident which had robbed me of my Amelia. The
wounds of my heart began to bleed afresh, and the melancholy sensations
which assailed my mind, deprived me of the power that I, otherwise,
should have opposed to the terrors which surrounded me. My heart beat
violently against my breast, and nothing but my ambition could have
prevented me from joining those who groaned and lamented loudly,
wringing their hands and tearing their hair.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

            ON THE GENIUS OF WOMEN.

                   *   *   *

  +To the EDITOR*.+

  _Sir,_

Certain persons have for some time past been carrying on a dispute
relative to the talents of women, and the dispute I perceive has found
its way into your miscellany. I believe, Sir, the question might be soon
settled to the satisfaction of all parties, if, we were first to agree
in what is meant, or should be meant by the word talents. Hitherto, if I
understand the controversy, talents have been understood to mean the
power or faculty of publishing in prose and verse; and if we limit it to
this, we may easily decide, that women are inferior to men, because
there have been probably a thousand male authors for one female.

But, Sir, with submission, I would beg leave to suggest, that we narrow
human genius and ability very much, when we confine them to the
bookseller's shop. Are there not many very able Statesmen who never
write any thing but Treasury-warrants, and receipts for their salaries?
Nay, do we not admire the vast genius of some Representatives, whose
_forte_ is entirely in speaking, and who, when compelled to draw up an
address to their independent constituents, commit errors that would
disgrace a school-boy? In short, Sir, if we have no other way of judging
of a man's talents, but by the quantity he publishes, either from the
press or from his mouth, are we not giving all the praise to mere
saying; and never reflecting that an accumulation of words, without
corresponding actions, is to all necessary purposes useless and
unprofitable?

This being premised, and, I hope, allowed, we need dispute no longer
about the superiority of the male sex. The talents of the fair sex, as
to all the great and important events of human life, and all the leading
transactions of kingdoms and states have so far transcended what has
been attributed to us, that were I to compile a new Universal History,
however I might avail myself of the valuable labours contained in the
old, I should certainly entitle it, "A history of the Power and
Influence of the Female Sex, from the fall of Adam to the present time."
It is the pitiful jealousy and envy of men which has deprived the sex of
the honours due to them in history; and likewise some part of the
concealment of their influence, arises from the brevity of histories,
their authors taking a superficial view of events, and seldom troubling
themselves to investigate the secret springs of human action; whereas,
if we will only examine into the minute particulars of great events, the
secret intrigues of Courts, Kings and Ministers, or even of Republics,
we shall always find that the women have had a great share in bringing
about political changes, wars, treaties, negociations, &c. although
they, for modesty probably, content themselves with acting unseen and
unobserved, and the men, proud of the success of the affair, wish to
take all the merit to themselves. Now, Sir, let me ask you a plain
question: which of the two is likely to deserve most fame, and to confer
greater renown on the party, the publishing a poem, or bringing about a
Revolution in a state or nation, perhaps with a few words? Which
requires greater abilities, to govern a kingdom, or to cajole a
bookseller? To tickle the fancy of love-sick boys and girls by a novel,
or to confound and stun half the Cabinets of Europe, by a bold stroke of
invasion, a massacre, and a partition? To write a ballad about a man and
woman who never existed, or to make the existence of thousands of men
and women miserable?

But this is not all. It is not enough to appeal to the history of
ancient and modern nations, for proofs of the superiority of women over
men. This, perhaps, is not much in their favour, for a superiority of
evil influence is not the present contest, and would not be very
honourable if it were established. No, Sir, if we wish to ascertain the
real and meritorious superiority of female talents, we need not consult
the voluminous records of history; we need only bring the question home
to ourselves. I shall instance but in one respect, the power of
persuasion. This I take to be the great test of genius and talents. He
who possesses this, possesses every thing; and yet we know that what a
man cannot do by whole treatises and volumes, by a well connected chain
of argument, and the most convincing calculations, is generally done by
a woman with a smile, a glance of the eye, or a very few words. Sir, we
may talk as we please of our vast learning, of our voluminous
productions, of our many virtues for which we obtain credit in epithets
and funeral sermons. But with what painful efforts do we accomplish the
least of our good actions! and to do a great good is the business of a
long life. What is all our power compared, or, which is more dangerous,
put in competition with a TEAR or a FIT?

I repeat it, Sir, let us bring the question home to ourselves. What is
it that constitutes the felicity of domestic life? Is it the wealth we
have acquired, the house we live in, the equipage that bespeaks our
rank, or the servants that bow at our command? No. Sir, to use an
expression of Mr. Burke, it is, "the dignified obedience and proud
submission" we owe and pay to the female sex. Our hearts confess that
they deserve it, and that we cannot help paying it, and cannot,
therefore, help acknowledging their superiority. When we refuse to pay
it, when our minds are in a state of rebellion against those lawful
sovereigns, where is it that we dare to breathe sentiments of a
seditious tendency? Is it in their presence? No; a look, a word, awes us
into submission; and when we conceive the thoughts of resistance we fly,
like cowards, to some secret place, to some neutral ground, to the
desart heath of celibacy.

They may be accounted to possess the greatest talents who accomplish the
greatest purposes by few means, which, in my mind, establishes the
superiority of the fair sex. I am, Sir, your humble servant,

  PHILOGYNES.

  [* This article is extracted from the London Monthly Magazine.]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  +The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
  [Written by Herself.]

  (Continued from our last.)

In a ramble one evening with her and her parents through a beautiful
valley, our admiration was excited by a cottage extremely small, but
exquisitely neat, which lay on the sloping bank of a meandering river,
shaded by old luxuriant trees---a bridge composed of planks formed a
passage from the vale to the cottage, we crost it in order to have a
better opportunity of gratifying our curiosity. We now saw a venerable
looking man who had before escaped our notice, sitting in a little sunny
glade, we stopt for fear of intruding on his solitude, but perceiving us
he instantly approached, and with a pleasing politeness requested we
would enter his humble abode. Harley with emotion exclaimed---"Good God!
surely that voice is not unknown to me." "I am certain," said the
stranger, "I have seen you before, though where I cannot immediately
recollect." "If I am not mistaken," cried Harley, "You are the worthy
Hume who was chaplain to the regiment in which I served." "The same, the
same indeed," replied he, returning his embrace---"the same unfortunate
man, whose setting life has been attended with a train of the severest
calamities." The big tear stood trembling on Harley's cheek---"Friend of
my youth," said he---his voice faultered, but betrayed the sensibility
of his feelings. We accompanied Mr. Hume into his cottage, Harley and he
appeared delighted with this unexpected interview, both appeared anxious
to learn the occurrences which had past, during the long interval of a
separation. Harley's delicacy prevented his enquiring too minutely into
those misfortunes Hume hinted at, which he, perceiving with a candour
that seemed genuine to his nature, declared he would inform us of those
events he had experienced, "a tale," said he, "adapted for youth---they
will find the consequences of illicit passions, and how easily credulity
can be imposed on.

"The events of my life are uncommonly calamitous, misfortune has persued
me with unremitting vigour, I have lost the sweetest ties of life,
I have seen the form of loveliness mouldering away, the shroud of
darkness encompassing a mind replete with gentleness and pity, I have
beheld the inexorable ruffian rob innocence of its boast and the blossom
of beauty withering beneath the blast of affliction. Oh Harley, I have
endured all this, and yet I live---live to draw the tear of sympathy by
the recital of my fate."

  HISTORY OF HUME.

    "Hope, sweetest child of fancy born,
  Tho' transient as the dew of morn;--
  Thou who canst charm with sound and light,
  The deaf'n'd ear, and dark'n'd sight;
  And in dry deserts glad the swains,
  With bubbling rills and cultur'd plains.
  No more invent thy airy schemes,
  Nor mock me with fantastic dreams---
  No more thy idle stories tell,
  Deceitful prattler--Hope farewell!"

"The evening was uncommonly serene when I wandered from my cottage to
enjoy its balmy sweetness, the distant hum of the busy villagers
retiring from their various occupations, just stole upon my ear, and
made me reflect on the happiness of our English peasants, and that a
life of industry was a life of peace, since it kept the mind employed,
and prevented the thoughts from wandering beyond the boundaries of
virtue.

"I raised my eyes to the bright firmament where joys eternal are
treasured for the righteous--I considered that millions of celestial
beings might at that moment be hovering over my head, and joining in
responsive hallelujahs before the throne of the Almighty, Milton's
beautiful lines occurred to me--

    "Then crown'd again their golden harps they took,
  Harps ever tun'd that glitt'ring by their side
  Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet,
  Of charming symphony, they introduce
  The sacred song, and waken raptures high,
  No one exempt, no voice but well could join,
  Melodious part, such concord in heaven."

"I was roused from my meditations by a piteous voice, demanding the aid
of charity, I looked at the object, he was a worn out veteran, the
remnant of a shabby scarlet coat hung over his feeble limbs, he carried
a wallet, no great load indeed, a mouldy crust of bread, too hard for
decaying jaws of age. I felt for his misery, I pitied the misfortunes of
that man, whose arm had assisted in defending my country from the
rapacity of its enemies. He told me a tale of woe, and his cheek was
moistened in relating it. Alas! poor old man, cried I, you have not been
exempt from the common lot; but cheer up my soldier, the manly heart,
while it trusts in heaven, should never be deprest, but the anguish of
poverty has weakened courage. Come, cried I, taking him by the arm, we
have both been veterans, though in different ways, labour should now
cease, age requires a relaxation from toil, we are both swiftly gliding
down the vale of years, let us endeavour to make the passage easy, we
will retire to my little cottage, its doors have never yet refused
admittance to the stranger, seated by the humble fire-side, we will
recount our tales of old, and cheer our hearts with a draught of are,
administered by the cherub hands of my Patty. We ascended the hill
together which led to my lowly mansion, nature had sweetly decked it
with the choicest verdure. As I ascended the hill, I wondered at not
beholding my Patty; it was her custom, when prevented to attend my
rambles, to watch my return, seated on the little green turf beside the
door. As I entered I called her, but received no answer, my surprise
increased---I seated my humble guest, and went in search of her, I tapt
at her chamber door, still all was silent---melancholy presages rushed
upon me, I attempted to open the door, weak and trembling my hand fell
by my side, and my heart smote against my breast, I recollected myself,
and wondered what had excited such fears in me---they now died away like
the shadows of the night, I entered the chamber, but my child was not
there, a folded paper lay on her little dressing table, I hastily
snatched it up and perused it, a deep groan was wrung from me by
agonizing pangs, and I fell senseless on the floor, my fall reached the
veteran's ears, he hurried to my assistance, gratitude inspired his poor
unfortunate bosom, and he endeavoured to aid me, he recalled me to life,
ah! mistaken kindness, the gloomy recesses of the grave were alone fit
for me. I started from his arms, I raved aloud upon the name of Patty.
Whither art thou gone, my child? I cried. The paper lay before me,
I imagined it all a dream, I strained my glimmering sight to read the
words of horror it contained:

"Oh my father, I fly from you, incapable of witnessing the shame and
sorrow I have drawn upon you, I fly from you, a stranger to peace and
bereft of innocence, the wiles of Mordaunt have undone me, I leave you
forever!"

"Perfidious villain, to blast my only comfort! With some degree of
resignation I could have consigned my child to death, the idea she was
gone spotless to the bosom of her creator, would have calmed the sorrows
of my soul, but to have her seduced by a monster, her fair form, her
virtue for ever blasted, oh! 'twas agony insupportable, she was
consigned to me by the wife on whom I doated; my Emily was an angel
before she left this world, prepared for the mandate which called her
hence, adorned with every charm of beauty and goodness, with her last
sigh, she grieved forth the united names of child and husband, the
cypress which shaded her grave was oftener watered by my tears, than by
the dews of heaven; Patty was the darling of my eye, the blooming
resemblance of her departed mother, she was sincere, artless, and
unsuspecting as credulity itself, she became acquainted with her
seducer, in our neighborhood he was affluent, young and elegant, beneath
the mask of friendship and generosity, he concealed a mind deceitful and
vicious, he admired the beauty of my child, he gained her affections,
and rendered her forgetful of my early precepts, she fled, afraid to see
the person whose hopes she had blasted, fled from the arms which would
have sheltered her against the contumely of the world.

"I turned to the soldier, I beheld his tears of sympathy; he had seen
troops destroyed, individuals fall beneath the ruthless sword of an
enemy, but he had never beheld a lovely daughter, tempted from the arms
of an idolizing parent. I will go in search of my child, I exclaimed, he
offered his withered arm to support me, we descended the hill together.
At the bottom I stopt, my emotions were to be compared to those which
our first parents felt when driven from the garden of Eden. The cottage
on the hill was once the scene of all my bliss with Emily, it was sacred
because she resided in it; I have felt an enthusiasm of pleasure in
walking through those paths in which she had trod, I wept, oh earth!
I cried, where are thy joys, thy comfort? Alas! How fallible, how
fleeting all thy blessings! I hurried on, the soldier followed me. We
wandered to various cottages, still the answer was repeated, they had
not seen such passengers as we described, travelling shortly exhausted
our little stock of money, in a few days shelter was refused us, we
crept under a hedge, and the rain wet our grey locks. The soldier
murmured his regret, it was hard, he said, he had served his country
faithfully, yet its ungrateful inhabitants barred their doors against
him. Be comforted, my companion, I cried, consider what the Saviour of
mankind has said, "the sparrows have their nests and the beasts their
dens, but the son of man has not wherewithal to lay his head." And shall
we after so glorious an example, repine at not receiving shelter from a
few miserable wretches."

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ESSAY on the Conduct of Men toward the FAIR SEX.

Every generous man should view the sentiments and actions of the fair
sex in the most favourable light. I can ascribe the contrary practice to
nothing but an unmanly spirit, since, in many cases, those guilty of it
cannot vindicate themselves confidently with the laws of delicacy.
Nature has made man the protector; and the fair sex require his
protection: he who should refuse this, when necessary, would be
reproached with cowardice; and much more if he should take advantage of
their weakness. But is not he who injures a woman's character, to be
esteemed as great a coward as he who assaults her person? Certainly he
is: the former is an insult on the modesty, and the latter upon the
natural weakness of the sex.

There is but one way in which we can suppose a lady may vindicate
herself from a false imputation, and that is by the tenor of her
actions. But then, how liable are actions to be misconstrued! When once
a slanderous tongue has given the clue, the world will be too apt to
ascribe every thing to a wrong principle; even the candid are sometimes
misled, and form suspicions which their honour would otherwise have
prevented.

The practice of viewing the female conduct in an unfavourable light,
subjects the sex to many disadvantages, which I have observed in the
course of my acquaintance.

Flattery is a fashionable snare to entangle female vanity; and I know of
no method more successful, when a man is disposed to put an unfavourable
construction upon every thing he sees. If it is received with applause,
with what satisfaction does the base deceiver congratulate himself upon
his success! Hence some ladies, to avoid all such appearances, shew
themselves displeased when they are attacked in this way; but alas! they
succeed no better than the former; for it is easy enough for the
confident fellow to console himself with this reflection, that the vain
creature takes the compliment almost before it was intended.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

       For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

                   *   *   *

  To Mr. MICHAEL DE MARIBUS,
  In answer to his Grammatical Epistle addressed
  to _Miss_ SALLY SYNTAX.

  SIR,

The charitable construction which has been put upon your _grammatical_
epistle, has _rendered_ me _declinable_ to your complex proposition. As
your presumptuous address, wholly precludes the necessity of an apology
for this abrupt preface; I shall be thereby relieved from an
embarrassment, which the delicacy of the subject would have otherwise
occasioned. The various contradictions visible in your letter, argue a
defect of sincerity. In the first place, you say you would be
_superlatively_ happy to _agree_ with me in the _subjunctive mood_; then
you seem disposed, with an assuming air, so throw in a _conjunction
disjunctive_, and disunite us into various _moods_ and _tenses_. Again
you say that you do not wish to be a _noun adjective_; then, that it is
the _optative_ of your soul, to become a _relative_.--What is a
_relative_ pray, but a _noun adjective?_ You say also, that you trust I
will not opiniate you _singular_: if you are not in the _singular
number_, you must necessarily be in the _plural_. If, then, you have
already formed the _plural number_, by the _interjection_ of a
_copulative conjunction_, connecting you to a _noun substantive_, you
cannot expect, or even wish from me, an accession to your _proposition_.
I candidly declare to you, that a _noun substantive_ in the _singular
number_, is the only _part of speech_ to which I would willingly
_subjoin_ a _copulative conjunction_. Lest you should be disposed to
charge me with assuming the prerogative of your own sex, I shall pass
over many expressions in your letter, which might properly afford a
field for criticism. But let me add, Sir, that as it was an impolite, so
was it a very impolitic thing for you to make use of such unwarranted
freedom, as to make proposals of so immensely great consequence, to a
person, with whom you had so slight an acquaintance. If, previous to the
exhibition of your bold letter, you had perfectly learned my
_disposition_, you must have been sensible, that it would be far from
being _consonant_ with my feelings to admit of a _concord_ with you,
upon conditions so disagreeable as those you offered. Beside, it would
have been by no means a bad plan for you, to have been a little
conversant with my sister _analogy_; as she might have been of
considerable advantage to you in an attempt of this nature: She might,
at least, have supplied you with a _rule_, by which two _noun
substantives_ might have _agreed_ with each other, without transforming
either into a _noun adjective_.

  SALLY SYNTAX.


       *       *       *       *       *

  OBSERVATION.

Sensible objects, which were any way connected with an absent or
departed friend, impress their idea more forcibly on our minds, than
bare reflections can; and then, like the pressure of the moon on the
sea, they create a fulness of sorrow or tenderness, which can only be
relieved by flowing from our eyes.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Saturday evening se'nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phoebus, Mr. ROBERT
JOHNSTON, to Miss ANN SWITZER, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. at West Greenwich, (Con.) by the Rev.
Dr. Lewis, the Rev. PLATT BUFFETT, of Stanwich, to Miss HANNAH LEWIS,
daughter of the Rev. Dr. Lewis, of the former place.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. ALEXANDER COWAN,
to Miss MARGARET IVERS, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, Mr. PETER SLOTE,
Printer, to Miss ANN COOK, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 5th to the 11th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  Feb.  5  31    42     s. se.   clear, calm, do. light wd.
        6  40 50 50 50  sw. do.  rain, lt. wd. thick fog, do.
        7  34    36     w. nw.   clear, high wind, do. do.
        8  26    38     w. do.   clear, light wind, do. do.
        9  31 50 42     s. se.   clear, calm, do. high wind
       10  44    48     se. do.  cloudy, h. wd. much rain.
       11  40    44 50  n. nw.   cloudy, high wind, do. do.

                   *   *   *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  FOR JANUARY 1797.
                                                            deg. 100

  Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise            24   35
  Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M.                               32   78
  Do. do. for the whole month                                28   56
  Greatest monthly range between the 9th and 28th,           46    0
  Do. do. in 24 hours, the                  10th,            20   75
  Coldest day the 9th,                                        0    0
  Warmest do. the 28th,                                      46    0

   6 days it snowed, and about eight inches and a-half has fallen.
   5 do.  it rained, and a large quantity has fallen.
  18 do.  it was clear at sunrise, and 3 P.M. or observation hours.
   8 do.  it was cloudy at do.  do.  do.  do.
   2 do.  the wind was high at do.  do.  do.  do.
  21 do.  the wind was light at do.  do.  do.  do.
  26 do.  the Mercury was at or below the freezing point, at sunrise.
  16 do.  the do.  do.  do.  at sunrise and 3 P.M.
  20 do.  the wind was west of north and south at 7 A.M. & 3 do.
  21 do.  the do.  was east of do.  and do.  at do.  do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SONNET TO ADVERSITY.

  Neglected Nymph, that with unpitied sigh
    Turn'st thy white cheek to every striking gale,
    While the base crew with wounding taunts assail,
  And Worthless Wealth averts his wint'ry eye!

  Yet the rich virtues follow in thy strain,
    Thine is Compassion's tear, Submission's calm,
    Inspiring Hope, Religion's healing balm,
  And mild Philosophy's instructive strain.

  Thine is the plaintive Poet's touching song,
    That tunes with melody the chords of Care,
  To smile forgiveness on the cureless wrong,
    And heal the wounded spirit of Despair.

  Ah, may I ne'er forget thy voice divine,
  But bless the hour, that made its precepts MINE.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE VISION:
  AN ELEGY.

  What time the moon, in silver robes array'd,
    Propt on her lucent throne, majestic sate,
  With weary steps, I trod the muse-fraught glade,
    And hail'd the sombre glory of her state.

  Still was the air, and solemn all the scene;
    For there, immers'd in heavenly thought profound,
  Deep Wisdom rov'd, whose sable robes were seen
    To sweep with awful majesty the ground.

  Bent o'er an urn, pale Melancholy stood,
    With Pity's smile soft melting in her eye;
  Around her feet, in visionary mood,
    The weeping spectres float in sorrow by.

  There Contemplation held her awful reign,
    And Fear, methought, burst thro' the low'ring gloom:
  While sounds terrific whisper'd in the gale,
    And palid visions burst the yawning tomb.

  Oppress'd I stood; when lo! from yonder sky;
    Where charms celestial to the sight are giv'n,
  Some Seraph's beauties swept in glory by,
    Enwrapt in all the radiant blooms of heav'n.

  Propt on an amber cloud, one seem'd to stand,
    While o'er his breast his radiant pinions fold:
  A glitt'ring spear supports his better hand,
    His blazing helmet flames with plumy gold!

  I hear him say, "Why pour thy mournful strain?
    Why feed with bitter grief thy woe-fraught mind,
  Why pants thy heart with visionary pain?
    Why give thy tresses to the ruffled wind?

  No more let strains of hopeless sorrow flow;"--
    He spoke, my father burst upon my eyes!
  "For me no more unlock the source of woe,"
    In strains divine my honour'd parent cries.

  "For I am seated in the realms of light,
    Where founts of bliss from joys perennial play;
  Where suns of glory purify the sight,
    And the soul triumphs in eternal day!

  Raise thy low thoughts to images above,
    And hail the form you ought not to deplore,
  Lodg'd in the bosom of your maker's love;
    And learn from heav'nly precept to adore.

  Frail child, no more let tears impearl thine eye,
    Nor rending groans lament thy glorious fire;
  Since wisdom tells you, that we all must die,
    Tho' born to flourish with celestial fire!

  Be these thy precepts; learn from hence, no more
    To bid the stream of erring sorrow flow:
  Exalt thy eyes; you realms of light explore,
    And aim to bloom where truths celestial glow!"

  Corrected thus--I humbly bow'd my head:
    Thrice round his breast his flaming jav'lin flies;
  His radiant path eternal glories spread;
    He mounts the air, and seeks the opening skies.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  HUMANITY's POWER.

  How delightful the season of May,
    When zephyrs come sailing along!
  The meadows how cheerful and gay!
    How sweet is the Nightingale's song!
  The grove fragrant odours exhale
    When refresh'd by the still drooping show'r,
  And sweet is the eglantine gale,
    But sweeter Humanity's Power.

  When Summer, refulgent array'd,
    Darts fiercely his vertical beam,
  How welcome the tremulous shade!
    How refreshing the chrystaline stream!
  The breezes soft transports bestow,
    As they glide o'er the jessamine flower,
  But more grateful the plasures which flow,
    From gentle Humanity's Power.

  What can charm like Autumn's bright ray,
    When the fields their rich treasures resign?
  Or what greater beauty display
    Than the smooth polish'd fruit of the vine?
  Is there ought like the morning can please?
    Or the smile of the sun setting hour?
  Yes, far more engaging than these,
    Are the beams of Humanity's Power.

  More mild than the calm vernal scene,
    More grateful than Summer retreats;
  More engaging than Autumn serene,
    When nature her promise completes:
  More gentle than zephyrs soft wind,
    And more sweet than the jessamine flow'r,
  Are the joys of the tranquiliz'd mind,
    Which glows with Humanity's Power.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ASPIRATION
  Over the Tomb of an Amiable Friend.

  If honour, prudence, piety combin'd,
  A noble nature, and an humble mind,
  Esteem'd whilst living, claim, while dead, a tear,
  The Muse is justified who pays it here.

  For, O, if all which virtue ever gave
  Could save her vot'ries from th' insatiate grave,
  Whom here I mourn had now in this sad hour
  Been an existent instance of her pow'r.

  Existent instance!--mount above the pole
  Dull Muse, and trace the disembodied soul,
  Who, haply now, exulting in its doom,
  Views, with a smile, the disappointed tomb.

  What tho' its tent, beneath a fateful sky
  Prone in the dust, by death subverted, lie,
  Itself, escap'd above the stormy bow,
  Securely views the ruin spread below.

  So when an earthquake shakes this trembling ball,
  And the high rocks in pond'rous thunders fall,
  Tho' not her nest the devastations spare
  The Eagle still exults sublime in air!


NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+--
where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be
gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+._

       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  _UTILE DULCI._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, February 22, 1797.+  [+No. 86.+


  MAN'S DANGER AND SECURITY IN YOUTH.

In that period of life too often characterised by forward presumption
and headlong pursuit, self-conceit is the great source of these dangers
to which men are exposed; and it is peculiarly unfortunate, that the age
which stands most in need of the counsel of the wise, should be the most
prone to contemn it. Confident in the opinions which they adopt, and in
the measures which they pursue, the bliss which youth aim at, is, in
their opinion fully apparent. It is not the danger of mistake, but the
failure of success, which they dread. Activity to seize, not sagacity to
discern, is the only requisite which they value.

The whole state of nature is now become a scene of delusion to the
sensual mind. Hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what
flatters most is always farthest from reality. There are voices which
sing around us, but whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet
spread where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites us
to repose, but to slumber upon it is death. Sobriety should temper
unwary ardour; Modesty check rash presumption; Wisdom be the offspring
of reflection now, rather than the bitter fruit of experience hereafter.


       *       *       *       *       *

  DECEIT.

That darkness of character, where we can see no heart, those foldings of
art, through which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, present
an object unamiable in every season of life, but particularly odious in
youth. If at an age when the heart is warm, when the emotions are
strong, and when nature is expected to shew itself free and open, we can
already smile and deceive, what is to be expected, when we shall be
longer hackneyed in the ways of men, when interest shall have compleated
the obduration of our hearts, and experience shall have improved us in
all the arts of guile!

Dissimulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age: its
first appearance is the fatal omen of growing depravity and future
shame. It degrades parts and learning, obscures the lustre of every
accomplishment, and sinks us into contempt with God and man. The path of
falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from
sincerity, it is not in our power to stop. One artifice unavoidably
leads on to another: till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth increases,
we are left entangled in our own snare.

Deceit discovers a little mind, which stops at temporary expedients,
without rising to comprehensive views of conduct. It betrays a dastardly
spirit. It is the resource of one who wants courage to avow his designs,
or to rest upon himself. To set out in the world with no other principle
than a crafty attention to interest, betokens one who is destined for
creeping through the inferior walks of life. He may be fortunate, he
cannot be happy; the eye of a good man will weep at his error: he cannot
taste the sweets of confidential friendship, and his evening of life
will be embittered by universal contempt.


       *       *       *       *       *

  DUTY OF OLD AGE.

A material part of the duty of the aged consists in studying to be
useful to the race who are to succeed them. Here opens to them an
extensive field, in which they may so employ themselves as considerably
to advance the happiness of mankind. To them it belongs to impart to the
young the fruit of their long experience; to instruct them in the proper
conduct, and to warn them of the various dangers of life; by wise
counsel to temper their precipitate ardour, and both by precept and
example to form them to piety and virtue.

It never appears with greater dignity, than when tempered with mildness
and enlivened with good humour; it then acts as a guide and a patron of
youth.

Religion, displayed in such a character, strikes the beholders, as at
once amiable and venerable. They revere its power, when they see it
adding so much grace to the decays of nature, and shedding so pleasing a
lustre over the evening of life. The young wish to tread in the same
steps, and to arrive at the close of their days with equal honour.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
  _OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
  Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 259.)

"I stood on the deck a prey to speechless agony, when suddenly somebody
tapped me on the shoulder. Conceive my astonishment when, on turning
round, I saw Alumbrado standing behind me. I staggered back as if a
midnight spectre had taken hold of me with icy hands. Terror and
surprise deprived me of the power of utterance, and suspended every
motion of my limbs. He had made the voyage without my knowledge, and
found means to keep himself concealed from me; you may therefore
imagine, how violently I was affected by the sudden appearance of that
man, whom I fancied to be at Lis*on.

"Are you not sorry now, that you have slighted my advice?" Alumbrado
said, "it seems you will not see your friend in this world." Some
minutes passed before I was able to reply. "Let us now enjoy in silence
the grandest spectacle that nature can afford!" So saying, he looked
with tranquillity at the foaming ocean, as if he had been standing on
the sheltering shore, far distant from the danger that surrounded us
from all sides. His eyes beheld with inconceivable serenity the wild
commotion of the waves, which now raised the vessel to the flaming
clouds, and now hurled it into the gaping abyss of the boiling sea. The
firm tranquillity which Alumbrado's countenance bespoke, in spite of the
furious combat of the elements, the impending destruction of the ship,
and the doleful lamentations of the desponding crew, appeared to me to
denote more than human courage. I gazed with secret awe at a being that
seemed to be delighted with a spectacle, which made every hair of my
head rise like bristles.

'At length the flashes of lightning grew fainter, the roaring of the
thunder less violent, and the fury of the winds seemed to be exhausted;
but the sea continued to be agitated in so dreadful a manner, that we
apprehended the cables would not be able to stand the motion of the ship
any longer. In vain did we implore human assistance by the discharge of
our guns, the towering waves threatening destruction to the boats that
attempted to come to our relief.

"In vain will human force endeavour to wage the unequal contest against
all-powerful nature!" I exclaimed when I beheld that desponding sight.
Alumbrado turned round. "I will tame the fury of these foaming waves, if
you will promise to return to Lis*on!" I gazed at him in speechless
astonishment. "I am in earnest," he resumed, "will you return to
Lis*on?" "If I will?" I replied, "If I will? how can you ask me that
question? enable me to do it!" Alumbrado left me without returning an
answer.

'A few minutes after he returned. "You will, presently, behold a
miracle," he said, "but I must request you to tell nobody the author
of it."

'I promised it, and the miracle ensued. The rolling foaming sea grew
calm and smooth. We went on shore, and found ourselves not farther than
a day's journey from Lis*on.

'You see my friend, that a higher power, against which opposition would
have been useless, has put a stop to my voyage. I have related the
history of it without making any comments, and leave it to your own
judgment to form a just opinion of it. As for me, I am convinced that I
have at length found the man whom my boding soul has long been in
search of.'

This letter astonished me to the highest degree, and, at the same time,
augmented my apprehensions very much. In my answer I declared neither
for nor against Alumbrado's supernatural power, because I neither chose
to confirm the Duke in his belief in it, nor to risk losing his
confidence; for how could I have expected to receive farther
intelligence of his connection with Alumbrado, if I had been deprived of
the latter? and yet it was of the utmost importance to me to learn every
transaction of that designing man.

Notwithstanding this precaution, near a month elapsed without my having
received an answer to my letter. I wrote a second time to him, but
before his answer could reach me, was ordered by the King to return
instantly, and to make an oral report of the issue of my commission.
I was, therefore, obliged to depart without being able to wait the
arrival of his letter.

I anticipated the pleasure of surprising him by my unexpected arrival,
and went to his palace as soon as I arrived at Lis*on. He rather seemed
surprised than pleased at the unexpected sight of me, asking with a kind
of anxiety, whether I had received his last letter. When I answered in
the negative he seemed to grow more easy, but adding, some time after,
that it would be sent after me without delay, his brow began again to be
overclouded. I was not much pleased with this behaviour, and begged him
to relate to me the sequel of Alumbrado's history, but he desired me to
await the arrival of his letter, in which I should find a circumstantial
account of it. In vain did I conjure him by the ties of our friendship
to gratify my desire, and tried every art of persuasion in order to get
the wished for information. He always evaded my questions, and
frequently betrayed strong marks of uneasiness. Displeased with this
reserve and mysterious behaviour, I took leave with evident coolness.

The two following days elapsed without our seeing each other. I must not
forget to mention, that I received, the second day after my arrival,
a letter from an unknown hand. When I opened the cover, I found a second
sealed letter along with the following lines which were directed to me:

"Tomorrow you will receive a visit of an old acquaintance, to whom you
will have the kindness to deliver the inclosed letter. But if he should
not have made his appearance on the day after to-morrow, you may open
the letter, which will give you farther information."

I could guess neither the writer of the note, nor who that old
acquaintance could be.

The day following I received the Duke's letter, which had been sent
after me. I opened it with impatience, and read the following lines:

"It appears more and more probable to me, my friend, that Alumbrado has
raised the tempest that threatened to prove fatal to me, in order to
punish me for my disobedience to his advice. For should he, who can
subdue the billowing waves, not also be able to agitate them? You may
say whatever you choose, a supernatural power must have been concerned
in that event, and who is capable to fix its extention, its limits? My
father and myself venerate Alumbrado as a worker of miracles ever since
that event, although he strives to hide himself behind the pious cloak
of humility.

"O! why was Alumbrado not present when that tempest raged which deprived
me of my Amelia? He would have saved her, and all the gods of earth
would envy me for my felicity. The Irishman has cheated me of every
earthly blessing, by not fulfilling his promise.

"Concerning the Irishman, Alumbrado has given me a very extraordinary
hint. 'The Marquis of F*' said he, 'is undoubtedly right when he
maintains, that God never intrusts an impostor with the power of working
miracles. He is however mistaken, if he thinks the speaking phantom,
which Hiermanfor made appear at the church-yard, had been nothing else
but a natural deception; no one will ever persuade me that it is
possible to effect any thing of that kind by natural means. Effected by
mere natural means, you will say, and yet no miracle? certainly not; for
cannot Hiermanfor have deluded you by the assistance of the father of
lies? I will not explain my opinion on that head more at large, yet I
think the Irishman is an hypocritical villain, who carries on a wicked
trade. One ought to congratulate you, that your good principles deterred
him from initiating you in his shocking mysteries. It was not without
reason that he accused you of want of self-subsistence and resolution,
for a dreadful degree of firmness of soul is required for joining in a
contract whereby mortal men bid defiance to the great eternal Ruler of
the world. However your better genius watched over you, and although you
have been entangled a long time in the bonds of wickedness, yet he has
delivered you from those snares before they were tied indissolubly. You
ought to be thankful to the mercy of the God of love, and to be on your
guard in future. If you should meet with men who perform supernatural
works, you may easily find out what sort of people they are; if they
deal in lies and imposition, they belong to the kingdom of darkness, but
if truth and justice is sacred to them, they are children of light. If
you had examined the Irishman after this standard, you would have fled
with terror from the apparition of the church-yard, and he would never
have succeeded in entangling you in an undertaking which has deprived
the King of Spa*n of his lawful crown. The doctrine and the principles
of the Irishman ought to have rendered him suspected to you. He
endeavoured to point out to you the reason as the only infallible
instructor and guide, at the expence of faith, and at the same time
strove to confound that very reason by artful and fallacious
conclusions, as the Marquis of F* has demonstrated in a masterly manner.
The Irishman was very careful not to make you reflect on the limits of
reason and the power of men, because a genius like you would easily have
concluded how much we are in want of divine illumination and grace; and
it was his chief aim to remove the light of religion, because his works
required being covered by delusive mists. You will never have seen him
frequent the church, nor perform religious rites, will never have heard
him pronounce certain sacred names. I know that sort of people, who are
so much the more dangerous, the more they are skilled in concealing
their real shape behind deceiving masks. The spreading libertinism, and
the furious rage of explaining every thing naturally, threatens indeed
to suspend the belief in the existence, nay even in the possibility of
miracles and sorcery, however they have not ceased notwithstanding that.
The opinions of men may alter, but things will remain as they are. The
same Omnipotence that in times of old has led the Israelites through the
red sea, manifests itself still in our days through signs and miracles,
although they are not acknowledged as such by the blind multitude. The
same reprobated spirit that spoke formerly through the oracle of
Delphos, and by whose assistance Simon the magician performed
extraordinary feats, is still active in our present times.

"Is it therefore, improbable that men who by their superior sanctity
rise above the generality, and connect themselves more intimately with
the Godhead, should resemble the Supreme Being in power, and enjoy an
immediate influence of the Ruler of the world? Is it so very
incomprehensible that the spirit of darkness should favour those who
resemble him in wickedness, and endow their inclination of perpetrating
wicked deeds with a physical power of executing their diabolical
designs? People of either description will, indeed, always rarely be met
with; superstition will mistake as such many who do not belong to that
class, yet who can prove that they do not exist at all? I am, certainly,
no enemy to reason, however I conceive it to be not less absurd
obstinately to reject whatever is miraculous, than to believe it
blindly. I esteem reason while it does not overstep the limits to which
it is confined, as the Marquis of F* has justly observed, nor attempts
to expel faith. There are supernatural things, sacred truths, which the
former never can comprehend, being reserved only for the latter. Faith
is hailed by noontide light, even where reason finds nothing but
midnight darkness. While the latter proceeds slowly, and with uncertain
steps, through a mazy labyrinth of conclusions and arguments, the former
enjoys a clear immediate sight of truth, and experiences all the
strength of its evidence.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  HAPPINESS.

      ----Tho' tempest frowns,
  Tho' nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heav'n!
  To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!

    Dr. YOUNG.

Happiness is more sought after, and with much greater avidity, than any
other blessing with which this terraqueous ball is supposed is be
endued. Yet, notwithstanding the eagerness with which it is pursued,
none has been less substantially obtained. The reason is obvious.
Mankind are dissatisfied with their respective situations in life, and
content dwells not in their bosoms: their minds are satiated with what
they possess; new objects hardly delight for a moment, ere fresh ones
present themselves; and man, unthinking creature as he is, follows the
airy phantom, promising himself perfect happiness, can he but attain
another wish; but which, when acquired, proves, alas! like the former,
the visionary satisfaction of an instant.

Content constitutes continual happiness; for with that sweet companion,
the peasant is greater than a prince destitute of the benign blessing.
The glittering, gaudy tinsel of a court, is unable to convey that real
happiness to man, which the honest rustic feels at the sweet lispings of
his innocent babes, and the heartfelt welcome of a faithful wife as they
greet his return every evening from a hard day's toil. Surrounded by
this happy group, he sits down, breaks the bread of virtuous industry,
blesses Him who gave him strength to earn the scanty meal, and lays down
on the pallet of penury in peace, to arise with the morn to labour and
to happiness. This life he enjoys, because he aspires to nothing above
that sphere in which it has pleased Omnipotence to place him.

How few, even in any state, do we find happy? Alas! the number is by far
too few. To the improper pursuit after happiness, can we only attribute
the misery of mankind; daily, nay even hourly, do we see dread examples
of this serious truth. But where is the eye that has not beheld, the
mind that has not felt, or the heart that has not pitied, some object
who has, in grasping at the shadow of happiness, lost the substance;
whether it has met the observation as a culprit at the bar of a criminal
court, a lunatic, a beggar, a deluded female, or a debtor in the dreary
mansion of a prison? Where is the tongue but must confess, that they
have lost their probity, their reason, their independence, their virtue,
or their liberty, in an improper pursuit after happiness? However wrong
their ideas might be, that, and that only, was the aim.

It will be asked, and with great propriety, what remedy we should apply
for the prevention or cure of such an unremitting disease? We can only
recommend content; not merely as the interest, but the duty of mankind.
For, if man repines, at whom is it? It is at Him who in mercy infinite
made man. There are few, it is presumed, if they consider this serious
and important truth, who will not cease to murmur and be discontented;
or they must, at least, cease to offend the Almighty, by repeating those
words which his beloved Son himself hath taught us, saying, "thy will be
done on earth, as it is in heaven."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  +Of the GENIUS of the ARABS.+

Arabia has ever been as celebrated for horses of a gentle, generous
spirit, as the Arabs for their skill in training them. That this praise
is not undeserved, nothing can more clearly illustrate, I conceive, than
the following incident, recounted by an English gentleman, whose credit
and repute are well known among his countrymen in Bengal.

Temporarily resident at Bussorah, after a trading voyage to the Gulph of
Persia, Mr. T---- went, one afternoon, to pay a visit at the English
factory. Whilst the Chief, with several other gentlemen besides himself,
were drinking coffee in a balcony, an Arab, gallantly mounted, and his
horse superbly caparisoned, galloped into the courtyard: there, for some
time, he exercised his steed, displayed perfect address in the manege,
curvetting, prancing, volting, wheeling, and caprioling his courser,
with inimitable grace, and as much expertness in the easy management of
his arms, darting a spear in the air, and recovering it again at full
tilt, with other feats, equally dexterous and entertaining.

Unluckily, however, for the poor fellow, in crossing a bank and ditch,
leading from the area to an adjacent field, the horse, being fatigued,
fell down, and threw his rider headlong in the dust. A stream of blood
gushed, at the same time, from the creature's nostrils, and he lay
extended and motionless on the ground. The Arab seemed stunned by the
fall; but at length recovering, shook his ears, brushed the dust from
his cloaths, replaced his turban, and approached his horse.

But no man nor pencil can express the anguish and affliction conspicuous
in the man's countenance, on beholding the animal lie in that condition.
At first he raved and screamed, in a delirium of agony; then bursting
into tears, kissed and embraced his horse, bewailing and bemoaning his
loss in all the excess of despondency. So animated, indeed, appeared his
grief, and so deep his distress, as to inspire a sympathetic affection
in the bosoms of all the spectators.

The gentlemen instantly called him up, and learning that the horse had
been bred from a colt in his house, and was the only support (as the man
served as a monthly Sepahi in the Bashaw's army) of his father, mother,
himself, his wife, and three small children, and that the loss now
deprived the whole of subsistence, they humanely raised a handsome
contribution for him, immediately among themselves and their dependents,
and, giving the man the money, bid him be comforted, and go and buy
another horse.

With effusions of the most lively gratitude, yet not unaccompanied by
sighs and sobs, the man received the bounty, and once more repaired,
dejectedly, towards his horse, in order, as it should seem, to take off
the trappings and furniture. But no sooner had the wily Arab repassed
the ditch, than, at a word, the horse started up; the master vaulted
upon his back, and rode away full speed, laughing aloud at the credulity
of his staring and astonished dupes, and at the success of his own
contrivance.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  +The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
  [Written by Herself.]

  (Concluded from our last.)

Be consoled that our hearts are not tainted with evil, and that the
consciousness of never committing aught offensive to innocence, hangs
like a friendly shade around us, to blunt the pointed arrows of
adversity. Fatigue at length overpowered the veteran, and he died under
a holly tree. A tributary tear of gratitude fell from me, but I quickly
supprest my feelings, and envied him his fate. The minister of the
parish was a good man, and had him interred. When the rustics retired
who had attended the funeral, I seated myself by the sod which covered
the remains of my last friend, how often did I raise my eyes to heaven,
and beseech the Supreme to take me to eternal peace. I continued lost in
gloomy reveries till night surrounded me, I arose with an intention of
proceeding to the next hamlet. As I walked slow and pensive, my ears
were struck by a soft voice familiar to them, which came from a
flower-woven arbour on the road side. I listened attentively, it was the
voice of my child, amazed, doubting my own senses, I crept to the spot.
She was singing a little air, which had once been a favourite of mine,
there is no describing the melancholy melody with which she sung it; she
was often interrupted by sighs, and her hands were raised to wipe away
her tears, the beams of the moon shone around us, affording sufficient
light to discern every object. She turned around and perceived me, the
paleness and agony of my countenance terrified her, "Gracious Heaven!"
cried she, "what do I behold?" "A miserable old man," I exclaimed,
"whose heart is broken by ingratitude and grief." She shrieked, she
would have fled, but her limbs aided not her intention, fainting she
sunk at my feet, I knelt beside her, I clasped her with a kind of
phrenzy to my breast, called upon her to revive, and bless a father who
never ceased to regret her loss, she opened her eyes, "Alas! I am
unworthy of such tenderness," "No, my child, mercy is the sweetest
attribute of heaven, to err, the weakness of humanity." Her head fell
upon my shoulder, I wept with her, my heart seemed breaking, at that
moment comfort seemed fled from both for ever. By degrees I calmed her
agitation, "Alas!" said she, "was it in search of such a wretch you
came? oh! my father, how could I ever forget thy precepts, or deviate
from the path in which you brought me up, but if penitence and remorse
can palliate error, mine is lessened, from the moment of error I have
been superlatively wretched, and incessantly looked back to regret that
peace which can only result from unsullied innocence." A thousand times
the dear unhappy girl knelt at my feet, to implore my forgiveness, I as
often assured her she had obtained it.

"Though peace and innocence," said I, "shall no more brighten my
cottage, yet pity and repentance shall render it not an unpleasing
asylum, but may some signal punishment from heaven, fall upon the author
of your wrongs."

The shocks my Patty had experienced preyed upon her life, unceasing
anguish like a worm in the bud, fed on her damask cheek, the glow of
health, the fire of imagination, and the animation of youth were fled,
and a deep melancholy seized the soul of my child, she in whom my life
was wrapt, whom I had nourished with so much tenderness, lay expiring
before me, like a blossom immaturely blighted, I attended her in dumb
despair. A few moments before she died, she thus spoke, "Alas my father,
I have overwhelmed you with sorrow, regret me not, let not those tears
fall on my account, in this world all must have been misery, the
blackness of despair, I go, blessed by thy forgiveness, and the promise
which scripture holds out of penitence meeting mercy, a broken and
contrite heart is acceptable." Her hands were extended, her eyes closed,
and she expired. The power who supported me in such trials, pardoned the
first delirium of grief, in the days of my felicity I had pictured to
myself such scenes of bliss, I looked forward to a prattling progeny,
who would be the comfort of my old age.

"How desultory are the schemes of man, he lays plans of permanent
felicity, when the whirlwind of affliction arrives, and destroys the
towering edifice of creative hope.

"After those occurrences, my mind was too perturbed to allow me to
attend to the duties of my function, I surrendered my living, left that
part of the country, and retired to this spot, where unknown and
unmolested, I may brood over my losses, and where I frequently picture
to myself the terminating scene."

Exquisite were the sensations of grief and horror, which this little
tale excited in our breasts; to my feelings was added a painful degree
of surprise from the name of Mordaunt, I enquired, though in accents of
dread and hesitation, and learned he was the destroyer of Hume's
happiness.

Our visits were frequently repeated to the cottage of the unfortunate
old man, to me they were inexpressibly soothing, from kindred grief
there was derived a congenial sympathy.

Two years had rolled away since my retirement in Harley's cottage, when
I was called down one morning to a gentleman in the parlour, my heart
trembled at the summons, and my tottering limbs could scarcely support
me to the spot. A stranger in deep mourning met my view, I gazed
attentively on him, and recollected the features of my brother, grief
had so altered my form, so worn away all traces of my former self, that
he knew me not, till my weak voice pronounced his name.

"Ah my sister," cried he, "think not your brother could ever forget your
gentle worth, could ever think you deserving of censure, or like the
world be biassed by misfortune to forget you, a father's interdiction
prevented me ere this, visiting your retreat, that father no longer
exists to oppose my intentions, he died convinced of your innocence, and
breathing wishes for your felicity. Harland, the penitent Harland is no
more, sensible of the injustice he had done you, he acknowledged his
cruelty, and has by his death, restored you to fame, to fortune, and to
your child."

I wept as my brother spoke--my heart was opprest by a variety of
emotions, and my gloomy soul turned to the untimely grave of Harland--my
brother conjectured my feelings--"I see" cried he, "from what a mingled
source your tears flow, but ah my sister, in this life happiness must
ever receive some alloy."

His consolations strengthened my reason in combating grief--I reflected
that even if Harland lived, to me he must have been lost, since after
the unfortunate rencontre between him and my husband, a connection with
him would have confirmed an invidious world in every idea they had
formed prejudicial to me.

He was soon struck by the charms and innocent simplicity of Louisa, her
heart returned his partiality, and I had the happiness of witnessing
their union.

Their happiness, the education of my child, and self-exertion, roused me
from the lethargy of grief, and diffused a calm over my mind I never
hoped to have experienced.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE SCHOOL OF NATURE.

  "-------- -------- -------- Nature spreads
  An open volume; where, in ev'ry page,
  We read the wonders of Almighty Pow'r,
  Infinite Wisdom, and unbounded Love.
  Here sweet instruction, entertaining truths,
  Reward the searching mind, and onward lead
  Enquiring Thought: new beauties still unfold,
  And op'ning wonders rise upon the view.
  The Mind, rejoicing, comments as she reads;
  While through th' inspiring page Conviction glows,
  And warms to praise her animated pow'rs."

    THEODOSIA.

Nature presents to the imagination an inexhausted fund of rational
amusement. To contemplate the inimitable works of creation, is no less
instructive than pleasing. Animate as well as inanimate objects afford
an abundance of entertaining ideas, equally calculated to raise in the
souls of human beings the most unfeigned offerings of wonder, gratitude,
and praise. The gaiety of spring, the smiles of summer, the fecundity of
autumn, and the dreariness of winter, all combine to celebrate the
Author of universal existence. From the most curious and precious
earthly substance, down to the simplest blade of herbage, a granery is
opened to satisfy the desires of, and impart delight to, rational
mortals. But, notwithstanding the innumerable blessings conferred on man
from above, if we attentively mark the conduct of the majority of
individuals, painful as it may be to our own feelings, or those of every
contemplative, virtuous, and sensible person, how few are those to be
found, who are truly thankful for the mercies they enjoy? How few,
indeed, who acknowledge the goodness of an omnipotent and omniscient
Being! They live as if they were indebted to none for their life or
their enjoyments. Unthankful and ungenerous man! why art thou so impious
as to forget that incumbent gratitude, and that graceful duty, which
thou owest to thy heavenly Father? Why trample on every moral
obligation? why shun the precepts of pious Wisdom, and the dictates of
impartial Conscience? Rouze thyself from the torpor which now envelopes
thee, and learn to be thankful for those blessings which thou dost
assuredly receive from above; and, in the words of the late pious Mr.
Addison, testify thy acknowledgments--

  "When all thy mercies, O my God!
    My grateful soul surveys,
  Transported with the view, I'm lost
    In wonder, love, and praise!"

Let not any one think it beneath him, or in the smallest degree
derogatory to his character or sphere in life, however learned, opulent,
and exalted, he may be, to retire occasionally from the bustle of the
world, and to meditate in some calm and undisturbed recess, the
perfections of his Maker, and the works of his hands. Believe me, the
most refined pleasures are to be derived from such innocent, delightful,
and laudable pursuits. The magnificent and wonderful objects of the
celestial, and the curiosity and variety of the vegetable world, as well
as the formation of all animals, reptiles, insects, and other
productions of Nature, have properties which, if accurately viewed,
yield inconceivable astonishment to the beholder. When spring, for
example, returns with all it's native beauties, as succeeding the gloomy
aspect and forbidding horrors of winter; when it teems with a matchless
splendour and magnificence; when its green hues and universal verdure
come forth in all their pristine elegance, and enchanting attractions;
and the birds warble and attune in sprightly attitudes, their respective
notes, even then they are almost always either forgotten or disregarded;
even then men neglect to thank the Author of life and happiness, the
source of every distributive blessing. What culpable negligence is this,
in rational and accountable beings! O that man would attend with
docility to these important truths, and frequently reflect on the
revolving seasons of the year, and the School of Nature, which would
afford him an endless variety of useful and instructive lessons; and, in
an iminent degree, furnish a convincing and happy demonstration of the
wisdom, power, and goodness, of the Creator.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE.

Charles the Second asking the famous Bishop Stillingfleet, how it came
to pass, that although he was informed he always preached _without book_
elsewhere, yet he always read his Sermons before the Court? The Bishop
replied, that the awe of so wise an audience, where he saw nothing that
was not greatly superior to himself, made him afraid to trust his
memory. "But will your majesty (continued Stillingfleet) permit me to
ask you a question in my turn?---Why do you read your Speeches, when you
can have no such reasons?"---"Why, truly, Doctor, (said the King) your
question is a very pertinent one, and so shall be my answer.---I have
asked the Parliament so often, and for so much money, _that I am afraid
to look them in the face_."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                 OBSERVATION.

  "_Qui capit ille facit._"

"Giving advice unasked," says Lord Chesterfield, "is a piece of
rudeness; it is, in effect, declaring ourselves wiser than these to whom
we give it; reproaching them with ignorance and inexperience. It is a
freedom that ought not to be taken with any common acquaintance."
Notwithstanding, there are those who assume the place of preceptors, not
only to their familiars, but to those with whom they have no particular
acquaintance, nor can claim the least pretence to superiority.

There is also another class of people who render themselves insufferably
disgusting, by a kind of blind raillery, which they employ against some
person present: to whom they offer the most unpardonable insults,
without saying any thing in particular that can properly be resented.

An instance of both these characters I met with, not long since, in a
gentleman whom I chanced to fall in company with: and as I perceived his
observations were altogether levelled at me, I shall not hesitate to
offer a few remarks thereon; and, in my turn, propose a word of
instruction to those who may be guilty of the like errors. Should they
wish to convince any one of his faults, on honourable grounds, let them,
without reserve, address the immediate person intended, with freedom and
candour: for they may be assured that open reproof is better than covert
insults. "Poisoned arrows," (to use the words of a celebrated author, on
another occasion) "and stabs in the dark, are not more repugnant to the
laws of Humanity" than "this battery of" indirect sarcasm. Reflections,
thus obliquely delivered, though clothed in the "mildest language," give
to persons of discernment and spirit "sensible" offence. Every body
knows that the provokingest things are frequently uttered in the ironic
style; and it is quite as certain, that the acutest sting often lurks
under the softest expressions. The dagger becomes not less keen for
being polished.

  ETHICUS.

    NEW-YORK October 6, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                THE CHURCH YARD.

                 +A Fragment.+

******I walked into the Church-Yard, and placed myself near a grave that
had been newly dug, in order to take a view of the different characters
that approached.

--The body was deposited in the place appointed. The mourners stood near
the clergyman, as he read the service. The father of the departed held a
handkerchief in his hand, which he alternately applied to each eye, for
the purpose of wiping off the briney tear; for they were abundantly
surcharged therewith. His eye was fixed on the coffin; now it reverted
to the minister: again it fell to the ground in hopeless sorrow.

The uncle next caught my attention; he also held a handkerchief in his
hand.---But for the life of me I could not tell for what, unless it was
that _fashion_ demanded it. His sorrow appeared to reside no where but
in his dress: and I must say, he was in no wise deficient in that point.
I could not perceive that he took the least notice of the ceremony; his
attention was more occupied on the things of this world. I imagined he
was taking the model of a house that stood near; and it surprised me not
a little that he did not take out his pocket-book, in order to note it.

In the countenance of the divine was depicted humility---It was with
solemnity he fulfilled his office.

The people were departing; but the _sincere_ mourner was still standing
by the grave. The uncle had reached the gate; but suddenly he arrested
his steps: he missed his fellow, and returned. He pulled out his
handkerchief again, and when he stood along side his brother applied it
to his eyes!----

----Shame on the hypocrite!

  L. B.

    October 14, 1796.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 30th ult. by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, Mr. CHOATE, to
Mrs. SARAH YOUNG, widow of the late Mr. Ebenezer Young, all of this
city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. John Juland, Mr.
CHRISTOPHER DUNN, late of Yorkshire, England, to Mrs. NANCY FERRIS, of
Throgs Neck.

On Thursday evening the 9th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Goodhue, Mr. ELIAS
BREVOORT to Miss MARGARET PAINTER, both of this city.

A few evenings since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. JOHN DOUBLEDAY,
Printer, to Mrs. ODELL, both of this city.

  [[The transcriber is sorry to say that "John Doubleday, printer,"
    appears to have no connection with the publisher of the same name.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 12th to the 18th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  Feb. 12  31    53 25  w. do.   clear, calm, do. do.
       13  36    38     ne. e.   cloudy, lt. wind, rain do.
       14  35    36     ne. do.  rain, light wind, do. do.
       15  27    30     ne. nw.  snow, light wd clear do.
       16  25    33     nw. do.  clear, light wind, do. do.
       17  25    39     e. s.    cloudy, lt. wd do. h wd.
       18  36    41     nw. do.  cloudy, lt. wd rain do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SENSATION AND PERCEPTION.
  A Thought.

  Sweet are the dewy tears of morn,
    Which drop profusion in the show'r;
  And sweet the incense-breathing gale,
    Which scatters fragrance from the flow'r.

  But trifling such poor charms appear;
    Can these with Nature's feelings vie?
  Much sweeter is the falling tear;
    More grateful still--the heaving sigh!


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  LAVINIA.
  A PASTORAL.

  Why steals from my bosom the sigh?
    Why fix'd is my gaze on the ground?
  Come, give me my pipe, and I'll try
    To banish my cares with the sound.

  Ere now were its notes of accord
    With the smile of the flow'r-footed muse:
  Ah! why, by its master implor'd,
    Shou'd it now the gay carol refuse?

  'Twas taught by LAVINIA's smile
    In the mirth-loving chorus to join:
  Ah me! how unweeting the while!
    LAVINIA----cannot be mine!

  Another, more happy, the maid
    By fortune is destin'd to bless----
  Tho' the hope has forsook that betray'd,
    Yet why shou'd I love her the less!

  Her beauties are bright as the morn,
    With rapture I counted them o'er;
  Such virtues these beauties adorn,
    I knew her, and prais'd 'em no more.

  I term'd her no goddess of love,
    I call'd not her beauty divine:
  These far other passions may prove,
    But they could not be figures of mine.

  It ne'er was apparell'd with art,
    On words it could never rely:
  It reign'd in the throb of my heart,
    It spoke in the glance of my eye.

  Oh fool! in the circle to shine
    That Fashion's gay daughters approve,
  You must speak as the fashions incline;--
    Alas! are there fashions in love?

  Yet sure they are simple who prize
    The tongue that is smooth to deceive;
  Yet sure she had sense to despise
    The tinsel that folly may weave.

  When I talk'd, I have seen her recline
    With an aspect so pensively sweet,----
  Tho' I spoke what the shepherds opine,
    A <DW2> were asham'd to repeat.

  She is soft as the dew-drops that fall
    From the lip of the sweet-scented pea;
  Perhaps, when she smil'd upon all,
    I have thought that she smil'd upon me.

  But why of her charms should I tell?
    Ah me! when her charms have undone!
  Yet I love the reflection too well,
    The painful reflection to shun.

  Ye souls of more delicate kind,
    Who feast not on pleasure alone,
  Who wear the soft sense of the mind,
    To the sons of the world are unknown:

  Ye know, tho' I cannot express,
    Why I foolishly dote on my pain;
  Nor will ye believe it the less
    That I have not the skill to complain.

  I lean on my hand with a sigh,
    My friends the soft sadness condemn,
  Yet, methinks, tho' I cannot tell why,
    I should hate to be merry like them.

  When I walk'd in the pride of the dawn,
    Methought all the region look'd bright;
  Has sweetness forsaken the lawn?
    For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight.

  When I stood by the stream, I have thought
    There was mirth in the tremulous sound,
  But now 'tis a sorrowful note,
    And the banks are all gloomy around!

  I have laugh'd at the jest of a friend;
    Now they laugh and I know not the cause,
  Tho' I seem with my looks to attend,
    How silly! I ask what it was!

  They sing the sweet song of the May,
    They sing it with mirth and with glee;
  Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay,
    But now 'tis all sadness to me.

  Oh! give me the dubious light
    That gleams thro' the quivering shade;
  Oh! give me the horrors of night
    By gloom and by silence array'd!

  Let me walk where the soft rising wave
    Has pictur'd the moon on its breast:
  Let me walk where the new-cover'd grave
    Allows the pale lover to rest!

  When shall I in its peaceable womb
    Be laid with my sorrows asleep?
  Should LAVINIA but chance on my tomb--
    I could die if I thought she would weep.

  Perhaps, if the souls of the just
    Revisit these mansions of care,
  It may be my favourite trust
    To watch o'er the fate of the fair.

  Perhaps the soft thought of her breast
    With rapture more favour'd to warm;
  Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress'd,
    Her sorrow with patience to arm.

  Then! then! in the tenderest part
    May I whisper, "Poor COLIN was true;"
  And mark if a heave of her heart
    The thought of her COLIN pursue.


       *       *       *       *       *

  A JEU D'ESPRIT.

  Quoth Blab--"I would not, for the world, have it known,
    But Miss FLINT's with young STEEL in the dark!"--
  "Phoo! phoo!" cries old Sly, "pr'ythee leave them alone,
    They are only producing a Spark."


NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115,
Cherry-street.+-- +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per
quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating
Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, +Wall-Street+._


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           *       *       *       *
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  _UTILE DULCI._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, February 29, 1797.+  [+No. 87.+


  +The ART of HAPPINESS.+

Almost every object that attracts our notice, has its bright and its
dark side. He who habituates himself to look at the displeasing side,
will sour his disposition, and, consequently, impair his happiness;
while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensibly
meliorates his temper, and, in consequence of it, improves his own
happiness, and the happiness of all about him.

Arachne and Melissa are two friends. They are, both of them, women in
years, and alike in birth, fortune, education, and accomplishments. They
were originally alike in temper too; but, by different management, are
grown the reverse of each other. Arachne has accustomed herself to look
on the dark side of every object. If a new poem or play makes its
appearance with a thousand brilliances and but one or two blemishes, she
slightly skims over the passages that should give her pleasure, and
dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you shew her a
very excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery which has
been neglected, or to a hand or finger which has been left unfinished.
Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and
elegancy: but, if you take a walk with her in it, she talks to you of
nothing but blights and storms, of snails and caterpillars, and how
impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves and
worm-carts. If you sit down in one of her temples, to enjoy a delightful
prospect, she observes to you, that there is too much wood, or too
little water; that the day is too sunny, or too gloomy: that it is
sultry, or windy; and finishes with a long harangue upon the
wretchedness of our climate.--When you return with her to the company,
in hopes of a little chearful conversation, she casts a gloom over all,
by giving you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy
accident that has befallen one of her daughter's children. Thus she
insensibly sinks her own spirits, and the spirits of all around her;
and, at last, discovers, she knows not why, that her friends are grave.

Melissa is the reverse of all this. By constantly habituating herself to
look only on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual
chearfulness in herself, which, by a kind of happy contagion, she
communicates to all about her. If any misfortune has befallen her, she
considers it might have been worse, and is thankful to Providence for an
escape. She rejoices in solitude, as it gives her an opportunity of
knowing herself; and in society, because she can communicate the
happiness she enjoys. She opposes every man's virtues to his failings,
and can find out something to cherish and applaud in the very worst of
her acquaintance. She opens every book with a desire to be entertained
or instructed, and therefore seldom misses what she looks for. Walk with
her, though it be on a heath or a common, and she will discover
numberless beauties, unobserved before, in the hills, the dales, the
brooms, brakes, and the variegated flowers of weeds and poppies. She
enjoys every change of weather, and of season, as bringing with it
something of health or convenience. In conversation, it is a rule with
her never to start a subject that leads to any thing gloomy or
disagreeable. You therefore never hear her repeating her own grievances,
or those of her neighbours or, what is worst of all, their faults or
imperfections. If any thing of the latter kind be mentioned in her
hearing, she has the address to turn it into entertainment, by changing
the most odious railing into a pleasant raillery.

Thus Melissa, like the bee, gathers honey from every weed; while
Arachne, like the spider, sucks poison from the fairest flowers. The
consequence is, that, of two tempers once very nearly allied, the one is
ever sour and dissatisfied, the other always gay and chearful; the one
spreads an universal gloom, the other a continual sunshine.

There is nothing more worthy of our attention, than this art of
happiness. In conversation, as well as life, happiness, very often
depends upon the slightest incidents. The taking notice of the badness
of the weather, a North-East wind, approach of winter, or any trifling
circumstance of the disagreeable kind, shall infallibly rob a whole
company of its good-humour, and fling every member of it into the
vapours. If, therefore, we would be happy in ourselves, and are desirous
of communicating that happiness to all about us, these minutiae of
conversation ought carefully to be attended to. The brightness of the
sky, the lengthening of the day, the increasing verdure of the spring,
the arrival of any little piece of good news, or whatever carries with
it the most distant glimpse of joy, shall frequently be the parent of a
social and happy conversation. Good-manners exact from us this regard to
our company. The clown may repine at the sunshine that ripens the
harvest, because his turnips are burnt up by it; but the man of
refinement will extract pleasure from the thunder-storm to which he is
exposed, by remarking on the plenty and refreshment which may be
expected from the succeeding shower.

Thus does politeness, as well as good sense, direct us to look at every
object on the bright side; and, by thus acting, we cherish and improve
both. By this practice it is, that Melissa is become the wisest and
best-bred woman living; and, by this practice, may every person arrive
at that agreeableness of temper, of which the natural and never-failing
fruit is Happiness.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
  _OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
  Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 267.)

The period is however arrived, when men begin to abandon themselves
exclusively to the cold speculations of reason, and this fatal maxim
manifests itself but too evidently in the practical life. Rarely any
thing is undertaken before it is pondered and weighed most anxiously
with a pusillanimous minuteness. And this is one of the chief causes of
the present scarcity of great and striking actions. The sacred flame of
enthusiasm extinguishes, and every energy of soul dies away along with
it. While reason wastes her whole strength in barren speculations, the
demands and wants of our heart remain unsatisfied, a kind of
insensibility deals upon us, the mind grows pusillanimous, and all noble
passions are suffocated. No, no! this is no age in which great geniuses
can thrive! Reasoning has produced but very few immortal deeds; faith,
however, although it should have been only the faith of man in his
natural abilities, has frequently rendered impossible possible.--If so,
what miracles will faith in the assistance of an omnipotent being, be
able to perform? The first King of Portugal has given us the most
glorious proof of the truth of this assertion: he went, as you know from
history, with four thousand men against the infidels, and was opposed by
five kings with four hundred thousand Moors. Terror and dismay seized
his little army at this sight; however the celebrated apparition through
which God promised him the victory over his enemies, revived the broken
spirit of his troops. And what else but faith in this promise could have
made him risk and gain a battle, in which one man had to encounter an
hundred?"

"My dear Marquis, I have been interrupted again by the visit of a great
prelate, and, with your permission, shall communicate to you the
substance of what he has told me. The Jews, he said, have, as you will
know, offered to the new Regent, on his accession to the throne, to pay
a great sum of money to him, if he would grant them liberty to live and
to trade in the country as external Christians, without being persecuted
by the Inquisition. It would have been highly advantageous to religion,
if this liberty had been granted to the Jews; for although they should
have visited the Christian churches at first only for form's sake, and
observed only the external rites of worship, yet many would have been
edified, and convinced of the truth of Christianity so irresistibly,
that they would have seriously embraced the Christian religion. The
Inquisitors themselves have intimated this to the King. However the
--------, I do not know how to call him, who cares little for the
propagation of faith, has refused to grant this petition of the Jews.
The Inquisition has informed the Pope of it; and the holy father, who as
yet has refused to acknowledge his royal authority, will now have an
additional reason for not confirming the usurped dignity of a free
thinker, who injures the interest of the church whenever opportunity
offers. I have, however, great reason to suspect that our new King
foments these dissensions designedly, for some horrid purpose. Not
contented with having alienated the nation from their lawful Sovereign,
he also endeavours to obtain an opportunity of alienating them from the
chief of the church. O Marquis! O Duke! what gloomy prospects for all
those who are resolved to live and to die in the religion of their
ancestors.

"Stop," the Marquis exclaimed, "he shall not dare to carry matters to
that point; by heaven, he shall not." My father had not yet ceased
giving vent to his indignation, when the other prelate, whom I mentioned
in my last letter, joined us. The two prelates were rejoiced to see each
other, and concealed their sentiments so little from each other, that
they both avowed their opinions of the new King without the least
reserve. 'I cannot conceive how you,' said he, who had joined us,
turning to my father and me, 'who are sprung from royal blood, can
submit to the humiliation of obeying a usurper, who will do every thing
in his power to humble your family as much as possible. Don't you
perceive that he confers the highest dignities on other people, while
he, out of a cowardly policy, keeps his nearest relations at a distance,
and in profound submission? The King of Spa--n knows your merits, and is
capable of rewarding them properly. Who would not rather hold an
important office under the greatest Monarch, than live in inactivity and
obscurity, under the most insignificant King in Europe? These are the
sentiments of many nobles who are still firmly attached to their old
lawful Sovereign.'

"Dear Marquis, my heart is deeply afflicted, and strange ideas are
crossing my head. What must I do? Alumbrado says nothing, but commit
every thing to the paternal care of God.

"To day I received your letter, in which you reproach me for my long
silence. I am, however, not sorry that my letter, which I wanted to send
eight days ago, has been kept back through negligence, for now I shall
be able to conclude it with the relation of a most extraordinary
incident.

"I used for some time to visit every evening our favourite spot before
the town, which always attracted me very much, partly by its natural
charms, and partly by the undisturbed solitude one enjoys there. On the
left side, a chain of hills, that form a beautiful group; on the right,
a wood, inclosing the extensive plain, and in the middle the prospect of
the distant blue mountains. You know what an enchanting effect that spot
produces, particularly at sun-set; and thither I took a walk every
evening. The way to that charming place is decorated with the ruins of
an old chapel, which partly is surrounded with a half decayed wall.
Approaching those ruins last evening, I saw Alumbrado step forth with
hasty paces. 'Stop!' he exclaimed, 'do you know that you will be a dead
man if you proceed a step farther?' Alumbrado's unexpected appearance,
his intelligence, and the seriousness of his countenance convulsed my
nerves. 'A dead man?' I exclaimed. 'Yes!' said he, 'did I not foretell
you that the King would vent his resentment against you? If you go fifty
steps farther, you will bleed under the hands of his banditti. You stare
at me,' he continued. 'If you wish to be convinced of it, then follow me
into the chapel, and let us change cloaths; I shall pursue this path,
wrapt in your cloak, and the hired assassins will fall upon me, under
the mistaken notion that I am the person whom they have been ordered by
the King to assassinate. If you will ascend to the top of this turret,
you may witness the whole scene.' I shuddered with horror, and
peremptorily refused to submit to it. 'You need not to be under the
least apprehension for my life,' he replied. 'All that I desire of you
is to make no noise when you see me fall, but to go quietly home without
mentioning to any one what you will have seen. We shall meet again at
your house.' All my objections availed nothing; we exchanged our dress,
he saw me to the top of the turret, and left me. I pursued him with
anxious looks and beating heart.

"Alumbrado had scarcely reached the skirts of the wood, when I heard the
report of a pistol, and saw him drop down, upon which three ruffians
darted forth from the bushes, gave him some stabs, and carried him into
the wood. I staggered down the narrow staircase by which I had ascended
the turret, and went home, thrilled with emotions that surpass all power
of description. I sat up till after midnight, but no Alumbrado came;
however, at six o'clock he entered my apartment. I cannot describe what
I felt on seeing him. He was unhurt, but nevertheless I staggered back
at the sight of him. 'Alumbrado!' said I, after a pause of dumb
astonishment, 'do I really see you alive after the scene my eyes have
witnessed last night?' 'Pistols and daggers,' he replied, 'cannot hurt
the man who is under the immediate protection of God. Come,' added he,
'let us go to your father.'

"I related to my parent the incident of the preceding night. He seemed
to be petrified. The cruel villainy of the King, and the supernatural
power of Alumbrado, appeared to have carried him beyond himself; the
thanks which he wanted to offer to the latter for the preservation of my
life, and curses against the King, hovered at the same time on his lips;
but he could not speak.

"Let us take a walk in the garden," Alumbrado said. We went; but I shall
not repeat the conversation that took place. Yet I do not think that
Alumbrado has added fuel to the fire. 'The Duke of B----a,' said he, 'is
King and accountable to no other tribunal but that of God. No mortal
dare lift up his hand against him without the express command of God or
his Vicegerent. I have received no such order, and I think you neither.
All that you can do is to be on your guard against the King, and to
mention to no one the villainous transaction of last night. Will you
promise this? Your own safety requires it.' We promised it.

"I could not help manifesting my astonishment at Alumbrado's wonderful
preservation. 'Do you then think,' said he, 'that only those who are
leagued with the spirit of darkness are proof against fire-arms and
swords, and that the children of light do not enjoy that privilege?
I will give you a proof of it; send for a gun and balls, here is
powder.' So saying, he produced the powder horn which I had missed some
days. 'You have,' added he, 'either lost it or it has been stolen, for I
have found it in the hands of the banditti.' 'What are you going to do
with balls and a gun?' My father asked with marks of astonishment. 'That
you shall see instantly,' Alumbrado replied, 'if you only will send for
both.' I ordered Pietro to fetch my fowling piece and a couple of balls
out of my apartment. He returned with them, and Alumbrado whispered in
my ear to send him out of the room. Having dismissed the servant,
Alumbrado begged me to charge the gun, but previously to examine
carefully the powder and the balls. I did as he had desired me, and the
gun being charged, Alumbrado said to the Marquis; 'Now take the gun, my
Lord, and fire it at me.' My father was almost petrified at this
request, and having gazed at him a good while, with looks of
astonishment, exclaimed: 'No! I never shall do any thing of that kind!'
'Then you too are destitute of faith?' Alumbrado said, looking up to
heaven. 'O God, how degenerated even the faithful adorers of thy son!'
'I have declined it out of no other motive,' the Marquis replied, 'but
because I will not tempt the omnipotence of God.' 'The motive of my
request is not temptation, but the glory of God,' Alumbrado replied. If
I fall, then I am a daring provoker of the Almighty, and deserve my
fate; but if I remain unhurt, you will have reason to conclude that the
power of God has warded off the ball, and know in what light to view
me.' So saying, he uncovered his breast, retreated three steps, and
desired my father to fire.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE.

A French nobleman one day visiting a late famous duke, a favourite
little dog bit his lordship's leg. "Fear nothing, my lord," said the
duke, "my dog never bites." On which his lordship, knocking down the
little animal with a violent blow of his cane, replied in the same tone
of voice, "Fear nothing, my lord, I never beat dogs."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE PROVERBIALIST.

Home, is a place, either of happiness or misery. In my book of
experimental wisdom, I find a number of most excellent remarks, which,
if remembered, and reduced to practice, I am confident may be of service
to families.

Every person has some failings: Perfection is not to be looked for in
the present world. A great attention in husband and wife, to the
failings of each other, has a direct tendency to destroy or embitter
domestic enjoyments.

The ancients, sensible of this gave good advice, when they said that,
"The husband should hot see, and the wife should be blind." And it is
evident, that many things which transpire in a family, had better not be
seen--if seen, not remembered, if remembered, yet not spoken of. Again,
to render families happy, there must be, "In the husband wisdom, in the
wife gentleness." These are virtues indeed, which, when they meet, cause
families to shine with a peculiar lustre. Again, "Those husbands are in
heaven whose wives do not chide." Certainly then, if it is in the power
of the wife to put her husband into heaven, since she must be with him,
and with him participate in all its joys, she will forever remember this
excellent proverb.

A consideration of the unhappy condition of those families, wherein
scolding is the principle employment, I should suppose would stimulate
every woman to attend to the above remarks. Only hear what the Spaniards
say, "Smoke, raining into a house, and a scolding wife, make a man run
out of doors."---The ladies will pardon me, I trust, for introducing
this proverb, since it evidently implies, that a scolding wife alone,
without rain and smoke, does not render a house so intolerable, but that
a man, at least if he has a common share of patience, may possibly live
in it.

Again, that house is highly ornamented, and that family has many
enjoyments, in which the wife is as attentive to her domestic concerns,
as is the husband to his abroad. No person was ever made for idleness,
accordingly, it is positively affirmed in my book of wisdom, that "That
is the best gown, which goes up and down the house." If there be any
women, who are unable to penetrate into the depth of this proverb, or to
comprehend its profound wisdom, I will endeavour to explain it. As there
are but a few gentlemen, whose finances are adequate to the supporting
of a woman who feels herself above a personal attention to her family
concerns, so in general, husbands are well pleased to see their wives
suitably active in the house. Husbands in general, love their wives; and
it gives them pleasure to see them blooming in health; and they know
that the idle drone is always sick, or full of complaints.

Further, sometimes ladies, by doing nothing except eating of the honey,
reduce their husbands to poverty, and we read that, "When poverty comes
in at the door, love flies out at the window," and I add, misery comes
in at every corner. It is best then to "Carry an even yoke."

Pough! why am I always so severely berating the women? Every body knows
they do not deserve it: And I assure the ladies that I have an affection
for them. I am fearful that I have not well considered what I am about.
It is well if I do not bring an "Old house about my ears." From this
time forward, on consideration they will pardon me for what I have
already said, I solemnly promise that I will be more cautious; and no
more proverbs shall come out respecting them, unless they come by
accident.

Perhaps I shall make this lecture rather long, but I wish to give some
advice to heads of families respecting their children. We read, that
"Children are certain cares, but uncertain comforts." They would,
however, oftener be comforts, if they had not, as the ancients say, "Too
much of their mothers blessing." Alas! well it only came out edgwise,
therefore I have not broken my promise.

To prove that I had no evil intention, I will bring one proverb greatly
in favour of the ladies; "She spins well who breeds her children well;"
and as every woman knows that she breeds her children well, so it is
proved beyond all doubt, that every woman is a good house wife.

To be serious; set your children good examples. Be more anxious to make
them virtuous, than to leave them rich. The Spaniards say, that "The
father's virtue is the best inheritance a son can have;" and if so,
surely to make the son himself virtuous is to make him rich indeed.
Again, "Leave your son a good reputation, and an employment." This is
good advice, for children trained up without virtue, and without
employment, are fit only for the gallows. Again, "It is a bad house
which has not an old man in it." The meaning is, that every man who has
a family, should have the soberness, gravity, and virtues of the aged.

Govern your children well, for we read that "He who cockers his child
provides for his enemy," and such a father will soon find the truth of
the Spaniards assertion, viz. "The first service a bad child does his
father is to make him a fool, and the second is to make him mad."

Give your children good instructions; fear not a little expence, for
"Better unborn than untaught." And again, "If the brain sows not corn it
plants thistles." And depend on it, that thistles are prickly things to
parents, when found in the hands of their children. See that you put
good books into their hands; they are apt to get bad ones, and we read,
that "An ill book is the work of thieves." Be careful of what you say,
in presence of your children. They catch words, as easily as examples,
and tell things abroad, which may make your hearts ache, and every one
will believe that, "The child tells nothing but what is heard by the
fire side."

The following proverb I do not like, yet I am fearful it is applicable
in some instances, "The son full and tatter'd, the daughter empty and
fine." The son should not be tatter'd, nor the daughter empty. Parental
distinctions are odious, and a source of bitterness and of endless
contentions in families.


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           *       *       *       *

  [[For sources, see the end of the final (3rd) installment.]]


  THE FATAL MISTAKE;
  Or, THE HISTORY OF MR. ELLIOT.
  [Written by Himself.]

As various conjectures will, most probably, be formed on my retirement
from the world by those ignorant of the cause, and the particularity of
my life will most likely occasion illiberal and ill-natured
observations, I write the history of my misfortunes, ignorant into whose
hands it may fall. Let who will become possessed of this manuscript, may
it warn them from excess of passion, and especially from that
destructive fiend, jealousy.

Born to the enjoyment of a large estate, my birth promised every
happiness affluence could bestow: at ten years old my parents both died
of a malignant fever: left to the care of a worthy man, I was not
sensible of their loss. Mr. Osburn (for that was the name of my
guardian) felt for me, as he has often acknowledged, the fondness of
parental love. No event worth relating happened till I arrived at the
age of fourteen, when a young nobleman came to Winchester, where I was
placed; he was the only son of the Earl of Somerset. Distinguished by
his rank, but more so by his merit, his sweetness of disposition
attracted the love of the whole school, and his generosity demanded
their admiration. For some time I was indifferent to all his amiable
qualifications, 'till an accident happened which was the foundation of
the most affectionate friendship. My master was very severe; I had left
school one evening in order to steal apples from a neighbouring orchard,
and had just reached the intended scene of action, when I saw Lord
Edward Marchmont running towards me. As soon as he came within hearing,
he cried out, "My dear Elliot, the doctor has discovered your absence,
and threatens, unless he finds you within bounds, to punish you with the
utmost severity; if you make haste, we may get round a back way into the
play ground, before he comes from hunting over the college, and escape
the old dog's vigilance." As I knew the doctor's disposition, I complied
with my friend's proposal, and accordingly we gained the play ground
just as our master appeared. Lord Edward pulled a volume of Homer out of
his pocket, on which we were both looking when the doctor came softly
behind us. Upon seeing our employment he was agreeably surprised, and
applauded us for our conduct in terms of the greatest encouragement.
This good natured action so effectually engaged my gratitude, that I was
miserable if separated from him. We grew so fond of each other, that the
whole school took notice of it; our affection increased with our years,
and when the time came to leave school, both Lord Edward and myself
begged we might be at the same university. Lord Somerset and Mr. Osburn
consenting, we were again happy in the society of each other.

When we had been at Oxford about two years, Lord Somerset paid the debt
of nature, and as my friend was now possessed of the title and fortune
of his ancestors, he left Oxford, and entreated me to do the same. As
the university had lost all its pleasures when my friend departed, I
wrote my determination to Mr. Osburn of following him; the good man
would fain have persuaded me to stay longer, but I was not to be moved:
I hastened to London, and according to promise flew to the house of my
Edward, who introduced me with the most flattering character to Lady
Somerset and his sister; the latter was the loveliest work of nature;
joined to a form beautifully perfect, she had an engaging sensibility in
her countenance that seldom accompanies beauty. That amiable Almena
received me with the sweetest complacency, as the friend of her brother,
whom she doated on: the mother of Lord Somerset likewise honoured me
with the greatest marks of esteem, and for a length of time, I enjoyed
every delight that perfect friendship could bestow, but, alas! I was
soon fated to feel a reverse of fortune. My kind and indulgent guardian
was taken suddenly ill; he sent for me, and I was obliged to leave Lord
Somerset and his amiable family: the necessity of this absence
discovered a secret I was willing to hide from myself: it was not the
separation from my friend alone, that caused my grief, I found I loved
his charming sister; the beautiful Almena haunted my imagination
continually: my Edward's penetration soon discovered the ill hid
partiality, and one day taking me into his study, he addressed me as
follows: "I am infinitely concerned at the cause of our separation, but
I hope we shall soon meet again, by Mr. Osburn's health being
established; why do you appear so very wretched? Ah Frederick! you have
not been ingenuous with me; why did you doubt my friendship? Have I ever
given you cause to suspect my entire attachment to you? How then could
you violate our regard by a doubtful concealment? Your secret had rested
within this faithful breast had you desired it." I would have spoke, but
my feelings were too violent for expression. "Compose yourself,"
continued he, "I will explain this painful silence; you love my sister;
your eyes have fully exposed the feelings of your heart, and I am happy
to think our friendship may be closely united by the tye of relations."
This unexpected eclaircissement elated me beyond idea; I eagerly
embraced my amiable friend, and acknowledged the truth of his
observations; "But, alas! Edward," continued I, "shall I ever dare avow
my love to your charming sister? What can the exalted Lady Almena
Marchmont see in the poor Frederick Elliot? Will she not despise me for
my presumption, and disdain a man who has nothing but a heart filled
with her perfections to offer?" "And as great a share of merit,"
interrupted my friend, "as ever fell to the lot of one mortal; fear not,
Elliot, my sister has too much understanding to regard a man merely
because he has a title, and in every other qualification you may pretend
to a princess: Almena indeed has a mind capable of distinguishing your
exalted virtues, and if I mistake not feels their full force." "Flatter
me not, my friend; I cannot dare not indulge the pleasing hope." My
noble Edward promised to do every good office in my absence, and I took
leave of a family where my chief happiness was centered.

I reached the habitation of Mr. Osburn just time enough to take a last
farewell; the violence of his disorder had left him very weak, and death
made quick approaches to the excellent heart of this worthy man. I drew
near his bed with the tenderest emotions, and taking his cold hand
between mine; "My dearest sir, how painfully does this sight affect your
Frederick! Ah that I could remove every pang far from you!" I could not
restrain my tears: he faintly pressed my hand, and in a voice hardly
articulate, he delivered himself as follows: "It pains me, my dear boy,
to be obliged to part with you; but it is the decree of heaven, and I
submit. I leave you, Frederick, in the possession of a large estate that
was your father's; to which I have added my own: I have no relations who
stand in need of wealth, and to none can I give it whom I love like you.
Remember it is virtue alone, that renders riches valuable. When you come
to this solemn period, to which you must, may no bad action discompose
your dying moments; you have an excellent heart and are in no danger of
deviating from the narrow road of rectitude, but from the violence of
your passions. Be careful to avoid every thing that may lead you into
mistake and error. Farewel, my excellent boy; remember the last
injunctions of a man who had a real affection for you."

Articulation was stopped, and I could only express my sorrow by sighs
and tears. The clergyman of the parish now came to Mr. Osburn, and I was
obliged to leave him. He soon retired, and informed me that his friend
was on the verge of eternity. When I entered Mr. Osburn's chamber,
I found him speechless; however by his motions he convinced me he was
sensible. I embraced him in the greatest agony of grief; but, alas! he
could not return it; he looked at me with expressive marks of affection,
and gently breathed his last in my arms. I was for a few hours so
totally absorbed in sorrow, that I hardly knew whether I myself existed;
but youth and the appearance of my Edward, who, on hearing of my loss,
flew to console me, had its usual influence, and I again recalled my
thoughts from the grave of my guardian, to the world and society.

When I opened Mr. Osburn's will, I found he had bequeathed to me the
whole of his estate, which amounted to more than two thousand per annum,
which joined to my paternal inheritance, made me possessed of eight
thousand a year. My gratitude was infinitely excited by his generosity;
and except a legacy of five hundred pounds to Mr. Harper, the clergyman
I have mentioned, there was no other bequest. I paid the money
immediately, and added a thousand pounds, as his family were large.
Having settled my affairs, I left the abode of my late guardian, and
accompanied Lord Somerset to town. The fair Almena and her amiable
mother, received me with the utmost kindness, every thing in the power
of these dear friends to dissipate my melancholy was exerted, and though
I felt all the gratitude such a conduct excited yet could I not banish
from my remembrance the good Mr. Osburn.

I was roused from my lethargy by Lady Almena's having a declared lover.
Lord Ashford was a nobleman of reputed worth, and I believe truly
attached to my friend's sister. Lady Somerset seemed to approve the
proposed alliance; my Edward was silent, and Almena appeared unhappy.
Thus were we situated when I was determined to lay aside every fearful
apprehension, and declare my latent flame. I had soon after an
opportunity of revealing the state of my heart to the fair cause of my
anxiety. Lady Almena was one day writing in her brother's study when I
entered thinking he was there: she blushed and started; but seeing me
about to retire, "Mr. Elliot," said she, "my brother is from home, but
as I have finished the note I was writing. I beg you will remain here
'till Lord Somerset comes back." I again entered the room, and seated
myself by her. She rung for a servant, to whom she delivered the note,
and was going to retire, when I took her hand, and intreated her to hear
me. She did not know in what manner to proceed. I threw myself at her
feet, and in the most respectful terms, declared how much I loved her.
She listened with polite attention, and casting her eyes upon the
ground, appeared greatly agitated. I was all painful suspense. "Speak,
lady Almena, continued I, pronounce my fate; perhaps you despise my too
presumptuous passion; perhaps your heart is already engaged; the merits
of Lord Ashford have met your approbation, and I am wretched." "Sorry
should I be," replied the dear charmer, "if the sister of Lord Somerset
could willingly make wretched the friend on whom an only brother doats:
no, Mr. Elliot, I despise affectation as much as I do coquetry; be
assured, sir, Lord Ashford is perfectly indifferent to my heart: 'tis
true, my mother espouses his cause, and pleads for him powerfully: but
the happiness of her daughter has ever been her chief delight, nor will
she insist on a circumstance that would render her miserable." "Ten
thousand thanks, adorable Lady Almena, for this condescension! Pardon my
bold aspiring heart: may I not hope my unwearied assiduities may at last
make an impression on your gentle nature in my favour?" She told me, she
did not, neither should she wish to throw me into despair, but begged
leave to retire.

My friend soon after appeared, and seeing the joy that animated my
countenance, congratulated me in the most affectionate manner. "Ah,
Edward! exclaimed I, the dear Almena has not driven me to despair: she
does not love Lord Ashford, and I may yet be happy."--"And who ever
thought she did? Prythee, Frederick, do not encourage that horrid
passion, jealousy, but rather crush it in its birth; no mortal but
yourself would have imagined my sister had the least regard for Lord
Ashford. You may command my interest in your favour with my mother: she
is partial to his lordship, on account of a tender regard she
entertained for his mother; but the happiness of Almena is a matter of
too great importance to be trifled with; and that no man but you could
make her happy, I have long discovered."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  MISCELLANY.

In no way, can we so certainly captivate mankind, as by appeals to their
senses.

Rich banquets, the singing of eunuchs, riding, dancing, pantomime,
ballooning, have a thousand more attractions for the vulgar, than all
the didactic lessons of reason and understanding; than all the wit and
humour of Cervantes, Sterne, and Wolcott. Such a reproach, is familiar
to old governments; we fondly anticipate, that our youthful
establishments may, by the timely exertions of men of taste and science,
for a long time escape it.

The increased fondness for theatric amusements, for frivolity, noise and
show, demands the animadversions of the moralist, and of the friends of
literary pursuits.

Under our forms of governments, we may have an opportunity to rival the
celebrated schools of Greece. Republics are the peculiar soil of
liberty, of genius, of talents; for in them, merit is not exclusively
attributed to wealth and birth. How important then, to excite the
generous emulation of talents. What mean more effectual, than to
encourage literary enterprises, stamped with genius and industry.

Where there is so little leisure, but so much general ease and
affluence; they, who can instruct and entertain the public, deserve, and
will receive its generous patronage.

The _cacoethes scribendi_, is as strong as the love of money, and we
need not apprehend, but America may produce her Poets, Critics,
Historians, if an enlightened and liberal community will, sometimes, wet
with _Peruvian dew_, the tender buds of genius, which poverty often
attends, and neglect more frequently blasts.

Need I say, that GENIUS, like Charity, is timid, not obtrusive---hopeth
all things, believeth all things,---That it utterly disclaims all
consanguinity with that bronz'd dame, Impudence; but is tenderly knit
with its fair counterpart, Modesty. It loves retirement and tranquility;
seek it therefore in desarts and cottages, where it is too commonly left
to bemoan its untoward fate, where it enjoys now and then, but a few
rays of hope through the glimmering lattice or gale: go then quickly and
place the pillow of ease and content under its desponding head, and save
the child of Fear and Fancy from despair.

But I hesitate and doubt---some Vandal will here reply, that Ignorance
is happiest; that Genius is a curse. For some moments I almost surrender
my enthusiasm for Genius, and agree with the position, that it is so,
that all who wish to be arrayed in scarlet and fine linen, and fare
sumptuously every day, who prefer brisk champagne to the Heliconian
beverage, and a fat sirloin to a flimsy sonnet, will deprecate it with
the Vandal, and strangle in the cradle every future Homer, Virgil, Livy,
and Caesar.

I will not deny that poets are querimonious: after allowing to excessive
sensibility a due share of spleen, much is left to lament of real
misfortune.

That they frequently enjoy posthumous fame, and justice done to merit,
though late.

But yonder ghosts will testify, that when on earth, the flush of health
never glowed in their pallid cheeks, the fire wasted in their eyes, and
strength in their bodies, when the friendly tomb, received them from a
frowning world.

Homer, by his immortal Iliad; Shakespeare, by his Lear, Macbeth, and
Hamlet; have enriched, and in the phrase of the world, aggrandised
thousands. We buy a bud of the one, and a fragment of the mulberry-tree
of the other, and sit down satisfied, that We have amply discharged our
duty and conscience.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Sunday evening the 12th inst. at Goshen, by the Rev. Nathan Ker, the
Rev. JOHN JOLINE, Pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Florida, to Miss
MARIA GALE, of that place.

On Monday evening the 13th inst. at Princeton, by the Rev. Dr. S. Smith,
Mr. GEORGE KIRK, of this city, to Miss MARY NORRIS, of that place.

On Sunday evening se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. JONATHAN
DENNIS, to Miss POLLY KETCHUM, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. JOHN PEASE, to Miss ELIZABETH
HURTIN, daughter of the late Mr. Joshua Hurtin, all of this city.

On Tuesday evening the 21st inst. by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. ROBERT
SAUNDERS, of Baltimore, Printer, to Miss ELIZABETH BANCKER, of this
city.

On Thursday evening the 23d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. DAVID
OGDEN, Merchant, to Miss SARAH GLOVER, daughter of Mr. John G. Glover,
all of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. JAMES FLINN, to Miss PEGGY
SLIDELL, both of this city.

On Friday evening the 24th inst. by the Rev. Isaac Lewis, at Horse Neck,
state of Connecticut, Mr. WARRIN DELANCEY, of West-Chester, state of
New-York, to Miss SARAH REBECCA LAWRENCE, of said place.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 19th to the 25th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.   6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  Feb. 19  31    46    sw. do.  frost at ni't. cl. cm. do. h. w.
       20  38    50    sw. do.  cloudy lt wd  clear do.
       21  23    32    ne. s   clear light wd. do. do.
       22  34    52    e. w.    sm. rn. & ha. cl lt. wd. cl.
       23  32    42    e. se.   clear light wd. do. h. wd.
       24  50    57    nw. do.  cloudy lt wd. do. h. wd
       25  33    35    sw. w.   clear light wd. do. h. wd.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE CHOICE.

  Awake, my Muse! awake, and sing
    Of all my fancy would desire;
  While, flutt'ring on her aerial wing,
    Or touch'd with thy etherial fire.

  Inspir'd by thee, I learn to fly
    The gilded follies of the day;
  To keep my thoughts from tow'ring high,
    To mad Ambition's pompous way.

  Perhaps, unguided by thy aid,
    I might have lov'd the heights of pow'r;
  Have sigh'd to sport the gay parade,
    The tinsel mortal of an hour.

  Me, now, far other views engage,
    For, sick with ev'ry vulgar joy,
  I fly the projects of the age,
    To Reason's charms, which never cloy.

  O give my soul content to know,
    In whatsoever station plac'd:
  Nor raise me high, nor sink me low,
    But let the medium line be trac'd!

  Enough of Fortune's goods I'd have,
    To keep me from dependent state;
  The frowns of Poverty to brave,
    Or domination of the Great.

  Enough each comfort to procure,
    Which gives to life a pleasing zest;
  And something over, for the poor,
    The stranger, and the weak oppress'd.

  And O! to chear the hours of life,
    Grant, mighty Heav'n! thy chiefest boon--
  The blessing of a virtuous wife!
    A gift, thou can'st not give too soon.

  And, might I dare the choice define,
    Pourtray the mouldings of her frame;
  Let grace in every action shine,
    And modesty her worth proclaim!

  Let for good-nature passion still;
    And mildness speak the feeling soul,
  That could the cares of life fulfil,
    And ev'ry idle wish controul.

  Though pride should never touch her breast,
    Nor sighs to mingle with the gay;
  I'd have her always neatly dress'd,
    And thus her person best display.

  To such a wife I could disclose
    The inmost secrets of my heart;
  Each trifling project, as it rose,
    And ev'ry growing wish impart.

  And, sure, if bliss the earth contains,
    It dwells where Love and Peace reside;
  Where confidence unbounded reigns,
    And peevish passions ne'er divide.

  Yet one thing more, to crown our lot,
    To pleasure youth, to comfort age--
  Let not the infant be forgot,
    Whose smiles should both our hearts engage.

  Thus, held in Friendship's silken ties,
    Must each domestic pleasure know;
  And health enhance the hour that flies,
    Till life shall ebb, no more to flow.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ADDRESS TO PITY.

  Hail, lovely power! celestial maid!
    Soft, pleasing Pity, hail!
  Whose gentle influence, balmy aid,
    Suspends Affliction's tale.

  Mild as the dew salutes the earth,
    Ere morn begins to appear,
  Thou giv'st to hope and gladness birth.
    Diffusing joys sincere.

  From thy blest mansions, humbly great,
    The streams of bounty flow,
  To calm the frowns of adverse fate,
    And soothe the plaints of woe.

  Come, darling child of Heaven above,
    To me thy sweets impart;
  O teach me, with endearing love,
    To heal Affliction's smart!

  Teach me to soften every care
    In injur'd Virtue's breast;
  And, succouring, rescue from despair
    The innocent oppress'd!

  Teach me to wipe the falling tear
    From helpless widows eyes;
  And, fraught with generous zeal sincere,
    Assuage the orphan's sighs.

  Or, mindful of still lovelier deeds,
    Thy influence so extend,
  That, e'en where silent sorrows plead,
    My bounty may befriend.

  Thus, when I roam the verdant mead,
    And view seductions round,
  To doom the harmless bird to bleed,
    That treads the insidious ground:

  Teach me, when struggling and oppress'd,
    He pines for Liberty,
  With sensibility impress'd,
    To set the captive Free!

  So shall my heart exult to spare
    A life it never gave;
  And freely loosen from the snare
    What Pity's band would save.

  Then come, soft Pity smiling fair,
    From thy blest realms descend;
  My bosom glows, with anxious care,
    To greet it's genial friend!


NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115,
Cherry-street.+-- +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per
quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating
Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, +Wall-Street+._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  _UTILE DULCI._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, March 8, 1797.+  [+No. 88.+


  ARTFUL SENTIMENTAL-LOVER.

The man versed in the wiles of deceit puts on the mask of plausibility
and virtue, and, by these means, disarms the object of his attention and
apparent love of the usual administration of her prudence, lays her
apprehensions asleep, and involves her in misery: misery the more
inevitable, because unsuspected. For she who apprehends no danger, will
not think it necessary to be always upon her guard; but will rather
invite than avoid the ruin which comes under so specious and so fair a
form.

One of these sentimental lovers will not scruple very seriously to
assure a credulous girl, that her unparalelled merit entitles her to the
adoration of the whole world; and that the universal homage of mankind
is nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms.

But she should reflect, that he who endeavours to intoxicate her with
adulation, intends one day most effectually to humble her. For artful
man has always a secret design to pay himself in future for any present
sacrifice. If he has address and conduct, and the object of his pursuit
much vanity, and some sensibility, he seldom fails of success; for so
powerful will be his ascendency over her mind, that she will soon adopt
his notions and opinions.

The lover, deeply versed in all the obliquities of fraud, and skilled to
wind himself into every avenue of the heart which indiscretion has left
unguarded, soon discovers on which side it is most accessible. He avails
himself of this weakness by addressing her in a language exactly
consonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own weapons, and
opposes, if a sentimental girl, rhapsody to sentiment. He professes so
sovereign a contempt for the paltry concerns of money, that she thinks
it her duty to reward him for so generous a renunciation. Every plea he
artfully advances of his own unworthiness, is considered by her as a
fresh demand, that her gratitude must answer. And she makes it a point
of honour to sacrifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to
regard.

These professions of humility are the common artifices of the vain, and
these protestations of generosity the refuge of the rapacious.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  EFFECTS OF HONOURABLE LOVE.

A man of delicacy oft betrays his passion by his too great anxiety to
conceal it; especially if he has little hopes of success. True love, in
all its stages, seeks concealment, and never expects success. It renders
a man not only respectful, but timid, to the highest degree, in his
behaviour to the woman he loves.

To conceal the awe he stands in of her, he may sometimes affect
pleasantry, but it fits awkwardly on him; and he quickly relapses into
seriousness, if not dullness. He magnifies all her real perfections in
his imagination, and is either blind to her failings, or converts them
into beauties. Like a person conscious of guilt, he is jealous that
every eye observes him: and to avoid this he shuns all the little
observances of common gallantry.

His heart and his character will be improved in every respect by his
attachment. His manners will become more gentle, and his conversation
more agreeable; but diffidence and embarrassment will always make him
appear to disadvantage in the company of his mistress. If the
fascination continues long, it will depress his spirit, and extinguish
every vigorous and manly principle of his mind.


       *       *       *       *       *

  LOVE OF JUSTICE.

A sense of justice should be the foundation of all our social qualities.
In our most early intercourse with the world, and even in our most
youthful amusements, no unfairness should be found. That sacred rule of
doing all things to others, according as we wish they would do unto us,
should be engraven on our minds. For this end, we should impress
ourselves with a deep sense of the original, and natural equality of
men.

Whatever advantage of birth or fortune we possess, we ought never to
display them with an ostentatious superiority. We should leave the
subordinations of rank to regulate the intercourse of more advanced
years. In youth it becomes us to act among our companions, as man with
man. We should remember how unknown to us are the vicissitudes of the
world; and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men
once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in future
years.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
  _OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
  Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 275.)

"My father took up the piece, levelling it at him with a trembling and
fearful hand. 'I beg you will not spare me, and insist upon your aiming
at my head or heart!' The Marquis look his aim, but trembled so
violently that he was obliged to lay down the gun. Alumbrado desired me
to step nearer, and putting my hand to his bare breast, said: 'Feel
whether this heart beats so timmorously as that of your father.' These
words provoked the pride of the Marquis, he ordered me to step aside,
levelled his piece and discharged it. A cloud of smoak concealed
Alumbrado's situation for a moment from our eyes. It is impossible to
depict the sensations that rushed upon my heart, when I beheld him in
his former situation, and heard him exclaim: 'You have aimed well, my
Lord, however, the ball has recoiled from my breast, there it lies on
the floor.' My father sunk on his knees and lifted his hands to heaven
as if praying, and I gazed at Alumbrado with silent awe.

"'Duke!' said the latter, 'charge the gun once more.' The marquis
started up, exclaiming: 'For what purpose?' 'I want your son to repeat
the deed.' 'No, there is no occasion for it;' my father replied, 'the
omnipotence of the Eternal has been glorified sufficiently.' 'Just now,'
Alumbrado returned, 'you have been of too little faith, and now you are
too credulous? Is it impossible that you should have missed your aim?
That the ball accidentally has hit another object and recoiled? But
although you should be convinced that you have aimed well and hit me, is
the Duke so too?'

"In short, I was obliged to charge the piece again, and Alumbrado
exposed his uncovered bosom once more.

"I could rely on my gun, and was sure not to miss him, because he was
standing only seven paces from me. I pointed at Alumbrado's head, took
my aim well, and fired; however, he stepped forth from the cloud of
smoak like a being of a superior order; the ball lay on the floor, and
Alumbrado had not received the least hurt.

"He now took a dagger out of his pocket, and plunged it twice in his
breast, up to the hilt, extracting it without a wound being seen.

"O my friend, make haste to recant at the feet of this astonishing man
the prejudices which you have uttered against him. Blush at your
philosophy, whereby you have combated so frequently my propensity to
supernatural events. I have always had a presentiment that this
irresistible propensity would be gratified one time; yet I was a
stranger to the road which led to the object of my most ardent wishes.
Alumbrado has pointed it out to me and a new epocha of my life has
commenced with that period. How little, and how disgusting and vain does
now all the wisdom and all the tinsel splendor of the world appear to
me, since I have been made acquainted with that higher good, which is
concealed from, and inaccessible to the greatest part of human kind."

"P.S. On reading my letter over, I find a few passages in it, which
would determine me not to send it on account of the great watchfulness
with which all letters are examined by order of the King, if I had not
been assured that those which are directed to you are exempted from
examination."

Having perused this letter of the Duke of Ca*ina, I did not know whether
I should hasten first to him, to his father, or to Alumbrado. I ordered
instantly my carriage to be got ready; but when I was going to step out
of the house, my valet stopped me pale and panting for breath. 'My
Lord,' he stammered, 'Coming----I have'----'Well, what is the
matter?'----'It is almost incredible,' he resumed, 'it is rumoured all
over the town.' Here he stopped again. His consternation communicated
itself to me, and I exclaimed in a trembling accent, 'For heaven's sake!
what has happened?' 'It is reported that the Marquis of Villa R*al and
his son---but don't be terrified, my Lord!' 'What?' I replied, 'Are
you,' I could not proceed, my lips being sealed with terror, 'It is
rumoured that the Duke of Ca*ina and his father have been taken up on an
accusation of having conspired against the life of the King.'

These words curdled the blood in my veins, and I was ready to drop to
the ground; however, despair soon roused me from the stupor that had
seized me. I got in my carriage in order to enquire personally into the
truth of that dreadful intelligence. Coming in the street I observed a
universal commotion, and received, but too soon, a confirmation of my
valet's intelligence; being informed, at the same time, that forty five
persons more had been arrested along with the Duke and his father. The
multitude were assembled before the royal palace, demanding with a
furious clamour, that the traitors should be delivered up to them; the
king however thanked them for their zeal, and ordered the constable to
disperse the populace.

My astonishment, my agony and consternation, and an indisposition which
had been brought on by the violent agitation of my mind, prevented me
from recollecting that this was the very day on which I was to expect
the friend, of whose intended visit I had been apprised by that letter
from an unknown person. The succeeding day I happened to see that letter
accidentally on my writing-desk, and the friend to whom I was to deliver
it, not having made his appearance at the fixed hour, I made use of the
liberty I had received to open it.

Conceive my astonishment when I saw the handwriting of the Duke of
Ca*ina. "When you shall read these lines," he wrote, "the great deed
will be performed, and P----l reduced again under the S----sh dominion.
Forgive me, for having this time deceived your confidence, and believe
me, that nothing but your connection with the new King could have
prevented me from communicating the matter to you before our design is
carried into execution. For that reason only I have had recourse to art,
and wrote this letter which will inform you of the whole transaction,
but is to be opened only when it will be impossible to put a stop to our
undertaking.

"Not only my father and myself, but also those two prelates whom I have
mentioned in my letters, and a great number of noblemen agreed after
several conversations to force the usurper to restore the crown of
P----l to the King of S----n; yet this design appeared to be so
dangerous, that neither the Marquis nor myself would engage in it before
we had the consent of Alumbrado. We pressed him, therefore, one evening
to grant us his permission and assistance. He hesitated a long while,
and at length replied, 'Well! I will oppose you no longer, but I declare
solemnly that I will not afford you the least assistance in your design
against the King before I shall be convinced that it is the will of God,
which we can learn by no other means but prayer. The spirit of God
inspires those that are praying to him with sincerity of heart, and the
sentiments which prevail in our soul in that situation are the voice of
God. Let us devote this night to prayer, address the Omniscient
separately, and to-morrow morning communicate to each other what the
Lord shall reveal to us. If you shall continue firm in your resolution
after you have performed your devotion, then it is the will of the
Eternal, and we will go to work.'

"I had, for a long time, entertained the wish of spending a night in a
church, imagining that this would afford me a pleasure of a most
singular nature. I resolved, therefore, to execute Alumbrado's proposal,
and, at the same time, to gratify this darling wish of my heart. With
that view, I concealed myself one evening in the cathedral. The first
idea which forced itself upon my mind, as soon as I was left alone in
that sacred place, was that of the immediate presence of the Eternal,
and this notion filled me with solemn awe.

"I went to the altar, throwing myself on my face upon the steps of it
and adoring the omnipresent God with ardent fervour. I soared beyond the
limits of materiality, transported by devotion, and my soul and every
sense was hurried along by the torrent of holy enthusiasm. I prayed with
filial submission for filial illumination and heavenly aid.

"The clock on the church steeple tolled eleven, when I recovered from my
pious trance. The church was covered with awful darkness; the solitary
lamps which were burning before the altar, and the images of the saints,
produced on the opposite parts of the fabric large masses of light and
shade, while they spread only a faint dusk over the other parts of the
Gothic building. The presence of the Eternal, the melancholy stillness
of night, the extensive circumference of the venerable edifice, made me
sensible, with a kind of horror, of my solitary situation. The profound
stillness that reigned around was interrupted only now and then by a
momentaneous cracking by the clattering of the windows, the whistling of
a gust of wind rustling through the softly resounding organ-pipes, and
by the chiming of a bell.

"Proceeding further, I was struck with the hollow sound of my footsteps,
which reminded me that the marble pavement covered the vault in which
the bodies of the deceased fathers of the order were awaiting the morn
of resurrection.

"I went through one of the aisles, and stopped in awful contemplation,
now at an altar, now at the image of a saint, and now at a tomb. The
antique, artless appearance of many images and statues contributed much
to increase their awful effect. A chapel, where a whole length picture
of Christ on the cross was suspended attracted my attention
particularly, because the quickly repeated flirtation of the lamp which
was placed before it had made me fancy that the picture was stirring.
The singular distribution of light, darkness, and shade prevailing
through the whole church, the sudden flaring and dying away of the
lamps, produced the most different and surprising effects on the eye,
and furnished the imagination with multivarious objects of occupation.

"At length, I entered a great hall, which led to the hindmost porch, and
from thence to a church-yard, the iron gate of which was locked. The
first look I directed at it made me start back, seized with surprise.
I looked once more at it, and beheld again several white figures that
appeared and vanished with a rustling noise. I cannot but confess that a
chilly tremor seized my limbs and fixed me to the ground. A few minutes
after, a monk carrying a lanthorn appeared in the back part of the
burying place; and a short reflection unfolded to me the whole mystery.
The noise which I had heard proceeded from his steps, and the figures
were nothing else but white statues, which appeared and disappeared as
he moved the lanthorn in walking. Probably he had been praying in the
porch, and was now returning to his cell: I concealed myself in a pew,
in order to avoid being seen by him. A weariness which proceeded from
the chilly night air and a want of sleep, bade me, at length put a stop
to my wanderings. I seated myself in a pew, where I abandoned myself to
the wild freaks of my imagination.

"The dawn of day was already peeping through the stained windows, when I
awoke from the fanciful dreams of my wondering mind, and the purple rays
of the morning sun reflected with radient glory from the image of the
holy Virgin, suspended against the wall opposite the window. I was
absorbed in the contemplation of this sublime object for some time;
however the trance in which this charming sight had thrown me, soon gave
room to religious sensations of a more sublime nature; a pious
confidence in the heavenly aid of Providence was kindling in my bosom,
and I was going to prostrate myself before the blessed Virgin, when the
church was thrown open."

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE FATAL MISTAKE;
  Or, THE HISTORY OF MR. ELLIOT.
  [Written by Himself.]

  (Continued from our last)

I expressed my obligations to his friendship in the warmest and most
grateful terms, and we consulted how the matter should be broke to Lady
Somerset; my friend undertook the task.

That very evening, as his sister was engaged out, and I had determined
to be absent, I waited in a state of the most anxious expectation for
the event of his embassy; and on seeing him enter my room at one o'clock
in the morning, I had hardly resolution to inquire his success. "My
friend, my brother," exclaimed he, "I am authorised to call you so by
the most amiable of mothers, Almena is your's, win her, my dear
Frederick, and be happy."

Words were too faint to express my feelings; my Edward shared my
emotions, and for a time we lost the remembrance of every thing but
friendship. Now each adverse cloud appeared removed, and happiness
permanent and delightful dawned on my morning joys. Lady Somerset
informed lord Ashford, that her daughter's heart was engaged: his
disappointment betrayed him into the most violent rage, and he left the
house threatening to be revenged.

Blessed as I was in Almena's love, and in the friendship of her amiable
brother, I disregarded his threats, and smiled at the apprehensions of
my charmer: three weeks after this made me her happy husband; my friend
gave away his lovely sister, and shared in our felicity. My wife was
every thing that was excellent and good; her love for me was unbounded,
and mine was to such a painful excess, that I could not bear a look cast
at any other person. To this unhappy jealousy of temper all my
subsequent misfortunes were owing.

For twelve months, we enjoyed the most perfect felicity, when Lady
Somerset appeared to be declining in her health. Her physicians advised
her to go to the south of France: my Almena was desirous of accompanying
her beloved parent, but her situation rendered it improper and
dangerous. Lord Somerset was determined to attend her, which greatly
alleviated my wife's uneasiness. As London did not agree with lady
Almena, and as the season was far advanced, I proposed going to
Trout-Hall, for the ensuing hot months: she consented chearfully, as her
lying-in was not expected for a considerable time. The separation of my
beloved from her mother and brother may be better imagined than
described. We immediately went into the country, where I exerted the
most unwearied assiduity to amuse and divert her thoughts from dwelling
too much on the late melancholy parting. On a visit to a neighbouring
family I was amazed to see lord Ashford. He addressed my wife as if
nothing had passed between them, and me with the most polite freedom.
Some few weeks after, I had been out a little way, and on my return,
asked the servant if any body had been there during my absence? "Lord
Ashford, Sir, has been an hour with my lady." I hurried to my wife's
apartment, and opening the door gently, surprized her in tears. "How is
this, my love? what has happened to make you uneasy?" "Nothing
particular, replied she, I was thinking of my poor mother, you must pity
the weakness of your wife, my Frederick." "My Almena, my dearest love,
answered I, clasping her to my bosom, I cannot bear your tears; talk not
of weakness, you are all that is amiable and lovely." She seemed soothed
with these words and appeared more chearful; as she did not mention lord
Ashford's having been there, I did not choose to start the subject.

We passed a month in the most perfect tranquility, having heard in that
time from my friend, who gave us a pleasing account of lady Somersets
health. My Almena's happiness was excessive at this information, and joy
beamed on her lovely countenance; I frequently left her at her own
desire, to partake of country amusements, though my inclination would
have ever detained me with her; yet to make her easy I complied. She
feared a too constant attendance on her would weaken my affection, and
make me uneasy at so great a restraint.

One day, I had stayed longer than usual in hunting, and was hastening to
meet my wife, when I perceived lord Ashford riding up the avenue: these
visits and always in my absence greatly alarmed me. He would have
avoided me, but I rode up to him, and after a slight civility, begged to
know what had occasioned the honour of my seeing him there? He looked
confounded, and making an evasive answer spurred his horse, and rode
away with great precipitation. This conduct, so very enigmatical,
enraged me infinitely; I was inclined to pursue him, and force him to
confess what his business was, but a moment's thought deterred me from
such a conduct. I entered the house, torn by a thousand emotions, and
went to my wife, who fled with open arms to receive me. I brutishly
turned from her. "Lady Almena, has Lord Ashford been here?" I looked at
her very sternly, she hesitated and blushed; "No, my dear; but wherefore
this unkindness! Alas, Mr. Elliot, have I offended you?" She burst into
tears. Oh, how I cursed my own horrid disposition! I strove to abate her
grief by every method in my power: and had she at that moment informed
me of her conjectures, what a weight of woe had been spared to my
succeeding days! But my misery was not to be avoided. I applied to the
servant, who had before informed me lord Ashford had been at my house,
who confirmed my suspicions by telling me, my hated rival, as I then
madly thought him, had been a considerable time with his lady. I was too
much affected by this news to answer the servant; and leaving him in the
greatest haste, I determined to return to my wife and tax her with her
inconstancy; but the consideration of my Almena's situation deterred me;
as she was drawing near her time I reflected I might be her destroyer.

  (_To be concluded in our next._)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  CURIOSITY.

Of the various passions that are natural to mankind, Curiosity seems to
be one of the most active and powerful; which, unless it be engaged in
laudable pursuits, and confined within the limits prescribed by Virtue,
often becomes a disease pernicious and fatal to the mind, and exhibits
human nature in a most pitiable point of view.

Nothing can be conceived more contemptible, and at the same time move
dangerous, than a merely enquisitive person: "he is generally a blab,"
says the poet; "and ought to be avoided, as we would the spy of an
enemy." Such a one may be compared to the Danaide's tub, which was
incapable of containing what it received: for, whatever comes under his
inspection, or is mentioned in his hearing, he is sure to publish; and,
when opportunity shall serve, will enlarge and illustrate.

This excessive prying and communicative disposition, has been observed
to be particularly prevalent in those who are naturally indolent, and
have no useful employment to divert their imagination. The mind, if it
be not engaged in the pursuit of useful knowledge, must necessarily be
active in the investigation of trifles, and matters of small moment.
Thus, for instance, the indolent man, who affects to be studious, as he
is deterred from the attempt to acquire solid learning, by that care and
assiduity which are the consequent attendants on laborious study; so he
squanders that time, which might be employed to better purposes, in the
search after trifles. He contents himself with the knowledge of things,
that can contribute nothing to his learning; nor could his ignorance of
them diminish aught from it.

But there is a kind of Curiosity, which produces more fatal effects; and
which argues, that the disposition of those who are actuated by it, is
not only indolent as to commendable enquiries, but that they are also
envious and malicious, and enjoy great satisfaction in exposing to
public censure the faults and failings of every one around them. We meet
with beings of this description, in every place, without exception, who
make it their business to pry into the affairs of others. It is a kind
of trade with them, wherein one deals more largely than another; and he
is esteemed the greatest who can dispose of most scandal. Such persons
are finely described in the fable of the Lamiae; who, we read, were blind
at home, but when abroad were remarkably quick-sighted. In like manner,
these Curiosi are fully blinded as to their own demerits; while not only
the more open and flagrant faults of others, but even the smallest
inadvertensy, or mistake, is subject to their strict enquiry and nicest
examination. Being always more solicitous to enquire into the failings
of their neighbours, than to notice and imitate their good qualities;
and hurried on by the strong impulse of this restless passion, they
spare no pains in searching to the very bottom of a thing that is but
whispered, and enjoy no peace till it becomes public and universally
known.

I well remember, when a worthy and respectable family first went to
reside at a place that contained a numerous class of these idlers, what
a stir it caused among them! Running about from one place to another,
various suppositions, and exclamations of surprise, passed between them.
"I wonder who this new-come family are!" says one; "and whether they are
people of much property?" "No great deal, I should conceive," replies
another; "for they keep a very poor house, and are fashionable in no
respect whatever."--"Aye," says a third, "I hear that they go to market,
not with ready-money, but on trust."--"I am informed," says a frigid old
maid, with a contemptuous sneer, "that Mr. ----, and his wife, live
unhappily together, on account of a familiarity that subsists between
him and the chambermaid."--"Pray, can any one inform me," says a formal
old widow, "whether they observe any regularity in their family? What is
their hour of dining? Do they keep late hours? And what is their time of
rising?"---"O!" says one of the male gossips, "they are very particular,
Madam, I can assure you in regard to those things, and do every thing by
rule; and they are the most penurious and miserable wretches on earth,
for they always keep the key of the cellar." Thus, these triflers, to
call them no worse, amuse themselves with groundless conjectures, and
unjust censure, the absurdity of which needs no remark.

But, notwithstanding every transaction, that comes under their
cognizance, is handed about with the worst construction it is capable of
receiving, they by no means stop here. Not content with the information
themselves are able to collect, they have their private emissaries to
communicate intelligence, and give them notice of the domestic affairs
of every family in the town, which become the subject of debate the next
time they assemble; for they have their meetings, where the conversation
never fails to be such as wounds the honour and reputation of some of
their neighbours. If any one in company presumes to speak of another
with praise and commendation, he is either attended to with careless
indifference, or totally disregarded; and considered as one who wishes
to violate the laws and rules of the society. On the contrary, should he
call in question the chastity of some sage matron, or relate the
misfortunes of some frail female; should he make the discord of
families, or the animosities of friends, the topick of conversation;
they are all attention, and listen to the scandalous report with the
highest degree of satisfaction.

One grand incentive to Curiosity, is a fickle and unsteady temper, with
a fondness for novelty. When, therefore, the mind in any of it's sallies
borders on frivolity, it ought immediately to be checked, and have its
attention directed to some other object less unworthy the consideration
of a rational creature. Thus, by bringing this passion under the
government of Reason, at the first, we may prevent the unhappy
consequences that envy and spleen might otherwise spur it on to effect.

In diseases of the body, by not attending to the first symptoms of a
disorder, and stopping it in the beginning, it often happens, that it
gains strength through delay; and, in process of time, bids defiance to
the powers of medicine. Thus it is with diseases of the mind. Such, and
so inveterate is the nature of vice, that unless it be eradicated on its
first appearance, and destroyed in its infancy, the contagion soon
extends it's baneful influence over all the faculties of the mind, and
enervates the whole intellectual system.

In order to the preservation of health, on the slightest attack of any
corporal malady, it is expedient to have immediate recourse to those
means which are considered the best adapted to impede it's progress: and
if, to remove infirmities of the body, so much precaution be necessary,
surely the mind demands still greater attention. But how frequently do
we find this nobler part of man, either very little regarded, or totally
neglected! Too often are the innate virtues of the soul extinguished by
the insinuations of Vice! its nobler powers enfeebled by the alluring
wiles of that fascinating enchantress; and rendered useless, as to the
end and design for which they were originally intended; or, what is
worse, applied in promoting the advancement of her cause, to our own
perpetual disgrace!


       *       *       *       *       *

  CURIOUS INCIDENT.

It was formerly usual for the Senators of Rome to enter the
Senate-house, accompanied by their sons, who had taken the praetexta.
When something of superior importance was discussed in the senate, and
the farther consideration adjourned to the day following, it was
resolved that no one should divulge the subject of their debates till it
should be formally decreed. The mother of the young Papirus, who had
accompanied his father to the Senate-house, enquired of her son what the
senators had been doing. The youth replied, that he had been enjoined
silence, and was not at liberty to say. The woman became more anxious to
know: the secretness of the thing, and the silence of the youth did but
inflame her curiosity; she, therefore, urged him with the more vehement
earnestness. The young man, on the importunity of his mother, determined
on a humorous and pleasant fallacy: he said it was discussed in the
senate which would be most beneficial to the state, for one man to have
two wives, or one woman to have two husbands. As soon as she heard this,
she was much agitated; and, leaving her house in great trepidation,
hastened to tell the other matrons what she had learned. The next day,
a troop of matrons went to the Senate house; and, with tears and
entreaties, implored that one woman might be suffered to have two
husbands, rather than one man to have two wives. The senators, on
entering the house, were astonished, and wondered what this intemperate
proceeding of the women and their petition could mean. The young
Papirus, advancing to the midst of the senate, explained the importunity
of his mother, his answer, and the matter as it was. The senate,
delighted with the honour and ingenuity of the youth, decreed that, from
that time, no youth should be suffered to enter the senate with his
father, this Papirus alone accepted. He was afterwards honourably
distinguished by the cognomen of Praetextatus, on account of his
discretion at such an age.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  LIFE OF BONNA, THE SHEPERDESS.

Bonna was the daughter of a shepherd of the Valteline, a fruitful valley
at the foot of the Alps, and the grand pass between Italy and Germany.
As she was one day guarding her flocks, Peter Brunoro, an illustrious
Parmesan general, lost his way near the spot where she attended her
innocent companions. Brunoro politely accosted the rural maid, to
enquire the road, but was so struck with her beauty, and so pleased with
her courteous answer, that he dismounted and entered into conversation
with the sheperdess. Bonna was no prude, and she had wit enough to
distinguish a gentleman from a rustic; in short, her vivacity, and a
certain air of modest assurance, admirably calculated to hit the taste
of an officer, had such an effect upon him, that he fell in love with
her, and carried her off. From this time, we are to consider her not as
the Arcadian sheperdess, but as Brunoro's mistress.

Finding that she had a bold, masculine spirit, he took great pleasure in
dressing her in men's cloaths; and he had the satisfaction to observe,
that she was ambitious to gain a masculine address! Brunoro soon learned
her to manage the fleetest courser, and as he was remarkably fond of
hunting, she was always of his party, and acquitted herself to the
astonishment of all the cavaliers.

A quarrel happening some time after between Francis Sforza, duke of
Milan, and Alphonsus, king of Naples; Brunoro quitted the service of the
king his master, and went over to the duke of Milan's party: Bonna, his
faithful mistress accompanied him, and signalized herself in the first
campaign. The difference between the contending parties being
accommodated by the interposition of mediators, Brunoro was received
again into the service of Alphonsus, and Bonna was presented to the king
as a young Amazon: her talents for war and politics became every day
more and more conspicuous; and upon a rupture between the Venetian
republic and the duke of Milan, she had the address to negociate at
Venice, the command of the Venetian army, with an appointment of 20000
ducates per annum during the war for Brunoro. The general's heart, at
this striking piece of felial affection in his mistress, was now touched
with a lively sense of honour for Bonna, he regretted he had ever took
advantage of the assenting and unguarded Shepherdess, and, to repair
past injuries, and in gratitude for such signal services, married his
benefactress: After this event, she placed no bounds either to her
conjugal affection, or her love of arms. She accompanied her husband
wherever he went: and while the general was engaged upon some other
service, she headed a detachment, and took the Castle of Pavanou, near
Brescia, from the Milanese, by assault.

The senate of Venice honoured her with distinguished rewards, and
placing an unlimited confidence in both husband and wife, sent them to
the succour of Negropontus, attacked by the Turks. They defended this
island so ably, that during the time that they commanded, the Turks
desisted from all further attempts on the place. Bonna died on her
return to Venice at a small town of Morea, leaving behind her two
children, and an immortal reputation.

  [[Notes:

  This piece is somewhat historical. Bona Lombarda or Lombardi married
    Pietro Brunoro 1417-1468; she died in Modone.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE FLOWER-GIRL.

----"Pray, buy a nosegay of a poor orphan!" said a female voice, in a
plaintive and melodious tone, as I was passing the corner of the
Hay-market. I turned hastily, and beheld a girl of about fourteen; whose
drapery, tho' ragged, was clean, and whose form was such as a painter
might have chosen for a youthful Venus. Her neck, without covering, was
white as snow; and her features, though not regularly beautiful, were
interesting, and set off by a transparent complexion: her eyes, dark and
intelligent, were shaded by loose ringlets of a raven black, and poured
their sweetly supplicating beams through the silken shade of very long
lashes. On one arm hung a basket full of roses, and the other was
stretched out towards me with one of the rose-buds. I put my hand into
my pocket, and drew out some silver---"Take this, my pretty girl," said
I, putting it into her's; "and may that God, who is the Father of the
fatherless, be the preserver of your existence and your
virtue!---Virtuous poverty is no crime."

I was turning from her, when she suddenly caught my withdrawn hand; and,
putting it to her lips, burst into a flood of tears. The action, and the
look which accompanied it, touched my soul; it melted to the artless
gratitude of this poor Flower-girl, and a drop of sympathy fell from my
cheek. "Forgive me, Sir," said she, recovering from her transport, while
a sweet blush diffused itself over her lovely face: "my heart was full
of what it could not express---nature impelled me to so free an action.
You will pardon the effect it had on me, when I tell you, they were the
first kind words I have heard since I lost all that was dear to me on
earth----" A sob interrupted her discourse: she stopped, and wept
silently; then, raising up her face from the hand on which she had laid
it---"O Sir! I have no father! no mother! no relation! Alas! I have no
friend in the world!" Choked with her emotions, she was silent for a
moment before she could proceed---"My only friend is God! on him I rely;
I submit to his will. I only pray that I may support with fortitude, the
miseries I am born to experience! To him, kind Sir, this heart shall
always pray for you. May that God for ever protect you!" added she,
dropping a curtsey full of humility and native grace, as she retired.
I returned her benediction, and went on----

"And can I thus leave this poor creature?" said I, as I walked pensively
on. "Can I leave her forever, without emotion? What have I done for her,
that can entitle me to her prayers? Preserved her a few days from death,
but that is all! And shall I quit thee, fair flower, to see thee no
more? to be blown down by the rude blast of adversity! to be cropped by
some cruel spoiler! to droop thy lovely head beneath the blight of early
sorrow!--No! thou hast been reared on some happier bank; thou hast been
nurtured by the sweet tears of maternal affection; thou hast once
blushed beneath the chearing sun of domestick content, and under it
thou shalt bloom again!" I turned, as I spoke: my heart beat with
its sweet purpose. I saw the beautiful Flower-girl before me.
I approached---caught her hand---the words of triumphant virtue burst
from my lips---

"Come, thou lovely, deserted girl! come, and add one more to the happy
groupe who call me father! Their home shall be thine: thou shalt share
their comforts: thou shalt be taught with them that virtue their father
tries to practise!" She stopped me; her eyes flashed with a frantic joy:
she flung herself on her knees before me, and burst into a flood of
rapturous tears. I raised her in my arms---I hushed her eloquent
gratitude, and led her to a home of happiness and piety. She loves my
children; she loves their father; and the poor orphan of the Hay-market
is now the wife of my son!

  DE BURGHE.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

    MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. WILLIAM W.
GALATIAN, to the amiable Miss CATHARINE BROWER, daughter of Mr. John
Brower, all of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. PETER VORHISS to the amiable
Mrs. NANCY SMITH, widow of Joseph Smith, deceased, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 26th ult. to the 4th inst._

    _Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
      _Prevailing winds._
        _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

          deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  Feb. 26  16    23     nw. w.   clr. h. w. Aurora Boralis*.
       27  38    47     s. sw.   cloudy lt. wd. do. do.
       28  34    35     nw. w.   cloudy lt. wd. do. do.
  March 1  22    35     nw. do.  clear lt. wind. do. h. wd.
        2  24    37     ne. se.  clear lt. wind. cloudy do.
        3  33    42     ne. sw.  sn at ni. clou. lt. wd. do.
        4  38    49 50  s. sw.   cloudy lt. wd. clear do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  FOR FEBRUARY 1797.
                                                            deg. 100

  Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise            32    9
  Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M.                               41    2
  Do. do. for the whole month                                36   55
  Greatest monthly range between the 24th and 26th           41    0
  Do. do. in 24 hours, the           26th & 27th             22
  Warmest day the 24th                                       57    0
  Coldest do. the 26th                                       16

  14 days the Mercury was at or below frost, at sunrise.
   4 do.  it was at or below frost at sunrise and at 3 P.M.
   7 do.  it rained, and a large quantity has fallen this month.
   1 day it snowed, and 2 inches and a-half has fallen.
  17 do.  the wind was at the westward of north and south.
  11 do.  the do.  was at the eastward of do.  and do.
  16 do.  the do.  was light at sunrise and 3 P.M.
   4 do.  the do.  was high at do.  and do.
  13 do.  it was clear at do.  and do.
  12 do.  it was cloudy at do.  and do.

  [* On the 26th a remarkable appearance of the Aurora Boralis in the
  evening at the north point: its appearance changed several times,
  and at length collected to a Piremidical form and disappeared.]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                 _THE DEBTOR._

  "Ah! little know'st thou who ne'er has tri'd,
  "What pain it is in prison long to 'bide;
  "To lose whole days, that might be better spent,
  "To pine whole nights in anxious discontent;
  "To speed to day, to be put back to-morrow;
  "To flush with Hope, to pine with care and sorrow."

    Transposed from COWLEY.

  Two long, long years are gone and past,
  Since from the pitch of affluence cast;
  With Friends, Fame, Fortune out of date,
  Eugenio moans his hapless fate:
      Like the poor Starling in his cage,
      He fluttering spends his idle rage;
      And all his cry, and all his rout,
      Is, Well-a-day! I can't get out.

  Friend to the Muse, alas! no more
  His fancy roves in classic lore;
  His senses flag, his eyes grow blind,
  And a chill torpor cramps his mind.
      Like the poor Starling in his cage,
      He fluttering spends his idle rage;
          And all his cry, &c.

  What, though when war and tumult rag'd,
  His country all his soul engag'd;
  No trace is left, no record sav'd,
  Of what, to save a state, he brav'd:
      Like the poor Starling in his cage,
      He's doom'd to pine, to fret, to rage;
          And all his cry, &c.

  Did want, or merit claim a friend,
  He knew to serve, to give, or lend;
  But out of cash and out of place,
  His former friends forget his face!
      Like the poor Starling in his cage,
      Lonesome he sits and vents his rage;
          And all his cry, &c.

  No more the sun's all chearing ray,
  Ope's to his view the blush of day;
  The day is dreary as the night,
  And a sad darkness clouds the sight:
      Like the poor Starling in his cage,
      In doleful plaints he spends his rage;
          And all his cry, &c.

  At eve with gnawing care opprest,
  His weary eye-lids ache for rest;
  Then clanking chains above him roll,
  And sobs, and wailings pierce his soul.
      Like the poor Starling in his cage,
      He counts each tedious hour an age;
          And all his cry, &c.

  When in his arms his infant train,
  Their little woes and wants explain,
  The trickling tear, and sigh supprest,
  Betray the anguish of his breast:
      'Till like the Starling in his cage,
      His throbbing bosom bursts with rage;
          And all his cry, &c.

  Sometimes in dreams he wings his flight,
  And roves in regions of delight;
  When (sad reverse!) the Watchman's noise,
  Dispels his Visionary Joys:
      Then like the Starling in his cage,
      He starts, and flutters round in rage:
          And all his cry, &c.

  And is there then no Hope in Laws?
  No generous Friends to urge his cause?
  Ah! no:--his Friends have not the time,
  And DEBT, you know's the GREATEST CRIME.
      Thus like the Starling in his cage,
      He moulders on to life's last stage;
      And all his cry, and all his rout
      Is, Well-a-day! I can't get out.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE FADED ROSE.

  Yon Rose, that bloom'd with tincture bright,
    That shed its od'rous sweets around,
  And smiling with the orient light,
    Diffused its beauty on the ground:

  That gave its fragrance to the air,
    And waving kiss'd the gentle breeze,
  And though it gave, appear'd still fair,
    Still yielded nectar to the bees.

  But blooming with uncommon pride,
    And blushing with the rain-bow's hue,
  Upon the foliage by its side,
    That glitter'd with the morning dew.

  A fair that watch'd her fleecy flock
    Beside the bending poplar shade,
  And resting on a mossy rock,
    Espy'd it waving in the glade.

  Eager to seize the envy'd rose,
    And with it deck her glowing breast;
  She left her charge, forsook repose,
    And pluck'd it from its thorny nest.

  That instant droop'd its spreading leaves,
    And soon its beauteous colours fled;
  In vain Cecilia's bosom heaves,
    For with its charms the rose is dead.

  So the fair damsel in her prime,
    That blooms with all the pride of May,
  Feels the corroding hand of time,
    And all unconscious fades away.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
  An Amiable Young Lady;

  Whose virtues richly merited the eulogium here offered by a friend.

  Soft as the balm the gentle gales distils!
  Sweet as the fragrancy of new-mown hills!
  Her op'ning mind a thousand charms reveal'd,
  Proof of those thousands which were yet conceal'd.
  The loveliest flower in nature's garden plac'd!
  Permitted just to bloom, and pluck'd in haste.
  Angels beheld her ripe for joys to come,
  And call'd, by God's command, their sister home.


NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115,
Cherry-street.+-- +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per
quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating
Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, +Wall-Street+._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  _UTILE DULCI._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, March 15, 1797.+  [+No. 89.+


  GRATITUDE.

  "If aught gives one virtuous man a superiority over another, it is
  only by as much as he exceeds the other in Gratitude."

Gratitude, though a single word, contains a volume of expressions: it is
the brightest jewel in Virtue's diadem. It comprehends every social
duty, and every celestial virtue, that adorn mankind; it renders them
objects of Almighty love, and worthy the admiration of their
fellow-creatures. Divested of Gratitude, what are we? Nought but
solitary reeds, blown by every breeze, and beat down by every shower,
that God, in the plenitude of his mercy, sends to chear the rest of the
world.

Gratitude may be said to consist of two orders--to God, and to man.

Gratitude to God is indisputably our first and chief duty. Can we for a
moment contemplate the creation of the world, the coming, sufferings,
crucifixion, death, resurrection, and ascension of Christ, without
acknowledging that Gratitude to God is our first and chief duty? God
forbid! There are few, in this world's sphere, but daily, nay even
hourly, experience the goodness of the Almighty. How are we extricated
from difficulties? How are we relieved, even when desponding misery
rankles in the heart? And how do we enjoy our health, or happiness, but
from the excess of that mercy which gently drops from Heaven? Can, then,
our lives be better spent than in devoting them to those purposes
esteemed worthy in God's all-seeing eye, and expressive of our gratitude
for the blessings we receive?

  "Never let day or night unhallow'd pass,
  But still remember what the Lord has done."

    SHAKESPEARE.

Of Gratitude to man, much has been, and much still remains to be said.
It may be urged that, in our Gratitude to God, every kind of gratitude
is contained. This may be granted; and, therefore, to Him should we give
the glory. If we are really grateful, we shew it not only to Him, but to
those whom he makes the instruments of his goodness.

From the earliest period, we find that centre of every virtue,
Gratitude! honoured, revered, and even adored. How many have sacrificed
their lives in gratitude for services received from others; and, dying,
blessed the cause in which they died! Gratitude to man consists in a
grateful remembrance of every favour, however trifling or essential. It
is to be hoped that a man, plunged by misfortune into dire distress,
confined within the narrow and dreary cell of a prison, surrounded by an
infant family, some senseless of the misery they endure, sleeping on a
bed of straw, a helpless babe in his arms, pining for it's mother, who
is gone, alas! in vain, to soothe the obdurate heart of a relentless
creditor---it is to be hoped, I repeat, that human nature does not
produce such a man, who, were he relieved from this horrid situation, by
the benevolent hand of smiling Affluence, would ever cease to remember,
without the softest emotions of extatic pleasure, the truly generous
act: if he could, he should cease to live.

Other instances, equally forcible, might be brought forward; but man who
ought not to forget the smallest obligation, or neglect the slightest
opportunity of manifesting his gratitude. It matters not, whether our
gratitude be called forth into action by pecuniary assistance in the
hour of distress, solace in the hour of misfortune, or help in the
moment of personal danger. He who relieves another in a pecuniary
manner, he who sighs with him in his misfortunes, or he who saves the
life of another, is equally entitled to our prayers, our praise, and our
gratitude.


       *       *       *       *       *

  PLEASURES OF STUDY.

There is unspeakable pleasure attending the life of a voluntary student.
The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had
gained a new friend. When I read over a book I have perused before, it
resembles the meeting with an old one. We ought to lay hold of every
incident in life for improvement, the trifling as well as the important.
It is not one diamond alone which gives lustre to another; a common
coarse stone is also employed for that purpose. Thus I ought to draw
advantage from the insults and contempt I meet with from a worthless
fellow.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
  _OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
  Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

  _Translated from the German of Tschink._

  (Continued from page 283.)

I hastened to conceal myself in a corner, and slipped out of the church
as soon as the sexton had entered it. In going home, I fancied I
observed Hiermanfor at a distance, nay he seemed even to advance towards
me; however, I fled from him with horror.

"About an hour after my return, I was joined by Alumbrado, who entered
my apartment with awful solemnity. His countenance spoke more plainly
than his lips. We went to the Marquis who seemed to have awaited our
arrival with impatience, and bowed respectfully to Alumbrado.

"You have been watching last night,' the latter said to us, 'and
dedicated it to devotion. Is your resolution still firm and
unalterable?'

"Yes!' we replied at the same time.

"A long pause ensued. At length Alumbrado began: 'I too have dedicated
the night to devotion, and join in your league.' Taking us by the hand,
'I have conversed with God, and received heavenly revelations, which I
will communicate to you if you will promise eternal secrecy.'

"We promised it.

"Yes, my friends,' he resumed, 'God has chosen you to be ministers of
his avenging justice. Your mission is honourable, but awful--awful, and
at the same time, blissful. But I must remind you, that it does not
befit the instruments of the Eternal to scan his holy degrees, nor to
resist. Will you, therefore, promise to obey implicitly?'

"We will.'

"To obey also when the decrees of God shall come in contradiction with
your opinions and feelings?'

"The decrees of the Eternal are impenetrable, but ever wise and ever
just. We will obey!'

"Then you swear to obey blindly?'

"We swore, and now we learned from Alumbrado our mission, and the whole
plan of the secret league. It would be superfluous to give you the
particulars of it, because it will be executed, and consequently known
to you when you shall read this letter.--Farewell, my friend, for whom I
always shall retain a tender affection, although you should become my
inveterate enemy. Farewell."

This letter partly unfolded to me the mystery of the whole event;
I could, however, best form a clear idea of the particulars of the
conspiracy and the whole design when the culprits were tried. I shall
confine myself to a brief sketch of that infernal plot.

Oli*ariz the Minister of S----n, not having been able to put a stop to
the secret preparations the Duke of B----za had been making for
restoring the crown of Port--l to his family, and his three last artful
attempts to that effect having miscarried, he sent Alumbrado whom he had
already successfully employed on different occasions, to watch the
secret motions of that nobleman, and to counteract them effectually.
Alumbrado fixed his eyes on a man who was generally respected as well on
account of his rank, his birth, and extraordinary merits, as of his
great wealth; the Marquis of Villa Re*al, whose secret antipathy against
the Duke of B----a, Oli*arez had pointed out to him. With the assistance
of this man, he designed to lay the mine which was to blow up the great
work of the Duke of B--------a. He found the Marquis in a situation of
mind that seemed to promise very little success in the prosecution of
his political views.

The supposed apparition of Count San*, and the illness which had
succeeded it, had changed him from a statesman to a pietistical hermit.
However, an intriguing genius like Alumbrado was not discouraged by
these unfavourable symptoms; he only changed his measures, and founded
on religious fanaticism and superstition a plan, by which he expected to
interest the Marquis for his designs. Yet he had, perhaps, imagined this
task much easier than it really was, or the progresses the Marquis made
were slower than he had expected, in short, the revolution broke out
before he had attained his purpose. This unexpected blow did not depress
Alumbrado's spirit. He had, indeed, not been able to dispute the
acquisition of the crown of P------l with the Duke of B----a; he formed
however, the resolution to deprive him of it.

With this view he returned to S----n to consult with Oli*arez. The
latter had really been induced by the dissimulation of the Duke of
Cam*na, to believe him serious in his devices against the family of
B--------a, and this was sufficient to prompt him to agree with
Alumbrado that one ought to endeavour to interest the Marquis and his
son for the design against the new Sovereign.

That, and how this has been effected, was proved afterwards by the
event.

Alumbrado had foreseen that the execution of so dangerous a design would
require many co-operating powers, and therefore had taken care to
procure in time the requisite assistants. One of his principal
associates was the archbishop of Br*ga, Primate of P--------l, an
acquisition which cost Alumbrado very little trouble, the Prelate
meeting him half way. The archbishop had witnessed the successful issue
of the revolution with the greatest indignation, because he was entirely
devoted to the S---sh court and the Vice Queen to whom he owed his
preferment.

On the breaking out of the Revolution, he had already drawn the sword
against one of the conspirators in order to avenge his benefactress; her
confinement was therefore an additional motive to him for joining the
conspirators, by whose assistance he hoped to avenge her wrongs and
restore her to liberty. Alumbrado gained through him even the bishop of
*arda, Grand Inquisitor of the Empire.

The insinuation that he would not enjoy long his important office under
the new government, the King being inclined to abolish the Inquisition,
was the chief motive of his having taken a part in the conspiracy.

Both prelates were very sensible how necessary it was that the Marquis
and his son should join the conspirators if Alumbrado's design should
succeed, and therefore supported him in his endeavours to ensnare these
noblemen, although they dissembled to have not the least connection with
that vile deceiver.

Meanwhile the latter endeavoured secretly to encrease the number of the
conspirators through the interest of these two prelates, and they
succeeded in gaining over to their party Count Arm*mar a cousin to the
Primate, a great number of other Port**ese noblemen and the Jews. It has
already been mentioned in the letters of the Duke, that the new King
rejected their petition of being suffered to live and to trade in the
kingdom as external Christians, uncontrolled by the Inquisition. The
Primate made them a voluntary offer of that privilege; nay, he even
promised secretly, in the name of the King of S---n, that they should
have a public synagogue, if they would co-operate in the execution of
the plot, which they consented to without hesitation.

The design itself was, indeed, horrid enough. On the 6th of August,
1641, the Jews were to cause a conflagration in the night, not only in
the royal palace, but also in different parts of the town, in order to
divert the attention of the people. Then the conspirators were to
penetrate into the palace under the pretext of extinguishing the fire,
and to stab the King; the Queen, however, and the two young Princes,
were to be seized by the Duke of Ca*ina, in order to obtain through them
the possession of the castle. The Primate with his train was, meanwhile,
to parade through the streets, in order to frighten the refractory
multitude with the Inquisition, and when the whole plan should have been
happily executed, the Marquis of Villa R*al was to be invested with the
dignity of Vicegerent.

This was the plan of an undertaking that could be attempted only by
fool-hardy and deluded men. Alumbrado, who knew best how hazardous and
adventurous it was, was well aware, that, even if their design should be
executed in the most successful manner, the capital only would be
gained, and every thing lost again if they were not supported by an
external power. He found it therefore necessary that a S---sh fleet
should be ready to surprise the port as soon as the fire should break
out, and a small army of S- - -rds waiting on the frontiers, in order to
penetrate in the country on the first intelligence of the successful
execution of the undertaking. Oliv*rez was to afford this assistance,
and consequently, intelligence must be sent him and every thing
preconcerted, which was extremely difficult, the new Sovereign, having
issued the strictest orders not to suffer any suspicious letter to pass
the frontiers.

Ba*za, of whom I have already made mention in a former page, had, on
account of his extensive trade, received an exclusive privilege of
carrying on an unmolested correspondence with S---n.

Alumbrado found means to insinuate himself with his important man in
such a manner, that he undertook the dangerous task of forwarding the
letter which contained that intelligence. However---

The Irishman was returned from his journey. Some expressions which he
accidentally overheard and several unusual movements his eagle eye
espied, excited his suspicion, in spite of the secrecy of the
conspirators and the great precaution they observed in carrying on their
plot. He found it, nevertheless, very difficult to come upon the right
tack. Although he had succeeded in his attempt of getting admittance to
Ba*za's house in the disguise of a foreign merchant, and gained the
confidence of that man by means of some very great money transactions,
yet he could not trace out the least thing concerning the secret plot
which he suspected to be carrying on, Ba*za being always on his guard,
notwithstanding the repeated invectives the Irishman uttered against the
new government in order to allure him to take the bait. But when Ba*za
received the aforesaid letter in order to send it to S---n, he betrayed
so much anxiety that it could not escape the keen-sighted looks of the
Irishman. The latter employed every art to dispose the merchant to
direct that letter to the Marquis of Aja*onti, a commander of a Spanish
fortress on the frontier, and acted his part with so much dexterity,
that Ba*za adopted his advice without entertaining the least suspicion,
thinking that the letter would certainly be delivered to the Minister
when it once had reached the Sp--sh territory.

The Irishman could not indeed, divine the important contents of the
letter, and the uneasiness which the merchant betrayed concerning its
safe delivery, could also have originated from the great importance of
the mercantile papers it might have contained. It was, therefore, a mere
act of prudence that he sent instantly a message to his friend Ajam*nti,
requesting him to examine that letter carefully if it should come to his
hands.

The Marquis receiving the letter opened the first cover, and seeing it
directed to the Sp--sh Minister of State, and sealed with the great seal
of the Primate of P-----l, his suspicion having been roused by the
previous notice he had received from the Irishman, he opened it without
hesitation, and thus discovered the imminent danger threatening the life
of the King of P----l.

Being a near relation to the Queen and sincerely attached to the King,
he sent the letter without delay to his royal kinsman. The King was
seized with astonishment and horror when he learned what a dreadful plot
was carrying on against himself and the kingdom.

He convoked instantly the Privy Council, and concerted with them the
necessary means which were to be taken in order to award the impending
blow.

  (_To be continued._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  REMARK.

There is no virtue, perhaps, that with respect to the advantages arising
from it to others, may not be so well supplied by a vice as generosity.
Vanity almost alone will often perform all its functions.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  REASONS
  WHY MEN OF GENIUS SELDOM RISE ACCORDING TO THEIR MERIT.

Amid the illusions deceiving mankind, which Hope sighs for, or Pleasure
grasps at, none are more fallacious than the dreams of success, which
Fancy imprints, from the consciousness of her deserts, on the tablet of
imagination. When an author boldly pursues the path of fame, when he
strikes out into the mazes of intricate disquisition; however his
Genius, prompted by her own powers, might at first promise success, yet
from circumstances unknown, he too often fails in his attempt: like the
bold adventurer who, searching for the diamond in the bowels of the
mine, fell a victim to the blasting vapour of contagion and death.

No one will deny, that merit ought to have it's reward; and, that every
encouragement should be given for advancement in the moral or
intellectual world. Habits of virtue would then be acquired from
necessity; and ambition, in greatness or goodness, meet with universal
admiration and applause: but, before human nature can arrive at such a
state of primitive excellence, some of the bad passions must be expelled
with rankle in the human heart. A barrier must be raised between envy
and admiration; and ingratitude banished, as the pest of moral and
intellectual happiness. I might farther analyse, and draw a parallel
between the powers of the mind and it's passions, to shew, that what
prompts the one to goodness, stimulates the other to greatness; but it
would be unnecessary to mention arguments, or canvass hypotheses, which
have already been made the subject of frequent discussion. I shall,
therefore, confine myself to the reasons why Genius too often sinks into
obscurity, even while her breast expands with benevolence---while virtue
and greatness animate her heart.

Ambition, while restrained within certain bounds, is highly commendable;
when exceeding those limits, it degenerates, and becomes vicious.
I shall, therefore, first point out this delicate barrier, perceptible
only by the unprejudiced; to be trodden on by those alone who are
innately good, and can bid each "passion move at the command of Virtue."
It is necessary that there should be some incitement to noble actions,
to rouze the mind from torpidity, and promote the exertion of her
powers. This incentive to greatness is called Ambition; and is equally
fought for by the workman who excels in mechanism, the general who leads
an army, and the statesman who commands the applause of senates. By a
fascinating power, it beguiles mankind; and has but one predominant
fault---an unbounded satiety. This gigantic precipice, which hides her
head amid the clouds, is only to be climbed by the man of genius; and,
when he mounts towards the summit, if he can view the prospect around
him without a swimming head, and a dizzy eye, he is truly noble.

In our various gradations through life, if we can view and admire the
summit of excellence which we have not reached, or look down with
pleasure on that which we have passed, while we enjoy the plaudits of a
surrounding world, each of us shall feel the secret praise of our own
heart, proud in the consciousness of it's integrity. Ambition, then, is
the guide of Genius; it either raises it to perfection, or hurls it, in
an unguarded moment, into obscurity. While, therefore, we can admire
abilities greater, or perhaps less than our own, this laudable incentive
will elevate and ennoble us; if, on the contrary, we despise or envy
these powers, it will soon sink us into shame, and our works into
oblivion.

I have made this digression, because a certain kind of ambition--for
there are many species belonging to the genus---is the most essential
cause why men of letters do not rise so well as they have reason to
promise themselves, or even as they deserve.

Modesty is the inseparable attendant on Merit; at least, a certain kind
of diffidence is felt by every man of genius, which too often hinders
him from intruding himself on public notice. Possessing a mind fraught
with the dignity of it's own powers, he scorns those trammels with which
an unfeeling world would too often gall his tender neck, and fetter down
his lofty spirit. When, therefore, he explores the depths of science, or
with unbounded good-nature skims the surface, for the benefit of
mankind; he exults in the hope of that success which he had a right to
demand, and looks forward to the promised harvest of the well-earned
field. Though he may thus snatch his images, in daring enthusiasm: and,
with "a phrenzy-rolling eye," survey the expanse of nature; yet seldom
will a harsh world comprehend---or, comprehending, reward---a dignity of
mind, which might do honour to a class of beings higher than ourselves
in the scale of existence. Every man who labours for the community, even
should he fail, ought to be thanked for the pains he has taken; as every
attempt to enforce the practice of those qualities which adorn and
dignify the human heart, must necessarily merit applause.

There is certainly one excuse alledged by mankind in general, why they
do not reward Genius according to it's merit; and the reason, I will
add, cannot fail, if persisted in, to tear the laurel from the brow of
infant worth, and trample it in the dust. They assert, in fact; that
authors are the enemies of each other, and will not allow their
reciprocal fame to live.

To lay the metaphor aside; men of letters are too seldom men of
generosity. It is a harsh expression, and I must beg pardon of the world
for using it; but still cannot retract, till they disprove my assertion.
Instead of cherishing a young author, or admiring a refined and superior
genius; the wits of the age, in the one instance crush, and in the other
snarl at and depreciate, his merits.

In a word, if authors would be more generous to each other's
productions---for perfection is not the attribute of humanity---if they
would pardon the defects, and at the same time extol the beauties they
read, merit would no longer linger in obscurity; the embryo fire of
genius would again soon burst on the world, fostered in the bosom of
Virtue, and fanned by the breath of Fame!


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE FATAL MISTAKE;
  Or, THE HISTORY OF MR. ELLIOT.
  [Written by Himself.]

  (Concluded from our last)

However I was resolved to observe her conduct as well as lord Ashford's
and act accordingly. I therefore assumed an air of tranquility, and, by
my tenderness, seemed to have banished every painful sensation from her
bosom; when one day as we were talking on family matters, and wondering
we had not heard from lord or lady Somerset for two months past,
a servant brought me a letter from an intimate friend who was dying, and
begged to see me; I would not have complied with his request,
disagreeable as it was to refuse, had not my Almena insisted on my
going.

In a fatal hour I complied with her entreaties, and left her with the
utmost reluctance. When I came to the house of Mr. Warner, I found he
had expired two hours before my arrival; I paid a tribute of tears to
the memory of honest George, who had been my college familiar; and as I
had no further business, I hastened back to my wife. I entered the house
unobserved by any one, having delivered my horse to a servant I met in
the yard, and was proceeding to Lady Almena's dressing room, with all
the anxiety of love, when, on hearing the sound of voices I stopped, and
clearly distinguished my wife, who pronounced these words: "You cannot
imagine what I have suffered in this cruel separation. My heart has felt
every painful sensation, you have been exposed to: believe me, my lord,
my love for you is as violent as before my marriage." "My love, my
dearest Almena, answered a manly voice, I do believe you, and am
convinced nothing can abate your affection for me." I heard no more, but
rushing to my apartment I seized my sword, and determined to end my woe,
by plunging the weapon deep in the heart of the villain who had
dishonoured me, I burst open the door of the dressing room, and,
heart-rending sight! beheld my wife locked up in the arms of Lord
Ashford, as I imagined.

Transported by my rage, I sprung towards him, and buried my sword in his
body! He groaned and fell! But, oh Heavens! what were my feelings when I
beheld the face of Lord Somerset! Though it was almost dark, I plainly
perceived the features of my friend as he lay extended on the floor,
bathed in his blood. My Almena had fainted on seeing her brother fall,
and so stupified was I with horror at the rash action I had committed,
that I was incapable of giving the least assistance to either.

My faculties at length forsook me, and I fell senseless; the noise of my
fall brought the servants crouding to the apartment, there to behold the
most horrible sight that ever shocked the eyes of humanity! When I
recovered to a sense of my misery, I found my wife had been carried to
her apartment during her fit, and Lord Somerset was seated in an armed
chair.

Some of the servants were gone for a surgeon, whilst others were
endeavouring to stop the effusion of blood.

He faintly opened his eyes, and casting them on me with a look of
infinite sweetness, addressed me in the following manner, in a voice
hardly audible: "Whatever, my dear Frederick, was your motive for a
conduct so precipitate and rash, be assured I heartily forgive you; and
am certain, mistake and fatal misapprehension were the cause of my
death!" Here he stopped. The horror and distraction of my thoughts were
so great, that, had not my servants prevented, I should have plunged the
fatal sword in my own breast! By force they wrested it from me; and I
was doomed to bear a wretched existence! I threw myself at the feet of
Lord Somerset, and entreated his pardon.

My agonies were so great that before I could inform him of the truth,
I was again deprived of my senses. I remember no more, than that after
having been a long time confined to my chamber, I recovered to endless
remorse!

The excess of my grief threw me into a violent fever which continued a
month; during which time my wife and lord Somerset breathed their last!
The latter lived only three days after the fatal wound he had received
from me. He had a paper drawn up in which he solemnly attested my
innocence, and acquitted me of his death. I found he had been acquainted
with my jealousy of lord Ashford, by the villain who was hired by that
scandal to nobility; the servant who had informed me of his lordship's
visit's to my wife, was the detested creature of this wretch; and these
falsities had been invented merely to disturb our domestic harmony; to
which the appearance of his comrade in iniquity the day I had been
hunting had greatly added, joined also to his evasive conduct. These
particulars lord Somerset had been informed of by a letter from the
abandoned fellow, who had left the kingdom, as his vile employer soon
after did. But though my grief on the death of my Edward was little
short of madness, yet the fate of my unhappy wife, rent my
heart-strings! that angelic sufferer, on recovering from her fainting,
immediately fell into strong labour; and after continuing in the utmost
agony for a whole day and night, expired with her unhappy infant ere she
had given it birth.

She left her forgiveness for him who had destroyed her and her brother.
I am unable to describe the melancholy situation in which I was
involved.

Several times I was tempted to end my miserable being; but some remains
of conscience being left, I dared not rush into the presence of my
Maker, uncalled for. I was greatly assisted in my resolution of enduring
life, by the worthy Mr. Harpur, who on hearing of my melancholy
situation, left his family and came to my house.

The world by his prudent management remained uninformed of my
misfortunes; supposing my wife died of a fever in her lying-in, and Lord
Somerset of an apoplectic fit. I wrote to lady Somerset the melancholy
account of my folly and rashness, and intreated her pardon, as she
valued the peace of my soul. But alas! she lived not to grant it me: her
sorrow for the loss of her children, joined to her ill state of health
soon brought her to the grave! Thus had the violence of my passions
destroyed three persons dearer to me than the whole world. Mr. Harpur
would have persuaded me to leave Trout-Hall, as the scene of my
wretchedness, only aided the poignancy of my sufferings, but all his
arguments were vain: I was resolved to dedicate my life to penitence on
that mournful spot. I accordingly built a retreat in the park and never
after left it except once a year, when I forsook my humble habitation,
to spend a few hours in the house where my greatest misery was
compleated. I generally distributed a large sum of money to the poor
inhabitants of the neighbourhood on that day, and in the evening
returned to my cottage. I hope my sincere repentance and sorrow for my
crimes may have atoned for them to that power whose blessings I had so
infinitely abused. For twenty years I lived uninterrupted by any mortal
save the good Mr. Harpur, who sometimes came and spent half an hour at
my solitary residence. Here I lived and enjoyed more content than I ever
thought could have fallen to my lot, after the miseries of my former
life. As my prayers for mercy and pardon, at the throne of Heaven, have
been real and sincere, so I trust I shall be forgiven, and whenever it
shall please the deity to call me hence, I shall rejoice to obey his
summons, hoping I shall have peace in a better world, and my error
totally obliterated.

One thing I should have mentioned, which is, that the twenty-fifth year
of my retirement, I made Mr. Harpur a present of thirty thousand pounds,
and left my estate to a distant branch of my family, the only surviving
relations I had. I begged my worthy friend to have my remains deposited
in a tomb that should be erected in my convent, as I was used to call my
residence. This, I have no doubt he will see performed, and may the
melancholy incidents of my life warn them who shall see this manuscript,
against the blameable use of reason. Had I suffered mine to have had its
proper influence, I had not been plunged in such uncommon distress.

  [[Sources:

  Original: "Female Stability, or, the History of Miss Belville,
    In a Series of Letters", London 1780 by "The Late Miss Palmer".
    The author is apparently _not_ the better-known Charlotte Palmer.
  Possible sources include The London magazine, or, Gentleman's monthly
    intelligencer (Vol. 50, July 1781, pg 316ff).
  Notes: A contemporary review in the London Magazine called the book
    "instructing and entertaining". Another contemporary, Frances
    Hamilton, called it "sentimental, badly structured, pointless".]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  NEGLIGENCE
  In Epistolary Correspondence.

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----.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                   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.


       *       *       *       *       *

                   NEW-YORK.

                   *   *   *

         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.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

     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.


       *       *       *       *       *

  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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

        +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!


       *       *       *       *       *

  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."


       *       *       *       *       *

  +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+._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  _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.


       *       *       *       *       *

  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.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  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_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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.


       *       *       *       *       *

   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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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 Caesar 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."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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
manoeuvres, 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.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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 aerial 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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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 AEronaut, 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_.'


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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."


       *       *       *       *       *

   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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  [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.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  MISCELLANY.

                   *   *   *

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-manoeuvred 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.


       *       *       *       *       *

  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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  [[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.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  +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.


       *       *       *       *       *

   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.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _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.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

               _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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   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.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _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!


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  +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.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  [[For sources, see the end of the e-text.]]


                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

                   *   *   *

                    PREFACE.

After obtruding my late productions on the Public, I retired into the
country, where I might have passed fifteen months in endless apathy, had
I not felt that idleness, if not the root of all evil, is at least the
bane of all good; and that however the spirits may be depressed by
misfortune, or the body harrassed by fatigue, the mind, still active,
will rather create visions, and pursue phantoms, than subjugate itself
to a total oblivion of all the blessings of this life.

Though I had little inclination to be perfectly unemployed, I had as
little to busy myself in those works of Fancy and Fiction, which, under
the title of Novels, cost much time and great application; and in the
composition of which so many of my fair countrywomen eminently excel.

Yet was I determined not to sacrifice the peaceful moments allotted to
me in mental slumbers. I considered that I have seen much; that I have
reflected more; that my reading had not been inconsiderable; and that I
had travelled not without some attention to the men and manners of
various countries; that the recollection of some of these objects might
not only amuse myself, but prove interesting to people less accustomed
to diversity of situation, and, perhaps, less qualified to draw
inferences from what they see.

I concluded then, that without wearying myself so as to deprive my mind
of the repose it required, and at the same time to keep it's powers in
action, I might devote a part of my time to the recollection and recital
of such of my _Wanderings_ as could not be recounted without some topics
for amusement, and some hints for instruction.

But though I thus draw from the fountain-head of actual observation, in
some cases, and from experience in others, my Reader is not to infer
that my writings will be less entertaining than the _Wanderings of
Fiction_. For I need not tell those who are capable of making
observation, that almost _every_ life is full of adventure; of strange
transitions and wonderful revolutions; and he that adheres to simple
facts, and relates what passes before him, need seldom have recourse to
fiction for subjects even marvellous, and such as may at once instruct
and delight the Reader.

The principal object of a writer, thus circumstanced, is to select with
discretion, and to relate with effect. In this I know not how far I may
have succeeded, because I am ignorant of the extent of my own powers,
and conscious only of my good intentions.

With these sentiments, and impressed with a due sense for the favourable
reception of my former productions, I humbly submit to the candour and
to the protection of the public my _Wanderings of the Imagination_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

               _FIRST WANDERING._

                   *   *   *

During an excursion last Summer, in the county of Kent, when my finances
would not afford me a better conveyance than a stage-coach, I frequently
amused myself, (not, as is usual, with the different countenances and
characters of it's passengers) but with those incidents on the road;
with which chance not unfrequently furnished me.

As I was admiring the beauty of the hop-grounds, which flourished in
rich luxuriance near the side of the ocean, a sailor caught my
attention. He no sooner perceived the coach, than he ran eagerly towards
it; his countenance was expressive of something between sorrow and
gladness. On his right side was a stump, which he emphatically held
towards us: his left arm he extended towards the sea, which, as his eye
glanced over, appeared to intimate, "This still remains for the service
of my country!"

Perhaps the chearful tar had no such idea as that which I hastily formed
on seeing him; but his smiling countenance indicated something above the
generality of beggars, who, conceiving that their mutilated bodies are
insufficient to excite pity, aim at a distortion of features, and a
story in which the marvellous bears the strongest part, as better
calculated to impose on the genuine feelings of humanity.

The contrasted appearance of this son of Neptune pleased me; but while I
was ruminating in his favour, I was neglectful of the more essential
mode of serving him; and before I could reach the bottom of my pocket,
the coach drove on, and left him to the chance of a more favourable
moment in the hearts of succeeding travellers, who might probably be
actuated by different feelings than mine to relieve his necessities.
I could not, however, help reflecting, that good intentions ought to be
speedily performed; and that to neglect opportunities of benevolence, is
not conformable to the doctrine and practice of him who made the human
heart.

In the county of Kent, and her little Island of Thanet, Nature is gaily,
and luxuriantly dressed. The extremes of affluence, or penury, are
seldom met with; the lands are fertile, and well cultivated; and the
round bodies of the horses bespeak the ease of their employers. Here are
various little plants elsewhere unknown; and the botanist would find his
labours amply rewarded by strictly scrutinizing the soil of Thanet.

Were I inclined to extend description, I should fully expatiate on the
beauties and manners of this pleasant county; which I saw with pleasure,
and left with regret; but as I intend this to be rather an irregular
journal, than a studied publication, I will bid adieu to it, and all its
delights; and in wishing its inhabitants every enjoyment that can arise
from industry, and benevolence, proceed to give an account of my


       *       *       *       *       *

              _SECOND WANDERING._

I could never account for national prejudice. It is a narrow-minded
opinion, inconsistent with reason and humanity: it extends itself to
counties, towns, and even villages. The Spaniards are proud--the
Italians and Portugueze revengeful--the French barbarous--and England is
supposed to be, by Englishmen, the _only_ spot of Europe which unites
_every_ virtue, untainted by _any_ vice. Born myself an Englishwoman and
the daughter of a Portugueze, I feel a more natural propensity towards
this country, the harbour of my birth and education, than towards
Portugal; although the laws of England have sufficiently operated
against me, to excuse any prejudice I might in common justice form
against it. These laws (the boast of Englishmen) have been exercised
towards myself with severity, but without justice: they have been
strained against a weak woman, and have proved a galling yoke of
slavery, when they should have served as a barrier against injustice and
oppression; and they have fully convinced me, that in this _Christian_
kingdom, as elsewhere, the hydra of despotism rears her head unabashed,
if not swayed by a golden sceptre. Money, and its concomitant,
_interest_, bear all before them. In vain will talents, merit, and even
virtue itself, lay claim to protection; these are weak prerogatives when
opposed to wealth, no matter by what means acquired. The Nabob, who
returns home loaded with the spoils of the East, to obtain which he has
waded through the blood of thousands, becomes respected as a worthy
member of community, as soon as it is known he is a rich one. But should
the same person return to this his native country, poor, friendless, and
forlorn;--should he urge in excuse for his poverty the uprightness of
his heart, which spurned at the idea of acquiring wealth by cruelty and
usurpation, how would he then be received? Where would he find the great
man to patronize him? And where, alas! the sympathetic mind to
commiserate, and the benevolent hand to alleviate his necessities? In
England I fear, he would not; or, if he did, it would be more likely in
the compassionate breast of a stranger, than in that of what custom, and
custom only, calls _an old friend_.

From this dangerous, because most abused of epithets, arises principally
the source of all our misfortunes. We cling to it with eager hope, and
are almost as frequently met by disappointment.

  "Disappointment smiles at Hope's career!"

In all our wayward pilgrimage through life, we console ourselves with
the certainty of reciprocal esteem and disinterested friendship. Youth
and prosperity attach themselves to the specious forms of kindness; but
the flattering illusions last no longer than the objects which attracted
them; and the once-admired favourite of Fortune, no longer in possession
of _more_ than the _desire_ to do good, becomes an alien to the society
of which he was once the _support_ and the _pride_. This, indeed, seems
an argument in favour of misanthropy; whereas it only strongly
inculcates the necessity of limiting our benevolence and our desires,
and submit to the dictates of prudence.

I was particularly led into these reflexions, by a circumstance which
lately occured to me. As I was enjoying my meditations in a retired part
of St. Jame's Park, at an hour prescribed there by custom and fashion,
a countenance, of which I had a slender recollection, met my eye. The
meanness of his attire was no obstacle to my perceiving that he was a
_gentleman_. He walked a few paces before me, and then sitting down on
the first bench, pensively leaned his head on his hand, and attentively
considered me as I past. I proceeded slowly down the avenue, and took
occasion to observe whether he followed me. He kept his place till my
return, when he looked sorrowfully in my face, and emphatically shook
his head. His meaning was too plain not to be understood: and I answered
it by placing myself on the seat near him.

I believe our looks mutually bespoke a wish, mingled with a sort of
timid fear, about making the first advance; and in this situation we had
probably remained some time longer, had he not as he afterwards told me,
seen something in my face that bore testimony to a feeling heart. With a
tremulous voice, he asked me if he was mistaken in my name, which he
mentioned; and being satisfied that he was right, he added, "No wonder,
Madam, that an interval of twenty-two years, and my present appearance,
should conceal from your remembrance the person of Capt. S----."

The expression of his countenance, and the tone in which he uttered
these words, were more convincing proofs of his veracity, than I could
discover in the imperfect traces of a form I had once beheld. That form,
which I once saw the repository of every manly grace, was now palsied
and emaciated, and seemed bending towards the earth, as if anxious to
embrace its last asylum. So true is the observation of an accurate
observer of human life: "He that wanders about the world sees new forms
of misery; and if he chances to meet an old friend, meets a face
darkened with troubles."

I assured him, that I did indeed remember Capt. S----; but that surprize
and sorrow now damped the joy I should have felt on the renewal of our
acquaintance, had I found him in a situation more worthy of him.
I intreated him to believe, that however hardly fortune had dealt by him
(and that she had dealt hardly I could not doubt), there still existed
some few compassionate hearts; and that I was proud to place mine among
the number. He gently pressed my hand to his lips; intreated I would
name an early day for giving him another meeting in the same place; and
telling me he was then going by appointment to see _his old friend_, and
former Colonel, Lord G. he tottered down the avenue, but not till we had
agreed on meeting the following morning at twelve; when he promised to
acquaint me with the success of his visit, from which he already seemed
to derive the most sanguine expectations. My eyes could only follow him
for a few minutes, but my heart ceased not to accompany him throughout
the day; and while I pondered on the vicissitudes of life, and retracing
his former situation, I could not help sorrowfully contrasting it with
his present embarrassments.

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  [The EDITORS of the NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE, present their readers,
  this week, with the first number of the "FARRAGO," from the
  inimitable pen of Mr. DENNIE, author of "_The Lay Preacher_,"
  &c. &c. The pure morality, the elegant and classical style which
  is pourtrayed in every paragraph, the Editors flatter themselves
  will be acceptable to the lovers and patrons of Literature. The
  _Farrago_ originally appeared in "THE TABLET," a literary paper
  published in Boston, which was universally read and admired
  throughout the New-England States.]


       *       *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                     No. I.

                   *   *   *

  "A DESULTORY WAY OF WRITING,
  A HOP, SKIP, AND JUMP MODE OF INDITING."

    PETER PINDAR.

Le Sage, the merry author of Gil Blas, delights to expatiate in praise
of a Spanish soup, denominated, in that language, an Olla Podrida,
a dish formed by a motley mixture of many ingredients, of which some one
can tickle the most fastidious palate.

Essays should resemble this Olio, if their author wish for readers. When
a student sits down to a system, he expects the formality and method of
the schools, but how frequent would be the yawn, if periodical writings
resembled LOCKE's Essay on Understanding? Of works intended for
amusement, the essence is sprightliness and variety. Without these
requisites a reader would rise from the literary repast, and, in
SHAKESPEARE's phrase, pronounce it but _lenten_ entertainment.

When cookery was young, viands the most simple were sought; and, in an
ancient bill of fare, acorns and spring water were the first articles.
Time has created alteration; and the refinement of modern luxury
requires _made_ dishes. Plain food daily grows into disrepute, and, for
the substantial sirloin we substitute ragouts and fricacees, replete
with spicery. To gratify modern taste, every thing must be _high
seasoned_. This irregular appetite affects the library, as well as the
table, and extends to the books, which we read, as well as to the
dishes, which we taste. Motley miscellany, in all its Proteus forms,
aptly christened by the British booksellers "light, summer reading," is
the favourite amusement of all _gentle students_. On this occasion, one
might declaim against modern degeneracy; might compare the tinsel of
KELLY with the gold of ADDISON; might sigh for solid books and dishes,
and invoke HOOKER and BACON to write, and a turnspit of Queen ELIZABETH
to _cook_ for us. But this species of railing is grown so trite that
"'tis a custom more honoured in the breach, than in the observance." It
is better, with a willing adroitness, to comply, with what we cannot
change, and to form the "stuff" of our argument, as a tailor cuts a
coat, by the rule of fashion.

A literary adventurer, confident of amusing himself, though almost
hopeless of amusing others, prepares to scribble in conformity to the
preceding sentiment. Though still juvenile, he has, for a period of some
duration, been in the habit of marking the hues of "many- life."
The morning he gives to books, and the evening to men; and, from every
page that he twirls, and from every character which he sees, he
endeavours, like his renowned predecessor, the Spectator, to extract
amusement or instruction. He is not, however, like him, only an observer
in society, but cheerfully converses even with "wayfaring men, though
fools," that he may learn some particulars of life's journey. With all
the restlessness of busy indolence, and with all the volatility of a
humming bird, he roams from object to object, as caprice inspires. This
is the province of a lounger; he is one of "the privileged orders" in
society, and to wander is his vocation.

Thus inquisitive from habit, and thus restless from temper, he fancies,
perhaps presumptuously, that he may now become the herald of what he has
seen and heard. In giving his lucubrations to the world, he confesses
that his nerves thrill with the tremors of timidity. Though he thinks,
with Dr. YOUNG, that "fondness of fame, is avarice of air," yet, in
spite of sober belief, juvenile ambition

  "Will sink with spleen, or swell with pride,
  As the gay palm is granted, or denied."

As he is a _volunteer_ in the literary corps, he hopes that severe
discipline will not be exercised. He implores of the critics a
dispensation from an observance of the more rigid rules of method, as he
never was educated in that "drowsy school." A lover of the desultory
style, his effusions shall keep pace with STERNE's--in digression and
eccentricity, though halting far behind him in wit. Such a writer, the
logicians must permit to wander at large,

  "Nor to a narrow path confin'd,
  Hedge in, by rules, his roving mind."

If he be suffered to remain enfranchised, though abusing his liberty, he
may stray from the high road, yet he hopes never to deviate far from the
boundaries of common sense; and if, in the wildness of volatility, he
sometimes leap the hedge, he will endeavour to catch a butterfly, or
crop a flower. All parties in the _State_, may read the moderate
sentiments of a writer, who will neither factiously blow the trumpet of
democracy, nor proudly stalk in the aristocratical buskin. All sects in
the _Church_, may cheerily and charitably unite in the perusal of a
work, intended to amuse as a speculation, not dogmatize as a creed.
Though feminine foibles will be smilingly derided, yet, at the
apprehension of malignant satire from the author of the _Farrago_, not a
heart need palpitate, a fan flutter, nor a tea-table shake. If the
ladies will "put away those strange gods," coquetry, futility and
artifice, he will, in, the words of SHAKESPEARE's weaver, so restrain
and aggravate his voice, that he will roar at them, like any sucking
dove, he will roar, like any nightingale.--In fine, like every other
adventurer, he promises plausibly; and though he cannot hope to instruct
by golden precept, like PYTHAGORAS, or divert by humour, like FALSTAFF,
yet like SANCHO PANZA, by his very simplicity he may inform and amuse.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  +The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;+
  An Interesting Spanish Tale.

  (Concluded from page 342.)

No sooner had she come to the bottom of the stairs than she perceived
Don Alphonso. Her joy almost deprived her of speech; she leaned against
the wall, her head sunk on her shoulder, and the tears bedewed her
cheeks. She wiped them away, stopped a moment to take breath, and,
endeavouring to speak with firmness, approached the prisoner.

'Stranger,' said she, disguising her voice, 'you have killed your
companion. What could induce you to commit such a horrid crime?'

'Alcaid,' answered Don Alphonso, 'I have committed no crime; it was an
act of justice; but I am desirous to die. Death alone can end the
miseries, of which the wretch I have sacrificed was the first cause.
Condemn me. I wish not to make a defence. Deliver me from a life which
is hateful to me, since I have lost what alone could render it
delightful; since I can no longer hope ever to find'----

He was scarce able to conclude, and his voice faintly expressed the name
of Marina.

Marina trembled on hearing him pronounce her name. She could scarcely
conceal her transports, but was ready to throw herself into the arms of
her lover. The presence, however, of so many witnesses restrained her.
She, therefore, turned away her eyes, and faintly requested to be left
alone with the prisoner. She was obeyed.

Giving a free course to her tears she advanced towards Don Alphonso, and
offering him her hand, said to him, in a most affectionate tone, 'Do you
then still love her who lives for you alone?'

At these words, at this voice, Alphonso lifts his head, unable to
believe his eyes. 'Oh Heavens! Is it--is it my Marina! Or is it some
angelic being assuming her form? Yes, it is my Marina herself, I can no
longer doubt it,' cried he, clamping her in his arms, and bathing her
with his tears. 'It is my love, my life, and all my woes are ended.'

'No,' said Marina, as soon as she could recover speech, 'you are guilty
of bloodshed, and I cannot free you from your fetters; but I will repair
to-morrow to the superior judge, will inform him of the secret of my
birth, relate to him our misfortunes, and, if he refuses me your
liberty, will return and end my days with you in this prison.'

Marcello immediately gave orders for the removal of Alphonso from the
dungeon into a less hideous place of security. He took care that he
should want for nothing, and returned home to prepare for his journey,
the next day, when a most alarming event prevented his departure, and
hastened the delivery of Don Alphonso.

Some Algerine galleys, which had for several days pursued the ship on
board which Don Alphonso was, had arrived on the coast, some time after
the shipwreck; and willing to repay themselves for the trouble they had
taken, had determined to land, during the night. Two renegadoes, who
knew the country, undertook to conduct the barbarians to the village of
Gadara, and fulfilled their promise but too well.

About one in the morning, when labour enjoys repose, and villainy wakes
to remorse, the dreadful cry _to arms! to arms!_ was heard.

The Corsairs had landed, and were burning and slaughtering all before
them. The darkness of the night, the groans of the dying, and the
shrieks of the inhabitants, filled every heart with consternation. The
trembling wives caught their husbands in their arms; and the old men
sought succour from their sons. In a moment the village was in flames,
the light of which discovered the gory scymitars and white turbans of
the Moors.

Those barbarians, the flambeau in one hand, and the hatchet in the
other, were breaking and burning the doors of the houses; making their
way through the smoaking ruins, to seek for victims or for plunder, and
returning covered with blood, and loaded with booty.

Here they rush into the chamber, to which two lovers, the bride and
bridegroom of the day, had been conducted by their mother. Each on their
knees, side by side, was pouring forth thanks to heaven, for having
crowned their faithful wishes. An unfeeling wretch, remorseless, seizes
the terrified bride; loads her unhappy lover, whom in cruelty he spares,
with chains; and snatches before his face, in spite of his distraction,
his tears, prayers, and exclamations, that prize which was due to him
alone.

There they take the sleeping infant from its cradle. The mother,
frantic, defends it, singly, against an host. Nothing can repel, nothing
can terrify her. Death she braves and provokes. For her child she
supplicates, threatens, and combats; while the tender infant, already
seized by these tigers, starts, wakes, stares, with the wild agony of
terror, on the grim visage of its murderer, and sinks into convulsive
horror and sleep, from which it wakes no more.

Nothing is held sacred by these monsters. They force their way into the
temples of the Most High, break the shrines, strip off the gold, and
trample the holy relics under foot. Alas! of what avail to the priests
is their sacred character? to the aged their grey hairs? to youth its
graces, or to infancy its innocence? Slavery, fire, devastation, and
death are every where, and compassion is fled.

On the first alarm the Alcaid made all haste to the prison to inform Don
Alphonso of the danger. The brave Alphonso demanded a sword for himself
and a buckler for the Alcaid. He takes Marina by the hand, and making
his way to the market-place, thus accosts the fugitives: 'My friends,
are ye Spaniards, and do ye abandon your wives and children to the fury
of the infidels?'

He stops, he rallies them, inspires them with his own valor, and, more
than human, (for he is a lover, and a hero) rushes, sabre in hand, on a
party of the Moors, whom he instantly disperses. The inhabitants recover
their recollection and their courage; enraged, behold their slaughtered
friends; and hasten in crowds to join their leader.

Alphonso, without quitting Marina, and ever solicitous to expose his
life in her defence, attacks the barbarians at the head of his brave
Spaniards, and dealing destruction to all who make resistance, drives
the fugitives before him, retakes the plunder and the prisoners, and
only quits the pursuit of the enemy to return and extinguish the flames.

The day begin to break, when a body of troops, who had received
information of the descent of the infidels, arrived from a neighbouring
town. The governor had put himself at their head and found Don Alphonso
surrounded by women, children, and old men; who, weeping, kissed his
hands, with unfeigned gratitude, for having preserved their husbands,
their fathers, or their sons.

The governor, informed of the exploits of Don Alphonso, loaded him with
praises and caresses; but Marina, requesting to be heard, declared to
the governor in presence of the whole village, her sex; giving, at the
same time, a relation of her adventures, the death of the bravo by Don
Alphonso, and the circumstances which rendered him excusable.

All the inhabitants, greatly affected with her story, fell at the feet
of the governor, intreating pardon for the man to whom they were
indebted for their preservation. Their request was granted, and the
happy Alphonso, thus restored to his dear Marina, embraced the governor,
and blessed the good inhabitants. One of the old men then advanced:
'Brave stranger,' said he, 'you are our deliverer, but you take from us
our Alcaid; this loss perhaps outweighs your benefit. Double our
blessings; instead of depriving us of our greatest, remain in this
village; condescend to become our Alcaid, our master, our friend. Honour
us so far, as to permit nothing to abate our love for you. In a great
city, the cowardly and the wicked, who maintain the same rank with
yourself, will think themselves your equals; while, here, every virtuous
inhabitant will look on you as his father; next to the Deity himself,
you will receive, from us, the highest honour; and, while life remains,
on the anniversary of this day, the fathers of our families will present
their children before you, saying, 'behold the man who preserved the
lives of your mothers.'

Alphonso was enchanted while he listened to the old man. 'Yes,' cried
he, 'my children, yes, my brethren, I will remain here. My life shall be
devoted to Marina and to you. But my wife has considerable possessions
in Granada. Our excellent governor will add his interest to ours that we
may recover them, and they shall be employed to rebuild the houses which
the Infidels have burnt. On this condition alone, will I accept the
office of Alcaid; and though I should expend in your service, both my
riches and my life, I should still be your debtor; for it is you who
have restored to me my Marina!'

Imagine the transports of the villagers while Alphonso spoke. The
governor was a person of power, and undertook to arrange every thing to
his wish; and, two days afterwards, the marriage was celebrated between
Marina and her lover.

Notwithstanding their late misfortunes, nothing could exceed the joy of
the inhabitants. The two lovers long lived in unexampled felicity; and
made the whole district as virtuous and happy as themselves.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  HISTORICAL EXAMPLES OF HUMANITY.

On the day of the battle of Dettingen, a musketeer, named Girardeau,
dangerously wounded, was carried near the Duke of Cumberland's tent.
They could find no surgeon, all of them being sufficiently employed
elsewhere. They were going to dress the duke, the calf of whose leg had
been pierced by a ball: "Begin," said that generous prince, "with
relieving that French officer, he is more wounded than I; he may fail of
succour, and I shall not."

Alphonso V. king of Sicily and Arragon, was besieging the city of
Gayette. That place beginning to fail of provisions, the inhabitants
were obliged to turn out the women, children, and old men, who were so
many useless mouths.--These poor people found themselves reduced to the
most direful extremity. If they approached the city, the besieged fired
on them; if they advanced towards the enemy's camp they there met the
same danger. In this sad condition, those wretches implored sometimes
the compassion of their countrymen, not to suffer them to die with
hunger. Alphonso was moved with pity at this spectacle, and forbid his
soldiers to use them ill. He then assembled his council, and asked the
advice of the principal officers, respecting the manner he ought to act
with these unfortunate people. They all gave their opinion that they
ought not to receive them, and said, that if they perished by hunger, or
by the sword, none could be blamed but the inhabitants, who had driven
them out of the city. Alphonso was offended at their hardness of heart:
he protested he would rather renounce the taking of Gayette than resolve
to let so many wretches die of hunger. He also added, that a victory
purchased at that price would be less worthy of a magnanimous king than
a barbarian and a tyrant. 'I am not come,' said he, 'to make war on
women, children, and feeble old men, but on enemies capable of defending
themselves.' He immediately gave orders that they should receive all
those unfortunate people into the camp, and caused provisions, and
whatever was necessary, to be distributed amongst them.

A violent tempest, which Alphonso V. king of Arragon, was exposed to at
sea, obliged him to put up into an island. Being there in perfect
security, he perceived one of his gallies on the point of being
swallowed up in the waves, with the equipage and troops that were on
board.----The spectacle excited his compassion, and he immediately gave
orders that they should go and succour those unhappy people. Hereupon
his people terrified at the danger, represented to him, that it was
better to let one ship perish, than expose all the rest to the danger of
ship-wreck. Alphonso did not listen to this advice: but, without
deliberating, embarked on board the admiral's ship, and immediately
departed to give them timely succour; the rest, seeing the king expose
himself with so much resolution, were animated by his example, and every
one hastened to follow him. The enterprize at length succeeded; but he
likewise ran great risk of perishing, it being so very dangerous. The
generous Alphonso said, 'I would have preferred being buried in the sea
with all my fleet, rather than have seen those wretches perish full in
my view without helping them.'


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                  THE CRIMINAL.

                   *   *   *

  (Continued from page 335.)

O moment for reflection! O innocence forever fled!--My children are
satisfied, and--I am miserable. O God of nature, hear my cries! I would
ask of thee forgiveness, for oh! the deed of yesterday hangs heavy on my
soul. What have I done?--I stopped the stranger, and asked his purse: he
refused. I clapt the murderous weapon to his breast and demanded it--he
hesitated.----In imagination I viewed my family perishing for food.
I could not wait--The flint struck--the stranger fell--and--O earth hide
me in thy bosom!--Wretch! how do the words escape my lips--I beheld my
father.----

When reason had regained its seat, I found myself in company with my
children, relieving their wants from out my father's purse.

My wife questioned me as to the manner of my procuring the unexpected
boon. The truth I did not evade; but I related to her every
circumstance, except that the murdered person was the author of my
being. She shuddered at the tale. "O my husband!" she uttered, "why did
you not inform me of your intention? Sooner would I have perished of
hunger, than the crime should have been committed." "Alas!" I returned,
"while yet conscious innocence held thine eyelids closed, the deed was
perpetrated.

"O my Euphemia! thou knowest not the extent of my villainy! If thou
didst, thou wouldest shun my sight, and think me a devil that had
assumed the form of man. What crime is worse than----But stop, thy
feeble frame cannot now stand the shock.--Summon all thy fortitude; soon
will the awful tidings sound dreadful in thine ears."

  L. B.

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  +SELECTED OBSERVATIONS of a LATE WORTHY DIVINE.+

Adrian, the coadjutor of Ximenes in the government of Castile, was much
disturbed at the libels which flew about against them. Ximenes was
perfectly easy. "If," said he, "we take the liberty to act, others will
take the liberty to talk and write: when they charge us falsely, we may
laugh; when truly, we must mend."

Dr. Green of St. John's college, trying to skate, got a terrible fall
backwards--"Why, Doctor," said a friend who was with him, "I thought you
had understood the business better."--"O," replied the Doctor, "I have
the theory perfectly; I want nothing but the practice."--How many of us,
in matters of a much higher and more important nature, come under the
Doctor's predicament!


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On Saturday: evening the 29th ult. by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost,
Colonel DEVEAUX, well known for his military atchievments and social
virtues, to Miss VERPLANK, of Dutches Country.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. EDWARD PRIOR, to Miss FANNY
FISHER, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. BENJAMIN FERRIS, to Miss ANN
POST, daughter of Mr. Henry Post.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 23d to the 29th ult._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

           deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
              100   100
  April 23  46    48    se. e.   rain do.  l. wd.
        24  44    49    e. do.   cloudy  rain l. wd.
        25  48    60    s. do.   rain fog. cle.  calm l. w.
        26  49    63    sw. do.  clear do.  calm l. wd.
        27  42    56    ne. se.  clear do.  lt. wd. do.
        28  44    61    e. s.    clear do.  l. wd. h. wd.
        29  50    71    e. do.   clear do.  lt. do.

                   *   *   *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  FOR APRIL 1797.

  Made in the Cupals of the MUSEUM, by G. BAKER, Proprietor.

  Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise (Far. Sc.) 43    6
  Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M.                               53    7
  Do. do. for the whole month                                48   65
  Greatest monthly range between the 5th. and 14th.          47    0
  Do. do. in 24 hours, the 5th                               28    0
  Warmest day the 5th                                        82    0
  Coldest do. the 14th                                       35    0

  12 days it rained, and an uncommon quantity has fallen.
   1 do.  it snowed, about 6 in. deep, it all disappeared by the
       following day.
  14 do.  the wind was at the westward of north and south,
       at the ob. h.
  16 do.  the do.  was at the eastward of do.  and do.  do.
  17 do.  the do.  was light at both observations.
   4 do.  the do.  was high at do.  do.
  13 do.  it was clear at do.  do.
  11 do.  it was cloudy at do.  do.
   3 times it Thundered and Lightened, in considerable abundance.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                  AN ACROSTIC.

  On the Rev.

  G reat is the work--the cause a glorious one,
  E 'en to proclaim GOD's everlasting son:
  O h may he all your faithful labours bless,
  R eward your toils, and give you great success;
  G uard you from harm, your useful life prolong,
  E ver inspire and animate your song.

  R eligion to promote is your delight,
  O h worthy champion of the PRINCE OF LIGHT:
  B old in the glorious cause of righteousness,
  E ach word, each action does your zeal express:--
  R ever'd by all--when this frail life is o'er
  T o joys immortal shall your spirit soar,
  S hall sing _Redeeming love_ for evermore.

    REBECCA.

      NEW-YORK April 28th, 1797.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                     LINES,
          ON THE DESTRUCTION OF LISBON.

  O may God's hand still hover o'er my head,
  'Twixt me and earthquakes may thy fingers spread;
  When ocean rises, and when mountains fall,
  Still shield my temples with that five-fold wall.
  Then when huge tons of bursting hills are hurl'd,
  My feet may stand amidst a reeling world;
  In hours unguarded, when I slumber most,
  Be thou my keeper and protect the post:
  So shall thy servant like Elijah stand,
  Beneath the palm of thy Almighty hand.

    J. D.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

  Come, lovely Flora, aid me to pourtray
  The rising beauties of the vernal day,
  The grateful season that fresh life inspires,
  Wakes the dull spirits, and resumes their fires;
  That bids dead nature gaudy colours wear,
  And paints with every hue th' unfolding year!
  As when from sombre shades, and gloomy night,
  Joyous we rise, and hail the new born light,
  Shake off the chains of lethargy to hear
  Harmonious music charm the ravish'd ear,
  By sleep refresh'd, by rest again made strong,
  Mix in the scene, and join the busy throng;
  Thus view Creation's wide-extended plain,
  Where sullen Winter held in dreary reign,
  Where frost and snow deform'd each fertile vale,
  The driving tempest, and the rattling hail.
    Now spring the flowers, now teems the verdant ground,
  And the gay landscape brightens all around;
  Each plant resumes its native form and dye,
  Some ting'd with red, some emulate the sky:
  All in their native elegance of dress,
  Welcome the Spring, its power benign confess!
  The morn how sweet, how fair the rising dawn!
  Gay shines the sun athwart the enamell'd lawn,
  The new cloath'd earth drinks bibulous his ray,
  And Nature glories in his equal sway.
  Creation's hymns ascend the source of light,
  Whose golden splendors chase the brumal night;
  Whose genial warmth o'erpowers the frigid north,
  Pours plenty down, and calls fresh beauties forth.
  Deep, deep, I hear each object swell the strain,
  Exulting in auspicious Phoebus' reign;
  E'en things inanimate their incense raise,
  And what was mute, grows vocal in his praise;
  While ancient deities are all forgot,
  Sleep in contempt, and unmolested rot.
  When Jupiter enrag'd can storm no more,
  Nor Neptune roll his billows to the shore;
  When Egypt's dogs no linen-priests surround,
  And leeks unhonour'd cloath her fertile ground*;
  Wise Persia's god majestic keeps his sphere**,
  Whom rolling worlds with all their tribes revere.
  Be calm, ye storms; ye tempests, rage no more,
  Nor waste your fury on the rugged shore;
  Mild flow, ye waves; ye winds, no longer sweep,
  With awful madness, o'er th' expanded deep,
  Nor dare to lift the towering surges high,
  Foaming resistless to the lofty sky:
  Avaunt, nor cloud the lustre of the day;
  A milder reign succeeds, a gentler sway!
    Come, beauteous Spring! come, hasten with my train,
  Gentle and lovely, to assume thy reign;
  The fairest flowers that early Nature yields,
  That rise spontaneous in the fertile fields,
  Or grace the banks of pure meand'ring rills,
  Or love the sunshine on the sloping hills;
  With richest gems shall thy bright crown adorn,
  Empearl'd with dew-drops from the pointed thorn;
  Though eastern monarchs boast their regal state,
  On whom unnumber'd slaves obsequious wait,
  Though deck'd with all that fills the flaming mine,
  How mean their splendor, when compar'd with thine!
  For thee again the birds resume their song,
  Raise high their notes, and the glad strains prolong;
  Their soft descant they teach the neighbouring grove,
  And each close shade bears witness to their love.
  Nor these alone; through wide Creation's space,
  From the low insect to the human race,
  All hail thy influence, bless thy genial power,
  Thou best enlivener of each chearful hour!
  While aromatic plants perfume the air,
  And flowers and shrubs are deck'd supremely fair.
  As o'er their heads the balmy zephyrs play,
  And gently fan them all the live-long day,
  The sons of age feet happier days return,
  With joys renew'd and fresh emotions burn;
  Shake off the gloom contracted by their years,
  As round their temples wave their hoary hairs.
  Soon as the bird of morn proclaims the dawn,
  And quits, on fluttering wings, the dewy lawn,
  Forth rush the swains, regardless of the toil,
  To break the glebe, and fertilize the soil;
  With chearful hearts their constant labour ply,
  Till Sol's bright beams desert the western sky;
  Then homeward bending, taste unbroken rest,
  For seldom anguish racks the guiltless breast;
  Save where fond love attacks the feeling heart,
  And the soft passions generous warmth impart;
  Save where the lover, pensive and alone,
  Makes woods and caves re-echo to his moan;
  And every thought intent on some coy fair,
  With bitter wailing fills the ambient air.
    Almighty Love! say whence those melting fires,
  Those glowing transports, and those soft desires,
  That warm the soul; and, every sense refin'd,
  That humanize the fierce, obdurate mind?
  From Nature all--from Nature's God they flow,
  Who bade the breast with pure emotions glow:
  When heaven-born Virtue binds with sacred ties,
  And smiling beauty fascinates the eyes,
  He, source of all, adorns the laughing day,
  And bids the flowers their gaudy tints display;
  With vernal gales dispenses life around,
  While love and music through each grove resound.

  [* Alluding to the ancient Egyptian form of worship.]

  [** The sun was adored by the Persians.]

  [[Source:

  Original: _Parnassian sprigs: or, poetical miscellanies_, 1777, by
    William Fordyce Mavor 1758-1837.

  "AWAKE my Muse! assist me to pourtray
  The striking beauties of the vernal Day,
  The grateful season that fresh life inspires,
  Wakes the dull spirits, and relumes their fires,"

  Most of the section between "enamell'd lawn" and "Be calm, ye
    storms!" is missing (6 lines in the original as against 18 in the
    New-York Weekly).
  The section from "sloping hills" to "For thee again" is an imperfect
    match (7 lines : 6 lines).

  Possible source: _Scots Magazine_ 1783, ed. Boswell, has the same
    footnotes.]]


_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 10, 1797.+  [+No. 97.+


  THE AFRICAN's COMPLAINT.

Phoebus had immersed his flaming forehead in the Western main--smoothly
glided the wild zephyrs, gently murmuring amongst the resounding
foliage--Cynthia in blushing majesty began faintly to gild with silver
tints the distant hills--a thousand glittering gems sparkled through the
circumambient hemisphere--Nature seemed smiling to invite to nocturnal
contemplation the sons of philosophy:--courted by the enchanting scenes,
and enveloped in a pleasing reverie, I walked forth amongst the
surrounding shades.----"Happy, ye freeborn sons of Columbia," exclaimed
I, "liberty and plenty bless your domestic retirements; war,
devastation, and wide-wasting rapine have fled from your peaceful
shores--no murderous assassin, or night prowling incendiary, carries the
hidden dagger of slaughter, or dread torch of destruction to disturb
your uninterrupted tranquility; no hostile armies to snatch from your
tender embrace the son, the husband, the father, or brother--No."
I would have proceeded, but a voice that seemed to pierce through my
inmost soul issued from the adjacent shades; despair and anguish
vibrated on the fleeting sounds--my soliloquy was broken.--"Farewell
every pleasure," it exclaimed in a voice rendered almost inarticulate by
grief. "Adieu, ye native skies! No more shall the unhappy Corymbo rest
beneath the spreading arbors of Congo--No more shall the charms of the
lovely Yonka give pleasure and delight to a bosom racked with the most
excruciating pains; Oh, ye aged parents! what were your feelings, how
did your bosoms heave, when your child, your Corymbo, was torn from you
by the cruel unfeeling Christian--forced into a floating dungeon more
terrible than death itself--bartered as a slave--exposed to contempt and
scorn--unjustly marked with the whip of tyranny--his labour unjustly
extorted from him--denied the common necessaries of life--trampled on by
a monster, whose avaricious heart outvies the adamant, unsusceptible of
the tender feelings of lost humanity! Oh! thou invisible being, who
sustains the universe! why dost thou suffer thy votaries to perpetrate
such barbarity under the sanction of thy venerable name?--Hold. Why do I
upbraid heaven? Death will ere long liberate my distracted soul. Oh! how
ineffable glows my breast--the delectable view showers some drops of
comfort into my tortured mind. Flow swift ye intervening moments! come
thou welcome hour! when my spirit shall quit this sinking frame, and
wafted on the wings of wind, shall fearless dart across the Atlantic and
again embrace those tender, once dear, but now distant companions of my
youth.--But why do I linger. My master is now waiting to receive an
account of my labour--perhaps the torturing lash." Here came back, like
an inundation, the remembrance of his slavery, which only for a moment
fled to give room for a beam of comfort, which soon subsided and left
more acute sensations than before. Sobs and inarticulate expressions
were all that he could utter, whilst in hasty steps he wandered from my
hearing. For some moments I remained stupid, petrified to the spot;
still, methought, I heard the sounds of misery echoing amongst the
lonely shades. "Ungrateful countrymen," I exclaimed, "why do ye deny
those inestimable blessings, to your fellow men that heaven has so
eminently dignified you with? Or, why so callous to tender pity as to
lacerate the flesh of the innocent? Oh, ye votaries of christianity! how
can ye reconcile your execrable conduct with the precepts of the divine,
the exalted and elevated maxims of the great founder of your system."


       *       *       *       *       *

  MIXED COMPANY.

The mind of each sex has some natural kind of bias, which constitutes a
distinction of character, and the happiness of both depends, in a great
measure, on the preservation and observance of this distinction. For
where would be the superior pleasure and satisfaction resulting from
mixed conversation, if this difference was abolished?

If the qualities of both were invariably and exactly the same, no
benefit or entertainment would arise from the tedious and insipid
uniformity of such an intercourse; whereas considerable are the
advantages reaped from a select society of both sexes.

The rough angles and asperities of male manners are imperceptibly filed
and gradually worn smooth, by the polishing of female conversation, and
the refining of female taste: while the ideas of women acquire strength
and solidity by their associating with sensible, intelligent, and
judicious men.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

  (Continued from page 347.)

Captain S---- had married in early youth the woman of his heart. Her
fortune was very small; nor did he possess any other independance than
that which arose from his commission. He was allied to many noble
families, and had received an education more suitable to his connections
than his expectations. His Lady was not in any respect his equal; she
was the only child of a poor, but honest, curate in Wales, where she
became acquainted with the Captain, at that time an Ensign in a marching
regiment, quartered at Glamorgan: he saw, became enamoured, and married
her. They lived with economy and comfort about five years, in which time
she bore him a son. This event seemed to operate in their favour, as a
distant relation of his mother's, whom he had hitherto known only by
name, wrote to him on hearing of it, and in consequence of the good
character which had answered his enquiries, he had deposited in the
hands of Mess. Cox and Greenwood a sufficient sum of money, to enable
him to purchase a company on the first occasion that might offer.

Our young adventurer no sooner received this unexpected letter, than he
solicited and obtained leave of absence, and hastened to London, when he
immediately waited on the gentlemen above-mentioned; and hearing that
the commission was prepared for him, and that the money deposited in
their hands exceeded by some hundreds it's purchase, he resolved on
joining his company without delay. Little time was required to settle
his affairs: he wrote to Mrs. S----, and to his father, strongly
recommending to the latter those dear relatives he committed to his
protection; and inclosing bills to nearly the whole amount of the money
which remained in his hands, he soon after embarked in the first ship to
join the new regiment to which he belonged, and which was at that time
stationed in Jamaica.

Imagine not, gentle reader, that Captain S---- thus quitted all he held
dear without a pang. His heart was the receptacle of the surest feelings
of humanity; and if he avoided taking a long, perhaps a last, farewell,
it was order to avoid the too powerful temptation of a change in his
resolution. He figured to himself the tears and intreaties of an
affectionate wife, the winning smiles of an infant boy: and to their
future welfare he gladly sacrificed every selfish idea of present
felicity. These reflections accompanied him throughout a long and
perilous voyage, which was at last completed without any material
occurrence.

It was during his short stay in London that I met with him. The recent
kindness of his kinsman had proved a sure passport into the houses of
his other relations. He procured from them all not only a general
invitation during his stay there, but many flattering letters of
recommendation to the principal families and military men whither he was
going. His person was uncommonly graceful, and the bright glow of
prosperity beaming on his fine open countenance, indicated the native
honesty that warmed his heart. I was at that time not more than fifteen;
Captain S---- about four-and-twenty. Such an object was well calculated
to awaken the feelings of artless sensibility. Young and romantic as I
then was, I could imagine no higher delight than that of marrying
Captain S----, and following his fate "beyond unknown seas." Alas!
I knew not that he was already the betrothed partner of a more fortunate
fair; and when, on his discovering what I found it difficult to conceal,
he candidly revealed to me his situation, I could only offer up sighs
and tears at his departure, which wore away _almost soon after_ the
object which had created them disappeared.


       *       *       *       *       *

               _THIRD WANDERING._

The next morning I was punctual to my appointment; but waited above an
hour before I perceived Captain S----. At length he came, and made no
secret to me of what had detained him. He informed me, that having gone
on the preceding day to Lord G--------'s he could with difficulty gain
admission into the hall; where, after having been for some time insulted
by the enquiring looks, and questions, of several impertinent footmen,
he seemed likely to remain; not one of them, though assured he waited on
his Lordship by his own appointment, appearing willing to stir from
their chairs to announce him. He continued there some time; during which
he had the mortification to see several of his old acquaintance alight
from their carriages, and pass, without deigning to look towards him. He
patiently waited the return of these great people, and then repeated his
request of a moment's audience, which was answered by a desire that he
would call again the next morning, at the same hour.

He went, and sound orders to admit him. Lord G----, with that tone of
authority which superior fortune always gives so the supercilious,
however polished, and to the ungenerous, however courtly, reproached him
in very acrimonious terms with having suddenly thrown up his commission,
at a time when promotion was becoming general, and his country
particularly demanded his services.

Stung to the heart at a reproof, which while he knew to be severe, he
felt to be just, he alledged, in excuse, what to a delicate mind would
have been an all-powerful one. His _wife_--her _situation_: Lord G----
interrupted him, by telling him that all such feelings should be
sacrificed to self-interest. He then rang his bell, called for his
carriage, and putting a solitary guinea into the hands of Captain S----,
cast reflections on this conduct, that were as galling as unmerited, and
wishing him good morning, rid himself of a visitor, whose reduced
circumstances were his only mark of inferiority.

I was less surprised than Captain S---- at the conduct of Lord G----;
and after making some comments, naturally arising from the transaction,
I prevailed on him to accompany me home, and to relate to me his
narrative, which he did in the following words.

"I was received in Jamaica with much kindness by my brother officers;
and my letters procured me many distinguished attentions from the
principal families there. My intercourse with many gay young men, and
the life of amusement (not to say dissipation) which I led, might, in a
heart less tender than mine, have dispelled the gloom that had hung over
me since my departure from England. But I did not find it so; my mind
perpetually wandered over the past scenes of domestic delight; and my
heart inwardly sighed, as I reflected on the expanse of ocean that
divided me far from them. My wife was young, and ignorant of the world;
and though the letters which she wrote me were filled with love, and
regret, I suffered myself to dread a change in her affections, and gave
way to the most dismal forebodings, which, instead of being diminished,
were augmented by time.

"A captain in our regiment, whose name was _Nesbitt_, was on the point
of returning on leave of absence to England. The death of his mother had
put him in possession of considerable property, and it was necessary
that he should settle his affairs. My heart prompted me to make
particular overtures of intimacy to Captain Nesbitt, that I might
influence him to see, and give me a particular account of my family. At
that time too, I had unfortunately lost to him a sum of money at play;
which, though not very considerable, was more than I could command,
previous to his departure. On my mentioning it to him, he treated it
lightly, and assured me he had not at that time any occasion for it.
I received from him the most consolatory promises, and we parted with
all the reciprocal good wishes that can be supposed to arise from a
concluded friendship, and an assurance that I should hear from him
frequently on the subject which alone interested my heart.

"Captain Nesbitt was punctual to his word; he wrote me an account of his
safe arrival in London, and that he was going to pass five or six weeks
with a party of his friends at Swansea, from whence he should make it
his first business to wait on Mrs. S----. The next ship brought me a
packet from herself, in which she mentioned having seen him, and at a
time when a visit from a friend of mine was particularly welcome, as she
had just lost her father, and retired to a small farm-house near
Glamorgan, till she should hear from me in what manner she should
dispose of herself. She solicited my permission to join me in Jamaica,
and that I would negociate her voyage with one of the first returning
Captains, that he might settle in my name for every suitable
accommodation. This was the project I ardently sighed for, but I wished
it to come from herself; and the silence I had observed on it during her
father's lifetime, being no longer necessary, I answered her in the
effusions of a heart filled with love and gratitude, and gave, as she
desired, all proper directions to forward her approaching departure.

"Nothing but witnessing her safe arrival, could convey such transport to
my mind, as seeing the ship get under weigh, that bore my letter, and
was charged with the commission to bring her once more to my arms.
I watched the wind and weather with anxiety, and in idea followed the
vessel to her destined port. I passed the intervening time in fondly
anticipating the arrival of the welcome stranger, and in preparing every
thing for her reception.

"I had particularly attached myself to a Black, of the name of _Scipio_.
He was the servant of a gentleman whom I visited, who bought him in his
infancy, and treated him more as a favoured inmate, than a slave. Scipio
was possessed of a noble mind, and a heart susceptible of affection, and
gratitude. He loved his master, and lamented the destiny of those of his
countrymen who were less fortunate than himself. Often would he wonder
why they were so; comparing their labours with his own, and
acknowledging their superiority. I frequently observed him to follow me
at a distance in those hours when, oppressed by thought, I sought the
plantain's friendly shade, and shunned the converse of mankind; and oft
would sorrow overspread his sable countenance while he watched me, as if
fearful of my destruction.

"I was one day ruminating on my situation, anticipating the pleasure,
yet at the same time dreading the frustration of _all_ my hopes, when
Scipio ran eagerly towards me, and announced the approach of a ship from
England. I climbed the highest point, as if to bring her nearer to me.
It was too soon for me to expect my wife; all I could hope was a letter
from her, and to that I looked with eager joy, as from the shore I
espied the gaily painted vessel, gliding gently over the smooth surface
of the deep, as the welcome harbinger of peace. With a palpitating heart
I hailed her, as she majestically came towards us, but the flattering
dream soon vanished, as I heard her pronounced to be from _Bristol_.

"The keen edge of expectation was quickly blunted by the stroke of
disappointment; yet was the selfish idea soon restrained by the
surrounding multitude, as I observed the busy countenances near me, and
reflected that the disappointment of _my_ hopes might be the completion
of _theirs_. I was inwardly vexed that I had suffered myself, like a
child, to be hurried away by my passions, the ardour of which had proved
so constantly fatal to my peace.

"In a few weeks, several ships from different ports arrived, but none
that brought tidings to me. The only account I heard from England, in
which I could be interested, was a letter received by Lord G---- from
Captain Nesbitt, inclosing the resignation of his commission, for
reasons which he did not assign."

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE.

An Hon. Member of the Senate, some years past, inquired of a brother
Statesman, if they had made a House? No, sir, says he, there are but
nine; we want one to make a quorum. Aye, (replies the other) I knew you
could do nothing till I arrived. Very true, retorts the wit, a _cypher_
completes the ten.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                    No. II.

                   *   *   *

  "ONE OF THOSE CLOSE STUDENTS, WHO READ PLAYS
  FOR THEIR IMPROVEMENT IN LAW."

    TATLER.

Every grave author, who apothegmatizes for the advancement of learning,
vehemently insists on the propriety of superadding application to
genius. Much has been written to invigorate the lassitude of indolence,
to expose the inefficacy of desultory studies, to lash the absurdity of
procrastination, and to journalize the wanderings of the mind. But, deaf
to the warning voice, there still exists a class of students respectable
for talents and taste, who, whenever fickleness waves her wand, fly
mercurially from a stated task, glance on many subjects, and improve
none. Their judgment, pronouncing sentence against themselves,
acknowledges the utility of fixation of thought, and marks, with
mathematical precision, the point on which attention should rest; but
their wayward imagination is eternally making curves. These literary,
like other hypochondriacs, have their lucid intervals; and, at times,
are fully apprized of the _flitting_ nature of their application. They
write many a penitential annotation upon the chapter of their conduct,
and frame many a goodly plan to be executed--_to-morrow_. The paroxysm
soon returns; and every shackle, which sturdy resolution has imposed,
their ingenious indolence will undo.

It is unpleasant to see those, whom nature and fortune have conspired to
befriend, unqualified to gain the eminence of distinction, by a habit of
turning out of the path. With this censurable volatility are commonly
united, brilliant talents, a feeling heart, and a social temper. If
their possessors would even _occasionally_ adopt and practice those
plodding precepts, which dissipation prompts them to deride, they would
discharge with applause every honorable duty of business and of life.
But, instead of turning the meanders of fancy into a regular channel,
they are perpetually _roaming_, in quest of pleasure. They employ
morning moments, not over learned tomes, but at ladies' toilets. After a
night of revelry, amid the votaries of wine and loo, they will tell you
of Charles Fox, who, like a man of _spunk_, at brothels and at
Brookes's, wenches, gambles, and drinks all night, and, like a man of
genius, harrangues in the house all day. They talk of their privileges,
and swear by the tails of the comets, which are the greatest ramblers in
the universe, that they will be eccentric. The, style of _their_
legislation is, "be it enacted, by Fancy and her favourites, that
whenever Genius chooses to cut capers, they be, and hereby are,
allowable."

As I have a cordial aversion to the abstract modes of speculation, and
choose, with Dr. Johnson, to _embody_ opinions, I proceed to illustrate
by two examples; one from the annals of literature, and one from real
life.

The poet Shenstone was an officer of distinguished rank, in the regiment
of careless bards. Every reader of his works will acknowledge that they
bear "the image and superscription" of genius. But, still, he was an
indolent, uneconomical, volatile character, who, lolling in the bowers
of the Leasowes, wrote pastorals and the school-mistress, when, by a
more vigorous exertion of his talents, he might perhaps have eloquently
charmed the coifed sergeants of Westminster-Hall, or dictated new maxims
of polity to an applauding House of Commons. At the very moment he was
wasting his time and his patrimony, in the erection of rural altars to
Pan and the Dryads, he wrote "Economy," a poem, in which he chaunts the
praise of the _cittish_ virtues, and gravely advises his friends to
devote at least a _rainy_ day to worldly prudence. In this production
are some thoughts suggested, one may venture to affirm, by Shenstone's
experience, pertinent to the subject of this essay. The tolerating
reader will pardon their insertion. Travellers over a dusty desart
rejoice at the sight of verdure; and, disgusted by the insipidity of a
meagre Farrago, its readers may exult to view a quotation.

  "When Fancy's vivid spark impels the soul
  To scorn _quotidian scenes_, to spurn the bliss
  Of vulgar minds, what nostrum shall compose
  This fatal frenzy? In what lonely vale
  Of balmy medicine's various field aspires
  The blest refrigerant? vain, most vain the hope
  Of future fame, this _orgasm_ uncontrol'd."

Who, but the acquaintance of genius and its inconsistencies could
suppose that one, who knew so well the road to fame, should linger at
"caravansaries of rest" by the way? That he, who advises "to collect the
dissipated mind, to shorten the train of wild ideas and to indulge no
expence, but what is legitimated by economy," should be desultory in his
application and prodigal of his estate?

I had collected thus much of my weekly oblation to the public, when,
instead of proceeding, as in duty bound, I forgot my own sermon,
and--sauntered away. Indolence, deriding my efforts, snatched my pen,
overturned my ink-stand, and bade me go and "clip the wings of time"
with a friend. I obeyed, and visited Meander. He is a juvenile neighbour
of mine, placed by his friends with a view to the profession of the law,
in the office of an eminent advocate. The character of Meander is so
various, that it almost precludes delineation. Were Sterne summoned to
describe him, the eccentric wit would quote his Tristram Shandy, and
affirm that Meander was a mercurial sublimated creature; heteroclite in
all his declensions. He has so much of the wildness of the fifth Henry
in his composition, that were I not versed in his pedigree, I should
suppose he descended in a right line from that prince. His ambitious
projects, like the birds of Milton, tower up to Heaven's gate, and he
starts as many schemes as a visionary projector. So entirely devoted is
he to the cultivation of the Belles Lettres, that his graver moments,
instead of being dedicated to Blackstone and Buller, are given to
Shakespeare and Sterne. He reads plays, when he should be filling writs;
and, the other day, attempting to draw a deed, instead of "know all men
by these presents," he scribbled a simile from Spenser. Notwithstanding
his enthusiastic fondness for the study of polite literature, even from
that, he frequently flies off in a tangent; and the charms of the ladies
and of loo, full often cause him to forget that there is a poet or
novelist in our language. The _ignis fatuus_ of his fervid imagination
is continually dancing before him, and leads him many a fantastic, weary
step "over hog and through briar." Nothing can be more sanguine than his
plans of study and of steadiness; and nothing more languid than their
execution. When I entered his lodgings, a domestic informed me that
Meander was still in bed, having sate up all night, with a tavern party
of friends. The servant continuing his narration, added, "that his
master talked much of one Churchill, and at the hour of retiring,
suddenly exclaimed,

  "Wound up at twelve at noon, your clock goes right,
  Mine better goes, wound up at twelve at night."

I smiled at these traits of my friend's character, and, as I well knew
that his slender frame was exhausted by the labors of the night, plying
the pasteboard play, vociferating drunken anthems and swallowing
bumpers, in rapid succession, I therefore suffered him to remain
undisturbed. Unwilling, however, to lose that amusement, which was the
object of my visit, I consoled myself for the absence of my friend, by
surveying his apartment, the furniture of which would give one an idea
of Meander's character, without a personal acquaintance. On a small
table, lay several of his favourite authors, in all the confusion of
carelessness. Among others I noted Shakespeare, Congreve's comedies,
letters of the younger Lyttleton, Mrs. Behn's novels, Fielding's Tom
Jones, and a mountain of pamphlets, composed of magazines and plays. In
the pigeon holes of a desk, I saw a number of loose bits of paper. These
puzzled me sadly. I thought, at first, they contained arcana of
importance; and compared them to the Sybilline leaves of antiquity. But,
I must own that I was a little chagrined, when I discovered that they
were only that species of gambling composition, which I should call _loo
assignats_, but which, in plainer phrase, are denominated _due bills_.
On a low window seat, in a dark corner, lay a most ponderous folio, over
which a diligent spider had woven a web of such size and intricacy, that
the insect must of necessity have been months in spinning it. Curiosity
prompted me to brush away this cobweb covering, and examine the book it
concealed. The reader may easily imagine the state of my risibles, when
I found the volume entitled "An abridgement of the Law, by Matthew
Bacon." A drawer left partly open, revealed to view a bundle of
manuscripts, among which, I found a diary kept by my friend, some parts
of which so completely illustrated his character, that I proposed, with
a few transcripts from it, to terminate this essay. But, the narrowness
of my limits forbids, and the journal of Meander, the annals of
volatility must be postponed. They shall form the subject of our next
lucubration.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE GENEROUS RIVAL.

I have always been of opinion, that those harmless delusions which have
a tendency to promote happiness, ought, in some measure to be cherished.
The airy visions of creative Fancy serve to divert the mind from grief,
and render less poignant the bitter stings of misfortune. Hope was given
to man, to enable him to struggle with adversity; and, without her
chearing smile, the most trifling distress would cut his thread of life.
It was this fascinating deity that eased the love-lorn Edwin's fears;
her gentle whispers soothed each froward care, and extended his view to
scenes of fancied bliss--to that happy moment when propitious Fortune
should present him with the hand of Laura. Pleasing delusion! delightful
thought! that made the moment of separation less painful, that soothed
the rugged front of peril, and softened the rude aspect of terrific war.

Edwin was the son of a merchant of some repute in the metropolis; at the
commencement of the present war, he received an appointment in the army,
and was soon after sent with his regiment to the continent.

Laura was the daughter of a banker of considerable eminence, a member of
the British senate, and possessed of a very extensive fortune. The
attachment that subsisted between these young people was unknown to
Laura's father, the proud, imperious Mr. Dalby, who expected to marry
her to some person of distinction; or, at least, with one who was equal
in point of wealth to himself. For this purpose, he invited the most
wealthy part of the senate, peers and commoners, to his splendid mansion
at the west end of the town; having totally deserted that which had for
many generations been the residence of his ancestors, in the east.

Miss Dalby possessed in an eminent degree, the beauties of the mind, as
well as those of the person; which, exclusive of her fortune, were
sufficiently attractive to a man of sense and discernment. Many of these
visitors became candidates for her election: most of them, however, were
rejected by her father, to whom she was enjoined to report the name and
rank of each person who addressed her on the score of love. Some, the
most wealthy, she was instructed to flatter with hopes of being the
happy man; reserving her affections for him whom the venal parent should
select to be her husband. It was some time before Dalby could fix his
choice, which long hung suspended between an earl and a viscount, of
nearly equal fortune: at length the appearance of a ducal coronet
banished from his mind both the one and the other; and he vainly
flattered himself, in future, to address his daughter by the high
sounding title of--_Your Grace_.

The young Duke Delancy, led by curiosity to behold the lady who was thus
exposed to sale--for, it seems, the intention of Dalby was generally
known--became enamoured of her person; and, on conversing with her,
found her every thing he could wish. He instantly made proposals to Mr.
Dalby; which, it is almost needless to say, were as instantly accepted.
His grace, knowing that the consent of the daughter would avail him but
little, without possessing that of the father, had not discovered to
Laura the partiality he entertained for her; but having, as he imagined,
secured the main chance, made a formal declaration of his love.

Laura listened with profound attention to the impassioned assurances of
affection of the noble duke; and when he paused, in expectation of
receiving a confirmation of his hopes, she raised her blushing eyes, wet
with the tears of anguish, from the ground; and, thanking him for the
honour he intended her, candidly acknowledged the pre-engagement she was
under to the absent Edwin.

Charmed with her candour; and interested by her artless tale, he
determined to resign his pretensions, and support the cause of the young
soldier.

Laura had preserved a regular correspondence with her lover; and he was,
therefore, but too well informed of the desperate situation of his suit.
He longed to fly to the arms of his mistress, but scorned to desert his
post. At length, fortune gave him an opportunity of realizing his
wishes, at a moment when he least expected it. The Republican army
suddenly attacked, in great force, the allied troops: an obstinate
battle ensued, in which Edwin particularly distinguished himself; the
enemy were completely routed; and the young soldier, for the courage he
displayed in the action, was sent to England with the gladsome tidings
of victory. Having delivered the dispatches with which he had been
charged, he hastened to the house of Mr. Dalby; and, gaining admittance,
ran up stairs in the drawing room, where he discovered his noble rival
with the mistress of his heart. His sudden and unexpected appearance
threw the lovely Laura into some disorder; and it was with much
difficulty she retained spirits sufficient to meet her lover's fond
embrace.

At this critical moment, Mr. Dalby entered the room; having from his
study seen an officer cross the hall; and ascend the staircase. The
words--"My dear, dear Laura! and do I once more behold thee in my arms?"
from the enraptured Edwin, caught the ears of the astonished Dalby, who
stood fixed and motionless, mute, and almost discrediting the organs
both of sight and hearing.

"Had I known, Sir," said his grace, who beheld with as much delight the
agitation of Dalby, as the happiness of the youthful pair, "that the
affections of your daughter had been placed on another object, I should
not have offered the smallest violence to her inclination."

"My Lord--my Lord!" stammered out the enraged parent, "she is under no
such engagement as you suppose." Then stepping up to Edwin--"And, pray,
who the devil are you, Sir? Some fortune-hunter, I suppose! But you have
missed your mark, young man: be pleased, therefore, to leave my house;
and, if ever you venture here again, I shall find means--------"

"My dear father!" said Laura, interrupting him, "you surely forget
yourself! The gentleman, whom you thus rudely threaten, is our
neighbour's son, Mr. Langley, the West-India merchant, in
Lombard-street."

"Mr. Langley's son!"

"Yes, Sir," returned Edwin; "and though not blessed with equal fortune
with yourself, I have yet sufficient to support the rank of a gentleman.
I love your daughter; I long have loved her; and she has taught me to
believe that she returns my affection. I ask no fortune; give me my
Laura, and dispose of your wealth in whatever manner you please!"

"Very romantic, faith!--And pray, fellow, do you know who you speak so
freely to?"

"O, very well, Sir!"

"That I am George Dalby, Esq. a member of the House of Commons?" Edwin
bowed. "And that I have an estate free and unincumbered--look you, Sir,
free and unincumbered--that netts 10,000l. a year?"

"To none of these acquisitions am I a stranger, Sir," returned Edwin.

"And you, Laura, will you so far disgrace yourself and me, to throw
yourself away on a dry-salter's son?--A fortune-hunter!--A beggar!"

"A what, Sir?" interrupted Edwin, with much warmth. "But I forget
myself--you are my Laura's father!"

"Sir," said Laura, "I confess that I entertain a partiality for Edwin.
I know his worth; and will renounce all titles, rank and distinction,
wealth and pleasure, to live the partner of his life!"

"Then, by Heaven! as I know my worth. I will renounce you for ever! and,
therefore, hence with your paramour!--you shall nevermore enter my
doors!"

"Be it so," said the Duke; "mine are open to receive them! My house, my
home, my fortune, all are theirs; they shall use them at their pleasure;
they shall live in ease, in competence, and enjoy the pleasures of their
loves: while mad ambition, insatiate avarice, and increasing pride,
shall torture you with never-ceasing pangs, and embitter every future
moment of your life!"

The disappointed, mercenary parent, flew, with bitter imprecations, from
his tormentors: the lovers retired with their noble patron; and, after
having spent several days in a fruitless attempt to gain the consent of
Dalby, were united in the holy bands of wedlock. Edwin has since, from
his professional merit, and the interest of his grace, attained a
distinguished rank in the army; and the dislike of Mr. Dalby to his
daughter's choice has decreased, in proportion as he has risen to
distinction. Several interviews have taken place, through the medium of
their noble friend, and it is believed that time will root from the mind
of Mr. Dalby every unfavourable impression the want of fortune in his
son-in-law occasioned; and that Edwin and Laura will, at last, become
the heirs of his immense property.

The union of this amiable pair has been blessed with two fine boys; and
this increase of family has enlarged their happiness: they still
continue to receive the notice of his grace, whom they consider as the
author of their felicity, and invariably distinguished him by the
appellation of _The Generous Rival_.


  [[Possible sources:

  Caledonian Bee, 1795, "A Select Collection of Interesting Extracts
    from Modern Publications", story labeled "By Mr. Bacon";
  _Interesting anecdotes, memoirs, allegories, essays, and poetical...,
    "by Mr. Addison"_ Volume 5, 1797, (originally 1794), sometimes
    misattributed to Joseph Addison (1672-1719).]]


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                 _THE PRISON._

                   *   *   *

  (A continuation of the CRIMINAL, from page 351.)

                   *   *   *

Within the gloomy walls of a prison, far excluded from the glance of
man, was immured, him that once had basked in the sunshine of
prosperity, him that had been the darling pride of a doating father, and
him, reader, that was the next heir to a peerage. But he had woefully
broken through the laws of his country; Despair, that haggard fiend, had
sent him, like the beast of prey, to obtain assistance unlawfully; and
wholly guided by her dictates, he had unknowingly murdered his
parent.------

----Spare your anathemas, ye advocates for monarchy, ye who think
sanguinary laws are as necessary as the glittering baubles of a crown;
who imagine the life of the offender is requisite to expiate his
crime--and consider whether solitary imprisonment is not far more just.
Common humanity would urge you to reply in the affirmative. Then throw
aside the tyranny of custom, and for once let your bosoms swell with
philanthropy.

Him, who is the subject of this tale, lived in an age when no breast was
actuated by these considerations, when man paid the most implicit
obedience to the gilded trappings of royalty, when no such thing as
civil or religious liberty existed.

No ray of light found entrance into his dismal cell: the wisdom of the
contriver had situated it many yards beneath the surface of the earth.
In one corner there had originally been placed a bundle of straw, which
had served the purpose of a bed to many whom fate had singled out to pay
with their lives the forfeit of their crimes; but nought now remained
save here and there a scattering one. On his legs were bound enormous
shackles, under the weight of which a Sampson would have groaned: nor
were his hands exempt from the galling fetters--and as for his body, it
was nearly cased in iron.--Unhappy victim of despotic cruelty!--

In this dungeon, until he had the "_inestimable privilege of a trial by
jury_," he was doomed to receive an earnest of what he was to expect.
With a soul undaunted he patiently bore it all. Now and then his wife
and helpless children would call for a tear of pity, which was all he
could bestow. He would reflect on the crime he had committed; and
discovered to what lengths misery would lead a man--to the commission of
what in his cooler moments he would spurn from him with horror.

  L. B.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On Thursday evening the 20th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, MR. FRANCIS
M'DOLE, of Brunswick, (N.J.) to Miss DIANA DEAS, of Princeton.

On Saturday evening se'nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. JOHN
WILLIAMS, to Miss SUSAN BOWDEN, both of this city.

On Sunday se'nnight, at Oyster Bay, (L.I.) by Stephen Frost, Esquire,
Mr. JOHN MERRITT, formerly of Limerick, Ireland, to Miss ELIZABETH
HAWXHURST, daughter to Mr. Joseph Hawxhurst, of that place.

On Monday evening se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Rogers, Mr. JAMES CONCKLIN,
to Mrs. JANE STRATTON, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Uzal Ogden, Mr. CHARLES GOBERT,
Merchant, of this city, to Miss CHARLOTTE OGDEN, eldest daughter of Mr.
Lewis Ogden.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, Mr. ARCHIBALD
M'WILLIAMS, Grocer, late of the Albany Pier, to the amiable Miss NANCY
GOOLDSMITH, a native of the Isle of Man.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _TO CORRESPONDENTS._

[->] THE EDITORS acknowledge the receipt of "ZULINDUS;" which shall
appear in our next. We court the favors of those Correspondents who have
heretofore expanded their hearts, expressive, by a love for supporting
and promoting the assiduous endeavors of the proprietors of this useful
and entertaining vehicle; and we rest in hope, that the warm rays of
Aurora will have such an happy effect upon the intellectual mind, that
we may witness, not only the fertile verdure of reviving nature, but the
growing state of Literature, and the happy profusions of the Muse.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 30th ult. to the 6th 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 30  52    59    e. ne.   cly. lt. wd.  do. do. ra.
  May    1  56    70    s. do.   cloudy calm  cl. lt. wd.
         2  51    58    e. do.   cloudy h. wd.  ra. l. w.
         3  42    47    nw. se.  cloudy lt. w.  do. do.
         4  50    68    sw. nw.  cloudy lt wd.  clr do.
         5  50    51    se. do.  clr. calm  cly. h. wd. ra.
         6  51    68    nw. sw.  clear lt. wd.  do. do.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  NEW MAY.
  A Pastoral.

    As down by the wood-land I stray'd,
  Where daisies enamell'd the way,
  Where Flora her frolics had play'd,
  Unveiling her charms to the day;
  The warblers awaken'd the song,
  The dew-drops hung down on the thorn,
  The Zephyrs went gently along,
  And Phoebus embellish'd the morn.

    In rapture I went through the grove,
  Delighted with richest perfume,
  Saw nature devoted to love,
  And the birds their fond labours resume;
  The lark had its ditty re-told,
  The blackbird was heard from the vine,
  The herdsman was driving from fold,
  And sung, "'Tis a shame to repine."

    With gratitude musing I view'd
  The landskip, so splendidly dress'd;
  Gay Fancy her magic renew'd,
  Imprinting her scenes on my breast:
  When lo! from an op'ning I saw
  A damsel come tripping the glade;
  I trembled with transport and awe,
  Afraid to offend the sweet maid.

    No language her charms could unfold,
  No pencil her beauties display,
  Her hair hung like ringlets of gold,
  Her eye was the di'mond's bright ray;
  Her bosom the lily out-vy'd,
  Her lips which I panted to view,
  In the blush of the rose-bud were dy'd,
  And her fingers all glitter'd with dew.

    Her head with a chaplet was dress'd,
  Of May-flow'rs and cowslips combin'd,
  A garland hung over her breast,
  With blue-bells and vi'lets entwin'd;
  Her garment, in negligent flow,
  Her graces all artless display'd--
  'Twas dipp'd in the tint of the bow
  That Iris in April had made.

    New flowrets her footsteps bestrew'd,
  For all was enchantment around,
  The cuckow her ballad renew'd,
  And mix'd with the music her sound--
  Forgive me ye pow'rs! if I bow'd
  To worship a form so divine,
  A mortal might sure be allow'd
  To bend at a goddess's shrine.

    I gaz'd as each look were my last;
  With rapture I think on her now--
  And said as she carelessly pass'd,
  'Thy name to thy vot'ry avow--
  Say, nymph, so delightful and gay,
  Art thou from the mansions above?'
  She smil'd and she answer'd--'NEW MAY,
  AND MINE ARE THE MANSIONS OF LOVE.'


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  LOVE.

  Cold blows the wind upon the mountain's brow,
    In murmuring cadence wave the silv'ry woods,
  The feather'd tribes mope on the leafless bough,
    And icy fetters hold the silent floods;
  But endless spring, the POET's breast shall prove,
  Whose GENIUS kindles at the torch of LOVE.

  For him, unfading blooms the fertile mind,
    The current of the heart for ever flows;
  Fearless, his bosom braves the wintry wind,
    While thro' each nerve eternal summer glows;
  In vain would chilling APATHY controul
  The lambent fires that warm the lib'ral soul.

  To me, the limpid brook the painted mead,
    The crimson dawn, the twilight's purple close,
  The mirthful dance, the SHEPHERD's tuneful reed,
    The musky fragrance of the opening ROSE;
  To me, alas! all pleasures senseless prove,
  Save, the sweet converse of the FRIEND I LOVE.


       *       *       *       *       *

  LIFE.

  Love, thou sportive, fickle boy,
  Source of anguish, child of joy;
  Ever wounding, ever smiling,
  Soothing still, and still beguiling;
  What are all thy boasted treasures?
  Tender sorrows, transient pleasures;
  Anxious hopes, and jealous fears,
  LAUGHING HOURS, AND MOURNING YEARS.

    What is FRIENDSHIP's soothing name?
  But a shadowy, vap'rish flame;
  Fancy's balm, for ev'ry wound,
  Ever sought, but rarely found.
  What is BEAUTY? but a flow'r,
  Blooming, fading, in an hour;
  Deck'd with brightest tints at morn,
  At twilight, with'ring on a thorn;
  Like the gentle ROSE of spring;
  Chill'd by ev'ry Zephyr's wing;
  Ah! how soon its colour flies,
  Blushes, trembles, falls, and DIES.

    What is YOUTH? in smiling sorrow,
  Blithe to-day, and sad to-morrow:
  Never fix'd, for ever ranging,
  Laughing, weeping, doating, changing;
  Wild, capricious, giddy, vain,
  Cloy'd with pleasure, nurs'd with pain;
  Ev'ry moment LIFE's decaying,
  BLISS expires, while TIME's delaying;
  AGE steals on with wintry face,
  Ev'ry rapt'rous HOPE to chase;
  Like a wither'd sapless tree
  Bow'd to chilling FATE's decree;
  Stripp'd of all its foliage gay,
  Drooping at the close of day.
  What of tedious LIFE remains?
  Keen regrets, and cureless pains;
  Till DEATH appears a welcome FRIEND,
  And bid the scene of SORROW end.


_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 17, 1797.+  [+No. 98.+


      _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

It has often been made a question on my mind, Whether the multiplicity
of books in circulation are an advantage or disadvantage to the morals
of youth?--That every book ought to be investigated, and that with an
impartial eye before we condemn it, is a fact incontestible. None but
the prejudiced, the weak and the ignorant, will ever attempt to persuade
youth from the pursuit of wisdom. A man possessed of the least spark of
knowledge, would blush to advise others from the investigation of truth.
That book has never yet been printed, which, when examined by the eye of
reason and candor, did not contain something by which we may be
profited. Yet, how numerous are they who will discard the writings of an
author, merely because they have heard it was an improper book. How
forcible is such reasonings! What will be the opinion of the rational
part of the creation concerning such persons, if they argue with such
inconsistency? Will they not justly conclude that a _weak_ head, and
_unprincipled_ heart, guides their opinion? And while they continue thus
to argue, they ought to reflect, if capable of reflection, that by
condemning them without investigating one single principle whereby they
may substantiate their charge, they expose themselves to censure and
contempt. Thus we behold books too often branded with detestation, and
consigned to oblivion, by those pests of society. For such they truly
are, in my opinion, who have the audacity to persuade youth from a
search after knowledge. Consider, O youth, that while you are obeying
the dictates of these _all-knowing men_, you are sacrificing your own
opinion at the shrine of _ignorance_. It is ignorance, united with
impudence and conceit, that prompts them to trespass on your judgment.
If they were duly to consider from what source their knowledge
arises--if they would give themselves more time to reflect, and that
with candor, they would find that all their profound search and
erudition is nothing more than a "sounding brass or tinkling symbol."
And that as long as they suffer themselves to be led by the wrong
principles which some of our ancestors imbibed, they will be considered
as a mere BLANK in society.

I will readily admit, that there are books which, by a constant
application to them, will corrupt and lead astray the minds of youth,
whose principles are not fully established. Yet, are they to be
prohibited from a perusal of those books? No!--But guard them well
against the danger, and then let them examine such authors with
attention and candor. Let their youthful minds bestow on them their just
sentence. By being thus accustomed to judge for themselves, they will be
able with clearness and precision to detect impostors, if any of that
description should attempt to impose on their understandings. That they
will have to combat with such characters at some period of their lives,
is beyond a doubt, then being unprepared to answer them, will they not
expose THEIR folly in obeying the dictates of men who were guided by
self-conceited, superstitious, and bigotted principles. They are
self-conceited, because THEIR knowledge is deemed by them to be
_superior_ to the rest of mankind; superstitious, because they worship
as their gods a select number of books by which their rule of life is
formed, and from which they dare not deviate, least they should by
transgression seal their ruin; bigotted, because they are _callous_ to
the voice of reason, and determined to adhere to their own principles,
however unfounded.--Such are the men to whose care the instruction of
youth has been too often committed; and who, instead of expanding and
cultivating their juvenile minds with useful knowledge, by a thorough
investigation of every book, have bred them up in superstitious
ignorance, preparing them for the reception of every vice, which finally
proves their ruin.

  ZULINDUS.

    _May 5_, 1797


       *       *       *       *       *

  AFFABILITY.

In order to render ourselves amiable in society, we should correct every
appearance of harshness in our behaviour. That courtesy should
distinguish our demeanor, which springs, not so much from studied
politeness, as from a mild and gentle heart. We should follow the
customs of the world in matters indifferent; but stop when they become
sinful. Our manners ought to be simple and natural, and of course they
will be engaging. Affectation is certain deformity--By forming
themselves on fantastic models, and vying with one mother in every
reigning folly, the young begin with being ridiculous, and end in being
vicious and immoral.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

  (Continued from page 355.)

"The last expected vessels now arrived, and Scipio one morning, hastily
entering my room, with a joyful countenance put a packet into my hands.
It was from England, but the hand-writing, and seal, were unknown to me.
I found it to be from a female distant relation of my wife's who assured
me that she wrote it at her desire, as she had not courage to expatiate
on a subject, that she knew would be so contrary to my wishes. She
proceeded to inform me, that the health of Mrs. S---- was very seriously
affected; owing, in great measure, to the depression of her mind since
my departure; that my little boy was recovering from the small-pox; and
that these considerations rendered it impossible for her, with safety
either to herself, or the child, to undertake the long voyage she had
projected. She said she had found it necessary to remove to London, for
the benefit of better advice than could be obtained in the country; and
she mentioned a temporary lodging she had taken in the neighbourhood of
Islington, till she should hear farther from me how to dispose of
herself. Mrs. S---- added a few lines, by way of postscript, as a
confirmation of the above, and desired I would write to her under cover
to her relation, in whose neighbourhood she resided.

"I read--I paused over the letter; and every time my wild ideas hurried
me beyond myself. At one moment, I believed her affections were
estranged from me; that she no longer wished our re-union, but that
indifference had taken place of that affection which it was the study of
my life to cherish and improve. At another, I reproved myself for the
ungrateful, the illiberal idea; and to that thought a still more
poignant one succeeded. The knowledge I had of her tender mind next
convinced me, that her condition was worse than it was described so me.
I fancied her sinking under a load of grief, and on the point of death,
while I, her friend, her natural protector, was far from her; and to
this reflection Reason herself gave way. "Ah," thought I, "how fatal has
been my desertion of her; and what recompence could promotion, or wealth
itself bestow on me, if purchased by the loss of a wife so tenderly
beloved? She is at this moment suffering under the accumulated horrors
of indigence and slighted affection; and shall I, on whom she has every
claim of love and duty, suffer her to believe that the scorching sun of
this unhealthy climate has had power to dry up in my heart the pure
stream of unadulterated affection? Shall I contemplate her misery, and
allow her to endure it? Ah, no! let me rather return to her as I am,
unpatronized and unexpected;--share with her the scanty pittance
acquired by honest integrity, and trust for the rest to _that_
Providence, which will never forsake _the pure in heart!_"

"Full of these ideas, which were hardly formed before they were
unalterably fixed, I waited on lord G---- and told him that letters I
had just received demanded my quick return to England. I solicited him
to accept my dismission. The perturbation of my mind was visible on my
countenance. He looked attentively at me, expostulated on the folly of
my conduct; but was soon convinced that advice and expostulation were
equally thrown away on a man who sought no interest but his affections,
and consulted no monitor but his heart. Finding at length that I was
deaf to his remonstrances, he settled matters in due form; and wishing
me a pleasant voyage politely, yet coolly, bade me adieu. I returned to
my lodgings, which but a few days since I had taken delight in adorning
for the reception of my Isabella. How sad, how solitary every object now
appeared! The sight of numberless little ornaments, peculiar to the
country, and which I had selected as from their novelty the most
pleasing to her, now lost every charm, and to the affectionate, the
grateful Scipio, I bequeathed them. I went, accompanied by him, to the
house frequented by the English Captains, and soon settled an agreement
with one of them. As I spoke to him, I observed the honest tear of
sensibility steal down the polished cheek of the noble Ethiopian, which
he wiped off with his hand, as if to upbraid it with divulging the
secret of his heart. A few loose dollars remained in my possession,
after I had settled my different accounts: I gave them to Scipio; but he
disdainfully rejected them, and told me I robbed him of more than my
money could purchase, when I robbed him of his _friend!_ These were the
sentiments of an untutored <DW64>; a soul unpractised in the wiles of
art. Alas, poor Scipio! Though many a year has revolved, since we
parted: though many a moon has risen to renew the almost extinguished
lamp of nature, since I witnessed in thee that purity of heart which
nought but Heaven can bestow, still are thy virtues present to my mind,
and still shall remembrance, sickening at the past, reflect on thee,
with prayers for thy transition to those mansions, where innocence like
thine can alone meet with its reward!"

The clocks from the neighbouring churches struck three; and vain were my
solicitations to my unhappy friend, he could not be prevailed on to
share my solitary meal: he abruptly left me, with a promise that he
would continue his narrative of the following day.


       *       *       *       *       *

  Continuation
  of the
  _HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S----._

"In a short time I embarked for England. The weather for some time
favoured us; at length the winds, as if conscious they were wafting me
to misery, often swelled the reluctantly yielding waves, and hurried us
back from our progression. In those hours when sorrow and vexation
clouded the brows of the labouring mariners, impatient to reach their
native shore, a heavy indifference to our destiny clung round my heart;
a presentment of I knew not what blasted each rising hope; and I
pondered on the easy transition from human woe, as I surveyed the
fathomless gulph below me. Often did I rejoice, while the rough swell
lifted us on high, that my Isabella was not exposed to those many
dangers of the deep, which we feel but during the time we experience
them. Among my few books, was Falconer's immortal poem of "_The
Shipwreck_." I knew the superstition commonly attendant on sea-faring
people, and I carefully concealed it from their observation. Often in
the dead of night, when all were sleeping round me as if insensible to
fear, I stole from my cabin, impressed by a far different impulse, and
shared the midnight watch, while its appointed guardian sunk into the
arms of happy, but forbidden rest.

At length we quietly reclined on the peaceful bosom of the venerable
Thames. There, where no fears of faithless seas assailed us, my torpid
mind roused itself into action, and awakening every restless faculty of
my soul, suspended me between despair and hope. I eagerly jumped into
the first boat that came near to us, and leaving every thing belonging
to me on board. I took a post-chaise from Gravesend, where I landed, and
ordering the driver to set me down at the direction I gave him to
Islington, soon reached the abode of my new female correspondent. This
person had seen me but once, and would then have scarcely recollected
me, had not the wildness of my manner in enquiring for Mrs. S----
informed her who I was. She surveyed me with surprize and as I thought,
embarrassment. I requested she would immediately conduct me to my wife's
lodgings, which she at first seemingly consented to; and then, as if
recollecting herself, observed, that my sudden appearance might perhaps
be too powerful for her newly-recovered health, and proposed my waiting
there till she went herself and apprized her of it. I impatiently
brooked this delay, yet submitted to it in consideration to my Isabella.
She told me it was not more than ten minutes walk from her house; yet I
passed near two hours alone in anxious expectation. It was at this time
the latter end of September; and it was past eight in the evening when I
had reached the house. The night was dark and gloomy; and as I stood
immoveable at the little gate which bounded the small garden allotted to
the habitation, I fancied that every hollow murmur of the wind
responsively echoed to my heart, and sigh'd forth, "_Isabella_." At
length they came together; the sound of her voice still vibrates in my
ear, as she faintly pronounced "_Is it you?_" The darkness of night
prevented me from seeing her: I clasped her in my arms, and rushed with
her into the house. I placed her on a chair, and by the light of the
candle observed her features. Her person was much altered. She was
become thin, and her countenance was overspread with a livid paleness.
She burst into tears as she exclaimed, "_Ah, Frederick, why, why did you
leave me?_" I intreated her to be composed under the certainty that we
were met to part no more. I enquired for my boy, who was now in his
eighth year. She told me he was placed at a boarding-school, but avoided
making any farther mention of him. It grew late, and a small supper was
set before us, after which I proposed our going home to her lodgings. To
my unspeakable astonishment, she requested that I would not accompany
her; and gave for reason that the people where she lodged, not knowing
she expected me, might be alarmed at the appearance of a stranger being
with her in the night-time. I however insisted, and she consented. Her
house was indeed but a few paces from the one we had just quitted. Its
first appearance struck me. It was fitted up in a style of expensive
elegance; and on the side-board, on which was displayed a quantity of
plate, were two salvers, engraved large enough to be perceived without
very accurate observation, with the initials of her maiden name.
I looked at her with speechless horror, as I stood transfixed to the
spot. The powers of utterance were denied me, I gasped for breath.
A loud rapping at the street door awakened my recollection, and Captain
Nesbitt entered the room. He was in a state of inebriety, and the sight
of me staggered him. "S------," said he, as he impudently advanced to
take my hand, "I have taken damn'd good care of your wife in your
absence;" and then turning to his guilty partner, continued, "Isabella,
hav'nt I?" At these words, affection, resentment, all seemed at the
moment to die within my breast; I recollected only that I was in the
presence of a woman--(and oh, Heaven, WHAT a woman)--I hastily turned to
Captain Nesbitt, and enquired where on the following morning I could
speak with him. He appointed the Bedford-arms, Covent-Garden, at two
o'clock. I looked at Isabella, who did not attempt to speak, but seemed
anxious only about her infamous lover.

"I hurried out of the house, scarcely knowing whither I went, and my
steps almost involuntarily conducted me to the one we had left not an
hour before. The little gate was locked, and I repeatedly, and in vain,
called for admittance. At length an unknown female voice answered me
from an upper window, and somewhat rudely requested my retreat. On my
expostulating, and begging only three minutes conversation with the
person I had supped with, she answered me that she was not to be
disturbed; and that if I persisted in alarming the neighbourhood, she
should put me in charge of the watch. With these words she shut the
window, and I walked wherever chance directed me. I came to the door of
a tavern, which stood half open, seeming to invite the weary traveller.
Here I fixed my abode for the night; nor was it long before my excessive
fatigue of mind and body threw me into a state of wished-for
insensibility."

  [To be continued.]


       *       *       *       *       *

  ANECDOTE.

An Irish officer of dragoons, on the continent, on hearing that his
mother had been married since he quitted Ireland, exclaimed--"By St.
Patrick, there is that mother of mine married again, I hope she wont
have a son older than me, for if she has I shall be cut out of my
estate!"


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                    No. III.

                   *   *   *

      ----"FULL MANY A PRANK
  HE PLAYED, AND TRICKS MOST FANCIFUL AND STRANGE."

    MASSINGER.

Men of tenacious memory, who retain information a week old, may
recollect, in my last number, a portrait of Meander.--

  "A man so various, that he seem'd to be
  "Not one, but all mankind's epitome:
  "Who, in the course of one revolving moon,
  "Was poet, painter, lover, and buffoon;
  "Then all for wenching, gambling, rhyming, drinking,
  "Besides ten thousand freaks, that dy'd in thinking."

Agreeably to a promissory note, given in a preceding essay, I now
publish, from the diary of this fantastic wight, a selection, which, if
judiciously improved, may sober giddy genius, may fix the volatile, and
stimulate even Loungers.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _MEANDER's JOURNAL._

April 8, Monday.----Having lately quaffed plenteous draughts, of the
dream of dissipation, I determine to bridle my fancy, to practice
self-denial, to live soberly, and to study with ardor. That I may with
ease discharge the various duties of the day, I propose, that "Strutting
Chanticleer" and myself, should unroost at the same hour. With this
resolve, I couple a determination, to study law with plodding diligence,
and to make my profession, and a course of history, my capital objects.

Memorandum. Belles lettres must be considered a subaltern pursuit. If I
rise at the dawn, and study jurisprudence till noon, I shall have the
satisfaction to reflect, that I have discharged my _legal_ duty for the
day. This course, duly persisted in, will probably make me something
more than a Tyro, in the language of the law. If I pour over my folios
with the diligence I propose, I shall acquire, in Blackstone's phrase,
such a legal apprehension, that the obscurities, which at present
confound me, will vanish, and my journey through the _wilderness_ of
law, will, paradventure become delectable.

Tuesday.--Overslept myself, did not rise till nine. Dressed, and went
out, intending to go to the office; but, as the morning was uncommonly
beautiful, I recollected an aphorism of Dr. Cheyne's, that exercise
should form part of a student's religion. Accordingly, I rambled through
the woods for two hours. The magic of rural scenes diverted Fancy, whom,
on my return to the office, I wished to retire, that her elder sister,
Judgment, might have an opportunity to hold a conference with the sage
Blackstone: but, the sportive slut remained, dancing about, and I found
my spirits so agitated, that, to calm them I took up a volume of plays,
and read two acts in Centlivre's Busy Body.

Afternoon, 2 o'clock.--Took up a folio, and began to read a British
statute; meanwhile, I received a billet, importing that a couple of my
college cronies were at a neighbouring inn, who wished me to make one of
a select party. I complied. The sacrifices to Mercury and Bacchus, wore
away the night, and it was day before I retired to the land of drowsy
head, as Thompson quaintly expresses it.

Wednesday.--Rose at ten; sauntered to the office and gaped over my book.
Low spirits and a dull morning, had raised such a fog around my brain,
that I could hardly discern a sentiment. Opened a "dissertation on
memory," read till my own failed. I then threw away my book, and threw
myself on the bed; I can't tell how long I remained there, but, somebody
shaking me by the shoulder, I opened my eyes and saw--the maid, who came
to inform me it was 8 o'clock _in the evening_, and that coffee was
ready.

Thursday.--Went out at seven, with a determination to attend to
business; thought I might venture to call at a friend's house; on my
entrance saw a brace of beauties, whose smiles were so animating that
they detained me, "charmed by witchery of eyes," till noon. I returned
to my lodgings, and finding my spirits too sublimated for serious study,
I beguiled the remainder of the afternoon, by writing a sonnet to Laura.

Evening.--Lounged to my bookshelf, with an intent to open Blackstone,
but made a mistake, and took down a volume of Hume's History of England.
Attention became quite engrossed by his narrative of the reign of Henry
I. A versatile, brilliant genius, who blended in one bright assemblage,
ambition, prudence, eloquence and enterprize; who received and merited,
what I think, the most glorious of all titles, that of Beauclerc, or,
the polite scholar. The formidable folios, which stood before me, seemed
frowningly to ask, why I did not link to my ambition, that prudence,
which formed part of Henry's fame? The remorseful blush of a moment,
tinged my cheek, and I boldly grasped a _reporter_; but, straightway
recollecting, that I had recently supped, and that, after a full meal,
application was pernicious to health, I adjourned the cause Prudence
versus Meander, till morning.

Friday.--Rose at the dawn, which is the first time I have complied with
my resolution, of unroosting with the cock. "Projecting many things, but
accomplishing none," is the motto to my coat of arms. Began my studies,
nothing with nice care, the curious distinction in law, between general
and special _Tail_; at length, I grew weary of my task, and thought with
Shakespeare's Horatio, that 'twere considering too curiously, to
consider thus. Began to chat with my companions; we are, when indolent,
ever advocates for relaxation; but, whether an attorney's office is the
place, where idling should be tolerated, is a question, which I do not
wish to determine in the negative. Finished my morning studies with
"Hafen Shawkenbergius's tenth decad."

Afternoon.--Did _nothing_ very busily till four. Seized with a lethargic
yawn, which lasted till seven, when a dish of coffee restored animation,
and on the entrance of a friend, fell into general conversation; made a
transition to the scenes of our boyish days, and till midnight, employed
memory in conjuring up to view, the shades of our departed joys.

Saturday.--Slept but little, last night. My imagination was so busy in
castle building, that she would not repose. Dreamed that Lord Coke threw
his "Institute" at me. Rose at nine, looked abroad; and the atmosphere
being dusky, and my spirits absent on furlough, felt unqualified for
reading. For several days there has been a succession of gloomy skies.
The best writers affirm that such weather is unfriendly to menial
labour. The poet says

  "While these dull fogs invade the head,
  "Memory minds not what is read."

Took up a magazine, which I carefully skimmed but obtained no cream.
Cracked, in the Dean of St. Patrick's phrase, a rotten nut, which cost
me a tooth and repaid me with nothing but a worm.--Breakfasted;
reflected on the occurrences of the week. In the drama of my life,
procrastination, and indolence, are the principal actors. My resolutions
flag, and my studies languish. I must strive to check the irregular
sallies of fancy. I never shall be useful to others, till I have a
better command of myself. Surely one, abiding in the bowers of ease, may
improve, if industry be not wanting. Alfred could read and write, eight
hours every day, though he fought fifty six pitched battles, and rescued
a kingdom; and Chatterton, the ill-fated boyish bard, composed, though
cramped by penury, poems of more invention than many a work which has
been kept nine years and published at a period of the ripest maturity.
When I fly from business, let ambition, therefore, _think on, and
practice these things_. I determine, _next week_, to effect an entire
revolution in my conduct, to form a new plan of study, and to adhere to
it with pertinacity. As this week is on the eve of expiration, it would
be superfluous to sit down to serious business. I therefore amused
myself, by dipping into Akenside's "Pleasures of Imagination;" read till
five, visited a friend, and conversed with him till midnight;
conversation turned on _propriety of conduct_, for which I was a
strenuous advocate-- * * * * * * *

Here the journal of Meander was abruptly closed. I was curious to learn
in what manner he employed his week of reformation. On the ensuing
Monday he grew weary of his books; instead of mounting Pegasus, and
visiting Parnassus, he actually strode a hack-horse of mere mortal
mould, and, in quest of diversion, commenced a journey. He was
accompanied, not by the muses, but by a party of jocund revellers; and
prior to my friend's departure, the last words he was heard so say, or
rather _roar_, were the burden of a well known anacreontic "_dull
thinking will make a man crazy_."

The character and journal of Meander scarcely need a commentary. There
shall be none. I was not born in Holland, and only Dutchmen, are
qualified to write notes. But I will make an apostrophe.

Ye tribe of Mercurealists! in the name of prudence, avoid eccentricity;
expand not your _fluttering_ pinions; trudge the foot-way path of life;
dethrone Fancy and crown Common Sense. Let each one seek and fulfil his
daily task, "one to his farm and another to his merchandize."


       *       *       *       *       *

                  _ANECDOTES._

                   *   *   *

A worthy Clergyman belonging to a parish in New-England, had the
misfortune to have a son of a flighty and wild disposition: altho' many
were the pious admonitions of the virtuous father to bring his son's
remissness into subordination with his own, he had to lament that his
injunctions and assiduous endeavours were fruitless, and far from being
productive of the desired end.--His son's heart was so averse to
solemnity, that he could not contain himself at the time of worship, and
he was often so overstocked with frivolity and his mischievous humor,
that his father often noticed it, while preaching, with much regret--and
concluded upon harsher means than he had before used to bring his son to
better subjection.--The next sabbath he confined him to his house, and
proceeded to church with the rest of his family, consisting of his wife,
two daughters, and his old <DW64> _Tone_:--the service being nearly half
performed, and the pastor speaking with much fervency to his crouded
audience, his voice was all at once drowned by a sudden and tremendous
burst of laughter, from all parts of the church, which confounded
him.--This laughter was occasioned by the sudden entrance of his
favorite old dog, who always placed himself next the pulpit door, in
full view of the audience; he now appeared decorated in an old gown and
wig powdered and tied on with much taste, which occasioned such loud
peals of laughter, that he with difficulty obtained an explanation in
ten or fifteen minutes. Old Tone, who seemed to be more in a state of
reserve than any other, cried out from the gallery in great
earnestness--"Massa, Massa! ony you look at our Tray, den you se what
ma-ke dem laff!"--The parson opening the pulpit door, the old dog
immediately ascended to him, and was so profuse with his caresses, that
the pastor could scarcely dismiss his congregation.

                   *   *   *

Christina, the Swedish Queen, never wore a night-cap, but always wrapped
her head in a napkin. In order to amuse her during her sleepless nights,
after having been indisposed the preceding days, she ordered music to be
performed near her bed, the curtain of which was entirely closed.

Transported at length with the pleasure she received from a particular
passage in the music, she hastily put her head out of bed, and
exclaimed. "How well he sings!" The poor Italian singers, who are in
general not remarkable for bravery, were so much frightened by her
voice, and the sudden appearance of such an extraordinary figure, that
they became at once dumb and stupified, and the music immediately
ceased.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  COLLINS's MONUMENT.

A monument of most exquisite workmanship has been lately erected at
Chichester, by public subscription, to the memory of the poet COLLINS,
who was a native of that city, and died in a house adjoining to the
Cloisters. He is finely represented, as just recovering from a wild fit
of phrenzy, to which he was unhappily subject, and in a calm and
reclining posture seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the divine
consolations of the Gospel; while his lyre, and one of the first of his
poems, lie neglected on the ground. Above are two beautiful figures of
Love and Pity, entwined in each other's arms. The whole is executed by
the ingenious Mr. FLAXMAN, lately returned from Rome. The following
elegant epitaph is written by Mr. HAYLEY--

  "Ye who the merits of the dead revere,
  Who hold Misfortunes sacred, Genius dear;
  Regard this tomb, where COLLINS, hapless name!
  Solicits kindness with a double claim.
  Though Nature gave him, and though Science taught,
  The fire of Fancy, and the reach of Thought;
  Severely doom'd to Penury's extreme,
  He pass'd in madd'ning pain, Life's fev'rish dream;
  While rays of Genius only serv'd to show
  The thick'ning horror, and exalt his woe.
  Ye walls that echo'd to his frantic moan,
  Guard the due records of this graceful stone!
  Strangers to him, enamour'd of his lays,
  This fond memorial to his talents raise;
  For this the ashes of a Bard require,
  Who touch'd the tend'rest notes of Pity's lyre:
  Who join'd pure faith to strong poetic powers;
  Who, in reviving Reason's lucid hours,
  Sought on one boo, his troubled mind to rest,
  And rightly deem'd--the Book of God the best."


       *       *       *       *       *

  +The HISTORY of ANTIOCHUS and STRATONICE.+

Antiochus, a Prince of great hopes, fell passionately in love with the
young Queen Stratonice who was his mother-in-law, and had bore a son to
the old King Seleuchus his father. The Prince finding it impossible to
extinguish his passion, fell sick, and refused all manner of
nourishment, being determined to put an end to that life which was
become insupportable.

Erasistratus, the physician, soon found that love was his distemper; and
observing the alteration in his pulse and countenance, whensoever
Stratonice made him a visit, was soon satisfied that he was dying for
his young mother-in-law. Knowing the old King's tenderness for his son,
when he one morning inquired of his health, he told him, that the
Prince's distemper was love; but that it was incurable, because it was
impossible for him to possess the person whom he loved. The King,
surprised at this account, desired to know how his son's passion could
be incurable? Why, sir, replied Erasistratus because he is in love with
the person I am married to.

The old King immediately conjured him, by all his past favours, to save
the life of his son and successor. Sir, said Erasistratus, would your
majesty but fancy yourself in my place, you would see the
unreasonableness of what you desire. Heaven is my witness, said
Seleuchus, I could resign even my Stratonice to save my Antiochus. At
this the tears began to run down his cheeks, which when the physician
saw, taking him by the hand, sir, says he, if these are your real
sentiments, the prince's life is out of danger; it is Stratonice for
whom he dies. Seleuchus immediately gave orders for solemnizing the
marriage; and the young Queen to shew her obedience, very generously
exchanged the father for the son.


       *       *       *       *       *

  DESCRIPTION OF A WONDERFUL CAVERN IN UPPER HUNGARY.

Near Strelitz, an inconsiderable village in Upper Hungary, is a most
wonderful cavern, in the middle of a large mountain. The aperture which
fronts the south, is eighteen fathoms high, and eight broad; and
consequently wide enough to receive the south wind, which generally
blows here with great violence. Its subterraneous passages consist
entirely of solid rock, stretching away farther south than has yet been
discovered. As far as it is practicable to go to, the height is found to
be fifty fathoms, and the breadth twenty-six. But the most unaccountable
singularity in the cavern is, that in the heart of winter, the air is
warm on the inside; and when the heat of the sun without is scarce
supportable, is freezing cold within. When the snows melt in the spring,
the inside of the cave, where the surface is exposed to the south sun,
it emits a pellucid water, which congeals immediately as it drops, by
the extreme cold, the icicles are of the bigness of a large cask; and,
spreading into ramifications, form very odd figures: the very water that
drops from the icicles on the ground, which is sandy, freezes in an
instant. It is observable also, that the greater the heat is without,
the more intense is the cold within; and in the dog-days, all parts are
covered with ice. In autumn, when the nights grow cold, and the diurnal
heats abate, the ice in the cave begins to dissolve, insomuch, that by
winter no more ice is to be seen, the cavern then becomes perfectly dry
and of a mild warmth. At this time it is surprising to see the swarms of
flies and gnats, also bats and owls, and even of hares and foxes, that
make this place their winter retreat, till in the beginning of spring,
it again grows too cold for them.

  [[Source:

  Original: A New System of Geography (volume 2 of 6: Hungary, Turkey,
    Spain etc.) by A. F. Busching, pg. 62-63 under Szelitze.
  Translation: Murdoch 1762.
  Possible Sources:
    Town and Country Magazine 1769.
    Weekly Miscellany, March 31, 1777.

  Notes:
    The site is in modern Slovakia, 5 miles west of "Caschaw"
    (Ger. Kaschaw) or "Cassovia" (Kassa, Kosice).]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On Sunday evening the 7th instant, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr.
SAMUEL THOMPSON, to Miss MARY WINKFIELD, both of this city.

On Monday evening the 8th instant, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Lieutenant
ROBERT LONG, of his Britannic Majesty's 17th regiment, to the amiable
Miss JANE BYRON, lately from Ireland.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Livingston, the Rev. JOHN B.
JOHNSON, of Albany, to Miss BETSEY LUFTON, of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. WILLIAM
HUTHWAITE, to Miss ELIZA RYDER, both of this city.

  Opposing fate shall strive in vain
  Whom love unites to rend in twain:--
      Be blest ye happy pair!
  May joys with following years increase,
  And nought arise to mar that peace
      Which virtuous unions share.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 7th to the 13th inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

         deg.  deg.   6. 3.  6. 3.
            100   100
  May  7  55    59    w. do.   clear calm  do. h. wd. ra.
       8  42    57    w. do.   clear h. wd.  do. do.
       9  44    55    nw. do.  clear lt. wd.  cly. h. do.
      10  50    70    s. sw.   cloudy lt. w.  clear do.
      11  55    75    sw. s.   clear h. wd.  do. lt. do.
      12  55    64    se. e.   cloudy lt. w.  do. do. ra.
      13  56    69    w. sw.   clear lt. wd.  do. do.


       *       *       *       *       *

  INSCRIPTION
  _FOR THE TOMB OF GENERAL WAYNE._

  HERE LIES
  Beneath this noble tent
  Fitting for nobler enterprize;
  With nothing less than Heaven content:
  Waiting (while ordered out again)
  Till trumpets bid him rise,
  To join the armies of the skies.
  IMMORTAL
  GENERAL WAYNE,
  Tho' here
  At winter quarters,
  His warlike corps remain,
  Tho' Death, that monarch grim,
  A prisoner made of him,
  His gallant enterprising soul
  Is on parole,
  Viewing each heav'nly plain,
  Where he
  Must shortly be
  With Indian Chiefs in Unity,
  His _next Campaign_.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                  THE CHOICE.

  In rural scenes, in sylvan shades,
  Near purling brooks and silent glades,
  Meand'ring streams and flow'ry fields,
  Where Nature all her fragrance yields.

  There would I wish to spend my days,
      And with the songsters of the grove,
  Chaunt forth the GREAT CREATOR's praise,
      As o'er the dewy meads I rove.

  Or traversing the verdant lawn,
  At humid morning's earliest dawn,
  Would contemplate the landscape o'er,
  And the great ARCHITECT adore.

  Or in a grotto art ne'er made,
  While resting underneath its shade,
  Would pleas'd behold bright Phoebus rise,
  And take his station in the skies.

  While aromatic shrubs display
  Their sweets beneath his brilliant ray,
  And downy warblers soar aloft,
  And hail the morn in accents soft;

  I too would join the matin song,
  While echo bore the strains along,
  And distant hills should catch the sound,
  And balmy zephyrs waft it round.

  The lambkin striking o'er the plain,
  The cultur'd fields well stor'd with grain,
  The blooming meadows, fresh and gay,
  With pleas'd delight I would survey.

  Far from the pomp of worldly glare,
  Contented in my humble sphere,
  I'd envy not the rich and great,
  Their glitt'ring gems or rooms of state.

  Economy should grace my cot--
  Ingratitude--I'd know it not;
  But of the little I'd possess,
  Would share with virtue in distress.

  RELIGION, ever blooming maid,
  Through grace divine should be my aid;
  Should teach my thoughts to mount on high,
  And smooth my journey to the sky.

  And when the eve of life drew on,
  Nought to becloud my setting sun,
  But conscious of a life well spent,
  To GOD resign the breath he lent.

    REBECCA.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in Horse-Racing._

  John ran so long, and ran so fast,
  No wonder he ran out at last;
  He ran in debt, and then, to pay,
  He distanc'd all--and ran away.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ELEGY
  ON A GREY SQUIRREL,
  Barbarously Murdered by a _Cat_, June 17th, 1783.

    _Longum, formose, vale, vale._ --VIRGIL.

  Melpomene, thou mournful muse,
  A serious vein of grief infuse,
              A vein that suits with Death:
  Seiz'd by Grimalkin's savage claws,
  Beneath her unrelenting jaws,
              Poor Bun resigns his breath.

  Bun, the most hopeful of the brood,
  Left the wild pastimes of the wood,
              To dwell with social man;
  Sooth'd by their kind and tender care,
  He soon prefer'd his novel fare
              To Nature's ruder plan.

  Fed by his master's faithful hand,
  Obedient to his mild command,
              The harmless rogue would move:
  In my fond bosom laid his head,
  At night repos'd upon my bed,
              And stole upon my love.

  Amidst the studies of the day,
  Bun by my side in sportive play,
              Indulg'd his native glee:
  Or on my knee would sober sit,
  In a still meditative fit,
              To ruminate with me.

  At early morn and eve serene,
  Bun by my side was constant seen,
              T' enjoy the healthful walk;
  In livelier mood would round me play,
  T' encrease the pleasures of the way,
              And seem'd to wish to talk.

  The village boys all pleas'd with Bun,
  Left their dear sport and eager run,
              To see his nimble play:
  The lasses all complacent smil'd,
  While he with lively sport beguil'd,
              Slow pacing time away.

  But these calm pleasures all are flown,
  Thy play, thy sports forever done,
              Thy active spirit fled:
  Ceas'd as to thee, my daily care,
  Fix'd are thine eyes in one still glare,
              For thou poor Bun art dead.

  To Fancy's view thy strugglings rise,
  Methinks I hear thy piteous cries,
              Thy unavailing moans:
  Soft Pity's tear bedews the eye,
  To see thy mangled body lye,
              And view thy scatter'd bones.

  Come ye young train, who lov'd his play,
  Your last sad tribute kindly pay,
              All mourning at his doom:
  His shatter'd limbs with care compose,
  His eyes with kind attention close,
              And bear him to his tomb.

  Come ye his brethren from the grove,
  In slow and solemn order move
              Along the silent plain;
  Fearless his breathless corpse surround;
  Sweep your long tails upon the ground,
              In melancholy train.

  By yon still river's verdant side,
  My friends his breathless body hide,
              Close to the gentle surge;
  Light lay the turf upon his breast,
  And thou sweet Robin from the nest,
              Sing his funereal dirge.

  And when grey night shall check thy note,
  Ye bull-frogs strain your hoarser throat,
              Grave songsters of the stream:
  Let Bun--poor Bun--repeated sound;
  With Bun, the hills and groves resound,
              A never dying theme.

  But thou curst Cat, unsung shalt lie;
  For thou, vile murderer, too must die,
              As well as harmless Bun;
  Thy worthless bones unburied lay,
  And thy nine lives but poorly pay
              For his lamented one.


       *       *       *       *       *

  +A very palatable _RECEIPT_, to soften the hardest _FEMALE HEART_.+

  Take a youth that's genteel, 'tis no matter for face,
  And season him well, with an air, and a grace;
  One grain of sincerity you may bestow,
  But enough of assurance fail not to allow;
  With flatteries, sighs, assiduities, tears,
  Insignificant smiles, and significant leers,
  With passion and rapture to give it a zest,
  And impudence sprinkled according to taste;
  Some pieces of songs too, and scraps of old plays,
  And fustian, and frolics, and whimsical ways;
  All mix'd well together with care and design,
  And drest with great nicety, and garnish'd out fine:
  This medicine warm as the patient can bear,
  And when taken each day will soon soften the fair.
  Sometimes a few days efficacious will prove,
  Sometimes a few weeks ere the flint will remove;
  But seldom an instance can any produce,
  When this golden prescription has fail'd of its use,
  Yet though often successful, 'twill ne'er reach that heart,
  Which, hardened by virtue, will baffle all art.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON A HASTY MARRIAGE.

  Marry'd! 'tis well! a mighty blessing!
  But poor's the joy, no coin possessing.
  In antient times, when folks did wed,
  'Twas to be one at "board and bed:"
  But hard's his case, who can't afford
  His charmer either bed or board!


_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 Book-Store of
Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, May 24, 1797.+  [+No. 99.+


  ON LITERARY PURSUITS.

In every duty, in every science in which we would wish to arrive at
perfection, we should propose for the object of our pursuit some certain
station even beyond our abilities; some imaginary excellence, which may
amuse and seem to animate our enquiry. In deviating from others in
following an unbeaten road, though we perhaps may never arrive at the
wished-for object, yet it is possible we may meet several discoveries by
the way; and the certainty of small advantages, even while we travel
with security, is not so amusing as the hopes of great rewards by which
the adventurer is inspired.

This enterprising spirit is, however, by no means the character of the
present age; every person who should now have received opinions, who
should attempt to be more than a commentator upon philosophers, or an
imitator in polite learning, might be regarded as a chimerical
projector. Hundreds would be ready not only to point out his errors, but
to load him with reproach. Our probable opinions are now regarded as
certainties; the difficulties hitherto undiscovered, as utterly
inscrutable; and the writers of the last age inimitable, and therefore
the properest models for imitation.

One might be almost induced to deplore the philosophic spirit of the
age, which, in proportion as it enlightens the mind, increases its
timidity, and represses the vigour of every undertaking. Men are more
content with being prudently in the right, which, though not the way to
make new acquisitions, it must be owned, is the best method of securing
what we have. Yet this is certain, that the writer who never deviates,
who never hazards a new thought, or a new expression, though his friends
may compliment him upon his sagacity, though Criticism lifts her feeble
voice in his praise, will seldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The
way to acquire lasting esteem, is not by the fewness of a writer's
faults, but the greatness of his beauties, and our noblest works are
generally most replete with both.

An author, who would be sublime, often runs his thoughts into burlesque;
yet I can readily pardon his mistaking sometimes for once succeeding.
True genius walks along a line, and, perhaps, our greatest pleasure is
in seeing it often near falling, without being ever actually down.

Every science has its hitherto undiscovered mysteries, after which men
should travel undiscouraged by the failure of former adventurers. Every
new attempt serves, perhaps, to facilitate its future invention. We may
not find the philosopher's stone, but we shall, probably, hit upon new
inventions in pursuing it. We shall, perhaps, never be able to discover
the longitude, yet, perhaps, we may arrive at new truths in the
investigation.

Were any of these sagacious minds among us, (and surely no nation, no
period could ever compare with us in this particular,) were any of these
minds, I say, who now sit down contented with exploring the intricacies
of another's system, bravely to shake off admiration, and undazzled with
the splendor of another's fame, to chalk out a path to renown for
themselves, and boldly to cultivate untried experiments, what might not
be the result of their enquiries, should the same study that has made
them wise, make them enterprizing also? What could not such qualities,
united, produce?

Projectors in a state are generally rewarded above their merit;
projectors in the republic of letters, never. If they are wrong, every
dunce thinks himself entitled to laugh at their disappointment; if they
are right, men of superior talents think their honour engaged to oppose,
as every new discovery is a tacit diminution of their own pre-eminence.

To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends, and our all must be
ventured: by aiming only at mediocrity, we run no risque, and we do
little when prudence and greatness are ever persuading us to contrary
pursuits. The one instructs us to be content with our station, and to
find happiness in setting bounds to every wish. The other impels us to
superiority, and calls nothing felicity but rapture. The one directs us
to follow mankind, and to act and think with the rest of the world; the
other drives us from the croud, and exposes us as a mark to all the
shafts of envy or ignorance.

The rewards of mediocrity are immediately paid; those attending
excellence generally paid in reversion. In a word, the little mind which
loves itself, will write and think with the vulgar, but the great mind
will be bravely eccentric, and scorn the beaten road, from universal
benevolence.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

           (Continued from page 363.)

                   *   *   *

  Conclusion
  of the
  _HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S----._

"Various are the stages of human woe; and long is the catalogue of
mental miseries!--A load of grief, so new, so unexpected, burst with the
early dawn on my distracted senses, and awakened them to everlasting
wretchedness.

"The next morning I went to the Bedford, and enquired for Captain
Nesbitt. The waiter told me he was not there, but asked my name, and
said he had a letter for me. I opened it, and read as follows.

  "SIR,

"As our meeting might be attended with disagreeable consequences to
both, you must not be surprized at my declining it. I have but executed
the commission with which you intrusted me, and at which you seem highly
offended. As I am going to leave town immediately, I must beg leave to
postpone till my return any thing you must have to communicate; and
remain,

  "SIR,

"Your humble servant,

  "JAMES NESBITT."

"I pocketed the infamous scrawl, as I shuddered at the depravity of
human nature. My wife, (why cannot I blot out the dear, the sacred
appellation?) was still wound about my heart, nor could I attempt to
slacken, without breaking its every string. Worthless, yet still beloved
woman, was it for this that I crossed the seas? for this that I
submitted to an odious stigma cast upon my conduct, degrading even in
idea to the character of an officer, and a gentleman?--for this that I
renounced every hope of future advancement?--Cruel, cruel Isabella!
Better could I behold thee dead; for what can life be to those who have
broken every tie of duty, every claim to the purest affections that can
ennoble the intellectual being?

"In a fit of frenzy, I flew to her lodgings. A fond, foolish hope to
reclaim her, and a wish to see my still innocent child, led me beyond
the bounds of prudence. She had quitted the house, and the people could
not, or would not, inform me whither she was gone. I found by them, that
they knew her only by the name of her seducer; and that my boy, whom
they called by the same name, had accompanied his mother. My next
enquiry was at the house of her relation; she had also left town, as
they said, for some months.

"I returned to the Bedford-Arms, and hastily scrawled an incoherent
letter, which I left in charge of the waiter there: he unwillingly took
it, under pretence that Captain Nesbitt seldom came to their house, and
it was uncertain when he might see him again. It ran as follows.

  "SIR,

"If your heart is not callous to every feeling of social humanity, let
me implore you to pity as a man, the distresses to which you have
reduced me. You are young, but let me hope you are not a determined
villain. A time may perhaps arrive, when you will feel, like _me_, WHAT
IT IS to be a HUSBAND, and a FATHER!--The opinion of the World is of
little import to those, who, blessed with conscious rectitude, can defy
its malice.

"Restore my wife--restore my child--I will receive her once more, as the
first, best gift of Heaven; and her errors shall be blotted from the
tablets of my memory. Let me conjure you, Sir, to be the friend of this
unhappy woman; point out to her the path, of duly; and if you have any
real affection for her, make the sacrifice of it to her honour, and
future peace. As you deal by _her_, may Heaven, in justice, deal by
_you!_

"I take this method of addressing you, in preference to that which a man
of the World might think more consistent with my situation, under the
present circumstances; but I feel, while I am writing it, that I am no
coward, and that were human miseries to be extinguished only in blood,
the last drop of mine should be spilt to save her from perdition.

"Your answer I shall most anxiously wait for at the Gloucester
Coffee-house, Piccadilly, from the hour of twelve, every morning, till I
receive it.

  "I am, SIR,

"Your's, &c.

  "FREDERICK S------."

"I waited two days at the Coffee-house without hearing from him.
I impatiently counted every minute, and anticipated the transition from
deep despondency to transcendant joy. I called for coffee, read, or
seemed to read, the papers of the day; and my heart beat at the shadow
of every object I saw approaching towards the house.

"It was near one on the third morning before I heard any tidings
interesting to myself. A waiter then came forward, with a smile, and
told me that a Gentleman enquired for me. Half breathless, I desired him
to be admitted; my trembling limbs could scarcely support me as he
entered, and I begged him to be seated. I asked him if he came from
Captain Nesbitt? He answered in the affirmative, and I attempted to
close the door; but he desired to admit his friend; and then informed me
that he was the bearer of a writ against me, in the name of Captain
James Nesbitt, to whom I stood indebted for the sum of two hundred
pounds, for money lent me by him in the West-Indies.

"I knew full well that a gambling debt was not by law recoverable; but
my heart recoiled at the idea of contesting it, and I determined
immediately to extricate myself, however inconvenient. My stock of money
was reduced to four hundred and seventy pounds. I paid out of it the
debt and costs, which were no small augmentation. I hired a retired
lodging, and resolved to wait as patiently as I could, the result of an
event which had robbed me of every terrestrial joy. Here I lived many
months, with sober, well-disposed people, but gained no intelligence of
those for whose sake alone I still continued to drag on the load of
heavy existence.

"I was one morning surprized by the entrance of an attorney, who
produced me two bills; the one for a hundred and twenty pounds, which
debt, he said, had been contracted by Mrs. S------ for board and
lodging; the other, for twenty-five guineas for one quarter's schooling
and masters for my boy.

"I candidly declared to him my situation, and my inability to satisfy
these demands; the consequence of which was an immediate arrest; and I
was hurried from my peaceful chamber to the loathsome place appropriated
in Newgate for debtors. Here I pined in misery and want. The course
language of my fellow-prisoners, whose hearts seemed hardened in
proportion to their necessities, offended, and disgusted me. I soon
after heard that Lord G---- was arrived in England. I wrote to him, and
he sent a servant to me with momentary relief. Obligation was new to me.
Insensibly, and actuated more by despair than choice, I joined my
companions; and the sight of a few guineas rejoicing them, I proposed
our sharing them together. The sum was not sufficient to relieve me
materially; and as the die of misery was cast, I endeavoured to
dissipate its calamity: I drank--I laughed--I joined in their vulgar
jokes, and for a while forgot myself. With the morning, rejected reason
returned, but vanished as my companions of the time approached me.

"I passed near two years in this state of mental horror, when I was
unexpectedly relieved from it by the commiserating heart of the then
Sheriff, Mr. P. L---- M----. To that Gentleman it is not necessary to be
personally known. His urbanity, his feelings do so much honour to human
Nature, that she is compelled to acknowledge him her master-piece. In
him the poor find a protector; the oppressed, a friend. That Gentleman
saw, heard my story, and pitied me. His heart and purse were equally
opened; and he seemed to satisfy the one, while he bountifully took from
the other. I endeavoured to evince my gratitude; but the manly tear
glistened in his eye, and I buried it in my heart. I returned to the
house where I had lodged, forlorn and desolate, and took possession of
the garret over my former apartment.

"I had not been there many days, before the Gentleman above-mentioned
condescended to visit me. He was attended by his lawyer, who had been,
by his directions, with Mrs. S----. He found her, surrounded by
affluence; the new, but acknowledged favourite of the French Duke de
----. She was regardless of my situation, insensible to my misery; yet
he prevailed on her, partly by intreaty, and partly by threats, in my
name, of appropriating her property, to sign an instrument, which he had
prepared, and which was a mutual release from all pecuniary matters
between us. Nor did the generosity of my noble friend stop here: he
hastily slipped into my hand a twenty-five pound note, and hurried down
stairs, as if fearful to receive the bare acknowledgment of obligations
which can never, never be repaid!

"Fortune seemed at this time anxious to make me amends for the many
injuries with which she had lately overwhelmed me. The relation, to whom
I had stood indebted for my commission, and who had left unanswered all
the letters I had written to him, now sent for me. He received me with
coldness, bordering on displeasure; and I briefly related to him my
whole story. Ah, what a world of light did this meeting cast over my
bewildered mind!--He was a very old man, who had been confined some
years to his house by various bodily infirmities; and to such, the
plausible appearance of youth and beauty in distress, is peculiarly
interesting. I found he had received frequent visits from Mrs. S------,
and had materially assisted her. Her attentions secured to her his
friendship; and she had art enough to persuade him, that my conduct in
the West-Indies had been such as to-forfeit every claim to his
protection. She assured him, that my commission had been sold to
discharge various gambling debts contracted there. This cruel, this
unprecedented injury, soon, however, retorted on herself; and as "foul
deeds WILL rise," I was indebted to her for the vindication of my own
character, and the total overthrow of that of my unnatural accuser.

"My uncle (for by that name I shall henceforth distinguish him) had
found an uncommon affection for my child, who frequently accompanied his
mother in her visits to him. He had been well tutored by her how to
answer any questions that might be put to him; yet where there was no
suspicion, there could be little danger. Mrs. S---- had constantly
assured the old gentleman that she boarded at the house of the relation
where I had first seen her. He found himself one day very ill, and was
desirous of the company of his little favourite. His housekeeper, whom
many years service, and the solitude of her master's life, had placed on
a footing that fell little short of being mistress of his house, was the
person whom he dispatched for the child: she was nearly as old and
infirm as her master; and as her walks had for several years extended no
farther than to and from the adjacent chapel every Sunday morning, she
could have wished to evade his proposal of shaking her ancient bones in
a hackney-coach, and would gladly have had the commission devolve on the
foot-boy, who, with herself, composed the whole of his household
establishment. But her master, though a very good man, was a very
peremptory one, and she dared not risk his displeasure by a refusal.
Mrs. Wilmot accordingly equipped herself in her Sunday gown and cloak,
and desiring the coachman to drive very gently over the stones, she
sallied forth in quest of the little Frederick; for whom she also, after
the example of her master, felt more than an usual affection."

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                    No. IV.

                   *   *   *

  "One who had gain'd a princely store
  By cheating all, both rich and poor,
  Dared cry aloud "the land must sink
  For all its fraud," and whom d'ye think
  The sermonizing rascal chid?
  ----A GLOVER, THAT SOLD LAMB FOR KID."

    MANDEVILLE.

Among the high privileges, which we digressive writers enjoy, may be
reckoned that which Don Quixote gave his horse, to choose a path and
pursue it at pleasure. In another point there is an affinity between us
and that errant steed, so renowned in the volumes of Cervantic chivalry.
When we begin an excursion, the Lord only knows how it will be
prosecuted, or where it will end. Whim and caprice being commonly our
guides, and those personages never keeping in _their_ almanack a list of
stages, we are sometimes most sadly benighted. As this is my day for
similitudes, I stop not here; having so modestly compared myself and
other ramblers to a quadruped, I will descend still lower into "the
valley of humiliation," and liken them to an insect, which is a spider.
Though their stock is confessedly small, they have the art of drawing
out a most lengthy texture. Thus an essayist, conscious of the
scantiness of his stores, handles a topic as a farmer's wife manages her
annual pound of bohea, in such a manner as to make it last.

When I began my second speculation with some general remarks on the
utility of an alliance between application and genius, I little thought
that I should quit my sober task, and commence character painter. When
Fancy handed me a pencil, and bade me sketch the likeness of Meander,
I had no design to ransack his room, or transcribe his diary; and
lastly, when the journal was published, I tremblingly thought I had said
too much, and dreaded lest my readers should complain that they were
surfeited by the Farrago. But they who are even tinged with the
metaphysical doctrine of ideas flowing in a train, will not be
confounded, though they see another speculation rising from the last,
when I narrate the following incident. A friend who had attentively
gazed at the portrait of Meander, saw me the day after its exhibition.
So, Mr. Delineator, cries he, must you become a dauber in caricature?
One so fond of the zigzag walk in life as you, is hardly entitled to
ridicule deviation in another. I blushed; and the suffusion, like
Corporal Trim's bow, spoke as plainly as a blush could speak, "my man of
remark, you are perfectly sage in your opinion." This trivial
circumstance led me to reflect, first on my own inconsistency, and next
on that of others. By exposing the rambles of genius I virtually made
proclamation for dissipation to depart, but she taxed me with issuing
contradictory orders, and pertinently asked how she could go into exile,
when I insisted on her keeping me company? I then looked on my
neighbours. Their characters were similar to mine, and they wore not the
uniform of regularity more than myself. Celia, who murders reputations,
as "butcher felleth ox" pronounced, t'other day at a tea-table, a most
bitter invective against scandal, though five minutes before she had
invented a tale of calumny against her friend. Vafer censorially
cautions a young gallant to beware an indulgence of the licentious
passion, but forgets, while reading his lecture, that he once was
amorous, that he solicited the virgin and the wife, and that,
unsatisfied with the ordinary mysteries of intrigue, he elaborately
refined on the system of seduction. Vinoso, whose face is as
red-lettered as the court calendar, and who makes his Virginia fence at
nine in the morning, applauds a very heavy excise on distilled spirits,
and zealously damns every drunkard in the nation. Bobbin the
haberdasher, who in vending a row of pins, defrauds the heedless
customer of four, and who, when furnishing the village lass, with a set
of apron-strings, pilfers from her a portion of the tape, exclaims
against a vinter for adulterating his liquors, and wittily wonders, that
he can adopt the Christian scheme so far, as to baptize even his wine.
Messalina, whole chastity is valiant as a holiday Captain because no
enemy is at hand, and who produced a _lovely pair of twins_ six months
before marriage, frowns at the forwardness of young flirts; and a
decayed maiden, "far gone in her wane, Sir," who has been but twenty
these ten years, and who has more wrinkles in her forehead, than dimples
on her chin, even she scoffs the vestal sisterhood, and turns up her
note at the staleness of antiquated virginity.

In literature, as well as in life, we may recognize this propensity.
Authors are noted for inconsistence. Instances might be selected from
almost every writer in our language. Pope, in conjunction with Arbuthnot
and Swift, composed a satirical treatise, the design of which was, to
lash his poetical brethren for attempting to soar, when their wings only
served them to sink. Yet Pope, after some fine panegyrical verses upon
Lord Mansfield, fell from a noble height of poetry to the very bottom of
the bathos, by concluding his eulogy with the following feeble lines,

  Graced as thou art with all the power of words,
  So known, so honoured in the House of Lords.

Surely this was as risible a couplet of anticlimax, as the distich the
bard ridicules, by merely quoting it,

  Thou Dalhoussy, the great God of war,
  Lieutenant Colonel to the Earl of Mar.

In the works of Swift, who omits no opportunity of damning dullness, may
be found some compositions where the disappointed reader, instead of
being dazzled with the gleam of fancy, sorrowing sees nothing but the
vapid insipidity of a poet laureat's ode, and eagerly inquires if it be
upon record, that Swift ever studied the sing song of Cibber. Knox,
a modern and, as he in his wisdom thinketh, a classic writer, censures,
in one of his essays, the bombastic style; yet, were his own effusions
arraigned in the court of criticism, they would, without any
peradventure, be found guilty of turgidity. This pragmatical critic, who
heated by high-church zeal, gives Gibbon to the Devil, and his writings
to Lethe, presumptuously condemns that elegant historian for
super-abundance of epithet, though a reader of Knox would suppose that
the favourite page of this pedagogue's grammar was that which contained
the declension and variation of _adjectives_. Dr. Beattie, in the warmth
of his wishes to promote social benevolent affections, almost _hates_
the man, who practices not _philanthropy_. Rocked in the cradle of the
_kirk_, and implicitly believing all that the nurse and priest had
taught him, this presbyterian zealot declaims in terms so acrimonious
against the sceptics of the age, that one is led to think his "milk of
human kindness," had became sour by the means he employed to
preserve it.

Juvenal, the ancient satyrist, in one of his virulent attacks on the
reigning Roman follies, avers that the most profligate of the senate
were invariably strenuous advocates for a revival and execution of the
obsolete rigid laws against debauchery. The indignant poet declares that
if such glaring inconsistencies continue, none could be astonished
should Clodius commence railer against libertines, and Cataline be first
to impeach a conspirator. Were a name-sake of this bard to arise,
I should tremble for the sect of modern _inconsistents_. He might
brandish the lance of satire against such characters with more justice,
though perhaps with less dexterity, than his classic predecessor. The
field of foibles and follies is so fully ripe, that some one should put
in the sickle. In this field appears, and will again appear, a labourer,
who though aukward, may be useful, and who will be "worthy of his hire,"
if he cut up nothing but tares.


       *       *       *       *       *

  A LETTER OF EXPOSTULATION TO A LADY ON HER MARRIAGE.

Your passion, my dear Mrs. ***, was to be rich, you married a man you
despised, and whose intrinsic worth is centured in his wealth: which
gave charms even to deformity, transformed Hymen into Mammon, and the
god of love into a satyr. Content yourself then with wealth, enjoy it,
cultivate your taste for those advantages it can produce; and let these
console you for the loss of every thing you have sacrificed for it. Have
recourse to the principles of your determination: you had other offers:
you have therefore examined, compared, chosen, and regretted. Be firm to
this decision of your own judgment, and do not act inconsistently, by
repining that you do not possess what you did not purchase. If the
vices, if the follies of your husband, should become every day more and
more intolerable to you, it will be in vain to regret the tranquility,
the peace, the tender affection, endearing attention, or confidential
intercourse, which might have distinguished your days, had you been
united to a man of merit. In the height of your despair, you exclaim!
"Was it for this, my amiable mother nurtured me with such care, and
cultivated in me, every idea replete with honour, enlivened by
sentiment, and corrected with tenderness? Alas! these embellishments do
now but add to my misery, in rendering me more sensible of the
wretchedness of my state. The man I am chained to, is so far from
possessing sensibility or taste, that he is dead to every impression of
merit; and modesty, which might have endeared me to a man of delicacy,
renders me hateful to this libertine; who by the indecency of his
discourse, is continually offending against the sensations of a virtuous
mind. While I regret the loss of intellectual enjoyment, my regret is
strengthened by the direful effects of its privation on him. Mutual
esteem is as necessary in a married state, as mutual affection; neither
of which I enjoy. What is pomp, equipage, or splendor, compared with
such seraphic sensations dwelling in the human heart? Will the blaze of
diamonds atone for the deficiency of this passion? Will the gold of
Ophir, melted into one mass, weigh against the raptures of uniting
hearts, warmed with sentiment and truth?"

As this man's character was known before you married him, can you have
now any just reason of complaint, especially as you have not even the
excuse of partiality to plead for his person? Recollect your own sordid
selfish views; prevailing passion has been gratified, and you will
pardon me, for questioning whether you would relinquish the advantages
of your wealth, to be restored again to your liberty. Miss Aikin favours
us with the following passage from one of Lucian's dialogues. "Jupiter
complains to Cupid, that though he had so many intrigues, he was never
sincerely beloved: in order to be beloved, says Cupid, you must lay
aside your aegis and your thunderbolts; you must curl and perfume your
hair, place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and
assume a winning obsequious deportment." "But replied Jupiter, I am not
willing to resign so much of my dignity." "Then, returns Cupid, leave
off desiring to be loved." He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the
same time: as you to be rich and happy. What right had you to expect
that a miracle was to be performed in your favour? You knew well that
the wretch to whom you have allied yourself, forsook humanity, and every
genial feeling of an upright and honest heart, in the acquisition of
that fortune, which you wished to possess, and have obtained, and which
has since pampered the vices which disgust you. If he enumerates the
spoils of his victories in ----, are they not covered with the blood of
the vanquished? Did he give peace and happiness to the conquered? Did he
accept the gifts of their princes, to use them for the comfort of those
whose fathers, sons, or husbands, were massacred? Did he use his power
to gain security and freedom to the regions of oppression and slavery?
Did he endear the American name by examples of generosity? Did he return
with the consciousness of his duty discharged to his country, and
humanity to his fellow-creatures? If he was deficient in all this, what
manner of right had you to expect tenderness and affection from him? You
might with the same propriety look for the sensitive plant in a bed of
nettles, and then complain you are stung by them. But you need not be
upbraided for the folly of your election, since your own experience is
but too severe a monitor. Debasement is the child of pride. All that
remains for you now, is to render yourself as easy as possible; it is
your duty to soothe the melancholy disposition your husband will be in
(when alone) from a recollection of his crimes. Perhaps, by using your
influence judiciously, you may yet have it in your power to humanize his
passions, and refine his pleasures: but your good sense will tell you
that there is so much pride interwoven in the heart of man, that his
obstinacy will never condescend to receive any more than a hint from a
wife. A husband is more likely to be praised into virtue, than rallied
out of vice; and the most essential point in the art of leading others,
is to conceal from them that they are led at all. If he reforms, and
thinks the world gives him the credit of it, in a short time he will
believe it proceeded from his own will and inclinations, which will
insure his constancy in it. Every method is laudable on your part, to
reclaim your husband, except an affectation of fondness for him: this
would be a profanation of love: and a woman capable of such abject
deceit, I should look upon as capable of the most determined baseness.
If his crimes have hardened him, it will be in vain for you to attempt
his reformation: but while you lament his depravity, you are left at
liberty to spend your own time as you think proper. The gratifications
of society, and the secrecy of solitude, are now equally in your power;
please yourself and be content. If gaiety and dissipation are your
pursuits, it cannot be denied that they are slight counterpoises for
domestic felicity: but as the latter is entirely out of your reach, you
should endeavour to make yourself easy. It is your own judgment alone
that must lead you to obtaining that tranquility, which you may possibly
find in the exulting joy of succouring virtue in distress, merit in
indigence and obscurity; in wiping tears from the eyes of affliction,
and in making the widow's heart leap for joy. The serene complacency
which springs in a good mind, on the exertion of benevolent principles,
cannot be described; like the peace of God, it passeth knowledge. The
poet says,

  It is a joy possess'd by few indeed!
  Dame Fortune has so many fools to feed,
  She cannot oft afford, with all her store,
  To yield her smiles, where nature smil'd before.
  To sinking worth a cordial hand to lend;
  With better Fortune to surprise a friend;
  To chear the modest stranger's lonely state;
  Or snatch an orphan family from fate:
  To do, possess'd with virtue's noblest fire,
  Such gen'rous deeds, as we with tears admire.

    ARMSTRONG.

Thus you may evince the reality of your feelings, whilst it is in vain
for others in less affluent circumstances to manifest their benevolence
as they wish. Thus also, may you turn your husband's (ill-acquired)
perishable goods of fortune, into real blessings.

Wealth not only gilds the present moments as they pass; but like the
sun, constantly supplies those rays which cherish all on whom they fall,
and constitute an uninterrupted series of felicity in the bosom of that
person from whom they proceed: whilst, on the contrary, the weight of
poverty not only distresses a person for the present, but may perhaps
prevent him from emerging into happiness, and others from participating
of that benevolence, which warrants the means of exemplifying its
sincerity. What must the poor man suffer, when the eye of friendship
becomes inverted by his misfortunes in the world, and where he looks in
vain around him for the benevolence of sympathy, and the consolations of
human attachment!

  I am, &c.

    E. C.


       *       *       *       *       *

  LEVITIES.

At a late celebration of the marriages of two gentlemen, the company
being large, respectable, and persons of considerable influence,
a motion was made, and unanimously voted, That all Bachelors of the age
of thirty, and upwards, should annually make an entertainment for the
gentlemen of the place, unless prevented by intermediate marriage. What
is very singular, a considerable part of the company were gentlemen of
that description, who were unanimous in the resolution.

The next day a respectable company of ladies visited the two brides, and
it is said, such of them as were _unmarried_ were highly pleased with
the resolution of the preceding day.


       *       *       *       *       *

  +EPITAPH ON Mr. SCRIP.+

Here lies Timothy Scrip, late of 'Change Alley, Cornhill, Stockbroker.
During the course of a long life he was diligent, industrious, and
indefatigable in the exercise of his profession. He died in the
seventieth year of his age, and _died well_, having left behind him a
fortune of sixty thousand pounds sterling. It is however much to be
regretted, that, _stocks being shut_ at the time of his death, he was
not able to make a _transfer_, or carry any part of it to his _account_
in the other world. It was remarked of him, that he was always more
solicitous to get the _turn of the day_ to himself, than to do a _good
turn_ to his neighbour; and that though he frequently made bargains _for
time_, he did not choose to risk any thing _for eternity_. He never gave
money to the poor, though offered a very high _premium_, thinking it
safer to make _ten per cent._ in the _English funds_, than _ten
thousand_ in those of a _foreign country_. For these reasons, though he
was always esteemed _a good man_ at Jonathan's, it is much to be
dreaded, that, at the _general settling day_, he will find himself _on
the wrong side_, and be forced to _waddle, a lame duck, out of Elysium_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  FROM THE LATIN.

  A haughty courtier, meeting in the streets
  A scholar, him thus insolently greets:
  Base men to take the wall I ne'er permit;
  The scholar said, I do--and gave him it.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                _THE SENTENCE._

                   *   *   *

  [A continuation of the +Criminal+, from page 359.]

                   *   *   *

The sun, as usual, had bedecked the east with his golden beams, and the
major part of mankind were pleased with the prospect. But the hero of
this piece had enjoyed none of its enlivening rays, since he had been
exiled from the world, until this morning: The gratings of the locks,
and opening of the doors which secured the entrance into his cell,
roused him to reflect that perhaps this was the day on which his fate
was to be decided: his conjectures were right; he was to be tried this
day by the laws of his country.

The attendants on the court had now penetrated into the place of his
confinement, and the smith was set to work in loosening his fetters.
Owing to the length of time, and their not being sufficiently large, the
skin adhered thereto; and on their being knocked off, it accompanied
them. Indeed, if there had been present one disinterested person, he
would have inferred that a barbarous punishment, formerly practiced by
eastern monarchs, had found entrance into a civilized country.

Being now freed from the galling irons, the culprit, safely guarded by
the officers of justice, was in a few minutes conducted before her
_impartial_ seat.

In due time, and in the usual form, did the stern dispenser of justice
commence the solemn interrogatory of "_Guilty, or not Guilty?_" As the
prisoner had duly weighed in his own breast the answer he was to make,
in an audible voice he replied in the negative.

----Say not, misjudging mortal, that this unfortunate being was to blame
in what he uttered, for truth dropped from his lips. True, indeed, his
hand, guided by desperation, had done the deed. Despair, that haggard
fiend, actuated every feeling; reason had deserted his breast--The man
was entirely annihilated. At this juncture his hand had perpetrated what
his heart would have abhorred to have thought on.--Call this not
sophistry, ye, who hold to the mild precepts of christianity; consider
it well, and then let unbiased reason have its full scope.

The council for the prosecution set forth in its blackest colours the
dreadful nature of the crime of murder; and concluded with assuring the
jury, that unless they brought the prisoner in guilty, they would act
contrary to every law, human and divine.

----The prisoner had no one to speak for him----

The learned Judge proceeded to give his opinion, in which it can truly
be said he acted not the _impartial_ part.

   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

A verdict was returned, agreeable to the wish of the court, which being
done, sentence was passed in usual form, not forgetting, at the close,
to entreat the compassion of the Deity. It seemed to breathe forth pity,
but it was only the semblance; and the same Judge had pronounced it
before this, times out of number.

  L. B.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS.

The height of happiness, beyond all doubt, is to enjoy in the same
person the delights of love, and the pleasures of friendship; and to
find in that same person an affectionate wife and a faithful friend; no
other felicity comparable to this, can the present life afford: But--let
us say no more.

Love is a blind emotion, which does not always suppose merit in its
object; yet it is far more flattering to a handsome woman, to be beloved
by a man of merit, than to be adored by a fool.

Many women wish to appear lively because they thank it gives them an air
of youth and wit; but, vivacity, which is not the result of these, only
places folly in a more distinguished point of view.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On Sunday morning the 7th inst. at Staten-Island, by the Rev. Mr.
Birkby, Mr. HENRY FROME, to Miss NANCY BYVANCK, both of that place.

Same time, by the Rev. Mr. Birkby, Mr. ABRAHAM MERRIL, to Miss POLLY
LAKE, both of that place.

On Thursday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Miller, PETER HAWES,
Esq. to Miss NANCY POST, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. THOMAS WHITFIELD, to Miss EFFE
VAN AULEN, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. ELAM WILLIAMS, to
Miss CATHARINE BOGERT, both of this city.

On Sunday last, at Jamaica. (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. TYSON,
of this city, to Miss LETTY RAPPELYE, of Cow-Neck.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Mason, Mr. CHARLES MILLER, to
Miss ANN PATTERSON, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 14th to the 20th inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

         deg.  deg.   6. 3.  6. 3.
            100   100
  May 14  46  55      nw. sw.  clear lt. wd.  cly. do.
      15  47  59      s. do.   clear calm  do. h. wd.
      16  50  57      n. se.   cloudy lt. wd.  do. do.
      17  48  62      nw. s.   clear l. wd.  do. do.
      18  53  67      s. do.   rain lt. w.  do. do. th. lg.
      19  51  65      n. s.    clear lt. wd.  do. do.
      20  51  55      e. se.   rain lt. wd.  do. do. ra.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  AN EVENING MEDITATION.

  By Miss Carter.

  While night in solemn shade invests the pole,
  And calm reflection sooths the pensive soul;
  While reason, undisturb'd assorts her sway,
  And life's deceitful colours fade away;
  To thee, All-conscious Presence! I devote,
  This peaceful interval of sober thought:
  Here all my better faculties confine,
  And be this hour of sacred silence thine.

    If, by the day's illusive scenes misled,
  My erring soul from virtue's path has stray'd;
  Snar'd by example, or by passion warm'd,
  Some false delight my giddy sense has charm'd;
  My calmer thoughts the wretched choice reprove,
  And my best hopes are centred in thy love.
  Depriv'd of this, can life one joy afford?
  Its utmost boast a vain unmeaning word.

    But ah! how oft my lawless passions rove,
  And break these awful precepts I approve!
  Pursue the fatal impulse I abhor,
  And violate the virtue I adore!
  Oft, when thy better Spirit's guardian care
  Warn'd my fond soul to shun the tempting snare,
  My stubborn will his gentle aid repress'd,
  And check'd the rising goodness in my breast:
  Mad with vain hopes, or urg'd by false desires,
  Still'd his soft voice, and quench'd his sacred fires.

    With grief opprest, and prostrate in the dust,
  Should'st thou condemn, I own thy sentence just.
  But, oh, thy softer titles let me claim,
  And plead my cause by Mercy's gentle name.
  Mercy! that wipes the penitential tear,
  And dissipates the horrors of despair;
  From righteous justice deals the vengeful hour,
  Softens the dreadful attribute of pow'r,
  Disarms the wrath of an offended God,
  And seals my pardon in a Saviour's blood!

    All-powerful grace, exert thy gentle sway,
  And teach my rebel passions to obey;
  Lest lurking Folly, with insidious art,
  Regain my volatile inconstant heart!
  Shall every high resolve Devotion frames
  Be only lifeless sounds and specious names?
  O, rather, while thy hopes and fears controul,
  In this still hour, each motion of my soul,
  Secure its safety by a sudden doom,
  And be the soft retreat of sleep my tomb!
  Calm let me slumber in that dark repose,
  Till the last morn its orient beam disclose:
  Then, when the great archangel's potent sound
  Shall echo thro' creation's ample round,
  Wak'd from the sleep of death, with joy survey
  The op'ning splendors of eternal day!

  [[Source:

  Original: "Thoughts on Midnight" (1739) by Elizabeth Carter 1717-1806.
  Possible source: "A Night Piece" by "Miss Carter", #97 in _Elegant
    Extracts, or, useful and entertaining pieces of poetry, selected
    for the Improvement of Young Persons_, 1796 and earlier, ed.
    Vicesimus Knox.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ON MRS. MONTAGU.

  By a Lady.

  Why boast, O arrogant, imperious man,
  Perfections so exclusive? are thy powers
  Nearer approaching Deity? can'st thou solve
  Questions which high Infinity propounds,
  Soar nobler flights, or dare immortal deeds,
  Unknown to woman, if she greatly dares
  To use the powers assign'd her? Active strength,
  The boast of animals, is clearly thine;
  By this upheld, thou think'st the lesson rare
  That female virtues teach; and poor the height
  Which female wit obtains. The theme unfolds
  Its ample maze, for Montagu befriends
  The puzzled thought, and, blazing in the eye
  Of boldest opposition, strait presents
  The soul's best energies, her keenest powers,
  Clear, vigorous, enlighten'd; with firm wing
  Swift she o'ertakes his Muse, which spread afar
  Its brightest glories in the days of yore;
  Lo! where she, mourning spurns the stedfast earth,
  And, failing on the cloud of science, bears
  The banner of Perfection.


       *       *       *       *       *

  +ODE to _SPRING_.+

  Balmy breezy welcome wind!
  Full on thy genial wings reclin'd,
  Once again to these lov'd climes
  Returns sweet Spring; returns and smiles,
  Instant, as the goddess moves,
  Resound the woods, exult the groves,
  Laugh the vales, and down the hills
  Bright flow the many--warbling rills.
  Charming season! lovely Spring!
  While all around some tribute bring!
  Let me lay before thy shrine
  These verses on a nymph divine.
  Bloomy virgin! blush no more,
  That sighing swains your charms adore;
  Seldom flourishes conceal'd
  The garden rose, when once reveal'd.
  As the tender Crocus blows,
  Amid stern winter's dreary snows;
  So your fragrant favours bless
  Your fellow creatures in distress.
  Like the Polyanthus too,
  That blooms the circling seasons thro';
  Free from vanity and guile,
  We always meet you with a smile.
  Tho' such sweets around you deal,
  Like the meek Lily of the Vale,
  For you shun what merit draws,
  And seek to bless without applause.
  Yet be sure, for fear of ill,
  To wed some worthy man that will,
  Florist-like, those virtues past,
  Uphold and cherish to the last.


_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 Book-Store of
Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  _Wednesday, May 31, 1797._  [+No. 100.+


  INTENT OF RELIGION.

If there be any principle fully ascertained by religion, it is, that
this life was intended for a state of trial and improvement to man. His
preparation for a better world required a gradual purification, carried
on by steps of progressive discipline. The situation here assigned him
was such as to answer this design, by calling forth all his active
powers, by giving full scope to his moral dispositions, and bringing to
light his whole character. Hence it became proper, that difficulty and
temptation should arise in the course of his duty; ample rewards were
promised to virtue; but these rewards were left, as yet, in obscurity
and distant prospect.

The impressions of sense were so balanced against immortality, as to
allow a conflict between faith and sense,--between conscience and
desire,--between present pleasure and future good. In this conflict the
souls of good men are tried, improved and strengthened:--in this field
their honours are reaped;--here are formed the capital virtues of
fortitude, temperance, and self-denial;--moderation in prosperity,
patience in adversity, submission to the will of God, charity and
forgiveness to men amidst the various competitions of worldly interest.


       *       *       *       *       *

  HOPE.

Hope to the soul, when distracted by the confusions of the world, is as
an anchor to a ship in a dark night, on an unknown coast, and amidst a
boisterous ocean. In danger it gives security;--amidst general
fluctuation it affords one fixed point of rest. It is the most eminent
of all the advantages which religion confers. It is the universal
comforter;--it is the spring of all human activity.

Upon futurity, men are constantly suspended; animated by the prospect of
some distant good, they toil and suffer through the whole course of
life; and it is not so much what they are at present, as what they hope
to be in some after time, that enlivens their motions, fixes their
attention, and stimulates industry.

Was this hope entertained with that full persuasion which Christian
faith demands, it would in truth totally annihilate all human miseries;
it would banish discontent, extinguish grief, and suspend the very
feeling of pain.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  HUMILITY IN COMPANY.

Of all the qualifications for conversation, humility, if not the most
brilliant, is the safest, the most amiable, and the most feminine. The
affectation of introducing subjects with which others are unacquainted,
and of displaying talents superior to the rest of the company, is as
dangerous as it is foolish.

There are many who never can forgive another for being more agreeable
and more accomplished than themselves, and who can pardon any offence
rather than an eclipsing merit. The fable of the nightingale should be
ever had in remembrance, as it conveys a most useful lesson replete with
valuable instructions. Had the silly warbler conquered his vanity, and
resisted the temptation of shewing a fine voice, he might have escaped
the talons of the hawk. The melody of his singing was the cause of his
destruction; his merit brought him into danger, and his vanity cost him
his life.


       *       *       *       *       *

  MAN'S DANGER AND SECURITY IN YOUTH.

In that period of life too often characterized by forward presumption
and headlong pursuit, self-conceit is the great source of those dangers
to which men are exposed; and it is peculiarly unfortunate, that the age
which stands most in need of the counsel of the wise, should be the most
prone to contemn it. Confident in the opinions which they adopt, and in
the measures which they pursue, the bliss which youth aim at is, in
their opinion, fully apparent. It is not the danger of mistake, but the
failure of success, which they dread. Activity to seize, not sagacity to
discern, is the only requisite which they value.

The whole state of nature is now become a scene of delusion to the
sensual mind. Hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what
flatters most is always farthest from reality. There are voices which
sing around us, but whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet
spread where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites us
to repose, but to slumber upon it is death. Sobriety should temper
unwary ardour; Modesty check rash presumption; Wisdom be the offspring
of reflection now, rather than the bitter fruit of experience hereafter.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

           (Continued from page 371.)

                   *   *   *

  Conclusion
  of the
  _HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S----._

She arrived at the house of Mrs. Moore, and on enquiring for Mrs. S----,
was answered by a coarse, vulgar-looking woman, that "she know'd no such
person; but that she was a stranger, and her mistress was out." Mrs.
Wilmot was not to be so easily repulsed after her morning's fatigue; and
on her mentioning the child, the woman added, "Oh, to be sure, she meant
the grand lady that had supped there the night before, after she had
been to the play; for that she had lighted her home, and would tell the
coachman where she lived."

Thus directed, they proceeded near half a mile farther; from whence Mrs.
Wilmot would have been probably sent back as much in the dark, had not
the sudden appearance of Mrs. S---- at an upper window caught her eye,
and there was no possibility of denying herself. Mrs. Wilmot ordered the
coachman, without much ceremony, to open the door, but knocked
repeatedly at that of the house before she was let in. She was at length
shewn into a sumptuous parlour where every thing bespoke luxury, and
Mrs. S---- came to her. Her visible confusion, and the style of her
dress so different to that in which Mrs. Wilmot had been accustomed to
behold her, would have soon convinced a person of less penetration than
that worthy woman, of the deception practised on her master.

"Without making any comments, she delivered her message, and earnestly
intimated that the little boy might return with her; to which Mrs. S----
most reluctantly assented. They were soon seated in the coach, and Mrs.
Wilmot thought it her duty to forbear interrogating the child; but
confined herself to her own pious reflections on that gentle pity which
she thought it necessary for every human being to bestow on the lost
young creature, from whom she had just parted. She wished it had not
been reserved for her to make the discovery of unquestionable guilt; and
while she contemplated the sweet features of the lovely boy, she
inwardly ejaculated a prayer to his Creator, that his young mind might
remain uncontaminated by bad example; for she could not suppose that at
such early years he could be an adept in the school of deception; or
that a mother, though lost in her own person, could train up her child
in the paths that led to infamy and corruption. Alas, his little heart
was already less pure than her own; and he was an able practitioner in
the art of dissembling.

"Mrs. Wilmot's silence lasted no longer than till her return home; when
immediately requesting a few minutes private audience with her master in
his study, she, with many apologies, entered into a full explanation of
what she had seen, and what she conjectured.

"When dinner was over, my uncle questioned Frederick; and was astonished
at the hardened resolution with which he at first equivocated. On
finding, however, that his secret had transpired, and his interrogator
was resolved, the weakness of a mind not yet sufficiently strong to be
consummate in hypocrisy, betrayed him, and he revealed all he knew.

Shocked at the idea of suffering the child to return to his imprudent
mother, yet not possessing in himself sufficient authority to detain
him, there was but one expedient, and that was to send for me. He drew
from him a promise not to mention to his mother a word of what had
passed; and promising to him if he did not, such presents as were most
desirable at his age, he sent him home; and it was the day following on
which, at his own request, I waited on him.

Our conversation was such as might be expected, and I had the happiness
to see myself restored to a relation, whom I had hitherto scarcely
known. He invited me to reside at his house; and in a few days his
attorney waited on Mrs. S---- with a formal requisition, in my behalf,
for the restoration of my son. She complied by force, but had the
littleness to take from him all his wearing apparel, save that in which
he sullenly appeared before us. My emotions on seeing him cannot be
described. He received my caresses with disgust; and seemed to consider
us both more as his tyrants than his protectors. For several weeks we
tried what effect kindness, little presents, and the partaking of
different amusements, would have on his mind. None of these succeeded;
his temper was vindictive, stubborn, morose, and even revengeful. He
never spoke of his mother, and we as carefully avoided her name in his
presence. We fitted up without his knowledge a small room in the house
for his use, and stored it with such books as might amuse his fancy, and
instruct his mind. No act of kindness made any impression on him. Often
did the unmanly tear roll silently down my cheek, as I traced the
distant, but well-finished resemblance of his lovely mother. He
frequently observed me as my heart yearned to embrace him, but his
ungracious looks repelled the too tender emotion. My uncle at length
told me of his determination to send him to school, and hinted at the
same time his intentions in his favour. We soon after placed him at an
academy ten miles from town, and had the pleasure to receive very
satisfactory accounts of his conduct and improvements. We seldom
visited, or sent for him, but at the time of the general holidays; as
from that mistaken indulgence arises so frequently a love of pleasure
and idleness, and a disgust to all which should be materially attended
to. He wrote, at my express desire, to his mother, to inform her of his
new situation, and of the orders which had been given to prevent any
interruption of his studies; but this caution proved needless, as she
neither answered his letter, nor took any farther notice of him.

I passed about two years in this state of negative happiness, when death
suddenly robbed me of my valuable relation; a misfortune the more
grievous, as it was wholly unexpected. The physician who occasionally
attended him had not perceived any alarming symptoms; and a few mornings
after his last visit, Mrs. Wilmot found him dead in his bed. He was a
man of sound morals, but great eccentricity. He had been so long
estranged from the world, and those few who had any claim of
relationship, that 'tis probable he would have left his possessions for
the use of public charities, had not Mrs. S------, without intending to
serve me, so materially effected it.

As it was not unusual for my uncle to pass several days together in his
own apartment, during which I seldom or ever saw him, I had no idea till
Mrs. Wilmot suggested to me her opinion that a new will had been lately
made. Mr. Term, the lawyer, whom he had employed to bring my son to us,
and in whom he had always appeared to place much confidence, had been
latterly more frequent than usual in his visits; and Mrs. Wilmot was
afterwards justified in her opinion that her master had been guided by
him in the regulation of his affairs. I sent immediately for that
gentleman, and we proceeded into the gloomy chamber of death, where we
had no difficulty to find the object of our search. He opened and read
it to us. We found that he had left the bulk of his fortune to my son;
an annuity of two hundred pounds to myself; and to Mrs. Wilmot, his
houshold furniture, plate, and other articles, besides fifty pounds
a year for her life. Mr. Term was his sole executor; and I had no cause
to be displeased with the choice. He appointed that gentleman and myself
the joint guardians of Frederick. Mrs. S------ was not mentioned, but
some trifling sums were bequeathed to different people.

"We found on investigation, that after discharging these incumbrances,
my son's property would not exceed from seven to eight thousand pounds.
When the funeral was over, I took lodgings in the neighbourhood; and my
son, whom I had sent for on that occasion, returned to his school. I had
not been there many days, before I received a letter from Doctor C----,
his worthy preceptor, informing me that Frederick had suddenly
disappeared; and that in so secret a manner, that none of the boys, whom
he had severally questioned, could give the least intimation of his
design. I immediately waited on Mr. Term, and invested him with full
power over him, desiring him to act for me as well as himself.

"We had no doubt of his mother's being privy to his flight; but though
she did not deny having any knowledge of him, it was impossible to
prevail on her to reveal what she had done with him. We gave up the
pursuit; and, though I could not be happy, I endeavoured to be composed.

"I knew that my re-union with my wife was now beyond the reach of
possibility. Dear, and undeserving as she was, I could only pity, and
lament her. I knew too that she must be inevitably wretched; for though
I was well assured she had a settlement nearly double to my income, yet
I was equally so that no provision, however splendid, could compensate
for the loss of every social virtue, and the self-accusation of perfidy,
and ingratitude.

"In a few months, she sent me an insulting letter; telling me, that as
she knew her son's fortune to be out of the reach of his guardians, she
could be under no apprehensions for his future welfare; but that of his
present conduct she should take charge; which, if we objected to, would
oblige her to continue silent respecting his residence. We soon,
however, without any difficulty, found out that he was at a respectable
military academy; and as we could not suggest any reasonable motives for
withdrawing him, unless it was to prevent him from seeing his mother,
which we knew would drive them both to extremities, we were silent on
the subject; and, at length, answered the different bills that were
necessarily contracted for his support and education.

"My son is now in his twenty-fifth year, and has been nearly nine in a
regiment of foot, at this time in Ireland. For my present poverty, I can
only alledge, that dangerous rock on which all my peace has been
wrecked, a too large portion of _natural affection_. His unbounded
extravagance has reduced me to distress; and I have taken up, at
different times, to assist him, sums so inadequate to my circumstances,
that some years must pass before I can enjoy anew that comfortable
independance, which was forfeited almost as soon as acquired!

"Of Mrs. S---- I know nothing. Time has blunted the sharp edge of grief;
but the wound has penetrated my heart, and _that_ will never know a
_cure_.

"My son knows I can do no more for him, and leaves me to my fate. Thus
is every balsamic drop that is mixed in the full cup of human woe,
converted into deadly poison; the more fatal to me, as they issue from
the fount that flowed pure and unadulterated from the hands of its
Creator.

"Thus, Madam, have you patiently attended to the undisguised story of a
poor, unfortunate old man, worn out by sorrow more than by years; a man,
who has been a friend, though an unsuccessful one, to human nature, but
who is now become a burden to himself, and to the World."

I pitied him--I wept with him:--But it is reserved to the High Power
alone whom he worships, to administer consolation.

Should the eyes of youth, and levity, be cast over the preceding
history, may they be moistened by the tear of Sensibility! And may the
heart of every child that is callous to the distresses of a parent,
recoil with horror at the unnatural crime; and, by returning to his
duty, fulfil _the great Commandment of Heaven!_

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  OBSERVATION.

Flattery is often the guide to destruction.--It is the first rudiment
which man attends to with success, and the first lesson he repeats to
gain our affections; too often, my fair friends, you give ear to it, and
suffer your hearts to be enslaved for encomiums which your mirror tell
you are false.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                     No. V.

                   *   *   *

  Our youth, proficients in a NOBLE art,
  Divide a farthing to the hundredth part.
  Well done, my boy, the joyful father cries,
  ADDITION and SUBTRACTION make us wise.

    FRANCIS.

It would scarcely inform my readers to assure them, that, when I was at
College, my mathematical tutor shook his head, and dubbed me a stupid
fellow. Whatever stress might be laid on the multiplication and pence
tables by the sedate shop-keepers of State-street and Cornhill, it
always appeared to me that a scholar could attain the object of his
mission to the university, without any assistance from the four first
rules. Hence, I was more ashamed to be surprised solving a sum in Pike,
than a reputed virgin would be to have the unchaste poems of _Rochester_
plucked from her pillow. I contented myself with studying the ways of
men and the works of Roman and English wits, without gaping with a
foolish face of wonder, when told of the "Square of the Hypothenuse,"
and the miracles that compound interest would perform in a term of
years. Geometrical progression was not half so delightful to me as
vehicular progression in a crazy Charlestown-car. That portion of
arithmetic among merchants called fellowship, or company, I left to them
to ascertain their shares of a cargo of sugar and molasses by; while the
rules of good fellowship I made familiar both to my conception and
practice. In fine, those of my prudent friends who observed the lankness
of my purse, long before the expiration of a College term, merrily
remarked, that REDUCTION was the only part of arithmetic in which I made
a figure.

This avowed neglect of a darling study, so offended the lovers of
straight lines, that every moment they could steal from their diagrams
they employed in prognosticating my future fortune. They would sketch on
the paper covers of EUCLID perspective views of my dilapidated estate;
and by rhombus, rhomboid, and trapezium, barbarous terms, such as are
"a misery to hear," they would conjure away my goods and chattles.
Those, who descending from the heights of abstraction, condescended to
become mere mortals again, and to converse upon sublunary topics, were
continually quoting and applying to me that elegant adage "of bringing
one's noble to a nine-pence," &c. In vain I endeavoured to defend my
practice, and to apologize for my disbelief in Euclid's infallibility.
In vain I suggested, that many of the brightest geniuses successfully
clambered up the rugged steeps of Fame, without employing the nine
digits, as pioneers, to smooth the way: that Shakespeare, with whom, as
Cicero observes of Plato, I would rather _err_, than think right with
all the philosophers, was not only a novice in the doctrine of "nought
and carry one," but frankly indulges a laugh of contempt at
computation:--that in Othello, when Iago informs his Venitian dupe of
Cassio's unjust preferment to a lieutenancy, and is asked "what is he?"
the contemptuous response is "forsooth a great arithmetician!" That in
Love's Labour Lost, a pert page demands of Armado "how many is one
thrice told?" the solemn knight replies "I am ill at reckoning, it fits
the spirit of a tapster:" that Lord Lyttleton the elder, a _man of
business_, emphasizing the phrase, honoured by his prince with a place
in the exchequer and in the department of finance, could not, as we are
assured by his son, count twenty pounds in different British coins; that
the Dean of St. Patrick's, whose sterling sense and humour has pleased
and informed men more than all the works of all the mathematicians,
employed eight hours in a day in reading historians and poets, and
composing the Tale of a Tub, and was refused by the university of
Dublin, a degree, because he lampooned Locke and derided the aerial
speculations of a mathematician. All these shining examples, like
Haman's prosperity, "availed me nothing," and the sticklers for science
told me that I could not give directions to a carpenter without
understanding--how shall I write so unpoetical a word--without
understanding _parallelograms_.

Having thus far, in jocular phrase, discussed this _grave_ subject,
I now seriously declare, it is not my wish to abrogate any branches of
this recondite science. I am not possessed with such a Quixotish spirit
of innovation, as to desire all concerned forthwith to make proclamation
for mathematics and cousin german arithmetic to depart; but
good-naturedly to deride that mode of education, which neglecting, or
partially studying, eloquence, poetry, history, the classics, and the
world, devotes long and exclusive attention to things abstracted and
foreign from men's business and bosoms. That great and universal
scholar, Dr. Johnson, whose authority is of no trivial weight,
decisively pronounces that this science and the knowledge which it
requires and includes, is not the great and frequent business of life.
It is of rare emergence. We are perpetually moralists, but we are
geometricians only by chance. One may live long with a man and not
discern his skill in hydrostatics, or astronomy, but his moral and
prudential character immediately appears. The rigid Knox, who is a
strenuous advocate for the severest school discipline, confesses, that a
man may be very liberally educated, without much skill in this branch of
learning. I remember reading, not many years since, a preface of Dr.
Cheyne's to one of his medical tracts, wherein, after describing his
devotion to triangles, &c. he pathetically deplores his waste of time,
and adds, "that in these exquisitely bewitching speculations, gentlemen
of liberal leisure may riot; but for men of general learning, business,
and the world, they are too empty and aerial." My readers will perhaps
yawn at these multiplied citations; but this is a science, supported so
much by authority and opinion, that I must oppose it with equal arms.

We are magisterially told that this study, _of all others_, most closely
fixes the attention. An argument shallow, untrue, and easily vanquished.
Any object that engrosses the mind, will induce a habit of attention.
Now I can warrantably assert, that a description from Virgil, a scene
from Shakespeare, Robertson's narrative of the decollation of Mary, or
any striking passage from authors of polite literature, will accomplish
this purpose. Why should the demonstrations of Euclid arrogate this
honour to themselves? Have they an _exclusive privilege_ of enchanting
the mind, or are they invested with a talismanic charm by which
attention is at once conjured into mathematical circles? Addison
wondered how _rational_ beings could for hours play with painted bits of
paper; but he was manifestly a novice in whist, a game which, regularly
played, is an unremitting exercise of two of the noblest intellectual
powers, memory and judgment. The acute Hume, when jaded with
metaphysical research, invigorated his powers with a cheerful RUBBER.
From a fashionable amusement he derived that benefit which the
worshippers of Euclid would confine to their God. In fine, a _mere_
mathematician, without being a more cogent reasoner, is less learned,
less eloquent, and less courtly than the Beauclercs, whose superficial
talents he contemns. He is a solemn, absent, unaccommodating mortal.
Better therefore to imitate Cardinal de Retz and Chesterfield; better to
study the useful and the pleasant, than to dream away life over the
symbols and negative quantities of algebra.

I proposed to animadvert next on the influence that arithmetical minutiae
gradually obtained over the heart. I was about adventuring to censure
even the great Dr. Franklin, for insisting too much upon the mint,
annise, and cummin of computation. I wished to brand avarice, and to
deny the doctrine of "uttermost farthings." But I recollected that every
penurious parent, who prescribes as a horn-book lesson to his son, that
"scoundrel maxim" a penny saved is a penny got, would cry--shame! The
world, quoth prudence, will not bear it; 'tis a penny getting, pound
hoarding world--I yielded; and shelter myself in my garret against that
mob of misers and worldlings I see gathering to hoot me.


       *       *       *       *       *

            REFLECTIONS ON SCANDAL.

                   *   *   *

  "Base Envy withers at another's joy,
  And hates that excellence it cannot reach."

    THOMSON.

There is not a greater enemy to the peace of individuals, and society at
large, than Scandal; although it is much to be regretted, that, there is
no frailty to which most people are so subject. Scandal is the offspring
of Envy; and the only weapon of little minds against superior abilities.
But notwithstanding Scandal affects, more or less, every member of the
community, it reigns with more distinguished power over some parts of
society than others. On enquiry, it will appear that the female
character sustains the most injury from this bane to human happiness. In
the country, too, this species of Scandal is more prevalent than in the
metropolis. The reason is obvious; in a country place, the number of
inhabitants are so small, that each is frequently more acquainted with
the character of his neighbour than his own. Every action is examined
with the most critical severity; and often the best of characters lose
the esteem of their acquaintance from the malignant aspersions of
Ignorance and Envy. It is impossible for a lady to be seen walking with
a gentleman, in such a place, without the immediate conclusion that they
are lovers: it is even not uncommonly added, if their acquaintance
should have lasted any length of time, that Miss Such-a-one appears to
be in _fair way_. After a report of this nature has once spread, I have
seen a company of females thrown into the greatest consternation, by the
entrance of a lady who was the unfortunate subject of Slander. How busy
is the silent whisper, on these occasions! It runs with amazing
rapidity, from ear to ear, accompanied by nods and winks; with a--"You
know who"--"So they say"--"Well, I could never have thought it!" and a
variety of such phrases, which every one must at some time have heard.

Scandal is of a quality peculiarly distressing. Against the open shafts
of violence, every one may defend himself; but, from Slander, and secret
Calumny, the most deserving must suffer.

The only method to prevent this pest to society, is for every one to
shut their ears against the officious tales of Scandal and Envy; since
experience proves, that if people in general were not too much inclined
to listen, when any account is brought of the faults and failings of
others, the tongue of Scandal would no longer find the mean satisfaction
it now enjoys.

The mischiefs that accrue to mankind, from Calumny and Slander, are
innumerable. How many families have their peace destroyed by evil
reports! By such means, the seeds of enmity are too often engendered
between the dearest connections in life.

It has already been observed, that Scandal is the only weapon of little
minds against superior worth and abilities. The truth of this remark
ought to be a sufficient preventative; for, I believe, no one would wish
to incur the merited appellation of a little and envious mind. Females,
in particular, should divest themselves of this spirit, which produces
so many evils among the fair-sex; for, let it be remembered, that an
envious mind, and slanderous tongue, never inhabit the face of beauty,
and the form of elegance!--If there must still remain, in the breasts of
some, a slanderous spirit, and a delight to fabricate scandalous
reports; if most people will also retain a propensity to hear whatever
comes from such a source; let us act with some degree of impartiality:
before we credit, as undoubted truth, tales injurious so the reputation
of another; we ought, at least, to examine whether what we hear does not
wear the most flagrant marks of falsehood. Thus we may often be enabled
to discover fiction from truth, and be satisfied that the person accused
is entirely innocent: and it is the province of great minds, to
vindicate the characters of those who are absent, when unjustly aspersed
by the tongue of Scandal.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  CHARACTER OF LORD MOUNT-GARTH.

Of the following extraordinary character, though not given as historical
fact, there is said to have actually been a prototype lately, if not at
present, resident in one of the wildest parts of the county of Suffolk.

Lord Mount-Garth had retired from the world twenty years ago, not only
within his own park, but, except on very rare occasions, within his own
palace and garden; which, together, occupied a space of nearly a square
mile, and were surrounded by a wall fifteen feet high; against which he
would amuse himself for hours in playing at hand-ball; sometimes alone,
and at others accompanied by a female favourite, the only person he
would suffer to come near him, or could ever bear to see, though at a
distance, except one man, the son of his father's gardener, who had been
brought up with him at home from his infancy, and was exactly of the
same age, being born in the same night and hour. This man had not, any
more than his lordship, been without the precincts of the park, and very
seldom beyond those of the garden, for the space of thirty years. As
they went into this state of voluntary confinement, which is a kind of
_internal_ exile, at the age of twenty, they are now, of course, in the
fiftieth year of their age. John, for that was the name of the man, had
been educated along with his lordship in his father's family, by a
private tutor; and had acquired a competent knowledge, not only of
ancient and modern languages, history, and Belles Lettres, but a general
idea of the principles and progressive improvement in the arts and
sciences. John acted in the capacity of valet de chambre, confidant, and
companion; dined at the same table with his lordship, went to bed at the
same hour, and slept to the same hour precisely, and almost to the same
minute rose in the morning. He was dressed precisely in the same kind of
cloaths, even to the sameness of shoe-buckles and sleeve-buttons. If my
lord felt himself not very well, and judged it proper to take any
medicine, John must take the same medicine also. "John" he would say,
"I think we sat up rather too late last night: I think we should not be
the worse for an emetic."--"I think we should be much the better for it,
my lord."--"John, I am afraid we have rather exceeded in our
refreshments for some days past: I think we should be none the worse for
some cathartics."--"I think we should be much the better for them, my
lord."--"John, I think we feel somewhat of a vertigo this morning:
I think we should be not the worse for a little sal volatile."--"I think
we should be much the better for it, my lord."--"Have we not felt a
somewhat of relaxation of nerves for same days, John?"--"I protest, my
lord, on recollection, I think we have."--"What should you think of a
dip in the cold-bath?"--"I think, my lord, it would do us both a great
deal of good."

This singular character, sunk in indolence and sensuality, of all things
dreaded cold: but as for snow, he could not endure the sight of it. In
winter, he generally lay in bed till ten or eleven o'clock: about that
time he would pull his bell, call for John, and ask him what kind of a
day it was. "It is a very fine day, my lord; the sun shines out
brightly, and the atmosphere is unsullied by a cloud."--"Why, then,
John, I think we should be the better for a race in the garden." For it
was their custom to have frequent races, at the end of which both
parties were within a few feet of each other. "John, how looks the
weather this morning?"--"Most hideously, my lord! The sky lowers; the
feathered creation retreat to their roosts; the cats incessantly curry
their hides; and flakes of snow, driving before the wind, announce the
coming storm."--"John, shut the doors and windows; light up a rouzing
fire; let candles be brought; let the pastry and cold tongues be laid on
the table; and, since it is a bad day, let us make a good night."

Many efforts were made by the college acquaintance of his lordship to
see him; for, with all his singularities, he was an amiable and
benevolent man, as well as an excellent scholar; and attached, as by a
singular charm, all his acquaintance to his person. They would put up
their horses at an adjoining village, and send letters to his lordship,
fraught with recollections of former intimacy. His lordship never failed
to return answers replete with equal kindness; recollecting former
scenes and circumstances, with expressions of the most pleasing
emotions, but always declining any personal interview.

As the inn nearest his lordship's park was but a very wretched one--for
in this sequestered spot there was no encouragement for a good one--he
took care always to send, on the arrival of strangers, the best
provisions of all kinds, unknown to his friends, with orders to the
landlord to make some trifling charge, lest he should offend their
delicacy, by affording them entertainment when he refused them his
company. His lordship's friend was a good sort of woman: she amused
herself, now and then, by giving suppers to the servants and the farmers
daughters in the neighbourhood, the nearest house being five miles from
the Castle. He had land stewards on his different estates; all business
with whom, as with every other mortal, was transacted through the medium
of John, or the housekeeper. If he had occasion to go from one quarter
of the castle or garden to another, orders were previously sent to all
the servants to keep out of the way; for, if he had catched any of them
looking at him, he would have immediately dismissed them from his
service. He had an excellent library, in which he passed a great part of
his time, but into which no publication of any kind had been admitted
since the year of his retirement, or sequestration from the world; being
that, as already mentioned, on which he left the university, having then
succeeded to the estate by the death of his father. No newspapers! no
magazines! no reviews! no political pamphlets! no annual registers! No,
nor any conversation concerning any political or other event that had
happened in Britain, or any other part of the world, from the hour of
his seclusion. He turned himself about, and cast his eyes backward, and
fixed them wholly on former times. Although, he confessed, that he had
often been tempted to enquire what could be the causes of the sudden and
enormous accumulation of taxes.


       *       *       *       *       *

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                 THE CRIMINAL.

  [Concluded from page 375.]

                   *   *   *

  _A LAUNCH INTO ETERNITY._

----First marched forth those that guarded the law from violation; then
followed the culprit bound in a cart, attended by a clergyman, who was
using his pious endeavours to smooth the passage into another world.
They reached the tree. The ladder was placed, and after a few minutes
spent in the solemn duties of religion, he ascended it. With the
consciousness of a heart in which every virtue glowed, and with a
fortitude which the virtuous only possess, he calmly surveyed the
surrounding multitude, and signified his wish to be heard: they eagerly
lent their attention, while he painted to them the cause of his
disgrace, and the misery of his family which had led him to the act. He
said he could not endure the idea of seeing them perish before his eyes;
and when their distress was at its highest pitch, and when he could get
no help from those who would have befriended him with all they were
worth when he needed it not, he had sallied forth on the highway,
determined to alleviate their distresses--but his intentions were not to
shed blood--driven to desperation by experiencing a refusal, (when on
his knees he solicited the boon) he had done the deed.----

The people were all attention, and when he ended, their streaming eyes
spoke the sentiments of their hearts.

The moments were precious. The cord was fastened to the wood, and after
a few moments spent in devotion, the curtain of life dropped.

Scarcely was the solemn scene closed, when a murmur was heard among the
croud, and shortly after a female rushed to the spot. It was his wife.
Heavens! what a shock for her delicate frame! She had but just recovered
from an illness she had fallen into when they had dragged her husband
from her arms. She saw him now when life sat quivering at his lips, and
then in unison their spirits ascended to that bright world of bliss.

   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

----What substantial benefit, what real advantage do ye derive from
dooming to death one that has perpetrated the dreadful crime of murder?
Does his death restore to life the person murdered? Does it allay the
grief of the distressed family?----No!----What then is it that makes you
give your tacit consent to a measure which is hostile to every principle
of equity--derogatory to every principle of humanity? Is it because this
severe law was first given in thunderings, from Mount Sinai, to a
people, who while beholding with their eyes the glory of the Deity, yet
worshipped the work of their own hands? Throw aside prejudice, and that
fellest tyranny, _custom_, until then you will never view things in
their proper sphere.

Would not solitary imprisonment in a lonely cell, far excluded from
every pitying eye, for a term of years, be more just? He might be
compelled to labor, and his earnings go to maintain the family which
through his means has lost its support. Thus they who have suffered by
his misconduct might reap some advantage: whereas, by taking his life
they must be left to pine in want and wretchedness. If after continuing
in this state for some years, it be discovered that a thorough change is
wrought, and the offender has become a reasonable creature, then let him
be discharged--the debt is fully paid. But should he after this again
imbrue his hands in the blood of his fellow men, then let rigorous
imprisonment for life be the penalty--he is no longer fit to associate
with human beings.

  L. B.

    NEW-YORK _April 4, 1797_.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

By the Rev. Mr. King, Mr. JOHN M'CARTHY, of Johnstown, to Miss ELIZA
KER, daughter of the Rev. Nathan Ker, of Goshen, Ulster County.

By the Rev. Mr. O'Brien, Mr. CASIMIR DELAVIGNE, merchant, of this city,
to Miss EMILIA GUIBERT, late of Port-au-Prince.

On Tuesday, se'nnight, at Bedford, on Long-Island, by the Rev. Dr.
Livingston, JOHN I. JOHNSON, Esq. to Miss HANNAH LOUDON, both of this
city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Samuel Provoost, Mr. ALEXANDER S.
MILLER, to Miss MARY ROGERS, both of this city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 21st to the 27th inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

         deg.  deg.   6. 3.  6. 3.
            100   100
  May 21  57    70    se. do.  foggy clear  calm lt. wd.
      22  60    72    nw. w.   clear do.  lt. wd.
      23  56    65    se. do.  clear do.  calm h. wd.
      24  54    66    e. do.   cly. clear  calm lt. wd.
      25  54    69    e. do.   cly. lt. w.  clear do. ra.
      26  55    71    n. s.    clear lt. wd.  do. do.
      27  55    62    e. se.   clear lt. wd.  cly. h. wd.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  STANZAS TO HOPE.

  Oh, Hope! thou balm of human woes,
    Oh! come, and lull my soul to rest;
  Thy form can soothe me to repose,
    'Tis thou canst calm my troubled breast.

  Thou bright illusion of the mind,
  Thou jewel to the human kind;
  Without thy aid, man's life would be
  A long, long scene, of mis'ry!

  'Tis thou that art the wretch's stay,
  When ev'ry comfort droops away;
  Thy friendly voice can bear him up,
  Though doom'd to drink Woe's bitt'rest cup.

  When the sad Pilgrim, with worn feet,
  Longs, yet despairs, his friends to greet;
  'Tis then thy heav'nly soothing ray,
  Renews his steps, and chears his way.

  When the poor Mariner, at sea,
  Views black'ning tempests round him flee;
  Thy friendly aid points out the shore,
  Where tempests cease, and storms are o'er.

  When the tir'd Soldier, on the plain,
  Sees battle rage, and thousands slain;
  Thou bidd'st his care and anguish cease,
  And bring'st the welcome sound of peace.

  When the poor Captive, in his cell,
  Is doom'd in chearless gloom to dwell,
  Thy angel Vision sets him free;
  Thou giv'st him life, with liberty.

  Yet not to earth's contracted spot,
    Thy boundless power can be confin'd;
  For our's would be the hardest lot,
    Should all our views be here resign'd.

  If in this life was all our hope,
    Then wretched were, indeed, our doom;
  But happy we, that thou can'st ope
    A realm of bliss beyond the tomb.

  When earth's short pilgrimage is o'er,
  When this world's charms can please no more;
  When life's last pulse throbs in the heart,
  And Death has aim'd his fatal dart--

  'Tis then, in heav'nly robes array'd,
  Thou art the dying Christian's aid;
  He views, through thy celestial eye,
  The dawn of immortality.


       *       *       *       *       *

  ON SEEING A MISER AT A CONCERT.

  Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast,
  To calm the tyrant and relieve th' opprest:
  The enticing Concert's more attractive pow'r,
  Unlock'd a Miser's pocket at threescore:
  O strange effect of music's matchless force,
  To extract a dollar from a full stown purse.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE CLOWN AND THE LAWYER.

  HOB visited BRIEF, with a very long face,
  Put a piece in his palm, and then stated his case.
  Quoth the Lawyer--"As far as I _yet_ understand,
  You are right as my nail, I declare _by this hand_:
  But doctors oft differ; so, were you my brother,
  I can't answer, till _that_ too be _fee'd_, for the _other_.
  Then spreading his hand, like a churchwarden's plate,
  "Come, come, my good friend, don't stand scratching your pate!
  But _wet t'other eye_, like a fool, as you ought,
  Time's too precious for me thus to waste it for mought."
  Says HOB--"Here's the stuff! but, as I am a ninny,
  I'm handing thee, now, Master BRIEF, my _last_ guinea;
  So I hopes as you'll give me the best of advice!"--
  "To be sure! to be sure!" cries BRIEF, "in a trice.
  Then, know, that those words which I last heard you say,
  Have driv'n all at first that I told you away.
  No matter what Cause, or what Lawyer, or Court,
  Gold! Gold! my friend HOB, is of all the support:
  With that, to each point of the compass we rove;
  Without it, the devil a _limb_ of us move!
  Ev'ry hope that I had, with your money, is gone;
  Your cause is a bad one, and you are undone.
  To _stand on_ you hav'n't, as we say, _a leg_;
  And no Lawyer, in England, for you'll stir a peg."
    HOB look'd mighty sheepish, and mutter'd a curse,
  As he saw Lawyer BRIEF put the cash in his purse.
  "What you tells me," he cried, as he slowly withdrew,
  "I fears, Master BRIEF, may, for _once_, be too _true_:
  But if I durst tell thee a piece of _my_ mind,
  Tho' I _have_ been main _foolish_, I a'n't yet quite _blind_;
  And you _Limbs_ of the _Law_, I now sees very plain,
  Be all, as a body may say, _rogues in grain!_
  Yes, ecod! had I know half I now know before,
  I'd as soon enter'd hell, Master BRIEF, as your door;
  And I wish I may suffer, with you, hell's worst pain,
  If ever I visit a Lawyer again!"


       *       *       *       *       *

  SOCIAL EVENINGS.

  I LOVE not, at peep of day,
  To chase, with dogs, a timid prey;
  My heart is rather prone to spare,
  The stately stag, the harmless hare:
    For, with a faithful, gen'rous friend,
    I would my Social Evenings spend.

  Lur'd by the chearful Noontide-heat,
  When insects quit their lone retreat;
  I would not that a worm should dread
  The ruin of my heedless tread:
    For, with a faithful, gen'rous friend,
    I would my Social Evenings spend.

  Thus, when Night draws her curtain round.
  May I be ne'er with maniacs found;
  Who, to forget their guilty day,
  Must wash reflection all away!
    For, with a faithful, gen'rous friend,
    I would my Social Evenings spend.


_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 Book-Store of
Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  _Wednesday, June 7, 1797._  [+No. 101.+


  [_A late writer in the London Monthly Magazine, in expatiating on
  the unreasonable disposition of the fair sex, brings forward, as
  a proof of the authenticity of his remarks, the following Letter
  of Lady COMPTON to her husband, which is now preserved in the
  British Museum, as a curiosity._]

                   *   *   *

  "MY SWEET LIFE,

"Now I have declared to you my mind for the settling of your state,
I supposed that it were best for me to bethink and consider within
myself, what allowance were meetest for me: for considering what care I
ever had of your estate, and how respectfully I dealt with those which
both by the laws of God, of nature, and civil policy, wit, religion,
government, and honesty, you, my dear, is bound to; I pray and beseech
you to grant to me, your most kind and loving wife, the sum of 2600l.
quarterly to be paid. Also I would, besides that allowance, have 600l.
quarterly to be paid, for the performance of charitable works: and those
things I WOULD NOT, neither WILL BE, accountable for. Also I WILL HAVE
three horses for my own saddle, that none shall dare to lend or borrow:
none lend but I, none borrow but you. Also I would have two gentlewomen,
lest one should be sick, or have some other let. Also, believe it, it is
an undecent thing for a gentlewoman to stand mumping alone, when God
hath blessed their lord and lady with a great estate. Also, when I ride
a-hunting, or a hawking, or travel from one house to another, I will
have them attending; so, for either of those said women, I MUST AND WILL
HAVE for either of them a horse. Also I will have six or eight
gentlemen; and I will have my two coaches, one lined with velvet to
myself, with four very fair horses; and a coach for my women, lined with
cloth, and laced with gold; the other with scarlet, and laced with
silver, with four good horses. Also I will have two coachmen, one for my
own coach, the other for my women. Also at any time when I travel,
I will be allowed not only _carroches_, and spare horses for me and my
women, but I will have such carriages as shall be fitting for all,
orderly, not pestering my things with my women's; nor their's with
either chambermaid's; nor their's with wash-maids. Also for laundresses,
when I travel, I will have them sent away before with the carriages, to
see all safe. And the chambermaids I will have go before, that the
chamber may be ready, sweet, and clean. Also for that it is undecent to
crowd up myself with my gentleman usher in my coach, I will have him to
have a convenient horse to attend me, either in city or country. And I
must have two footmen. And my desire is, that you defray all the charges
for me. And for myself, besides my yearly allowance, I would have twenty
gowns of apparel, six of them excellent good ones, eight of them for the
country, and six other of them very excellent good ones. Also I would
have to put in my purse 2000l. and 200l. and so you to PAY MY DEBTS.
Also I would have 6000l. to buy me jewels, and 4000l. to buy me a pearl
chain. Now, seeing I have been, and am, so REASONABLE unto you, I pray
you do find my children apparel, and schooling, and all my servants, men
and women, their wages. Also, I will have all my houses furnished, and
my lodging chambers to be suited with all such furniture as is fit; as
beds, stools, chairs, suitable cushions, carpets, silver warming-pans,
cupboards of plate, fair hangings, and such like. So for my drawing
chamber in all houses, I will have them delicately furnished, both with
hangings, couch, canopy, glass, carpet, chairs, cushions, and all things
thereunto belonging. Also my desire is, that you would PAY YOUR DEBTS,
build up Ashby-house, and purchase lands, and lend no money, as you love
God, to the Lord-Chamberlain, who would have all, perhaps your life,
from you. Remember his son, my lord Walden, what entertainment he gave
me, when you were at Tilt-yard. If you were dead, he said, he would be a
husband, a father, a brother, and said he would marry me. I protest,
I grieve to see the poor man have so little wit and honesty to use his
friends so vilely. Also he fed me with untruths concerning the
Charter-house, but that is the least; he wished me much harm, you know
how. God keep you and me from him, and any such as he is. So now that I
have declared to you what I would have, and what it is that I would not
have, I pray, when you be an earl, to allow me 2000l. more than now I
desire, and double attendance.

  "Your loving wife,

    "ELIZA COMPTON."

  [[Notes:

  This is apparently a real letter. William Compton, Eliza's husband,
  inherited somewhere between L500,000 and L800,000 in 1610. The letter
  may date from 1617; it can be no later than 1618, when William was
  created Earl of Northumberland.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

           (Continued from page 379.)

                   *   *   *

              _FOURTH WANDERING._

There are few subjects which deserve a closer investigation of the
legislation of the legislative power, and which is more neglected, than
the excessive cruelty that is exercised in this metropolis over unhappy,
and devoted _animals_. As they have no law to protect them, they are
doubly entitled to the attention of Humanity. It is scarcely possible to
walk through the city (London) without having one's feelings tortured by
the abandoned race of butcher's boys, and drovers. I could mention many,
I might say daily instances of what I have been painfully compelled to
witness, whenever I was led into that part of the town. One only I will
mention, which strongly evinces philanthropy on one hand, and infamy on
the other.

These contrasted practices belonging to the same class of people, the
lowest order, of the vulgar, are convincing proofs, that _Education_ has
less to do with the formation of our ideas, and the realization of our
actions, than _Nature_. She governs the human system, while she forms
it; and however villainy may be glossed over by the specious arts of
accomplished deception in splendid life, or worth may lie concealed
under the thick shade of retirement, the innate sentiment still "grows
with our growth," and effectually steers us throughout the course of our
existence.

It is not three weeks since I was going up Snow-hill, and was met by a
number of sheep, followed by one of these imps of the Devil that I have
mentioned. As I was standing by, to let them pass, I was struck by the
voice of an old woman, whose "tattered garment spoke variety of
wretchedness," and who, (to continue the simile) was exactly what Fancy
pictures _Otway_'s witch to have been. She was mourning over one of
these wretched animals, who had sunk on its knees, exhausted by
ill-usage and fatigue. One horn was plucked out by the roots; its legs
were lacerated, and streaming with blood, which issued from the
nostrils, while the _man_ (why I am _forced_ to call him so) was
employing all his strength in belabouring, with a thick stick, its
agonized sides!--The old woman was remonstrating, with all the eloquence
of genuine humanity. It was a foreign language to a wretch of this
description, and he answered her in his own; while I walked on; unable
to bear the sight before me, or to attend to the impious execrations of
the infernal cause of it.

How continually do we behold the newly-expired carcase of the generous
Horse, that has at last surrendered to toils beyond his strength! The
horse, which has been proudly contended for, and brought a little mine
of wealth to his ungrateful master, is now denied by him even that
little that would make his old age comfortable. Houseless, and hungry,
he smarts under the galling whip, and is not allowed _that_ rest which
God has equally ordained for man and brute. Mr. Dibdin's justly
celebrated song of _The Race-Horse_, is more descriptive than I can be
of the horrid barbarities practised against this most useful creature;
and which is, both in strength and generosity, superior to his masters.

There are many licensed abuses; and I will confine myself to one more
only. It is an essential one, and ought to be remedied. I mean,
respecting _Servants_. This class of people is particularly happy in its
privileges. The Soldier, and the Sailor, are sure to meet with severe
corporal punishment, if, in the slightest instance, they disobey the
commands of their superior; but for the Servant, there is no punishment,
unless caught in the very act of robbery; and even then, much money,
time, and uneasiness, must be the cost, before you can bring yourself
publicly to expose them.

How continually it happens, that exorbitant wages are due to these
people, which it is not immediately convenient for the master, or
mistress, to discharge. In that case, the servant, well acquainted with
the circumstance, becomes insolent, or, at best, regardless; and if you
find fault with them, they ask you, why you do not pay, and discharge
them? while they are well convinced, that if you did pay and discharge
them, they must either adopt another mode of conduct, or be reduced to
beggary. But though these are facts too common throughout life, yet
still, for the honour of humanity, some exceptions are to be found, but,
in general, this inference may be drawn from contrasting characters of
the same description in different, though similar situations, and proves
one important fact, that in all situations, where vulgar minds can have
an ascendancy, or pre-eminence, tyranny will ever be the result of their
conduct, whether in the Drover or the Domestic.

The Courtezan, who, from dirt and darkness, emerges, by fortuitous
circumstances, to gaudy splendor, and untasted affluence; or the
low-bred mechanic, who, by carping care, and assiduous industry, in
taking the advantage of the wants of those with whom he has
acquaintance, or connection, rises into opulence, the vulgar mind will
always appear in their conduct and behaviour. A haughty overbearing
demeanor will always mark their manner to those who may have the
misfortune to be under their power, and inconsistent meanness will ever
appear, from under their most sumptuous trappings, when attempting
elegance and refinement--but why it should be so is neither unnatural or
wonderful--for the truth is, that conscious of their own innate
meanness, and incapacity to sustain the character they would wish to
assume, they conceive that all who have known them, or do know them,
entertain the same contemptible ideas of them as they do of themselves,
and hence conclude it necessary, in support of that dignity to which
they aspire, or assume, to treat those around them with hauteur and
tyranny, to impress on their minds a constant practice of the submission
and obedience they wish to exact. It were well if the indigent, who may
attain to affluence, or the menial servant, who may arise to superiority
of situation in life, would recollect that greatness of soul, and
elevation of sentiment, are equally shown, though not so efficaciously
proved, in want as in wealth; in being commanded as in commanding.

Ostensible situations to such as are incapable of filling them, only
display the imperfections of the possessor in a more prominent point of
view; and it were well also, if those whom Nature made in hasty moments,
and in its coarsest moulds, whom Reason never regenerated, nor Education
ever refined--whose ideas never have, and perhaps never can be enlarged,
and whose sentiments, if ever sentiments arose in the breast of such
persons, were only conducive to encourage them in the pursuit of their
grovelling designs, and barbarous and unrefined opinions, would seek the
coverture of the shade, rather than expose their fantastic enormities,
and preposterous ignorance and inability in the sunshine.

  _FIFTH WANDERING._

It has been said, and more than that it is generally believed, that
happiness is not to be found on earth. I deny it. For although I have
never been allowed even to taste it in domestic life (with which the
world is too well acquainted to doubt my veracity) yet I have observed
almost daily instances of what I call happiness; and which, if not
admitted to be such by those in the enjoyment of it, fully demonstrates
a wilful incapacity to know its value, and ingratitude to that Being
who, for his own wise purposes, bestows or takes it away.

There are two conditions of life from which only I conceive happiness to
be naturally excluded; and by these I mean the extremes of affluence and
penury. The man who abounds in wealth cannot be happy. His soul, if
naturally great, is confined within the narrow precincts of custom and
education, and has no room to expand itself. Few of these have courage,
if they do not want inclination, to pry into the distresses of their
fellow-creatures; and they dread the effect of prejudice, as they would
dread the effect of treason. I am sorry to speak from my own
observation, when I declare, that throughout this wealthy metropolis,
(London) I have never yet found one man, rich in the gifts of fortune,
who had spirit enough to disdain the tinsel shew that surrounded him,
and consecrate his time and his money to those whom he seemed sent into
the world to gladden and relieve. One only instance have I heard of it
in the female world; and to her virtues, more than to her rank, may the
honest tribute of applause, not the flattering voice of adulation, be
given: I mean the Dowager Countess S----, where virtue unites itself to
talents, and both combine to render _her_ on whom they are bestowed
inestimable. What heart can refrain from offering up thanks to its
Creator, who now and then condescends, as in _her_, to shew a well-drawn
picture of himself? While she lives, her numerous charities cannot be
forgotten; and when that God whom she adores transplants her to a world
more worthy of her, still shall her name remain immortalized, while
gratitude holds a place in the hearts of the many indigent her bounties
have deigned to relieve!

But to proceed to my ideas of happiness;--I say ideas, because I have
only drawn a sketch of it from what I have seen, and from "_The
Wanderings of my Imagination_." Can I picture to myself a greater
felicity than a happy independent family I once saw in Yorkshire? They
were many in number, yet one soul seemed to animate all. The old farmer,
who had no more than he wished for, nor wished for more than he
possessed, was one of those jovial, honest, well-meaning men, whose
knowledge of the world extended not beyond the limits of his own farm.
His family consisted of an old widowed sister, whom he supported, his
wife, three daughters, and a son, who imitating his sire in industrious
labour and attention to the peaceful and useful arts of agriculture, was
requited by that tranquillity of mind which is ever the result of a good
disposition.

Nature had by no means slighted the daughters in the formation of their
outward graces; but had, on the contrary, given convincing proofs that
those requisites necessary to engage the eye, and interest the heart of
every beholder, were to be met with in the unassuming manners, and
unaffected benignity, which beamed in each of their countenances. These
strongly indicated that their minds was the soil where all the social
virtues, that diffuse happiness alike to the possessor and those in
connection with them, were to be found cultivated and sublimed;
endowments which require more of the sunshine in life to sustain or
invigorate; but blossoming and ripening in the shade, bid defiance to
the canker of time, and the chilling damps of progressive age. Their
prospects in life bounded and unenlarged, gave increase of pleasure and
tranquillity, by their having fewer wants to suffice, and fewer
expectations to pursue; for the less desire we have for the
gratification of our passions, the more our minds must be at ease. The
airy phantoms and deluding visions raised by the magic of Imagination,
are more or less conjured up by awakened passions roused by variety of
scenes striking our different senses; those once awakened, are soon
allured; and allurements once indulged, are seldom allayed. But why do I
thus insensibly wander? Why am I deviating so widely and wildly from my
intended narration of rustic felicity? Yes, I must indulge it. Visions
of earthly pleasure, whither are you fled? Oh, social delights, known
only in domestic seclusion, and blooming only in sequestered retirement,
why am I forbid to enter your hallowed abodes? I must now only in
sadness survey what once I might have enjoyed, had the dictates of
nature (in me) been obeyed; and instead of being made the victim of
fashion, I should now be solacing myself with the inestimable pleasures
of a tranquil mind, and the rational reflection of enjoying all that is
worth enjoyment in life, and consequently fulfilling all the ends for
which life was bestowed. But, ah! like thousands more who have lived,
and will live hereafter, and in spite of all that Poets have sung, and
Philosophers taught, we live not for ourselves, but for others.

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                    No. VI.

                   *   *   *

  Stephen and you are now both even,
  Stephen cheats you, and you cheat Stephen.

    PARODY OF A NOTED EPIGRAM.

In the highlands of Scotland, when a benighted traveller knocks at a
cottage door, and is denied admittance by a female voice, he never
dreams of grumbling at the refusal, if the Caledonian dame subjoin, in
her country's phrase, that she is a _lone_ woman. Should some carping
critic look through my lattice, and censure me for sameness of
sentiment, or barrenness of fancy, I would reply, in an accent of
deprecation--Mr. Zoilus, I am a _lone author_. In the periodical
publications of Great Britain, the papers are usually furnished by the
members of a literary society, who assemble at some coffee-house or
tavern, and club their genius to amuse the public, as they club their
cash to discharge their reckoning. Those speculations, which have
improved, and have gladdened life, were rarely the fruit of a single
brain, but the offspring of wit in conjunction. The union of abilities
is almost as essential to the perfection of a miscellany, as the union
of sexes to the formation of our being. Both Genius and Dullness are
prone to court alliances.--Beaumont and Fletcher, composed comedies in
company; and Sternhold, when he undertook a translation of David's
psalms, employed Hopkins to _eke_ out his metre. Relying on his native
strength, Dr. Johnson composed a series of lucubrations himself; but who
is endowed with the comprehensive mind of the author of the Rambler?
Like a poor man loaded with a _fardel_ of debt, common writers are glad
to borrow. Cursed occasionally with a penury of thought, and most
willing to pay my _public debt_, I solicit a hint from one, a sentiment
from another, and a subject from a third. Conscious of imbecility,
I dread stumbling in my _solitary_ walk, and timidity warns me to lean,
sometimes on the staff of quotation, and sometimes, to employ a guide.
My acquaintance, Adage, who loves sentences short and pithy, like
himself, and who has read with diligence, and who admires with judgment,
the PROMPTER, requests me to compose an essay in his laconic style. No,
I replied, he has exhausted _Franklinisms_, he has commented upon almost
every common saying in the popular mouth. Your reasons, Adage rejoined,
are like Gratiano's in the Merchant of Venice; they are two grains of
wheat, hid in two bushels of chaff, you shall search all day ere you
find them, and when found, they are not worth the search. Be it my task
to furnish a _subject_, to take the pen and write quickly be thine. My
neighbour Crispin, quoth Adage, contracted last week with a countryman
for cheese. It was damaged; Crispin gives five pence per lb. and
promises to pay in leather. I thought he was over-reached; but, when the
cheese-monger had departed, Crispin laughingly cries, "if his cheese is
mouldy, my leather is unmerchantable, and _two cheats make an even
bargain_." As the PROMPTER, continued Adage, never preached a sermon
from that text, and as, to continue the allusion, the bishop is
slumbering in his stall, do you become his chaplain, and ascend the
pulpit yourself.

Reflecting on my friends advice, I quickly perceived that this _even_
bargain was concluded by many characters besides _professional_ cheats.
An old London magazine, which I read many years ago, and which memory
just handed me, offers the first example.

A brocaded Italian Count had an amour with Lady Ligonier. Every body
bewailed the fate of her unhappy husband; but every body did not know
that his wretchedness was alleviated in the arms of a courtezan. Every
body did not know, that these two right honourable cheats made an even
bargain.

A clown solicits an attorney to prosecute an obsolete claim against
neighbour Clodpole; the limb of the law knows that the claim of his
client is as lame, as _his_ hobbling justice, he tells him nevertheless
that he will _recover_, and anticipates a heavy bill of cost. He does
his dirty work, and the plaintiff is nonsuited, who emigrates to
_Genesee_, and forgets to pay the advocate his fees. Don't fret, Mr.
Greenbag, keep yourself cool, you have another cause to argue, another
false title to set up which will demand the calmness and intrepidity of
falsehood. Don't damn your absconded client. The balance of deception
was in equilibrio between you. _Two cheats make an even bargain._

A spruce stripling of sixteen, courts an old beldame of sixty. He thinks
her rich, and hopes that her gold will enable him to buy at the female
flesh market of beauty a more _juicy rib_. She, relying on the
bridegroom's vigour, dreams of the _comforts_ of matrimony, and
forthwith pronounces--I obey, before the Parson. But alas! the bride's
purse is _coinless_, and the fond bridegroom chooses to _consummate_
elsewhere. I advise the husband when in consequence of his wife's
fortune, he keeps a coach, to choose for a motto, two cheats make an
even bargain.

Last week, I wrote at length, and like Dogberry, in Shakespeare,
bestowed all my tediousness upon my readers. I will make atonement. The
PROMPTER is laconic, and Adage hates prolixity.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SINGULAR CUSTOMS OF THE HINDOOS.

Although the Hindoos are naturally the most inoffensive of all mortals,
yet does their humanity consist more in abstaining from injurious, than
in the performance of beneficent actions. There is a wonderful mildness
in their manners, and also in their laws, which are influenced by their
manners; by which the murder of an human creature, and of a cow, are the
only crimes that are punished by death. Yet with all this gentleness of
disposition, they are inferior to the boisterous Europeans, with all
their vices, in the virtues of compassion and generosity. They are
wanting in that tenderness which is the most amiable part of our nature.
They are less affected by the distresses and dangers, and even the
accidental deaths of one another, than any nation I know in the old or
new world. Yet they love to excess: a proof, either of the inconstancy
of the human character; or that the amorous passion is not derived from
the noblest part of our nature.

This insensibility of the Hindoos to the distresses and dangers of their
fellow-creatures, appears to me a wonderful phenomenon. Perhaps that
despotism which has long been exercised under the Mogul tyranny, by
familiarising the mind to scenes of death, has blunted a sense of its
terrors. Perhaps those ideas of predestination and irresistible fate,
which prevail in Asia, and in all despotic governments, prepares the
mind for an acquiescence in all events. An English gentleman was
standing by a native of Hindostan when an enormous and fierce tiger
leaped from a thicket, and carried off a screaming boy, the son of one
of his neighbours. The Englishman expressed symptoms of the most extreme
horror, while the Hindoo remained unmoved. "What," said the former, "are
you unaffected by so dreadful a scene?"--"The great God," said the
other, "would have it so."--Whatever may be the cause, it is certain,
that death is regarded with less horror in India than in any other
country in the world. The origin and the end of all things, say the
philosophers of India of the present time, is a vacuum. A state of
repose is the state of greatest perfection: and this is the state after
which a wise man aspires. It is better, say the Hindoos, to sit than to
walk, and to sleep than to wake; but death is the best of all.

According to the Gentoo laws, criminals sentenced to death are not to be
strangled, suffocated, or poisoned, but to be cut off by the sword;
because, without an effusion of blood, malefactors are supposed to die
with all their sins about them; but the shedding of their blood, it is
thought, expiates their crimes. The unjust punishment of Nundcomar, who
was hanged on a gibbet against the laws of his country, and even by an
_ex post facto_ English law, was aggravated by that circumstance of
horror, that he died without an effusion of blood.

The Hindoos are well acquainted with the nature of simples, and apply
them judiciously either in performing cures which require not
amputation, or in effecting death by quick or slow poisons. They have
been for ages in the practice of inoculating for the small-pox; on which
occasion, as well as on others, they have recourse to the favourable
mediation of charms, or spells.

Although the practice of Hindoo women burning themselves on the funeral
piles of their husbands, and embracing in the mean time their dead
bodies in their arms, be not so general now as it has formerly been, yet
does it still prevail among some of the wives of men of high caste or
condition: and although this effort of frantic love, courage, and
ambition, be deemed an aggrandizement of the family and relations of
both husband and wife, but especially of the wife's, yet their friends
and relations constantly endeavour to dissuade the women who declare
their resolutions of burning, from carrying them into execution. Even
the Brahmins do not encourage this practice.

The causes which inspire Hindoo women with this desperate resolution,
are, I imagine, the following:

In the first place; as the wife has, from her earliest infancy, been
betrothed in marriage to her husband, and from that time has never been
permitted to see another man; as she is instructed to believe that he is
perfectly accomplished, and taught to respect and honour him; as, after
consummation, she is shut up from the company, conversation, and even
the sight of other men, with still greater care, if possible, than
before, being now debarred from seeing even the father or elder brother
of her husband, the bonds of her affection must needs be inconceivably
strong and indissoluble. To an European lady the zenana naturally
appears in the light of an horrible prison: but the daughters of Asia
never consider confinement to the zenana as any hardship. They consider
it as a condition of their existence, and they enjoy all the happiness
of which they have any conception; their whole desires being concentered
and fixed on their husband, their food, jewels, and female attendants.

In the second place, if the wife survive her husband, she cannot marry
again, and is treated as an inferior person, and an outcast from her
family. Nay, she is obliged, in her mournful and hopeless widowhood, to
perform all the offices of a menial servant.

In the third place, she is flattered with the idea of having
immortalized her name, and aggrandized her children, and her own and
husbands families.

Lastly, she is rendered insensible to the pains and horrors of what she
is to suffer, by those intoxicating perfumes and mixtures which are
administered to her after she has declared her final and unalterable
resolution--I say her final resolution, because one or two declarations,
of an intention to die with her husband, is not sufficient.

The strength of her resolution undergoes a probation. There is a certain
time prescribed by the Gentoo law, during which her family and friends
exert their utmost influence in order to dissuade her from burning; and
if she persist in her resolution to the end of that period, it is not
lawful to use any more persuasions with her, to abandon it. If she
should alter her purpose after that period, she would be punished with
the loss of all castes, and live in a state of the most complete misery
and contempt. Nay, if an European or Christian does but touch her very
garment with his finger, when she is going to the pile, an immediate
stop is put to the ceremony, she is forced to live an outcast from her
family, and from the Gentoo religion.

You will doubtless, my friend, have curiosity to know, in what manner,
after all their stimulatives to perseverance, the tender sex, among a
soft and effeminate people, sustains the near approach, of a scene so
full of awe and horror. Amidst her weeping relations and friends, the
voluntary victim to love and honor alone appears serene and undaunted.
A gentle smile is diffused over her countenance: she walks upright, with
an easy but firm step; talks to those around her of the virtues of the
deceased, and of the joy with which she will be transported when her
shade shall meet with his; and encourages her sorrowful attendants to
bear with fortitude the sight of those momentary sufferings which she
herself is going to feel.--Having ascended the funeral pile, she lays
herself down by the body of her husband, which she fervently embraces.
A dose of narcotic mixtures is then administered for the last time; and
instantly the person, whose office it is, sets fire to the pile.

Thus the most determined resolution of which we can form any conception,
is found in the weaker sex, and in the soft climes of Asia. It is to the
honour of that sex and those climes, that the greatest courage they
exhibit, is the effect, not of the furious impulses of rage and revenge,
but conscious dignity and love.

It might naturally be imagined by an European, that the several wives of
one man (for polygamy is general throughout all Asia) would regard one
another with mutual jealousy and aversion: and that they in reality do,
has been asserted by writers of high reputation. The fact however is
quite otherwise: they visit one another with great friendship and
cordiality; and if they are of the same caste, will occasionally eat
together.--The husband is restrained from eating with his wives, either
by a regard to custom; or, as I have been informed by some of the
Gentoos themselves, by a precept of their religion.

Notwithstanding the extreme antiquity of most Indian nations, I am told
that in India beyond the Ganges, on the confines of Aracan and Pegu,
there is a people (if solitary savages roaming through woods in quest of
prey, deserve the name of people) that appear to be in the very first
stage of society. They are the only people in the known world that go
absolutely naked, without the smallest covering on any part of their
bodies. They live on fruit, which grows spontaneously, in the
uncultivated deserts they inhabit, in great abundance; and on the flesh
of animals, which they tear alive and devour. They sit on their hams,
with their legs and arms disposed in the manner of monkeys. At the
approach of men, they fly into their woods. They take care of their
offspring, and live in families, but seem to have no ideas of
subordination of rank or civil government. I have never had occasion to
see this race of mortals myself, but I have conversed with several
persons who have seen them; all of whom concur in the general account of
them, which I have now given you.

  [[Notes:

  "The unjust punishment of Nundcomar": Nand Kumar or Nandakumar,
    d. 1775.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  CHARACTER OF THE SWEDES,
  From the Letters of Mrs. Wollstonecraft.

The Swedes pique themselves on their politeness; but far from being the
polish of a cultivated mind, it consists merely of tiresome forms and
ceremonies. So far indeed from entering immediately into your character,
and making you feel instantly at your ease, like the well-bred French,
their over-acted civility is a continual restraint on all your actions.
The sort of superiority which a fortune gives when there is no
superiority of education, excepting what consists in the observance of
senseless forms, has a contrary effect than was intended; so that I
could not help reckoning the peasantry the politest people of Sweden,
who only aiming at pleasing you, never think of being admired for their
behaviour.

Their tables, like their compliments, seem equally a caricature of the
French. The dishes are composed, as well as their's, of a variety of
mixtures to destroy the native taste of the food, without being as
relishing. Spices and sugar are put into every thing, even into the
bread, and the only way that I can account for their partiality to
high-seasoned dishes, is the constant use of salted provisions.
Necessity obliges them to lay up a store of dried fish, and salted meat,
for the winter; and in the summer, fresh meat and fish taste insipid
after them. To which may be added, the constant use of spirits. Every
day, before dinner and supper, even whilst the dishes are cooling on the
table, men and women repair to a side-table, and, to obtain an appetite,
eat bread and butter, cheese, raw salmon, or anchovies, drinking a glass
of brandy. Salt fish or meat then immediately follows, to give a further
whet to the stomach. As the dinner advances, pardon me for taking up a
few minutes to describe what, alas! has detained me two or three hours
on the stretch observing; dish after dish is changed, in endless
rotation, and handed round with solemn pace to each guest: but should
you happen not to like the first dishes, which was often my case, it is
a gross breach of politeness to ask for part of any other till its turn
comes.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE POVERTY OF THE LEARNED.
  From Curiosities of Literature.

To mention those who left nothing behind them to satisfy the undertaker,
were an endless task.

Agrippa died in a workhouse; Cervantes is supposed to have died with
hunger; Camoens was deprived of the necessaries of life, and is believed
to have died in the streets.

The great Tasso was reduced to such a dilemma, that he was obliged to
borrow a crown from a friend, to subsist through the week. He alludes to
his distress in a pretty sonnet which he addresses to his cat,
entreating her to assist him, during the night, with the lustre of her
eyes, having no candle by which he could see to write his verses!

The illustrious Cardinal Bentivoglio, the ornament of Italy and of
literature, languished, in his old age, in the most distressful poverty;
and, having sold his palace to satisfy his creditors, left nothing
behind him but his reputation.

Le Sage resided in a little cottage on the borders of Paris, and
supplied the world with their most agreeable romances; while he never
knew what it was to possess any moderate degree of comfort in pecuniary
matters.


       *       *       *       *       *

  A PRUDENT CHOICE.

  When Loveless married Lady Jenny,
  Whose beauty was the ready penny;
  "I chose her," says he, "like old plate,
  Not for the fashion, but the weight."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _ANECDOTES_
                       of
                EMINENT PERSONS.

                   *   *   *

           +Mesdemoiselles De Fernigs.+

These two young heroines were the daughters of a quarter-master of
cavalry, and by accompanying the French troops in their excursions at
the beginning of the war, attained a certain degree of attachment to
military exploits, and even an enthusiasm against the common enemy.
Unlike the "maid of Orleans," they were dressed in female attire, and
pretended neither to prophecy nor revelation, but they headed the French
troops, in 1791, with the same boldness that the martial female alluded
to, was accustomed to do, two centuries before.

Dumourier, who never let slip any occasion of inspiring his army with
confidence, invited these ladies to the camp at Maulde, and made such a
flattering report to the Convention of their modesty, intrepidity, and
good conduct, that they received a house, and an adjoining piece of
land, as a present from the republic.

On the defection of this general, preferring gratitude to duty, and
personal attachment to the love of their country, they both took part
with him, and were out-lawed.

                   *   *   *

                    +Moreau+

Is a native of Morlaix, in the _ci-devant_ Bretanny, 29 miles distant
from Brest. When about 18 years of age, he was sent to Rennes, to study
the law; and he who might have proved but an indifferent _avocat_, has,
at the age of 33, acquired the character of a skilful commander.

He first distinguished himself in Holland, and then served with great
_eclat_ under Pichegru. The late brilliant passage across the Rhine,
without the loss of a single man, was achieved under his auspices. His
father is said to have perished during the tyranny of Robespierre; the
son is a zealous republican, and fights and conquers in that cause.

                   *   *   *

              +The Abbe De Lille+,

Like the bards of old, is at once a poet and a musician: and, in
consequence of a rare union of both characters, he composed the
_Marsellois Hymn_, which, by connecting his name with the history of the
French Revolution, will render it immortal.

In addition to his other works, he has _meditated_ a poem on the
"Imagination," for what is singular enough, this has never as yet been
committed to paper. The truth is, that the Abbe, relying on his
extraordinary memory, never copies out any of his verses, until they are
about to be printed.

He was arrested during the short-lived tyranny of Robespierre; and if he
had perished on that occasion, both the poem and the poet would have
been lost together.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On Saturday evening the 6th ult. at Augusta (Georgia) by the Rev. Mr.
Boyd, Mr. JAMES COOPER, merchant, to Miss SUSAN WINSLOW, both of that
place.

On Sunday evening the 21st ult. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. NICHOLAS
ROOME, to Miss JEMIMA LEWIS, both of this city.

By the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. PATRICK MUNN, to Miss ANN MAVERICK, both of
this city.

By the Rev. Dr. Moore, Capt. WOODHAM, of the ship Swan, to Miss REBECCA
MAVERICK, of this city.

On Saturday se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. BENJAMIN GIFFORD, to
Miss SALLY ANDERSON, both of this city.

On Tuesday evening se'nnight, Mr. JOHN LOCKWOOD, to Mrs. SARAH SMITH,
relict of Mr. Stephen Smith, both of Norwalk.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, DAVID A. OGDEN, Esq. to Miss
REBECCA EDWARDS, both of this city.

On Saturday evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, N. PRIME, Esq. of Boston, to
Miss CORNELIA SANDS, daughter of Comfort Sands, Esq. Merchant, of this
city.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 28th ult. to the 3d inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

         deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
            100   100
  May 28  60    68    sw. nw.  fgy. lt. w.  cl. h. w. lg. t. r.
      29  55    71    w. sw.   clear lt. wd.  do. h. wd.
      30  55    52    e. ne.   cly. lt. w.  r. do. p. r.
      31  52    66    n. nw.   cly. lt. w.  clear do.
  June 1  50    69    nw. w.   clear lt. w.  do. do.
       2  50    62    nw. se.  cl. lt. wd.  cly. do. p. r.
       3  59    76    s. do.   cly. calm  clear lt. wd.

                   *   *   *

  RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
  FOR MAY 1797.

  Made in the Cupals of the Museum, by G. BAKER, Proprietor.

  Mean Temperature of the Thermometer at sun-rise            52   13
  Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M.                               63    3
  Do. do. for the whole month                                57   58
  Greatest monthly range between the 3d. and 11th.           33    0
  Do. do. in 24 hours, between the 10th. and 11th.           20    0
  Warmest day the 11th.                                      75    0
  Coldest day the 3d.                                        42    0

  13 days it rained, and an uncommon quantity has fallen.
  19 do.  the wind was at the westward of north and south, at both
obser.
  12 do.  the do.  was to the eastward of do.  and do.
  17 do.  the do.  was light at both observations.
   2 do.  the do.  was high at do.  do.
  12 do.  it was clear at do.  do.
   7 do.  it was cloudy at do.  do.
   6 days it Thundered and Lightened, in considerable abundance.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  A HYMN,
  Composed in a Morning's Walk in May.
  By the Rev. Mr. Turner.

  "These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good;"
  The hill, the vale, the pastures, and the wood;
  Rich in thy bounties, in thy beauties gay,
  Nature salutes thy Sun's enliv'ning ray.
  How glorious in thy strength he mounts the sky,
  The spotless azure Heav'ns rejoice on high.
  The dewy blessings of this morning hour,
  At thy command, the Vapours softly shower.
  How wide this arch is spread, that bending round
  With genial influence broods o'er the teeming ground!

    By thee, yon lofty Mountain rears its head:
  By thee, this humble Valley sinks its bed.
  These riv'lets thine, which murmur through the mead;
  To thee, great Source of Good, their winding channels lead.

    Call'd forth by thee, these Woods their leaves display,
  T' enrich their verdure in the solar ray.
  Thou cloath'st each hedge and bush, each herb and plant--
  To these fair blooming hopes thy blessing grant!
  Bless thou the rising corn, the grassy field;
  And let thy bounty plenteous harvests yield!
  On thy supplies both man and beast attend;
  On th' opening year thou smil'st, thy goodness crowns its end.

    What various flow'ry beauties spread the field,
  Which through the healthy air their fragrance yield!
  The crowfoot, daisie, cowslip's golden hue,
  The dandelion, violet's lovely blue.
  How many more their modest graces hide
  In the hedge-bottom, or the thicket's side!
  The primrose, harebell, with the starwort fair,
  And low ground-ivy's bloom perfume the air.
  These and each painted form that decks the land,
  Blend their unrival'd tinctures, and confess thy hand.

    The feather'd tribes to thee their voices raise,
  Rejoice in being, and resound thy praise.
  With lab'ring wing, the lark, scarce seen on high,
  Incessant pours his mattins through the sky.
  Perch'd on yon lofty poplar's topmost spray,
  The thrill thrush welcomes the bright source of day.
  Deep in the thicket hid, the blackbird shy,
  His mellow whistle tunes, to aid the common joy.

    The wood-lark, glory of the warbling throng,
  Alternate sinks, and swells his varied song.
  The gaudy goldfinch, linnet, white-throat fair,
  With musical confusion load the air.
  In deeper note the ring-dove, 'midst the groves,
  To his coy mate soft-cooing breathes his loves.
  The list'ning swains, through ev'ry brow and dale,
  Delighted hear, and shout the cuckoo's simple tale.

    The flocks and herds, whom thou supply'st with food,
  Enjoying thank thee, and pronounce it good.
  The fleecy people crop the early dew;
  The tender lambs their harmless sports pursue.
  The heifer's low fills all the valleys round:
  The mimic wood-nymph propagates the sound.
  The sweet-breath'd cows the herbage greedy graze,
  The frolic calf his clumsy gambols plays.
  The saunt'ring cow-boy slowly creeps along,
  Now his clear whistle tunes, and now his rustic song.

    These are thy works, O God, and these thy care;
  All these, in season due, thy various blessings share.

    Blest Power! that me into existence drew,
  And spread this fair creation to my view!
  Blest Power! that gave me eyes, and ears, and mind,
  And taught me, in each object, God to find!
  Blest be that care that guards my ev'ry day;
  That feeds, and clothes, and guides me through my way.
  Accept my thanks for this enliv'ning hour;
  This cheerful taste of bliss, that thrills through ev'ry power.

    Grateful would I thy present blessings share,
  And trust my whole of being to thy future care.


       *       *       *       *       *

  THE PROSTITUTE.

  As trav'llers thro' life's varied paths we go,
  What sights we pass of wretchedness, and woe!
  Ah, deep, and many is the good man's sigh
  O'er thy hard sufferings, poor Humanity!

    What form is that, which wanders up and down,
  Some poor unfriended orphan of the town!
  Heavy indeed hath ruthless sorrow prest
  Her cold hand at her miserable breast!
  Worn with disease, with not a friend to save,
  Or shed a tear of pity o'er her grave;
  The sickly lustre leaves her faded eye;
  She sinks in need, in pain, and infamy!

    Ah, happier innocent! on whose chaste cheek
  The spotless rose of virtue blushes meek;
  Come, shed, in mercy shed, a silent tear,
  O'er a lost sister's solitary bier!
  She might have bloom'd, like thee, in vernal life!
  She might have bloom'd, the fond endearing wife--
  The tender daughter! but want's chilling dew
  Blasted each scene hope's faithless pencil drew!
  No anxious friend sat weeping o'er her bed,
  Or ask'd the blessing on her little head!
  She never knew, tho' beauty mark'd her face,
  What beggars woman-kind of every grace!
  Ne'er clasp'd a mother's knees with soft delight,
  Or lisp'd to Heaven her pray'r of peace at night!
  Alas! her helpless childhood was consign'd,
  To the unfeeling mercy of mankind!


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPITAPH.
  From the Greek.

  A blooming youth lies buried here,
  Euphemius, to his country dear:
  Nature adorn'd his mind and face,
  With every muse and every grace;
  Prepar'd the marriage state to prove,
  But Death had quicker wings than Love.


_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 Book-Store of
Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  _Wednesday, June 14, 1797._  [+No. 102.+


  METHOD IN THE ARRANGEMENT OF IDEAS.

In delivering our sentiments on particular subjects, there is nothing
which is attended with better effect, and makes us appear to more
advantage than offering our opinions with clearness and precision; and
this can only be done by arranging them in proper order, so that they
may appear regularly to arise one from the other: this is stiled method,
and prevents confusion; hinders us from indulging in the luxuriance of
fancy, running into desultory digressions, and makes us appear superior
to our subject.

Where great sprightliness is the natural bent of the temper, girls
should endeavour to habituate themselves to a custom of observing,
thinking, and reasoning. It is not necessary that they should devote
themselves to abstruse speculation, or the study of logic; but she who
is accustomed to give a due arrangement to her thoughts, to reason
justly and pertinently on common affairs, and judiciously to deduce
effects from their causes, will be a better logician than some of those
who claim the name, because they have studied the art. That species of
knowledge, which appears to be the result of reflection rather than of
science, fits peculiarly well on women.


       *       *       *       *       *

  BEHAVIOUR.

One of the chief beauties in a female character is that modest reserve,
that retiring delicacy which avoids the public eye, and is disconcerted
even at the gaze of admiration. For when a girl ceases to blush, she has
lost the most powerful charm of beauty. That extreme sensibility, which
it indicates, is peculiarly engaging.

Silence in company, particularly a large one, is never mistaken by the
judicious and discerning for dullness, but bespeaks a modesty essential
in the female sex. Dignity of behaviour is necessary at public places,
but care must be taken not to mistake that for that confident ease, that
unabashed countenance which seems to set the company at defiance.

Women should be cautious even in displaying their good sense. It is
often thought assuming a superiority over the rest of the company; but
their learning should be kept a profound secret, especially from men,
who generally look with a jealous and malign eye on a woman of great
parts, and a cultivated understanding.

The great art of pleasing in conversation consists in making the company
pleased with themselves. Detraction should be avoided, especially
amongst women where their own sex is concerned; it would be more noble
for them to shew a compassionate sympathy to the unfortunate, especially
to those who are rendered so by the villainy of men. It is a laudable
pride, as well as secret pleasure, which ought to be indulged, in being
the friend and refuge of the unhappy, but without the vanity of
shewing it.

Every species of indelicacy in conversation should be considered as
shameful and highly disgusting. A sacred regard should ever be had to
truth, for lying is a mean and despicable vice; though a lively
embellishment of a humorous story, which is only intended to promote
innocent mirth, cannot be understood to fall under that head.

Gentleness of spirit and manners is extremely engaging; but not that
indiscriminate attention, that unmeaning simper, which smiles on all
alike. For this arises either from affectation of softness, or from
perfect insipidity.

A fine woman, like other fine things in nature, has her proper point of
view, from which she may be seen to most advantage. To fix this point
requires great judgment, and an intimate knowledge of the human heart.
By the present mode of female manners, the ladies seem to expect that
they shall regain their ascendency over men, by the fullest display of
their personal charms, by being always in their eyes at public places,
by conversing with them with the same unreserved freedom as they do with
one another; in short, by resembling men as near as they can. The folly
of this expectation and conduct will soon be shown. For the power of a
fine woman over the hearts of men, of men of the finest parts, is even
beyond what she conceives. They are sensible of the pleasing illusion,
but they cannot, nor do they wish, to dissolve it. But if she is
determined to dispel the charm, it certainly is in her power, she may
soon reduce _the angel to a very ordinary girl_.

In fine, to form a complete lady, she should possess the most perfect
simplicity of heart and manners; dignity without pride, affability
without meanness, and simple elegance without affectation.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

           (Continued from page 387.)

                   *   *   *

The pleasures of a fashionable life may not be unaptly compared to the
delirium of the brain in a high fever. 'Tis in vain we in imagination
visit aerial scenes fraught with all that fancy can bestow to give
delight: 'tis in vain we visit gorgeous palaces, and partake of
sumptuous banquets, while seated in the magic circle of Wit and Beauty,
we enjoy the radiant smiles of the happy, and the compliments of the
facetious and the learned: we even in the height of our frenzy still
feel there is a chasm in our pleasures, and a vacuum in our pursuits and
enjoyments; and when awake to reflection, we most sensibly feel that all
has been deception--the malady still rages, and the fever still remains.

But I revert to my first idea, and maintain that happiness is to be
found; and that I witnessed it in the family I have mentioned: they were
uniformly and completely happy in each other; and the casualties of fate
appeared not to terrify by their approach an individual belonging to it.
Had that happiness they amply possest been sufficient to satisfy them,
without searching farther into the world for an addition to it, one of
its branches had not, by creating her own misery, cast a bleak veil over
her fate, and impeded that heart-felt satisfaction which from her alone
knew interruption.

Nancy, the youngest daughter, was by nature more susceptible than the
rest. She had seen a young sailor in the neighbourhood, and against the
advice of all her true friends, contented to marry him, when he should
return from a foreign embarkation. She bore his departure with seeming
composure; but a few letters she received from him baffled all that
parental love could endeavour to save her, and on the first report of
the fleet's intended return, she packed up a few necessaries, took the
little money she was, through the indulgence of her parents, become
mistress of, and unknown to all, set forward on her disconsolate journey
to Portsmouth, to wait his return.

For some weeks she waited in vain; at length the ship to which he
belonged arrived in the harbour. She eagerly discovered the means by
which she could go on board; and fancy pictured to her ravished senses
his delight on thus proving her unabated love. Alas, poor Nancy! the
ship indeed returned, but her William had been long consigned to a
watery grave. In silent grief she bore the dismal tidings, and returned
to her desolate abode. For three days she pined in speechless agony, and
on the fourth her account was made.

This melancholy incident gave rise to my endeavouring to express it in
the following stanzas:

    On the waves of foaming ocean,
      Blue-eyed NANCY heav'd a sigh;
    View'd with trembling limbs their motion,
  As dark they roll'd beneath a troubled sky.

    Threat'ning clouds in thick succession,
      Darted forth their livid store;
    Thunder awful, past expression,
  Resounded long and deep adown the ravag'd shore!

    On the sea's terrific border,
      NANCY roam'd in deep dismay,
    And in looks of wild disorder,
  Wail'd to the dreary waste, all heedless of her way!

    Horrid cliffs that way surrounded,
      Beaten by the dashing surge,
    Which in dreadful tumults sounded
  To Fancy's startled ear, her WILLIAM's funeral dirge!

    O'er the vast of Heaven's covering,
      Dark portentous horrors spread;
    O'er the earth tremendous hovering,
  Those horrors fill'd her aching heart with dread!

    To the tempest's howl she listen'd,
      O'er the dashing waves she hung;
    Rais'd to Heav'n the eye that glisten'd,
  With the full tear which poignant grief had sprung.

    Then exclaim'd, "Ah! troubled ocean,
      "Tell me where beneath the wave,
    "Tell me where, with love's devotion,
  "I may seek my lost, my lovely WILLIAM's grave?

    "Well ye know that I have lost him,
      "Well ye know he's in the deep,
    "Well ye know your waves have cross'd him,
  "Well ye know he's rock'd in Death's eternal sleep."

    She spoke and paus'd; then reasonless and wild
      Again she call'd on th; unconscious deep
    To answer to her plaint:--when, lo, the cliff
    Gave way!--and falling with the love-lorn maid,
  Poor NANCY ceas'd to murmur and to weep!


       *       *       *       *       *

               _SIXTH WANDERING._

It was in one of those fine autumnal evenings, when the Sun, while
sinking beneath the last cloud of departing day, tinged the blue
mountains with a paly light, that chance directed my footsteps from
_Chepstow_, to the all-charming and romantic retirement of
_Piercefield_. The deputed guardian of its woods indulged my request,
and left me to myself.

As I wandered alone and pensive over the beauteous scene, no noise but
the soft moaning of the leaves, gently agitated by the summer breeze, or
the distant voice of the nightingale, interrupted my meditations, while
I silently and sadly lamented the fate of its late unfortunate, and
hospitable possessor. Was it from hence (thought I) that our first
parents were precipitated into the abyss of woe, and will _Man_ be never
resigned to his lot? Will he prefer to that path which Nature pointed
out for him to follow, the tongue of envy---the voice of
detraction---the ruin of his fortune---the injury of his health---the
wreck of his peace---and sacrifice to a vision, the pure, true
unadulterated joys of rural and domestic felicity? Vain and transitory
are all sublunary desires; and the objects of whatever kind our
fantastic imagination greedily pursues, soon cloy in the possession.
There is no substantial delight but that which we derive from conscious
rectitude; and the vicissitudes of the world, like the turbulence of the
ocean, if they do not plunge the incautious into actual perdition, will,
by annihilating their senses, leave in them a blank, that no future
period will fill up.

The gloom that was beginning to dim the horizon, insensibly enveloped my
ideas, and the solitude of the woods heightened it. It was the hour when
the sky-lark chaunted its evening hymn to its Creator, as it soared
beyond the confines of sight. The lofty pines waved their high heads to
the wind, and now and then a few straggling leaves, that had loitered
beyond their time, rustled through the thick branches, while gently
falling towards the ground.

On a sudden, the voice of distant music caught my ear. I listened, and
distinguished the sweet sounds of the plaintive harp. My heart
responsively echoed the mournful melody, and I approached the spot from
whence it issued. The Harper, whom I recollected to have seen before,
was blind, and infirm, and his name was Llewyllin. He was sitting at the
foot of a tree, and his dog, who sat watchfully by him, retained his
station, seeming sensible of the attractions his master possessed,
instead of being impressed with fear, or alarm, at the approach of a
stranger.

A very lovely girl, more interesting than beautiful, stood leaning
against the tree in a pensive attitude; she observed me, and, as if
recovering from the reverie I had interrupted, with a soft, but dejected
smile, requested her father (for such I found him to be) would repeat
the variations of Pleyell's German Hymn. The slow, and solemn measure,
raised my soul to Heaven, while my uplifted eyes invoked the pardon of
human frailties, and the rapturous enthusiasm invigorated my mind.

The Harper arose, his dog trotted on before, and I accepted the
proffered arm of the lovely Julia. Our conversation was on trifling
subjects, and the increasing darkness added an awful solemnity to the
stillness of the scene, as the bat flitted round us, and the solitary
owl poured forth her wailing plaints to the full-rising Orb of Night.
From the high eminence we espied the beautiful little town of
_Chepstow_; its various lamps reflected on the smooth surface of the
_Severn_, while the distant dashing of oars proclaimed our re-union with
the world, from which the peaceful groves of _Piercefield_ had just
before seemed to separate us.

Julia and I, whose tastes already appeared to be formed for each other,
delighted ourselves with the majestic scenery above and below us. We
retraced to our memories _The Sorrows of Werter_, while we gazed on his
favourite constellation, and compared its superiority over the luminous
bodies that surrounded it. But alas! these chearing prospects gladdened
not the heart of our companion; his day was set in everlasting night,
and I sighed while I surveyed the marks of placed resignation that
beamed on his benign countenance.

I accepted Julia's invitation, and accompanied her home. She inhabited,
with her father, a small neat cottage, which she had adorned with the
elegant ornaments of rustic simplicity: she touched the harp with less
skill than did her father, but the gracefulness of her attitude while
seated at it, was all her own. She had a winning sweetness of manners,
and a captivating gentleness of disposition, which alike charmed and
secured the hearts of those who beheld her. With pious diligence she
discharged the duties of filial care; and as she watched over him with
affectionate zeal, she prevented the desires of her father.

We parted at an early hour, more refreshed than fatigued by the
excessive long walk we had taken; our minds had expanded in the
interview, and it was the beginning of an acquaintance that seemed to
promise an exquisite source of mental enjoyment, both to Julia and
myself.

Till the present moment, the intercourse of female friendship had been
unknown to Julia. The inhabitants of Chepstow, where they had lived five
years, were either too lofty, or too low, to afford gratification to a
susceptible mind. Yet, although her knowledge of the world extended no
farther than what she could collect from the books of a small
circulating library, with which she beguiled the heavy hours of her
father, she had acquired from these, and the polished understanding with
which Nature had endowed her, those requisites which alone were
necessary to render her a most desirable and interesting companion.

We met every day, and our friendship was established in less time than
custom allows to a common acquaintance. Julia, whose notions were above
the prejudices of the vulgar, would artlessly reveal to me her ideas as
they arose, but left me to conjecture on the subject of her heart,
which, from her frequent sighs, and some very distant hints, I could
perceive had not been hitherto insensible.

We went frequently to Piercefield, where, after placing Mr. Llewyllin on
a convenient seat, we would wander from him just far enough to hear the
distant sounds of the harp, which, as they died away, marked the length
of our progression.

Julia, in one of those walks, took occasion to enquire of me, if I had
ever seen _Swansea?_ I answered her in the negative, and she added with
a sigh, that her father would describe it to me better than she could.
The evening dews were beginning to fall, and we joined him in our walk
towards home.

We were no sooner arrived there, than I repeated to him Julia's
question, which he answered, by giving me his narrative.

  (To be continued.)


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPIGRAM.

  First in the grape the wine's red hue,
      Next in the bottle, glows:
    But last, and most, and longest too,
      O Cotta, in thy nose.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                    No. VII.

                   *   *   *

                 "MY AUNT PEG."

In the _Vicar of Wakefield_, Dr. Goldsmith describes Burchell in company
with a couple of courtesans, assuming the manners and language of ladies
of quality. The penetrating humourist, at the close of every sentence
from these frail damsels, boasting intimacy with high life, emphatically
and poignantly exclaims, "Fudge." When the ridiculous in manners, or the
insipid in conversation and life, appears to _Tom Toledo_, whose nose is
as curved as a fish-hook, by an inveterate habit of sneering, 'tis
_Tom's way_ to baptize the oddity--_My aunt Peg_.

Now, whether _my aunt Peg_, like TRISTRAM SHANDY's _aunt Dinah_, having
been guilty of some back-slidings in her youth, has forfeited her right
to respect from the family; or whether certain envious prudes, as is
their wont, have leagued, and look prim against her, when she appears,
is a question I cannot _sagely_ solve. Certain it is, she is degraded
from the rank of gentlewoman, and now keeps low and contemptible
company.

_My aunt Peg_, like an English actress of scorched reputation, often
exchanges the petticoats for the breeches, and disguised in male
apparel, spouts farce and low comedy, at the _Theatre Universal_. Though
she "has her exits and her entrances," and "plays many parts," yet
critical spectators are always dissatisfied with her style of acting;
her assumed, cannot mask her real character, and pit, box, and gallery,
hiss "_aunt Peg_."

Sauntering last term into a court of justice, I mingled with "the
swinish multitude," and figured to myself a union of law and eloquence,
in the charge to the jurors from the bench. The person speaking, for I
absurdly mistook him for the judge, resembling SANCHO PANZA in the
island Barataria, rather than BULLER, HALE, or TALBOT, I plucked
_Toledo_ by the sleeve, and asked if his honour's name were not
_Dogberry_. By St. Mansfield, he deserves, when time and place shall
serve, to be "set down for an ass." It is no Judge, says _Tom_: that
broad, and vacant starer is--_my aunt Peg_.

DICKEY DANGLE, _the ladies' man_, plays three hours with my cousin
Charlotte's thimble, and fancies that he is courting her. A wag in my
neighbourhood, a lover of _pepper-pots_, observing this frivolous "man
of lath," with an unthrobbing pulse, gazing _sedately_ on the eyes of a
fine girl, and praising her cherry lips, without a wish to _press_ them,
swears that he is the very fribble of SHAKESPEARE; that

                          "This is he,
  Who kissed away his hand in courtesy;
  This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,
  --------WHOM LADIES CALL THEIR SWEET."

And asks, in the phrase of MARLOW, if I shall suffer my cousin to live
with him and be his love. No. A contract of matrimony between _two
females_ is absurd, and not good in law; for doubtless DICKEY is--_my
aunt Peg_.

A literary friend, after a lonesome journey through a boorish quarter of
the country, on his arrival at an inn, exults, when the waiter informs
him, that the young fellow, entering the room, "has been _to_ college."
The conversation naturally turns upon books. Do you relish the belles
lettres? Oh yes, I read _Rollin's belles lettres_ last winter, and liked
them mightily. The indignant traveller frowned--he was unconscious that
a degree in _arts_ was frequently conferred on--_my aunt Peg_.

When I was at the university--I beg that the world would suppose I mean
Oxford, Edinburgh, or Aberdeen, and not _our_ college of Cambridge, for
which I have singular affection--if a lad were guilty of genius,
a tribunal of tasteless tutors, professors, &c., would doom him to
expulsion. What, said they, a man of genius in a _college?_ It cannot,
must not be.--Why Issachar, our strong ass, couching down between his
two burdens, Greek on one side, and Mathematics on the other, will bray
and break, bridle at the very sight of him. Yes, says Candor, their
"worships and their reverences" are, in very deed,--_my aunt Peg_.

Half a century since, dame FRANCE was a stately old gentlewoman, proud
of her pedigree, associating with men of rank, and keeping servants at a
distance. But the devil, REFORM, began to haunt her house, and she
insisted that the table should be laid in the _cellar_, instead of the
parlor. Some of her refractory domestics, who disobeyed this whimsical
order, she turned out of doors, hung up others to the kitchen lamp with
the jack line; and at length, assisted by a cruel dog of a joiner, she
fixed a butcher's cleaver into an old box, and fairly chopped the
_Steward_'s head off.--Not one of her _rational_ neighbours, who
witnessed those mad deeds, but went away exclaiming,--Good lack! that
such a noble lady should be vilely metamorphosed into--_my aunt Peg_.


       *       *       *       *       *

  [[For sources, see the end of the second installment.]]


  INTERESTING STORY OF MADELAINE.
  By Helen Maria Williams.

A friend of mine, who is lately gone to Toulouse, has sent me from
thence an account of some circumstances which happened not long ago in
that part of France, and which she says are still much the subject of
conversation. I shall transcribe this narrative, which I believe will
interest you. Perhaps a novel-writer, by the aid of a little additional
misery, and by giving the circumstances which actually happened a
heightened colour--by taking his pallet, and dashing with a full glow of
red what nature had only tinged with pale violet, might almost spin a
volume from these materials. Yet, after all, nothing is so affecting as
simplicity, and nothing so forcible as truth. I shall therefore send you
the story exactly as I received it; and in such parts of it as want
interest, I beg you will recollect that you are not reading a tale of
fiction; and that in real life incidents are not always placed as they
are in novels, so as to produce stage effect. In some parts of the
narrative you will meet with a little romance; but, perhaps, you will
wonder that you meet with no more; since the scene is not in the cold
philosophic climate of England, but in the warm regions of the south of
France, where the imagination is elevated, where the passions acquire
extraordinary energy, and where the fire of poetry flashed from the
harps of the Troubadours amidst the sullen gloom of the Gothic ages.

A young Frenchman, whose usual residence was at Paris, having travelled
as far as Toulouse the year before the Revolution, was invited by a
party of his friends to accompany them to Bareges, where some of them
were going in pursuit of amusement and others in search of health from
the medicinal springs which rise so plentifully, both in hot and cold
streams, among the Pyrenean mountains.

This young Parisian, who had some taste for the sublime scenery of
Nature, felt that it would be luxury to leave a little longer the
regular walks, which Art had planted in the Tuilleries, and the trim
gardens and jets d'eaux she has formed at Versailles; to wander amongst
those piles of mountains which overhang each other, and listen to the
torrents which fall down them with loud and irresistible impetuosity.

  "Rich in her weeping country's spoils, Versailles
  May boast a thousand fountains, that can cast
  The tortur'd waters to the distant heav'ns;
  Yet let me choose some pine-topp'd precipice
  Abrupt and shaggy, whence a foamy stream,
  Like Anio, tumbling roars."----

What powerful sensations does the first view of such a scene
produce!--We seem to begin a new existence--every former impression is
for a while erased from the memory, and the mind feels enrapped and lost
in the strong emotions of awe, astonishment, and admiration.

Bareges was crouded, as it usually is in the season, not only with
French company, but also with strangers, who travel from other
countries, in order to use its celebrated baths. The company amused
themselves, as they generally do at water-drinking places, by
sauntering, lounging, cards, lotteries, jeux-d'esprit, and scandal.

Bareges is a very expensive place. Even moderate accommodations must be
purchased at a high rate; and provisions, as well as lodgings, are
sometimes obtained with difficulty. Bareges is therefore seldom resorted
to by any but people of considerable fortune, who can afford to level
the obstacles which mountains interpose to their conveniences and
comforts, by the all subduing force of gold.

Among a number of persons of rank and fortune, there was however one
family at Bareges in a different situation. This family consisted of an
elderly infirm French officer, who had long been afflicted with the
palsy, and his daughter, a young woman about nineteen years of age.
Their appearance and mode of living seemed to indicate, that, though in
search of relief, this old officer had journeyed to Bareges, he had in
so doing far exceeded the bounds of economy, which his circumstances
prescribed, and was forced to deny himself every accommodation his
infirmities could spare. He lived in the most retired manner, in the
worst lodgings at Bareges; and, while the other ladies were dressed in a
style of expensive variety and profusion, his daughter wore only a plain
linen gown, which, though always perfectly clean, was coarse; and her
dark hair was left unpowdered and without any ornament whatever.
Fortunately for Madelaine, however, (for that was her name) her person
was calculated to make her coarse gown appear to the best advantage; and
though she was not very beautiful, her countenance had an expression of
sweetness which answered the end of beauty by exciting love and
admiration.

The company at Bareges soon became acquainted with each other, and the
ladies always took notice of Madelaine when they met her in their walks,
which however did not happen very often, for her father was frequently
unable so go out. When he did, he was supported on one side by
Madelaine, and on the other by his servant. It was impossible to see
with insensibility the attention which this interesting young woman paid
to her father, whom she never quitted one moment. It was remarked with
what careful tenderness she used to lead him along the streets of
Bareges, walking the slowest pace she could, and watching his steps as
he moved feebly on. And when he was not able to venture out, she was
seen at the window of their little parlour reading in order to entertain
him. Her looks and manner announced that her disposition was naturally
sprightly, and that she would have been gay if her father had not been
sick. But all the chearfulness she could assume while he suffered, was
exerted to amuse him, and shorten the tedious hours of langour and
debility.

Though Madelaine was handsome, the obscurity and seclusion in which she
lived preserved her from the envy of the women. They knew well enough
that the gentlemen at Bareges were for the most part men of the world,
who, though they may admire beauty, and approve of virtue, are never so
far the dupes of any tender or moral sentiment as to let it interfere
either with their vanity, their ambition, or their interest. Although
the French Revolution had not yet happened, these ladies were aware
that, with respect to marriage, the age of _calculators_ was already
come, and therefore no rival was to be feared in Madelaine. The ladies
joined with the men in admiring the graces of her person, and the
amiable qualities which her conduct displayed. Madelaine, in short,
became the object of general esteem.

Auguste, for so I shall call our young Parisian, who has lost his title
since the laws of equality have been established in his country--Auguste
spoke less of Madelaine than the other gentlemen at Bareges; but it was
perhaps because he thought of her more. Sometimes, in his solitary
morning rambles, he used to make comparisons between her and the
Parisian ladies among whom he had passed the winter, and the comparison
generally ended with a deep sigh. The scene of these meditations was
certainly much in Madelaine's favour. Perhaps, at Paris or Versailles,
Auguste might have been dazzled by the polished graces of a fine lady
rouged, powdered, perfumed, and equipped for conquest. These artificial
attractions might perhaps have accorded well enough with clipped trees,
and angular walks. But Madelaine's simple manners, Madeline's natural
smiles and unstudied blushes, were far more in unison with the Pyrenean
mountains.

One evening, when Auguste was walking in the town of Bareges with some
ladies, he saw Madelaine at a little distance assisting with great
difficulty to support her father, who appeared to be seized with a fit.
Auguste darted like an arrow towards the spot, and held up the officer
till he found himself somewhat recovered; and then Auguste, with a sort
of gentle violence, obliged Madelaine, who was pale and trembling, to
let go her father's arm and suffer him to assist the servant in leading
him home, which was but a few steps farther. Auguste entered the house,
where he remained till the old officer was a little revived; and, after
prevailing upon Madelaine to take a few hartshorn drops, he retired.

The next morning he felt that common civility required he should pay the
old officer a visit, and learn how he had passed the night. It happened
that Madelaine had the very same idea. "Surely," thought she, "it will
be very strange if this young man, who was so kind, so careful of my
father, and who made me take some hartshorn drops, should neglect to
call and enquire after us!" This idea had come across her mind several
times; and she was meditating upon it at her father's bedside, when
Auguste was announced.

The old officer, who had all the finished politeness of his country and
his profession, received him in the most courteous manner; and, though
he spoke with some difficulty, yet he was profuse in acknowledgments for
the service Auguste had rendered him. Madelaine's thanks were few and
simply expressed; but the tone in which they were uttered was such that
Auguste felt he could have sacrificed his life to have deserved them.

The old officer still continued sick, and therefore Auguste still
considered it as an indispensable mark of attention to go every day, and
learn the state of his health. He also began to feel that these visits
became every day more necessary to his own happiness. That happiness
was, indeed, embittered by many painful reflections. He well knew, that
to obtain his father the Count de ----'s consent to marry Madelaine, was
as impossible as it was for himself to conquer the passion she had
inspired. He knew exactly the order in which his father's enquiries
would run on this subject. He was aware that there were two
interrogatories to be answered. The first was--"How many thousand livres
has she a year?" And the second--"Is she noble?" And nothing could be
more embarrassing than that the enquiry concerning fortune would, he was
sure, come first: since that was the only article which could not be
answered in a satisfactory manner; for to Madelaine's family no
objection could have been made. By the way, though the former nobility
of France would not absolutely contaminate the pure streams of noble
blood by an union with the daughter of a _roturier_, they had always
sufficient generosity to abate some generations of nobility in favour of
a proper equivalent in wealth.

Auguste, while he was convinced of the impossibility of obtaining his
father's consent to his marriage, did not pay Madelaine one visit the
less from that consideration; and when the usual hour of his visit
arrived, he often suddenly broke a chain of admirable reasoning on the
imprudence of his attachment, in order to hasten to the dwelling of her
he loved. In a short time he ceased all kind of reasoning on the
subject, and abandoned his heart without reserve to the most violent and
unconquerable passion.

Auguste made a declaration to the old officer of the sentiments which
his daughter had inspired. The old gentleman mentioned it to Madelaine;
and she only answered by tears, of which he perfectly understood the
meaning. When Auguste explained his situation with respect to his
father, the officer desired him to think of his daughter no more.
Auguste felt that he might as well have desired him to cease to breathe.
He continued his visits, and the officer was soon reduced to that state
of languor and debility which left him neither the power nor the wish to
forbid them. His complaints increased every day, and were attended with
many alarming symptoms. The season for the waters of Bareges was now
past, and all the company left the place, except the old officer, who
was too weak to be removed, and Auguste, who, while Madelaine remained,
had no power to tear himself from the spot. In a few weeks the old
officer felt that his dying hour was near. Auguste knelt with Madelaine
at his bedside--her voice was suffocated by tears; and Auguste had
scarcely power to articulate in broken accents that he would devote his
life to the happiness of Madelaine. The old officer fixed his eyes with
a look of tender anxiety upon his daughter, and soon after expired.
Madelaine mourned for her father with uncontrouled affliction; nor could
all the attentions of her lover dispel that anguish, with which her
affectionate heart lamented the loss of her parent.

The winter being far advanced, she proposed to defer her journey to the
distant province where she and her father had lived, until spring, and
to place herself in the mean time in a convent not far from Bareges.
Auguste exerted all the eloquence of love, to induce her to consent
immediately to a private marriage. She hesitated at this proposal; and,
while they were conversing together on the subject, the door of the room
in which they were sitting was suddenly thrown open, and Auguste saw his
father the Count de ---- enter. He had heard of the attachment which
detained his son at Bareges, and had hastened to tear him from the spot
before it was too late. He upbraided his son with great bitterness, and
began also to upbraid Madelaine: but there was something in her looks,
her silence, and her tears, which stifled the terms of haughty reproach
in which he was prepared to address her; and, ordering his son to leave
the room, he desired to speak to her alone. After explaining to her the
absolute impossibility of her being ever united to his son, and his
determination to disinherit him, and leave his whole fortune to his
second son, if Auguste should persist in his attachment to her--after
endeavouring to awaken her pride and her generosity, he desired to know
where she proposed going. She told him her intention of placing herself
immediately in the convent of ----. He approved of this design, and left
her to go to his son. No sooner was the door of the room shut, than
Madelaine gave way to those tears which she had scarcely been able to
restrain while the Count was speaking. She had never felt so sensibly
her orphan condition as at this moment; and the dear remembrance of her
fond father, was mingled with the agony of disappointed love.

Mean time the Count de ---- declared to his son, that his only chance of
ever obtaining his mistress depended on his absolute unconditional
submission to his commands, and that he must instantly attend him to
Paris. Auguste eagerly enquired what was to become of Madelaine; and his
father told him that she had determined to take refuge in the convent of
----. Auguste absolutely refused to depart till he was allowed an
interview with Madelaine. The Count was obliged to consent; but before
he suffered them to meet, he obtained a promise from Madelaine not to
mention to her lover any particulars of the conversation which had
passed between her and the Count.

Auguste, in this last interview with Madelaine, atoned for the cruel
disdain of his father, by the most solemn and passionate assurances of
fidelity, not to be shaken by time or circumstance; and then, after
attempting to leave the room several times, and returning as often, he
at length tore himself away. Madelaine, when she saw him depart, felt
that every earthly hope had vanished with him.

She set out early the next morning for the convent of ----; but not till
after she had sat some time weeping in the chair which Auguste used to
occupy.

  (To be concluded in our next.)


       *       *       *       *       *

                  _ANECDOTES._

                   *   *   *

During the reign of King James II. and when the people were much
oppressed and burdened with taxes, that monarch made a very expensive
tour thro' England; and on his return he slept at the palace of
Winchester. The Mayor and Corporation, for the honour done them by this
royal visit, determined to address his Majesty in the morning; but as
the Mayor could neither _read nor write_, it was agreed the Recorder
should prompt him on the occasion.

Accordingly, being introduced into the Royal presence, and every thing
ready for the ceremony, the Recorder, by way of encouraging the Mayor,
who appeared aukward and embarrassed, gently jogged his elbow, and at
the same time whispered in his ear, "Hold up your head--look like a
man." The Mayor mistaking this for the beginning of the speech, stared
the King boldly in the face, and with a loud voice repeated, "Hold up
your head---look like a man."---The Recorder, amazed at this behaviour,
again whispered the Mayor, "What the devil do you mean?" The Mayor, in
the same manner, instantly repeated, "What the devil do you mean?" The
Recorder, chagrined at this untoward circumstance, and fearing his
Majesty's displeasure, still whispering in the Mayor's ear said, "By
G--d, Sir, you'll ruin us all;" which the Mayor taking to be a
continuance of the speech, and still staring the King in the face, with
a louder voice than before repeated, "By G--d, Sir, you'll ruin us all."
The King on this rose with some anger, but being informed of the cause
of this rough address his Majesty was pleased to pass by with a smile,
and the Corporation was perfectly satisfied with the honor done them.

                   *   *   *

An Hibernian _plaintiff_, (a gentleman whose attachment to law finally
induced him to sell his last field for the purpose of prosecuting a man
who broke down his _fence_) died lately in Ireland; when, in searching
his papers, they found the following _memorandum_:--"Cast in _nine_
lawsuits, and _gained_ one, by which I lost 1000l."


       *       *       *       *       *

  An Affectionate Wife's
  _EPITAPH_.

  I died untimely; happier doom be thine:
  Live out thy years, dear husband! live out MINE.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On Monday the 29th ult. at New-Hurley, (Ulster County) Mr. JOHN ROSE, to
Miss HANNAH MIKALS, both of that place.

On Tuesday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Smith, of Princeton, JOSIAH
QUINCY, Esq. of Boston, Counsellor at Law, to Miss ELIZA S. MORTON,
daughter of the late Mr. John Morton, of this city, merchant.

On Thursday, at Bedford, (L.I.) by the Rev. Dr. Livingston, TUNIS
WORTMAN, Esq. Counsellor at Law, to Miss MARGARET LOUDON, both of this
city.

  [[Josiah Quincy, Esq., is "the" Josiah Quincy (1772-1864). Among
  other achievements, he was mayor of Boston and president of Harvard.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 4th to the 10th inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

          deg.  deg.   6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  June  4  50    61    se. do.  fgy. lt. w.  clo. h. w. lg. t. r.
        5  63    73    w. nw.   clear lt. wd.  do. do.
        6  55    71    s. do.   clear calm  do. h. wd.
        7  63    78    w. sw.   clear lt. wd.  do. do.
        8  59    72    e. se.   clear lt. wd.  do. do.
        9  64    78    e. do.   fgy. lt. wd.  clear calm
       10  64    74    s. se.   cly lt. wd.  clear h. wd.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  TO THE LILIES OF THE VALLEY.

  Ye lowly children of the shelter'd vale,
  Like modest worth by scornful pride disdain'd,
    Your little, fleeting life,
    Who waste unseen, unknown,

  In verdant veil how bashfully enwrap'd,
  Ye shun the officious hand, the searchful sight,
    With down-cast, pensive eye,
    And ever-musing heads!

  Ah! when I view your meek, your humble mien,
  And all your highly breathing fragrance taste,
    How bleeds my sad'ning soul,
    For unprotected worth!

  How bleeds so think that mortal excellence
  Is doom'd to live forgot, unheeded die!
    For in your short-liv'd charms
    Are pictur'd well its fate.

  For ye, ere yet the morning's rising gale
  Shall wing its early course, may cease to greet
    With the sweet breath of love
    The wakeful wanderer's way.

  Nor longer, virtue's boast! a little day,
  A little hour, she blooms! Nor can her pow'r
    Us helpless victims shield
    From the unpitying grave.

  Then come, my Anna's faithful bosom deck:
  For ever there true worth, true wisdom dwell.
    Congenial to your state,
    Soft in that heaven rest.

  There shall no busy insect dare obtrude
  Your sweets to rifle with perfidious kiss;
    While ye more fragrance taste
    Than in your native beds.

  Your highest incense breathe, to emulate
  Those more than op'ning morning's purest sweets,
    That sit on rosy lips
    Of smiling chastity.


       *       *       *       *       *

  IRREGULAR STANZAS
  Upon the Death of a Young Lady.

  It is vain! and her spirit has fled!
      Matilda has sunk in the tomb;
  The beauty of Nature lies mix'd with the dead:
      Alas! how severe is the doom.

  As a lily that blows in the vale,
      That springs to perfection, and dies;
  She bloom'd, and then sick'ned--but shall we bewail;
      The grave of the pure is the path to the skies.

  The victim of woe and despair,
      Her soul now delights in its rest;
  And roving with bliss thro' the regions of air,
      Unites in the songs of the blest.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ON A LATE CONNUBIAL RUPTURE.

  I sigh, fair injur'd stranger! for thy fate;
    But what shall sighs avail thee? thy poor heart,
  'Mid all the "pomp and circumstance" of state,
    Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start

  Sad recollections of Hope's garish dream,
    That shap'd a seraph form, and nam'd it Love,
  Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam
    Varies the neck of Cytherea's dove.

  To one soft accent of domestic joy,
    Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arch'd dome;
  Those plaudits, that thy _public_ path annoy,
    Alas! they tell thee---Thou'rt a wretch _at home!_

  O then retire, and weep! _Their very woes_
    _Solace the guiltless._ Drop the pearly flood
  On thy sweet infant, as the FULL-BLOWN rose,
    Surcharg'd with dew, bends o'er its neighb'ring BUD.

  And ah! that Truth some holy spell might lend
    To lure thy wanderer from the syren's power;
  Then bid your souls inseparably blend,
    Like two bright dew-drops meeting in a flower.


       *       *       *       *       *

  GLEE.

  (_Glorious Apollo._)

  Goddess of FREEDOM from on high behold us,
      While thus we dedicate to thee our lays;
  Long in thy cause hath principle enroll'd us,
      Here, to thy name, a monument we raise.
  Thus then combining, heart and voice joining,
  Sing we in harmony to FREEDOM's praise.

  Here ev'ry gen'rous sentiment awaking
      Zeal that inspir'd our patriots of yore;
  Each pledge of Freedom giving and partaking,
      Join we our bleeding country to restore.
  Thus then combining, heart and voice joining,
  Send the shouts of LIBERTY from shore to shore.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SONNET.

  Pleasant it is awhile to linger here,
      Amid the woodlands, listening to the breeze,
  That bathes my throbbing temples, to mine ear,
      As fitfully it sweeps along the trees,
  Moaning not immelodious. Sacred shade!
      I would fain dwell in your most dark recess,
      Far from the din of folly, where distress,
  With dim eye, never more should ask the aid
  Not mine to grant. Here would my jaundic'd heart
      Soon heal and harmonize: but I again,
      Perforce, must sojourn in the haunts of men.
  Loth from these lonely, lovely scenes to part,
      Alone, in crowds, my solitary breast
      Would fain, by apathy, be chill'd to rest.


_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 Book-Store of
Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  _Wednesday, June 21, 1797._  [+No. 103.+


               DOMESTIC FELICITY.

                   *   *   *

  "Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
  Ease and alternate labour, useful life,
  Progressive virtue, and approving Heav'n!"

    THOMSON.

Retired from the busy scenes of the world, in a village near H----,
lives Lucretia, with her daughters, Emma and Maria. Emma is in her
eighteenth year; her person is elegant, and her mind enriched with every
accomplishment that can adorn or endear the female character: Maria, who
has only completed fourteen, to a beautiful countenance, joins the more
fascinating charms of a well-improved understanding. Lucretia is an
affectionate mother, who uses every endeavour to inspire her daughters
with such sentiments of religion and virtue as will be conducive to
their present and future happiness. She has once moved in the higher
circles of life; but, though misfortunes have eclipsed her former
grandeur, they have brought that felicity which _fashionable Folly_
never knows. It gave me infinite pleasure to hear her address her
daughters--"My dear children" said she, "never reflect that your family
was once great in the esteem of the world; it will only create ambitious
thoughts, and destroy inward peace, which is an inestimable blessing.
I can assure you, that happiness is no attendant on the great, nor could
I ever find real pleasure in high life. Never did I experience that
simple, but substantial felicity, which is always easily obtained, till
Providence humbled my fortunes. May you ever submit to its
dispensations! Heaven is best able to judge what is proper for us. It is
one of my chief comforts, to believe that things are not governed by
chance; but are under the direction of an All-wise Being. Never forget,
that virtue is the greatest happiness, and innocence the highest
accomplishment!--To witness the sweet content that smiles on every face,
the noble disgust they manifest against the follies and amusements of
the _Little_ Great, and the dissipated manners of the age, is truly
admirable!" A tender esteem unites the two sisters; and Lucretia, who is
a sensible and accomplished woman, contributes all in her power to
increase harmony and love. The frivolous conversation that disgraces our
_well bred_ companies, never engages them. The tale of virtuous distress
excites the tear of sympathy; at the recital of any magnanimous action,
a kindred emulation fires the bosom; but, at the deed of infamy, the
abhorrence they feel is sufficiently marked in each expressive
countenance. If the happy fire-side is any where enjoyed, surely it must
be in such a family as this; where social converse, enlivened by female
sweetness, cheers the wintry night! Where the art of disguising
sentiments, and feigning what they never feel, is utterly unknown; where
fastidious compliments never approach; and none are entertained at the
expence of another's feelings.--Ye, who glitter in Fashion's splendid
sphere, enjoying all that luxurious Wealth can give; whose days are one
continued round of diversions, and for whom invention is wearied to
contrive new pleasures; say, do you ever experience the happiness of
such a family as I have thus faintly endeavoured to describe?

  WOODVILLE.


       *       *       *       *       *

  COMPASSION.

Compassion is an emotion of which we ought never to be ashamed.
Graceful, particularly in youth, is the tear of sympathy, and the heart
that melts at the tale of woe. We should not permit ease and indulgence
to contract our affections, and wrap us up in selfish enjoyment. But we
should accustom ourselves to think of the distresses of human life, of
the solitary cottage, the dying parent, and the weeping orphan. Nor
ought we ever to sport with pain and distress in any of our amusements;
nor treat even the meanest insect with wanton cruelty.

It has been objected, and it is to be feared with some reason, that
female conversation is too frequently tinctured with a censorious
spirit, and that ladies are seldom apt to discover much tenderness for
the errors of a fallen sister. No arguments can justify, no pleas
extenuate it.

To insult over the miseries of an unhappy creature is inhuman, not to
compassionate them is unchristian. The worthy part of the sex always
express themselves humanely on the failings of others, in proportion to
their own undeviating goodness, and by that gentle virtue are prompted
to alleviate the distresses of the unfortunate and wretched; it prevents
us from retaliating injuries; and restrains our severe judgments and
angry passions.

  [[Source:

  "Thoughts on Conversation" in Hannah More, _Essays Principally
  Designed for Young Ladies_ (1777). "True Meekness" (p. 247, no. 83)
  is from the same source.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

           (Continued from page 395.)

                   *   *   *

  The
  _HISTORY OF LLEWYLLIN._

"In the town of Glamorgan, Madam, I drew my first breath of life; but my
entrance into the world was marked by the deprivation of its first
blessing. As I never beheld the day (of which I can only form a very
imperfect idea), I am the better reconciled to my unhappy destiny. One
keen regret alone embitters my existence; and although I must not repine
at the dispensations of Providence, nor arraign the justice of the Most
High, I feel to its full extent the misery of having never been blessed
with the sight of my daughter, whose piety has sustained my drooping
years, and almost taught me to forget that I have a wish ungratified."

At that moment a string of the harp which stood in its usual corner,
snapped aloud, and Julia taking it under her arm, withdrew with it into
her own apartment, seemingly rejoiced at a pretext to leave the room,
that she might conceal by retiring the visible emotion that began to
overspread her feeling countenance.

The old man requested her to put it in proper order, and continued his
story.

"As it was impossible for me to be brought up to any business in the
town where we lived, and as my love of music had from my earliest years
surpassed every other inclination, my father proposed sending me to
London in my nineteenth year, that I might try in the musical world
whether my abilities were sufficient to ensure me there a quiet and
comfortable independence. But before he could adopt any measure that he
thought likely to succeed, I had, without his knowledge, accepted the
offering of a heart born to pity and to love me. A niece of my father's
resided under our roof; her unceasing assiduities and advances which I
could not fail to comprehend, drew from me a sentiment hitherto unknown,
and influenced every future action of my life. My cousin was young, and,
I have heard, handsome. 'Tis probable, that had my situation been
different, we might never have been united; but the pleasure she took in
describing the objects around me, and that tender compassion she so
evidently felt for my hapless infirmity, soon disposed my heart to the
warmest gratitude, and to that a more tender passion soon succeeded. The
result of this attachment soon made a visible alteration on the person
of my cousin; and our intercourse, which had been long suspected, was at
length discovered. An immediate marriage was the consequence; but the
day that gave life to my Julia, deprived her mother of it.

"About this time, while we were yet uncertain whether I should go, and
as my father's house was a continual memento of my late sad loss, Mr.
David Evans visited our town, and as he excelled on the harp, took
pleasure to instruct me. I devoted my time to his lessons, and their
practice; but my studies would have been soon interrupted by his
departure, had not Sir Herbert Williams arrived with his family at an
estate he had lately purchased between Swansea and Glamorgan, and
insisted on Evans taking up his residence in his house.

"In the course of the ensuing summer many gentlemen who visited that
delightful spot, were pleased to bestow the highest encomiums on my
performances: they proposed my making the tour of England, and held
forth the most flattering promises of liberal patronage and support.
A subscription was, at the close of the season, raised by them; and
Evans who wished for (though he did not absolutely want) money, sold me
at a moderate price the harp now in my possession, having another which
he preferred to it.

"I quickly sallied forth as an adventurer, and for some time succeeded
beyond my expectations. I was admired, courted, and caressed; but the
novelty at length dissipated the charm, and I was no sooner, according
to my own ideas, established in one place, than I found it was become
necessary to remove to another. I wandered from town to town during an
interval of thirteen years. Sometimes I re-visited _Glamorgan_; but my
vanity had been too much flattered by the past, and my hopes too much
raised by the expectation of the future, to allow me to doubt for a
moment that fortune would not pour into my lap, and that it would be
always time enough for me to lay by a sufficient provision for the
support and comfort of my old age.

"I repaired at length to London, and displayed my talents there; but, to
my utter astonishment, I played for more applause than gain. Here my sun
of glory would have probably sat, had not the Count d'Adhemar, at that
time Ambassador from the Court of France, become, unsolicited, the most
liberal of my patrons. On his discovering that my circumstances were not
adequate to the expences of my existence, and, as he was pleased to add,
to my merit, he deputed me the bearer of a private letter which he
addressed to the Queen, who failed not at _Versailles_ to distinguish
his recommendation with marks of her most zealous approbation. I had the
honour to attend her Majesty, and to give her some lessons on her
favourite harp. She was particularly charmed with the sweetness of the
Scots ballads, which were unknown in that kingdom; nor did some of the
old Welsh ditties fail to delight her ear. She vouchsafed in
commiserating my infirmity, to alleviate its anguish, and soon gave me a
preference over the French masters, under whose instructions she had not
made the proficiency to which her brilliant talents were fully
competent. In this situation I should have probably remained, had not
envy, that loves not merit, darted its smooth-tongued venom on a
creature whose only offence was misfortune; an offence the more
dangerous, as in her generous heart it superseded every other
consideration.

"The Queen ordered her Treasurer to give me a rouleau of fifty
Louis-d'ors, and condescended to say that she was so well satisfied with
the instructions I had given her, that she dismissed me against her
inclination, and did so only in compliance with the discontent of my
competitor, who found himself mortified that a foreigner, and
particularly an Englishman, should have obtained her protection to his
prejudice.

"But my pride had received a wound that was not to be healed in France.
For my disgrace various might be the causes assigned, and perhaps the
only real one concealed compliment to Monsieur ------. I determined
therefore to return to Glamorgan, and found on my arrival there that
Evans was lately dead; and from some hints that had been dropped by Sir
Herbert Williams, it appeared probable that it was his wish for me to
succeed him. Of this I was informed by Julia, who had been frequently
noticed by Sir Herbert and his son, Mr. Williams, who sometimes called
in at my father's house, and heard Julia with pleasure touch the harp,
which she accompanied with a voice sweet and melodious, though not
powerful.

"A few days after my return, Sir Herbert sent for me, and I was of
necessity accompanied by my daughter. He enquired into my story; and on
finding me disgusted with travelling, which could not afford to me the
smallest share of that satisfaction experienced from it by the rest of
mankind, he proposed my settling at Swansea; and from the double motive
of compassion for my situation, and his having been accustomed by Evans
to the enjoyment of music, he immediately settled on me an annuity of
fifty pounds for my life, and gave me the apartment that had been
occupied by my predecessor.

"In the following year my father died, and Julia remained unprovided
for. I knew not how to dispose of her; and to send her to London, where
she had no friends, was repugnant to my feelings. She was young,
susceptible, and, I was told, handsome; add so these, her affection for
me would not allow the idea of our separation, and she took up for the
present her abode at a friend's house, in Swansea, and employed herself
with such work as Sir Herbert's housekeeper chose to give her, more for
the disposition of her time than for any emolument she could derive
from it.

"Sir Herbert had one daughter married in Scotland, who seldom or ever
visited him; and his only son, who lived with him, had imbibed, from the
example of his father, since the death of Lady Williams, a love for
solitude, and a partiality for Swansea, that prevented his wishes from
roving beyond it. The old English hospitality prevailed in their house,
but its visitors were confined to their poorer neighbours, who always
found a welcome in it.

"There was a communication through a shrubbery into a part of Sir
Herbert's house, in which was my apartment. From thence my Julia could
steal unperceived there, when at times she wished to visit me,
unrestrained by the necessary formalities of dress or the being observed
by the family."

  (To be concluded in our next.)


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  THE STORM.
  A Fragment.

It is dark, and a silent gloom pervades the face of Heaven and of Earth,
that makes my soul expand to such a magnitude, as if it would burst the
very bosom which contains it.--All is silent!--fear takes possession of
my mind; when, from an angry cloud, the liquid flames flash forth with
terrible sublimity; darting from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,
with such repeated swiftness, blazing expansive through the heaven's
high vaults, then on a sudden vanishing! On rolls the distant thunder
solemnly sublime, and with the pelting rain and howling wind, approaches
nearer: between each peal out flashes the sulphureous flame, illumining
the rushing cataract with its light; succeeded by a crash most horrible,
which shakes the very earth to its centre! Once more a sombre gloom
spreads over the face of nature--again, all is terror and confusion!--

  DUDLEY.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _WISDOM._

Lessons of Wisdom have never such power over us as when they were
wrought into the heart through the ground work of a story which engages
the passions. Is it that we are like iron and must first be heated
before we can be wrought upon? or is the heart so in love with deceit,
that where a true report will not reach it, we must cheat it with a
fable, in order to come at truth?


       *       *       *       *       *

  _LEVITY._

A Devonshire droll has thus burlesqued the lullababy pastoral of
Shenstone. "My banks they are furnish'd with bees, &c."

  My beds are all furnish'd with fleas,
    Whose bitings invite me to scratch;
  Well stock'd are my orchards with jays,
    And my pig sties white over with thatch.

  I seldom a pimple have met,
    Such health does magnecia bestow:
  My horsepond is border'd with wet,
    Where burdock and marsh-mallows grow.


       *       *       *       *       *

  _ANECDOTES._

A gentleman, reading in one of the public prints, that Mr. _Monday_, of
Oxford, was dead, exclaimed,--"Alas! my friends, we now have reason to
lament, like _Aurelius_, that we have _lost a day!_"

                   *   *   *

A gentleman, reading in one of the daily prints that thirteen hundred of
the French had been _drowned_, said, "Thus should the courage of all our
enemies be _damped_."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                   No. VIII.

                   *   *   *

  Hear him but reason in divinity,
  And, all admiring, with an inward wish
  You would desire that he were made a Prelate.
  Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,
  You'd say it had been all his study:
  List his discourse of war, and you shall hear
  A fearful battle, rendered you in music:
  Turn him to any cause of policy,
  The gordian knot of it he will unloose
  Familiar as his garter; when he speaks,
  The air, a chartered libertine, is still;
  And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears
  To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences.

    SHAKESPEARE.

No character of antiquity is more brilliant and captivating, than that
of Alchibiades, the versatile Athenian. Cornelius Nepos, the Roman
biographer, has on this occasion, become the very Rubens of character
painters, and has happily sketched every flexile feature.--Nature, says
he, appears to have exerted her strongest energies in moulding
Alchibiades. In the hour of business he was a statesman, a general and
an orator. In the hour of revel, the rakes retired from that bagnio at
twelve, which the accommodating Alcibiades gladdened at two. Inhabiting
a city, studious of magnificence, he surpassed in equipage, the most
ostentatious grandees; and, when an exile among the hardy Thebans, he
carried heavier burdens than the broadest shouldered porter in Boetia.
At Lacedemon his palate relished the black broth of Sparta; among the
dissolute Thracians, those sensual swine of Epicurus's stye, the greyest
veteran of Venus made one sacrifice, less than he; and in all the
taverns of Thrace, Bacchus could not recognize a more thirsty toper.

If we deduct from Alchibiades his compliance with vicious customs, no
model of conduct, can be mere worthy imitation and praise. Since the aera
of Chesterfield, a dissembling nobleman, who possibly pushed the praise
of flexibility of manners too far, accommodation has been acrimoniously
censured; and the narrow Knox, in his dogmatizing essays has asserted,
that the meanest selfishness is the parent of versatility. But, though
the Tunbridge teacher, ostentatiously vaunts of his intimacy with the
Bible, he forgot that Paul of Tarsus, whose knowledge of the world was
as indubitable as his piety, exhorts to "become all things to all men,
if by any means we may gain some." Paul was no less a gentleman than
saint; and his knowledge of the world taught him the propriety of
varying his means to secure the end, and to become a most accommodating
apostle. Hence his compliment to Agrippa, for his skill in the
jurisprudence of Judea. Hence his adroitness in persuading the
superstitious men of Athens, that the Being they, and he worshipped,
were the same. Hence he could charm both the courtly Felix, and the
camp-bred centurion.

If the art of pleasing be worth practice in society, then will the
praises of versatility be fully justified. He who in conversation,
adheres to topics peculiar to himself, or to a profession, is deservedly
dubbed pedant; and all unite in frowning upon him, by whom all are
equally neglected. Minds of the first energy, may sometimes effect the
unyielding quality of the oak, rather than the suppleness of the ozier.
A cardinal Ximenes, a chancellor Thurlow, and a secretary Pitt, may be
"original and unaccommodating." But he, whom every circle courts, is
that Proteus in demeanour, who can with the same ease that he shifts his
shoe, mutilate, or increase his bows, accordingly, as he associates with
the cit, or the courrier. The object of our fondest admiration is the
man of letters and the man of the world blended, who can sublimely
speculate with science in the morning, and agreeably trifle with ladies
at night. Of this class is Charles Cameleon. The "omnis <DW25>" of Horace,
the "all accomplished" of Pope Charles, when at school, was equally the
darling of the scholars, on the first form, and the truants on the
lower. He could repeat the five declensions with promptitude, and then
drive hoop, or toss balls alertly. With the same facility, could he make
correct latin, and high flying kites. Unaided by the "ladder to
Parnassus," he would now ascend to the summit of Virgilian verse, and
now grovel in the mire, to win marbles of every sportive schoolfellow.
At the university he heard morning prayers with the saddened sedateness
of a Pharisee, argued with tutors on personal identity, as if inspired
by the very spirit of Locke--and, on syllogistic ground, vanquished
every Aristotelean adversary. At noon you might see him sauntering with
loungers, and kindling a smile even in vacancy's face. The declining sun
left him deploring, that twilight should snap speculation's thread; or
compel him to leave unfinished the song to _Myra_; and when the college
bell tolled twelve, his convivial club chose Charles president, and the
room would echo with,

  "Since we've tarried all day to drink down the Sun,
  "Let's tarry, and drink down the Stars."

Educated for the bar, Cameleon is now an eloquent and employed advocate.
But year-books and entries, cannot preclude the system of Sydenham, and
Saurin's sermons. An apothecary, hearing him harrangue upon the
superiority of Brown to Boerhave, mistakes him for a regular bred
physician, and asks, when he received a medical degree from Edinburgh.
Charles is intimately conversant with all the fathers of the church,
repeats whole pages from Justin Martyr, and quotes St. Gregory on good
works with more readiness than the parson. As he converses with the
grave, or the gay, he is alternately a believer, and a sceptic: and one
Sunday, after acknowledging to a devout deacon, that the internal
evidence of christianity was its chief corner stone; when afternoon
service was over, he agreed, to please a disciple of Voltaire, that the
clashing testimony of four evangelists, completely corroded the _root_
of our religion. Among the ladies, he holds most gracefully "'twixt his
finger and thumb, a pouncet box," and chatters on Canterbury-gowns and
French millinery, like a <DW2> of France. To a lover of the fine arts,
quotes Hogarth's "analysis of beauty," and viewing Trumbull's celebrated
painting of the sortie from Gibralter, the artist acknowledged that he
talked of lights and shades more rapidly and correctly than himself. In
a club of wits, he declaims Shakespeare, in a style of _Garrick_, he
repeats original poems, the very gems of fancy, and sets the "table on a
roar" with merry tales, and ludicrous combination. The eye of every
reveller brightens at his approach, and when he retires, Milton's
invocation to Mirth is unanimously applied:

  "Haste thee CHARLES and bring with thee
  Joy and youthful jollily,
  Sport that wrinkled care derides,
  And laughter holding both his sides."


       *       *       *       *       *

  INTERESTING STORY OF MADELAINE.
  By Helen Maria Williams.

  [Concluded from page 399.]

Madelaine passed the remaining part of the winter in the convent of
----, during which period she received frequent letters from Auguste;
and when spring arrived he conjured her, instead of removing to her own
province, to remain a little longer in her present situation; and
flattered her with hopes of being able ere long to fulfil those
engagements upon which all his happiness depended.

In the summer of this year an event took place which will render that
summer forever memorable. The French nation, too enlightened to bear any
longer those monstrous oppressions which ignorance of its just rights
alone had tolerated, shook off its fetters, and the revolution was
accomplished.

Madelaine was a firm friend to the revolution, which she was told had
made every Frenchman free. "And if every Frenchman is free," thought
Madelaine, "surely every Frenchman may marry the woman he loves." It
appeared to Madelaine, that, putting all political considerations,
points upon which she had not much meditated, out of the question,
obtaining liberty of choice in marriage was alone well worth the trouble
of a revolution; and she was as warm a patriot from this single idea, as
if she had studied the declaration of rights made by the Constituent
Assembly, in all its extent and consequences.

The Count de ----, who was informed of the correspondence between the
two lovers, and who saw little hopes of his son's subduing a passion
which this intercourse of letters served to cherish, contrived means to
have Auguste's letters intercepted at the convent. In vain Madelaine
enquired with all the anxiety of tenderness for letters. In vain she
counted the hours till the return of the post-days. Post after post
arrived, and brought no tidings of Auguste. Three months passed in the
cruel torments of anxiety and suspense, and were at length succeeded by
despair. Madelaine believed she was forgotten--forgotten by
Auguste!--She consulted her own heart, and it seemed to her impossible;
yet, after a silence of three months, she could doubt no longer.

Poor Madelaine now recollected with anguish, instead of pleasure that
all Frenchmen were free. She would have found some sad consolation in
believing that all Frenchmen were slaves. It would have been some
alleviation of her sorrows if Auguste had been forced to abandon her;
and she fancied she could have borne to lose him, if she had been sure
that he still loved her--it was losing him by his own fault that filled
her heart with pangs almost insupportable.

The little pittance which Madelaine, after paying her father's debts,
had left for her own support, was insufficient to defray her expenses as
a pensioner in the convent. She had already, by her sweetness and
gentleness, gained the affections of some of the nuns, to whom she was
also attached, and who incessantly conjured her to take the veil. "And
why," she sometimes exclaimed, "why should I hesitate any longer in so
doing? Since Auguste is lost, what have I to regret in renouncing the
world? What sacrifice do I make? what happiness do I resign?"

Madelaine had no ties to the world, of which she knew but little: but to
separate herself irrecoverably, and for ever, from him to whom her soul
was devoted--to see him, to hear his voice no more--to take vows which
would make it even a crime to think of him--to banish him even from her
thoughts--alas! Madelaine felt like Eloisa--

  "All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part,
  Still rebel nature holds out half my heart!"

Sometimes, too, the idea occured, that Auguste might love her
still--"And am I then," thought Madelaine, "going to reduce myself to a
state in which I shall be forced to wish he were unfaithful, in order to
save me from the agonies of remorse!"--She put off all thoughts of
entering on her novitiate for some weeks longer--no letters arrived, and
again her resolution to take the veil returned. "Why," cried she, "why
should I still continue to lament that inconstant lover who thinks of me
no more! Alas, alas, did he not see the anguish of my soul at parting
with him?--Does he not know the deserted situation in which I am
left?--Oh, yes! he knows I have no other refuge, no other resource, than
taking the veil--no doubt he wishes to hear I have done so--he will find
in my renunciation of the world some excuse for his infidelity--Oh,
heavens! will Auguste hear then that I am separated from him for ever
without one sigh?--Ah, why need I deliberate any longer?--My trials will
soon be past--I feel that my heart will break--yes, death will come to
my relief--and in heaven I shall find my father!"

Madelaine, at length, determined to join the holy sisterhood of the
convent. The white veil for her novitiate was prepared. The day was
fixed; when, prostrate with her face towards the earth, and with flowers
scattered over her, and a part of her long tresses cut off, she was to
enter upon that solemn trial preparatory to her eternal renunciation of
the world--of Auguste!

A few days before that which was appointed for the ceremony, Madelaine
was called to the parlour, where she found her lover, with some of the
municipal officers of the town, wearing their national scarfs.

Madeline, at the sight of Auguste, with difficulty reached a chair, in
which she fell back senseless; while Auguste could not forbear uttering
some imprecations against the iron gate by which they were separated,
and which prevented him from flying to her assistance. He, however,
procured help, and Madelaine recovered.

One of the municipal officers then informed her, that they had received
the day before a decree of the National Assembly, forbidding any nuns to
be professed. He added, that the municipality had already given
information of this new law to the abbess, who had consented to allow
Madelaine to leave the convent immediately. As he pronounced these last
words, Madelaine looked at her lover. Auguste hastened to explain to her
that his uncle, who loved him, and pitied his sufferings, had at length
made a will, leaving him his fortune, upon condition that his father
consented to his marriage with Madelaine.

When her lover and the municipal officers departed, Madelaine retired to
her apartment, to give way to those delicious tears which were poured
from a heart overflowing with wonder, thankfulness, and joy. When her
first emotions had subsided, she began to pack up her little wardrobe in
preparation for leaving the convent on the following day. "I always
loved the revolution," thought Madelaine, as she laid aside the white
gown in which she was to be married the next morning; "and this last
decree is surely of all others the best and wisest--but if it had come
too late!----" At this idea Madelaine took up the veil for her
novitiate, which lay upon her table, and bathed it with a flood of
tears.

The next morning Auguste and Madelaine were married in the parish church
of ----, and immediately after the ceremony set out for Paris; where
they now live, and are, I am told, two of the happiest people, and the
best patriots in France.

  [[Sources:

  Original: _Letters Written in France in the Summer 1790 to a friend
    in England ..._, and 1791 and later editions "Containing Many New
    Anecdotes". Letter XXI (1792): Volume II, 156-182.
  Author: Helen Maria Williams (1761 or 1762-1827).
  Notes: The quoted poem is from "The Enthusiast; or, The Lover of
    Nature" (1744) by Joseph Warton.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  IVAR AND MATILDA.
  A Traditional Tale in the Isle of Man.

In the thirteenth century, Ivar, a young and gallant knight, was
enamoured of the beauteous Matilda. Her birth and fortune were inferior;
but his generous mind disdained such distinctions. He loved, and was
most ardently beloved. The sanction of the king was alone wanting to
consummate their happiness. To obtain this, Ivar, in obedience to the
custom of the island, presented his bride to Reginald, a gay and amorous
prince; who, struck with the beauty and innocence of Matilda, heightened
by an air of modesty, immediately, for some pretended crimes, banished
Ivar from his presence, and by violence detained the virgin. Grief and
indignation alternately swelled her bosom; till, from the excess of
anguish she sunk into a state of insensibility. On awakening, her virtue
was insulted by the approaches of the tyrant. She was, however, deaf to
his insinuations, and only smiled at his menaces. Irritated at her
contempt, and flattering himself that severity would subdue her truth
and chastity, he imprisoned her in the most solitary apartment of the
castle; where, for some months, she passed the tedious night and day in
tears; far more solicitous for the fate of Ivar, than afflicted by her
own misfortunes.

In the mean time, Ivar, failing in an attempt to revenge his injuries,
assumed the monastic habit, and retired into Rushen Abbey. Here he
dedicated his life to piety; but his heart was still devoted to Matilda.
For her he sighed; for her he wept; and, to indulge his sorrows without
restraint, would frequently withdraw into the gloomiest solitudes. In
one of those solitary rambles he discovered a grotto, which had been
long unfrequented. The gloom and silence of this retirement
corresponding with the anguish of his mind, he sauntered onward, without
reflecting where the subterraneous path might conduct him. His
imagination was pourtraying the graces of Matilda, while his heart was
bleeding for her sufferings. From this reverie of woe, he was, however,
soon awoke, by the shrieks of a female. Advancing eagerly, he heard in a
voice nearly exhausted--"Mother of God! save Matilda!" while, through a
chink in the barrier that now separated them, he saw the virgin, with
dishevelled hair and throbbing bosom, about to be sacrificed to the lust
and violence of Reginald. Rage and madness gave new energy to Ivar; who,
forcing a passage through the barrier, rushed upon the tyrant; and,
seizing his sword, which lay carelessly on the table, plunged it into
its master's bosom.

The tyrant died; and the lovers, through this subterraneous
communication, escaped to the sea-side, where they fortunately met with
a boat which conveyed them to Ireland: and in that kingdom the remainder
of their years was devoted to the most exquisite of all human
felicities; the raptures of a generous love, heightened by mutual
admiration and gratitude.

This is the substance of the tradition; but, according to some of the
Manks records, Reginald was slain by Ivar, not in the castle of Rushen,
but in a neighbouring meadow. This variation of the scene, however, does
not materially affect the credit of the tradition; as the Manks
historians impute Reginald's death, not so much to Ivar's ambition, as
to his revenge of private injuries.


       *       *       *       *       *

  [[For sources, see the end of the second installment. These pieces
  are listed in the Index under the names of the individual persons.]]


  +ANECDOTES and REMAINS+
  Of Persons Connected with the French Revolution.

                   *   *   *

              +Madame Lafayette.+

This lady, the wife of a man whose history is blended with two important
revolutions, was a marchioness before the late changes in France; the
family name of her husband was also both spelled and pronounced
differently, being then De la Fayette; but the _de_ being a mark of
nobility, as having a feudal allusion (the French term it, a _nomme de
terre_) it was, of course, omitted on the extinction of titles.

Madame Lafayette is an eminent instance of the instability of greatness,
the mutability of fortune, and the inefficacy of wealth. Descended from
an ancient lineage, united to an amiable and illustrious husband, who
possessed estates in Europe, America, and the West-Indies; she,
nevertheless, has not been exempted from the must bitter calamities that
can afflict suffering humanity.

When Lafayette resisted the commands of the sole remaining legitimate
power in France, his "widowed wife" was arrested. Under the despotism of
Robespierre, she escaped death only by a miracle (part of her family was
actually immolated to his vengeance) but what to some will appear more
terrible, she experienced an unremitting captivity of fifteen months,
during which, she suffered all the horrors of a close confinement, being
immured within four walls, subjected to a scanty and precarious diet,
secluded from her children, and prohibited even from the light of
heaven.

On the death of the tyrant, the voice of humanity was once more heard,
and she was liberated, and restored to the arms of her afflicted
daughters. But she was a wife as well as a mother! and her beloved
husband was still in bondage; for he who had endeavoured to avert the
execution of Louis XVI. (such is the gratitude of courts) was
languishing in an Austrian prison!

She accordingly repaired to Hamburgh, accompanied by her children only,
for she had not wealth sufficient to hire a single domestic, and she
possesses a lofty sense of independence, which taught her to reject
pecuniary assistance, even from her few remaining friends. As soon as
her health was a little restored, she posted to Vienna, and prostrated
herself at the feet of the emperor.

Francis III. is in the flower of his youth. The chilling hand of age has
not yet rendered him morose; and surely _victory_ cannot have blunted
his feelings, and made him at once haughty and insensible! No! no! there
is not a prince of his house, from the obscure count de Hapsburg, of a
former period, to the late powerful tenant of the Imperial diadem, who
has had more occasion to find and to feel that he is a _man_.

Weeping beauty did not supplicate in vain; the German monarch raised her
from her lowly posture, and promised better days. With his permission,
she flew on the wings of affection, and, strengthened by conjugal love,
knocked at the gate of the fortress that confined her dearly beloved
husband, whose speedy deliverance (vain idea!) she hoped instantly to
announce.

The massive bolts of the dungeon give way, the grating hinges of the
iron doors pierce the ears; she and her virgin daughters are eyed,
searched, rifled, by an odious and horrible gaoler; and those, who, but
a moment before, deemed themselves deliverers, now find themselves
captives!

Reclining in the bottom of thy dungeon, these tears cannot be seen,
these sighs cannot be heard, nor can the quick decay of youth and
beauty, cankered in the bloom, and dissolving amidst the horrors of a
German prison, be contemplated. But the heart of sympathy throbs for
you, ye lovely mourners; the indignation of mankind is aroused; the
present age shudders at your unmerited sufferings; and posterity will
shed a generous tear at their recital. Anguish may not yet rend the
bosoms of your persecutors, but a dreadful _futurity_ awaits them, and,
were it possible to escape the scourge of offended heaven, they will yet
experience all the vengeance of indignant history!

                   *   *   *

                 +Champagneaux+

Was the editor of one of the three-score newspapers, that imparted the
revolutionary stimulus to France. He is the father of a numerous family;
a man of unimpeached morals, and was attached to liberty from principle,
at a time, and in a country, when it was not unusual to be so, from mere
speculation! He was selected by Roland on account of his industry and
talents; and was put by him at the head of the principal division of the
home department. In short, during his administration, he became, what is
termed in England, _under secretary of state_.

                   *   *   *

                    +Camus+,

This is another of Roland's _eleves_, and does great credit to his
discernment. Soon after the resignation of his friend, he quitted the
home department, and was elected a member of the Convention, and is now
_Archivist_ to the present legislature. He was one of the deputies
delivered over by Dumouriez to, and confined by, the Prince de Cobourg.
From an Austrian prison he has been restored to the exercise of his
legislative functions, (for he is one of the _two thirds_) and, on the
first vacancy, is likely to become a member of the Directory.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On the evening of the 8th instant at the seat of Colonel Ramsay,
Carpenter's Point, Caecil county, by the Rev. Mr. Ireland, Mr. SEPTIMUS
CLAYPOOLE, of the city of Philadelphia, to the amiable Miss ELIZABETH
POLK.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Milldollar, Mr. ELEAZER REID,
of this city, to Miss CATHERINE ACKERSON of Orange County.

  [[Claypoole's marriage may be a "professional courtesy" listing.
  Claypoole (~1764-1798) published the _American Daily Advertiser_.
  After his death it became _Poulson's_ (1800-1839), and then merged
  with the _North American_, surviving in various forms until 1869.
  Elizabeth Polk was a niece of Charles Willson Peale.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 11th to the 17th inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

          deg.  deg.   6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  June 11  66    80    nw. do.  clear h. wd.  do. do.
       12  64    81    w. sw.   clear lt wd.  do. do.
       13  70    76    sw. se.  rn lt. wd.  do. do. t. lg.
       14  64    78    nw. do.  clear lt. wd.  do. do.
       15  66    85    sw. w.   clear lt. wd.  do. do.
       16  60    77    e. do.   r. t. lg. cl. lt. w.  do. do.
       17  66    77    w. n.    r. t. lg. cr. l. w.  do. do. r. hl.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ODE TO TRAGEDY.

  Hail, sister of the sable stole!
  'Tis thine to meliorate the soul,
  To draw the tender tear from pity's eye,
  While suff'ring virtue heaves the length'ning sigh,
  And groans beneath oppression's rod;
  Or filial duty weeps a parent's woe;
  Pale constancy hangs o'er her urn,
  Distracted love laments, from all his wishes torn.
  Oh, wise vicissitudes of fate below!
  To humble haughty man, and lift the soul to God.

      The frantic eye, the hurrying pace,
      Th' impressive horrors of thy face,
      For me have more sublime delights
      Than all thy laughing sisters airy flights:
      When Shakespeare bears the soul along
      In all the native majesty of song,
      Now fires with rage, now chills with fear,
      Now melts the icy breast with pity's tear:
      Alike in all, oh, bard sublime!
      Above the rankling rage of death and time.

  But ah! what hideous forms around thee throng!
  Can these instill the moral song?
  See Virtue sinks beneath the villain's hand!
  Successful Murder hails his bloody band!
  Lo! wild Despair's relentless knife
  High rais'd against his sacred life!
  Blind Jealousy the poisoned drug prepares!
  'Till horror's starting eye-ball glares,
  And squallid Terror flies before,
  While reckless Fury rushes on,
  His poniard red with reeking gore,
  Warm from the heart in which he liv'd alone!

      'Tis past; still virtue claims thy care,
      The fev'rish reign of vice soon melts in air.
      For, lo! another train succeeds,
      Avengers of atrocious deeds!
      See purple Guilt, with look aghast,
      By torturing passions vexed sore,
      Possess'd his soul with haggard fear,
      As conscience still to virtue dear
      Holds up a gloomy picture of the past,
      And keen remorse still bids him "sleep no more,"
      Till tears of forc'd contrition ceaseless flow,
      And furies hurl him to the shades below.

  Oh goddess of the tear-swoln eye!
  Be sacred Justice ever nigh,
  In all her grizly horrors clad!
  To tell the tyrant trembling on his throne
  He lives not for himself alone.
  In vain he 'scapes from human law;
  Her airy ministers still haunt the bad,
  Sink deep into his soul, and keep him still in awe.

      Sweet Muse! thy lessons teach the soul
      The wayward passions to controul;
      By heaven implanted they for noblest ends,
      When reason's sober lamp attends,
      Afar from error's dark and devious way,
      To guide our steps to truth's effulgent day.
      Ah foolish man! why quit her cheering ray?
      The tranquil pleasure's her's that never cloy
      With her alone dwells virtue, happiness, and joy.


       *       *       *       *       *

  TO THE EVENING STAR.

  Bright eye of pensive eve! resplendent orb
  That o'er the misty mountains shinest clear;
      Like a rich gem,
      Upon an AEthiop's brow!

  Thy lamp serene, my now benighted steps
  Directs, to that blest spot where dwells my fair,
      Twin rivals who can boast
      More pure, more bright than thee.

  For not thy lovely light, that kindly cheers
  The sullen frown of unpropitious night;
      Is half so sweet as truth,
      That beams in beauty's eyes.

  Not all the little waking elves, that rise
  From out their rosy bow'rs of velvet buds,
      Where they had slept the day,
      To dance thy rays beneath,

  Feel such delight as does this breast, when thou
  With radiant lustre shew'st the happy hour,
      That leads from scenes of care
      To still domestic bliss.


       *       *       *       *       *

  SONNET ON EARLY IMPRESSIONS.

  Warm'd with the gen'rous flame that spreads a glow
      O'er youth's gay breast, with boundless joy we view,
      The objects to our ravish'd senses new,
  And hail the sun, whose glorious rays bestow

  Such vary'd beauties on Creation's form:
      So when we wond'ring see a mighty mind,
  Sent to delight, instruct, and guide mankind,
      Our breasts with rapt'rous praises, kindling warm--

  Sudden we see its shade,--and backward start,
      Checking the loud applause;--in measur'd pace,
      Comes cold Discretion with her doubting face,
  And claps her frigid hand upon the heart;

  Ah! when shall man his praise unbounded pay?--
  When God shall be the theme--and heav'n's own light the day.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPIGRAM
  Hint To A Poor Author.

  _Q._ Why this verbose redundant style,
      Think you the more the better?
  _A._ Undoubtedly--for know my friend.
      I sell it by the LETTER.


_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 Book-Store of
Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  _Wednesday, June 28, 1797._  [+No. 104.+


  +Of the KNOWLEDGE of the WORLD,+
  With Respect to the Follies and Vices of It.

The business of education would be very easy, if the world, into which a
young man is to be introduced, was such as one would wish it to be. No
person could then fail of being well educated; for the world itself
would, in general, be his best instructor: every irregularity would then
be sufficiently punished and corrected by the natural consequences of
it, and sufficient encouragement would be given to every virtue by its
own present reward. But the difficulty is to train up a person to act
with prudence and virtue in a foolish and vicious age, and to prepare
his mind properly for such scenes of vice and folly as he must be
witness to. With the best precautions there will be some hazard in this
case, but the hazard will certainly be lessened by proper care and
attention.

It appears to me that nothing is gained by deceiving a young person in
this case. I would not chuse to represent the manners of the world as
better than they are: because, upon that plan, it would be impossible
that my pupil should be sufficiently upon his guard against their
infection. It would be like committing him with an enemy, of whom he had
no previous knowledge.

Let a young man, therefore, be faithfully apprized of the great variety
of characters of which the world consists; that none are absolutely
perfect; that those who approach to perfection are few; that the bulk of
mankind are very imperfect, and many, but not the majority, exceedingly
profligate, deceitful, and wicked: and if, while he was under the
immediate care of his parents, and tutors, the principles of virtue were
carefully instilled into him, if he has been shewn the inconveniencies
and miseries that men actually bring upon themselves by their vices in
this life, and has been taught firmly to believe the much greater
miseries that await them hereafter, it may be hoped that the ill example
of some may have as favourable an effect upon him as the good example of
others.

But though a young person may be _told_ what the world is, and what men
are, without disguise, it will be necessary that his actual introduction
into the world at large be managed with great caution; because the
address and insinuations of many persons into whose company he may fall,
and whose morals are very faulty, may be more dangerous than he can
possibly have any idea of beforehand; so that no previous admonition
will be a sufficient security for him. Let the greatest care, therefore,
be taken that the first _company_ into which a young person is
introduced, be decent and virtuous, like that of his parents and tutors;
and, if it be possible, let him be kept from having any connexion with
those who are greatly abandoned and profligate, till his own habits are
in some good measure confirmed; and then he will not chuse their society
more than the common forms of civility, which are necessary to an
intercourse with mankind, and which are unavoidable.

It would be happy if some vices, of a peculiarly unnatural and atrocious
kind, could be entirely concealed from the knowledge of young persons;
and, with care, it may perhaps be done, till they be too old to be in
much danger from temptation to them. In general, however, I would
neither conceal from young persons the knowledge of vice, nor deny that
temporal advantages and pleasures may attend vicious indulgencies; but
let them be always given to understand, that those advantages and
pleasures are dearly purchased; and that, though, for a time, no visible
inconvenience may attend the career of vice, the time of _recompence_
will surely overtake the votaries of it at last; and that no man will
ever violate the rules of temperance, chastity, or any other virtue,
without being made sufficiently to repent of it.

With respect to indulgencies which are not vicious, except in excess, as
frequenting the theatre, and places of public diversion, &c. there will
be less danger of contracting an excessive fondness for them, if they
have been made familiar to the eye, and the mind, in early life. The
value of every thing of this kind is always greatly enhanced by the
rarity and novelty of them, by being considered as fashionable, and
allowed as an extraordinary favour. Were these artificial charms
removed, and sufficiently manly employment provided for youth, so that
they should not be at a loss what to do so kill their time, there would
be no great danger of their giving into that excessively dissipated mode
of life, in which too many persons of fortune are immersed at present.

A life of _pleasure_, as it is improperly called, never fails to have
most dreadful intervals of languor and disappointment, and generally
leads to vice and wretchedness. When the common amusements have lost
their _stimulus_, so that plays, operas, and assemblies, can hardly keep
the men of pleasure awake, and when they have had a surfeit of all
sensual indulgence, they have no resource but _gaming_. Without this
they have no object that can sufficiently rouse and keep up their
attention; and though the practice of gaming, could it be kept within
reasonable bounds, might serve to enliven a dull hour, and amuse
agreeably, and even usefully, persons who are incapable of active and
serious employment, or other persons in the intervals of such
employment; yet the progress from _less to more_ is too easy, and too
tempting in this business; and _high gaming_ is the greatest enemy to
every thing tranquil, gentle, benevolent, and generous, in the human
breast. It cherishes every passion that has any thing sordid, dark, and
malignant in it; so that when carried to excess, and joined to
disappointment, it is no wonder that it ends in riot, distraction,
despair, and self-murder.

  J. P.


       *       *       *       *       *

                      The
                  _WANDERINGS_
                     of the
                  IMAGINATION.

                _BY MRS. GOOCH._

  [Concluded from page 403.]

"I was one morning expecting her at the usual hour, and for the first
time she disappointed me. I waited for her in vain, and toward evening
began to grow alarmed at her absence. I borrowed the arm of a servant,
and repaired to her lodging. She had not been seen there since the
morning; and after leaving a message for her, I returned home, under the
certainty of finding her there. But no one had seen her, neither did I
hear from her till the following evening, when she entered my apartment,
and I could discover, from the trembling agitation of her voice, that
something particular had disturbed her. On my questioning her about the
disposal of her time during the preceding day, I found that her answers
were vague and incoherent, which, on my observing, the native candour of
her heart prevailed, and she eagerly asked me if I could forgive her
revealing to me a secret that had got the better of her reason, and
without too harshly condemning, advise her how to act under the present
embarrassing state of her mind?--I was so totally thunderstruck by this
preparation, that I could only entreat her instantly to satisfy me--but
to my first emotion surprize, terror, every sensation that could proceed
from the honesty of my heart succeeded, while she uttered--"Your Julia
has dared to aspire to the son of her father's benefactor."--I
interrupted her, and for a moment all my past affection for her was
buried in the most bitter resentment.

"She conjured me to hear her, and I promised to do so. "Yes," she
continued, "your daughter has listened to the most tender professions of
honourable love, but she is bold to say that she could despise HIM who
has offered it, had he even hinted at the destruction of her innocence.
Mr. Williams has privately and frequently met me. He has pledged his
honor that he will never give his hand to another; but he expresses
himself too well convinced of your integrity, and gratitude to his
father, to entrust you with a secret, which it is most essential to his
views should never be discovered by him."

I entreated my daughter to leave me, while I ruminated what measures I
could adopt to secure my own esteem, without betraying Mr. Williams.
I determined to see him; for how was it possible my Julia should suffer
in his esteem by the candid declaration she had made me?--I requested
the honour of half an hour's private conversation with him in my
apartment the same evening, and I had no reason to repent my sincerity.
He was ingenuous in the extreme, and in a few minutes dispelled the
anxiety, (I will not say doubt) that my daughter's first words had
occasioned. He declared to me, in the most solemn manner, his
unalterable resolution of uniting himself to her, whenever he should be
at liberty to declare his choice, which was restrained for the present,
both by his father and his uncle; from the latter he had only to combat
with pecuniary considerations; but for his father he had the most tender
affection, and the idea of distressing him would have been nearly as
terrible as that of forsaking the darling object to whom I perceived,
but too plainly, he was forever devoted.

"Mr. Williams's confidence demanded the fullest return of mine; but my
honor was deeply interested, and to his I consigned the care of it.

"After many conferences, and meetings between us, (during which he saw
not Julia) he consented to my urgent request, that of unbosoming our
situation to Sir Herbert. Mr. Williams, with all the impetuosity of
youth, believed what he hoped; and left to me the hardest task for the
human heart to perform, that of wilfully risking the displeasure of its
first benefactor.

"Sir Herbert heard my recital with more emotion than surprize; and I
could discover that the obstacles he held forth to his son's union with
my daughter, were not so entirely on his own account as that of the Lady
Williams's brother, the old Admiral Clayton; who having no children, had
declared his nephew his heir, but who possessed too much pride of blood
to listen to the proposal of an alliance, that would not be at least
adequate to his own.

"To this sentiment he added great inflexibility of temper, and a mind
bordering on suspicion. Sir Herbert thought it would, therefore, be
prudent to remove my daughter, and was generous enough to propose my
going with her, though he deprived himself by it of what afforded his
principal delight in the Winter Evenings. He recommended Chepstow, where
we have remained ever since, nor have I ever left her, but for six weeks
at the return of Christmas, when I regularly go for that time to Sir
Herbert's house.

"Mr. Williams still perseveres in his intention, and Sir Herbert does
not oppose a correspondence, that he knows would be in vain to prohibit.
Once, indeed, Mr. Williams has visited us here, and has given us every
reason to believe, that the death of the Admiral, who is now in his 75th
year, is the only barrier to his wishes, and I most candidly acknowledge
to my own."

Here ended the Narrator; and Julia, who had been all the time absent,
returned to gladden us with her presence.

She saw that her secret was discovered; and having no farther restraint
in my society, soon convinced me that her whole happiness was wound up
in her future prospects, a disappointment in which would not fail to
embitter, if not actually destroy, it.

In a few months my wandering stars compelled me to leave Chepstow; but,
alas, they have never served to light me to happiness! My correspondence
with Julia has continued ever since uninterrupted; and the Admiral,
though not deprived of existence, is become so far dead to the world by
the suspension of his faculties, that Sir Herbert having come to the
knowledge of his will being made wholly in favour of Mr. Williams, no
longer withheld his happiness, but united him to his long-loved Julia.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams took up their residence in his house, and the
latter days of the aged Llewyllin, who lived with them, were crowned
with content; while, like Israel's Monarch, he turned the dulcet strains
of his harp to the divinest melody--the praises of his God.


       *       *       *       *       *

  +ANECDOTES and REMAINS+
  Of Persons Connected with the French Revolution.

                   *   *   *

     +Marie Anne Victoire Charlotte Cordet,+

The daughter of a man attached by a place to the court. The _demoiselle_
Cordet was zealous for freedom; rich, young, beautiful--a woman--she
was, nevertheless, a republican. An enthusiast, but not a frantic; she
possessed the warmth of the one character, without the extravagance of
the other. At the place of execution, she uttered not a single word. Her
face still possessed an heroic calmness; and she seemed conscious of
future glory, and approaching happiness. Although silent, her
gesticulations were, however, eloquently impressive; for she frequently
placed her hand on her heart, and seemed to say, "I rejoice, in having
exterminated a monster!"

Brutus and Cordet both equally struck for liberty, and, alas! neither of
them was happy enough to secure it; but the execution of Robespierre
seems to have effected for modern France, what the punishment of Antony,
and the banishment of Octavius, could not perhaps have produced in
degenerate Rome.

To this woman, Greece would have erected statues; Rome, temples. France
may some day insert her name in the calendar of her martyrs;--the
ancients would have placed her among their gods!

_Translation of a letter from Marie Anne Victoire Charlotte Cordet, to
her father, written on the evening before her trial:_

  "From the prison of the Conciergerie, in the apartment lately
  occupied by the deputy Brisot,

    "_July_ 16, 1793.

  "My dear respected Father,

  "Peace is about to reign in my dear native country, for Marat is no
  more!

  "Be comforted, and bury my memory in eternal oblivion.

  "I am to be tried to-morrow, the 17th, at seven o'clock in the
morning.

  "I have lived long enough, as I have achieved a glorious exploit.

  "I put you under the protection of Barbaroux and his colleagues,
  in case you should be molested.

  "Let not my family blush at my fate; for remember, according to
  Voltaire,

    'That crimes beget disgrace, and not the scaffold.'

      "Your affectionate daughter,

        "MARIE ANNE VICTOIRE

          "CHARLOTTE CORDET."


       *       *       *       *       *

                  +Voltaire,+

Superstition ridiculed; tyranny exposed; innocence protected:--a nation,
if not prepared for liberty, yet unfitted for bondage. Such were the
labours and the triumphs of Voltaire.

The Parisians were always fond of him. Their vanity was, indeed,
gratified by his glory, in which they supposed themselves to
participate. On his return from banishment, in the time of the monarchy
(from what free country would the author of the _Henriade_ have been
banished?) he was presented with a wreath of laurel, in the public
theatre, and crowned, like the heroes of the ancient republics, in the
presence of the whole people.

On the recovery of liberty, his ashes were claimed by the nation, and on
the 10th of July, 1791, conducted into Paris, amidst the shouts of the
national guards, and the tears of the citizens. The carriage, containing
the corpse, was shaded with green branches, and adorned with appropriate
devices. On one side was the following inscription:

  "_Si l'homme a des tirans, il doit les detroner._"

On another:

  "_Si l'homme est cree libre, il doit se gouverner._"

The above mottos were selected from his own immortal works.

  [[Source:

  This article previously appeared in The Monthly Magazine and British
    Register (ed. Richard Phillips), May 1796.
  Notes: These pieces are listed in the Index under the names of the
    individual persons.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

                 _THE FARRAGO._

                   *   *   *

                    No. IX.

                   *   *   *

  If we see right, we see our woes,
    Then, what avails it to have eyes?
  From IGNORANCE our comfort flows;
    The only wretched are the wise.
  Wearied we should lie down in death;
    This CHEAT OF LIFE would take no more,
  If fame were thought an empty breath,
    Or DELIA but a purjured whore.

    PRIOR.

Happiness having been defined, by certain acute wits the art of being
adroitly deceived, perhaps, therefore, no order in society merits
congratulation more, than that cajoled cluster of "good easy men," whom
knaves call dupes. Amadis de Gaul, or any other knight errant of old
romance, must have cordially cursed the malignant enchanter, who, by the
touch of a tallisman, caused the gorgeous castle to dwindle to a cot, or
the wrinkles of a witch to mar the brow of a peerless damsel. The Dupe,
whom the unreflecting "million" too often deride for being gulled, would
have equal reason to upbraid that impertinent and pretended friend, who,
in the game of human artifice, should stand behind his chair, and
incessantly tell him, that he was cheated. Although I cannot agree with
that eccentric orator, who harangued in praise of ignorance; although I
cannot print paradoxes, like ROUSSEAU's, pronouncing the arts and
sciences useless, and barbarism a blessing; yet I would fervently
implore those gamesome genii, who delight in the mockery of mortals,
that they would never unbind from my eyes that fillet which conceals
from their view the foibles of the friend I respect, and the frailties
of the woman I love. In life's pilgrimage, curiosity must be sparingly
indulged: and, lest dejection invade, we should not scarcely see, still
less contemplate, the deformities of ZAARA, or _The Desart_. One of the
most amiable _weaknesses,_ as the world calls them, in my uncle Toby's
character, as delineated by Sterne, was that you might cheat him ten
times a day, if nine times were not sufficient for your purpose. AElian,
a narrative Greek, records the case of an insane Athenian, who, living
in a maritime town, fancied that all the vessels which arrived in the
haven were his own. Horace mentions likewise, a nobleman of Argos,
a literary enthusiast, a "child of fancy," who, even in the vacant pit,
fancied that he witnessed the representation of sublime tragedies, and
"hearkened even to extacy." Now how unfortunate an officer would uncle
Toby have been, had Corporal Trim hinted at the duplicity of Bridget,
widow Wadman, or any of the Shandy family; and how unfortunate were the
frantic Athenian and the illustrious Argive, from whose minds the "dear
deceit" was expelled by the officious friend, and the operative
hellebore.

I have read somewhere, I believe in Sir Thomas More's works, that the
world is undone by looking at things at a distance. One would suppose
that so wise a Chancellor would have philosophised better than this, and
have maintained the _reverse_ of the proposition. Happy would it have
been had his practice militated with his principles. If he had surveyed
the Romish superstition, and the caprice of the eighth Henry _at a
distance_, if he had kneeled to the saints without questioning their
right to be worshipped, and obeyed the king without asking wherefore;
the "rays of royal indignation," would not have confused the Chancellor,
and he would not have paid with his head the price of _too near_ an
examination.

The inimitable BUTLER, in whose Hudibras we always find much of the good
sense and truth of poetry, acknowledges that,

  Doubtless the pleasure is as great
  Of being cheated, as to cheat.

But he might have said more, and affirmed that the satisfaction is
greater, and that the dupe is happier, than the knave. It is better to
be the gulled spectator of a puppet show, than the master juggler, who
comprehends the whole trick. How foolishly conducts that curious
impertinent, who swears that the glittering crown of the theatrical
monarch is nothing but tinsel, and rallies behind the scenes to view the
actors in an undress. For the naked skeleton, even of delight to adopt a
happy phrase of Dr. Johnson's, is loathsome; and those inquisitive
beings, who wish to survey every object stripped of its trappings,
resemble children who dash their gilded toys to pieces to know what is
inside.

In every age inquisitiveness has caused many, eager to take a peep, to
go on their way sorrowing. If our grand parent Eve had been content with
innocent ignorance, and not _hankered_ after those cursed crab apples
which have "set the children's teeth on edge," we should all be "jolly
fellows;" each, after rising from the feast of life, would have no
reckoning but his own to discharge. But since the habit of tearing off
the veil from every object has grown inveterate, how many misshapen
monsters have exhibited to the curious eye, most naked and nauseous
disproportion. How many noble, how many ecclesiastical heads, recent
from the guillotine, have gasped on the ground because TOM PAINE railed
at the mob for their servility to the ruling powers, and taught them the
"Rights of Man." If _happy_ ignorance had been our hereditary queen, no
persecution, civil or religious, would have urged non-conforming victims
to the stake or the scaffold. The bells on St. Bartholomew's night would
not have tolled, Luther would not have defaced so many paintings, nor
have mutilated so many statues of the Romish Church. Calvin's proselytes
would have been a visionary band, feeble and insignificant as the madcap
shakers. _Mother Church_ would never have quarrelled with her
_daughters_ for precedency. _Lawn sleeves_ would not have been rent by
one side, nor _grey coats_ singed threadbare by the other; but all the
members of the _great family_ would have sung what ditties they pleased,
and perhaps amicably joined in a general chorus of

  "SINCE WE ARE MET, LET'S MERRY, MERRY BE,
  WITH A TINKER, OR A TAILOR."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  +HENRY and LOUISA+;
  An Affecting Tale,
  Founded on recent Facts.

  _Introduced in a Letter of Consolation and Advice to Mrs. FRANKS,
  from her Sister._

                   *   *   *

    NEW-YORK.

  DEAREST SISTER,

Your last, so fraught with genuine distress, arrived at a moment when my
whole soul was agitated by a pathetic fact, which has recently occurred
in this city.--Alas, my dear girl, it is not you alone whom calamity
visits:--the sons and daughters of affliction are as numerous as the
votaries of humanity:--Sympathy need never be idle; and the tear of pity
may unceasingly trickle from the eye of tenderness, while bigotry,
avarice, and vanity violate the susceptive bosom of innocence and love.

Since our establishment in this city, among the acquaintances we have
formed, a family of the name of Williams, consisting of a respectable
father and mother, and three dutiful sons, has not been the least
flattering and agreeable. My earliest observation in it, was the sincere
passion which the eldest son constantly avowed for a neighbouring
female, whose parents, though not in the habit of intimacy with his,
were ever cordial and polite to his addresses. A mutual and unvaried
affection had subsisted between them from their infancy, and, "growing
with their growth," the time had now arrived in which they anticipated
the unbounded fruition of their juvenile hopes. Their parents, having
heretofore tacitly acquiesced in their union, beheld with unutterable
pleasure the ceaseless constancy of their children, which could be
productive of nothing but the most unmingled happiness to all. The day
of festive gladness was appointed, and Mr. Williams, in order to
equalize his son's estate with the expected affluence of his
daughter-in-law, purchased an elegant house, and furnished it with every
article of grandeur and convenience; besides a handsome donation in
cash, which he reserved for the day of celebration. The blissful and
expectant hour opened to the warm feelings of the young lovers a
thousand scenes of untasted joy--a thousand sources of ineffable
delight. Louisa already looked upon Henry as the plighted husband of her
soul, and poured into his bosom her unrestrained confidence; while he,
with feelings equally elated, made her the supreme mistress of his
thoughts!--Thus did the rapturous scene glow in their vivid
imaginations, and tantalize expectation, when the sordid parents of
Louisa, taking her to their closet, thus addressed her:--"Dear Louisa,
your happiness and future comfort being the only hope and object of our
lives, we have with pleasure beheld, and cherished with parental
indulgence, the virtuous passion you have long felt for Henry Williams.
In three days more our period of duty and authority will expire; and
before this we earnestly wish, by one dictate of prudence, well to
conclude the work ever nighest our hearts."--The astonished Louisa,
unable to discern the tendency of this ambiguous exordium, remained
pensively silent; and her father continued:--"You know the disparity of
young Williams' fortune, and the thoughtlessness of men of his
profession and years--Let us then beseech you as you regard your future
welfare and our solemn request, the last perhaps we shall ever enjoin,
previous to your marriage, to call for an attorney and confirm on your
children the fortune left you by your uncle: what we are able to bestow
will equal, if not exceed the fortune of your husband."--Louisa was all
comprehension, and looking with an eye of affection first at her
attentive mother, and then her father, she exclaimed, "Is it possible,
father, that he, to whose honour and fidelity I am to commit my person
and precious happiness, is deemed unworthy to be trusted with a trifling
sum of paltry gold!"--and turning, with a sigh acceded to the
proposition of her parents, as the only means of reconciling them to
participate in their approaching bliss. An attorney was obtained, and
her fortune of five thousand pounds secured to the offspring of her
legal marriage, and forever wrested from the touch of her husband.

Their exulting parents beheld the nigh approach of their children's
happiness, with accumulated transport! The enraptured Henry forsook the
world; and devoted his time to the retired society of his amiable
Louisa;--Louisa disclosed the ungenerous deed she had been obliged to
perform.--Its suspicious aspect, and concealed process, enraged the
pride of his soul!--He flew to his father, related the insiduous act,
and with aggravated frenzy cursed the foul and penurious
machination!--His father, naturally of a high and independent spirit,
heard his son with mortified ambition, and in flames of vindictive
manliness hastened to the presence of the parents of Louisa--They
received him with cordiality; but their demeanour was soon changed into
coldness and reproach, by his unbridled vehemence; and after a clamorous
altercation, in which the agonized Louisa mingled her tears, he left
them with a solemn denunciation of the match, and an imprecation on
their iniquitous penury. All intercourse between the parties was
interdicted; the house, furniture, &c. purchased by Mr. Williams,
re-sold, and the intended solemnization annihilated.

--Here, Caroline, pause, and enquire of your soul, if this horrid tale
could thus conclude? Say, my sister, is it possible to your conception,
that the divine and unadulterated fervor of this young pair, could, by
this interposition of avarice, be resolved into apathy and
indifference?---Could that celestial passion, whose weakest votary has
survived the shocks of fate, become extinct by a mere artifice and
parental covetousness?---No, Caroline, it is inconsistent with nature,
and nature's God.

Louisa's anguish at this disastrous event is not to be described!--After
uttering her grief in the agony of tears and lamentation, she drooped
into a settled melancholy. Immured in her chamber, and refusing the
comfort of the world, her lonely reflections aggravated the deletary
influence of her misfortune: She gradually declined; and in a few
months, her relentless parents beheld the awful advances of their
child's dissolution; which she viewed with a placed benignity of soul.
"Death, like a friend" indeed, seemed to succour her affliction: and by
a gradual and mild operation, terminated the bitter pangs of her heart.
Yet even at the solemn period of her decline, her mind dwelt on the
constancy and love of Henry with delightful extacy; and in departing
from her sorrowing friends, forever closed her quivering lips in
pronouncing his beloved name! Her fate reached the ears of the frantic
Henry, who, until this time, had been kept ignorant even of her
indisposition! He flew to the house--but at first was denied this last
sad pleasure of beholding his lifeless Louisa!--He was, however,
admitted for a few minutes, on cruel conditions. Leaning on the arm of
his younger brother as he crossed the aisle which conducted to the
solemn apartment, his weakened senses started at the melancholy idea,
and for a time an universal agony rendered him unconscious of his real
situation.--He entered the darkened room, and approaching the coffin,
beheld his lately blooming love beautiful even in the frozen arms of
death!--"Oh!" he exclaimed; but his surcharged heart gushing from his
eyes, obstructed the farther utterance of his grief. He gazed on the
cold eloquence of her face; touched with his hand her palsied cheek; and
with a kiss whose ardor seemed to breath his soul to the object, was
dragged from the tragic spectacle!

He attended the funeral rites; and since has been continually absorbed
in silent sorrow! His soul, at times, seems abstracted from his body,
and in relapsing from his reveries, he often fervently exclaims, "I have
seen my Louisa! She is with her kindred spirits in bliss; and I shall
soon be happy!"--While he thus paces in pursuit of the same grave which
incloses his hopes of life and felicity, his loving parents, oppressed
with age and affliction, are hourly progressing towards their end.
Sorrow has raised her banner in the family; while the parents of Louisa,
in performing the pageantry of mourning, forget the cause and object of
their grief.

From this interesting narrative, my love, you will perceive, that,
although others of your sex endure not the same distresses to which you
are destined, they are not wholly exempt from the asperities of fate.
Alas, be not covetous of distress: but learn from this reflection, that
all are either the Victims of Sentiment or the dupes of passion,
desirable it is to acquire a mind patient in suffering, and a soul
indignant of complaint.

Excuse the length of the present, and believe me to be

  Your affectionate sister,

    MARIA HARTLEY.

                   *   *   *

[->] The preceding Letter is extracted from an invaluable Novel,
entitled "THE VICTIMS OF SENTIMENT:" wrote by a YOUNG AMERICAN of
Philadelphia.--It is just published, and, for sale at the office of the
Weekly Magazine, No. 358, Pearl-street; (_price 6s._)


       *       *       *       *       *

  _ANECDOTE._

When a celebrated eastern traveller's book was presented to the
sovereign, some person asked Lord North if the author of it was not to
be made a knight; "Yes, to be sure," replied his Lordship, "and then you
will have some new Arabian _Knight's_ [Nights] Entertainments you know."


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  DETRACTION. A VISION.

Superior excellence is the general mark for calumny; and envy is usually
led to asperse what it cannot imitate. A little mind is scandalized at
the pre-eminence of its neighbour, and endeavours to depreciate the
virtues which it cannot attain to. Thus the distempered eye is impatient
of prevailing brightness; and, by attempting to observe the lucid
object, inadvertently betrays its own weakness. Pride is the fruitful
parent of Detraction; and it is the unjust estimate which men set upon
themselves, that generates in their minds this ridiculous contempt of
greater worth. Persons of this unhappy complexion regard all praises
conferred upon another as derogatory from their own value. The arrows of
the backbiter are generally shot in the night; and the most unspotted
innocence is the game of this infernal destroyer. The heads of his darts
are imbrued in poison; and it too frequently happens, that a small wound
proves mortal to the injured. But to drop for the present these
figurative expressions, I would only observe, that it is a pity a
well-regulated society cannot more effectually curb this impious
licentiousness of those sons of darkness. If a wretch, necessitated by
the cries of a starving family to seek illegal supplies of bread, shall
make an open attack upon me, the constitution of the realm consigns such
a pitiable malefactor to infamy and death. And shall this miserable
object of compassion prove the victim of my resentment; while the
backbiter may, with impunity, revel in the excesses of his iniquity, and
boast defiance to all laws? As this is a topic, however, which has been
descanted on by a variety of pens, I shall endeavour to enliven it with
the air of novelty, by throwing my farther sentiments into the form of a
vision.

I found myself, during the slumbers of the night, in a very extensive
region, which was subject to the jurisdiction of a fury, named
Detraction. The fields were wild, and carried not the least appearance
of cultivation. The tops of the hills were covered with snow; and the
whole country seemed to mourn the inclement severity of one eternal
winter. Instead of the verdure of pleasing herbage, there sprang up to
sight hemlock, aconite, and other baneful plants. The woods were the
retreats of serpents; while on the boughs were perched the birds of
night, brooding in doleful silence.

In the middle of the plain was a bleak mountain, where I discovered a
groupe of figures, which I presently made up to. The summit presented
the fury of the place. There was a peculiar deformity attending her
person. Her eyes were galled and inflamed; her visage was swoln and
terrible; and from her mouth proceeded a two-edged sword. A blasted oak
was the throne which she sat on; her food was the flesh of vipers, and
her drink gall and vinegar.

At a little distance from her I observed Ignorance talking loud in his
own applause; Pride strutting upon his tiptoes; Conceit practising at a
mirror; and Envy, like a vulture, preying upon herself.

The multitudes who paid their addresses to this fury were a composition
of all nations and professions, of different characters, and various
capacities. There was the mechanic, the tradesman, the scholar; but the
most zealous votaries consisted principally of old maids, antiquated
batchelors, discarded courtiers, and the like. Each strove to ingratiate
himself with the fury, by sacrificing the most valuable of his friends;
nor could proximity of blood move compassion, or plead exemption from
being victims to her insatiable passion. Some addressed this infernal
Moloch with the very fruits of their bodies; while others were
triumphantly chanting forth the extent of her power, and expatiating on
the numbers of her conquests. At this incident arose in my breast all
the tender sentiments of humanity that I had ever cultivated; and I
began to blame my criminal curiosity, which had prompted me to ascend
the mountain. But in a few minutes the whole scene was very agreeably
reversed. For, towards the southern boundaries, I observed the clouds
parting, the sky purpling, and the sun breaking forth in all its glory.
When immediately there appeared marching towards us Good-nature, in all
her pomp and splendor; arrayed like a sylvan nymph, and blooming with
unstudied graces. She was of a fair and ruddy complexion, which received
additional beauty from the frequent smiles that she threw into her
countenance. On her right hand shone Good Sense, with much majesty and
diffidence in her mien. She was an essential attendant on the young
lady, who never appeared to such advantage, as when she was under her
more immediate direction. On her left was Generosity, carrying a heart
in her hand. The next that presented, was Modesty, with her eyes fixed
on the ground, and her cheeks spread with roses. Then followed a train
of beauties, who, by the unaffected charms of their persons, made me
desirous of a nearer inspection. Upon a close approach, I discovered
that they were a tribe of AMERICAN LADIES, who were always fond of
appearing in the retinue of the Goddess, from whose indulgent smiles
they received an accessional lustre to their charms. I then turned my
eyes towards the monsters I have above described; the principal of which
turned pale, and fell down in a swoon from her throne. Pride sunk into a
shade; Envy fell prostrate and bit the ground; while Ignorance vanished
like a morning cloud before the rising sun. As the Goddess drew near,
the whole collection of fiends disappeared. The basilisk skulked into
the glade, and the oak on which the fury was seated budded forth afresh.
Wherever the goddess walked, the flowers sprang up spontaneous at her
feet. The trees, surprized with new-born life, displayed the enamelled
blossom. The tender roe was seen bounding over the mountains, and the
little lamb sporting on the hills. Instead of the briar and the thorn,
there shot forth the myrtle and every odoriferous shrub. The voice of
the turtle was heard in the groves, and the dales resounded with the
melodious harmony of the nightingale. In a word, the whole reign
confessed the happy influences of the Deity, and charmed in all the
genial softness of the spring.

  D. C.

  [[Source:

  Author: (Dr.) Nathaniel Cotton (1705-1788).
  First known publication 1746. The piece was not part of the 1751
    Visions in Verse.]]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  _ANECDOTES._

Some of the papers sport Mr. Thomas Paine as a man of gallantry; they
say, since his last trip to Paris, he was caught on his knees at a
lady's feet by her husband.--The Frenchman astonished at what he saw,
exclaimed, "_Vat the devil be you doing, Citizen Paine?_" "_Only_,"
replied Tom, "_measuring your lady for a pair of stays._"--The Frenchman
quite pleased at Tom's answer, kissed and thanked him for his
politeness.

                   *   *   *

  UP STAIRS BACKWARDS.

An English servant was sent to an acquaintance of his master's, who
lived at a watch-maker's in Dame-street. When he came to the shop, he
asked if the gentleman was at home; the watch-maker answered in the
affirmative, and directed him to go up three pair of stairs _backwards_.
After a journey of half an hour, and astonishing the whole house with
his noise, he arrived at the door and delivered his message. The
gentleman gave him a dram, which he took, saying, "Long life to your
good-natured heart and to mine, and I should be obliged to you to tell
me a better way down, for the man told me I was to come up _backwards_;
and if, sir, I go down the same way, I am certain I shall break my
neck." The gentleman bursts into a fit of laughing, and explained the
watch-maker's meaning.


       *       *       *       *       *

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

At Charleston, (S.C.) Captain WILLIAM EARLE, to Mrs. I'ANS, widow of Mr.
Francis I'ans, formerly of this city.

On Sunday evening, 28th ult. at Norwalk, (Connecticut) by the Rev. Mr.
Smith, Mr. STEPHEN WHITE, to Miss ESTHER WASSON, both of that place.

On Sunday evening se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, Mr. HENRY C.
SOUTHWICK, printer, to Miss MARY WOOL, both of this city.

On Monday evening se'nnight, by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, Mr. ROBERT
WILLIAMSON, to Miss BARBARA HARRIES, both natives of Scotland.

At New-Rochelle, on Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Kuypers, Dr.
ROBERT G. MERRIT, to Miss ROOSEVELT, daughter of Mr. John Roosevelt,
both of this city.

  [[If Internet sources can be trusted, "Miss Roosevelt" is Maria
  Roosevelt, great-granddaughter of Johannes Roosevelt. This puts her
  in the same branch of the family as Theodore and Eleanor (but not
  Franklin) Roosevelt.]]


       *       *       *       *       *

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 18th to the 24th inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

          deg.  deg.    6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  June 18  62    77    e. ne.   rn. lt. wd.  do. do. t. lg.
       19  54    69    n. w.    cloudy lt. wd.  clear do.
       20  57    69    e. s.    clear lt. wd.  do. do.
       21  58    70    e. se.   cloudy lt. wd.  clear do.
       22  60    66    e. se.   cloudy do.  do. do. rn.
       23  60    64    se. ne.  rain lt. wd.  do. do. rn.
       24  63    71    w. s.    cloudy lt. wd.  do. do.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  ELEGY,
  WRITTEN TO DISSUADE A YOUNG LADY FROM FREQUENTING
  THE TOMB OF HER DECEASED LOVER.

  Now, thro' the dusky air, on leaden wings,
    Sails the sad night, in blackest clouds array'd;
  Hark! in the breeze the gathering tempest sings;
    How dear it murmurs in the rustling shade!

  Loud, and more loud, is heard the bursting sound
    Of thunder, and the peal of distant rain;
  While lightnings, gliding o'er the wild profound,
    Fire the broad bosom of the dashing main.

  Now dies the voice of village mirth; no more
    Is seen the friendly lantern's glimmering light;
  Safe in his cot, the shepherd bars his door
    On thee, Eliza! and the storm of night.

  In yon sequester'd grove, whose sullen shade
    Sighs deeply to the blast, dost thou remain,
  Still faithful to the spot, where he is laid,
    For whom the tears of _beauty_ flow in vain?

  Ah, left alone beneath the dreadful gloom,
    Companion of the tempest! left alone!
  I see thee, sad-reclining o'er the tomb,
    A pallid form, and wedded to the stone!

  Ah! what avails it, Sorrow's gentlest child,
    To wet the unfruitful urn with many a tear;
  To call on Edward's name, with accents wild,
    And bid his phantom from the grave appear?

  No gliding spirit skim the dreary ground,
    Dress the green turf, or animate the gloom,
  No soft aerial music swells around,
    Nor voice of sadness murmurs from the tomb.

  Cold is the breast that glow'd with love, and pale
    The cheek that, like the morning, blush'd before:
  Mute are the lips that told the flattering tale,
    And rayless is the eye that flattered more.

  Deep, deep beneath the dark mysterious grave,
    Thy tears he sees not, nor can hear thy sighs:
  Deaf is thine Edward, as the Atlantic wave,
    Cold as the blast that reads the polar skies.

  Oh! turn, and seek some sheltering kind retreat;
    Bleak howls the wind, and deadly is the dew:
  No pitying star, to guide thy weary feet,
    Breaks thro' the void of darkness on thy view.

  Think on the dangers that attend thy way!
    The gulf deep-yawning, and the treacherous flood;
  The midnight ruffian, prowling for his prey,
    Fiend of despair, and darkness, grim with blood!

  But oh! if thoughts terrific fail to move,
    Let Pity win thee back to thine above;
  Melt at a sister's tears, a mother's love,
    Aw'd by the voice of Reason, and of God!

    N. B.


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *

  TO HEALTH.

  Health, rosy nymph, the pleasing boon
    Of happiness thou can'st bestow----
  Without thee, life's best journey soon
    Becomes a pilgrimage of woe.

  Shunning the palace, did'st thou dwell
    With Slav'ry in his gloomy cell,
  More blest the captive in the mine,
    Than he for whom the metals shine.

  But no--thy haunt cannot be there
    Th' abode of pining misery,
  Where the sad bosom of despair
    Heaves with unpity'd agony----

  Nor, wanton, dost thou love to sport,
    In pleasure's gay delusive court--
  Over the gem-imbossed vase,
    To smile in Bacchus' ruddy face.

  Thou fly'st th' intoxicating bowl,
    Fountain of madness and disease,
  Whose wild and absolute controul,
    The vanquish'd reason sways.

  Thou shun'st the fragrant myrtle groves,
    Which the Paphian Venus loves--
  Where, while Pan pipes a roundelay,
    Th' unblushing nymphs and satyrs play.

  Ah, modest Health, from scenes like these,
    Thou turn'st thy steps aside, to haste
  And catch the balmy morning breeze,
    Its spirit-giving breath to taste;

  Where bath'd in view some valley lies,
    Or up a mountain's woody rise--
  Whence stretching to the eastern sky,
    Bright rural prospects greet the eye.

  Here, a deep forest widely spread,
    Its variegated foliage shows,----
  There, rolling thro' a flowery mead,
    With rapid course, a river flows

  On to the sea--where meets the view
    Thro' opening hills its bosom blue,
  Save when a white-sail flies the gale before,
    Or a wave breaks upon the rocky shore.

  And as thou dart'st thy looks around,
    O'er the lively landscape smiling,
  More blythe the ploughman's carols sound,
    His tedious furrow'd way beguiling----

  More sweet the birds their songs renew,--
    More fresh each blooming flowret's hue----
  From every valley springs, without alloy,
    A general cheerfulness--a burst of joy.


       *       *       *       *       *

  EPIGRAM.

  Pair'd in wedlock, pair'd in life,
  Husband, suited to thy wife:
  Worthless thou, and worthless she;
  Strange it is ye can't agree!


_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 Book-Store of
Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


                    INDEX

                    to the

           NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE,

        _Or, Miscellaneous Repository,_

             +For the YEAR 1796-7.+

              _VOLUME THE SECOND._


[Transcriber's Note to Index:

Issues ("No.") were numbered continuously through the run of the
magazine, but pagination started over again with Volume II. Each issue
was 8 pages.

  Nos. 53-65: beginning p. 1, with issues ending on
    p. 8, 16, 24, 32 ... 104
  Nos. 66-78: beginning p. 105, with issues ending on
    p. 112, 128, 136 ... 208
  Nos. 79-91: beginning p. 209, with issues ending on
    p. 216, 224, 232 ... 312
  Nos. 92-104: beginning p. 313, with issues ending on
    p. 320, 328, 336 ... 416

The Index is shown as originally printed. Within each initial letter,
articles are listed in page order. In this section _only_, error
corrections are shown inline in [brackets]. A bracketed [P] indicates
a poem listed in the first (prose) Index. Entries in brackets were
missing from the printed Index.

Three Index items--Marriages, Meteorological Observations, and the
serialized novel _The Victim of Magical Delusion_--were missing all
entries for the year 1797 (pages 209-end, issues 79-end). Page
references added by the transcriber are shown as a bracketed block.

Poetry from 1797 was also not indexed, except for the final two issues,
103 and 104 (pages 408 and 416). These listings have _not_ been added.]


A

  Account of a dreadful murder,  PAGE  20, 28
  Activity conducive to happiness,  31
  Account of a wonderful deliverance at sea,  31
  Advice,  35
  All men are slaves,  38
  Anecdotes,  39, 47, 119, 175
  Account of the last moments of Dr. Johnson,  43, 51
  Aphorism,  44
  Astonishing courage,  44
  Anecdotes of men of extraordinary strength,  60
    of Dr. Johnson,  63
    of Dr. Goldsmith,  67
  Activity,  65
  Account of a <DW64> woman who became white,  71
  Anger,  76
  Anecdote of Mr. Handel,  84
  Authenticated etymologies,  89, 99, 131
  Anecdote of Voltaire,  91
  Anger,  99
  Arabian Maxims,  126, 148
  Anecdote of Miss D'Arblay,  151
    Dr. Goldsmith,  159
    the celebrated John De Witt,  164
    of Sir Philip Sidney,  169
    of Caesare Arethuzi,  174
    of M. De Sartine,  183
    of an Earl of Portland,  195
    of Madame Fayette,  406
    of Champagneaux,  407
    of Camus,  407
    of Madame Cordet,  411
    of Voltaire,  411
  Advice,  174
  Account of La Maupin,  182
  Affection,  199
  Adieu to a favourite grove,  224 [P]
  Ambition,  248  [error for 249]
  Answer to a grammatical epistle,  263
  Art of happiness,  272  [error for 273]
  Artful lover,  281
  Address of the Translator of Magical Delusions,  330, 338
  Alfonso and Marina,  333, 341, 349  [spelled Alphonso in body text]
  Approach of Spring,  352 [P]
  African's Complaint,  353
  Affability,  361
  Antiochus and Stratonice,  366
  Anecdotes,  215, 219, 239, 243, 255, 270, 308, 315, 323, 326,
    339, 343, 355, 363, 365, 391, 399, 403, 414, 415

B

  Beautiful Allegory,  28
  Bon Mot,  75
  Benevolence,  78
  Beggar, The--a Fragment,  84
  Bonna, Life of,  286
  Balm of sorrow,  323
  Behaviour,  393

C

  Curious proposition of a debtor to his creditor,  7
    etymology,  25
    Law Anecdote,  47
  Cursory thoughts on fortune,  30
  Conscience,  68
  Character of a rich man,  68
  Court of love,  68
  Contemplation,  75
  Courtship and marriage of Dr. Johnson,  76
  Curious superscription of a letter,  81
    historical Anecdote,  91
    observations,  140
      on making love,  148
  Character of a poor man,  87
    good man,  119
  Conjugal affection,  150
  Conversation, on  153
  Contentment, on  156
  Compassion--an anecdote,  163
  Communion with our own hearts   177
  Character, a, extracted from Camilla,  180  [error for 185]
  Conversation of a fine woman,  190
  Candidus,  214, 222
  Contemplation--an ode,  216 [P]
  Conduct of men towards the fair,  262
  Choice,  280, 367 [P]
  Curiosity,  285
  Curious incident,  286
    Anecdote,  315
  Chearfulness,  329
  Criminal,  335, 351, 359, 375, 383
  Collins's monument,  366
  Character of Lord Mount-Garth,  382
  Clown and Lawyer,  384 [P]
  Customs of the Hindoos,  388
  Character of the Swedes,  390
  Compassion,  401

D

  Description of the salt mines of Williska,  1, 9
  Dead infant, the--a fragment,  3
  Discovery of ancient manuscripts,  38
  Death,  39
    on  55
    of a Philosopher,  265  [error for 217]
  Detached thoughts,  92
  Deceit,  265
  Duty of old age,  265
  Debtor,  288
  Digression,  316
  Discontent,  321
  [Description of a Wonderful Cavern in Upper Hungary,  366]
  Domestic felicity,  401
  Detraction, a vision,  414

E

  Effect of music,  12
  Extraordinary adventure of a Spanish nobleman,  17, 34
       [error for 27, 34]
    effects of sudden joy,  54
      jealousy,  68
    thirst for fame,  95
    instances of gratitude,  164
    intrepidity of the Jomsburgians,  177
    recompense according to merit,  207
  Evening meditation,  73
  Enthusiasm of character,  75
  Enigmatical list of amiable young ladies,  87
  Effects of love on life and manners,  89
  Extract from a royal grant of land in Carrata,  97
      [spelled Carnata in body text]
  Essay on patience,  137
    hope,  245  [error for 145]
  Eulogy on Buffon,  139
  Extravagance and avarice,  161
  Essay from Candidus,  188
  Essayist,  217, 232, 248  [errors for 233, 249]
  Education, reflections on  221
  Ethicus,  271
  Elliot, Mr. history of  277, 284, 293
  Effects of love,  281
      envy,  301, 309
  Examples of humanity,  350
  Epitaph on Mr. Scrip,  374

F

  Fatal effects of indulging the passions,  2, 10, 18, 26
  Forgetful man, the  23  [again on 254]
  Funeral, the  44
  Fact, a  46
  Fragment, a--on benevolence,  81
  Friendship,  108
  Fragment, a  111
  Fragments of Epicharmus,  124
  Folly of Freethinking--an anecdote,  143
  Fiery ordeal, the  158
  Fugitive trifles,  159
  Friendship,  198
  Flower girl,  287
  Fugitive thought,  321
  Fatal effects of a too susceptible heart,  324  [printed "suscepible"]
  Fragment,  327
  Farrago,  348, 356, 364, 372, 380, 388, 396, 404, 412

G

  God's providence in the formation of his creatures,  11
  Good name, a, is better than precious ointment,  12
  Greatness,  14
  Geography, on  39
  Gleanings,  87, 100, 117
  Generosity,  140  [page number missing]
  Good husband, the   169
    wife, the  169
  Grammatical epistle,  255
  Genius of women,  260
      the Arabs,  268
  Gratitude,  288  [error for 289]
  Genuine sentiment,  304  [error for 305]
  Generous rival,  357

H

  History of the Princess de Ponthieu,  36, 42, 50, 58, 66, 74, 82, 90
  Hint to the scholar,  46
  Happiness,  79
  Human life,  79
  History of the Baron de Lovzinski,  98, 106, 114, 122, 133,
    141, 149, 157, 165, 173, 181, 189, 197, 205, 213  [error for 212]
  Hymns of the native Peruvians,  114  [error for 113]
  Humanity,  166
  Hypocrisy, on  171
  History of the beard,  180
  Happiness,  201
  Humanity,  225
  Happiness,  268
  Hope,   303, 377
  Humility,  377
  Henry and Louisa, an affecting tale,  413

I

  Imagination, on    84
  Imitation,  91
  Instance of benevolence,  167
    uncommon friendship,  179
  Instruction to loungers,  302
  Imprudent friendship,  345
  Intent of religion,  375  [error for 377]
  Ivar and Matilda,  406

J

  Jealousy,  15
  Juliet, a story,  100

K

  Knowledge,  25

L

  Landscape painting, on  49
  Local curiosities,  83
  Lady's monitor, the  97  [written Ladies in body text]
  Laughing, on  161
  Letter from the Hon. Miss B. to Sir Richard P.  193
      [. in "Hon." invisible]
  Life,  196
  Lamentations of Panthea over the body of Abradates,  201
  Lavinia, a pastoral  272 [P]
  Love and folly,  343
  Literary pursuits,  369
  Letter to a lady on her marriage,  373
  [Letter of Lady Compton to her husband,  385]

M

  Morning reflections,  1
  Maxims,  17, 33, 119, 155
  Moorish gratitude,  23
  Moral axiom,  30
  Mutability of fortune, on the  38  [error for 39]
  Melancholy transaction,  62
  Means of acquiring happiness,  91
  Military anecdotes,  92, 135, 182
  Meanings of the word Make,  92
  Misfortune,  95
  Metamorphosis of characters,  127
  Moral maxims,  127, 129  [both are same text]
  Maria; or the seduction,  132
  Mental accomplishment superior to personal attractions,  185
      [selection called "Extract from Camilla" in body text]
  Man,  188
  Means of extinguishing fires,  196
  Miser and prodigal,  172
  Mordaunt, Mrs. history of  228, 237, 244, 253, 261, 269
  Matrimonial ballad,  232 [P]
  Miscellany,  279, 332
  Men of genius not rewarded,  292
  Marriage,  297
  Miranda, a moral tale,  317, 325
  Matrimony,  337
  Man of pleasure,  337
  Madelaine, a story,  396
  Marriages,  7, 15, 23, [31,] 39, 47, 55, 63, 71, 79, 87, 95, 103,
    111, 119, 127, 135, 143, 151, 159, 167, 175, 183, 191, 199, 207,
    [215, 223, 231, 239, 255, 263, 271, 279, 287, 303, 311, 319, 327,
    335, 343, 351, 359, 367, 375, 383, 391, 399, 407, 415]
      [Page 31 is missing from the Index; "Marriages" did not appear in
      issues 83 (p. 247) and 89 (p. 295).]
  Meteorological observations,  7, 15, 31, 39, 47, 55, 63, 71, 79,
    87, 95, 103, 111, 119, 127, 135, 143, 159, 167, 199, 207,
    [223, 231, 239, 247, 255, 263, 271, 279, 287, 295, 303, 311,
    319, 327, 335, 343, 351, 359, 367, 375, 383, 391, 399, 407, 415]
      ["Meteorological Observations"  did not appear in issues 55
      (p. 23), 71 (p. 151), 74-76 (pp. 175, 183, 191) and 79 (p. 215);
      readings were printed in the following issue(s).]

N

  Notes between Walter Townsend and Theodore,  135
      [selection called "To The Editor" in body text]
  Nature,  171, 199
  Nettle and rose--an essay,  209
  Negligence in epis. con.  294
  New May,  360 [P]

O

  Observations,  12, 23, 31, 35, 44, 190, 330, 379
    on the boiling point of water,  70
  On the origin of love,  175
  Osmin--an original essay,  220
  Origin of the Spencer,  316

P

  Prodigy, a  14
  Politeness, on  23
  Precepts of Chilo, the Grecian philosopher,  60
  Peep, a, into the den of idleness,  81
  Perfect friendship,  116
  Pride,  137
  Power,  158
  Politics,  175
  Pleasure,  190
  Panegyric on marriage,  191
  Pity and benevolence--an essay,  229
  Piedmontese sharper,  241
  Power of music,  252
  Pleasures of old age,  257
  Proverbialist,  276
  Panegyric on impudence,  308
  Prosperity,  313
  Poverty of the learned,  390
  Prostitute,  392 [P]

R

  Remarkable account of two brothers,  6
  Results of Meteorological Observations, for June, 1796,  7
    July,  39
    August,  79
    September,  111
    October,  159
    November,  199
    December,  231  [error for 223]
    January, 1797,  263
    February,  295  [error for 287]
    March,  319
    April,  351
    May,  391
  Reflections occasioned by the death of Miss Blackbourn,  14
  Remarks on the wonderful construction of the eye,  17
        ear,  57
  Remarkable cure of a fever by music,  44
  Reason,  49
  Road to ruin, the  59
  Rules for judging of the beauties of painting, music, and poetry,  65
  Remarks,  83, 92, 111, 115, 163
    on music,  91, 103, 108, 124, 140, 156
  Rural picture, a  100
  Runners remarkable for swiftness,  100  [error for 110]
  Reflections on the harmony of sensibility and reason,  122
      [error for 121]
  Rencounter, the  124
  Rose, the--a reflection,  140
  Retrospection,  167
  Reflection on the earth,  180
  Reason,  235
  Reflection, an ode,  240 [P]
  Ridicule,  305
  Radcliffe, Mrs.  318
  Receipt for writing novels,  336  [P]

S

  Sentimental perfumery,  7
  Speaking statue,  19
  Singular state of man when asleep,  41
  Study,  41
    of nature,  44
  Specimen of Indian eloquence,  52
  Segar smoaking, on  60
  Speech of Logan, an Indian,  75
  Simplicity,  92
  Singularity of manners, on,  105
  Society,  105, 207
  Sentimental fragment,  129
  Self-love,  169
  Specimens of speech or speakings,  196
  Story of Alcander and Septimeus,  204
      [spelled Septimius in body text]
  Setting sun,  224 [P]
  School of libertines--a story,  236, 245
      [called School for Libertines in body text]
      nature,  270
  Slavery,  303
  Speech of the king of Dahomy,  340
  Scandal,  381
  Stanzas to hope,  384 [P]
  Storm, the--a fragment,  403

T

  Three cornered hat, on the  19
  Temperance, on  60
  To Tyrunculus,  71
  Taciturnity, an apologue,  83
  Taste,  156
  Temple of Hope,  246
  True meekness,  247

U

  Unaccountable thirst for fame,  63

V

  Victim of magical delusion,  4, 12, 21, 29, 37, 45, 53, 61, 69, 77,
    93, 101, 109, 117, 125, 130, 138, 146, 154, 162, 170, 178, 186,
    194, 202, [210, 218, 226, 234, 242, 250, 258, 266, 274, 282, 290,
    298, 306, 314, 322]
  View of the starry heavens,  25, 33
  Virtue rewarded  172
  Verses addressed to Miss A. B.  344 [P]

W

  Wonderful account of a man fish,  23
  Wonderful qualities of hope,  52
  Wisdom and virtue,  129
  Winter, an ode,  216 [P]
  Wealth, reflections on   247  [again on 339]
  Wit,  257
  War,  300
  Wanderings of imagination,  346, 354, 362, 370, 378, 386, 394,
    402, 410
  Wisdom,  403
  World, knowledge of the,  409

Z

  Zulindus,  361


  _POETRY._

A

  To Amanda,  32
  Adversity,  39
  To Amynta,  56
  Anticipation,  63
  An appeal,  152
  Address to a favourite canary-bird,  160
  The Amaranth, to Maria,  192

B

  Of the Beautiful and Virtuous,  7
  The Bachelor's wish,  88  [spelled Batchelor in body text]
  The Belle's invocation to winter,  160
  On a Bee having stung the thigh of an old maid,  183
  Beauty, a song,  184
  The Bachelor's soliloquy,  208  [page number missing]

C

  Cupid stung,  48
  The Confession  56
  To Clara,  104, 136
  The Captive's complaint,  104
  Contented in the vale  135
  The Complaint,  160

D

  On the Death of Miss Mary Blackbourn,  15
  The Doctor's duel,  112  [body text has Doctors']
  On the Death of a Baby, nine days old,  183

E

  Epistle from Octavia to Anthony,  8, 16
  Epitaph on a violent scold,  23
  Elegy, addressed to a young lady,  24
  To Eliza,  31
  Ejaculation over the grave of my wife,  31
  Elegy on an unfortunate veteran,  48
  Epigrams,  48, 88, 112, 183, 200
  Elegy written at sea,  56
  To Eliza,  64
  Eliza in answer to ****,  72
  Epitaph,  72
  To Emma,  80
  Elegy on the death of Mr. Abeel,  88
  To Emma,  87
  Elegy on Miss Margaret Hervey,  95  [spelled Margaretta in body text]
  Extent of life's variety,  112
  To Emma,  120
  Elegy on Dr. Joseph Youle,  128
  Epitaph on Mr. W----. N----.  128
  Elegy on Miss Polly Martin,  136
  Evening,  143
  Epitaph on a celebrated coach-maker,  144
  Eve of Hymen,  152
  Epitaph,  208
  Evening Star, to the  408
  Epigram, hint to a poor author,  408
  Early impressions, sonnet on  408
  Elegy to a disconsolate lover,  416
  Epigram,  416

F

  Fragment,  16

G

  On a good conscience  144

H

  The Happy man,  72
  Health,  416

K

  The Kiss,  40

L

  Lines sent to a young lady with an AEolian Harp,  48
    on Shakespeare,  64
    to a gentleman made prisoner by the Indians,  80
    on the death of a young lady, killed by lightning,  80
    written during a storm,  96
    on hearing a young lady sing a song,  96
    on a lady putting a white rocket in her bosom,  96
    by a lady, on receiving a bouquet from a boy,  128
    from the Rev. Mr. Bishop to his wife,  151
    on the late Scotch poet,  200
    to a gentleman who attempted drawing the picture of a lady,  200
    on losing a friend,  208
  La Fayette, a song,  127

M

  The Mall,  24
  To Matilda,  24
  Morning dawn,  71
  Military fame,  112
  Maternal affection,  144  [page number missing]
  To Maria,  176
  Moral verses, addressed to youth,  200

O

  Ode to Bacches,  168  [spelled Bacchus in body text]
    Poesy,  184

P

  Pity,  8
  Paddy's remark on a treble rap at the door,  96
      [page number missing]
  Poor man's address to Winter,  168

R

  The Recantation  24
  On Reading some elegies,  47
  On Revisiting a native place,  72
  The Rising moon,  88
  Reflections in a church yard,  112
  The Repartee,  119
  On the Recovery of an only child from the small pox,  192

S

  The Setting Sun,  64
  The Shield of sorrow,  96
  Sonnets,  104, 207, 208
    on my beard,  112  [page number missing]
  Soliloquy to love,  120
  Sonnet from a manuscript novel,  152
    to Maria,  167
      Helen Maria Williams,  176
  The Snow-drop and primrose,  152
  The Season of delight,  176
  Song  208

T

  The Threat,  32
  Twilight,  48
  The Tribunal of conscience,  96
  Tragedy, ode to  408

V

  The Velvet larkspur and eglantine,  40
  On Vicissitude,  64
  Verses to ----,  79
    a young lady on reading Sterne's Maria,  119
    Miss A. H.  144
  To a Violet,  152  [page number missing]
  Virtue and ornament,  192

W

  The Wish,  32
  What is happiness,  55
  Wintery prospect,  176


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


Errors and Inconsistencies:

Because of the condition of the original, common mechanical errors such
as n/u or f/long s are noted only in exceptional cases.

Quotation marks in _The Victim of Magical Delusion_ are shown as printed
except when there is a mismatch between single and double quotes. Names
in M' were generally printed with "opening" (right-facing) apostrophes;
these are shown as printed.

In a few highly formulaic areas--the "Meteorological Observations" and
"Marriages" items, and lines such as "Continued from page 163"--missing
or invisible punctuation has been silently supplied. All other errors
are noted below.


Not Individually Noted:

  historically appropriate spellings such as "chearful", "controul",
    "pourtray", "stupified", "villany"
  forms like (in)conveniencies, indulgencies, precendency
  inconsistent prefixes and suffixes such as
    -ible, -able; in-, un-; -eous, -ious;
    -ent (-ence, -ency), -ant (-ance, -ancy)
  misplaced or unexpected apostrophes such as
    can'st, would'st, should'st, did'st; her's and similar
  variations such rn. and ra., clo. and cly.
  inconsistent hyphenization of words such as
    stair-case, staircase; blindfold, blind-fold

  Variable Spellings:
    aerial for aerial (and a few other ae for ae usages)
    affect for effect (the verb)
    alledge for allege
    batchelor for bachelor
    groupe for group
    insiduous for insidious
    male-content
    murmer
    ought for aught ("anything")
    pallet for palette
    penegyric
    placed for placid
    spight for spite
    terrestial for terrestrial (especially in later issues)
    thermometor for thermometer

  the plural form "criterions" is used consistently
  the spelling "desart" is sometimes used geographically; as a verb,
    or as a form of "deserve", it is always spelled with "e"

  Names:
    Alchibiades/Alcibiades
    Lovsinski/Lovzinski (form with -s- occurs in two issues)
    Ottoman/Othman
    Pharoah (only in the Music articles)

  Usages:
    "may be defined..." is consistently used without "...as"
    "flew" is often used for "fled"


No. 53

  the Voice that was her last comfort--"
    [text has open for close quote]
  "without having my prayer granted?  [missing open quote]
  which lie heavy on my mind."  [missing close quote]
  soon got to the stern of the pinnace  [text has "go to"]

No. 54

  and drags him through a narrow creek  [error for crack?]
  'And what plan is it?'  [missing open quote]
  As soon as the Countess was gone to bed,  [; for ,]
  discovered by any of the inhabitants of the castle.'
    [missing close quote]
  not being acquainted with the secret of the machine.'
    [double for single quote]
  This declaration lessened my anger at having been deceived in so
  villainous a manner, I begged Paleski to continue his account.
    [text unchanged: several corrections are possible]
  At least you are not speaking of Count Clairville?"
    [error for Clairval]
  but to which it belongs we cannot determine  [text has "detemine"]
  it is the same air your breath  [error for you?]

No. 55

  the extreme minuteness of this picture,  [, invisible]
  that the space of half a mile,  [, invisible]
  Of what use, said he,  [first , invisible]
  why we shall fight on equal terms."  [missing close quote]
  my daughter Rebecca endeavouring to conceal herself among the
    hay-stacks.---"  [missing close quote]
  who addressed the Countess in a solemn, serious manner.
    [, invisible]
  it reflected the light into the room  ["room]
  "Memorandum, that I must be married when I come to Tours."
    [item repeated on pg 254, no. 84]

No. 56

  Georgium Sidus, Saturn, Jupiter,  [Georgium,]
  the tiresome disgust with which this new species of employment
    [missing "with" supplied from book]
  the impertinence, folly, and etiquette, to  [error for in?]
  May 27, 1796.  [May,]
  taking an exact copy of the rest.  [rest."]
  It was necessary that you should be made acquainted with delusions
    [missing "made" after "be"]
  neither to betray me or the U_nknown_.  [italicized as shown]
  seeing what effect the incident had produced on the strangers
    [missing "on" after "produced"]
  [Meteorological Observations]
    22 (July)  [text has duplicate "21"]
  And pity bids us weep our slaughter'd friends  [missing punctuation]

No. 57

  expired three days after presenting her spouse  [after,]
  The young farmer, now duke of Medina Celi  [Medina,]
  patterns of every virtue than can do honour  [error for that can]
  the inhabitants of the castle could be no other beings
    [text has "could me"]
  that taketh at pleasure the soul of man  [taketh,]
  using the manuscripts to line the covers of his books.  [missing .]

No. 58

  (Continued from page 36.)  [close parenthesis missing]
  equal in value to 27,364,368,033,632
    [text has final , after number]
  [Meteorological Observations]
  8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
    [from this issue through no. 66, text has "1. 8. 6." for the
    second set of numbers]
  To fate the vengeance of offended heaven?  [error for face?]
  Are these fell bees to you?" and smil'd;
    [missing close quote after "you"]
  [printer's notice missing from this issue]

No. 59

  so basely abusing that through confidence of ours?
    [error for thorough?]  [text has "cofindence"]
  in my next letter, &c. &c. &c."  [missing close quote]
  [Victim of Magical Delusion]
    [cypher shown as printed; text in this area uses round "s"]
  Cinan Cuffutus  [error for Ceffutus]
  Menas and Menacrates,  [error for Menecrates]
  ELIPHALET BARNUM, to Miss POEBE COCK,  [error for Phoebe?]
  To fate the vengeance of offended heaven?  [error for face?]

No. 60

  may I not now know what has occasioned this grief?"
    [missing close quote]
  scarce a berry or mushroom can escape him.  [, for .]
  [Meteorological Observations]
  [Aug. 16] clear, lt. wind, do. do.  [text has "wiud"]
  To-morrow of dismay.  [. missing]

No. 61

  which the wonders he has done evinces.  [evinces..]
  from the first time she saw him.  [text has "the the"]
  without the apprehension of being interrupted."
    [missing close quote]
  ANECDOTES OF DR. GOLDSMITH.  [. missing]
  the merits whereof, consist in beautiful descriptions
    [error for consisting?]
  THE COURT OF LOVE.  [, for .]
  a magic charm by which he rules with secret power every heart?"
    [close quote conjectural]
  before my enraptured eyes.
    [text has "en-/enraptured" at column break]
  How ever, there was one idea  [printed in two words as shown]
  I shall see Amelia, and be happy!'  [double for single quote]
  After many courtisies and circumlocutions  [text has "courisies"]
  the aperture of the vessel  [text has "vesel"]
  And blest to know, that high enroll'd in fame,  [. for ,]

No. 62

  the sun has withdrawn his radiance, yet the gloom  [error for gleam]
  but invites him to view and to admire.  [. invisible]
  a term of which he could not know the meaning.  [, for .]
  INDIAN ELOQUENCE.
    [missing title supplied from Index]
  "Your _tutor_ I mean. Come, make haste!"  [haste?"]
  neither too fond of prosperity, nor too much afraid of adversity
    [text has "to much"]
  [Meteorological Observations]
    [the figure 71 in the 100 column for Sept. 1 is probably an error]
  Greatest monthly range between the 12th and 29th and 31
    [text has "rage"; this error is repeated in three consecutive
    months]
  between the 12th and 29th and 31
    [apparent error for "... the 29th and 31"]
  30 and 30  [apparent error for "30 and 31"]
  26 Do. the wind was light at 8 1 and 6 o'clock.
    [text has "26 Do. to the wind was light at at 8 1 and 6 o'clock."]
  The 29th at 1 P.M. the mercury was one degree higher  [mercury,]

No. 63

  with my then sensations  [error for With?]
  Ho ammazanta solamente una donna
    [non-standard Italian, but correct for this dialect]
  _The Academicians are to think much, write little, and, if possible,
    speak less._  [second s in "less" invisible]
  endeavoured to make them comprehend that a supernumerary
    [text has "supernumary"]
  ON IMAGINATION.  [item repeated on page 164, no. 73]
  A preconceived contempt of all occult sciences
    [text has "pre conceived"]

No. 64

  "It is a gloomy night," said Amelia, going to the window,
    [last , missing]
  The Baroness, seemed delighted with my astonishment
    [error for seeming?]

No. 65

  absorbs and concentres all our faculties upon one sole object!
    [error for concentrates?]
  What voice is that I hear calling on Juliet's name?"  [. for ?]
  uneasiness and curiosity did not suffer her to close her eyes.
    [text has "curi-/sity" at line break]
  she confessed at last that I was not mistaken."
    [single for double quote]
  "Gracious Heaven!" I exclaimed, "she confessed---"
    [missing open quote before "she"]
  refrain so long from coming to an explanation?'
    [text has "expla-/tion" at line break]
  "I have told you, as yet, only good news----the worst is coming
    now!"  [missing open quote]
  as much as is in my power to promote that union
    [text has "pow-/power" at line break]

No. 66

  probably the first flute was a reed of the lake
    [text has "pro-/bly" at line break]
  "Juba," we find soon after the creation of the world
    [text has "of of" at line break]
  Moses and the children of Israel:---- After the conclusion of
    the song,  [text has "Israel ... song."]
  the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea."
    [missing close quote]
  "What hopes?" she exclaimed ...  [! for ?]
  "And this you tell me when taking _leave!_" she lisped at length.
    [error for "gasped"?]
  [Meteorological Observations]
  8. 1. 6.  8. 1. 6.
    [this is the last issue to show three sets of readingsm,
    printed "8. 1. 6.  1. 8. 6."]
  at or nearly Sun-rise, it is the coldest,
    [; for , after "Sun-rise"]
  Greatest monthly range  [text has "rage"]
    [this is the second of three iterations of the same error]

No. 67

  The fair companions of thy slumbers  [text has "companinos"]
  DISCONTENT.  [text has DICONTENT.]
  where you shall henceforth be at a distance from seduction.'"
    [missing inner quote]
  let us therefore embrace."  [missing close quote]
  and be sure not to discover me."  [missing close quote]

No. 68

  Having returned towards my chamber, I called to Boleslas
    [text has "by chamber"]
  "His person?---is prepossessing; it is--------"
     [quotation marks unchanged]
  "My lord, I have precise orders not to answer  [text has "percise"]
  "Return to your master," added he  [. for ,]
  "In an apartment below ground,"  [text has "in"]
  "know that your brother and you must depart  [missing open quote]
  he could have founded surreptious conclusions
    [error for surreptitious]
  "Yet not only while asleep," the Irishman continued,  ["the]
  A man without merit may live without envy; but who would wish to
    escape on these terms?  [line repeated on page 129, no. 69]

No. 69

  A man without merit may live without envy; but who would wish to
    escape on these terms?  [item repeated from page 127, no. 68]
  Paleski has committed a foolish trick  [text has "commited"]
  it was important to me to learn _how_  [missing second "to"]
  had not heaven sent you to my relief----  [relief----"]
  From whose remains the virgin lily springs,  [text has "the the"]

No. 70

  it requires therefore a more mature consideration."  [? for .]
  comparing the accounts of Didorus Siculus  [error for Diodorus]
  forbidden to be employed on light or common occasions
    [text has "mployed"]
  if we use what is called the _aphoerisis_,  [error for aphaeresis]
  on hearing the voice of Lodoiska  [text has "vioce"]
  He struck the earth with fury ,  [, missing]
  and almost without clothes  [; invisible]
  I once more beheld you in the gardens of Dourlinski!"
    [missing close quote]

No. 71

  the whole affair shall be happily concluded.
    [text has "he happily"]
  The sixth now appeared:  [appeared::]
  but he still continued to frown at and to overwhelm me with
    reproaches  [text unchanged: missing words?]

No. 72

  I have chosen her for your wife."  [? for .]
  called by the Egyptions photinx  [error for Egyptians]
  my rank, my riches, my honour, my liberty!  [my honour my]
  had left part of his immense booty  ["of his" invisible]
  Greatest monthly range  [text has "rage"]
    [this is the second of three iterations of the same error]


No. 73

  "No," I replied.  [. for ,]
  eight by the clock of the cathedral, Pinto Rib**ro,  [cathedral.]
  ON IMAGINATION.  [item repeated from page 84, no. 63]
  so renowned as Montesquieu.  [Montesquieu."]
  Shall these frail knees assay the treacherous ice;
    [punctuation unchanged]

No. 74

  flowed over in your mind.'"  [missing inner close quote]
  Seated beneath the mournful shade  [text has "mourful"]
  "Very well, you may then take upon you the task of conducting
    him,"  [missing close quote]
  it is you, for I will remember your voice!  [error for well?]

No. 75

  the good are joyful and serene  [text has "he good"]
  a fact, which here will be in its proper place.  [text has "in is"]
  the character of this venerable grown  [error for growth?]
  while religious caprice--for religion, sorry am I to say it
    [; for --]
  "Lovzinski, you whom I have so much loved  [missing open quote]
  At about a quarter of a league beyond this  [missing "a" after "of"]
  sprang forward as fast as my new horse could carry me
    [text has "foward"]
  My soldiers, fatigued with the toil of a long march
    [text has "solders"]
  a little walled village in the Palatine, called Ogershiem,
    [error for Ogersheim]
  La Maupin seems to have been a most extraordinary personage.
    [. missing]
  Cumeni, the singer  [error for Dumeni]
  she told the story to Monsieur, who obtained her pardon."
    [missing close quote]

No. 76

  my only friend, for whom I wish to have no secrets  [error for from]
  ever since Amelia and Antonio have made it their abode.
    [text has "Antonia"]
  "I know your rights, my father!
    [in this and the following four paragraphs, close quotes are
    supplied from book version]

No. 77

  "Hiermanfor," he said, "is not all powerful  [Heirmanfor]
  his mouth almost woman like  [printed in two words as shown]
  The former circumstances had escaped his recollection
    [text has "esaped"]
  Mr. Caesar being appointed one of the Six Clerks.  [Clerks."]
  the Empress had sent an exact description of his person
    [text has "and exact"]
  [Meteorological Observations]
  [Dec. 7: temperature reading 34 printed "84"]

No. 78

  [Masthead]
  Wednesday, December 28, 1796  [missing 1]
  But when the Poeans of victory  [error for Paeans?]
  confessing voluntarily, what I can, and dare confess."  [. missing]
  Come, let us drink."  [missing close quote]
  "Do you think that he will fulfil his promise after his return?"
    [. for ?]
  "Undoubtedly! but why do you wish for his visit?"  [. for ?]
  "It is true," the Duke replied  [. for ,]
  a friend, who was intimate with the secretary of your father
    [secretar _at line-end_]
  divested of its supernatural appearance."  [missing close quote]
  ---Search every where for my dear
  She was unable to pronounce the name  ["She was]
  the Queen sent her one thousand pounds!"  [missing close quote]
  [Marriages]
  On the 27th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers  [error for "ult."?]
  Bow'd by no yoke, scarce to the great supreme,
    [, after "yoke" invisible]
  Nor fear'd the world's ill-natur'd frown;
    [n; at end missing or invisible]


No. 79

  "The appearance of Antonio was no deception."  [text has "Antonia"]
  A creature wearisome to myself and beloved by no one,  [. for ,]
  But with _sang froid_, for which I now detest myself,
    [. for , at end]
  Thus avoiding all the plagues and expences of a family,  [. for ,]
  so effaced, that scarcely do we hear  [text has "scarely"]
  "Fabrum esse suae quemque fortunae."
    [first occurrence has "Fabrum else suoe quemque fortunoe"; second
    has oe for ae errors only. Text is in Roman type, so misreading
    is not a possibility.]
  still urging on even to flights beyond its sketch,
    [error for stretch?]
  Inclined to ease,  [, missing]
  I have been led by a novel  [text has "hovel"]
  [Marriages]
    [the "New-York" line is missing]
  Here, pure devotion lends her awful ray,  [error for sends?]

No. 80

  I apprehend this will be the case.*"  [missing close quote]
  Osmir contemplated the fruits of his application
    [text has "comtemplated"]
  only to plunge with keener anguish into the gulphs of despair
    [text has "anquish"]
  this faculty would seem a gift most sparingly bestowed:  [: missing]
  Wherever sincerity prevails
    [text has "Where-/ever" at line break]
  [Meteorological Observations]
  [Dec. 25: temperature reading 35 printed in 100 column]
  A lasting epitaph hath there imprest .  [. missing]

No. 81

  are re-produced with vivacity on certain occasions
    [text has "re-preduced"]
  renders the human mind but too prone to give credit
    [text has "rendres"]
  But what power upon earth could absolve from _a duty such_ a man?
    [text and italics unchanged]
  "That this occult science consists merely in juggling tricks?"
    [missing close quote]
  And what will you say if I prove to you  [text has "If I"]
  "Certainly." "That I deny."
    [printed as one paragraph near the end of a page]
  (To be continued.)
    [printed inline with preceding text at end of same page]
  but what were my emotions on perceiving  [text has "omotions"]
  to shorten the tedious hours of captivity  [text has "tegious"]
  [Meteorological Observations]
  [text has "Dec." for "Jan." here and next week]

No. 82

  within that circle lie most of those natural satisfactions
    [text has "of of"]
  therefore a spirit never can become an object of our _perception_."
    [missing close quote]
  the doctrine of the Irishman concerning the possibility of
    apparitions?"  [missing close quote]
  The Duke started up:
    ["The Duke started up:" with superfluous quotation marks]
  [Mrs. Mordaunt _through_ Anecdotes of Emperor]
    [on these two pages, = for - is shown as printed]
  which of all others I admired--  [-- missing]
  "A Church-yard lay on one side of the road  [missing open quote]
  "Come, my child, my poor deceived son  [missing open quote]
  may smiling peace ever hover round you, prays / E. H."
    [missing close quote]
  [Original Observation _through_ Anecdote]
    [in these items, all capital I's were printed in italics]
  most ladies are more apt to regard the man  [error for men?]
  [Meteorological Observations]
  [text has "Dec." for "Jan." here and last week]

No. 83

  and in order to this,  [text unchanged: missing word?]
  and I could not help telling my mind freely.  [text has "mi n"]
  my sensations has an immediate evidence  [error for sensation]
  but there are, whom, my folly might disgrace
    [text unchanged: missing word?]
  and, if no more, miserable his end.  [end."]
  by which ran a most beautiful translucent rivulet,  [. for ,]
  ON WEALTH.  [item repeated on page 339, no. 95]

No. 84

  when he imposed upon you by that juggling trick.'
    [double for single quote]
  "Very right! Alumbrado interrupted me  [single for double quote]
  If you don't believe me  [text has "do'nt"]
  neither I nor my father shall leave the town
    [text has "shall shall"]
  released you from the heavy burden of state business.'
    [double for single quote]
  he had fancied himself a _beau garcon_,  [printed without cedilla]
  soon after the expiration of the honey moon,
    [printed in two words as shown]
  He began now to relax from the severity of those studies
    [text has "veverity"]
  He read novels, Ovid's Art of love,  [capitalized as shown]
  perceiving Harland's writing, I started, I hesitated
    [. for , after "writing"]
  he began with gentle upbraidings.  [. missing]
  my father's proud soul swelled at the ignominy  [text has "ignomy"]
  "Memorandum, that I must be married when I come to Tours."
    [item repeated from page 23, no. 55]
  you'll not opiniate me singular,
    [word "singular" should be in italics]
  a _participle_ of _substantive_ happiness.
    [text has "happiness" initalics]
  Unlike th' aspiring prelate, meanly proud,
    [text has "Uulike"]

No. 85

  having bid adieu to the starry firmament and the ocean,
    I went to my cabin  [. for ,]
  but this is false."  [, for .]
  the power or faculty of publishing  [text has "power of"]
  and the most convincing calculations  [text has "the the"]
  chaplain to the regiment in which I served."  [missing close quote]
  "the same unfortunate man  [missing open quote]
  shelter from a few miserable wretches."  [missing close quote]
  Propt on her lucent throne, majestic sate,
    [word may be "fate", but archaic spelling "sate" is more likely]

No. 86

  he cannot taste the sweets of confidential friendship
    [text has "confidental"]
  the grandest spectacle that nature can afford!"  [text has "offord"]
  if you will promise to return to Lis*on!"  [missing close quote]
  "You will, presently, behold a miracle," he said
    [missing open quote]
  the sequel of Alumbrado's history  [Alumbrado's,]
  He endeavoured to point out to you the reason as the only
    infallible instructor
    [text unchanged; Dublin and London editions both have italicized
    "_reason_" instead of "the reason"]
  than to believe it blindly.  [. missing]
  I esteem reason  [text has "Isteem"; corrected from Dublin edition]
  being reserved only for the latter.  [, for .]
  but may some signal punishment from heaven  [text has "heayen"]
  he was the destroyer of Hume's happiness.  [text has "Humes's"]
  and, in an iminent degree  [error for eminent]
  "_Qui capit ille facit._"  [text has "caput"]

No. 87

  Masthead:
  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, February 29, 1797.+  [+No. 87.+
    [date printed as shown; following issue is dated March 8]
  some part of the drapery which has been neglected
    [text has "has heen"]
  the thunder-storm to which he is exposed,  [text has "epxosed"]
  The two prelates were rejoiced to see each other
    [text has "pelates"]
  apprehension for my life,' he replied.  [. missing]
  "Alumbrado had scarcely reached the skirts of the wood
    [missing open quote]
  'The Duke of B----a,' said he, 'is King
    [missing open quote before "is"]
  my astonishment at Alumbrado's wonderful preservation.
    [text has "preservatien"]
  and know in what light to view me.'  [double for single quote]
  every woman is a good house wife.  [printed in two words as shown]
  what is heard by the fire side."  [printed in two words as shown]
  "And as great a share of merit," interrupted my friend,  [, missing]
  I cannot dare not indulge the pleasing hope
    [punctuation missing at line-end?]
  I was roused ... begged leave to retire
    [the structure of this passage is ambiguous: three long quotes
    each span an exact number of lines without space or indentation.
    It has been kept as a single paragraph to match the rest of the
    story.]
  That it utterly disclaims all consanguinity
    [text has "consanquinity"]

No. 88

  "'Duke!' said the latter  [missing open quote]
  'the omnipotence of the Eternal has been glorified sufficiently.'
    [double for single quote]
  are exempted from examination."  [missing close quote]
  'it is rumoured all over the town.'  [, for .]
  The antique, artless appearance of many images and statues ...
  ... and the figures were nothing else but white statues,
    [text has "statutes" both times; the context makes "statuettes"
    unlikely]
  when the church was thrown open."  [missing close quote]
  "My Almena, my dearest love, answered I  [missing open quote]
  active in the investigation of trifles  [text has "of of"]
  and hurried on by the strong impulse  [text has "impuse"]
  their sons, who had taken the praetexta.  [text has "praetexa"]

No. 89

  to scan his holy degrees,  [error for decrees]
  Oli*arez the Minister of S----n  [text has "Oli*ariz"]
  not to suffer any suspicious letter to pass the frontiers.
    [missing "to" supplied from Dublin and London editions]
  in order to award the impending blow.  [error for avert]
  the day I had been hunting had greatly added
   [text has "and greatly"]
  The people should acquiesce  [error for That?]
  And, for a Chaplain, send me Grace.  [, for .]

No. 90

  A woman should not marry a fool; he is the most intractable of all
    animals;  [; missing]
  the King sent orders to all the troops
    [text has "to to" at line break]
  of an extraordinary docility and acuteness
    [text has "exraordinary"]
  Your friend's philosophical caution not to trust
    [missing "to" after "not" supplied from London and Dublin
    editions]
  [final two paragraphs in this installment, Dublin version, with
  italics:]
    ... 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.

  Well may we, then, in such critical emergencies,
    [text has "emergences"]
  partly through sorrowing for his daughter,  [, invisible]
  though he overserved the most marked attention to his rival
    outwardly  [error for observed?]
  the terrified Ibrahim immediately opening  [text has "Ibramin"]
  [Marriages.]
  On Thursday evening sen'ight,  [error for se'nnight]
  What Despots do oppose to Reason's Laws.  [text has "to oppose to"]
  Not apt to give, nor slow to take offence;
    [text unchanged; original has the same words]

No. 91

  the effect of prejudice, misrepresentation, or ignorance
    [text has "or ... of"]
  could agree so exactly with my prediction.  [text has "predicton"]
  Mr. Osorezkowsky, the celebrated Russian academician
    [German spelling: English transliteration is Ozeretskovsky]
  nor were they banditti, but had been previously instructed
    [text has "hut had"]
  It was my work that the King treated you
    [word "my" italicized in Dublin edition]
  Then it was you who has excited the King against me and my family,
  and formed the plots against his life?
    [text unchanged: Dublin and London editions have "incited"
    and "plot"]
  calculated that it would be reasonable
    [error for "seasonable" as in Dublin edition?]
  which could not carry the ball farther  [text has "father"]
  I advised you to have recourse to prayer.----
    [word "prayer" italicized in Dublin and London editions]
  the principle idea that prevailed in your mind
    [error for principal]
  Prayers and faith,
    [Dublin and London editions italicize: _Prayers_ and _faith_]
  your treatise on the Manicheean system
    [Dublin and London editions italicize: _Manichaean system_]
  consequently now as other choice was left you
    ["as" may be error for "no" as in Dublin edition]
  [Footnote]
  [* This letter is the same which is prefixed to the beginning of
  these Memoirs.]
    [book versions have "first volume"]
  A PENEGYRIC UPON IMPUDENCE.  [error for panegyric as in Index]
  so as not to bare the sound of the word  [error for bear]
  To the Editors: I have observed in your Magazine
    [Handwritten after first paragraph: "Etymology" as in Index.]
  Repairing to the walls of the seraglio
    [text has "Reparing"]
  confirmation of the authenticity of his treason."  [treason.".]
  we know not how far the treason has spread  [s in "has" invisible]
  "I listened; and discovered  [missing open quote]
  "He discovered, with indignation  [missing open quote]
  "Behold, Ali, in Ibrahim, I restore thee thy long-lost son!"
    [missing open quote]
  "I only revealed him to thee  [missing open quote]
  Married: to Miss POLLY SNEDEKER, daughter of John Snedecker
    [spellings unchanged]

No. 92

  over the white capp'd billows,"  [text has "cap'd"]
  "Hiermanfor," said I after a pause,"then your last miracle too was
  a delusion?"
    [open quote missing before "then": occurs at page-top in
    London edition]
  it was the work of super-natural power!
    [hyphen may be an error: word is split at line break in London
    edition]
  "I am going to implore him to spare your life  [missing open quote]
  It was Noah Douglass.  [text has "Doughlass"]
  let my tears witness my heart felt commiseration."
    [missing close quote]
  Such were my presentments on this occasion
    [error for presentiments?]
  but I recollected the desire I had expressed to Miranda
    [text has "recollcted"]
  "To the same life none ever twice awoke."  [. invisible]
  [Marriages]
  On Sunday evening sen'ight,   [error for se'nnight]
  And in Trophonius' cave smiles never glows.  [text has "trophonius"]
  Deep in a vail, a stranger now to arms,  [error for vale?]
  Let Fubal's lute in skilful hands appear,
    [error for Tubal's: source may have been printed in italics]

No. 93

  Forget all softer and less manly cares."  [missing close quote]

No. 94

  They are the places of rendezvous.  [text has "redezvous"]
  As he approached the place  [text has "approaced"]
  soon acquainted with the reason of his delay,  [text has "daely"]
  through the clifts of which a limped water gently oozed.
    [error for clefts ... limpid?]
  But don't, for your life, let the fame to go loose,
    [text has "tame"]

No. 95

  are in direct aversion to puerile happiness  [text has "purile"]
  would not this fore knowledge poison the enjoyment
    ["fore knowledge" printed in two words as shown]
  ON WEALTH.  [item repeated from page 247, no. 83]
  half a score or  [_this phrase occurs only in no. 95_]
  if you let me have the dress in your parcel.'  [missing close quote]

No. 96

  were more convincing proofs of his veracity  [text has "covincing"]
  king of Sicily and Arragon,  [text has "Arrogan"]

No. 97

  He went, and found orders to admit him
    [text has "sound" with unambiguous long "s"]
  for reasons which he did not assign."  [missing close quote]
  but what is legitimated by economy,"  [missing close quote]
  her gentle whispers soothed each froward care  [text has "sooothed"]
  one who was equal in point of wealth to himself.  [. missing]

No. 98

  least they should by transgression seal their ruin  [error for lest]
  The knowledge I had of her tender mind next convinced me
    [text has "convincd"]
  her countenance was overspread with a lived paleness.
    [error for livid]
  threw me into a state of wished-for insensibility."
    [missing close quote]
  Finished my morning studies with "Hafen Shawkenbergius's ...
    [error for Slawkenbergius's]
  The aperture which fronts the south ... stretching away farther south
    [text unchanged: source has the same wording]
  the inside of the cave ...  it emits a pellucid water
    [text unchanged]
  the greater the heat is without, the more intense is the cold within
    [missing "cold"]

No. 99

  [Wanderings of the Imagination]
  CONCLUSION
    [printed as shown, but story continues for one more issue]
  This cruel, this unprecedented injury  [, missing]
  more than an usual affection."  [missing close quote]
  exclaims against a vinter for adulterating his liquors
    [error for vintner]
  In literature, as well as in life, we may recongnize this propensity
    [error for recognize]
  after some fine panegyrical verses upon Lord Mansfield
    [text has "panygerical"]
  that Swift ever studied the sing song of Cibber.  [, for .]
  whose intrinsic worth is centured in his wealth
    [error for centred or centered]

No. 100

  [Wanderings of the Imagination: History of Captain S----]
    [quotation marks in this section are unchanged]
  my disbelief in Euclid's infallibility  [text has "infalibility"]
  "What should you think of a dip in the cold-bath?"
    [missing open quote]
  first given in thunderings, from Mount Sinai,  [text has "Sinia"]

No. 101

  a closer investigation of the legislation of the legislative power,
    [text unchanged]
  [Meteorological Observations]
  [May 30: temperature readings 55 52 printed as shown]

No. 102

  she may soon reduce _the angel to a very ordinary girl_
    [error for separate italics: "reduce _the angel_ to
    _a very ordinary girl_"?]
  The pleasures of a fashionable life ...
    [punctuation in this paragraph is unchanged]
  an English actress of scorched reputation  [text has "schorched"]
  and the mind feels enrapped  [error for enrapt?]
  They knew well enough that the gentlemen  [text has "new"]
  and approve of virtue  [text has "appove"]
  that monarch made a very expensive  [error for extensive?]
  Loth from these lonely, lovely scenes to part,  [text has "scens"]

No. 103

  discover much tenderness for the errors of a fallen sister
    [text has "terderness"]
  Here my sun of glory would have probably sat,  [error for set]
  the necessary formalities of dress or the being observed by the
    family."  [missing close quote]
  the broadest shouldered porter in Boetia.  [error for Boeotia]
  peculiar to himself, or to a profession, is deservedly dubbed pedant
    [missing "is" before "deservedly"]
  "original and unaccommodating."  [text has "unaccomodating"]
  again her resolution to take the veil returned.  [. missing]
  at the feet of the emperor.  [text has "emporor"]

No. 104

  giving into that excessively dissipated mode
    ["giving into" printed as shown]
  If our grand parent Eve had been content
    [printed in two words as shown]
  how many misshapen monsters have exhibited  [text has "mishapen"]
  If a wretch, necessitated by the cries of a starving family
    [text has "necessiated"]
  object of compassion prove the victim of my resentment;
    [text has "rensentment"]
  The gentleman gave him a dram, which he took, saying,
    [text has "say-/saying," at line break]


       *       *       *       *       *
           *       *       *       *
       *       *       *       *       *


SOURCES

_This section is not intended to be complete or definitive._


  Masthead (through no. 91 only) "Utile Dulci"

    omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci
      Horace, _Ars Poetica_ 343

  (i.e. combine the useful with the pleasant)


Sources: Fiction

"The Victim of Magical Delusion" (serialized novel)

  Original: _Geschichte eines Geistersehers: Aus den Papieren des Mannes
    mit der eisernen Larve_ (i.e. "the man in the iron mask"), 1790, by
    Cajetan Tschink (1763-1813): 3vols. octavo
  English Translation: Peter Will, published in 1795 as _The victim of
    magical delusion: or, The mystery of the revolution of P--l:
    a magico-political tale, founded on historical facts_. Editions
    include London (3 vols.) and Dublin (2 vols). Only the London
    edition includes the final "Address of the Translator".
  The serial began in no. 22 of the New-York Weekly; the first 31 of
    its 74 segments are in Volume I.
  Volume breaks from both editions come at the _middle_ of New-York
    Weekly installments (coincidentally at page breaks).
  Dublin, Vol. 2 begins: As soon as the Countess was gone to bed...
  London, Vol. 3 begins: I felt like one who is suddenly roused...

  Background: The dramatic date is 1640-41, around the break-up of the
    Iberian Union, formed in 1580. The main character is the historical
    Miguel Luis de Menezes (1614-1641), Duke of Caminha or Camina, who
    was executed for treason for supporting a Spanish claimant to the
    Portuguese throne. He outranks his father because the title was
    inherited from his maternal uncle, also Miguel Luis de Menezes
    (1565-1637); the title later passed to Miguel's sister.
  The "Queen of Fr**ce" was Anne of Austria who, as her name indicates,
    was Spanish. During most of 1640--when she appears in this
    novel--she would have been pregnant with her second child.

  Links for Dublin edition:
    Vol. 1: http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde02tschgoog
    Vol. 2: http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde01tschgoog
  Link for London edition:
    http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde00tschgoog


"Interesting history of the Princess de Ponthieu"

  Original: "A Story of Beyond the Sea" (Estoire d'Outremer), formerly
    attributed to Marie de France, probably dating to the 13th century.
  Modern (French) text: either a _nouvelle_ from 1723 or 1725 or
    possibly 1723 by Commandeur de Vignacourt, or a _roman_ of about
    the same period by Madame de Gomez. Both were called _La Comtesse
    de Ponthieu_.
  The immediate English source has not been identified.

  Links:
    http://www.gutenberg.org/files/11417/11417-h/11417-h.htm#XVI
    http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/30794


"Interesting History of the Baron de Lovzinski"

  Original: _The life and adventures of the chevalier de Faublas_, 1787,
    by Jean-Baptiste Louvet de Couvray. The Lovzinski episode covers
    chapters VIII-XIV (to the end of the first volume in the 4-volume
    edition, or about 3/4 through the first in the 3-volume edition).
  English translation: Exact source unknown. The serialized text is
    identical to the 1811 edition, except for the spelling of the name
    Pulaski--Pulauski in the book--and the "translator's afterword" in
    the serial.

  Notes: The passages with dots and asterisks seem to be decorative,
    since they also occur in an early French edition.
  The novel ends differently than what is implied in the magazine. The
    daughter of Lovzinski and Lodoiska appears later in the book as a
    secondary character.

  Links:
    Volume 1 of 1811 edition:
    http://www.archive.org/details/lifeandadventur01couvgoog
  Volume 1 of an "unexpurgated" later translation:
    http://www.archive.org/details/amoursofchevalie01louv
  The 1821 French edition:
    http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/

  Background: A footnote in the novel says
    * The Translator thinks that he can venture to pronounce M. P----
    to be the nobleman who was formerly called Count Poniatowski,
    and who at present so worthily fills the throne of Poland.

  Poniatowski abdicated in 1795, after the novel and its translation
    were published, but before the New-York Weekly serialization. He
    was kidnapped by the Bar Confederates in 1771, during the dramatic
    period of the novel. The story conflates two Pulaskis, the father
    Joseph and the son Casimir ("the" Pulaski to Americans).


"The History of Mrs. Mordaunt"

  The source of this serial has not been identified, but there is no
  reason to think it was written for the New-York Weekly.

  Quotations:
  "Gently the moon..." opening stanza of "The Bard", anon., 1784 in
    The Hibernian Magazine
  "and sober evening had taken 'her wonted station in the middle air.'"
    Thomson, "Seasons", Summer
  "All the lowly children of the vale." James Grahame, British Georgics,
    October
  "Shoulder'd his crutch, & shew'd how fields were won." Goldsmith,
    The Deserted Village
  "Hope, sweetest child of fancy born" etc. J. Duncombe, Farewell to
    Hope, first stanza.
  "Then crown'd again" etc.: Paradise Lost, as attributed.


"The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina"

  Original: Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian (1755-1794), "Celestine,
    nouvelle Espagnole", 1784 or earlier. The author's mother was
    Spanish.
  Translations: The Lady's Magazine (London, Vol. XXII, September 1791,
    p. 457ff) as "The Constant Lovers" by The Chevalier de Florian,
    using the names Celestina and Don Pedro; _Tales of an Evening
    "Founded on Facts"_ ed. Francis Murphy 1815 (Norristown PA) as
    "The Beautiful Alcade of Gadara", using the names Celestina and
    Don Pedro; Walker's Hibernian Magazine (Sept 1787, 480ff) as
    "The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina". This is probably the
    New-York Weekly's direct source.

  Notes:
    English text:
    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.

    French text:
    Comme elle disait ces mots, elle entendit au bas de la grotte le
    son d'une flute champetre; elle ecoute; et bientot une voix douce,
    mais sans culture, chante sur un air rustique ces paroles:
      Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment...

   This is the original source of the song. The melody is by Jean-Paul
   Egide Martini (1741-1816).

  Links:
    http://books.google.com/books?id=T7oRAAAAYAAJ
    http://lesmontsdureuil.fr/plaisir_d%27amour.php


Sources: Essays

  "Remarks on the wonderful Construction of the Eye"
  "View of the Starry Heavens"
  "The singular state of man when asleep."
  "Remarks on the wonderful Construction of the Ear."

  Original: Betrachtungen ueber die Werke Gottes im Reiche der Natur
    und der Vorsehung auf alle Tage des Jahr.es: Halle 1772 by Christoph
    Christian Sturm (1740-1786)
  Translation: _Reflections for every day in the year on the works of
    God..._ London 1791, 6th edn. 1798, 7th edn. 1800
  Source: All four essays appear in _The New magazine of knowledge
    concerning Heaven and Hell..._, 1790.

  Notes:
    "Georgium Sidus" was Herschel's original name (1781) for Uranus.

  Links: 1800 (7th) edition:
    reflectionsfore01sturgoog
    reflectionsfore00unkngoog
    reflectionsfore00sturgoog
    1808 ("new edition"): reflectionsonwor01sturiala


"Wanderings of the Imagination"

  Source: excerpts from a book of the same title (2 vols., 1796).
  Author: Elizabeth Gooch (1756-after 1804), born Elizabeth Sarah
    Villa-Real. Best known for _An Appeal to the Public, on the
    conduct of Mrs. Gooch, the wife of William Gooch, Esq._ 1788.
  Notes: Critical Review, February 1796 (a generally unfavorable
    review), referring to a passage in the Fourth Wandering, No. 101:

    "One of the licensed abuses which our author animadverts upon--the
    insolence of servants, to whom it is not immediately convenient
    for the master or mistress to pay _exorbitant_ wages due to
    them--might be easily obviated, if those, who call themselves
    their superiors, would have the discretion to confine their
    expenses within their incomes. We are aware that this is an
    unfashionable maxim: but the neglect of it necessarily involves
    consequences still more serious than those which Mrs. Gooch has
    stated--the insolence of _vulgar tradesmen_ superadded to that
    of servants, and ultimate turpitude, disgrace, and ruin."


"The Farrago"

  The source is as given in the main text. This seems to be the only
  piece in the New-York Weekly whose original source is fully credited.

  Author: Joseph Dennie 1768-1812.
  "The Farrago" was written over the period 1792-1802, generally for
    The Farmer's Museum. The selections printed in the New-York Weekly
    originally appeared in the author's own publication, The Tablet.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The New-York Weekly Magazine, by Various

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