The Project Gutenberg eBook of The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Editor: John Bull Thomas Burling Release date: August 28, 2011 [eBook #37240] Most recently updated: November 12, 2024 Language: English Credits: Produced by Louise Hope *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE, OR MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY *** [This e-text comes in three forms: Unicode (UTF-8), Latin-1 and ASCII. Use the one that works best on your text reader. --If “œ” displays as a single character, and apostrophes and quotation marks are “curly” or angled, you have the UTF-8 version (best). If any part of this paragraph displays as garbage, try changing your text reader’s “character set” or “file encoding”. If that doesn’t work, proceed to: --In the Latin-1 version, “œ” is two letters, but French words like “étude” have accents and “æ” is a single letter. Apostrophes and quotation marks will be straight (“typewriter” form). A few symbols-- generally used to mark footnotes-- may be different from their printed form. Again, if you see any garbage in this paragraph and can’t get it to display properly, use: --The ASCII-7 or rock-bottom version. Any French words or names will be shown without accent, and “æ” is two letters. But all necessary text will still be present. Italics are shown conventionally with _lines_. Small capitals in headings are shown with +marks+ to distinguish them from full-size 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_. * * * * * * * * * [[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 œconomy 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. * * * * * * * * * [[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 Cæsar’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 hodiernæ crastina summæ “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 Cæsar’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 coloured. 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 negroes 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 œconomy 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 veillées du château_, 1785, by Stéphanie Félicité, 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 Faugères, 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 Cæsar, 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 æra 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 vitæ 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 Æolian 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. Ætatis suæ 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 ædile of the superior class, afterwards solicited for a minor ædileship, 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 Judæus 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 Judæus”, “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 Judæus”.]] * * * * * * * * * _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 CÆSAR 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 PŒBE 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. * * * * * * * * * +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. * * * * * * * * * _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 NEGRO-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 vertebræ, 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 minchioneriæ, 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 Abbé 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 François 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 cœur 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, Cæsar 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. Cæsar 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 Cæsar. 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 negro 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 Cæsar’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, Maiden-Lane._ * * * * * * * * * * * * * * _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 retard; 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 Abbé 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 Abbé 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 Abbé 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 Pélisson, 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 Pélisson’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. Pélisson, 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 Pélisson’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 Pélisson 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 Pélisson, 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 Pélisson, “you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus gross, and not blush with shame?”--“Oh,” replied Pélisson, 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 Pélisson, 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 Pélisson, 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. Pélisson 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 Cæsar 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 _Cæsar_. 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’œuvre_, 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. Œconomy 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’œuvre_ 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 fop, 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 fop 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. Phœbus, 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 hæmorrhage. 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 CÆSARE ARETHUSI. Cæsare 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