For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ESSAY.

No. I.

In man there is a natural love of change and variety: the mind is wearied by continual succession of similar objects, those pleasures which at first were capable of inspiring emotions of delight; which once filled the heart with rapture and enthusiasm; as they become familiar, fade by degrees, they lose their brilliancy, the charm of novelty is gone, and soon they please no more. The sublimer works of nature, which have roused the attention of the traveller, excite not similar sensations in the bosoms of those who have been long acquainted with their beauties: the lofty mountain “with its robe of mist,” the stupenduous cliff that overlooks the torrent, and the loud sounding waters of the tremendous cataract, neither strike them with veneration nor with awe. Their eyes wander with languor and indifference, over those scenes in which nature has been most lavish of its beauties. The mind is attracted by diversity, we follow with avidity any object which appears fascinating and pleasing, until some fresh pursuit which fancy has furnished with superior charms captivates the imagination. This love of variety is predominant in the breast of every individual, it alike exists in the lowly cottage and the splendid palace, in the circles of business and in the vortex of pleasure, in the obscure paths of folly and ignorance, and in the exalted walks of literature and science: and although those objects which at a distance appeared dazling and beautiful, may lose their brightness on a nearer approach, still the acquirements which have cost us much labor and pain, have something in them peculiarly grateful. Man has ever been considered as a fickle and inconstant being, rarely content with his present situation, but continually looking out for brighter and fairer prospects. This restlessness of the human mind has been considered by some rigid moralists, as a source of trouble and vexation to those who are under its influence, 217b but it is also a source of our greatest enjoyments: cold must be that heart, which is insensible to all the charms of variety, and but little calculated to partake of present joys, or to anticipate the more sublime and exalted pleasures which are hid behind the impenetrable veil of futurity.

A. D.

December 31, 1796.

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

JUSTICE.

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

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

DEATH of a PHILOSOPHER.

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

For sources of this continuing serial, see the end of the Index file.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 211.)

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

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

Alumbrado seemed to be not less displeased with this event than myself. My hope that the Count would entirely destroy, by an ample discovery of the juggling tricks of the Irishman, the Duke’s belief in the supernatural skill of the latter was now utterly destroyed, for he had not unfolded the most important mystery; the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard. Yet I derived some consolation from the papers of Clairval, which were still in the hands of the Duke, and proposed to throw some light on that extraordinary incident. My friend himself seemed to entertain the same hope, and although the papers had been partly consumed by the fire, yet he was not discouraged, and undertook the laborious task of 218b decyphering them. We retired lest we should disturb him.

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

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

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

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

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

“I may be mistaken, your proceedings are however riddles to me, if I do not suppose that an arrogant activity has prompted you to contrive extraordinary intrigues, and to have recourse to marvellous machineries. People of your genius are wont to do so. You despise the ways of common men, force new roads through insurmountable rocks, entangle your man in numberless magic fetters, with no other view, than to have the pleasure of seeing your prisoner insnare himself deeper and deeper by his attempts to regain his liberty. The simple, artless turn of a play, does not suit a genius like your’s, which delights only in knitting and dissolving intricate knots, and in having recourse to artificial, complicated machines; obstacles and dangers 219 serve only to give additional energy to your activity. Miguel was, perhaps, only an object which was to serve you for trying your skill and art, in order to see how far you could rely on your capacities for more important opportunities.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is a woman who mistakes you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I read the letter aloud.

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

“My second letter to your Privy Secretary, explaining sufficiently the motives which have prompted me to gain Miguel over to our party by the arts of natural magic, I think I need not add new arguments to those contained in that letter, if your Grace will take the trouble to re-peruse and to ponder them attentively. Besides the reprehension of your Grace is directed less against the means which I have made use of, than against the manner of their application. You ask in 219b your letter, why I have had recourse to such superfluous machinations, to such expensive, intricate, artificial, and fragile machines? Indeed you think too contemptibly of Miguel. His penetration, as well as his great knowledge, raise him far above the common men of his age; his understanding, which has been improved under the tuition of an Antonio de Galvez, is not to be imposed upon so easily as you think. Besides, you will have the goodness to consider that he was not the only person I had to deal with, and that his tutor, who never stirred from his side, was always ready to cut asunder the magical bonds in which I had entangled him, but why do I hesitate any longer to tell you the plain truth? My design was not directed against Miguel alone, but on his tutor too. It was the most ardent wish of my heart to gain this man to our party by my magical arts, and that it was which forced me to have recourse to so many machinations, and such expensive and complicated machines. If my design upon him had been crowned with success, Miguel too would have been an easy and certain conquest.

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

(To be continued.)

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

ANECDOTE OF VOLTAIRE.

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

OSMIR.

AN ORIGINAL ESSAY.

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

But the tempest of malediction began at length to subside, and the severity of fortune to abate her resentment. Malevolence was wearied with undeserved persecution, and prosperity beheld the cot of wretchedness with an auspicious smile, and determined to lavish upon Osmir what she had withheld from his ancestors. He was addicted to industry, to perseverance and toil; his principles were therefore the surest basis whereon time was to erect the superstructure of gilded affluence. In a few years Osmir contemplated the fruits of his application, which animated his endeavours to advance with more hasty strides in the road of progressive grandeur; riches were accumulated, possessions were established, his habitation surpassed the pomp of oriental magnificence, and the report of his opulence was the talk of every mouth, and wafted through every region on the pinions of fame. In order to subdue the murmurs of repining adversity, and establish a position, which though it was probable was yet untrue, that the bounties of Heaven were bestowed upon deserving virtue alone, he resolved to cover his imperfections with the mantle of devotion, by which more liberty was allowed to the passions which lay lurking in secret within the chambers of his heart. Confirmed in this disposition, he was impartial and correct in his dealings with all men; the venom of slander had no influence on his character; for he trod the paths of moral rectitude with exact scrupulosity. Was propitiation ordained to avert the wrath of omnipotence?—his head was covered with the ashes of Bethulia, and his loins were mortified with the sack-cloth of Ninevah; his piety refused the sustenance which human fragility demands for her functions, and thrice a day he fell prostrate at the shrine of the God of nature. Whenever Osmir walked the streets for the purpose of recreation, he was begirt with attendants who showered gold on the multitude, and whom he exhorted in their liberality to more extensive profusion. The widow and the orphan, the desolate and the indigent, all looked for succour from the bounty of his hand, and all felt the influence of his generous condescension. Not an act that was performed escaped the voice of applause, for if Osmir was liberal, compassionate or just, his merit was instantly registered in the 220b chronicles of fame, who with her trump of seven thunders, blew a blast round the world which was echoed through the universe.

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

“Ye, whom vanity has influenced in the operation of good works, and whom earthly approbation has taught to exult in their merit, let the example of dying disquietudes abate the security of your confidence. Like you, I have floated on the ocean of glory, I have felt my senses enraptured with the melody of praise, and suffered my heart to receive plaudits which my conscience condemned. Like you, I was liberal, because to be liberal was to be eminent, and like you also, I estimated the advantages of heaven by terrestial enjoyments. Prosperity shed around me the partial beams of her favour, nor harboured a doubt, nor hesitated to reflect, if the object of her veneration deserved contempt or esteem. Avarice and vain glory were raging passions of my soul, to heat the furnace of these desires was the sole object of my aim; by the one I was rendered odious to the great dispenser of gifts, and by the other detrimental to the sons and daughters of men. This, by the malignity of its turpitude, which withheld what it had received with the rapacious grasp of a vulture, effaced the character of the Deity imprinted by nature in my soul; and the other by a cruelty more inhuman than murder, has awakened passions in the breast of indigence, which had slept for ever undisturbed, and for the mercenary tribute of undeserved approbation has elevated for a moment to magnificence 221 and state, only to plunge with keener anguish into the gulphs of despair, the wretch whose heart had never sickened for the splendours of pomp, and whose days had moved calm in inglorious obscurity. Yet weak-sighted mortals viewed my actions and admired, whilst the piercing eye of the everlasting beheld their motives and abhorred. Happy should I be to amend the past by the present, or to mitigate the fury of the indignation to come. But the scymetar of vengeance hangs suspended in my view, I hear the sentence of malediction which sounds as thunder in my ears, and I feel the last horrors of agonizing despair. Insulting vanities of a faithless world! why was my heart enamoured of the graces of thy deceit? Only to look with pleasure on thy allurements, is to assume the chains of thy bondage; to seek thy gratifications is to follow pain without profit, and to persevere in thy pursuits is reprobation without hope. A few moments space will evince the dreadful truth, for a few moments space and the life of Osmir is no more. Happy shall you be, my friends, whose errors are corrected by my fatal mistake, and whose minds shall be imprinted with this important remembrance, that no action however splendid can secure the favour of the Deity, unless it correspond with good designs, which can alone stamp its value, and that though you mislead the erring judgment of man by fallacious appearances, ’tis impossible to mislead the unerring judgment of God.”

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

SELECT REFLECTIONS ON EDUCATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CANDIDUS.

No. I.

(Concluded from page 214.)

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

Man was endowed with the seeds of his faculties to be matured by his cultivation and memory; not the least of those faculties is in the least subject to his power. That men, when placed in similar circumstances, will receive through the senses similar impressions, I trust will be universally admitted. It appears to me no less evident, that such impressions may be in all equally lasting. It is not then the want of capacity in any to retain, but the want of exertion in most to imprint, that occasions the former; and Man, not Nature, is deficient in duty. Yet, this charge is not universally incurred; many there are who employ much of their time in endeavouring to improve the faculty of recollection, but in spite of their efforts, they still find ample cause for complaint. If men (generally speaking) are equally fitted both to receive and to retain, the charge must still revert upon themselves, with the aggravation of time mispent in injudicious exertions. The method generally pursued among young men to assist the memory, is to enter into a common place book the most material observations and events in the course of their reading; this, though stamped with the approbation 222b and deriving credit from the recommendation of the philosophic Locke, is not without its imperfections. The practice betrays the student into a prejudicial confidence, trusting to his notes, he neglects to make the first impressions firm and lasting; and in his recurrences to his book he distracts his attention with a vast collection of heterogeneous matter; the different parts of which hold a place in his recollection no longer than he reads them, each being driven out by that which succeeds. “What is twice read (says the judicious author of the Idler,) is commonly better remembered than what is described:” and no little credit is due to this opinion, when delivered by a man, the value and extent of whose literary acquisitions deservedly gained him the appellation of the walking library. As the impression made by one body on another is stronger or weaker in proportion to the time of pressure, so the firmness with which an idea is fixed in the memory, is in proportion to the weight applied by the continuance of thought. Let the reader, before he changes his subjects, revolve with patient attention in his mind the sentiments he would imbibe, or the events he would remember, until he has thoroughly stamped them with all the principles and consequences of the former, and the causes, connections and effects of the latter. Let him in the solitary hour when books are not near, and company do not interrupt by continued reflection, firmly imprint spontaneous associations, and by studious recollection renew and confirm the past. The knowledge so gained will be far more solid and lasting than that for which we depend upon a few uncorrected transcriptions. Conversation has with justice been called the soul of society. Man must, in intercourse with his fellow creatures, exercise and refine those passions and affections with which he is endowed, and of which they are the subjects: and in the worlds of business and of pleasure, the convenience and happiness of each state, depends upon the united endeavours of the whole; so in the world of literature, a mutual communication of ideas increases the stock of individual knowledge. While the student disdains not to converse with men in every rank, let him choose for his intimates the ingenious and the learned. One great impediment in the way of mental improvement, is the neglect of opportunities for study. Carpe diem, is an advice as generally unattended to as its goodness is admitted. The state of the mind is no more than that of the body is uniform and regular. Various as the atmospheric changes, it is now dull, inapprehensive and listless; now flighty and impatient, again in happier hour, fitted to imbibe with avidity, comprehend with clearness, and retain with exactness. How often in this vigorous and active state are its impulses neglected. How often when disgust succeeds enjoyment, when satiated with pleasure, and fatigued with the tumults of society, the mind is disengaged and vacant; with an appetite whetted for the variety of solid entertainment, do we instead of gratifying its propensity, seat ourselves down to indulge idle regret, or to form still more idle schemes of future dissipation. To seize such, and every opportune moment, we should be ever on the watch, they will frequently occur, and if improved will always produce 223 present delight and permanent advantage. To complain of nature when ourselves are in the fault, and to ascribe to deficiency of capacity, what is the result of want of industry, is the common practice of idleness in every condition of life. But in spite of the clamours of men, it will ever remain an axiom in morals, that want of judgment in acting, is the cause of embarrassment and confusion; and cessation from labour, the death of body and mind.

INDUSTRY.

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

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

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

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

SINCERITY.

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

OBSERVATION.

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Peters, Captain Thomas Barnard, of Boston, to Miss Louisa Hinckley, of Konny-brook.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Foster, Mr. Peter Utt, to the amiable Miss Amelia Fairley, both of this city.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO THE SETTING SUN.

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

THE ADIEU—TO A FAVOURITE GROVE.

An Elegy to the Memory of a Friend.

SONNET.—TO THE MOON.

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

HUMANITY.

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

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

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

It is founded on a sense of what we owe to him who made us, and to the common nature of which we all share.—It arises from reflection on our own failings and wants, and from just views of the condition and duty of man.---It is native feeling heightened and improved by principle. It is the heart which easily resents; which feels for every thing that is human; and is backward and slow to inflict the least wound. It is affable in its address, and mild in its demeanour; ever ready to oblige, and be obliged by others; breathing habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, long suffering to enemies.

It exercises authority with moderation;---administers reproof with tenderness; confers favours with care and modesty.---It is unassuming in opinion, and temperate in zeal.---It contends not eagerly about trifles; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame; but prompt to allay dissention and restore peace.---It neither intermeddles 225b unnecessarily with the affairs, nor pries inquisitively into the secrets of others.---It delights above all things to alleviate distress; and, if it cannot dry up the falling tear, to soothe at least the grieving heart.

Where it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome.---It seeks to please rather than shine and dazzle, and conceals with care that superiority, either of talents or of rank, which are oppressive to those who are beneath it.---It is a great avenue to mutual enjoyment: amidst the strife of interfering interests, it tempers the violence of contention, and keeps alive the seeds of harmony.---It softens animosities, renews endearments, and renders the countenance of a man a refreshment to man.---It prepossesses and wins every heart.---It persuades when every other argument fails; often disarms the fierce, and melts the stubborn.

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

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

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

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

FAITH, PIETY, AND ACTIVE VIRTUE.

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

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 219.)

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

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

“Perhaps you will ask, whether it would not have been possible to gain Count Galvez for our cause by some other means? I must reply in the negative. Miguel could indeed have been ensnared by other meant, but not more expeditiously; (and every thing depended upon dispatch) but his tutor never. The latter is attached to the King of Sp**n with unshaken loyalty, because he thinks it his duty to be loyal; and a man of fifty years, of so firm and rooted principles, 226b cannot be enticed from what he thinks to be his duty, before it ceases to be duty to him. But what power upon earth could absolve from a duty such a man? Here supernatural powers must interfere and absolve him, beings from another world must appear as bails.

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish to have it answered by you.”

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

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

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

“You disapprove of my connection with that man.”

“Very much.”

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

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

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

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

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

“If you insist upon if, then I must tell you that I am extremely vexed at the idea that the fellow, who dared to sport with your understanding has enjoyed the triumph of guiding you in leading-strings whithersoever he chose. I am glad that you have rendered his magical labours so toilsome; I am rejoiced at the resistance which you have opposed to his attacks; but 227 it grieves me that he has conquered you so dishonestly and artfully. I cannot but confess that the artifice to which your penetration yielded, has been enormous; however, I am angry with you because the man whom you really had discovered to be a cheat, succeeded a second time in gaining your confidence.”

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

“Undoubtedly.”

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

“In natural arts of all kind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You astonish me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have learned that trick of a juggler, and I am sure that which the Irishman has made use of is the same. He gave Amelia a blank slip of paper, and 227b directed her to write the question on the upper part of it. Here you must regard three points; first of all, that he himself gave the paper, to Amelia; secondly, that he desired the question to be written on the upper part of it; and thirdly, that he dictated the question to her; he then put the paper on the table, fumigated the apartment with an incense of his own composition, and requested the Countess to look at the paper in the morning. It was very natural that the answer to the question was seen beneath it, having been previously written with sympathetic ink the preceding evening, but first rendered visible in the night by the fumigation. Very likely it had been written by the Count, who could imitate the hand-writing of his brother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want to evade my question.”

“Indeed not!”

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

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

“Certainly.”

“That I deny.”

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

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

“You cut it very short.”

“My argument is valid.”

(To be continued.)

For sources, see the end of this file.

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[BY HERSELF.]

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

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

The estate to which we were going I had never been at, but its castle was held in wonderful estimation by my father. He confirmed it as an honourable memorial of the antiquity of his ancestors. At our arrival I was struck with horror; the ravages of all-conquering time were in several places displayed; a dark wood surrounded it, impenetrable to the chearing rays of the resplendant luminary; thro’ vistas cut amidst the thick boughs of old oaks, a cataract was espied foaming with impetuous 228b fury down the side of a stupenduous mountain, from which a muddy stream took its course in hoarse murmurings through the wood. What an habitation for a mind already depressed, it filled mine with gloomy sadness, which I durst not manifest, for to dislike my father’s favourite mansion would have incurred his severest displeasure. A fortnight after my arrival, I obtained with difficulty, permission to spend some time with a young lady whom I had known from my infancy, and loved with the tenderest affection. We spent our days delightfully; happy in each other’s society, they glided insensibly away. Riding early one morning with her, my horse, alarmed by the shouting of some thoughtless boys going to school, notwithstanding all my efforts, flew off at a rate that terrified me with the idea of every moment being dashed off.

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

(To be continued.)

AN ESSAY

ON PITY AND BENEVOLENCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those who had heard the fate of whole battalions without pity, and the loss of a battle, by which their country would probably suffer irreparable damage, without concern, listened to a tale of private distress with uninterrupted attention. All regard to each other was for a while suspended; tears by degrees overflowed every eye, and every bosom became susceptible of pity: But the whole circle paused with evident regret, when the narrative was at an end: and would have been glad that such another could have been told, to continue their entertainment.—Such was the benevolence of pity! But a lady who had taken the opportunity of a very slight acquaintance to satisfy her curiosity, was touched with much deeper distress; and fainting in the struggle to conceal the emotions of her mind, fell back in her chair. An 230b accident which was not sooner discovered, because every eye had been fixed upon the speaker, and all attention monopolized by the story. Every one, however, was ready to afford her assistance; and it was soon discovered, that she was mother to the lady whose distress had afforded so much virtuous pleasure to the company. It was not possible to tell her another story, which would revive the same sensations; and if it had, the world could not have bribed her to have heard it. Her affection to the sufferer was too strong to permit her, on this occasion, to enjoy the luxury of pity, and applaud her benevolence for sensations which shewed its defects. It would, indeed, be happy for us, if we were to exist only in this state of imperfection, that a greater share of sensibility is not allowed us; but if the mole, in the kindness of unerring Wisdom, is permitted scarce to distinguish light from darkness, the mole should not surely, be praised for the perspicuity of its sight.

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

REMARKABLE OCCURRENCE.

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

He kept his appointment, and meeting with the father, he thus addressed him: “Sir, I have seen your daughter; I should like her for a wife; and I am come to ask your 231 consent.” “This proposal,” answered the old man, “is very extraordinary from a perfect stranger: Pray, sir, who are you? and what are you?” “Sir,” replied Mr. J. “you have a right to ask these questions: my name is Jones; the new house on the edge of the common is mine, and if it be necessary, I can purchase your house and farm, and half the neighbourhood.”

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

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

A PLEASING REVERIE.

Conducted by Contemplation, I found myself in the fertile regions of Imagination; Genius and Education had dispersed those mists which are the offspring of Prejudice. My soul, seized with the fire of Enthusiasm, took her flight to scenes which mortals have not yet dared to explore. I penetrated the inmost recesses of the temple of that Virtue, by the exercise of whose attributes mortals are almost elevated to the mighty inhabitants of heaven. At the porch of this edifice stood blooming Temperance, and meek Religion with uplifted eye. At the feet of Temperance laid grovelling Austerity, accompanied with the meagre crowd of penitential Fasts. Cloathed in black, at the feet of Religion, appeared Superstition, with her attendants, Folly, Enthusiasm, and Hypocrisy. In vain they endeavoured to enter the temple of Virtue; Temperance and Religion united, stood the shock of their numberless hosts! Having passed the porch, my divine guide left me to the care of Liberality of Mind: “You heed not my advice; follow her dictates and they will assuredly conduct thee to Virtue.” As we proceeded, Liberality of Mind made me acquainted with the names of these moral virtues by whose aid the throne of the goddess is ascended. “He who perpetually points to the divine throne, is Philosophy. He unfolds the various secrets of nature, which are hid from the ignorant. Before him is Contemplation; and behind him, Imagination, who has given birth to 231b so many hypotheses. See Fortitude, with her eye of fire, disdaining every allurement the earth affords: after whom follows Resignation to the will of Providence; and here, behold——” I now saw Virtue enthroned; with Benevolence one side, and on the other that celestial power who teaches men to controul their mortal passions. Virtue’s glory did not blaze forth; her fire was that which burnt continually the same equal flame; unlike the glare of vice, which greatly blazes forth for the moment, but soon leaves us in eternal darkness!

SATIRE.

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Tuesday the 27th ult. at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Hart, Mr. Pheneas Sills, of Cow-Harbour, to Mrs. Rebecca White, of Crab-Meadow.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Charles Cornell, of Long Island, to Miss Sally Buxton, of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Nesbit, Mr. Henry Dawson, jun. of Brooklyn (L.I.) to Miss Mariah Hicks, daughter of Mr. Jacob Hicks of that place.

A CHARM FOR ENNUI.

A MATRIMONIAL BALLAD.

ELEGY.

VERSES

TO A YOUNG LADY, ON THE DEATH OF A COMPANION.

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ESSAYIST.   No. II.

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

Happy then is he who having spent his days in the practice of every public and social virtue, reviews the past actions of his life with chearfulness and content: the pleasures of reflection shall chear the listless moments of decrepitude and age, and shall convey peace and comfort to his bosom in those moments when present enjoyments 233b have lost their relish. Tho’ he no more can perceive the splendour of the sun, and the various beauties of creation: tho’ incapable of hearing the most harmonious music, and of enjoying the choicest delicacies; still shall the power of his mind survive the general ruin, and reflection chear him in the evening of his days.

A. D.

Jan. 15, 1797.

FELICITY EQUALLY DISTRIBUTED.

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

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

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

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 227.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When a spirit, the Irishman says, operates on mine, then he is present to me. If I were a mere rational being, I then should be satisfied with imagining the presence of the spirit, without myself; but since I am a sensible being, by virtue of my nature, my imagination forms a corporeal idea of the object which my understanding thinks; that is, it forms an image of it. The presence of a spirit, therefore, puts my inferior intellectual powers in motion by means of the superior 234b ones; I do not only imagine it merely without myself, but I perceive, at the same time, a shape answerable to it; I not only collect the ideas which he produces in my mind, but, at the same time, shape them in words. In short, I see the spirit and hear him speak.—Do you think, my friend, that I have comprehended the doctrine of the Irishman?”

“Perfectly!”

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

“Very right.”

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

“I perceive what you are aiming at.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Undoubtedly. The characteristic of lunacy consists in mistaking mere objects of the imagination for real substances, existing without ourselves, the original cause of which is a convulsion of the vessels of our brain, which are put out of their equilibrium. This suspension of the equilibrium can arise either from weakness of nerves, or from too strong a pressure of the blood towards the head, and mere phantoms of our imagination then appear to us, even while awake, to be real objects without ourselves. Although such an image should be but faint at first, yet the consternation at such an apparition, so contrary to the natural order of things, would soon excite the attention, and impart to the phantom a vivacity that would not suffer the deluded person to doubt its reality. It is therefore very natural; for the visionary fancies he sees and hears very plainly, what no person besides him perceives, or imagines he sees such phantoms appear and disappear suddenly, when they are gamboling only before one sense that of sight, without being perceived through another sense; for example, that of feeling, and therefore appear to be penetrable. The 235 distemper of the visionary does not affect the understanding immediately, but only the senses; in consequence of which the unhappy wretch cannot remove the delusion by arguments of reason, because the real or supposed perception through the senses, always antecedes the judgment of the understanding, and possesses an immediate evidence which surpasses all reflection. For which reason I can blame no person who treats the ghost-seers as candidates for the lunatic hospital, instead of looking upon them as people belonging, partly, to another world.”

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

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

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

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

“If you could do this---”

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

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

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

“This, I think, cannot be disputed.”

“But there exists perhaps an internal criterion. In order to decide this question, let us consider what passes in the human mind when a ghost appears. First of all, a lively idea of the presence of a ghost takes place, and sensations of terror, astonishment and awe arise---however, this idea and these sensations may be nothing else but the consequence of an uncommon, though natural external impression of a feverish fancy, and consequently never can be indubitable proofs of the presence of spirits. But perhaps the presence of spirits is ascertained by the co-existence of certain extraordinary notions, sensations, and cognitions! This too cannot 235b be, for we must be convinced that they could not arise in our soul in a natural manner, if we shall be able to ascertain their having been produced by the influence of a spirit. In that case it would be requisite we should know the whole store of our clear and obscure ideas, all their reciprocal relations, and all possible compositions which our imagination can form of them, a knowledge that is reserved only for the omniscient Ruler of the world. If we happen sometimes, in our dreams, to have the most wonderful visions, to reason in the most sensible manner, to discover new truths, and to predict incidents which afterwards really happen; why should not the same faculty of the soul which produces such uncommon effects in our dreams, surprise us sometimes with similar operations while we are awake, when it is agitated in a violent manner? In short, my friend, there exists neither an internal nor an external criterion whereby we could ascertain the reality of an apparition.”

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

(To be continued.)

REASON.

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

For sources, see the end of the second installment (pg. 244).

The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,

A STORY, FOUNDED ON FACTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her friends at first forbade them their presence, but the young and beautiful Italian being a much-loved and only child, they soon yielded to excuses and professions which 236b he too well knew how to frame, and at length received them to favour and protection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be concluded in our next.)

The following two articles are shown as printed, with occasional == (double line) for — (dash).

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

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

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

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

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

“Early in life fortune loured on my parents, and their misfortunes are, I fear, entailed upon their wretched offspring. My father’s name was Harland, he was descended from a noble family, whose possessions tho’ large, could keep no pace with unbounded prodigality; the fortune was so dissipated, that but a residue remained sufficient to purchase him a commission. Courage glowed in his breast and he distinguished himself by many a gallant action in a tedious war which England undertook against France. At the expiration of it he married a woman, rich only in rectitude and beauty, and retired from a profession which had but ill rewarded his activity. For some time they struggled against adversity---the fell adversary at length overcame. Two children of whom I was the eldest, aggravated the horrors of their condition; he could scarcely support them, as his half-pay afforded but a few of even the necessaries of life. In this situation he was discovered by a friend, possessed of affluence, who was single; as he had always exprest an aversion to matrimony, he inherited pride enough however to wish his name might be continued. Actuated by this wish, he made a proposal to my parents which they gladly embraced---it was adopting me for his heir. I was then five years old, 237b he shortly brought me to his estate for he had only made an occasional visit to the shire where my father resided; his understanding was rather weak, his chief foible a credulous susceptibility to flattery; he treated me however, with tenderness, and I was considered by every one as his future heir. At a proper age, he sent me to Oxford to complete my studies; I made a proficiency there that pleased him, and he declared I should be indulged in chusing a profession. Every vacation I spent with him. In one, ere I was an hour arrived, he mentioned with peculiar pleasure an acquisition his neighbourhood had lately received from a most agreeable family settling in it. Mr. and Mrs. Wilford with their two sons, he affirmed, I should like; but he was mistaken, a servility ran thro’ the family highly disgusting to a liberal mind; I found them all replete with flattery and meanness. A domestic who had ever evinced the strongest partiality for me, cautioned me against them; he said he was acquainted with their arts, and bid me beware, as they were almost continually with his master, wheedling and indulging his favourite foible. Unskilled in the treachery of man, I neglected this caution, I judged of them by myself, I imagined them all as free from guile. Fatal experience however, that school of wisdom, undeceived me. I thought also it was impossible any person could be so perfidious, as after promising protection, to withdraw it without cause. Mr. T—— convinced me such perfidy existed. By the next vacation my studies were completed, and I returned full of pleasing expectations, that my adopted father would now indulge me in chusing a profession, which of all others I admired—a military life, for like Douglas, I longed to follow to the field some warlike lord.

“Mr. T——’s reception surprized me, it was cold and reserved; whenever his eyes met mine, a guilty confusion covered his face. Base, worthless man! no wonder. Two days after my arrival, he sent for me to his library, for some moments he was silent, then in hesitating accents began a long preamble of his generosity to my father, in so long supporting me, and giving me an education suitable to the first man in the kingdom, of which he supposed I must be sensible; an assenting bow was my only reply: and he continued: his relations, he said, began with justice to murmer, at the intention he had conceived of bequeathing me his fortune, to whom no tie connected him, that he had discarded the idle idea of adopting me, and added, my education was such as to inspire me with hopes of a speedy establishment; to forward which, he would give two hundred pounds, and on every occasion I might depend upon his friendly interest. He stopt; amazement harrowed my soul, and indignation tied my tongue. But on repeating his words, and offering me the money, I dashed it from his hand, and in a phrenzy of fury rushed from the house. I guessed full well the authors of my misery, the vile Wilfords, who, in my absence, by the most servile arts, ingratiated themselves with Mr. T——. He abandoned me for their sons. Hours I continued walking about his demesne almost unconscious of my being; the insult I had received, the disappointment of all my hopes was too much for a 238 naturally impetuous temper. When reason a little calmed my passion, I resolved immediately to repair to my parents. I had not seen them since my infancy, though my wishes to behold them were great. Mr. T—— always prevented my gratifying them, as they lived at an extreme distance from him. Nothing will intimidate a youthful mind when bent on executing a favourite project; on foot, therefore, without consideration, I began my journey; no pleasing thoughts soothed my breast or beguiled the tedious way. The third day I conjectured I must be pretty near their habitation; filial piety sprung in my breast and quickened my steps at the idea; a pleasing calm diffused itself over my soul in anticipating the rapture of the paternal embrace---a dusky hue was beginning to steal along the expanse, and sober evening had taken ‘her wonted station in the middle air.’

“A Church-yard lay on one side of the road, and the only separation between them was a slight broom hedge. I thought I heard the plaintive voice of woe. I looked and discerned a venerable man, whose figure must have moved even the sullen apathy of the stoic. He was seated on a new-made grave—his grey locks displayed his age, and he appeared bending beneath the pressure of misfortune—his eyes were now watering the grave, now cast up to heaven, with a settled look of despair. I could not pass him unnoticed—I entered this mournful receptacle of death—too much absorbed, he had not heeded me, till a sigh burst from my oppressed heart. Without starting, he raised his head, and cried, who seeks this dreary spot?—One, I replied, pierced by adversity, who is hastening to a parent’s bosom, where his wounds may receive the balm of consolation. Struck by your distress, I could not pass you, a secret impulse rose in my soul, I wished to hear your woes. Alas! young man, he answered, my woes are of the severest kind. I indulged hope, I listened to its idle prattle, I thought to have spent the remnant of my days in peace—but the shafts of affliction were let loose against me—they pierced this aged breast---it once had courage, resolution---I now can boast of none---grief has subdued it---yesterday’s sun beheld the darling of my age consigned to the earth---the worm will soon begin to feast upon the beautious cheek I have so often kist with all the idolizing warmth of a parent; but she is happy, an angel---his voice faultered---Nature demands those tears from me as her just tribute---the virtues of my child too—he could not proceed, a sob stifled his words---after an interval, he continued. I have a wife, she is dying, blest release from misery, yet frail fortitude would not enable me to see her depart. She raved for her child---I wept---she called for food---I shuddered---I had none---I crawled from the house to this grave---it has been watered with my tears. Unhappy man! ill-fated Harland————Harland! repeated I with emotion---Great God! pardon me, had you a son?---Yes, the hopes of his happiness mitigates my despair. A friend adopted him, and promised to shelter his youthful head from the misery I feel. Since the five first years of his life I have not beheld him. Now, cried I, catching him in my arms, you behold him 238b ---blasted his ardent expectations, returned a beggar to you. For a moment he was silent, then raising his hands to heaven, exclaimed, thy will be done, Almighty Father! this is the final stroke. How fallacious are the promises of men. Well does the holy book of infinite wisdom advise---Put not your trust in princes or the children of men.

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

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

E. H.” 

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTES OF THE LATE EMPEROR OF GERMANY.

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

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

The next few pieces are shown as printed, with italic capital I used consistently.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ORIGINAL OBSERVATION.

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

E.

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

My dear charmin Cratur,

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

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

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

Your’s whether livin or dyin,

Sir Rouke O’——l, Barrownite.

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

ANECDOTE.

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Roberts, Mr. Peter Cutler, to Miss Esther Jacobs, both of this city.

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

On Thursday evening the 12th inst. Mr. John Roe, merchant, of this city, to Miss Susannah R. Stevens, of Perth-Amboy, (N.J.)

On Sunday the 15th inst. at East-Chester, by the Rev. Mr. Bartow, Capt. David Cargill, of this city, to Miss Mary Shute, daughter of Mr. Thomas Shute of that place.

ELEGIAC SONNET.

To the Editor,

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

AN ELEGY.

[by the same.]

ODE TO REFLECTION.

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

THE PIEDMONTESE SHARPER.

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

He was very sensible this was a part he could not act long without being detected; and that this piece of generosity might not be at his own expence, he invited a great number of ladies of the first rank to supper and a ball. Every one of the guests had promised to be there; but he complained to them all of the ill returns made to his civilities, adding, that he had been often disappointed, as the ladies made no scruple of breaking their word on such occasions, and, in a jocular way, insisted on a pledge from every lady for their appearance at the time appointed. One gave him a ring, another a pearl necklace, a third a pair of earings, a fourth a gold watch, and several such trinkets, to the amount of twelve thousand dollars. 241b On the evening appointed not one of the guests were missing; but it may easily be conceived, what a damp it struck upon the whole assembly, when it was at last found that the gay Piedmontese was a sharper, and had disappeared. Nor had the jesuits any great reason to applaud themselves on the success of their dissimulation; for a few days before his departure, the pretended count, putting on an air of deep concern, placed himself in the way of the emperor’s confessor, who inquiring into the cause of his apparent melancholy, he intrusted him with the important secret, that he was short of money at a juncture when eight thousand louis-d’ors were immediately wanted for his master’s affairs, to be distributed at the imperial court. The jesuits, to whom he had given a recent instance of his liberality by so large a donation, immediately furnished him with the sum he wanted; and with this acquisition, and the ladies pledges, he thought he had carried his jests far enough, and very prudently withdrew from Vienna.

ALMANZOR, THE ARABIAN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 235.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thank you for it.”

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

“How so?”

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

“I do not comprehend you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I grant it; but I never conclude that any thing has been performed by supernatural means, because I cannot comprehend how it could have been effected in a natural manner. These was a time when you fancied the apparition in Amelia’s apartment to have been effected by supernatural means, and yet it was not so. Who would have the childish arrogance to fancy his intellectual faculties to be the scale of the powers of nature, and his knowledge the limit of human art? However, the apparition of the church-yard has some defects, which its author could not efface in spite of his dexterity, and which easily would have dispelled the delusion before the eyes of a cool observer. The Irishman could not give to the phantom the accent of Antonio’s voice, how skilfully soever he imitated his features. That the apparition did not move his eyes and lips, nor any limb, is also a suspicious circumstance, that proves the limits of the artificer’s skill. But what renders the reality of the apparition 243 most suspicious is, undoubtedly, your friend’s ignorance of what his pretended spirit (consequently his proper self) told you at the church-yard; for if he had known any thing of it, he would not have concealed it from the Prince of Braganza, in whose arms he died, much less from you, in his farewell letter. Finally, if you consider what your tutor has told the Prince about his statue, which has been cut in wood during his imprisonment, you will find it very probable that the Irishman has made use of it in some manner or other for effecting that delusion.”

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

“Again, an apparition—?”

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

“You mean the apparition of Count San*?”

“The very same.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE OF MR. FERGUSON.

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

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

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

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

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

Harland was impatiently waiting for me; at my approach he sprung forward, oh my Julia, he cried, what goodness, what condescension, but you are all complying 244b sweetness. He regretted his separation; lamented his want of fortune; now bid me for ever forget him; then assured me, without the chearing idea of my love, life would be unsupportable. I wept, assured him it was unalterable, that only with existence it would cease. The moment arrived to separate. He sunk upon his knees, besought eternal blessings on my head, tenderly embraced me, while his voice was stifled with the emotions of his soul, and tore himself away. I tottered home, and leaning on my maid, retired to my chamber, where I past the remainder of the night in tears, and all the pangs of hopeless love. Shortly after this, a gentleman arrived at the castle who was son to a deceased friend of my father’s, his birth and fortune noble, but his manners tainted with arrogance and ill-nature. He conceived a partiality for me. Just powers, what has it not caused me! Sir George still dreading the unfortunate Harland, encouraged it. He was also really desirous of having me advantageously married. He compelled me to listen to Mordaunt; and in short, not to dwell longer on this painful subject, notwithstanding my prayers, my tears, my declaration of passion for another, I was forced the altar. The horror of that moment I can’t express; the image of Harland was continually before me; my broken vows; his sufferings; his love; they almost bereft me of reason. Three days after the fatal ceremony, sitting alone in my dressing-room, as the gentlemen were out, I heard a carriage drive hastily to the door. I imagined it was some obtrusive visitors who came to pay their unwelcome compliments, when in an instant the door was thrown open, and Harland entered, the smile of anticipating pleasure on his face. He attempted to clasp me in his arms, but shrinking from them, I endeavoured to fly from the room; he caught my hand and forcibly withheld me; he looked amazed at my agitation. Speak to me, my adored Julia, he cried, Oh why this distress?---heaven has at length removed my sufferings---Mr. T. has at last done justice to me. I am come to claim your hand. Sir George cannot deny me now. What bliss! what happiness in store for us. I could hear no more; I broke from him, and in agony of soul rending misery, wrung my hands together. We are ruined, exclaimed I, for ever wretched. Oh Harland! forgive me. I am miserable, compulsive power has undone me. I am, oh detest me not, already married. I might have gone on for ever---his senses seemed annihilated, a deadly paleness overspread his face; I was terrified; I flew to him; I attempted to take his hand; my touch revived him. He started from me; base faithless woman; his lips quivered, and in a phrenzy of disappointed passion he rushed out of the house. He left me on the verge of distraction, but when a little composed, I revolved my conduct: I considered it improper; I was now married; those tender sensations for another man were criminal; my virtue was strong, I determined to exert it; the lessons of my beloved mother recurred to me. She often said, affliction was the purifier of our passions, it refined the soul, and lifted to that infinite Almighty power in whose hands the balm was held for healing the wounds received on this spot.

(To be continued.)

The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,

A STORY, FOUNDED ON FACTS.

(Continued from our last.)

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

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

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

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

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

“I give you her own words, Easton, for you will find her romantic in the extreme, with all the airs of dignity and virtue about her. I endeavoured all I could to comfort and compose her spirits, and offered to write home to her guardian; but to this she would not consent, as in such a case her name would be exposed. ‘If,’ said she, 245b ‘imputed guilt is to be my portion, let me, with life, lament the effects of my imprudent flight—but there are, whom, my folly might disgrace, should an unfeeling world cast a stigma upon me—know me, therefore, only as—the wretched Julia!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then turning to the confounded and abashed Freeman, he uttered, “As for you, be warned by this interposition of Providence in favour of your undeserving friend.--- 246 Your years and your principles do not correspond. I had a father, gay and volatile like yourself, whose wretched story I have heard, but whose guilt has divided his children and him—perhaps---forever! Mournful, no doubt, has been his existence, and, if no more, miserable his end.---But wherever he may wander, if yet alive, oh! my sister! would not you rejoice with me in comforting his suffering heart, and in return receive the blessings of our nameless and interdicted parent?”

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

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

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

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

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

THE TEMPLE OF HOPE,

A VISION.

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

The sight of this barren scene would have awakened me with dismay, had not my sight been immediately charmed, and my mind astonished with the rising of a most superb Temple. Multitudes were repairing thither. Misery sat on their wan cheek---but I was pleased to see, at the same time, expectation glisten in their eye. Around 246b the Temple spontaneously rose, in their most perfect, fragrant, and variegated bloom, the most beautiful parterres. Amidst the flowering shrubs and ever-greens, were playing charming infants of both sexes, whose talk was as melodious as the vesper of the nightingale, and as gay as the matin of the lark. Their countenances were as blithe and as beauteous as Flora, blushing with the kiss of Spring. I was informed, that they were the children of Arts, Sciences, Peace, Plenty, and Pleasure. Rills murmured through the walks. Fountains scattered over the beds of perennial blossoms, their pearls of liquid crystal, and Zephyrs, with Æolian harps, caused every leaf to dance to their delightful harmony.

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

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

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

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

EXTRACT.

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

ON WEALTH.

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

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

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

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

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

This article will be repeated on pg. 339 in No. 95.

TRUE MEEKNESS.

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

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

True gentleness, like an impenetrable armour, repels the most pointed shafts of malice: they cannot pierce through this invulnerable shield, but either fall hurtless 247b to the ground, or return to wound the hand that shot them.

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

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

NEW-YORK.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

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

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

FRIENDSHIP.

TO A LADY,

On her too great Affectation of Ornament.

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

ODE TO HAPPINESS.

Tho’ all men aim at happiness,

And some their boasted schemes profess,

Yet few, alas! too few we find,

Take the right course, by nature blind.

Th’ ambitious man directs his way

Thro’ title, honours, night and day:

The miser hovers o’er his gold,

With heaps on heaps, each farthing told:

But sooner or later they’ll perceive,

These trifling things the mind bereave

Of ev’ry solid, dear delight,

The soul o’erspread with gloom of night;

That envied titles, honours, fame,

Are but a sounding, empty name:

That riches fly on wings away;

The brightest name will soon decay:

Yet riches ne’er will satisfy, Tho’ e’er so certain, still they cloy The dupe, that on them doth rely.

Still surer doth the sensualist

His pleasures, and his good resist;

With loss of health, misfortunes rues

The man, who sensual paths pursues:

For pleasures dissipate the mind,

Bring on diseases, death unkind;

Ruin his fortune, robs his soul

Of all true joy, without controul.

The philosophic sage also,

Unless the fear of God he know,

Unless his Maker’s works he scan, Is but a poor bewilder’d man; Much knowledge will more sorrows gain.

But he who would true pleasure find,

Delight of a superior kind,

Must firmly virtue’s steps pursue,

To worldly folly bid adieu;

Dispos’d, all heav’n’s decrees to meet

With fortitude, or harsh, or sweet;

If fortune blows in prosp’rous gales,

Or adverse wind his skiff assails,

Still he is happy, pleas’d, content,

With what kind heav’n, not him hath sent;

Nor pines with grief, himself alone Bears all the shock of fortune’s frown, Untouch’d, resign’d, God’s will his own:

In patience tastes a greater joy,

Than all the world’s variety.

Religion doth a good afford,

To all, with gladsome pleasure stor’d,

Such as the world to give in vain May boast for all its pleasures pain, Compar’d with virtue’s smiling train,

Of joy refin’d, of peace and health,

The greatest good, the best of wealth.

For there’s that sweetness, and that peace

In virtue’s blessed, wholesome ways,

Which no disaster can defeat,

Its transports so divinely great.

Who would not then this course pursue,

Which only leads to bliss, and pleasures ever new?

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ESSAYIST.   No. III.

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

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

A. D.

January 26.

ON AMBITION.

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

TRUE VIRTUE AND HONOUR.

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

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

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 243.)

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

“But your objection,” I resumed after a short silence, “may be pursued still further. You maintain that I could not prove the internal impossibility of the influence of spirits on human beings, and thus far you are right; but I have an equal right to maintain that you also cannot prove their real possibility; for in that case it would be requisite to know not only what a spirit is according to our idea, but also what it is in itself; and that only the Author of spirits can know. We know our own soul only by its effects, and no mortal can explain the essential nature of this first cause of all our ideas and actions. For that very reason it ever will be concealed from us whether it is related at all to spirits here below, and what the nature of that relation is? Here, my friend, are the limits of human reason, beyond which we cannot proceed without falling in with the empty space of sophistical phantoms. While you shall remain within the lawful boundaries, you never will have reason to complain of the insufficiency of human reason, as you have done just now. It is criminal arrogance to overleap the sacred limits, to which Providence has confined it; for the eternal wisdom of God is equally entitled to our regard by what it has denied, as by what it has granted us. Descend, therefore, my friend, descend from the empty space to which the Irishman had seduced you, to the firm 250b ground of experience and common sense! Happy is he who looks upon this ground as a post allotted to him, which we can never transgress without being punished, and which implies every thing that can afford us satisfaction while we keep firm to what is useful.”

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

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

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

Being unexpectedly honoured by the new King with a commission that obliged me to leave the kingdom of P——l, soon after this extraordinary incident had happened, I was not at leisure to investigate the source of Alumbrado’s prophecy; nor could I learn the Duke’s opinion of it; my deluded friend beginning to grow very close and reserved in my presence. It grieved me to be 251 obliged to leave him in Alumbrado’s power, under such critical circumstances, I could however, not delay my departure. The Duke tore himself from my embraces with weeping eyes, and promised to write frequently to me.

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

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

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

“Very right! Alumbrado interrupted me, these letters sufficiently prove that you was considered as a young man who promised to be a fit instrument for executing their design. And it is no longer a secret what that design was, and in whose head it has been hatched out. The proud Duchess of B——za had a longing for the crown of P————l, and it was she who persuaded the Duke to form a plan of seizing it. Your assistance, my dear Duke, was wanted for attaining that aim, but the conspirators foresaw at the same time, that you would refuse it, your antipathy against your illustrious relation being no secret to them. For that reason they pretended that the Duke of B——a had no other view but to replace the old King on the throne of his ancestors. It was necessary you 251b should be made to believe that he was still alive and in safety; for that purpose the hermit was brought on the stage, and acted his part with no common skill.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you know that he is dead?”

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

“At what are you astonished thus? not at the death of an old man of a hundred and eight years?”

“No,” I replied after a pause, “but I am surprised that he died at so seasonable a period.”

“Will you explain yourself more distinctly?”

“I think it is a very strange accident that the royal hermit should have entered the kingdom of heaven, and left your Majesty the terrestial crown, just when he was to show himself to the people as their lawful King.”

(To be continued.)

The Power of Music; or, the History of Belario and Lucetta.

Belario was a youth who had been bred up under his father’s eye, according to the most rigid morals. Old Syphax had, in the early part of his life, been a great dupe to the fair sex; he had fancied himself a beau garcon, and imagined he had a right to captivate every female he thought proper to address. In this opinion he was greatly mistaken, and meeting with a variety of coquettes and jilts, he found himself often deceived by his own artifice, and after having squandered considerable sums upon them, discovered he was only laughed at for his vanity and folly. He, however, pursued the career of a general lover for upwards of a dozen years; in the course of which time he had much injured his fortune, in dangling after beauties who despised him, and substituting in their place professed harlots. At length he closed the circle of his amours in marrying, out of mere spight, his own cook-maid, by whom he had Belario.—His consort, though she had approved herself an excellent cook, turned out a dreadful wife. She no sooner attained the summit of her ambition, which she had long aimed at, and which she obtained by the most servile flattery, and the greatest humility imaginable, than she threw off the independant, and soon convinced Syphax, she knew the difference between a servile state and that of a mistress. In a word, she was the modern Zantippe, and probably Socrates never led half so wretched a life, as did poor Syphax, after the connubial knot was tied. He now took an aversion to the whole sex, swore eternal enmity to them, and made a solemn vow, after separating from his wife, soon after the expiration of the honey moon, never to associate or speak to a woman in the course of his future life. Upon the birth of his son he immediately sent for him, and would never let him know who was his mother.

As Belario advanced towards maturity, he had him educated under his own roof, having resolved that he should not be trained at a public school, lest, by associating with the world, he might imbibe their notions in favour of the female sex. He never suffered him to read any books that had the least allusion to the tender passion, and constantly represented women, whenever they were mentioned, as monsters in human forms, and more to be dreaded than wolves and tigers. In this opinion whenever Belario beheld a female at a distance, he fled from her with the greatest swiftness, fearful that even the air might be contaminated with her breath. Yet he thought that there was something enchanting in woman, which he could not account for; but if he hinted such a thought to his father, Syphax depicted them as Syrens, who allured unwary travellers to approach them for their destruction.

Tutored with these extraordinary notions, Belario had attained his eighteenth year, when Syphax paid the great debt of nature, and left his son in possession of an easy fortune. He began now to relax from the severity of those studies, to which he had been confined. He read 252b novels, Ovid’s Art of love, and many other books, that soon made him suspect his father’s doctrine had been fallacious. Belario had not, however, the fortitude to dare approach a female so nearly, as to enjoy the contemplation of her charms, or the enchanting raptures of her conversation; when one day walking in a pensive mood, in a grove adjacent to his abode, his ears were assailed with such harmoneous accents as involuntarily attracted not only his attention, but, by a secret impulse, led him to the spot where the seeming celestial notes proved to issue.

He had scarce reached the hawthorn of melody, before he perceived the lovely Lucetta singing, accompanied by her guittar. Now, in despight of all his father’s tenets so carefully inculcated, he found the impulse of nature, and the power of music, operate far beyond all the sophistry of Syphax’s reasoning against the lovely sex.

He intuitively approached the beauteous maid, and instantly became a captive to her charms---a votary to love and harmony.

Lucetta at first received him with some reserve; but after a fervent declaration of his passion, which soon became sympathetic, she listened to his addresses; when he revealed to her how much he had been imposed upon by Syphax, who represented the most amiable part of the creation as monsters, more dangerous than serpents and crocodiles, and that in this opinion he had shunned them to this very hour; but that he now flattered himself he should make ample amends in paying his devotions to such an angelic being as the divine Lucetta.

This young lady was the only daughter of a gentleman of property in an adjacent village, whom Belario, with the approbation of Lucetta, waited upon to obtain his consent for their nuptials. Her father received the young man with politeness and hospitality, and told him he should have no objection to the match, if he could obtain his daughter’s consent. Happy in such a reply, he flew to his adored Lucetta, and acquainted her with the glad tidings, which she received with as much transport as he communicated them.

To be brief, in a few days their nuptials were solemnized, and they have now enjoyed the most permanent felicity the connubial state can confer, for upwards of two years, in which time the lovely Lucetta has given to the world two pledges of their mutual fondness, in a delightful boy, and a still more beautiful girl. Here we shall leave them, to enjoy that unsullied happiness which ever attends the purest virtue, and the sincerest love.

REMARK.

The enjoyments or misfortunes of men, are to be computed from their different degrees of feeling. What can they mean who speak of the happiness of the insensible? Can there be a greater absurdity, than to envy the enjoyments of such as want the power to enjoy!

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

I resolved to conceal Harland’s visit, but my father heard of it from his servant. He accused me of having concerted it, I declared my innocence. He vowed if I saw Harland my husband should be acquainted with it. How cruel such harshness. Mr. Mordaunt soon left the castle, he brought me to London; he loved dissipation, and I entered into it, I thought it would banish painful reflections. At the expiration of a year Heaven blest me with a lovely infant. My health was now so delicate, the physicians ordered me to Bristol. Mordaunt accompanied me thither, not indeed out of tenderness, but ostentation; he wished the world to think him perfect, and yet counterfeited a love for me, which in reality existed not, as his heart was too depraved to be long susceptible of a virtuous passion. My father accompanied us. We had a house one mile from Bristol. Each morning I went to the rooms, the remainder of the day was spent in weeping, and praying over my child, in lulling her to sleep, and hushing her feeble cries.

I had just entered the room one morning, and was conversing with a young lady, when turning round, I was startled by the figure of Harland. Struck by his appearance, various emotions rushed upon me, I could scarcely stand, trembling I leaned upon my companion—the alteration of his looks too visibly manifested the disorder of his mind; despair tinged every feature, and the lustre of his eyes was totally extinguished. I hurried from the room---I forgot my resolution---we cannot always command our feelings---the power above makes allowances for human frailty. I would have discontinued going to the rooms, only I feared exciting the prying eyes of suspicion. I again went, beheld him, and returned more unhappy. In the afternoon, walking alone in the garden, I saw a bit of paper thrown over the hedge, I snatched it up, and perceiving Harland’s writing, I started, I hesitated whether to open it---imagination pictured his sufferings---I broke the seal, and perused the following lines:

“Julia, the miserable Harland is on the point of eternally quitting his native kingdom, he flies to remote regions, far distant from an object who has banished peace—will she yet be cruel, or will her nature, once gently kind, comply with the last request of one, whose last sigh will be for her. Oh Julia! to leave this kingdom without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support---I sicken at the idea. Refuse me not, I conjure you, one parting interview, to sooth the solitary hours of my life, I have wandered on bewildered with misfortune, marked for affliction from the earliest dawn---nought but the long dark night can efface them. If you comply, as ah! surely you must, leave a note where you received this, and at any hour or place you shall appoint, I will meet you. Adieu, most loved and most lamented object of my soul.”

I could not refuse his last request---I was not proof against such entreaties, I might be censured, but I could not conquer the tender feelings which compelled me to comply. After supper, I stole to a little shady bower, situated in a shrubbery, and seldom frequented by any but myself. Here Harland waited for me---our meeting it is impossible to describe---he began with gentle upbraidings. Unable to bear the idea of his thinking me faithless, I declared the compulsive power which forced me to the precipice of despair. His feelings at this discovery overcame him---he raved at the cruelty of that parent, who, actuated by motives of avarice and ambition, had sacrificed the happiness of his child for ever---he implored my forgiveness for ever thinking me inconstant---he almost wept at my sufferings---he besought the being above to inspire me with fortitude and resignation to sustain them. The time approached for our separation---it was absolutely necessary on my account. Harland attempted to bid me adieu, but his words were inarticulate, he took my hand and prest it to his palpitating heart, I had endeavoured to summon resolution, his distress conquered me, a last interview, an eternal farewell from the dearest object of my love---the dreadful idea overpowered me, and I sunk fainting on his bosom, he claspt me to it, the emotions of our souls could not be restrained, my pallid cheek was wet with tears of misery, I forgot the world, I only remembered the cruelty of my fate. At that instant Mr. Mordaunt and my father rushed into the bower, their frantic rage, I shuddered at the recollection of. The former flew at Harland from whose arms I had sunk, full of the most direful apprehensions. He attempted to remonstrate, but in vain, the sword was at his breast, the instructive impulse of self-preservation prompted his defence, it was too dreadful to behold. I fainted, and in a happy insensibility was conveyed to my chamber. Returning life made me too soon acquainted with the fatal consequences of the combat, they were both wounded---a shocking tale had spread to my dishonour, it was credited, appearances so much against me, infamy branded till then my unspotted character, my father’s proud soul swelled at the ignominy of his daughter, he considered me as an everlasting disgrace to his family, as having sullied that blood, of whose purity he so often boasted---he rushed to the apartment, where I sat stupified with the horrid events of the night, myself the fatal cause---there, there was the arrow which pierced me to the soul, his whole face was distorted with passion---rage flashed from his eyes, in a voice scarce intelligible, he exclaimed, “wretch, cursed be the day on which you were born, you have branded the illustrious names of your ancestors with infamy; from this hour I renounce and curse you in the bitterness of my soul, and swear in the sight of heaven never more to see you.” For a moment I stood transfixed like a statue---a shriek wild and piercing then broke from me, and I fell senseless on the floor. When a little recovered, I called for my cruel father, I implored him to withdraw his curses, but he was gone---reason could not retain the shocks she had received. A violent fever succeeded---for a month my life was despaired 254 of: the Almighty, however, thought fit to prolong existence. The first use I made of returning sense, was to enquire for my cruel connexions. Sir George and Mr. Mordaunt had both left the house with solemn asseverations of never again beholding me. Harland, dear ill-fated Harland, had paid the last sad debt of nature. My husband had stood his trial, but possessed of interest and wealth, he was soon acquitted; my child he had taken with him, and left orders for me to quit the house on my recovery; also a paper wherein I was informed of the settlement made on me, and the person on whom I was to draw for it. Miss Rivers, my faithful friend, neglected me not in the hour of severe calamity; she had me conveyed to a family in Wales, who had just retired there, and had no objection to receive me as a boarder. Heartbroken, I forsook a world where my dearest hopes were blasted, yet I left it with no impious repinings against my destiny. I confessed myself properly punished, humbled to the dust—I felt the impropriety of having ever placed myself in a suspicious situation; but I was thoroughly penitent for having (though I trusted in a slight degree) deviated from the path of rectitude—Heaven, I fancied, accepted my contrition, by placing me in a family of love, such as I shall now describe.

Captain Harley, after a life of activity in the service of his country, retired to a sweet retreat in South Wales, to enjoy the closing evening of a busy day; his family consisted of a wife, the faithful companion of all his sorrows, and one daughter, who being the only survivor of a numerous offspring, was doubly endeared to them. She was the staff of their age, the doating of their hopes, and they bore her continually on their hearts, to that heaven which they knew would alone protect her from those calamitous strokes they had so often experienced in the course of their lives.

The retreat they had chosen, was by its seclusion, calculated for the narrowness of their income, and by its beauty for the promotion of their pleasure.

He rented but as much land as would supply his household wants, this he delighted in cultivating himself, assisted by an old trusty servant who had been a soldier in his regiment. Conrade was the veteran son of calamity, and his misfortunes strengthened the claim his services had given him upon the affections of his master. During a late contest, a brave and only son had fallen by his side in the field of battle; scarcely could he survive the blow, but consolation effected what fortitude had no power to do. Captain Harley was not only a good soldier but a good christian, and by pointing out the path to heaven, gave poor Conrade full assurance, by faithfully discharging the humble duties of his station, he should obtain a passport to rejoin his brave and beloved son.

Louisa at the period of their retirement was fifteen; her mind and form were opening to perfection, and both promised to contain the fairest loveliness of ingenious innocence, and graceful symmetry.

The lilly and the rose gave their most beautiful tints to 254b her complection; her fine black eyes beamed with the sensibility of her soul, never did she hear the tale of sorrow without emotion.

Harley had little to give, of that little he gave abundantly—not the largeness of the gift but real inclination of the donor, he knew was regarded by the power above. Like the benevolent pastor of Auburn village, to him repaired the needy and the wanderer, and found a ready welcome—often too, the weather beaten soldier in journeying to his native home, to lay his bones among those of his forefathers, turned in hither, and cheared by hospitable fare,

Harley knew what it was to have the unsheltered head exposed to the chill blast and sharp bitings of the wintry frost.

Such was this little family of love, who retired amidst Welch mountains, enjoyed that content and happiness which the votaries of fashion, misled by dissipation, can never experience.

Louisa was my constant companion—like a ministering seraph she hushed the turbulence of anguish, and whispered peace to my perturbed soul.

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTES.

“My father desired me, Sir, to ax you,” said a physical disciple to a certain eminent pharmacopolist, “that I might attend you to all your patients, as you know, Sir, it is the last year of my time”---“You shall, Bob, you shall,” replied the master; “Come, get your hat.” They entered the sick man’s chamber, and the usual circumstances occurred, such as feeling the pulse, et cetera; After assuming an appearance of profound thought, the vender of galenicals told the wife of the sick man, with much gravity, that her husband was in extreme danger, and that she had contributed to his malady by giving him oysters: The woman, in much confusion, at last owned the fact. When they had quitted the house, Bob enquired with much earnestness of his master, how he could possibly know that the patient had eaten oysters. “You foolish boy,” replied the other, “I saw some shells under the bed.” The next time Bob went alone, and returned to his master with a ghastly visage, and told him the patient was dead by eating a horse---“A horse, Bob,” rejoined the esculapian chief, “how do you know that?” “Oh, easy enough, Sir, I looked under the bed, and saw a bridle and saddle!”

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

This item previously appeared on pg. 23 in No. 55.

Before the conquest by the Normans, the land in Norfolk was so light and fine, that the farmers usually ploughed it with two rabbits and a case knife.

A GRAMMATICAL EPISTLE

To Miss SALLY SYNTAX.

Madam,

Amongst the numeral propositions towards a matrimonial union with your amiable person, I hope you’ll not decline the interjection of my preliminary pretences. I should not wish to be a mere noun adjective to you in all cases, but I positively declare, that comparatively speaking, I should be superlatively happy to agree with you in the subjunctive mood. I trust you’ll not opiniate me singular, for desiring to have the plural in my family; I shall fabricate no verbal oration, to prove how I long to have our affections in common of two: but I presume, that in case of a conjunction copulative, you’ll use no indicative solicitation to be in the imperative mood, as I am determined to be in the potential active, while you are in the future passive, or in the supine: for it is the optative of my soul to become your relative, by the antecedent of regular conjugation, as this alone can constitute a lawful concord with the feminine gender, and afford us a participle of substantive happiness. Every article possessive or genitive shall become a dative translation to you; nothing shall be accusative against your government; and your sweet nominative without a pronoun or even adverb shall be my vocative, till death the great ablative of all living, by the gradual declention of our corporeal nature, puts a final termination to the present tense, and time, thro’ an infinite progression of ages, may render us preterperfect in the future tense; in the interim, my principal part of speech in its primitive or derivative extension is, to the end, that you may put the most charitable construction on this simple proposition, and that your definitive resolution may be consonant to the wishes of your very indeclinable lover

MICHAEL DE MARIBUS.

ANECDOTES.

On the first night of the representation of the comedy of the Suspicious Husband, Foote sat by a plain, honest, well meaning citizen, whose imagination was strongly impressed by the incidents of the play. At dropping of the curtain, the wit complained to his neighbour of the impropriety of suffering Ranger to go off as he came on, without being reclaimed. “Could not the author,” said he, “throw this youth, in the course of his nocturnal rambles, into some ridiculous scene of distress, which might have reclaimed him? As he now stands, who knows but the rogue, after all the pleasure he has given us, may spend the night in a round house;” “Then,” says the Citizen, “if it happens in my Ward, I’ll release him, for I’m sure he is too honest a fellow to run away from his bail.”

A young woman lately applied to the manager of a Theatre to be engaged as a vocal performer---When required to give an instance of her ability, she began Mr. Incledon’s celebrated ballad of Ma chere amie my charming fair, thus---“March after me, my charming fair;”---The manager bowed, and the lady became scarce.

GRACEFULNESS.

He who seeks to know the origin of Gracefulness, must look for it in his own mind; whatever is graceful there, must be so in expression. It is a quality analogous to the most exquisite tenderness of affliction; that sweet enthusiasm of action which goes hand in hand with beauty; or, if we may be allowed the phrase, it is the soul of beauty, the emphasis of pleasing expression.——Grace is the sublimity of beauty; the modest pride of virtue; the gentle dignity of love. An attitude expressive of the pensive and pleasing melancholy, a sentiment peculiar to the finest souls, is ever most graceful. The loveliest of the graces has on her face a cast of sadness mixed with the sweetest joy.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 31st ult. by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Lucas Elmendorf, Esq. of Esopus, to Miss Ann Waddle, of this city.

ON INNOCENCE.

THE SEASONS OF SORROW.

SONNET TO PUBLIC VIRTUE.

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

PLEASURES OF OLD AGE.

Though, in old age, the circle of pleasure is contracted, yet within its limits many of those enjoyments remain which are most grateful to human nature.

Temperate mirth is not extinguished by advanced years; the mild pleasures of domestic life still cheer the heart. The entertainments of conversation and social intercourse continue unimpaired. The desire of knowledge is not abated by the frailty of the body, and the leisure of old age affords many opportunities for gratifying that desire. The sphere of observation and reflection is so much enlarged by long acquaintance with the world, as to supply, within itself, a wide range of improving thought. Whilst the aged are engaged in such employments as best suit the infirmities of their nature, they are surrounded, perhaps with families, who treat them with attention and respect; they are honoured by their friends; their characters are established, and are placed beyond the reach of clamour and the strife of tongues; and free from distracting cares can calmly attend to their eternal interests.

No age is doomed to total infelicity provided that we attempt not to do violence to nature, by seeking to extort from one age the pleasures of another, and to gather in the winter of life those flowers which were destined to blossom only in its summer or its spring.

WIT.

Wit is the most dangerous talent we can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good nature, otherwise it will create many enemies.

Wit is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy; yet they are seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who possess it become intoxicated, and lose all self-command.

Though it is the most captivating, yet it is the most dreaded of all talents: the most dangerous to those who have it, and the most feared by those who have it not. He who is grown rich without it, in safe and sober dulness, shuns it as a disease, and looks upon poverty as its invaluable concomitant.

The moralist declaims against it as the source of irregularity; and the frugal citizen dreads it more than bankruptcy itself: for he considers it as the parent of extravagance and beggary. The Cynic will ask of what use is it? Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet it is allowed, as an object of innocent amusement, and delightful recreation.

A woman who possesses this quality has received a most dangerous present, perhaps not less so than beauty itself; especially if it be not sheathed in a temper peculiarly inoffensive, chastised by a most correct judgment, and restrained by more prudence than falls to the common lot.

This talent is more likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for there is much more danger that folly should arise from the confederation of what is our own, than of what we borrow. But wit, like learning, is not near so common a thing as is imagined. For flippancy, pertness, and impudence are often mistaken for this brilliant quality; and people often imagine they are witty, only because they are indiscreet, and this makes the name of wit so cheap, while its real existence is so rare.

But those who happily possess this talent, cannot be too abstinent in the use of it. It often makes admirers, but never makes friends; and she, who does not desire friends, has a sordid and insensible soul; but she, who is ambitious of making every man her admirer, has an invincible vanity and a cold heart.

GRATITUDE.

Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The sense of being distinguished by the kindness of another, gladdens the heart, warms it with reciprocal affection, and gives to any profession, which is agreeable in itself, a double relish, from its being the gift of a friend. Favours, though conferred by men, may become burdensome; but nothing of this kind can affect the intercourse of gratitude with heaven. Its favors are wholly disinterested. The Almighty aims at no end but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and who desires to return from them but a devout and thankful heart.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 251.)

“It was an accident.”

“And a very fortunate one for your Majesty.”

“What do you call fortunate? My family had a lawful claim to the crown of P————l, and I have an additional right to the possession of it because I have torn it from the head of the usurper at the risk of my life. I would, however, have resigned it cheerfully to my grand uncle if his death had not destroyed that plan. You are mistaken if you think the lot of a King to be so enviable. The burden of government lies heavy on my shoulders.”

“O! there are means of alleviating that load.”

“Of which I shall make as little use as possible, for it will be the chief object of my cares, and will afford me the greatest pleasure to render my people happy.”

“Who could doubt it? Yet I think one ought to make the death of the deceased King publicly known.”

“If we could but first convince the people that he has been alive lately. The profound incognito behind which he concealed himself, throws an insurmountable bar in our way. No one would believe us.”

“Upon my honour, I almost disbelieve it myself any longer.”

“You are right; one needs not to believe what one is convinced of, for you have seen him with your own eyes. If fate had suffered him to show himself in public, every one would have acknowledged him to have been the person that he really was, the old lawful King of P————l. Having, however, lived and died in obscurity, the whole matter may remain a secret, and that so much the more because the discovery would be intirely useless. It is therefore my royal pleasure that no mention whatever be made of it. Farewell!” he added after a short pause, “you will always find me your affectionate King.”

‘Thus ended my audience. Do not desire me, my friend, to disclose to you the ideas and sensations which it produced within me. I shall endeavour to obliterate even the recollection of that scene.

‘Alumbrado is very much displeased with the manner in which I have spoken to the King. “Do you imagine,” said he, “that his offended pride ever will forgive you the torments of that self-denial which the patience he has opposed to your galling language has cost him? The sacrifice which he has made to his policy by that painful forbearance, will certainly cost you dear. Henceforward, you must renounce every hope of being promoted; for he will be careful to keep in submission, and at a proper distance, a man of spirit, as you must have appeared to him. This is perhaps the least misfortune that threatens you; your warmth, your ill-timed frankness, may produce consequences of a more serious nature. Alas! why have you not been on your guard? 258b Have I not advised you to appear with humility in his presence?”

‘Alumbrado had certainly the most friendly view in reprimanding me thus: he did not know that every word of his wounded my heart like a two-edged dagger.

‘I have been interrupted by the visit of a Prelate of very high rank. He came to inform my father and myself that the Vice Queen of P—t—l had been imprisoned by the order of the King, because she has had the imprudence to declare that the new King had usurped the throne in a fraudulent manner, and that it was the duty of every inhabitant of P—t—l to acknowledge only the King of Sp—n as his lawful sovereign, because the voluntary oath of allegiance the P—t—se had sworn to the latter, could not be made void by that which the Duke of B- - - a had obtained by artifice and force. “I cannot conceive,” the Prelate added, “what reasonable objection can be alledged against this declaration; but nevertheless, no one dares to affirm it, for fear of sharing the fate of the Vice-Queen.”

‘The Vice-Queen and the Prelate, appear to me to be in the right. However, what can be done? Farewell, my friend, and let it not be long before you favour me with an answer.

‘P.S. This very moment I received an answer to a letter I had wrote to a friend near the place where the hermit lived. He informs me that the old man expired four months since, worn out with age.’

I suspected already from the first letter, but more so from the second, that the Duke was in danger of taking a course from which he could not return too soon. I imagined I had discovered the design which Alumbrado had formed upon him and shuddered at the idea that he might carry his point. Yet my suspicion against Alumbrado was also a mere supposition, which gave me no right to accuse him. After mature consideration I thought, however, it would be best to deliver the Duke, against whom his plan appeared so be chiefly directed, from his clutches, and thus expected to gain two advantages by one stroke: not only to cut the sinews of Alumbrado’s undertaking asunder, but also to guard the Duke against the snare which was laid for him.

With that view I wrote to the latter:

‘Your letters have been very important to me; I must, however, beg you to fetch my answer yourself. Don’t refuse my request, and hasten to the arms of your friend, whose happiness in a place on which nature seems to have lavished all her blessings, would be complete if you were present. Here we will discuss the political concerns which give you so much uneasiness, for I have more than one reason for not doing it by way of letter, and my affairs threaten to detain me here some time longer. The journey will not only improve your health, but it will also ease your mind, which is bent down at present by a gloomy sameness of ideas, and very much wants amusement and diversion. I am convinced that your melancholy will not pursue you to the paradise that blossoms here. And if only your gloominess of mind shall have left you, you will view things that now appear to you in 259 a frightful shape, in a more pleasing light. At the same time you may expect that the commission the King has charged me with, will enable me to explain to you many political objects which I dare not do in writing. Come, my friend, you certainly will not regret your having undertaken this journey, &c. &c. &c.’

My letter produced the desired effect. The Duke returned me a very affectionate answer, and promised, to begin the journey in a fortnight. How joyfully and impatiently did my heart pant for his arrival! but I was disappointed. He did not come, but sent me a letter, which I am going to communicate to the reader.

‘Why am I not yet arrived? Ask Heaven that question, but not me, for I have done every thing in my power to fulfil my promise. In spite of Alumbrado’s remonstrances, I went on board of the ship to convey me to my friend. A favourable breeze that swelled our sails enlivened my hopes of embracing you soon. Evening set in, and the wind and the sky continued to be propitious. The second and the third night stole upon us amid the same favourable auspices.

‘I do not know how it happened, that on the third night the recollection of my sainted Amelia awoke within my mind with additional vivacity. It was not, however, associated with painful, but with bitter-sweet sensations, which frequently afford to feeling minds a more delicious pleasure than joys unmixed. I proceeded insensibly from sensations to the realms of fancy. I looked at the star of love, and imagined I beheld Amelia’s sainted spirit enthroned in its silver lustre. My soul soared above the immense space that separated us, and anticipated the bliss of the celestial spirits. O! why has she so soon been rendered insensible of the limits of her power, which obliged her to return to our sublunary globe?

‘I felt a faintness which invited me to rest, and having bid adieu to the starry firmament and the ocean, I went to my cabin, where the solacing hand of sleep soon closed my eyes.

‘I awoke an hour before the dawn of morn. Finding myself entirely refreshed I left my couch and returned on deck in order to hail the stars once more, before they should be dispelled by the majestic king of day. But what a scene did my gazing eyes behold! The firmament appeared no longer to be over us, but we seemed to ride upon it. I did not know whether I was dreaming or awake, rubbing my eyes repeatedly. In vain, the scene remained unaltered: intense darkness covered the sky, all its stars and galaxies appeared to be on the water.

‘O nature! thy grateful son never will forget the enjoyment which this undescribable spectacle has afforded him! I gazed a long time in silent wonder at the illuminated surface of the ocean, before I could examine the individual beauties of that grand scene. Whithersoever I directed my gazing looks, I beheld fiery streaks. However, all parts were not equally illuminated; some spots emitted quick flashes of light, while others continued some minutes to sparkle. The separated water gushed before us in luminous streams, and the furrow which the vessel drew formed a white bright streak behind us, which 259b was interspersed with sky-blue spots. The multifarious and dazzling light was skipping on the curling waves; the spume which the little bubbles produced on the surface of the water, glittered like silver-coloured snow. I could have plunged in the watery abyss in order to sink down in that heaven.

‘The rising sun put a stop to that enchantment. My fellow travellers began to stir. I hastened to tell them what a scene they had missed. A reverend old man, who was present when I related what I had seen, smiled. “One can see,” said he, “that this is your first voyage; this phenomenon is nothing uncommon in all seasons, and particularly in warmer climes; nevertheless the naturalists still differ in their opinion of its cause, some believing that it proceeds from small luminous insects, and others from an oily substance that separates from rotten animal bodies.—Many pretend this phenomenon to be the forerunner of an impending tempest, but this is false”. 

‘The old man may not have been mistaken, yet this time he was refuted by experience. The little clouds which were swimming singly in the sky, united by degrees and overdarkened the sun. A black tempest began to gather in the north. The crew were just going to prepare against the storm, when suddenly a violent gale of wind arose, and hurried the vessel with incredible rapidity over the ruffled surface of the sea. We lost one of our anchors, which fell from the deck with a thundering noise. Some loud peals of thunder gave the signal for the breaking out of the storm. The light of day disappeared, the billows of the swelling sea were rolling one upon another with a roaring noise; the dreadful flashes of lightening seemed to dye the surface of the ocean with blood, and each clap of thunder threatened to shiver the mast to atoms. The foaming of the waves, the rolling of thunder, and the howling of the winds, seemed to announce to that part of the world the return of old chaos.

‘The strong flashes of lightning made us suddenly observe that land was near. How welcome soever such a discovery is in fair weather, yet it was to us the most dreadful incident that could have happened, on account of imminent danger of being wrecked. Our cables seemed not to be able to resist long the fury of the winds and waves which availed the vessel.

‘All these circumstances contributed to recall to my mind the recollection of a similar incident which had robbed me of my Amelia. The wounds of my heart began to bleed afresh, and the melancholy sensations which assailed my mind, deprived me of the power that I, otherwise, should have opposed to the terrors which surrounded me. My heart beat violently against my breast, and nothing but my ambition could have prevented me from joining those who groaned and lamented loudly, wringing their hands and tearing their hair.

(To be continued.)

ON THE GENIUS OF WOMEN.

To the EDITOR*.

Sir,

Certain persons have for some time past been carrying on a dispute relative to the talents of women, and the dispute I perceive has found its way into your miscellany. I believe, Sir, the question might be soon settled to the satisfaction of all parties, if, we were first to agree in what is meant, or should be meant by the word talents. Hitherto, if I understand the controversy, talents have been understood to mean the power or faculty of publishing in prose and verse; and if we limit it to this, we may easily decide, that women are inferior to men, because there have been probably a thousand male authors for one female.

But, Sir, with submission, I would beg leave to suggest, that we narrow human genius and ability very much, when we confine them to the bookseller’s shop. Are there not many very able Statesmen who never write any thing but Treasury-warrants, and receipts for their salaries? Nay, do we not admire the vast genius of some Representatives, whose forte is entirely in speaking, and who, when compelled to draw up an address to their independent constituents, commit errors that would disgrace a school-boy? In short, Sir, if we have no other way of judging of a man’s talents, but by the quantity he publishes, either from the press or from his mouth, are we not giving all the praise to mere saying; and never reflecting that an accumulation of words, without corresponding actions, is to all necessary purposes useless and unprofitable?

This being premised, and, I hope, allowed, we need dispute no longer about the superiority of the male sex. The talents of the fair sex, as to all the great and important events of human life, and all the leading transactions of kingdoms and states have so far transcended what has been attributed to us, that were I to compile a new Universal History, however I might avail myself of the valuable labours contained in the old, I should certainly entitle it, “A history of the Power and Influence of the Female Sex, from the fall of Adam to the present time.” It is the pitiful jealousy and envy of men which has deprived the sex of the honours due to them in history; and likewise some part of the concealment of their influence, arises from the brevity of histories, their authors taking a superficial view of events, and seldom troubling themselves to investigate the secret springs of human action; whereas, if we will only examine into the minute particulars of great events, the secret intrigues of Courts, Kings and Ministers, or even of Republics, we shall always find that the women have had a great share in bringing about political changes, wars, treaties, negociations, &c. although they, for modesty probably, content themselves with acting unseen and unobserved, and the men, proud of the success of the affair, wish to take all the merit to themselves. Now, Sir, let me ask you a plain 260b question: which of the two is likely to deserve most fame, and to confer greater renown on the party, the publishing a poem, or bringing about a Revolution in a state or nation, perhaps with a few words? Which requires greater abilities, to govern a kingdom, or to cajole a bookseller? To tickle the fancy of love-sick boys and girls by a novel, or to confound and stun half the Cabinets of Europe, by a bold stroke of invasion, a massacre, and a partition? To write a ballad about a man and woman who never existed, or to make the existence of thousands of men and women miserable?

But this is not all. It is not enough to appeal to the history of ancient and modern nations, for proofs of the superiority of women over men. This, perhaps, is not much in their favour, for a superiority of evil influence is not the present contest, and would not be very honourable if it were established. No, Sir, if we wish to ascertain the real and meritorious superiority of female talents, we need not consult the voluminous records of history; we need only bring the question home to ourselves. I shall instance but in one respect, the power of persuasion. This I take to be the great test of genius and talents. He who possesses this, possesses every thing; and yet we know that what a man cannot do by whole treatises and volumes, by a well connected chain of argument, and the most convincing calculations, is generally done by a woman with a smile, a glance of the eye, or a very few words. Sir, we may talk as we please of our vast learning, of our voluminous productions, of our many virtues for which we obtain credit in epithets and funeral sermons. But with what painful efforts do we accomplish the least of our good actions! and to do a great good is the business of a long life. What is all our power compared, or, which is more dangerous, put in competition with a TEAR or a FIT?

I repeat it, Sir, let us bring the question home to ourselves. What is it that constitutes the felicity of domestic life? Is it the wealth we have acquired, the house we live in, the equipage that bespeaks our rank, or the servants that bow at our command? No. Sir, to use an expression of Mr. Burke, it is, “the dignified obedience and proud submission” we owe and pay to the female sex. Our hearts confess that they deserve it, and that we cannot help paying it, and cannot, therefore, help acknowledging their superiority. When we refuse to pay it, when our minds are in a state of rebellion against those lawful sovereigns, where is it that we dare to breathe sentiments of a seditious tendency? Is it in their presence? No; a look, a word, awes us into submission; and when we conceive the thoughts of resistance we fly, like cowards, to some secret place, to some neutral ground, to the desart heath of celibacy.

They may be accounted to possess the greatest talents who accomplish the greatest purposes by few means, which, in my mind, establishes the superiority of the fair sex. I am, Sir, your humble servant,

PHILOGYNES.

* This article is extracted from the London Monthly Magazine.

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

In a ramble one evening with her and her parents through a beautiful valley, our admiration was excited by a cottage extremely small, but exquisitely neat, which lay on the sloping bank of a meandering river, shaded by old luxuriant trees---a bridge composed of planks formed a passage from the vale to the cottage, we crost it in order to have a better opportunity of gratifying our curiosity. We now saw a venerable looking man who had before escaped our notice, sitting in a little sunny glade, we stopt for fear of intruding on his solitude, but perceiving us he instantly approached, and with a pleasing politeness requested we would enter his humble abode. Harley with emotion exclaimed---“Good God! surely that voice is not unknown to me.” “I am certain,” said the stranger, “I have seen you before, though where I cannot immediately recollect.” “If I am not mistaken,” cried Harley, “You are the worthy Hume who was chaplain to the regiment in which I served.” “The same, the same indeed,” replied he, returning his embrace---“the same unfortunate man, whose setting life has been attended with a train of the severest calamities.” The big tear stood trembling on Harley’s cheek---“Friend of my youth,” said he---his voice faultered, but betrayed the sensibility of his feelings. We accompanied Mr. Hume into his cottage, Harley and he appeared delighted with this unexpected interview, both appeared anxious to learn the occurrences which had past, during the long interval of a separation. Harley’s delicacy prevented his enquiring too minutely into those misfortunes Hume hinted at, which he, perceiving with a candour that seemed genuine to his nature, declared he would inform us of those events he had experienced, “a tale,” said he, “adapted for youth---they will find the consequences of illicit passions, and how easily credulity can be imposed on.

“The events of my life are uncommonly calamitous, misfortune has persued me with unremitting vigour, I have lost the sweetest ties of life, I have seen the form of loveliness mouldering away, the shroud of darkness encompassing a mind replete with gentleness and pity, I have beheld the inexorable ruffian rob innocence of its boast and the blossom of beauty withering beneath the blast of affliction. Oh Harley, I have endured all this, and yet I live---live to draw the tear of sympathy by the recital of my fate.”

HISTORY OF HUME.

“The evening was uncommonly serene when I wandered from my cottage to enjoy its balmy sweetness, the distant hum of the busy villagers retiring from their various occupations, just stole upon my ear, and made me reflect on the happiness of our English peasants, and that a life of industry was a life of peace, since it kept the mind employed, and prevented the thoughts from wandering beyond the boundaries of virtue.

“I raised my eyes to the bright firmament where joys eternal are treasured for the righteous—I considered that millions of celestial beings might at that moment be hovering over my head, and joining in responsive hallelujahs before the throne of the Almighty, Milton’s beautiful lines occurred to me—

“I was roused from my meditations by a piteous voice, demanding the aid of charity, I looked at the object, he was a worn out veteran, the remnant of a shabby scarlet coat hung over his feeble limbs, he carried a wallet, no great load indeed, a mouldy crust of bread, too hard for decaying jaws of age. I felt for his misery, I pitied the misfortunes of that man, whose arm had assisted in defending my country from the rapacity of its enemies. He told me a tale of woe, and his cheek was moistened in relating it. Alas! poor old man, cried I, you have not been exempt from the common lot; but cheer up my soldier, the manly heart, while it trusts in heaven, should never be deprest, but the anguish of poverty has weakened courage. Come, cried I, taking him by the arm, we have both been veterans, though in different ways, labour should now cease, age requires a relaxation from toil, we are both swiftly gliding down the vale of years, let us endeavour to make the passage easy, we will retire to my little cottage, its doors have never yet refused admittance to the stranger, seated by the humble fire-side, we will recount our tales of old, and cheer our hearts with a draught of are, administered by the cherub hands of my Patty. We ascended the hill together which led to my lowly mansion, nature had sweetly decked it with the choicest verdure. As I ascended the hill, I wondered at not beholding my Patty; it was her custom, when prevented to attend my rambles, to watch my return, seated on the little green turf beside the door. As I entered I called her, but received no answer, my surprise increased---I seated my humble guest, and went in search of her, I tapt at her chamber door, still all was silent---melancholy presages rushed upon me, I attempted to open the door, weak and trembling my hand fell by my side, and 262 my heart smote against my breast, I recollected myself, and wondered what had excited such fears in me---they now died away like the shadows of the night, I entered the chamber, but my child was not there, a folded paper lay on her little dressing table, I hastily snatched it up and perused it, a deep groan was wrung from me by agonizing pangs, and I fell senseless on the floor, my fall reached the veteran’s ears, he hurried to my assistance, gratitude inspired his poor unfortunate bosom, and he endeavoured to aid me, he recalled me to life, ah! mistaken kindness, the gloomy recesses of the grave were alone fit for me. I started from his arms, I raved aloud upon the name of Patty. Whither art thou gone, my child? I cried. The paper lay before me, I imagined it all a dream, I strained my glimmering sight to read the words of horror it contained:

“Oh my father, I fly from you, incapable of witnessing the shame and sorrow I have drawn upon you, I fly from you, a stranger to peace and bereft of innocence, the wiles of Mordaunt have undone me, I leave you forever!”

“Perfidious villain, to blast my only comfort! With some degree of resignation I could have consigned my child to death, the idea she was gone spotless to the bosom of her creator, would have calmed the sorrows of my soul, but to have her seduced by a monster, her fair form, her virtue for ever blasted, oh! ’twas agony insupportable, she was consigned to me by the wife on whom I doated; my Emily was an angel before she left this world, prepared for the mandate which called her hence, adorned with every charm of beauty and goodness, with her last sigh, she grieved forth the united names of child and husband, the cypress which shaded her grave was oftener watered by my tears, than by the dews of heaven; Patty was the darling of my eye, the blooming resemblance of her departed mother, she was sincere, artless, and unsuspecting as credulity itself, she became acquainted with her seducer, in our neighborhood he was affluent, young and elegant, beneath the mask of friendship and generosity, he concealed a mind deceitful and vicious, he admired the beauty of my child, he gained her affections, and rendered her forgetful of my early precepts, she fled, afraid to see the person whose hopes she had blasted, fled from the arms which would have sheltered her against the contumely of the world.

“I turned to the soldier, I beheld his tears of sympathy; he had seen troops destroyed, individuals fall beneath the ruthless sword of an enemy, but he had never beheld a lovely daughter, tempted from the arms of an idolizing parent. I will go in search of my child, I exclaimed, he offered his withered arm to support me, we descended the hill together. At the bottom I stopt, my emotions were to be compared to those which our first parents felt when driven from the garden of Eden. The cottage on the hill was once the scene of all my bliss with Emily, it was sacred because she resided in it; I have felt an enthusiasm of pleasure in walking through those paths in which she had trod, I wept, oh earth! I cried, where are thy joys, thy comfort? Alas! How fallible, 262b how fleeting all thy blessings! I hurried on, the soldier followed me. We wandered to various cottages, still the answer was repeated, they had not seen such passengers as we described, travelling shortly exhausted our little stock of money, in a few days shelter was refused us, we crept under a hedge, and the rain wet our grey locks. The soldier murmured his regret, it was hard, he said, he had served his country faithfully, yet its ungrateful inhabitants barred their doors against him. Be comforted, my companion, I cried, consider what the Saviour of mankind has said, “the sparrows have their nests and the beasts their dens, but the son of man has not wherewithal to lay his head.” And shall we after so glorious an example, repine at not receiving shelter from a few miserable wretches.” 

(To be concluded in our next.)

ESSAY on the Conduct of Men toward the FAIR SEX.

Every generous man should view the sentiments and actions of the fair sex in the most favourable light. I can ascribe the contrary practice to nothing but an unmanly spirit, since, in many cases, those guilty of it cannot vindicate themselves confidently with the laws of delicacy. Nature has made man the protector; and the fair sex require his protection: he who should refuse this, when necessary, would be reproached with cowardice; and much more if he should take advantage of their weakness. But is not he who injures a woman’s character, to be esteemed as great a coward as he who assaults her person? Certainly he is: the former is an insult on the modesty, and the latter upon the natural weakness of the sex.

There is but one way in which we can suppose a lady may vindicate herself from a false imputation, and that is by the tenor of her actions. But then, how liable are actions to be misconstrued! When once a slanderous tongue has given the clue, the world will be too apt to ascribe every thing to a wrong principle; even the candid are sometimes misled, and form suspicions which their honour would otherwise have prevented.

The practice of viewing the female conduct in an unfavourable light, subjects the sex to many disadvantages, which I have observed in the course of my acquaintance.

Flattery is a fashionable snare to entangle female vanity; and I know of no method more successful, when a man is disposed to put an unfavourable construction upon every thing he sees. If it is received with applause, with what satisfaction does the base deceiver congratulate himself upon his success! Hence some ladies, to avoid all such appearances, shew themselves displeased when they are attacked in this way; but alas! they succeed no better than the former; for it is easy enough for the confident fellow to console himself with this reflection, that the vain creature takes the compliment almost before it was intended.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

To Mr. MICHAEL DE MARIBUS,

In answer to his Grammatical Epistle addressed to Miss SALLY SYNTAX.

Sir,

The charitable construction which has been put upon your grammatical epistle, has rendered me declinable to your complex proposition. As your presumptuous address, wholly precludes the necessity of an apology for this abrupt preface; I shall be thereby relieved from an embarrassment, which the delicacy of the subject would have otherwise occasioned. The various contradictions visible in your letter, argue a defect of sincerity. In the first place, you say you would be superlatively happy to agree with me in the subjunctive mood; then you seem disposed, with an assuming air, so throw in a conjunction disjunctive, and disunite us into various moods and tenses. Again you say that you do not wish to be a noun adjective; then, that it is the optative of your soul, to become a relative.—What is a relative pray, but a noun adjective? You say also, that you trust I will not opiniate you singular: if you are not in the singular number, you must necessarily be in the plural. If, then, you have already formed the plural number, by the interjection of a copulative conjunction, connecting you to a noun substantive, you cannot expect, or even wish from me, an accession to your proposition. I candidly declare to you, that a noun substantive in the singular number, is the only part of speech to which I would willingly subjoin a copulative conjunction. Lest you should be disposed to charge me with assuming the prerogative of your own sex, I shall pass over many expressions in your letter, which might properly afford a field for criticism. But let me add, Sir, that as it was an impolite, so was it a very impolitic thing for you to make use of such unwarranted freedom, as to make proposals of so immensely great consequence, to a person, with whom you had so slight an acquaintance. If, previous to the exhibition of your bold letter, you had perfectly learned my disposition, you must have been sensible, that it would be far from being consonant with my feelings to admit of a concord with you, upon conditions so disagreeable as those you offered. Beside, it would have been by no means a bad plan for you, to have been a little conversant with my sister analogy; as she might have been of considerable advantage to you in an attempt of this nature: She might, at least, have supplied you with a rule, by which two noun substantives might have agreed with each other, without transforming either into a noun adjective.

SALLY SYNTAX.

OBSERVATION.

Sensible objects, which were any way connected with an absent or departed friend, impress their idea more forcibly on our minds, than bare reflections can; and then, like the pressure of the moon on the sea, they create a fulness of sorrow or tenderness, which can only be relieved by flowing from our eyes.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. Robert Johnston, to Miss Ann Switzer, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. at West Greenwich, (Con.) by the Rev. Dr. Lewis, the Rev. Platt Buffett, of Stanwich, to Miss Hannah Lewis, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Lewis, of the former place.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. Alexander Cowan, to Miss Margaret Ivers, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Peter Slote, Printer, to Miss Ann Cook, both of this city.

SONNET TO ADVERSITY.

THE VISION:

AN ELEGY.

HUMANITY’s POWER.

ASPIRATION

OVER THE TOMB OF AN AMIABLE FRIEND.

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

MAN’S DANGER AND SECURITY IN YOUTH.

In that period of life too often characterised by forward presumption and headlong pursuit, self-conceit is the great source of these dangers to which men are exposed; and it is peculiarly unfortunate, that the age which stands most in need of the counsel of the wise, should be the most prone to contemn it. Confident in the opinions which they adopt, and in the measures which they pursue, the bliss which youth aim at, is, in their opinion fully apparent. It is not the danger of mistake, but the failure of success, which they dread. Activity to seize, not sagacity to discern, is the only requisite which they value.

The whole state of nature is now become a scene of delusion to the sensual mind. Hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what flatters most is always farthest from reality. There are voices which sing around us, but whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites us to repose, but to slumber upon it is death. Sobriety should temper unwary ardour; Modesty check rash presumption; Wisdom be the offspring of reflection now, rather than the bitter fruit of experience hereafter.

DECEIT.

That darkness of character, where we can see no heart, those foldings of art, through which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, present an object unamiable in every season of life, but particularly odious in youth. If at an age when the heart is warm, when the emotions are strong, and when nature is expected to shew itself free and open, we can already smile and deceive, what is to be expected, when we shall be longer hackneyed in the ways of men, when interest shall have compleated the obduration of our hearts, and experience shall have improved us in all the arts of guile!

Dissimulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age: its first appearance is the fatal omen of growing 265b depravity and future shame. It degrades parts and learning, obscures the lustre of every accomplishment, and sinks us into contempt with God and man. The path of falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from sincerity, it is not in our power to stop. One artifice unavoidably leads on to another: till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth increases, we are left entangled in our own snare.

Deceit discovers a little mind, which stops at temporary expedients, without rising to comprehensive views of conduct. It betrays a dastardly spirit. It is the resource of one who wants courage to avow his designs, or to rest upon himself. To set out in the world with no other principle than a crafty attention to interest, betokens one who is destined for creeping through the inferior walks of life. He may be fortunate, he cannot be happy; the eye of a good man will weep at his error: he cannot taste the sweets of confidential friendship, and his evening of life will be embittered by universal contempt.

DUTY OF OLD AGE.

A material part of the duty of the aged consists in studying to be useful to the race who are to succeed them. Here opens to them an extensive field, in which they may so employ themselves as considerably to advance the happiness of mankind. To them it belongs to impart to the young the fruit of their long experience; to instruct them in the proper conduct, and to warn them of the various dangers of life; by wise counsel to temper their precipitate ardour, and both by precept and example to form them to piety and virtue.

It never appears with greater dignity, than when tempered with mildness and enlivened with good humour; it then acts as a guide and a patron of youth.

Religion, displayed in such a character, strikes the beholders, as at once amiable and venerable. They revere its power, when they see it adding so much grace to the decays of nature, and shedding so pleasing a lustre over the evening of life. The young wish to tread in the same steps, and to arrive at the close of their days with equal honour.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 259.)

“I stood on the deck a prey to speechless agony, when suddenly somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Conceive my astonishment when, on turning round, I saw Alumbrado standing behind me. I staggered back as if a midnight spectre had taken hold of me with icy hands. Terror and surprise deprived me of the power of utterance, and suspended every motion of my limbs. He had made the voyage without my knowledge, and found means to keep himself concealed from me; you may therefore imagine, how violently I was affected by the sudden appearance of that man, whom I fancied to be at Lis*on.

“Are you not sorry now, that you have slighted my advice?” Alumbrado said, “it seems you will not see your friend in this world.” Some minutes passed before I was able to reply. “Let us now enjoy in silence the grandest spectacle that nature can afford!” So saying, he looked with tranquillity at the foaming ocean, as if he had been standing on the sheltering shore, far distant from the danger that surrounded us from all sides. His eyes beheld with inconceivable serenity the wild commotion of the waves, which now raised the vessel to the flaming clouds, and now hurled it into the gaping abyss of the boiling sea. The firm tranquillity which Alumbrado’s countenance bespoke, in spite of the furious combat of the elements, the impending destruction of the ship, and the doleful lamentations of the desponding crew, appeared to me to denote more than human courage. I gazed with secret awe at a being that seemed to be delighted with a spectacle, which made every hair of my head rise like bristles.

‘At length the flashes of lightning grew fainter, the roaring of the thunder less violent, and the fury of the winds seemed to be exhausted; but the sea continued to be agitated in so dreadful a manner, that we apprehended the cables would not be able to stand the motion of the ship any longer. In vain did we implore human assistance by the discharge of our guns, the towering waves threatening destruction to the boats that attempted to come to our relief.

“In vain will human force endeavour to wage the unequal contest against all-powerful nature!” I exclaimed when I beheld that desponding sight. Alumbrado turned round. “I will tame the fury of these foaming waves, if you will promise to return to Lis*on!” I gazed at him in speechless astonishment. “I am in earnest,” he resumed, “will you return to Lis*on?” “If I will?” I replied, “If I will? how can you ask me that question? enable me to do it!” Alumbrado left me without returning an answer.

‘A few minutes after he returned. “You will, presently, behold a miracle,” he said, “but I must request you to tell nobody the author of it.”

‘I promised it, and the miracle ensued. The rolling 266b foaming sea grew calm and smooth. We went on shore, and found ourselves not farther than a day’s journey from Lis*on.

‘You see my friend, that a higher power, against which opposition would have been useless, has put a stop to my voyage. I have related the history of it without making any comments, and leave it to your own judgment to form a just opinion of it. As for me, I am convinced that I have at length found the man whom my boding soul has long been in search of.’

This letter astonished me to the highest degree, and, at the same time, augmented my apprehensions very much. In my answer I declared neither for nor against Alumbrado’s supernatural power, because I neither chose to confirm the Duke in his belief in it, nor to risk losing his confidence; for how could I have expected to receive farther intelligence of his connection with Alumbrado, if I had been deprived of the latter? and yet it was of the utmost importance to me to learn every transaction of that designing man.

Notwithstanding this precaution, near a month elapsed without my having received an answer to my letter. I wrote a second time to him, but before his answer could reach me, was ordered by the King to return instantly, and to make an oral report of the issue of my commission. I was, therefore, obliged to depart without being able to wait the arrival of his letter.

I anticipated the pleasure of surprising him by my unexpected arrival, and went to his palace as soon as I arrived at Lis*on. He rather seemed surprised than pleased at the unexpected sight of me, asking with a kind of anxiety, whether I had received his last letter. When I answered in the negative he seemed to grow more easy, but adding, some time after, that it would be sent after me without delay, his brow began again to be overclouded. I was not much pleased with this behaviour, and begged him to relate to me the sequel of Alumbrado’s history, but he desired me to await the arrival of his letter, in which I should find a circumstantial account of it. In vain did I conjure him by the ties of our friendship to gratify my desire, and tried every art of persuasion in order to get the wished for information. He always evaded my questions, and frequently betrayed strong marks of uneasiness. Displeased with this reserve and mysterious behaviour, I took leave with evident coolness.

The two following days elapsed without our seeing each other. I must not forget to mention, that I received, the second day after my arrival, a letter from an unknown hand. When I opened the cover, I found a second sealed letter along with the following lines which were directed to me:

“Tomorrow you will receive a visit of an old acquaintance, to whom you will have the kindness to deliver the inclosed letter. But if he should not have made his appearance on the day after to-morrow, you may open the letter, which will give you farther information.”

I could guess neither the writer of the note, nor who that old acquaintance could be.

The day following I received the Duke’s letter, which had been sent after me. I opened it with impatience, and read the following lines:

“It appears more and more probable to me, my friend, that Alumbrado has raised the tempest that threatened to prove fatal to me, in order to punish me for my disobedience to his advice. For should he, who can subdue the billowing waves, not also be able to agitate them? You may say whatever you choose, a supernatural power must have been concerned in that event, and who is capable to fix its extention, its limits? My father and myself venerate Alumbrado as a worker of miracles ever since that event, although he strives to hide himself behind the pious cloak of humility.

“O! why was Alumbrado not present when that tempest raged which deprived me of my Amelia? He would have saved her, and all the gods of earth would envy me for my felicity. The Irishman has cheated me of every earthly blessing, by not fulfilling his promise.

“Concerning the Irishman, Alumbrado has given me a very extraordinary hint. ‘The Marquis of F*’ said he, ‘is undoubtedly right when he maintains, that God never intrusts an impostor with the power of working miracles. He is however mistaken, if he thinks the speaking phantom, which Hiermanfor made appear at the church-yard, had been nothing else but a natural deception; no one will ever persuade me that it is possible to effect any thing of that kind by natural means. Effected by mere natural means, you will say, and yet no miracle? certainly not; for cannot Hiermanfor have deluded you by the assistance of the father of lies? I will not explain my opinion on that head more at large, yet I think the Irishman is an hypocritical villain, who carries on a wicked trade. One ought to congratulate you, that your good principles deterred him from initiating you in his shocking mysteries. It was not without reason that he accused you of want of self-subsistence and resolution, for a dreadful degree of firmness of soul is required for joining in a contract whereby mortal men bid defiance to the great eternal Ruler of the world. However your better genius watched over you, and although you have been entangled a long time in the bonds of wickedness, yet he has delivered you from those snares before they were tied indissolubly. You ought to be thankful to the mercy of the God of love, and to be on your guard in future. If you should meet with men who perform supernatural works, you may easily find out what sort of people they are; if they deal in lies and imposition, they belong to the kingdom of darkness, but if truth and justice is sacred to them, they are children of light. If you had examined the Irishman after this standard, you would have fled with terror from the apparition of the church-yard, and he would never have succeeded in entangling you in an undertaking which has deprived the King of Spa*n of his lawful crown. The doctrine and the principles of the Irishman ought to have rendered him suspected to you. He endeavoured to point out to you the reason as the only infallible instructor and 267b guide, at the expence of faith, and at the same time strove to confound that very reason by artful and fallacious conclusions, as the Marquis of F* has demonstrated in a masterly manner. The Irishman was very careful not to make you reflect on the limits of reason and the power of men, because a genius like you would easily have concluded how much we are in want of divine illumination and grace; and it was his chief aim to remove the light of religion, because his works required being covered by delusive mists. You will never have seen him frequent the church, nor perform religious rites, will never have heard him pronounce certain sacred names. I know that sort of people, who are so much the more dangerous, the more they are skilled in concealing their real shape behind deceiving masks. The spreading libertinism, and the furious rage of explaining every thing naturally, threatens indeed to suspend the belief in the existence, nay even in the possibility of miracles and sorcery, however they have not ceased notwithstanding that. The opinions of men may alter, but things will remain as they are. The same Omnipotence that in times of old has led the Israelites through the red sea, manifests itself still in our days through signs and miracles, although they are not acknowledged as such by the blind multitude. The same reprobated spirit that spoke formerly through the oracle of Delphos, and by whose assistance Simon the magician performed extraordinary feats, is still active in our present times.

“Is it therefore, improbable that men who by their superior sanctity rise above the generality, and connect themselves more intimately with the Godhead, should resemble the Supreme Being in power, and enjoy an immediate influence of the Ruler of the world? Is it so very incomprehensible that the spirit of darkness should favour those who resemble him in wickedness, and endow their inclination of perpetrating wicked deeds with a physical power of executing their diabolical designs? People of either description will, indeed, always rarely be met with; superstition will mistake as such many who do not belong to that class, yet who can prove that they do not exist at all? I am, certainly, no enemy to reason, however I conceive it to be not less absurd obstinately to reject whatever is miraculous, than to believe it blindly. I esteem eason while it does not overstep the limits to which it is confined, as the Marquis of F* has justly observed, nor attempts to expel faith. There are supernatural things, sacred truths, which the former never can comprehend, being reserved only for the latter. Faith is hailed by noontide light, even where reason finds nothing but midnight darkness. While the latter proceeds slowly, and with uncertain steps, through a mazy labyrinth of conclusions and arguments, the former enjoys a clear immediate sight of truth, and experiences all the strength of its evidence.

(To be continued.)

HAPPINESS.

Happiness is more sought after, and with much greater avidity, than any other blessing with which this terraqueous ball is supposed is be endued. Yet, notwithstanding the eagerness with which it is pursued, none has been less substantially obtained. The reason is obvious. Mankind are dissatisfied with their respective situations in life, and content dwells not in their bosoms: their minds are satiated with what they possess; new objects hardly delight for a moment, ere fresh ones present themselves; and man, unthinking creature as he is, follows the airy phantom, promising himself perfect happiness, can he but attain another wish; but which, when acquired, proves, alas! like the former, the visionary satisfaction of an instant.

Content constitutes continual happiness; for with that sweet companion, the peasant is greater than a prince destitute of the benign blessing. The glittering, gaudy tinsel of a court, is unable to convey that real happiness to man, which the honest rustic feels at the sweet lispings of his innocent babes, and the heartfelt welcome of a faithful wife as they greet his return every evening from a hard day’s toil. Surrounded by this happy group, he sits down, breaks the bread of virtuous industry, blesses Him who gave him strength to earn the scanty meal, and lays down on the pallet of penury in peace, to arise with the morn to labour and to happiness. This life he enjoys, because he aspires to nothing above that sphere in which it has pleased Omnipotence to place him.

How few, even in any state, do we find happy? Alas! the number is by far too few. To the improper pursuit after happiness, can we only attribute the misery of mankind; daily, nay even hourly, do we see dread examples of this serious truth. But where is the eye that has not beheld, the mind that has not felt, or the heart that has not pitied, some object who has, in grasping at the shadow of happiness, lost the substance; whether it has met the observation as a culprit at the bar of a criminal court, a lunatic, a beggar, a deluded female, or a debtor in the dreary mansion of a prison? Where is the tongue but must confess, that they have lost their probity, their reason, their independence, their virtue, or their liberty, in an improper pursuit after happiness? However wrong their ideas might be, that, and that only, was the aim.

It will be asked, and with great propriety, what remedy we should apply for the prevention or cure of such an unremitting disease? We can only recommend content; not merely as the interest, but the duty of mankind. For, if man repines, at whom is it? It is at Him who in mercy infinite made man. There are few, it is presumed, if they consider this serious and important truth, who will not cease to murmur and be discontented; or they must, at least, cease to offend the Almighty, by repeating those words which his beloved Son himself hath taught us, saying, “thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.”

Of the GENIUS of the ARABS.

Arabia has ever been as celebrated for horses of a gentle, generous spirit, as the Arabs for their skill in training them. That this praise is not undeserved, nothing can more clearly illustrate, I conceive, than the following incident, recounted by an English gentleman, whose credit and repute are well known among his countrymen in Bengal.

Temporarily resident at Bussorah, after a trading voyage to the Gulph of Persia, Mr. T—— went, one afternoon, to pay a visit at the English factory. Whilst the Chief, with several other gentlemen besides himself, were drinking coffee in a balcony, an Arab, gallantly mounted, and his horse superbly caparisoned, galloped into the courtyard: there, for some time, he exercised his steed, displayed perfect address in the manege, curvetting, prancing, volting, wheeling, and caprioling his courser, with inimitable grace, and as much expertness in the easy management of his arms, darting a spear in the air, and recovering it again at full tilt, with other feats, equally dexterous and entertaining.

Unluckily, however, for the poor fellow, in crossing a bank and ditch, leading from the area to an adjacent field, the horse, being fatigued, fell down, and threw his rider headlong in the dust. A stream of blood gushed, at the same time, from the creature’s nostrils, and he lay extended and motionless on the ground. The Arab seemed stunned by the fall; but at length recovering, shook his ears, brushed the dust from his cloaths, replaced his turban, and approached his horse.

But no man nor pencil can express the anguish and affliction conspicuous in the man’s countenance, on beholding the animal lie in that condition. At first he raved and screamed, in a delirium of agony; then bursting into tears, kissed and embraced his horse, bewailing and bemoaning his loss in all the excess of despondency. So animated, indeed, appeared his grief, and so deep his distress, as to inspire a sympathetic affection in the bosoms of all the spectators.

The gentlemen instantly called him up, and learning that the horse had been bred from a colt in his house, and was the only support (as the man served as a monthly Sepahi in the Bashaw’s army) of his father, mother, himself, his wife, and three small children, and that the loss now deprived the whole of subsistence, they humanely raised a handsome contribution for him, immediately among themselves and their dependents, and, giving the man the money, bid him be comforted, and go and buy another horse.

With effusions of the most lively gratitude, yet not unaccompanied by sighs and sobs, the man received the bounty, and once more repaired, dejectedly, towards his horse, in order, as it should seem, to take off the trappings and furniture. But no sooner had the wily Arab repassed the ditch, than, at a word, the horse started up; the master vaulted upon his back, and rode away full speed, laughing aloud at the credulity of his staring and astonished dupes, and at the success of his own contrivance.

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Concluded from our last.)

Be consoled that our hearts are not tainted with evil, and that the consciousness of never committing aught offensive to innocence, hangs like a friendly shade around us, to blunt the pointed arrows of adversity. Fatigue at length overpowered the veteran, and he died under a holly tree. A tributary tear of gratitude fell from me, but I quickly supprest my feelings, and envied him his fate. The minister of the parish was a good man, and had him interred. When the rustics retired who had attended the funeral, I seated myself by the sod which covered the remains of my last friend, how often did I raise my eyes to heaven, and beseech the Supreme to take me to eternal peace. I continued lost in gloomy reveries till night surrounded me, I arose with an intention of proceeding to the next hamlet. As I walked slow and pensive, my ears were struck by a soft voice familiar to them, which came from a flower-woven arbour on the road side. I listened attentively, it was the voice of my child, amazed, doubting my own senses, I crept to the spot. She was singing a little air, which had once been a favourite of mine, there is no describing the melancholy melody with which she sung it; she was often interrupted by sighs, and her hands were raised to wipe away her tears, the beams of the moon shone around us, affording sufficient light to discern every object. She turned around and perceived me, the paleness and agony of my countenance terrified her, “Gracious Heaven!” cried she, “what do I behold?” “A miserable old man,” I exclaimed, “whose heart is broken by ingratitude and grief.” She shrieked, she would have fled, but her limbs aided not her intention, fainting she sunk at my feet, I knelt beside her, I clasped her with a kind of phrenzy to my breast, called upon her to revive, and bless a father who never ceased to regret her loss, she opened her eyes, “Alas! I am unworthy of such tenderness,” “No, my child, mercy is the sweetest attribute of heaven, to err, the weakness of humanity.” Her head fell upon my shoulder, I wept with her, my heart seemed breaking, at that moment comfort seemed fled from both for ever. By degrees I calmed her agitation, “Alas!” said she, “was it in search of such a wretch you came? oh! my father, how could I ever forget thy precepts, or deviate from the path in which you brought me up, but if penitence and remorse can palliate error, mine is lessened, from the moment of error I have been superlatively wretched, and incessantly looked back to regret that peace which can only result from unsullied innocence.” A thousand times the dear unhappy girl knelt at my feet, to implore my forgiveness, I as often assured her she had obtained it.

“Though peace and innocence,” said I, “shall no more brighten my cottage, yet pity and repentance shall render it not an unpleasing asylum, but may some signal punishment from heaven, fall upon the author of your wrongs.”

The shocks my Patty had experienced preyed upon her life, unceasing anguish like a worm in the bud, fed on her damask cheek, the glow of health, the fire of imagination, and the animation of youth were fled, and a deep melancholy seized the soul of my child, she in whom my life was wrapt, whom I had nourished with so much tenderness, lay expiring before me, like a blossom immaturely blighted, I attended her in dumb despair. A few moments before she died, she thus spoke, “Alas my father, I have overwhelmed you with sorrow, regret me not, let not those tears fall on my account, in this world all must have been misery, the blackness of despair, I go, blessed by thy forgiveness, and the promise which scripture holds out of penitence meeting mercy, a broken and contrite heart is acceptable.” Her hands were extended, her eyes closed, and she expired. The power who supported me in such trials, pardoned the first delirium of grief, in the days of my felicity I had pictured to myself such scenes of bliss, I looked forward to a prattling progeny, who would be the comfort of my old age.

“How desultory are the schemes of man, he lays plans of permanent felicity, when the whirlwind of affliction arrives, and destroys the towering edifice of creative hope.

“After those occurrences, my mind was too perturbed to allow me to attend to the duties of my function, I surrendered my living, left that part of the country, and retired to this spot, where unknown and unmolested, I may brood over my losses, and where I frequently picture to myself the terminating scene.”

Exquisite were the sensations of grief and horror, which this little tale excited in our breasts; to my feelings was added a painful degree of surprise from the name of Mordaunt, I enquired, though in accents of dread and hesitation, and learned he was the destroyer of Hume’s happiness.

Our visits were frequently repeated to the cottage of the unfortunate old man, to me they were inexpressibly soothing, from kindred grief there was derived a congenial sympathy.

Two years had rolled away since my retirement in Harley’s cottage, when I was called down one morning to a gentleman in the parlour, my heart trembled at the summons, and my tottering limbs could scarcely support me to the spot. A stranger in deep mourning met my view, I gazed attentively on him, and recollected the features of my brother, grief had so altered my form, so worn away all traces of my former self, that he knew me not, till my weak voice pronounced his name.

“Ah my sister,” cried he, “think not your brother could ever forget your gentle worth, could ever think you deserving of censure, or like the world be biassed by misfortune to forget you, a father’s interdiction prevented me ere this, visiting your retreat, that father no longer exists to oppose my intentions, he died convinced of your innocence, and breathing wishes for your felicity. Harland, the penitent Harland is no more, sensible of the injustice he had done you, he acknowledged his cruelty, 270 and has by his death, restored you to fame, to fortune, and to your child.”

I wept as my brother spoke—my heart was opprest by a variety of emotions, and my gloomy soul turned to the untimely grave of Harland—my brother conjectured my feelings—“I see” cried he, “from what a mingled source your tears flow, but ah my sister, in this life happiness must ever receive some alloy.”

His consolations strengthened my reason in combating grief—I reflected that even if Harland lived, to me he must have been lost, since after the unfortunate rencontre between him and my husband, a connection with him would have confirmed an invidious world in every idea they had formed prejudicial to me.

He was soon struck by the charms and innocent simplicity of Louisa, her heart returned his partiality, and I had the happiness of witnessing their union.

Their happiness, the education of my child, and self-exertion, roused me from the lethargy of grief, and diffused a calm over my mind I never hoped to have experienced.

THE SCHOOL OF NATURE.

Nature presents to the imagination an inexhausted fund of rational amusement. To contemplate the inimitable works of creation, is no less instructive than pleasing. Animate as well as inanimate objects afford an abundance of entertaining ideas, equally calculated to raise in the souls of human beings the most unfeigned offerings of wonder, gratitude, and praise. The gaiety of spring, the smiles of summer, the fecundity of autumn, and the dreariness of winter, all combine to celebrate the Author of universal existence. From the most curious and precious earthly substance, down to the simplest blade of herbage, a granery is opened to satisfy the desires of, and impart delight to, rational mortals. But, notwithstanding the innumerable blessings conferred on man from above, if we attentively mark the conduct of the majority of individuals, painful as it may be to our own feelings, or those of every contemplative, virtuous, and sensible person, how few are those to be found, who are truly thankful for the mercies they enjoy? How few, indeed, who acknowledge the goodness of an omnipotent and omniscient Being! They live as if they were indebted to none for their life or their enjoyments. Unthankful and ungenerous man! why art thou so impious as to forget that incumbent gratitude, and that graceful duty, which thou 270b owest to thy heavenly Father? Why trample on every moral obligation? why shun the precepts of pious Wisdom, and the dictates of impartial Conscience? Rouze thyself from the torpor which now envelopes thee, and learn to be thankful for those blessings which thou dost assuredly receive from above; and, in the words of the late pious Mr. Addison, testify thy acknowledgments—

Let not any one think it beneath him, or in the smallest degree derogatory to his character or sphere in life, however learned, opulent, and exalted, he may be, to retire occasionally from the bustle of the world, and to meditate in some calm and undisturbed recess, the perfections of his Maker, and the works of his hands. Believe me, the most refined pleasures are to be derived from such innocent, delightful, and laudable pursuits. The magnificent and wonderful objects of the celestial, and the curiosity and variety of the vegetable world, as well as the formation of all animals, reptiles, insects, and other productions of Nature, have properties which, if accurately viewed, yield inconceivable astonishment to the beholder. When spring, for example, returns with all it’s native beauties, as succeeding the gloomy aspect and forbidding horrors of winter; when it teems with a matchless splendour and magnificence; when its green hues and universal verdure come forth in all their pristine elegance, and enchanting attractions; and the birds warble and attune in sprightly attitudes, their respective notes, even then they are almost always either forgotten or disregarded; even then men neglect to thank the Author of life and happiness, the source of every distributive blessing. What culpable negligence is this, in rational and accountable beings! O that man would attend with docility to these important truths, and frequently reflect on the revolving seasons of the year, and the School of Nature, which would afford him an endless variety of useful and instructive lessons; and, in an iminent degree, furnish a convincing and happy demonstration of the wisdom, power, and goodness, of the Creator.

ANECDOTE.

Charles the Second asking the famous Bishop Stillingfleet, how it came to pass, that although he was informed he always preached without book elsewhere, yet he always read his Sermons before the Court? The Bishop replied, that the awe of so wise an audience, where he saw nothing that was not greatly superior to himself, made him afraid to trust his memory. “But will your majesty (continued Stillingfleet) permit me to ask you a question in my turn?---Why do you read your Speeches, when you can have no such reasons?”---“Why, truly, Doctor, (said the King) your question is a very pertinent one, and so shall be my answer.---I have asked the Parliament so often, and for so much money, that I am afraid to look them in the face.”

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

OBSERVATION.

“Qui capit ille facit.”

“Giving advice unasked,” says Lord Chesterfield, “is a piece of rudeness; it is, in effect, declaring ourselves wiser than these to whom we give it; reproaching them with ignorance and inexperience. It is a freedom that ought not to be taken with any common acquaintance.” Notwithstanding, there are those who assume the place of preceptors, not only to their familiars, but to those with whom they have no particular acquaintance, nor can claim the least pretence to superiority.

There is also another class of people who render themselves insufferably disgusting, by a kind of blind raillery, which they employ against some person present: to whom they offer the most unpardonable insults, without saying any thing in particular that can properly be resented.

An instance of both these characters I met with, not long since, in a gentleman whom I chanced to fall in company with: and as I perceived his observations were altogether levelled at me, I shall not hesitate to offer a few remarks thereon; and, in my turn, propose a word of instruction to those who may be guilty of the like errors. Should they wish to convince any one of his faults, on honourable grounds, let them, without reserve, address the immediate person intended, with freedom and candour: for they may be assured that open reproof is better than covert insults. “Poisoned arrows,” (to use the words of a celebrated author, on another occasion) “and stabs in the dark, are not more repugnant to the laws of Humanity” than “this battery of” indirect sarcasm. Reflections, thus obliquely delivered, though clothed in the “mildest language,” give to persons of discernment and spirit “sensible” offence. Every body knows that the provokingest things are frequently uttered in the ironic style; and it is quite as certain, that the acutest sting often lurks under the softest expressions. The dagger becomes not less keen for being polished.

ETHICUS.

New-York, October 6, 1796.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CHURCH YARD.

A Fragment.

******I walked into the Church-Yard, and placed myself near a grave that had been newly dug, in order to take a view of the different characters that approached.

—The body was deposited in the place appointed. The mourners stood near the clergyman, as he read the service. The father of the departed held a handkerchief in his hand, which he alternately applied to each eye, for the purpose of wiping off the briney tear; for they were abundantly surcharged therewith. His eye was fixed on the coffin; now it reverted to the minister: again it fell to the ground in hopeless sorrow.

The uncle next caught my attention; he also held a handkerchief in his hand.---But for the life of me I could not tell for what, unless it was that fashion demanded it. His sorrow appeared to reside no where but in his dress: and I must say, he was in no wise deficient in that point. I could not perceive that he took the least notice of the ceremony; his attention was more occupied on the things of this world. I imagined he was taking the model of a house that stood near; and it surprised me not a little that he did not take out his pocket-book, in order to note it.

In the countenance of the divine was depicted humility---It was with solemnity he fulfilled his office.

The people were departing; but the sincere mourner was still standing by the grave. The uncle had reached the gate; but suddenly he arrested his steps: he missed his fellow, and returned. He pulled out his handkerchief again, and when he stood along side his brother applied it to his eyes!——

——Shame on the hypocrite!

L. B.

October 14, 1796.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 30th ult. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Choate, to Mrs. Sarah Young, widow of the late Mr. Ebenezer Young, all of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. John Juland, Mr. Christopher Dunn, late of Yorkshire, England, to Mrs. Nancy Ferris, of Throgs Neck.

On Thursday evening the 9th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Goodhue, Mr. Elias Brevoort to Miss Margaret Painter, both of this city.

A few evenings since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. John Doubleday, Printer, to Mrs. Odell, both of this city.

The transcriber is sorry to say that “John Doubleday, printer,” appears to have no connection with the publisher of the same name.

SENSATION AND PERCEPTION.

A THOUGHT.

LAVINIA.

A PASTORAL.

A JEU D’ESPRIT.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

The ART of HAPPINESS.

Almost every object that attracts our notice, has its bright and its dark side. He who habituates himself to look at the displeasing side, will sour his disposition, and, consequently, impair his happiness; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensibly meliorates his temper, and, in consequence of it, improves his own happiness, and the happiness of all about him.

Arachne and Melissa are two friends. They are, both of them, women in years, and alike in birth, fortune, education, and accomplishments. They were originally alike in temper too; but, by different management, are grown the reverse of each other. Arachne has accustomed herself to look on the dark side of every object. If a new poem or play makes its appearance with a thousand brilliances and but one or two blemishes, she slightly skims over the passages that should give her pleasure, and dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you shew her a very excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery which has been neglected, or to a hand or finger which has been left unfinished. Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and elegancy: but, if you take a walk with her in it, she talks to you of nothing but blights and storms, of snails and caterpillars, and how impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves and worm-carts. If you sit down in one of her temples, to enjoy a delightful prospect, she observes to you, that there is too much wood, or too little water; that the day is too sunny, or too gloomy: that it is sultry, or windy; and finishes with a long harangue upon the wretchedness of our climate.—When you return with her to the company, in hopes of a little chearful conversation, she casts a gloom over all, by giving you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy accident that has befallen one of her daughter’s children. Thus she insensibly sinks her own spirits, and the spirits of all around her; and, at last, discovers, she knows not why, that her friends are grave.

Melissa is the reverse of all this. By constantly habituating herself to look only on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual chearfulness in herself, which, by a kind of happy contagion, she communicates to all 273b about her. If any misfortune has befallen her, she considers it might have been worse, and is thankful to Providence for an escape. She rejoices in solitude, as it gives her an opportunity of knowing herself; and in society, because she can communicate the happiness she enjoys. She opposes every man’s virtues to his failings, and can find out something to cherish and applaud in the very worst of her acquaintance. She opens every book with a desire to be entertained or instructed, and therefore seldom misses what she looks for. Walk with her, though it be on a heath or a common, and she will discover numberless beauties, unobserved before, in the hills, the dales, the brooms, brakes, and the variegated flowers of weeds and poppies. She enjoys every change of weather, and of season, as bringing with it something of health or convenience. In conversation, it is a rule with her never to start a subject that leads to any thing gloomy or disagreeable. You therefore never hear her repeating her own grievances, or those of her neighbours or, what is worst of all, their faults or imperfections. If any thing of the latter kind be mentioned in her hearing, she has the address to turn it into entertainment, by changing the most odious railing into a pleasant raillery.

Thus Melissa, like the bee, gathers honey from every weed; while Arachne, like the spider, sucks poison from the fairest flowers. The consequence is, that, of two tempers once very nearly allied, the one is ever sour and dissatisfied, the other always gay and chearful; the one spreads an universal gloom, the other a continual sunshine.

There is nothing more worthy of our attention, than this art of happiness. In conversation, as well as life, happiness, very often depends upon the slightest incidents. The taking notice of the badness of the weather, a North-East wind, approach of winter, or any trifling circumstance of the disagreeable kind, shall infallibly rob a whole company of its good-humour, and fling every member of it into the vapours. If, therefore, we would be happy in ourselves, and are desirous of communicating that happiness to all about us, these minutiæ of conversation ought carefully to be attended to. The brightness of the sky, the lengthening of the day, the increasing 274 verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of good news, or whatever carries with it the most distant glimpse of joy, shall frequently be the parent of a social and happy conversation. Good-manners exact from us this regard to our company. The clown may repine at the sunshine that ripens the harvest, because his turnips are burnt up by it; but the man of refinement will extract pleasure from the thunder-storm to which he is exposed, by remarking on the plenty and refreshment which may be expected from the succeeding shower.

Thus does politeness, as well as good sense, direct us to look at every object on the bright side; and, by thus acting, we cherish and improve both. By this practice it is, that Melissa is become the wisest and best-bred woman living; and, by this practice, may every person arrive at that agreeableness of temper, of which the natural and never-failing fruit is Happiness.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 267.)

The period is however arrived, when men begin to abandon themselves exclusively to the cold speculations of reason, and this fatal maxim manifests itself but too evidently in the practical life. Rarely any thing is undertaken before it is pondered and weighed most anxiously with a pusillanimous minuteness. And this is one of the chief causes of the present scarcity of great and striking actions. The sacred flame of enthusiasm extinguishes, and every energy of soul dies away along with it. While reason wastes her whole strength in barren speculations, the demands and wants of our heart remain unsatisfied, a kind of insensibility deals upon us, the mind grows pusillanimous, and all noble passions are suffocated. No, no! this is no age in which great geniuses can thrive! Reasoning has produced but very few immortal deeds; faith, however, although it should have been only the faith of man in his natural abilities, has frequently rendered impossible possible.—If so, what miracles will faith in the assistance of an omnipotent being, be able to perform? The first King of Portugal has given us the most glorious proof of the truth of this assertion: he went, as you know from history, with four thousand men against the infidels, and was opposed by five kings with four hundred thousand Moors. Terror and dismay seized his little army at this sight; however the celebrated apparition through which God promised him the victory over his enemies, revived the broken spirit of his troops. And what else but faith in this promise could have made him risk and gain a battle, in which one man had to encounter an hundred?”

“My dear Marquis, I have been interrupted again by the visit of a great prelate, and, with your permission, shall communicate to you the substance of what he has told me. The Jews, he said, have, as you will 274b know, offered to the new Regent, on his accession to the throne, to pay a great sum of money to him, if he would grant them liberty to live and to trade in the country as external Christians, without being persecuted by the Inquisition. It would have been highly advantageous to religion, if this liberty had been granted to the Jews; for although they should have visited the Christian churches at first only for form’s sake, and observed only the external rites of worship, yet many would have been edified, and convinced of the truth of Christianity so irresistibly, that they would have seriously embraced the Christian religion. The Inquisitors themselves have intimated this to the King. However the ————, I do not know how to call him, who cares little for the propagation of faith, has refused to grant this petition of the Jews. The Inquisition has informed the Pope of it; and the holy father, who as yet has refused to acknowledge his royal authority, will now have an additional reason for not confirming the usurped dignity of a free thinker, who injures the interest of the church whenever opportunity offers. I have, however, great reason to suspect that our new King foments these dissensions designedly, for some horrid purpose. Not contented with having alienated the nation from their lawful Sovereign, he also endeavours to obtain an opportunity of alienating them from the chief of the church. O Marquis! O Duke! what gloomy prospects for all those who are resolved to live and to die in the religion of their ancestors.

“Stop,” the Marquis exclaimed, “he shall not dare to carry matters to that point; by heaven, he shall not.” My father had not yet ceased giving vent to his indignation, when the other prelate, whom I mentioned in my last letter, joined us. The two prelates were rejoiced to see each other, and concealed their sentiments so little from each other, that they both avowed their opinions of the new King without the least reserve. ‘I cannot conceive how you,’ said he, who had joined us, turning to my father and me, ‘who are sprung from royal blood, can submit to the humiliation of obeying a usurper, who will do every thing in his power to humble your family as much as possible. Don’t you perceive that he confers the highest dignities on other people, while he, out of a cowardly policy, keeps his nearest relations at a distance, and in profound submission? The King of Spa—n knows your merits, and is capable of rewarding them properly. Who would not rather hold an important office under the greatest Monarch, than live in inactivity and obscurity, under the most insignificant King in Europe? These are the sentiments of many nobles who are still firmly attached to their old lawful Sovereign.’

“Dear Marquis, my heart is deeply afflicted, and strange ideas are crossing my head. What must I do? Alumbrado says nothing, but commit every thing to the paternal care of God.

“To day I received your letter, in which you reproach me for my long silence. I am, however, not sorry that my letter, which I wanted to send eight days ago, has been kept back through negligence, for now I shall be able to conclude it with the relation of a most extraordinary incident.

“I used for some time to visit every evening our favourite spot before the town, which always attracted me very much, partly by its natural charms, and partly by the undisturbed solitude one enjoys there. On the left side, a chain of hills, that form a beautiful group; on the right, a wood, inclosing the extensive plain, and in the middle the prospect of the distant blue mountains. You know what an enchanting effect that spot produces, particularly at sun-set; and thither I took a walk every evening. The way to that charming place is decorated with the ruins of an old chapel, which partly is surrounded with a half decayed wall. Approaching those ruins last evening, I saw Alumbrado step forth with hasty paces. ‘Stop!’ he exclaimed, ‘do you know that you will be a dead man if you proceed a step farther?’ Alumbrado’s unexpected appearance, his intelligence, and the seriousness of his countenance convulsed my nerves. ‘A dead man?’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes!’ said he, ‘did I not foretell you that the King would vent his resentment against you? If you go fifty steps farther, you will bleed under the hands of his banditti. You stare at me,’ he continued. ‘If you wish to be convinced of it, then follow me into the chapel, and let us change cloaths; I shall pursue this path, wrapt in your cloak, and the hired assassins will fall upon me, under the mistaken notion that I am the person whom they have been ordered by the King to assassinate. If you will ascend to the top of this turret, you may witness the whole scene.’ I shuddered with horror, and peremptorily refused to submit to it. ‘You need not to be under the least apprehension for my life,’ he replied. ‘All that I desire of you is to make no noise when you see me fall, but to go quietly home without mentioning to any one what you will have seen. We shall meet again at your house.’ All my objections availed nothing; we exchanged our dress, he saw me to the top of the turret, and left me. I pursued him with anxious looks and beating heart.

“Alumbrado had scarcely reached the skirts of the wood, when I heard the report of a pistol, and saw him drop down, upon which three ruffians darted forth from the bushes, gave him some stabs, and carried him into the wood. I staggered down the narrow staircase by which I had ascended the turret, and went home, thrilled with emotions that surpass all power of description. I sat up till after midnight, but no Alumbrado came; however, at six o’clock he entered my apartment. I cannot describe what I felt on seeing him. He was unhurt, but nevertheless I staggered back at the sight of him. ‘Alumbrado!’ said I, after a pause of dumb astonishment, ‘do I really see you alive after the scene my eyes have witnessed last night?’ ‘Pistols and daggers,’ he replied, ‘cannot hurt the man who is under the immediate protection of God. Come,’ added he, ‘let us go to your father.’

“I related to my parent the incident of the preceding night. He seemed to be petrified. The cruel villainy of the King, and the supernatural power of Alumbrado, appeared to have carried him beyond himself; the thanks which he wanted to offer to the latter for the preservation of my life, and curses against the King, hovered 275b at the same time on his lips; but he could not speak.

“Let us take a walk in the garden,” Alumbrado said. We went; but I shall not repeat the conversation that took place. Yet I do not think that Alumbrado has added fuel to the fire. ‘The Duke of B——a,’ said he, ‘is King and accountable to no other tribunal but that of God. No mortal dare lift up his hand against him without the express command of God or his Vicegerent. I have received no such order, and I think you neither. All that you can do is to be on your guard against the King, and to mention to no one the villainous transaction of last night. Will you promise this? Your own safety requires it.’ We promised it.

“I could not help manifesting my astonishment at Alumbrado’s wonderful preservation. ‘Do you then think,’ said he, ‘that only those who are leagued with the spirit of darkness are proof against fire-arms and swords, and that the children of light do not enjoy that privilege? I will give you a proof of it; send for a gun and balls, here is powder.’ So saying, he produced the powder horn which I had missed some days. ‘You have,’ added he, ‘either lost it or it has been stolen, for I have found it in the hands of the banditti.’ ‘What are you going to do with balls and a gun?’ My father asked with marks of astonishment. ‘That you shall see instantly,’ Alumbrado replied, ‘if you only will send for both.’ I ordered Pietro to fetch my fowling piece and a couple of balls out of my apartment. He returned with them, and Alumbrado whispered in my ear to send him out of the room. Having dismissed the servant, Alumbrado begged me to charge the gun, but previously to examine carefully the powder and the balls. I did as he had desired me, and the gun being charged, Alumbrado said to the Marquis; ‘Now take the gun, my Lord, and fire it at me.’ My father was almost petrified at this request, and having gazed at him a good while, with looks of astonishment, exclaimed: ‘No! I never shall do any thing of that kind!’ ‘Then you too are destitute of faith?’ Alumbrado said, looking up to heaven. ‘O God, how degenerated even the faithful adorers of thy son!’ ‘I have declined it out of no other motive,’ the Marquis replied, ‘but because I will not tempt the omnipotence of God.’ ‘The motive of my request is not temptation, but the glory of God,’ Alumbrado replied. If I fall, then I am a daring provoker of the Almighty, and deserve my fate; but if I remain unhurt, you will have reason to conclude that the power of God has warded off the ball, and know in what light to view me.’ So saying, he uncovered his breast, retreated three steps, and desired my father to fire.

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE.

A French nobleman one day visiting a late famous duke, a favourite little dog bit his lordship’s leg. “Fear nothing, my lord,” said the duke, “my dog never bites.” On which his lordship, knocking down the little animal with a violent blow of his cane, replied in the same tone of voice, “Fear nothing, my lord, I never beat dogs.”

THE PROVERBIALIST.

Home, is a place, either of happiness or misery. In my book of experimental wisdom, I find a number of most excellent remarks, which, if remembered, and reduced to practice, I am confident may be of service to families.

Every person has some failings: Perfection is not to be looked for in the present world. A great attention in husband and wife, to the failings of each other, has a direct tendency to destroy or embitter domestic enjoyments.

The ancients, sensible of this gave good advice, when they said that, “The husband should hot see, and the wife should be blind.” And it is evident, that many things which transpire in a family, had better not be seen—if seen, not remembered, if remembered, yet not spoken of. Again, to render families happy, there must be, “In the husband wisdom, in the wife gentleness.” These are virtues indeed, which, when they meet, cause families to shine with a peculiar lustre. Again, “Those husbands are in heaven whose wives do not chide.” Certainly then, if it is in the power of the wife to put her husband into heaven, since she must be with him, and with him participate in all its joys, she will forever remember this excellent proverb.

A consideration of the unhappy condition of those families, wherein scolding is the principle employment, I should suppose would stimulate every woman to attend to the above remarks. Only hear what the Spaniards say, “Smoke, raining into a house, and a scolding wife, make a man run out of doors.”---The ladies will pardon me, I trust, for introducing this proverb, since it evidently implies, that a scolding wife alone, without rain and smoke, does not render a house so intolerable, but that a man, at least if he has a common share of patience, may possibly live in it.

Again, that house is highly ornamented, and that family has many enjoyments, in which the wife is as attentive to her domestic concerns, as is the husband to his abroad. No person was ever made for idleness, accordingly, it is positively affirmed in my book of wisdom, that “That is the best gown, which goes up and down the house.” If there be any women, who are unable to penetrate into the depth of this proverb, or to comprehend its profound wisdom, I will endeavour to explain it. As there are but a few gentlemen, whose finances are adequate to the supporting of a woman who feels herself above a personal attention to her family concerns, so in general, husbands are well pleased to see their wives suitably active in the house. Husbands in general, love their wives; and it gives them pleasure to see them blooming in health; and they know that the idle drone is always sick, or full of complaints.

Further, sometimes ladies, by doing nothing except eating of the honey, reduce their husbands to poverty, and we read that, “When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window,” and I add, misery comes in at every corner. It is best then to “Carry an even yoke.”

Pough! why am I always so severely berating the women? Every body knows they do not deserve it: And I assure the ladies that I have an affection for them. I am fearful that I have not well considered what I am about. It is well if I do not bring an “Old house about my ears.” From this time forward, on consideration they will pardon me for what I have already said, I solemnly promise that I will be more cautious; and no more proverbs shall come out respecting them, unless they come by accident.

Perhaps I shall make this lecture rather long, but I wish to give some advice to heads of families respecting their children. We read, that “Children are certain cares, but uncertain comforts.” They would, however, oftener be comforts, if they had not, as the ancients say, “Too much of their mothers blessing.” Alas! well it only came out edgwise, therefore I have not broken my promise.

To prove that I had no evil intention, I will bring one proverb greatly in favour of the ladies; “She spins well who breeds her children well;” and as every woman knows that she breeds her children well, so it is proved beyond all doubt, that every woman is a good house wife.

To be serious; set your children good examples. Be more anxious to make them virtuous, than to leave them rich. The Spaniards say, that “The father’s virtue is the best inheritance a son can have;” and if so, surely to make the son himself virtuous is to make him rich indeed. Again, “Leave your son a good reputation, and an employment.” This is good advice, for children trained up without virtue, and without employment, are fit only for the gallows. Again, “It is a bad house which has not an old man in it.” The meaning is, that every man who has a family, should have the soberness, gravity, and virtues of the aged.

Govern your children well, for we read that “He who cockers his child provides for his enemy,” and such a father will soon find the truth of the Spaniards assertion, viz. “The first service a bad child does his father is to make him a fool, and the second is to make him mad.”

Give your children good instructions; fear not a little expence, for “Better unborn than untaught.” And again, “If the brain sows not corn it plants thistles.” And depend on it, that thistles are prickly things to parents, when found in the hands of their children. See that you put good books into their hands; they are apt to get bad ones, and we read, that “An ill book is the work of thieves.” Be careful of what you say, in presence of your children. They catch words, as easily as examples, and tell things abroad, which may make your hearts ache, and every one will believe that, “The child tells nothing but what is heard by the fire side.”

The following proverb I do not like, yet I am fearful it is applicable in some instances, “The son full and tatter’d, the daughter empty and fine.” The son should not be tatter’d, nor the daughter empty. Parental distinctions are odious, and a source of bitterness and of endless contentions in families.

For sources, see the end of the final installment (pg. 293).

THE FATAL MISTAKE;
Or, the HISTORY of MR. ELLIOT.

[WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.]

As various conjectures will, most probably, be formed on my retirement from the world by those ignorant of the cause, and the particularity of my life will most likely occasion illiberal and ill-natured observations, I write the history of my misfortunes, ignorant into whose hands it may fall. Let who will become possessed of this manuscript, may it warn them from excess of passion, and especially from that destructive fiend, jealousy.

Born to the enjoyment of a large estate, my birth promised every happiness affluence could bestow: at ten years old my parents both died of a malignant fever: left to the care of a worthy man, I was not sensible of their loss. Mr. Osburn (for that was the name of my guardian) felt for me, as he has often acknowledged, the fondness of parental love. No event worth relating happened till I arrived at the age of fourteen, when a young nobleman came to Winchester, where I was placed; he was the only son of the Earl of Somerset. Distinguished by his rank, but more so by his merit, his sweetness of disposition attracted the love of the whole school, and his generosity demanded their admiration. For some time I was indifferent to all his amiable qualifications, ’till an accident happened which was the foundation of the most affectionate friendship. My master was very severe; I had left school one evening in order to steal apples from a neighbouring orchard, and had just reached the intended scene of action, when I saw Lord Edward Marchmont running towards me. As soon as he came within hearing, he cried out, “My dear Elliot, the doctor has discovered your absence, and threatens, unless he finds you within bounds, to punish you with the utmost severity; if you make haste, we may get round a back way into the play ground, before he comes from hunting over the college, and escape the old dog’s vigilance.” As I knew the doctor’s disposition, I complied with my friend’s proposal, and accordingly we gained the play ground just as our master appeared. Lord Edward pulled a volume of Homer out of his pocket, on which we were both looking when the doctor came softly behind us. Upon seeing our employment he was agreeably surprised, and applauded us for our conduct in terms of the greatest encouragement. This good natured action so effectually engaged my gratitude, that I was miserable if separated from him. We grew so fond of each other, that the whole school took notice of it; our affection increased with our years, and when the time came to leave school, both Lord Edward and myself begged we might be at the same university. Lord Somerset and Mr. Osburn consenting, we were again happy in the society of each other.

When we had been at Oxford about two years, Lord Somerset paid the debt of nature, and as my friend was now possessed of the title and fortune of his ancestors, he left Oxford, and entreated me to do the same. As the university had lost all its pleasures when my friend departed, 277b I wrote my determination to Mr. Osburn of following him; the good man would fain have persuaded me to stay longer, but I was not to be moved: I hastened to London, and according to promise flew to the house of my Edward, who introduced me with the most flattering character to Lady Somerset and his sister; the latter was the loveliest work of nature; joined to a form beautifully perfect, she had an engaging sensibility in her countenance that seldom accompanies beauty. That amiable Almena received me with the sweetest complacency, as the friend of her brother, whom she doated on: the mother of Lord Somerset likewise honoured me with the greatest marks of esteem, and for a length of time, I enjoyed every delight that perfect friendship could bestow, but, alas! I was soon fated to feel a reverse of fortune. My kind and indulgent guardian was taken suddenly ill; he sent for me, and I was obliged to leave Lord Somerset and his amiable family: the necessity of this absence discovered a secret I was willing to hide from myself: it was not the separation from my friend alone, that caused my grief, I found I loved his charming sister; the beautiful Almena haunted my imagination continually: my Edward’s penetration soon discovered the ill hid partiality, and one day taking me into his study, he addressed me as follows: “I am infinitely concerned at the cause of our separation, but I hope we shall soon meet again, by Mr. Osburn’s health being established; why do you appear so very wretched? Ah Frederick! you have not been ingenuous with me; why did you doubt my friendship? Have I ever given you cause to suspect my entire attachment to you? How then could you violate our regard by a doubtful concealment? Your secret had rested within this faithful breast had you desired it.” I would have spoke, but my feelings were too violent for expression. “Compose yourself,” continued he, “I will explain this painful silence; you love my sister; your eyes have fully exposed the feelings of your heart, and I am happy to think our friendship may be closely united by the tye of relations.” This unexpected eclaircissement elated me beyond idea; I eagerly embraced my amiable friend, and acknowledged the truth of his observations; “But, alas! Edward,” continued I, “shall I ever dare avow my love to your charming sister? What can the exalted Lady Almena Marchmont see in the poor Frederick Elliot? Will she not despise me for my presumption, and disdain a man who has nothing but a heart filled with her perfections to offer?” “And as great a share of merit,” interrupted my friend, “as ever fell to the lot of one mortal; fear not, Elliot, my sister has too much understanding to regard a man merely because he has a title, and in every other qualification you may pretend to a princess: Almena indeed has a mind capable of distinguishing your exalted virtues, and if I mistake not feels their full force.” “Flatter me not, my friend; I cannot dare not indulge the pleasing hope.” My noble Edward promised to do every good office in my absence, and I took leave of a family where my chief happiness was centered.

I reached the habitation of Mr. Osburn just time enough to take a last farewell; the violence of his disorder had left him very weak, and death made quick approaches to the excellent heart of this worthy man. I drew near his bed with the tenderest emotions, and taking his cold hand between mine; “My dearest sir, how painfully does this sight affect your Frederick! Ah that I could remove every pang far from you!” I could not restrain my tears: he faintly pressed my hand, and in a voice hardly articulate, he delivered himself as follows: “It pains me, my dear boy, to be obliged to part with you; but it is the decree of heaven, and I submit. I leave you, Frederick, in the possession of a large estate that was your father’s; to which I have added my own: I have no relations who stand in need of wealth, and to none can I give it whom I love like you. Remember it is virtue alone, that renders riches valuable. When you come to this solemn period, to which you must, may no bad action discompose your dying moments; you have an excellent heart and are in no danger of deviating from the narrow road of rectitude, but from the violence of your passions. Be careful to avoid every thing that may lead you into mistake and error. Farewel, my excellent boy; remember the last injunctions of a man who had a real affection for you.”

Articulation was stopped, and I could only express my sorrow by sighs and tears. The clergyman of the parish now came to Mr. Osburn, and I was obliged to leave him. He soon retired, and informed me that his friend was on the verge of eternity. When I entered Mr. Osburn’s chamber, I found him speechless; however by his motions he convinced me he was sensible. I embraced him in the greatest agony of grief; but, alas! he could not return it; he looked at me with expressive marks of affection, and gently breathed his last in my arms. I was for a few hours so totally absorbed in sorrow, that I hardly knew whether I myself existed; but youth and the appearance of my Edward, who, on hearing of my loss, flew to console me, had its usual influence, and I again recalled my thoughts from the grave of my guardian, to the world and society.

When I opened Mr. Osburn’s will, I found he had bequeathed to me the whole of his estate, which amounted to more than two thousand per annum, which joined to my paternal inheritance, made me possessed of eight thousand a year. My gratitude was infinitely excited by his generosity; and except a legacy of five hundred pounds to Mr. Harper, the clergyman I have mentioned, there was no other bequest. I paid the money immediately, and added a thousand pounds, as his family were large. Having settled my affairs, I left the abode of my late guardian, and accompanied Lord Somerset to town. The fair Almena and her amiable mother, received me with the utmost kindness, every thing in the power of these dear friends to dissipate my melancholy was exerted, and though I felt all the gratitude such a conduct excited yet could I not banish from my remembrance the good Mr. Osburn.

I was roused from my lethargy by Lady Almena’s having a declared lover. Lord Ashford was a nobleman of reputed worth, and I believe truly attached to my friend’s sister. Lady Somerset seemed to approve the proposed alliance; my Edward was silent, and Almena appeared unhappy. Thus were we situated when I was determined to lay aside every fearful apprehension, and declare my latent flame. I had soon after an opportunity of revealing the state of my heart to the fair cause of my anxiety. Lady Almena was one day writing in her brother’s study when I entered thinking he was there: she blushed and started; but seeing me about to retire, “Mr. Elliot,” said she, “my brother is from home, but as I have finished the note I was writing. I beg you will remain here ’till Lord Somerset comes back.” I again entered the room, and seated myself by her. She rung for a servant, to whom she delivered the note, and was going to retire, when I took her hand, and intreated her to hear me. She did not know in what manner to proceed. I threw myself at her feet, and in the most respectful terms, declared how much I loved her. She listened with polite attention, and casting her eyes upon the ground, appeared greatly agitated. I was all painful suspense. “Speak, lady Almena, continued I, pronounce my fate; perhaps you despise my too presumptuous passion; perhaps your heart is already engaged; the merits of Lord Ashford have met your approbation, and I am wretched.” “Sorry should I be,” replied the dear charmer, “if the sister of Lord Somerset could willingly make wretched the friend on whom an only brother doats: no, Mr. Elliot, I despise affectation as much as I do coquetry; be assured, sir, Lord Ashford is perfectly indifferent to my heart: ’tis true, my mother espouses his cause, and pleads for him powerfully: but the happiness of her daughter has ever been her chief delight, nor will she insist on a circumstance that would render her miserable.” “Ten thousand thanks, adorable Lady Almena, for this condescension! Pardon my bold aspiring heart: may I not hope my unwearied assiduities may at last make an impression on your gentle nature in my favour?” She told me, she did not, neither should she wish to throw me into despair, but begged leave to retire.

My friend soon after appeared, and seeing the joy that animated my countenance, congratulated me in the most affectionate manner. “Ah, Edward! exclaimed I, the dear Almena has not driven me to despair: she does not love Lord Ashford, and I may yet be happy.”—“And who ever thought she did? Prythee, Frederick, do not encourage that horrid passion, jealousy, but rather crush it in its birth; no mortal but yourself would have imagined my sister had the least regard for Lord Ashford. You may command my interest in your favour with my mother: she is partial to his lordship, on account of a tender regard she entertained for his mother; but the happiness of Almena is a matter of too great importance to be trifled with; and that no man but you could make her happy, I have long discovered.”

(To be continued.)

MISCELLANY.

In no way, can we so certainly captivate mankind, as by appeals to their senses.

Rich banquets, the singing of eunuchs, riding, dancing, pantomime, ballooning, have a thousand more attractions for the vulgar, than all the didactic lessons of reason and understanding; than all the wit and humour of Cervantes, Sterne, and Wolcott. Such a reproach, is familiar to old governments; we fondly anticipate, that our youthful establishments may, by the timely exertions of men of taste and science, for a long time escape it.

The increased fondness for theatric amusements, for frivolity, noise and show, demands the animadversions of the moralist, and of the friends of literary pursuits.

Under our forms of governments, we may have an opportunity to rival the celebrated schools of Greece. Republics are the peculiar soil of liberty, of genius, of talents; for in them, merit is not exclusively attributed to wealth and birth. How important then, to excite the generous emulation of talents. What mean more effectual, than to encourage literary enterprises, stamped with genius and industry.

Where there is so little leisure, but so much general ease and affluence; they, who can instruct and entertain the public, deserve, and will receive its generous patronage.

The cacoethes scribendi, is as strong as the love of money, and we need not apprehend, but America may produce her Poets, Critics, Historians, if an enlightened and liberal community will, sometimes, wet with Peruvian dew, the tender buds of genius, which poverty often attends, and neglect more frequently blasts.

Need I say, that Genius, like Charity, is timid, not obtrusive---hopeth all things, believeth all things,---That it utterly disclaims all consanguinity with that bronz’d dame, Impudence; but is tenderly knit with its fair counterpart, Modesty. It loves retirement and tranquility; seek it therefore in desarts and cottages, where it is too commonly left to bemoan its untoward fate, where it enjoys now and then, but a few rays of hope through the glimmering lattice or gale: go then quickly and place the pillow of ease and content under its desponding head, and save the child of Fear and Fancy from despair.

But I hesitate and doubt---some Vandal will here reply, that Ignorance is happiest; that Genius is a curse. For some moments I almost surrender my enthusiasm for Genius, and agree with the position, that it is so, that all who wish to be arrayed in scarlet and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day, who prefer brisk champagne to the Heliconian beverage, and a fat sirloin to a flimsy sonnet, will deprecate it with the Vandal, and strangle in the cradle every future Homer, Virgil, Livy, and Cæsar.

I will not deny that poets are querimonious: after allowing to excessive sensibility a due share of spleen, much is left to lament of real misfortune.

That they frequently enjoy posthumous fame, and justice done to merit, though late.

But yonder ghosts will testify, that when on earth, the flush of health never glowed in their pallid cheeks, the fire wasted in their eyes, and strength in their bodies, when the friendly tomb, received them from a frowning world.

Homer, by his immortal Iliad; Shakespeare, by his Lear, Macbeth, and Hamlet; have enriched, and in the phrase of the world, aggrandised thousands. We buy a bud of the one, and a fragment of the mulberry-tree of the other, and sit down satisfied, that We have amply discharged our duty and conscience.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening the 12th inst. at Goshen, by the Rev. Nathan Ker, the Rev. John Joline, Pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Florida, to Miss Maria Gale, of that place.

On Monday evening the 13th inst. at Princeton, by the Rev. Dr. S. Smith, Mr. George Kirk, of this city, to Miss Mary Norris, of that place.

On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Jonathan Dennis, to Miss Polly Ketchum, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. John Pease, to Miss Elizabeth Hurtin, daughter of the late Mr. Joshua Hurtin, all of this city.

On Tuesday evening the 21st inst. by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Robert Saunders, of Baltimore, Printer, to Miss Elizabeth Bancker, of this city.

On Thursday evening the 23d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. David Ogden, Merchant, to Miss Sarah Glover, daughter of Mr. John G. Glover, all of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. James Flinn, to Miss Peggy Slidell, both of this city.

On Friday evening the 24th inst. by the Rev. Isaac Lewis, at Horse Neck, state of Connecticut, Mr. Warrin Delancey, of West-Chester, state of New-York, to Miss Sarah Rebecca Lawrence, of said place.

THE CHOICE.

ADDRESS TO PITY.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

ARTFUL SENTIMENTAL-LOVER.

The man versed in the wiles of deceit puts on the mask of plausibility and virtue, and, by these means, disarms the object of his attention and apparent love of the usual administration of her prudence, lays her apprehensions asleep, and involves her in misery: misery the more inevitable, because unsuspected. For she who apprehends no danger, will not think it necessary to be always upon her guard; but will rather invite than avoid the ruin which comes under so specious and so fair a form.

One of these sentimental lovers will not scruple very seriously to assure a credulous girl, that her unparalelled merit entitles her to the adoration of the whole world; and that the universal homage of mankind is nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms.

But she should reflect, that he who endeavours to intoxicate her with adulation, intends one day most effectually to humble her. For artful man has always a secret design to pay himself in future for any present sacrifice. If he has address and conduct, and the object of his pursuit much vanity, and some sensibility, he seldom fails of success; for so powerful will be his ascendency over her mind, that she will soon adopt his notions and opinions.

The lover, deeply versed in all the obliquities of fraud, and skilled to wind himself into every avenue of the heart which indiscretion has left unguarded, soon discovers on which side it is most accessible. He avails himself of this weakness by addressing her in a language exactly consonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own weapons, and opposes, if a sentimental girl, rhapsody to sentiment. He professes so sovereign a contempt for the paltry concerns of money, that she thinks it her duty to reward him for so generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully advances of his own unworthiness, is considered by her as a fresh demand, that her gratitude must answer. And she makes it a point of honour to sacrifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to regard.

These professions of humility are the common artifices of the vain, and these protestations of generosity the refuge of the rapacious.

EFFECTS OF HONOURABLE LOVE.

A man of delicacy oft betrays his passion by his too great anxiety to conceal it; especially if he has little hopes of success. True love, in all its stages, seeks concealment, and never expects success. It renders a man not only respectful, but timid, to the highest degree, in his behaviour to the woman he loves.

To conceal the awe he stands in of her, he may sometimes affect pleasantry, but it fits awkwardly on him; and he quickly relapses into seriousness, if not dullness. He magnifies all her real perfections in his imagination, and is either blind to her failings, or converts them into beauties. Like a person conscious of guilt, he is jealous that every eye observes him: and to avoid this he shuns all the little observances of common gallantry.

His heart and his character will be improved in every respect by his attachment. His manners will become more gentle, and his conversation more agreeable; but diffidence and embarrassment will always make him appear to disadvantage in the company of his mistress. If the fascination continues long, it will depress his spirit, and extinguish every vigorous and manly principle of his mind.

LOVE OF JUSTICE.

A sense of justice should be the foundation of all our social qualities. In our most early intercourse with the world, and even in our most youthful amusements, no unfairness should be found. That sacred rule of doing all things to others, according as we wish they would do unto us, should be engraven on our minds. For this end, we should impress ourselves with a deep sense of the original, and natural equality of men.

Whatever advantage of birth or fortune we possess, we ought never to display them with an ostentatious superiority. We should leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the intercourse of more advanced years. In youth it becomes us to act among our companions, as man with man. We should remember how unknown to us are the vicissitudes of the world; and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in future years.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 275.)

“My father took up the piece, levelling it at him with a trembling and fearful hand. ‘I beg you will not spare me, and insist upon your aiming at my head or heart!’ The Marquis look his aim, but trembled so violently that he was obliged to lay down the gun. Alumbrado desired me to step nearer, and putting my hand to his bare breast, said: ‘Feel whether this heart beats so timmorously as that of your father.’ These words provoked the pride of the Marquis, he ordered me to step aside, levelled his piece and discharged it. A cloud of smoak concealed Alumbrado’s situation for a moment from our eyes. It is impossible to depict the sensations that rushed upon my heart, when I beheld him in his former situation, and heard him exclaim: ‘You have aimed well, my Lord, however, the ball has recoiled from my breast, there it lies on the floor.’ My father sunk on his knees and lifted his hands to heaven as if praying, and I gazed at Alumbrado with silent awe.

“‘Duke!’ said the latter, ‘charge the gun once more.’ The marquis started up, exclaiming: ‘For what purpose?’ ‘I want your son to repeat the deed.’ ‘No, there is no occasion for it;’ my father replied, ‘the omnipotence of the Eternal has been glorified sufficiently.’ ‘Just now,’ Alumbrado returned, ‘you have been of too little faith, and now you are too credulous? Is it impossible that you should have missed your aim? That the ball accidentally has hit another object and recoiled? But although you should be convinced that you have aimed well and hit me, is the Duke so too?’

“In short, I was obliged to charge the piece again, and Alumbrado exposed his uncovered bosom once more.

“I could rely on my gun, and was sure not to miss him, because he was standing only seven paces from me. I pointed at Alumbrado’s head, took my aim well, and fired; however, he stepped forth from the cloud of smoak like a being of a superior order; the ball lay on the floor, and Alumbrado had not received the least hurt.

“He now took a dagger out of his pocket, and plunged it twice in his breast, up to the hilt, extracting it without a wound being seen.

“O my friend, make haste to recant at the feet of this astonishing man the prejudices which you have uttered against him. Blush at your philosophy, whereby you have combated so frequently my propensity to supernatural events. I have always had a presentiment that this irresistible propensity would be gratified one time; yet I was a stranger to the road which led to the object of my most ardent wishes. Alumbrado has pointed it out to me and a new epocha of my life has commenced with that period. How little, and how disgusting and vain does now all the wisdom and all the tinsel splendor of the world appear to me, since I have been made acquainted 282b with that higher good, which is concealed from, and inaccessible to the greatest part of human kind.”

“P.S. On reading my letter over, I find a few passages in it, which would determine me not to send it on account of the great watchfulness with which all letters are examined by order of the King, if I had not been assured that those which are directed to you are exempted from examination.” 

Having perused this letter of the Duke of Ca*ina, I did not know whether I should hasten first to him, to his father, or to Alumbrado. I ordered instantly my carriage to be got ready; but when I was going to step out of the house, my valet stopped me pale and panting for breath. ‘My Lord,’ he stammered, ‘Coming——I have’——‘Well, what is the matter?’——‘It is almost incredible,’ he resumed, ‘it is rumoured all over the town’. Here he stopped again. His consternation communicated itself to me, and I exclaimed in a trembling accent, ‘For heaven’s sake! what has happened?’ ‘It is reported that the Marquis of Villa R*al and his son---but don’t be terrified, my Lord!’ ‘What?’ I replied, ‘Are you,’ I could not proceed, my lips being sealed with terror, ‘It is rumoured that the Duke of Ca*ina and his father have been taken up on an accusation of having conspired against the life of the King.’

These words curdled the blood in my veins, and I was ready to drop to the ground; however, despair soon roused me from the stupor that had seized me. I got in my carriage in order to enquire personally into the truth of that dreadful intelligence. Coming in the street I observed a universal commotion, and received, but too soon, a confirmation of my valet’s intelligence; being informed, at the same time, that forty five persons more had been arrested along with the Duke and his father. The multitude were assembled before the royal palace, demanding with a furious clamour, that the traitors should be delivered up to them; the king however thanked them for their zeal, and ordered the constable to disperse the populace.

My astonishment, my agony and consternation, and an indisposition which had been brought on by the violent agitation of my mind, prevented me from recollecting that this was the very day on which I was to expect the friend, of whose intended visit I had been apprised by that letter from an unknown person. The succeeding day I happened to see that letter accidentally on my writing-desk, and the friend to whom I was to deliver it, not having made his appearance at the fixed hour, I made use of the liberty I had received to open it.

Conceive my astonishment when I saw the handwriting of the Duke of Ca*ina. “When you shall read these lines,” he wrote, “the great deed will be performed, and P——l reduced again under the S——sh dominion. Forgive me, for having this time deceived your confidence, and believe me, that nothing but your connection with the new King could have prevented me from communicating the matter to you before our design is carried into execution. For that reason only I have had recourse to art, and wrote this letter which will inform 283 you of the whole transaction, but is to be opened only when it will be impossible to put a stop to our undertaking.

“Not only my father and myself, but also those two prelates whom I have mentioned in my letters, and a great number of noblemen agreed after several conversations to force the usurper to restore the crown of P——l to the King of S——n; yet this design appeared to be so dangerous, that neither the Marquis nor myself would engage in it before we had the consent of Alumbrado. We pressed him, therefore, one evening to grant us his permission and assistance. He hesitated a long while, and at length replied, ‘Well! I will oppose you no longer, but I declare solemnly that I will not afford you the least assistance in your design against the King before I shall be convinced that it is the will of God, which we can learn by no other means but prayer. The spirit of God inspires those that are praying to him with sincerity of heart, and the sentiments which prevail in our soul in that situation are the voice of God. Let us devote this night to prayer, address the Omniscient separately, and to-morrow morning communicate to each other what the Lord shall reveal to us. If you shall continue firm in your resolution after you have performed your devotion, then it is the will of the Eternal, and we will go to work.’

“I had, for a long time, entertained the wish of spending a night in a church, imagining that this would afford me a pleasure of a most singular nature. I resolved, therefore, to execute Alumbrado’s proposal, and, at the same time, to gratify this darling wish of my heart. With that view, I concealed myself one evening in the cathedral. The first idea which forced itself upon my mind, as soon as I was left alone in that sacred place, was that of the immediate presence of the Eternal, and this notion filled me with solemn awe.

“I went to the altar, throwing myself on my face upon the steps of it and adoring the omnipresent God with ardent fervour. I soared beyond the limits of materiality, transported by devotion, and my soul and every sense was hurried along by the torrent of holy enthusiasm. I prayed with filial submission for filial illumination and heavenly aid.

“The clock on the church steeple tolled eleven, when I recovered from my pious trance. The church was covered with awful darkness; the solitary lamps which were burning before the altar, and the images of the saints, produced on the opposite parts of the fabric large masses of light and shade, while they spread only a faint dusk over the other parts of the Gothic building. The presence of the Eternal, the melancholy stillness of night, the extensive circumference of the venerable edifice, made me sensible, with a kind of horror, of my solitary situation. The profound stillness that reigned around was interrupted only now and then by a momentaneous cracking by the clattering of the windows, the whistling of a gust of wind rustling through the softly resounding organ-pipes, and by the chiming of a bell.

“Proceeding further, I was struck with the hollow sound of my footsteps, which reminded me that the marble pavement covered the vault in which the bodies of the deceased fathers of the order were awaiting the morn of resurrection.

“I went through one of the aisles, and stopped in awful contemplation, now at an altar, now at the image of a saint, and now at a tomb. The antique, artless appearance of many images and statues contributed much to increase their awful effect. A chapel, where a whole length picture of Christ on the cross was suspended attracted my attention particularly, because the quickly repeated flirtation of the lamp which was placed before it had made me fancy that the picture was stirring. The singular distribution of light, darkness, and shade prevailing through the whole church, the sudden flaring and dying away of the lamps, produced the most different and surprising effects on the eye, and furnished the imagination with multivarious objects of occupation.

“At length, I entered a great hall, which led to the hindmost porch, and from thence to a church-yard, the iron gate of which was locked. The first look I directed at it made me start back, seized with surprise. I looked once more at it, and beheld again several white figures that appeared and vanished with a rustling noise. I cannot but confess that a chilly tremor seized my limbs and fixed me to the ground. A few minutes after, a monk carrying a lanthorn appeared in the back part of the burying place; and a short reflection unfolded to me the whole mystery. The noise which I had heard proceeded from his steps, and the figures were nothing else but white statues, which appeared and disappeared as he moved the lanthorn in walking. Probably he had been praying in the porch, and was now returning to his cell: I concealed myself in a pew, in order to avoid being seen by him. A weariness which proceeded from the chilly night air and a want of sleep, bade me, at length put a stop to my wanderings. I seated myself in a pew, where I abandoned myself to the wild freaks of my imagination.

“The dawn of day was already peeping through the stained windows, when I awoke from the fanciful dreams of my wondering mind, and the purple rays of the morning sun reflected with radient glory from the image of the holy Virgin, suspended against the wall opposite the window. I was absorbed in the contemplation of this sublime object for some time; however the trance in which this charming sight had thrown me, soon gave room to religious sensations of a more sublime nature; a pious confidence in the heavenly aid of Providence was kindling in my bosom, and I was going to prostrate myself before the blessed Virgin, when the church was thrown open.” 

(To be continued.)

THE FATAL MISTAKE;
Or, the HISTORY of MR. ELLIOT.

[WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.]

(Continued from our last)

I expressed my obligations to his friendship in the warmest and most grateful terms, and we consulted how the matter should be broke to Lady Somerset; my friend undertook the task.

That very evening, as his sister was engaged out, and I had determined to be absent, I waited in a state of the most anxious expectation for the event of his embassy; and on seeing him enter my room at one o’clock in the morning, I had hardly resolution to inquire his success. “My friend, my brother,” exclaimed he, “I am authorised to call you so by the most amiable of mothers, Almena is your’s, win her, my dear Frederick, and be happy.”

Words were too faint to express my feelings; my Edward shared my emotions, and for a time we lost the remembrance of every thing but friendship. Now each adverse cloud appeared removed, and happiness permanent and delightful dawned on my morning joys. Lady Somerset informed lord Ashford, that her daughter’s heart was engaged: his disappointment betrayed him into the most violent rage, and he left the house threatening to be revenged.

Blessed as I was in Almena’s love, and in the friendship of her amiable brother, I disregarded his threats, and smiled at the apprehensions of my charmer: three weeks after this made me her happy husband; my friend gave away his lovely sister, and shared in our felicity. My wife was every thing that was excellent and good; her love for me was unbounded, and mine was to such a painful excess, that I could not bear a look cast at any other person. To this unhappy jealousy of temper all my subsequent misfortunes were owing.

For twelve months, we enjoyed the most perfect felicity, when Lady Somerset appeared to be declining in her health. Her physicians advised her to go to the south of France: my Almena was desirous of accompanying her beloved parent, but her situation rendered it improper and dangerous. Lord Somerset was determined to attend her, which greatly alleviated my wife’s uneasiness. As London did not agree with lady Almena, and as the season was far advanced, I proposed going to Trout-Hall, for the ensuing hot months: she consented chearfully, as her lying-in was not expected for a considerable time. The separation of my beloved from her mother and brother may be better imagined than described. We immediately went into the country, where I exerted the most unwearied assiduity to amuse and divert her thoughts from dwelling too much on the late melancholy parting. On a visit to a neighbouring family I was amazed to see lord Ashford. He addressed my wife as if nothing had passed between them, and me with the most polite freedom. Some few weeks after, I had been out a little way, and on my return, asked the servant if any body had been there 284b during my absence? “Lord Ashford, Sir, has been an hour with my lady.” I hurried to my wife’s apartment, and opening the door gently, surprized her in tears. “How is this, my love? what has happened to make you uneasy?” “Nothing particular, replied she, I was thinking of my poor mother, you must pity the weakness of your wife, my Frederick.” “My Almena, my dearest love, answered I, clasping her to my bosom, I cannot bear your tears; talk not of weakness, you are all that is amiable and lovely.” She seemed soothed with these words and appeared more chearful; as she did not mention lord Ashford’s having been there, I did not choose to start the subject.

We passed a month in the most perfect tranquility, having heard in that time from my friend, who gave us a pleasing account of lady Somersets health. My Almena’s happiness was excessive at this information, and joy beamed on her lovely countenance; I frequently left her at her own desire, to partake of country amusements, though my inclination would have ever detained me with her; yet to make her easy I complied. She feared a too constant attendance on her would weaken my affection, and make me uneasy at so great a restraint.

One day, I had stayed longer than usual in hunting, and was hastening to meet my wife, when I perceived lord Ashford riding up the avenue: these visits and always in my absence greatly alarmed me. He would have avoided me, but I rode up to him, and after a slight civility, begged to know what had occasioned the honour of my seeing him there? He looked confounded, and making an evasive answer spurred his horse, and rode away with great precipitation. This conduct, so very enigmatical, enraged me infinitely; I was inclined to pursue him, and force him to confess what his business was, but a moment’s thought deterred me from such a conduct. I entered the house, torn by a thousand emotions, and went to my wife, who fled with open arms to receive me. I brutishly turned from her. “Lady Almena, has Lord Ashford been here?” I looked at her very sternly, she hesitated and blushed; “No, my dear; but wherefore this unkindness! Alas, Mr. Elliot, have I offended you?” She burst into tears. Oh, how I cursed my own horrid disposition! I strove to abate her grief by every method in my power: and had she at that moment informed me of her conjectures, what a weight of woe had been spared to my succeeding days! But my misery was not to be avoided. I applied to the servant, who had before informed me lord Ashford had been at my house, who confirmed my suspicions by telling me, my hated rival, as I then madly thought him, had been a considerable time with his lady. I was too much affected by this news to answer the servant; and leaving him in the greatest haste, I determined to return to my wife and tax her with her inconstancy; but the consideration of my Almena’s situation deterred me; as she was drawing near her time I reflected I might be her destroyer.

(To be concluded in our next.)

CURIOSITY.

Of the various passions that are natural to mankind, Curiosity seems to be one of the most active and powerful; which, unless it be engaged in laudable pursuits, and confined within the limits prescribed by Virtue, often becomes a disease pernicious and fatal to the mind, and exhibits human nature in a most pitiable point of view.

Nothing can be conceived more contemptible, and at the same time move dangerous, than a merely enquisitive person: “he is generally a blab,” says the poet; “and ought to be avoided, as we would the spy of an enemy.” Such a one may be compared to the Danaide’s tub, which was incapable of containing what it received: for, whatever comes under his inspection, or is mentioned in his hearing, he is sure to publish; and, when opportunity shall serve, will enlarge and illustrate.

This excessive prying and communicative disposition, has been observed to be particularly prevalent in those who are naturally indolent, and have no useful employment to divert their imagination. The mind, if it be not engaged in the pursuit of useful knowledge, must necessarily be active in the investigation of of trifles, and matters of small moment. Thus, for instance, the indolent man, who affects to be studious, as he is deterred from the attempt to acquire solid learning, by that care and assiduity which are the consequent attendants on laborious study; so he squanders that time, which might be employed to better purposes, in the search after trifles. He contents himself with the knowledge of things, that can contribute nothing to his learning; nor could his ignorance of them diminish aught from it.

But there is a kind of Curiosity, which produces more fatal effects; and which argues, that the disposition of those who are actuated by it, is not only indolent as to commendable enquiries, but that they are also envious and malicious, and enjoy great satisfaction in exposing to public censure the faults and failings of every one around them. We meet with beings of this description, in every place, without exception, who make it their business to pry into the affairs of others. It is a kind of trade with them, wherein one deals more largely than another; and he is esteemed the greatest who can dispose of most scandal. Such persons are finely described in the fable of the Lamiæ; who, we read, were blind at home, but when abroad were remarkably quick-sighted. In like manner, these Curiosi are fully blinded as to their own demerits; while not only the more open and flagrant faults of others, but even the smallest inadvertensy, or mistake, is subject to their strict enquiry and nicest examination. Being always more solicitous to enquire into the failings of their neighbours, than to notice and imitate their good qualities; and hurried on by the strong impulse of this restless passion, they spare no pains in searching to the very bottom of a thing that is but whispered, and enjoy no peace till it becomes public and universally known.

I well remember, when a worthy and respectable family first went to reside at a place that contained a numerous class of these idlers, what a stir it caused among them! 285b Running about from one place to another, various suppositions, and exclamations of surprise, passed between them. “I wonder who this new-come family are!” says one; “and whether they are people of much property?” “No great deal, I should conceive,” replies another; “for they keep a very poor house, and are fashionable in no respect whatever.”—“Aye,” says a third, “I hear that they go to market, not with ready-money, but on trust.”—“I am informed,” says a frigid old maid, with a contemptuous sneer, “that Mr. ——, and his wife, live unhappily together, on account of a familiarity that subsists between him and the chambermaid.”—“Pray, can any one inform me,” says a formal old widow, “whether they observe any regularity in their family? What is their hour of dining? Do they keep late hours? And what is their time of rising?”---“O!” says one of the male gossips, “they are very particular, Madam, I can assure you in regard to those things, and do every thing by rule; and they are the most penurious and miserable wretches on earth, for they always keep the key of the cellar.” Thus, these triflers, to call them no worse, amuse themselves with groundless conjectures, and unjust censure, the absurdity of which needs no remark.

But, notwithstanding every transaction, that comes under their cognizance, is handed about with the worst construction it is capable of receiving, they by no means stop here. Not content with the information themselves are able to collect, they have their private emissaries to communicate intelligence, and give them notice of the domestic affairs of every family in the town, which become the subject of debate the next time they assemble; for they have their meetings, where the conversation never fails to be such as wounds the honour and reputation of some of their neighbours. If any one in company presumes to speak of another with praise and commendation, he is either attended to with careless indifference, or totally disregarded; and considered as one who wishes to violate the laws and rules of the society. On the contrary, should he call in question the chastity of some sage matron, or relate the misfortunes of some frail female; should he make the discord of families, or the animosities of friends, the topick of conversation; they are all attention, and listen to the scandalous report with the highest degree of satisfaction.

One grand incentive to Curiosity, is a fickle and unsteady temper, with a fondness for novelty. When, therefore, the mind in any of it’s sallies borders on frivolity, it ought immediately to be checked, and have its attention directed to some other object less unworthy the consideration of a rational creature. Thus, by bringing this passion under the government of Reason, at the first, we may prevent the unhappy consequences that envy and spleen might otherwise spur it on to effect.

In diseases of the body, by not attending to the first symptoms of a disorder, and stopping it in the beginning, it often happens, that it gains strength through delay; and, in process of time, bids defiance to the powers of medicine. Thus it is with diseases of the mind. Such, and so inveterate is the nature of vice, that unless it be eradicated on its first appearance, and destroyed in its 286 infancy, the contagion soon extends it’s baneful influence over all the faculties of the mind, and enervates the whole intellectual system.

In order to the preservation of health, on the slightest attack of any corporal malady, it is expedient to have immediate recourse to those means which are considered the best adapted to impede it’s progress: and if, to remove infirmities of the body, so much precaution be necessary, surely the mind demands still greater attention. But how frequently do we find this nobler part of man, either very little regarded, or totally neglected! Too often are the innate virtues of the soul extinguished by the insinuations of Vice! its nobler powers enfeebled by the alluring wiles of that fascinating enchantress; and rendered useless, as to the end and design for which they were originally intended; or, what is worse, applied in promoting the advancement of her cause, to our own perpetual disgrace!

CURIOUS INCIDENT.

It was formerly usual for the Senators of Rome to enter the Senate-house, accompanied by their sons, who had taken the prætexta. When something of superior importance was discussed in the senate, and the farther consideration adjourned to the day following, it was resolved that no one should divulge the subject of their debates till it should be formally decreed. The mother of the young Papirus, who had accompanied his father to the Senate-house, enquired of her son what the senators had been doing. The youth replied, that he had been enjoined silence, and was not at liberty to say. The woman became more anxious to know: the secretness of the thing, and the silence of the youth did but inflame her curiosity; she, therefore, urged him with the more vehement earnestness. The young man, on the importunity of his mother, determined on a humorous and pleasant fallacy: he said it was discussed in the senate which would be most beneficial to the state, for one man to have two wives, or one woman to have two husbands. As soon as she heard this, she was much agitated; and, leaving her house in great trepidation, hastened to tell the other matrons what she had learned. The next day, a troop of matrons went to the Senate house; and, with tears and entreaties, implored that one woman might be suffered to have two husbands, rather than one man to have two wives. The senators, on entering the house, were astonished, and wondered what this intemperate proceeding of the women and their petition could mean. The young Papirus, advancing to the midst of the senate, explained the importunity of his mother, his answer, and the matter as it was. The senate, delighted with the honour and ingenuity of the youth, decreed that, from that time, no youth should be suffered to enter the senate with his father, this Papirus alone accepted. He was afterwards honourably distinguished by the cognomen of Prætextatus, on account of his discretion at such an age.

LIFE OF BONNA, THE SHEPERDESS.

Bonna was the daughter of a shepherd of the Valteline, a fruitful valley at the foot of the Alps, and the grand pass between Italy and Germany. As she was one day guarding her flocks, Peter Brunoro, an illustrious Parmesan general, lost his way near the spot where she attended her innocent companions. Brunoro politely accosted the rural maid, to enquire the road, but was so struck with her beauty, and so pleased with her courteous answer, that he dismounted and entered into conversation with the sheperdess. Bonna was no prude, and she had wit enough to distinguish a gentleman from a rustic; in short, her vivacity, and a certain air of modest assurance, admirably calculated to hit the taste of an officer, had such an effect upon him, that he fell in love with her, and carried her off. From this time, we are to consider her not as the Arcadian sheperdess, but as Brunoro’s mistress.

Finding that she had a bold, masculine spirit, he took great pleasure in dressing her in men’s cloaths; and he had the satisfaction to observe, that she was ambitious to gain a masculine address! Brunoro soon learned her to manage the fleetest courser, and as he was remarkably fond of hunting, she was always of his party, and acquitted herself to the astonishment of all the cavaliers.

A quarrel happening some time after between Francis Sforza, duke of Milan, and Alphonsus, king of Naples; Brunoro quitted the service of the king his master, and went over to the duke of Milan’s party: Bonna, his faithful mistress accompanied him, and signalized herself in the first campaign. The difference between the contending parties being accommodated by the interposition of mediators, Brunoro was received again into the service of Alphonsus, and Bonna was presented to the king as a young Amazon: her talents for war and politics became every day more and more conspicuous; and upon a rupture between the Venetian republic and the duke of Milan, she had the address to negociate at Venice, the command of the Venetian army, with an appointment of 20000 ducates per annum during the war for Brunoro. The general’s heart, at this striking piece of felial affection in his mistress, was now touched with a lively sense of honour for Bonna, he regretted he had ever took advantage of the assenting and unguarded Shepherdess, and, to repair past injuries, and in gratitude for such signal services, married his benefactress: After this event, she placed no bounds either to her conjugal affection, or her love of arms. She accompanied her husband wherever he went: and while the general was engaged upon some other service, she headed a detachment, and took the Castle of Pavanou, near Brescia, from the Milanese, by assault.

The senate of Venice honoured her with distinguished rewards, and placing an unlimited confidence in both husband and wife, sent them to the succour of Negropontus, attacked by the Turks. They defended this island so ably, that during the time that they commanded, the Turks desisted from all further attempts on the place. Bonna died on her return to Venice at a small town of Morea, leaving behind her two children, and an immortal reputation.

THE FLOWER-GIRL.

—“Pray, buy a nosegay of a poor orphan!” said a female voice, in a plaintive and melodious tone, as I was passing the corner of the Hay-market. I turned hastily, and beheld a girl of about fourteen; whose drapery, tho’ ragged, was clean, and whose form was such as a painter might have chosen for a youthful Venus. Her neck, without covering, was white as snow; and her features, though not regularly beautiful, were interesting, and set off by a transparent complexion: her eyes, dark and intelligent, were shaded by loose ringlets of a raven black, and poured their sweetly supplicating beams through the silken shade of very long lashes. On one arm hung a basket full of roses, and the other was stretched out towards me with one of the rose-buds. I put my hand into my pocket, and drew out some silver---“Take this, my pretty girl,” said I, putting it into her’s; “and may that God, who is the Father of the fatherless, be the preserver of your existence and your virtue!---Virtuous poverty is no crime.”

I was turning from her, when she suddenly caught my withdrawn hand; and, putting it to her lips, burst into a flood of tears. The action, and the look which accompanied it, touched my soul; it melted to the artless gratitude of this poor Flower-girl, and a drop of sympathy fell from my cheek. “Forgive me, Sir,” said she, recovering from her transport, while a sweet blush diffused itself over her lovely face: “my heart was full of what it could not express---nature impelled me to so free an action. You will pardon the effect it had on me, when I tell you, they were the first kind words I have heard since I lost all that was dear to me on earth——” A sob interrupted her discourse: she stopped, and wept silently; then, raising up her face from the hand on which she had laid it---“O Sir! I have no father! no mother! no relation! Alas! I have no friend in the world!” Choked with her emotions, she was silent for a moment before she could proceed---“My only friend is God! on him I rely; I submit to his will. I only pray that I may support with fortitude, the miseries I am born to experience! To him, kind Sir, this heart shall always pray for you. May that God for ever protect you!” added she, dropping a curtsey full of humility and native grace, as she retired. I returned her benediction, and went on——

“And can I thus leave this poor creature?” said I, as I walked pensively on. “Can I leave her forever, without emotion? What have I done for her, that can entitle me to her prayers? Preserved her a few days from death, but that is all! And shall I quit thee, fair flower, to see thee no more? to be blown down by the rude blast of adversity! to be cropped by some cruel spoiler! to droop thy lovely head beneath the blight of early sorrow!—No! thou hast been reared on some happier bank; thou hast been nurtured by the sweet tears of maternal affection; thou hast once blushed beneath the chearing sun of domestick content, and under it thou shalt bloom again!” I turned, as I spoke: my heart beat with its sweet purpose. 287b I saw the beautiful Flower-girl before me. I approached---caught her hand---the words of triumphant virtue burst from my lips---

“Come, thou lovely, deserted girl! come, and add one more to the happy groupe who call me father! Their home shall be thine: thou shalt share their comforts: thou shalt be taught with them that virtue their father tries to practise!” She stopped me; her eyes flashed with a frantic joy: she flung herself on her knees before me, and burst into a flood of rapturous tears. I raised her in my arms---I hushed her eloquent gratitude, and led her to a home of happiness and piety. She loves my children; she loves their father; and the poor orphan of the Hay-market is now the wife of my son!

De Burghe.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. William W. Galatian, to the amiable Miss Catharine Brower, daughter of Mr. John Brower, all of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Peter Vorhiss to the amiable Mrs. Nancy Smith, widow of Joseph Smith, deceased, both of this city.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE DEBTOR.

THE FADED ROSE.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
AN AMIABLE YOUNG LADY;

Whose virtues richly merited the eulogium here offered by a friend.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

GRATITUDE.

“If aught gives one virtuous man a superiority over another,
it is only by as much as he exceeds the other in Gratitude.”

Gratitude, though a single word, contains a volume of expressions: it is the brightest jewel in Virtue’s diadem. It comprehends every social duty, and every celestial virtue, that adorn mankind; it renders them objects of Almighty love, and worthy the admiration of their fellow-creatures. Divested of Gratitude, what are we? Nought but solitary reeds, blown by every breeze, and beat down by every shower, that God, in the plenitude of his mercy, sends to chear the rest of the world.

Gratitude may be said to consist of two orders—to God, and to man.

Gratitude to God is indisputably our first and chief duty. Can we for a moment contemplate the creation of the world, the coming, sufferings, crucifixion, death, resurrection, and ascension of Christ, without acknowledging that Gratitude to God is our first and chief duty? God forbid! There are few, in this world’s sphere, but daily, nay even hourly, experience the goodness of the Almighty. How are we extricated from difficulties? How are we relieved, even when desponding misery rankles in the heart? And how do we enjoy our health, or happiness, but from the excess of that mercy which gently drops from Heaven? Can, then, our lives be better spent than in devoting them to those purposes esteemed worthy in God’s all-seeing eye, and expressive of our gratitude for the blessings we receive?

Of Gratitude to man, much has been, and much still remains to be said. It may be urged that, in our Gratitude to God, every kind of gratitude is contained. This may be granted; and, therefore, to Him should we give the glory. If we are really grateful, we shew it not only to Him, but to those whom he makes the instruments of his goodness.

From the earliest period, we find that centre of every virtue, Gratitude! honoured, revered, and even adored. 289b How many have sacrificed their lives in gratitude for services received from others; and, dying, blessed the cause in which they died! Gratitude to man consists in a grateful remembrance of every favour, however trifling or essential. It is to be hoped that a man, plunged by misfortune into dire distress, confined within the narrow and dreary cell of a prison, surrounded by an infant family, some senseless of the misery they endure, sleeping on a bed of straw, a helpless babe in his arms, pining for it’s mother, who is gone, alas! in vain, to soothe the obdurate heart of a relentless creditor---it is to be hoped, I repeat, that human nature does not produce such a man, who, were he relieved from this horrid situation, by the benevolent hand of smiling Affluence, would ever cease to remember, without the softest emotions of extatic pleasure, the truly generous act: if he could, he should cease to live.

Other instances, equally forcible, might be brought forward; but man who ought not to forget the smallest obligation, or neglect the slightest opportunity of manifesting his gratitude. It matters not, whether our gratitude be called forth into action by pecuniary assistance in the hour of distress, solace in the hour of misfortune, or help in the moment of personal danger. He who relieves another in a pecuniary manner, he who sighs with him in his misfortunes, or he who saves the life of another, is equally entitled to our prayers, our praise, and our gratitude.

PLEASURES OF STUDY.

There is unspeakable pleasure attending the life of a voluntary student. The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend. When I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles the meeting with an old one. We ought to lay hold of every incident in life for improvement, the trifling as well as the important. It is not one diamond alone which gives lustre to another; a common coarse stone is also employed for that purpose. Thus I ought to draw advantage from the insults and contempt I meet with from a worthless fellow.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 283.)

I hastened to conceal myself in a corner, and slipped out of the church as soon as the sexton had entered it. In going home, I fancied I observed Hiermanfor at a distance, nay he seemed even to advance towards me; however, I fled from him with horror.

“About an hour after my return, I was joined by Alumbrado, who entered my apartment with awful solemnity. His countenance spoke more plainly than his lips. We went to the Marquis who seemed to have awaited our arrival with impatience, and bowed respectfully to Alumbrado.

“You have been watching last night,’ the latter said to us, ‘and dedicated it to devotion. Is your resolution still firm and unalterable?’

“Yes!’ we replied at the same time.

“A long pause ensued. At length Alumbrado began: ‘I too have dedicated the night to devotion, and join in your league.’ Taking us by the hand, ‘I have conversed with God, and received heavenly revelations, which I will communicate to you if you will promise eternal secrecy.’

“We promised it.

“Yes, my friends,’ he resumed, ‘God has chosen you to be ministers of his avenging justice. Your mission is honourable, but awful—awful, and at the same time, blissful. But I must remind you, that it does not befit the instruments of the Eternal to scan his holy degrees, nor to resist. Will you, therefore, promise to obey implicitly?’

“We will.’

“To obey also when the decrees of God shall come in contradiction with your opinions and feelings?’

“The decrees of the Eternal are impenetrable, but ever wise and ever just. We will obey!’

“Then you swear to obey blindly?’

“We swore, and now we learned from Alumbrado our mission, and the whole plan of the secret league. It would be superfluous to give you the particulars of it, because it will be executed, and consequently known to you when you shall read this letter.—Farewell, my friend, for whom I always shall retain a tender affection, although you should become my inveterate enemy. Farewell.”

This letter partly unfolded to me the mystery of the whole event; I could, however, best form a clear idea of the particulars of the conspiracy and the whole design when the culprits were tried. I shall confine myself to a brief sketch of that infernal plot.

Oli*arez the Minister of S——n, not having been able to put a stop to the secret preparations the Duke of B——za had been making for restoring the crown of Port—l to his family, and his three last artful attempts to that effect having miscarried, he sent Alumbrado whom he had 290b already successfully employed on different occasions, to watch the secret motions of that nobleman, and to counteract them effectually. Alumbrado fixed his eyes on a man who was generally respected as well on account of his rank, his birth, and extraordinary merits, as of his great wealth; the Marquis of Villa Re*al, whose secret antipathy against the Duke of B——a, Oli*arez had pointed out to him. With the assistance of this man, he designed to lay the mine which was to blow up the great work of the Duke of B————a. He found the Marquis in a situation of mind that seemed to promise very little success in the prosecution of his political views.

The supposed apparition of Count San*, and the illness which had succeeded it, had changed him from a statesman to a pietistical hermit. However, an intriguing genius like Alumbrado was not discouraged by these unfavourable symptoms; he only changed his measures, and founded on religious fanaticism and superstition a plan, by which he expected to interest the Marquis for his designs. Yet he had, perhaps, imagined this task much easier than it really was, or the progresses the Marquis made were slower than he had expected, in short, the revolution broke out before he had attained his purpose. This unexpected blow did not depress Alumbrado’s spirit. He had, indeed, not been able to dispute the acquisition of the crown of P———l with the Duke of B——a; he formed however, the resolution to deprive him of it.

With this view he returned to S——n to consult with Oli*arez. The latter had really been induced by the dissimulation of the Duke of Cam*na, to believe him serious in his devices against the family of B————a, and this was sufficient to prompt him to agree with Alumbrado that one ought to endeavour to interest the Marquis and his son for the design against the new Sovereign.

That, and how this has been effected, was proved afterwards by the event.

Alumbrado had foreseen that the execution of so dangerous a design would require many co-operating powers, and therefore had taken care to procure in time the requisite assistants. One of his principal associates was the archbishop of Br*ga, Primate of P————l, an acquisition which cost Alumbrado very little trouble, the Prelate meeting him half way. The archbishop had witnessed the successful issue of the revolution with the greatest indignation, because he was entirely devoted to the S---sh court and the Vice Queen to whom he owed his preferment.

On the breaking out of the Revolution, he had already drawn the sword against one of the conspirators in order to avenge his benefactress; her confinement was therefore an additional motive to him for joining the conspirators, by whose assistance he hoped to avenge her wrongs and restore her to liberty. Alumbrado gained through him even the bishop of *arda, Grand Inquisitor of the Empire.

The insinuation that he would not enjoy long his important office under the new government, the King being 291 inclined to abolish the Inquisition, was the chief motive of his having taken a part in the conspiracy.

Both prelates were very sensible how necessary it was that the Marquis and his son should join the conspirators if Alumbrado’s design should succeed, and therefore supported him in his endeavours to ensnare these noblemen, although they dissembled to have not the least connection with that vile deceiver.

Meanwhile the latter endeavoured secretly to encrease the number of the conspirators through the interest of these two prelates, and they succeeded in gaining over to their party Count Arm*mar a cousin to the Primate, a great number of other Port**ese noblemen and the Jews. It has already been mentioned in the letters of the Duke, that the new King rejected their petition of being suffered to live and to trade in the kingdom as external Christians, uncontrolled by the Inquisition. The Primate made them a voluntary offer of that privilege; nay, he even promised secretly, in the name of the King of S---n, that they should have a public synagogue, if they would co-operate in the execution of the plot, which they consented to without hesitation.

The design itself was, indeed, horrid enough. On the 6th of August, 1641, the Jews were to cause a conflagration in the night, not only in the royal palace, but also in different parts of the town, in order to divert the attention of the people. Then the conspirators were to penetrate into the palace under the pretext of extinguishing the fire, and to stab the King; the Queen, however, and the two young Princes, were to be seized by the Duke of Ca*ina, in order to obtain through them the possession of the castle. The Primate with his train was, meanwhile, to parade through the streets, in order to frighten the refractory multitude with the Inquisition, and when the whole plan should have been happily executed, the Marquis of Villa R*al was to be invested with the dignity of Vicegerent.

This was the plan of an undertaking that could be attempted only by fool-hardy and deluded men. Alumbrado, who knew best how hazardous and adventurous it was, was well aware, that, even if their design should be executed in the most successful manner, the capital only would be gained, and every thing lost again if they were not supported by an external power. He found it therefore necessary that a S---sh fleet should be ready to surprise the port as soon as the fire should break out, and a small army of S- - -rds waiting on the frontiers, in order to penetrate in the country on the first intelligence of the successful execution of the undertaking. Oliv*rez was to afford this assistance, and consequently, intelligence must be sent him and every thing preconcerted, which was extremely difficult, the new Sovereign, having issued the strictest orders not to suffer any suspicious letter to pass the frontiers.

Ba*za, of whom I have already made mention in a former page, had, on account of his extensive trade, received an exclusive privilege of carrying on an unmolested correspondence with S---n.

Alumbrado found means to insinuate himself with 291b his important man in such a manner, that he undertook the dangerous task of forwarding the letter which contained that intelligence. However---

The Irishman was returned from his journey. Some expressions which he accidentally overheard and several unusual movements his eagle eye espied, excited his suspicion, in spite of the secrecy of the conspirators and the great precaution they observed in carrying on their plot. He found it, nevertheless, very difficult to come upon the right tack. Although he had succeeded in his attempt of getting admittance to Ba*za’s house in the disguise of a foreign merchant, and gained the confidence of that man by means of some very great money transactions, yet he could not trace out the least thing concerning the secret plot which he suspected to be carrying on, Ba*za being always on his guard, notwithstanding the repeated invectives the Irishman uttered against the new government in order to allure him to take the bait. But when Ba*za received the aforesaid letter in order to send it to S---n, he betrayed so much anxiety that it could not escape the keen-sighted looks of the Irishman. The latter employed every art to dispose the merchant to direct that letter to the Marquis of Aja*onti, a commander of a Spanish fortress on the frontier, and acted his part with so much dexterity, that Ba*za adopted his advice without entertaining the least suspicion, thinking that the letter would certainly be delivered to the Minister when it once had reached the Sp—sh territory.

The Irishman could not indeed, divine the important contents of the letter, and the uneasiness which the merchant betrayed concerning its safe delivery, could also have originated from the great importance of the mercantile papers it might have contained. It was, therefore, a mere act of prudence that he sent instantly a message to his friend Ajam*nti, requesting him to examine that letter carefully if it should come to his hands.

The Marquis receiving the letter opened the first cover, and seeing it directed to the Sp—sh Minister of State, and sealed with the great seal of the Primate of P-----l, his suspicion having been roused by the previous notice he had received from the Irishman, he opened it without hesitation, and thus discovered the imminent danger threatening the life of the King of P——l.

Being a near relation to the Queen and sincerely attached to the King, he sent the letter without delay to his royal kinsman. The King was seized with astonishment and horror when he learned what a dreadful plot was carrying on against himself and the kingdom.

He convoked instantly the Privy Council, and concerted with them the necessary means which were to be taken in order to award the impending blow.

(To be continued.)

REMARK.

There is no virtue, perhaps, that with respect to the advantages arising from it to others, may not be so well supplied by a vice as generosity. Vanity almost alone will often perform all its functions.

REASONS
WHY MEN OF GENIUS SELDOM RISE ACCORDING TO THEIR MERIT.

Amid the illusions deceiving mankind, which Hope sighs for, or Pleasure grasps at, none are more fallacious than the dreams of success, which Fancy imprints, from the consciousness of her deserts, on the tablet of imagination. When an author boldly pursues the path of fame, when he strikes out into the mazes of intricate disquisition; however his Genius, prompted by her own powers, might at first promise success, yet from circumstances unknown, he too often fails in his attempt: like the bold adventurer who, searching for the diamond in the bowels of the mine, fell a victim to the blasting vapour of contagion and death.

No one will deny, that merit ought to have it’s reward; and, that every encouragement should be given for advancement in the moral or intellectual world. Habits of virtue would then be acquired from necessity; and ambition, in greatness or goodness, meet with universal admiration and applause: but, before human nature can arrive at such a state of primitive excellence, some of the bad passions must be expelled with rankle in the human heart. A barrier must be raised between envy and admiration; and ingratitude banished, as the pest of moral and intellectual happiness. I might farther analyse, and draw a parallel between the powers of the mind and it’s passions, to shew, that what prompts the one to goodness, stimulates the other to greatness; but it would be unnecessary to mention arguments, or canvass hypotheses, which have already been made the subject of frequent discussion. I shall, therefore, confine myself to the reasons why Genius too often sinks into obscurity, even while her breast expands with benevolence---while virtue and greatness animate her heart.

Ambition, while restrained within certain bounds, is highly commendable; when exceeding those limits, it degenerates, and becomes vicious. I shall, therefore, first point out this delicate barrier, perceptible only by the unprejudiced; to be trodden on by those alone who are innately good, and can bid each “passion move at the command of Virtue.” It is necessary that there should be some incitement to noble actions, to rouze the mind from torpidity, and promote the exertion of her powers. This incentive to greatness is called Ambition; and is equally fought for by the workman who excels in mechanism, the general who leads an army, and the statesman who commands the applause of senates. By a fascinating power, it beguiles mankind; and has but one predominant fault---an unbounded satiety. This gigantic precipice, which hides her head amid the clouds, is only to be climbed by the man of genius; and, when he mounts towards the summit, if he can view the prospect around him without a swimming head, and a dizzy eye, he is truly noble.

In our various gradations through life, if we can view and admire the summit of excellence which we have not reached, or look down with pleasure on that which we 292b have passed, while we enjoy the plaudits of a surrounding world, each of us shall feel the secret praise of our own heart, proud in the consciousness of it’s integrity. Ambition, then, is the guide of Genius; it either raises it to perfection, or hurls it, in an unguarded moment, into obscurity. While, therefore, we can admire abilities greater, or perhaps less than our own, this laudable incentive will elevate and ennoble us; if, on the contrary, we despise or envy these powers, it will soon sink us into shame, and our works into oblivion.

I have made this digression, because a certain kind of ambition—for there are many species belonging to the genus---is the most essential cause why men of letters do not rise so well as they have reason to promise themselves, or even as they deserve.

Modesty is the inseparable attendant on Merit; at least, a certain kind of diffidence is felt by every man of genius, which too often hinders him from intruding himself on public notice. Possessing a mind fraught with the dignity of it’s own powers, he scorns those trammels with which an unfeeling world would too often gall his tender neck, and fetter down his lofty spirit. When, therefore, he explores the depths of science, or with unbounded good-nature skims the surface, for the benefit of mankind; he exults in the hope of that success which he had a right to demand, and looks forward to the promised harvest of the well-earned field. Though he may thus snatch his images, in daring enthusiasm: and, with “a phrenzy-rolling eye,” survey the expanse of nature; yet seldom will a harsh world comprehend---or, comprehending, reward---a dignity of mind, which might do honour to a class of beings higher than ourselves in the scale of existence. Every man who labours for the community, even should he fail, ought to be thanked for the pains he has taken; as every attempt to enforce the practice of those qualities which adorn and dignify the human heart, must necessarily merit applause.

There is certainly one excuse alledged by mankind in general, why they do not reward Genius according to it’s merit; and the reason, I will add, cannot fail, if persisted in, to tear the laurel from the brow of infant worth, and trample it in the dust. They assert, in fact; that authors are the enemies of each other, and will not allow their reciprocal fame to live.

To lay the metaphor aside; men of letters are too seldom men of generosity. It is a harsh expression, and I must beg pardon of the world for using it; but still cannot retract, till they disprove my assertion. Instead of cherishing a young author, or admiring a refined and superior genius; the wits of the age, in the one instance crush, and in the other snarl at and depreciate, his merits.

In a word, if authors would be more generous to each other’s productions---for perfection is not the attribute of humanity---if they would pardon the defects, and at the same time extol the beauties they read, merit would no longer linger in obscurity; the embryo fire of genius would again soon burst on the world, fostered in the bosom of Virtue, and fanned by the breath of Fame!

THE FATAL MISTAKE;
Or, the HISTORY of MR. ELLIOT.

[WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.]

(Concluded from our last)

However I was resolved to observe her conduct as well as lord Ashford’s and act accordingly. I therefore assumed an air of tranquility, and, by my tenderness, seemed to have banished every painful sensation from her bosom; when one day as we were talking on family matters, and wondering we had not heard from lord or lady Somerset for two months past, a servant brought me a letter from an intimate friend who was dying, and begged to see me; I would not have complied with his request, disagreeable as it was to refuse, had not my Almena insisted on my going.

In a fatal hour I complied with her entreaties, and left her with the utmost reluctance. When I came to the house of Mr. Warner, I found he had expired two hours before my arrival; I paid a tribute of tears to the memory of honest George, who had been my college familiar; and as I had no further business, I hastened back to my wife. I entered the house unobserved by any one, having delivered my horse to a servant I met in the yard, and was proceeding to Lady Almena’s dressing room, with all the anxiety of love, when, on hearing the sound of voices I stopped, and clearly distinguished my wife, who pronounced these words: “You cannot imagine what I have suffered in this cruel separation. My heart has felt every painful sensation, you have been exposed to: believe me, my lord, my love for you is as violent as before my marriage.” “My love, my dearest Almena, answered a manly voice, I do believe you, and am convinced nothing can abate your affection for me.” I heard no more, but rushing to my apartment I seized my sword, and determined to end my woe, by plunging the weapon deep in the heart of the villain who had dishonoured me, I burst open the door of the dressing room, and, heart-rending sight! beheld my wife locked up in the arms of Lord Ashford, as I imagined.

Transported by my rage, I sprung towards him, and buried my sword in his body! He groaned and fell! But, oh Heavens! what were my feelings when I beheld the face of Lord Somerset! Though it was almost dark, I plainly perceived the features of my friend as he lay extended on the floor, bathed in his blood. My Almena had fainted on seeing her brother fall, and so stupified was I with horror at the rash action I had committed, that I was incapable of giving the least assistance to either.

My faculties at length forsook me, and I fell senseless; the noise of my fall brought the servants crouding to the apartment, there to behold the most horrible sight that ever shocked the eyes of humanity! When I recovered to a sense of my misery, I found my wife had been carried to her apartment during her fit, and Lord Somerset was seated in an armed chair.

Some of the servants were gone for a surgeon, whilst others were endeavouring to stop the effusion of blood.

He faintly opened his eyes, and casting them on me with a look of infinite sweetness, addressed me in the following manner, in a voice hardly audible: “Whatever, my dear Frederick, was your motive for a conduct so precipitate and rash, be assured I heartily forgive you; and am certain, mistake and fatal misapprehension were the cause of my death!” Here he stopped. The horror and distraction of my thoughts were so great, that, had not my servants prevented, I should have plunged the fatal sword in my own breast! By force they wrested it from me; and I was doomed to bear a wretched existence! I threw myself at the feet of Lord Somerset, and entreated his pardon.

My agonies were so great that before I could inform him of the truth, I was again deprived of my senses. I remember no more, than that after having been a long time confined to my chamber, I recovered to endless remorse!

The excess of my grief threw me into a violent fever which continued a month; during which time my wife and lord Somerset breathed their last! The latter lived only three days after the fatal wound he had received from me. He had a paper drawn up in which he solemnly attested my innocence, and acquitted me of his death. I found he had been acquainted with my jealousy of lord Ashford, by the villain who was hired by that scandal to nobility; the servant who had informed me of his lordship’s visit’s to my wife, was the detested creature of this wretch; and these falsities had been invented merely to disturb our domestic harmony; to which the appearance of his comrade in iniquity the day I had been hunting had greatly added, joined also to his evasive conduct. These particulars lord Somerset had been informed of by a letter from the abandoned fellow, who had left the kingdom, as his vile employer soon after did. But though my grief on the death of my Edward was little short of madness, yet the fate of my unhappy wife, rent my heart-strings! that angelic sufferer, on recovering from her fainting, immediately fell into strong labour; and after continuing in the utmost agony for a whole day and night, expired with her unhappy infant ere she had given it birth.

She left her forgiveness for him who had destroyed her and her brother. I am unable to describe the melancholy situation in which I was involved.

Several times I was tempted to end my miserable being; but some remains of conscience being left, I dared not rush into the presence of my Maker, uncalled for. I was greatly assisted in my resolution of enduring life, by the worthy Mr. Harpur, who on hearing of my melancholy situation, left his family and came to my house.

The world by his prudent management remained uninformed of my misfortunes; supposing my wife died of a fever in her lying-in, and Lord Somerset of an apoplectic fit. I wrote to lady Somerset the melancholy account of my folly and rashness, and intreated her pardon, as she valued the peace of my soul. But alas! she lived not to grant it me: her sorrow for the loss of her children, joined to her ill state of health soon brought her to 294 the grave! Thus had the violence of my passions destroyed three persons dearer to me than the whole world. Mr. Harpur would have persuaded me to leave Trout-Hall, as the scene of my wretchedness, only aided the poignancy of my sufferings, but all his arguments were vain: I was resolved to dedicate my life to penitence on that mournful spot. I accordingly built a retreat in the park and never after left it except once a year, when I forsook my humble habitation, to spend a few hours in the house where my greatest misery was compleated. I generally distributed a large sum of money to the poor inhabitants of the neighbourhood on that day, and in the evening returned to my cottage. I hope my sincere repentance and sorrow for my crimes may have atoned for them to that power whose blessings I had so infinitely abused. For twenty years I lived uninterrupted by any mortal save the good Mr. Harpur, who sometimes came and spent half an hour at my solitary residence. Here I lived and enjoyed more content than I ever thought could have fallen to my lot, after the miseries of my former life. As my prayers for mercy and pardon, at the throne of Heaven, have been real and sincere, so I trust I shall be forgiven, and whenever it shall please the deity to call me hence, I shall rejoice to obey his summons, hoping I shall have peace in a better world, and my error totally obliterated.

One thing I should have mentioned, which is, that the twenty-fifth year of my retirement, I made Mr. Harpur a present of thirty thousand pounds, and left my estate to a distant branch of my family, the only surviving relations I had. I begged my worthy friend to have my remains deposited in a tomb that should be erected in my convent, as I was used to call my residence. This, I have no doubt he will see performed, and may the melancholy incidents of my life warn them who shall see this manuscript, against the blameable use of reason. Had I suffered mine to have had its proper influence, I had not been plunged in such uncommon distress.

NEGLIGENCE

IN EPISTOLARY CORRESPONDENCE.

I have no patience with those who apologize for not writing letters to their friends or acquaintances, by saying they have not time enough. Few people are so much pressed for time, as not to be able to spare half an hour, or an hour, in any day, for a particular avocation; a space quite sufficient for writing a letter. Most of those who make this silly excuse, are frequently, during the day, at a loss for filling more time than would suffice for this purpose. The true reason of the neglect seems, therefore, to be want of inclination rather than of leisure; and he who says—“I have not time for writing,” might in general say, with more honesty—“I am too indolent.”

But here it may be alledged, in favour of this neglect of correspondence, that it is not worth while, merely for the sake of amusement, to write letters; that it is irksome 294b to sit down and be obliged to compose an epistle without possessing any subject of real and necessary business; and that the efforts of invention give to this employment the fastidious nature of a task. These objections, strictly taken, are undeniable: but it is most evident, that whoever makes them, must bind himself never to engage in any correspondence, or write a single letter that is not absolutely and indispensably necessary. And if this principle, which flows from the objections, be allowed, then epistolary correspondence must be left entirely to the concerns of business; and the communications of separated friendship, of love, and all other degrees of social affection, are at an end.

Many people sit down to write a letter as to perform a displeasing imposition, which they anticipate with reluctance, and defer as long as they can with decency. I have no objection to that reluctance, provided they would at first---whether requested to correspond, or spontaneously offering---ingenuously confess, that they consider all correspondence, which is not absolutely necessary, to be unworthy of regard: for by this explicit declaration of their sentiments, they would at once rid themselves, and others, of all trouble and expectation on the subject. The people should acquiesce in preserving correspondence, and then attempt to justify the neglect of it, by reasons which should have been offered before it was entered into, is the matter of complaint.

To such as consider that correspondence by letter is but another sort of personal communication, it will appear strange, that to compose an epistle, should be esteemed by those who possess any of the social affections, as a labour and hardship. Every person, it may be supposed, has some intimacy or acquaintance which he would wish to preserve, and if so small a portion of time might be made subservient to that agreeable purpose, is it not astonishing that so much reluctance should accompany the performance? The most indolent scruple not to confess their absent connections in terms of affection or attachment, but yet cannot induce themselves to accomplish that frequent interchange of sentiment, which constitutes the essence of friendship, and the nature of correspondence.

It should seem that those who acknowledge the existence of their absent attachments, but are yet too supine to preserve regular correspondence with them, are either under the dominion of an habitual and inveterate indolence, or else they do not feel the power of those attachments so strongly as they would have us imagine. For will the person who feels a real and undeniable pleasure in correspondence, excuse himself from it by such frivolous objections? Will the affectionate wife, separated from her faithful husband; will the ardent lover, debarred from the object of his adoration; content themselves for omitting this delightful duty, by alledging that they have not time? If the occupation employed ten times the space, they would contrive to accomplish it. And why is this? Because they take an unfeigned pleasure in the employment.

It will not avail to say that the fervour of passion often induces us to sacrifice more time to one object than is reasonable. It is sufficient to deduce, from these instances, that what we really delight in, we can always find means to perform.

Examine employments in which the warmth of passion is by no means concerned, as many there are which interest not the affections, but which by various people are highly esteemed; and you will find that such people contrive, whatever may be their other avocations, to dedicate sufficient time to those esteemed employments. Every man has a partiality for some occupation or amusement, in which, important as his necessary business may be, he can find time to indulge himself. And thus some persons, indolently inclined, can always contrive to devote a great portion of their time to their favourite goddess, Idleness; however loudly the calls of business, and of affection, may strive to detach them from her influence.

The general falshood, therefore, of this apology for neglect of correspondence---“I have not time,” is evident; being nevertheless true, with the change of one word for another, viz. instead of time, say inclination.

I am apt, however, to believe that this aversion to letter-writing is confirmed, if not induced, by the defect of conversance with literary composition. Since those who have been disused to writing, are observed in general to dislike it; and, on the contrary, persons who have had a learned education, and been early accustomed to epistolary communication, are least averse to it. The defect of practice in composition, must undoubtedly occasion a difficulty of collecting the sentiments, and of properly arranging and expressing them, that may render the employment truly irksome, notwithstanding the utmost warmth of affection. But it should be remembered, that little art is necessary to express the sensations of friendship; and that the simple language of sincerity is universally preferable to the most laboured compositions of ingenuity and elegance.

W——.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE DUEL.

—“Are you satisfied?” cried Edgar, accompanying his words with a dreadful thrust. The sword entered the breast of Richard, and but just escaped his heart. “Are you satisfied?” repeated he, while drawing the weapon from the wound, reaking with the blood of his friend. Richard would have replied, but his speech failed. He groaned; he gasped for breath; he fainted.

The clashing of swords, and the words of Edgar, arroused the venerable inhabitant of the forest. He slipped on his garments, and hastened to the scene of action: With some herbs, of the nature of which he was acquainted, he staunched the bleeding, and Richard again opened his eyes. When the hermit saw he was so far recovered, he returned to his cottage, to prepare a bed, and get other things in readiness for the reception of the wounded person.

The first object that Richard’s returning sight brought to view was Edgar. “Traitor! Villain!” he feebly uttered, “hence from my sight---life is no longer pleasing to me---you have strewed before me bitterness. My sister you have wronged; in an unguarded moment you took the advantage; you triumphed over her virtue: And do you still suppose I can behold you with tranquility? If you do, know that I detest you.”

“For this I will be revenged!” exclaimed the other. “Take that!---and should our spirits meet in other worlds revenge I’ll still pursue!” Here the wretch, triumphing over a fallen enemy, plunged his sword deep into the heart of Richard; and extinguished the spark of life that still remained.

The hermit was returning from his cottage---horror arrested his steps---“he saw the iron enter his soul.”

L. B.

February 14, ’97.

NEW-YORK.

TO CORRESPONDENTS AND PATRONS.

While there is an asylum open for registering instruction and depositing the modern progress of genius and literary productions in so large a metropolis as New York, a foreigner, of sentiment and taste, might with propriety remark, how few advocates step forward to eternize their fame, or support, strengthen and establish the infant state of a publication, wholly devoted to seal instruction of a lasting duration on the hearts of a virtuous and enlighten’d people.

The Editors, sensible of the abilities of many individuals who constitute various useful and honourable associations in this city, cordially solicit them (not thro’ selfish motives, but for the public good) to expand and communicate their instructive discussions; by which means, the world and posterity will partake and be entertained by their beneficent solutions. Some there are, who have already been stimulated by the generous impulse of a heart flowing with sensibility, and a desire to transmit their agreeable meditations: These will ever have the grateful thanks of those who are pleas’d with instruction, and particularly the best wishes of the Editors.

A REBUS is received, and will appear in our next.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON A LADY WHO DIED AT BRISTOL WELLS:

BY HER HUSBAND.

LIFE.   A POEM.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONG.—By Mrs. G——— C——.

THE FIRE SIDE.

To Miss S—— T———.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

ESSAY ON MARRIAGE.

There is nothing which renders a woman more despicable than her thinking it essential to happiness to be married. Besides the gross indelicacy of the sentiment, it is a false one, as thousands of women have experienced.

But a married state, if entered into from proper motives of esteem and affection, is the happiest, makes women the most respectable in the eyes of the world, and the most useful members of society. Care should be taken not to relinquish the ease, and independence of a single life, to become the slave of a fool, or a tyrant’s caprice.

Love is very seldom produced at first sight; at least, in that case, it must have a very unjustifiable foundation. True love is founded on esteem, in a correspondence of tastes and sentiments, and steals on the heart imperceptibly. Therefore, before the affections come to be in the least engaged to any man, women should examine their tempers, their tastes, and their hearts very severely; and settle in their own minds, what are the requisites to their happiness in a married state; and, as it is almost impossible that they should get every thing they wish, they should come to a steady determination what they are to consider as essential, and what may be sacrificed.

Should they have hearts disposed by nature for love and friendship, and possess those feelings which enable them to enter into all the refinements and delicacies of these attachments, matters should be well considered before they give them any indulgence.

Should they have the misfortune to have such tempers, and such sentiments deeply rooted in them; should they have spirit and resolution to resist the solicitations of vanity, the persecution of friends; and can they support the prospect of the many inconveniences attending the state of an old maid, then they may indulge themselves in that kind of sentimental reading and conversation, which is most correspondent to their feelings.

But if it is found on a strict self-examination, that marriage is absolutely essential to their happiness, the secret should be kept inviolable in their own bosoms; but they should shun, as they would do the most fatal poison, 297b all that species of reading and conversation, which warms the imagination, which engages and softens the heart, and raises the taste above the level of common life. If they do otherwise, let them consider the terrible conflict of passions this may afterwards raise in their breasts.

If this refinement once takes deep root in their minds, and they do not mean to obey its dictates, but marry from vulgar and mercenary views, they may never be able to eradicate it entirely, and then it will embitter all their married days. Instead of meeting with sense,—tenderness—delicacy—a lover—a friend—an equal companion in a husband, they may be tried with insipidity and dulness;—shocked with indelicacy;—and mortified by indifference.

To avoid these complicated evils, joined to others which may arise from the opinion of the infelicity thence arising; women who are determined, at all events to marry, should have all their reading and amusements of such a kind, as do not affect the heart nor the imagination, except in the way of wit and humour.

Whatever are a woman’s views in marrying, she should take every possible precaution to prevent being disappointed. If fortune, and the pleasure it brings be her aims, the principal security she can have for this will depend on her marrying a good-natured, generous man; who despises money, and who will let her live where she can best enjoy that pleasure, that pomp, and parade of life for which she married him.

In order to ensure felicity, it is difficult to point out in the married state the most effectual method, nor can we advise whom a woman should marry, but we may with great confidence advise whom she should not marry.

A companion that may entail any hereditary disease on posterity, particularly madness, should be avoided. Such risque is the height of imprudence, and highly criminal.

A woman should not marry a fool; he is the most intractable of all animals; he is led by his passions and caprices, and is incapable of hearing the voice of reason. Besides it may probably too hurt a woman’s vanity to have a husband, for whom she has reason to blush 298 and tremble every time he opens his lips in company.

But she worst circumstance that attends a fool, is his constant jealousy of his wife’s being thought to govern him. This renders it impossible to lead him; and he is continually doing absurd and disagreeable things, for no other reason but to shew he dare do them.

A rake is always a suspicious husband, because he has only known the most worthless of the sex.

Women, who have a sense of religion, should not think of husbands who have none. If husbands have tolerable understandings, though not actuated by religious principles themselves, they will be glad that their wives have religion, for their own sakes, and for the sake of their families.

If they are weak men, they will be continually shocking and teasing them about their principles.

A sudden sally of passion should never be given way to, and dignified with the name of love.---Genuine love is not founded on caprice; it is founded in nature, or honourable views;—on virtue—on similarity of tastes, and sympathy of soul.

In point of fortune, which is necessary to the happiness of both, a competency is requisite. But what that competency may be, can only be determined by their own tastes. If they have enough between them, as will satisfy all demands, it is sufficient.

Marriage will at once dispel the enchantment raised by external beauty; but the virtues and graces that first warmed the heart, that reserve, and delicacy which always left the lover something further to wish, and often made him doubtful of his mistress’s sensibility and attachment, may and ought ever to remain.

The tumult of passion will naturally subside; but it will be succeeded by an endearment that affects the heart in a more equal, more sensible, and more tender manner.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 291.)

The fifth of August, in the night of which the plot was to be carried into execution, the King sent orders to all the troops that were quartered in the neighbourhood of Lis*on, to march instantly to the capital under the pretext of a review. On the morning of the same day, he delivered himself sealed instructions to his most faithful officers, ordering them not to be opened before noon, when they were to execute the contents with the greatest dispatch.

These precautions being taken, the king ordered the Great Council of State to assemble at one o’clock. The Bishop of Br*ga and the Marquis of Villa Re*l were arrested as soon as they entered the council chamber, and 298b a captain of the life guard seized the Duke of Ca*ina at the same time in the public street. This was the time when all the officers opened their sealed orders, which contained the names of those whom they were to arrest, and of the prison to which they were to conduct them. Every one of the conspirators was confined in a different prison, and some were arrested by more than one officer. All those that had been ordered to execute the king’s command, arrived at the same time at the places of their destination, and performed their mission almost in one moment. The number of the prisoners amounted to forty-seven.

A committee of Grandees was now appointed to try the conspirators. The letters through which the plot had been discovered were not produced of the beginning of the trial, in order not to betray the Marquis of Aja*onti. Baeza being threatened to be put to the rack confessed first, and the rest confirmed his confession after having been put to the torture. The Marquis of Villa Re*l and the Duke of Ca*ina, and the two prelates confessed voluntarily.

Alumbrado endured the first degree of the torture without confessing any thing; however, at the second he began to be more tractable.

Imagining that my readers will be desirous to learn the particulars of the life of this extraordinary man, I will give a short sketch of what I could learn.

He was born at *a*. If the virtues of parents were as inheritable as their rank and fortune, he would not have been a disgrace to a family as noble as it was respectable. Already in his juvenile age he exhibited marks of a penetrating understanding, of an extraordinary docility and acuteness, but nature had thrown away her gifts upon a villain. The great rigour with which his father watched his conduct, had no other effect but that of making him a hypocrite, for he would commit any crime if he could do it unobserved, although he was generally believed to be a pattern of every virtue. In his ninth year he killed a girl by a stone thrown from a sling, and was capable not only of fathering the crime upon one of his play-fellows, but, at the same time of rendering his accusation more plausible by his solemn protestations, and the tears he shed over the corpse. Progress of time changed his conduct not in the least, he rather improved in wickedness, and in the art of concealing his crimes.

Inheriting from his father an immense fortune, he determined to indemnify himself for his former constraint, by the most licentious manner of life, and abandoned himself to all sorts of debauchery, with a fury that ruined both his health and his fortune. The grief at this conduct broke the heart of his mother, at which he was not very sorry, expecting to improve his fortune by a new inheritance. He was, however, disappointed, for his mother, thinking it sinful to support him in his debaucheries, left her wealth to a cloister. Glowing with thirst for revenge, he set it on fire and ran away.

The vengeance of Heaven pursued him, and want soon completed the measure of his wretchedness. Whithersoever he went he was haunted by the unrelenting punishments of the Omnipresent Judge on high, and the greatest distress. At length he obtained leave of a captain, who was just going to sea, to embark on board of his vessel.

Thus he did, indeed, get out of the reach of public justice, but not of the vengeance of Heaven. The ship was captured by Algerine pirates, and he was dragged to captivity.

He abjured his religion and turned Mahometan, in order to ease the yoke of slavery that lay heavy on his shoulders. His great capacities enabled him soon to improve his situation, and during some successful cruizes against his own countrymen, he acquired a considerable fortune, which he increased rapidly through his speculations on land and sea, which he carried on for more than twenty years with astonishing success.

Meanwhile he took every opportunity of injuring the Christians, and Portugal lost through his infernal intrigues her most valuable possessions in Africa.

Yet his good fortune became at last the source of new misfortunes, puffing him up with pride in such a manner, that he aspired to a dignity in the state which a renegado rarely or never obtains. The Dey of Algiers died, and he spared neither expences nor artifices to be constituted his successor; his ambitious views were however frustrated.

His pride was wounded, and he endeavoured to gain his aim by additional bribes, but in vain! Enraged with new disappointment, he conspired against the new Dey; a Dervise, whom he wanted to implicate in his plot, betrayed him, and he had scarcely time to save himself by a sudden flight, leaving all his ill-gotten wealth behind.

On his return to Europe he disguised himself in the garb of a pilgrim, and affected to be a peregrinating penitentiary. Wherever he passed through he pretended to have visited the holy sepulchre, where the infidels had detained him a long while, in captivity, from which he had been delivered, at length, in a miraculous manner. He distributed small pieces of wood, stone and earth, as valuable relics, for which the poor superstitious multitude paid him great sums of money.

Thus he roamed from place to place, and met every where with credulous people, with hospitality and alms. At Aran*uez he got acquainted with the Bishop of P—*, who, at that time, exercised the office of a papal legate at the court of Spa*n. His pharisaical hypocrisy enabled him to ingratiate himself with that worthy prelate, who was so much deceived by him, that he received him into his service.

Alumbrado dispatched the private secretary of his deluded master by a dose of poison, and succeeded him in his place. The unsuspecting prelate was so much pleased with Alumbrado’s abilities and services, that he recommended him to Oliva*ez when he returned to Rome.

The character of the Prime Minister of Spa*n differed 299b materially from that of the Bishop; Alumbrado, however, knew how to accommodate himself to every one. He soon prejudiced his new patron so much in his favour, that he entrusted him with the execution of a political charge of the greatest importance, and Alumbrado acquitted himself so well of his commission, that the Minister promised to reward his services on the first opportunity. Alumbrado improved every opportunity of securing the favour of his master, and endeavoured anxiously to explore his ruling passions.

The keen-sighted dissembler soon found out that the Minister was a great admirer of the occult sciences, and instantly hinted that he had acquired a great knowledge of those sciences on his travels. From that moment the Minister was rather in Alumbrado’s service than the latter in his.

Thus they had lived together in mutual good understanding five years, when the commotions in Portu*al began to alarm the Court of Mad**d. Alumbrado was sent to Lisbon, in order to counteract the machinations of the Duke of Braga*za, but having not been able to effect his purpose, attempted to carry his point by forming a conspiracy, which, if it had succeeded, would have proved fatal to the life of the new King, and plunged the empire into the greatest misery.

Unfortunate young man! who hast been implicated in the most enormous artifices of a monster in that infernal plot; have not all the torments of Hell raged in thy bosom, when the veil which that arch deceiver had thrown over that horrid undertaking was removed, when thy seducer was unmasked before his judges, and thou sawest in whose hands thou hast been, and how the miracles by which thou hadst been ensnared, had been wrought? A fragment which I have copied from the records of the trial, will enable the reader to form an idea of the state of my unhappy friend.

Duke. It is impossible, I say.

Alumbrado. And yet it is exactly as I have told you. It was you who prompted me by your relation of your adventures with the Irishman, to gain you for my purpose by delusive miracles. These were the only means left me by the Marquis of F———, for I could not expect to ensnare you by apparitions of ghosts , after the sensible arguments which he had opposed to your belief in their existence. Your friend’s philosophical caution not to trust a man whom you should have caught once in the act of committing a fraud, obliged me to be on my guard, and I endeavoured to persuade you that I was a saint.

I pronounced the Irishman a sorcerer in order to prejudice you against him, and to exclude him from all further connection with you. Thus I gained more than I ever should have done, if I had pronounced him an impostor, because I had it very much at my heart to inspire you with a blind belief in supernatural events of every kind, and a blind confidence in my miracles.

(To be continued.)

REFLECTIONS ON WAR.

On the first appearance of this dreadful and destructive calamity, the parties more particularly and personally engaged, are animated with an enthusiastic ardour, to have an opportunity of signalizing themselves in it. It is then that the impetuosity of youth, the fervour, the experience, the sapience, of old age, are called forth in open field, to put in force the discussions of the cabinet, and to engage with real zeal in the cause of their country; it is then that every manly breast feels a warlike impulse thrilling the whole frame! The sound of drums, the roaring of cannon, the clangor of every species of martial music, rise figuratively within us: it is then that we should

While thus engaged, through the medium of honour, under the tremendous banners of Mars; buoyed up by him, we sally forth, and bear down all mortal opposition. We scarcely, in our thoughts, survey the disconsolate many we left behind; who, though concerned, are not engaged, in the murderous contest. Flushed with the hopes of suspended victory, the insignia of triumph hanging doubtful over our heads, whole hosts advancing to dispute with us our martial prowess, we indulge no thoughts about those who lament the loss of a father, a child, a husband, a brother, or a friend.

Stunned with the fatal tidings, which mournfully announce the death of an affectionate father, behold the wretched family, the disconsolate, the helpless relict, of a gallant warrior; who, with the bravery of his arm, supplied the wants of nature to a once happy family: now, robbed of their entire support, they in vain call out to the manes of their Sire; in vain invoke all that was most clear to them, to return from the mouldering dust! But this trying scene is too affecting to demand expression. Let us, then, survey, in return, the condition of those venerable parents who weep the loss of their beloved offspring. A prey to that incessant grief which naturally accompanies those to whom the fatal loss happens, the worthy sire, and the tender matron, lament the eternal exit of their ill-fated son; whom, as they nurtured him in happiness, the tear of genuine affection trickled down the manly cheek, and the sweet smile of maternal fondness pervaded the mother’s enraptured looks. Now, that scene of mutual content is changed for misery, sorrow, and incessant tears. None but parents can conceive their condition; none but parents picture what it is impossible for the tongue or pen to describe. Let us, from this scene, turn to view another equally affecting.

In pourtraying the situation of the disconsolate and mournful widow, we should find, were we to confine our ideas to her alone, an ample field for grief and serious consideration. Living, perhaps, in uninterrupted harmony, friendship, and love, the happy pair, if poor, supplied the wants of nature with an industrious hand; and, 300b if ever persecuted by the hand of mercenary, fickle Fortune, sought in each others bosom an asylum against the storms of Fate: if rich, perhaps a bright example of conjugal affection, the love and happiness of all around, of all connections and dependencies. An adieu, a final adieu! took place between the brilliant pair, previously to his entering the plains of Mars. The calls of Honour are loud; the calls of honour must be obeyed: obeyed they are; and, sacrificed to them, are the best, the bravest of her votaries! Returning, to behold the situation of the widow absorbed in grief, we find beauty in distress. Bereft of every consolation that this life affords, the partner of her joys, the solace of her cares, and the partaker of her fond embraces, she languishes a life of widowhood in misery; lamenting the hour that gave her birth, to linger out a miserable existence in the nursery of Woe. This is one of the many fatal consequences produced by that aweful, that terrific hydra, War.

Now, finally, let us survey the condition of the man, who, in the loss of a real friend, has lost every thing of value in this world. The sharer, as it were, of his bosom; his comforter in this vale of tears; his refuge in adversity; and, in short, all that he esteemed; is gone, in a moment gone, and launched for ever into those boundless realms of beatitude, “from whose bourne no traveller returns.” Is it the loss of an affectionate brother he mourns, and yet laments with mental fortitude? If so, it was friendship indeed! Where two hearts congenial rise, amicably, fraternally, combining each other’s souls. They lived, and lived happy in each other, a most unparalleled example of fraternal amity and love. But, alas! how transitory is this earthly vision, this temporary bliss! How little to be depended on, our situation here! These two, who the rugged paths of life together trod, each other’s souls exchanged, & the sweet balm of friendship tasted, are separated for ever; never, never to meet, till the massy ambrosial gates of those mansions of eternal bliss shall be opened to them, where every vice, and it’s attendant passions, are wrecked to annihilation, and vanish to eternity!

A few more reflections, and I have done. War, tho’ often productive of the most solid advantages, is always attended with the most miserable consequences; and what serves to enrich a few individuals, may reduce many to misery and want, whose former circumstances were none of the most inferior sort. Callous, indeed, must be the heart of that man, and lost to every sense of fellow-feeling, who can behold such scenes, and not be melted at the sight. These are the consequences of war; of that war which, when of long duration, entails wretchedness on the greatest part of the community, and tends to destroy and reduce to general distress, nations once the envy of the world. Well may we, then, in such critical emergencies, pour out our souls to the omniscient Disposer of all things; and, with fervency of heart, exclaim—

Tyrunculus.

ALI AND ORASMIN;

OR, THE EFFECTS OF ENVY.

When Muley Mustapha swayed the Ottoman Empire, lived Ali and Orasmin, sons of two most eminent Lords in the court of Amurath his father; they were born on the same day; had been companions from infancy; contemplated together the stupendous beauties of Nature; scrutinized the complicated labyrinths of Knowledge; cultivated the heroic discipline of War; and courted the irresistible Graces calculated to meliorate the ruggedness of the soldier, and familiarize the pedantic stiffness of the scholar; polish the invaluable precepts of Wisdom, and make even Virtue’s self more divine. It was determined at their births, by the Genii of Excellence, that Ali should surpass Orasmin in beauty of person, strength of body, and vigor of mind; and though the latter apparently possessed all the candour and generosity of the former, he was in reality subtle and selfish; jealous of merit, and impatient of superiority; yet the sacred zone of friendship was mutually exchanged between them, and they were the sole confidents of each other.

A soil so ungrateful as the breast of Orasmin was little propitious to the seeds of amity; especially as increasing maturity confirmed proportionately the unkind bias of nature. In all their emulatory exercises, the wreath of victory was the boon of Ali, who wore it with the most conciliating demeanour; but nothing could reconcile Orasmin to repeated disappointment; continual defeat increased his chagrin; his friendship daily subsided; he had recourse to stratagem for triumph, but the result was ever accumulated mortification; till, at length, envy took possession of his breast, and was by a most important occurrence sublimed into a desire of revenge.

Of Amine, the beautiful and virtuous daughter of the Vizier Omar, they were both enamoured; and both sought her affections, though unknown to each other: but the talisman of Fortune was in the hand of Ali; and, by consent of the vizier, the cadi drew up the contract of union between them. Orasmin attended the celebration of his friends nuptials; but, while he prayed aloud that Alla might shower down innumerable blessings on his head, he cursed him in his heart, and from that moment meditated his destruction. But his resentment he veiled under the garb of extreme solicitude; and while on his lips dwelt the mellifluous accents of disinterested profession, the deadly gall of hatred rankled in his soul. Lo! to the eye, how beautiful appears the serpent of the desart; yet in his mouth is inserted a barbed sting, and under his tongue is collected the dark beverage of death!

Orasmin now stedfast in his hate, waited with the utmost anxiety for a favourable moment to effect his monstrous purposes on his rival, as the tawny lion of Africa watches an opportunity to spring on his prey: but the hopes of the envious were vain; the conduct of Ali put Scandal to shame, and bade defiance to the machinations of Malice.

The pure bliss which the new-married couple enjoyed 301b was in the fullness of time heightened extremely by the birth of a son: but it is written in the ample book of Nature, “That the fairest blossom shall be blighted, and the green leaf shall not last forever;” and, in the unutterable volume of Destiny, that—“The aspect of human happiness is deceitful as the complexion of the sky; and that the exquisite season of enjoyment flees away on the light pinions of impatience.” The son of Amine was stolen from his nurse; and the house of Ali, from being the mansion of supreme felicity, became on a sudden, the dwelling of anguish, and the haunt of despair.

An hundred moons had revolved, and Ali and Amine heard not of their first-born; neither did the all-wise Alla think fit to supply his place by another. At length, Ali was dispatched on an expedition against the enemies of the faithful; and Orasmin had the mortification to serve under him, as second in command. He resolved to thwart him all he could insidiously: and, by a well-concerted stratagem, and most consummate address, made so grand diversion in favour of the foe, that the Musselmen were not only defeated; but, apparently to the whole army, through the imbecility of the commander in chief, who narrowly escaped being made a prisoner.

The sagacious Ali, however, though he little suspected the treachery of Orasmin, knew well where the blame lay; yet rather than his friend should suffer, nobly chose to keep silence, and himself bear the whole weight of the Sultan’s displeasure.

The perfidious Orasmin, internally rejoicing at the effect of his art, with the greatest pleasure received the news, that the generous Ali was banished his sovereigns presence, and had retired to hide his shame far from the royal city. Time, however, and the interest of Omar, once more restored Ali to Mustapha’s favour; he was intrusted, in a full divan, with an embassy to the Christian states; and returned, after having concluded his mission in the most honourable manner. But it should seem that the Genii of Prosperity had resigned his destiny to the Spirits of Malediction; the sublime satisfaction he received from the approving smiles of his royal master, were blasted by the intelligence that Amine, the wife of his bosom, was no more! At his departure, she had retired to a house which he possessed by the sea-shore; and it was her custom every evening to ramble among the rocks, as if to look for his return; from one of these excursions she never returned; and her attendants concluded that she must have been drowned.

Ali was distracted at the information, and flew from society to bury his grief in sympathising solitude. In the mean time, partly through sorrowing for his daughter, and partly through the dilapidations of time, the venerable Omar resigned his seat of mortality; and Orasmin, by mere intrigue, obtained the post of temporary Vizier; as Mustapha had proclaimed, that no one should be confirmed in it, but he who should perform an action worthy of such a reward.

Orasmin, however, through the most refined artifice, had almost induced the Sultan to perpetuate his claim to the viziership; when Nadar Ismoul, with a formidable 302 army, approached, with all the insolence of a rebel, within two days march of the royal capital. The voice of rebellion pierced the recesses of grief; and Ali, rouzed from his desponding lethargy by the imminent danger of his country, hastened to court, and throwing himself at the Sultan’s feet, entreated leave to march against Nadar, and retrieve his former dishonour. Muley readily complied; and Ali took the field with a less, but a much better disciplined army than that of Nadar: victory strode before him; the deluded forces of the traitor threw down their arms, but it was the will of Alla that their leader should escape.

The acclamations of thousands proclaimed the honourable return of Ali; and Orasmin, making a virtue of necessity, was the first to declare him worthy of the viziership. He at first hesitated to accept it, for the memory of Amine had estranged his heart from society; but, reflecting that man was not made for himself, and that he who slights the power of doing good is an enemy to human nature, he received it at the hands of his gracious sovereign with the most zelous and heartfelt professions of gratitude. The torments of Orasmin increased daily; and, though he overserved the most marked attention to his rival outwardly, the dark projects of revenge continually absorbed his mind. An orphan, who from earliest infancy had been under his protection, loved, and was beloved by his daughter: he had long noticed it, but concealed that knowledge. One day, when the lovers were enjoying, as they thought, the blisses of security, he surprized them, and with a stern frown bade Ibrahim follow him. They entered a private apartment; when Orasmin, seating himself, thus addressed the youth, who stood trembling before him—“Ibrahim, when the Angel of Death deprived thee of thy parents, and the Angel of Adversity destroyed the fortunes of thine house, thou was insensible to thy loss. Thy father had been my most intimate friend, and I took thee under my protection. I have been to thee as a father, and thou hast been profuse in professions of gratitude; but it is by deeds alone that we can judge of the sincerity of the heart, and Orasmin now finds it necessary to put thy gratitude to trial.” Then, giving him a letter, bade him read it; which the terrified Ibrahim immediately opening, found to contain these words—

“Ali Mahomet, to his esteemed friend, Nadar Ismoul, greeting, health and happiness. To the tyrant Mustapha, despair and death! The plan of thy defeat was well managed; the credulous Muley is completely deceived, and has made me vizier: he little dreams, that he has put himself into the power of his most implacable enemy. I dispatch this by a trusty messenger; by whom, from time to time, I shall communicate to thee what steps thou art to take. At present, keep still where thou art; and I hope soon to call thee from thy hiding-place, to share with me the empire of the usurping Othmans. Thine in all the ardour of sincerity.

“Ali Mahomet.”

“Among the talents thou possessest,” continued Orasmin, “thou hast that of imitating, beyond the possibility 302b of detection, the most difficult hand-writing; transcribe then, that letter in the characters of Ali our vizier, specimens of which I shall give thee; and if thou succeedest to my wish the hand of my daughter Almeria, whom thou lovest, shall be thine.” The agitation of surprize which possessed the youthful Ibrahim, left him not words to reply: he stammered a few incoherent words; when Orasmin, drawing his scymitar cried—“I am not to be trifled! to the task this moment; or, by the head of Mahomet, thou shalt follow the shade of thy father! But, I again repeat it, if thou pleasest me, Almeria shall be thine to-morrow.”

(To be continued.)

IRONICAL INSTRUCTION TO LOUNGERS.

Such gentlemen as carry small canes, in modish language termed canees, ought to put them in a horizontal position under their right arm taking especial care that the ferule end, which must be carried behind them, be sufficiently dirty. This, with a jirk in the gait, and a frequent whisk, as if to look about them, will prevent that crowd of busy people, who infest the public streets, from pressing too close.

If a short man carry an umbrella, let him lift it no higher, than the eyes of the overgrown monsters, among the passengers of the street. By this expedient, he will prevent their coming so near, as to splash him; at least, if they do, it will be at the hazard of loss of sight.

Such gentlemen, as write their letters in a coffee-house, should endeavour to procure two or three of the newspapers of the day, to put under their paper. This will prevent the table soiling their letter, or their ruffle; as to the impatience of those who wait for news, that is not the business of a gentleman to inquire about.

If a Coffee-room be crowded, endeavour to fix yourself at the corner of a table, in such a manner, that you prevent any one passing you to get seated on any other part of the bench; or, if that cannot conveniently be done, put one, or both of your legs, at full length upon the seat, lean back, whistle, or pick your teeth. This will show your consequence.

If you walk the streets, always wear boots and spurs, especially in the summer months, when the ways are clean. I say spurs, because it is three to one, but they catch the apron or petticoat of some woman, who is passing you; if she be young and handsome, you may make a low bow, and ask her pardon, in a degagee way, which may give birth to an agreeable connexion. Observe the same rule, when you go to the play-house; besides, if your boots be sufficiently dirty, you prevent people incommoding you, by crowding a box seat.

Whenever you call a hackney coach, order the driver to stop his horses, as near as possible to the foot-way. This will naturally occasion a number of people to stop, and give you an opportunity, of showing your person or a new coat, made in the ton.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

HOPE.

Hope may be considered as a mental stimulus: It is to the mind what the blood it to the body: If the circulation of the latter is arrested, the powers of life collapse; if Hope deserts us, despair commences her gloomy reign, and blackens every prospect. Few are free from the intrusions of this unwelcome visitor when assaulted by the calamities of life, when the gay visions of imagination vanish from their sight, and when the anguish of remorse preys upon the soul. Since each earthly dependance must fail, how miserable is he whose only objects of Hope are confined to the present world, and how often must his heart flag for want of this necessary stimulus. Hence appears the glorious advantage of that man, whose Hope, grounded on a faith in divine Revelation, extends through eternity. This is the prerogative of the Christian, and from hence he draws a never-failing supply in whatever state he is destin’d to appear.

Viator.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SLAVERY.

Gloomy night had began her reign, and dread silence prevailed in and about the habitations that were situated on the banks of the Niger*; and nought was there to interrupt the gloom, save man, savage-civilized man; who, conscious that the deed he perpetrates is unfit for the sun to be witness of, makes choice of this solemn hour, when the sad victims to his avarice are fast locked in the arms of sleep and innocence, to accomplish his nefarious designs.

On such an hour as hath my pen pourtrayed, forth rushed from a bark that bore proud Albion’s flag, several, who had long been the acknowledged possessors of what are called “hearts of oak”—(perhaps the title never suited more exactly). The base commander had taken the advantage of unguarded innocence, and to accumulate wealth, purloined his fellow man. The “Free Briton” was converted into a Slave ship, and became a prison for Afric’s ill-fated sons.

Near to the shore the vessel lay, until its honourable master had seen stowed in its hold, far from Aurora’s soul-reviving beams, sufficient of those beings that were formed in the exact image of his Creator, to complete his cargo, spread his canvass to the gentle breeze. The ship, as if partaking in some degree of the spirit of its commander, proudly mounted the white top’d billows, and exulting in the numbers she was conducting to their destined port to partake of the bitter draught of slavery, flew before the wind.

Hitherto the winds had been propitious, and nought had intervened to disturb the pleasure of the crew. Half 303b the distance had the vessel measured; and so certain were they of soon beholding the Island of Barbadoes, that they could have sworn they would have reached it ere a week had finished. But righteous Heaven, who, alas! is the only protector of inoffending mortals, grieved to see a portion of its creatures thus abused, sent to the eyes of the eager crew, a ship, that bore engines (not of torture, although navigated by infidels) of war. On her stern majestically waved Britannia’s flag. Lured by the bait, the eager crew hastened to greet their brethren. Already was the Captain situated in a place conspicuous, in order to deliver the accustomed salutation; when oh! a death-blow was given to all their expectations---they beheld an Algerine corsair. Too late to retreat they were soon taken possession of, and themselves made prisoners.

L. B.

March 17, 1797.

* A great River in Africa.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

At Cherry-hill, by the Rev. Nicholas Van Vranken, Captain Solomon Van Rensselaer, to Miss Harriot Van Rensselaer, second daughter of Philip Van Rensselaer, Esq.

On Saturday evening the 18th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Abeel, Captain Joseph Marschalk, to Miss Mary Youle, both of this city.

On Friday evening the 24th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. John Devay, of Albany, to Miss Mary Warren, late of England.

On Tuesday evening the 28th ult. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Thomas S. Townsend, Merchant, to Miss Peggy Nostrand, both of this city.

A few weeks since, at Boston, Grenville Temple, Esq. son of Sir John Temple, Bart. to Mrs. Russell, widow of the late Thomas Russell, Esq. of that city.

On Wednesday the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, Mr. Robert Gibbons, to Miss Hannah Higgins, of Elizabeth-Town.

On Thursday evening the 2d inst. by the Rev. Mr. Abeel, Mr. John Holloway, to Miss Catharine Stanton, both of this city.

On Thursday evening sen’ight, by the Rev. Mr. Holmes, Mr. John Coats, to Miss Wilhelmina Patterson, both of this city.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

A REBUS.

ON SEEING A LADY AT AN OPPOSITE WINDOW.

For sources, see the end of the final installment (pg. 320).

AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.

By James De-La-Cour.

ANACREONTIC.

Found in an old Drawer in the Repositories of a Person deceased.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

TRUE GENUINE SENTIMENT.

True genuine sentiment may be so connected with the virtue of action, as to bestow on it its brightest lustre, and its most captivating graces. And enthusiasm under these circumstances is so far from being disagreeable, that a portion is indispensibly necessary in an engaging woman; but it must be of the heart, not of the senses.—It must grow up with the feeling mind, and be cherished by a virtuous education, not compounded of irregular passions and artificially refined by books of unnatural fiction, and improbable adventure.

But this dangerous merit cannot be too rigidly watched, as it is very apt to lead those who possess it into inconveniencies from which less interesting characters are happily exempt.

Strong sensibility may carry a very amiable temper into the most alarming extremes.---The taste of those so actuated are passions. They love and hate with all their hearts, and scarcely suffer themselves to feel a reasonable preference, before it strengthens into a violent attachment.

When an innocent girl of this open, trusting, tender heart, happens to meet with one of her own sex and age, whose address and manners are engaging, she is instantly seized with an ardent desire to commence a friendship with her. She feels the most lively impatience at the restraint of company and the decorums of ceremony.—She longs to be alone with her—longs to assure her of the warmth of her tenderness, and generally ascribes to the fair stranger all the good qualities she feels in her own heart, or rather all those which she has met with in her reading, dispersed in a variety of heroines.—She is persuaded that her new friend unites them all in herself, because the carries in her prepossessing countenance the promise of them all.

If hints of her defects are given, she mistakes the voice of discretion. At first she listens to them with a generous impatience, and afterwards with a cold and silent disdain, and despises them as the effect of prejudice, misrepresentation, or ignorance.

Yet this trusting confidence, this honest indiscretion, is, at this early period of life, as amiable as it is natural; and will, if wisely cultivated, produce at its proper 305b season, fruits infinitely more valuable than all the guarded circumspection of premature, and therefore artificial prudence. Nay, if the younger part of the sex are sometimes deceived in the choice of a friend, they enjoy even then an higher degree of satisfaction than if they never trusted—For to be always clad in the burthensome armour of suspicion is more painful and inconvenient, than to run the hazard of suffering, now and then, a transient injury.

These observations chiefly respect the inexperienced; for it is a certainty that women are capable of as faithful and as durable friendship as any of the other sex. They can enter not only into all the enthusiastic tenderness, but into all the solid fidelity of attachment.

RIDICULE.

The fatal fondness for indulging a spirit of ridicule, and the injurious and irreparable consequences which sometimes attend the too severe reply, can never be condemned with more asperity than it deserves. Not to offend is the first step towards pleasing. To give pain is as much an offence against humanity as against good-breeding; and surely it is as well to abstain from an action because it is sinful, as because it is impolite.

A man of sense and breeding will sometimes join in the laugh, which has been raised at his expence by an ill natured repartee; but if it was very cutting, and one of those shocking sorts of truths, which, as they scarcely can be pardoned even in private, ought never to be uttered in public, he does not laugh because he wishes to conceal how much he is hurt; and will remember it, as a treat of malice, when the whole company should have forgotten it as a stroke of ridicule.

Even women are so far from being privileged by their sex to say unhandsome or cruel things, that it is this very circumstance which renders them intolerable. When the arrow is lodged in the heart, it is no relief to him who is wounded to reflect, that the hand which shot it was a fair one.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 299.)

It gave me great pleasure to have found out a mean through which I could influence you and the Marquis at once, and guide both of you to one mark. I feared, however, the Marquis of F———— would discover my artifices, and for that reason recommended him to the King by a third person, for the transaction of affairs which removed him far enough from us.

Duke. Infernal villainy! execrable wretch!——But no, your deeds contradict your profession. No, Alumbrado, human art cannot produce miracles like yours. Did not nature herself obey you?

Alumbrado. Your imagination only obeyed me. The idea of the miraculous had been instilled in your mind already, and I had nothing else to do but to strengthen it, in order to get possession of the confidence which Hiermanfor had enjoyed. I thought it, however, prudent to use a different method. He founded his supernatural power on the occult sciences, and I on religious mysteries.

I did not find it more difficult to lead you from the delusions of speculative philosophy, to those of implicit faith, than to give you proofs of my miraculous power. A little dexterity, a little success on my part, and a judicious accommodation to circumstances, delivered you and the Marquis into my power. I gained my purpose, and this was the only miracle in the whole affair.

Duke. However, the effects which you produced, are still so very mysterious to me.—

Alumbrado. And yet every thing was done in a very natural manner.

Duke. How could you know the accident that happened at the Inn at *li*, in the very moment when it took place.

Alumbrado. Because I had preconcerted it with some of my emissaries at *li*. You now will comprehend how I could know the day and the hour, and how that incident could agree so exactly with my prediction.

Duke. What end did you mean to gain by that deception?

Alumbrado. The throwing down of the picture by an invisible hand, was to give you a hint that a higher power had decreed the dethronement of the King.

Duke. However, the appeasing of the tempestuous sea could be no delusion, nor an accident. Through what extraordinary means did you effect it?

Alumbrado. Mere precaution enabled me to effect it. Experience had taught me that oil possesses the extraordinary quality of restoring the equilibrium of the water, if violently agitated, and of smoothing the swelling waves. For that reason I have been used never to make a voyage without carrying some casks of oil with me; and I had taken the same precaution when I went on board of the vessel in which you had taken 306b your passage. Having left you, I ordered my people to beat off the hoops of the casks and throw them overboard. The oil instantly spread over the surface of the water and calmed the agitated waves.*

Duke. [After a pause] It was your intention to persuade me to return to Lis*n, and you have gained your aim by that expedient; but what would you have done if no tempest had afforded you an opportunity of deceiving me by a pretended miracle?

Alumbrado. I should have watched another opportunity, and devised other artifices; for it was with that view that I accompanied you on your voyage without your knowledge.

Duke. By what means did you preserve your life, under the hands of the royal banditti?

Alumbrado. The whole scene you beheld from the top of the turret was pre-concerted by me. The fellows who attacked me, neither had been sent by the King, nor were they banditti, but had been previously instructed by me how to act; their pistols were charged only with powder, and their poniards did not wound me. This will explain to you the whole miracle.

Duke. Not sent by the King, did you say. He then had no design against my life?

Alumbrado. No, the King never had the least idea of such a deed.

Duke. Villainous! villainous! to deceive me thus!—And with what view did you devise that horrid fraud?

Alumbrado. I wanted to inflame your father’s mind with resentment against the King. Nay, I will tell you more. It was my work that the King treated you with so much coldness, and neglected to raise your family: for I had represented you and your father to him, by one of my agents, as persons who beheld his new dignity with envious eyes. Through these mutual exasperations, I gained the advantage of increasing your personal antipathy against the King, and of turning it, at length, into hatred that had all the appearance of just resentment.

Duke. Ah! I now begin to penetrate the whole atrocity of your artful wiles. Then it was you who has excited the King against me and my family, and formed the plots against his life?

Alumbrado. What would it avail me to deny the charge?

Duke. And yet it seemed as if you had not been concerned in the conspiracy. The design against the King had already been determined, and still you withheld your consent and assistance.

Alumbrado. And not without reason. I would not expose myself. The grand Inquisitor and the Primate took care to gain you to our purpose without your suspecting it, while I was directing the plot behind the curtain; 307 I should have destroyed my own work if I had stepped forth too soon. My seeming backwardness spurred you on, and screened me from suspicion. However, after I had performed the last fictitious miracle, I thought myself sufficiently secured against all suspicion, and calculated that it would be reasonable to command you in the name of God to take an active part in the conspiracy.

Duke. After the last fictitious miracle? Do you mean that incident by which you showed yourself proof against ball and dagger?

Alumbrado. I do. The miracle will appear very natural to you when I tell you that I had filled the powder-horn, which I had conveyed secretly from your apartment, with a powder of my own invention, which could not carry the ball farther than five steps. Having placed myself seven steps distant from the gun, I was far enough out of harm’s way. I requested to be fired at twice, in order to empty the powder-horn of its contents, a precaution that prevented you from discovering, afterwards, the real nature of the powder. The dagger with which I stabbed myself, had also been previously made for that purpose, and could do me no harm. The blade of it, which was not much pointed, snapped back into the hollow handle on the smallest resistance, which made you believe that it had penetrated my breast. A spring which forced it again into its former situation, rendered it entirely impossible for you to discover the fraud.

Duke. What views had you in making me believe that you was invulnerable?

Alumbrado. Was it not to be expected that you would repose the utmost reliance on the assistance of a man who should appear to you proof against balls and daggers?

However, I have, as yet, explained to you only the particular views I had in performing fictitious miracles, and now will tell you that every one of them tended to effect a general end, which was nothing less than to persuade you and the Marquis to believe that God was working and speaking through me. Our plot was so hazardous, the circumstances so unfavourable, and success so improbable, that we had reason to apprehend you would shrink back from your resolution, when you should have pondered more maturely the danger which it was attended with. For this reason I thought it most prudent to appear to you to be an organ of the godhead, because it was to be expected that you would fear no danger whatever, if you should be persuaded that our design was the work of God, and supported by his omnipotent power; for with God nothing is impossible. In order to corroborate you in that belief, I advised you to have recourse to prayer.——

Duke. Daring wretch! how could you run that risk?

Alumbrado. Why not? you had already taken your resolution before you implored God to signify his will to you. The execution of our plan had been, some time 307b since, the principle idea that prevailed in your mind, and forced itself upon you on every occasion, and, of course, in your prayers too; it was, therefore, very natural that in the latter case, you should mistake for a decree of God, what, in reality, was nothing else but the voice of your provoked passions. I entertained not the least apprehension that devotion would produce more pious sentiments in your mind, because the sophistry of your passions, and the two prelates had already persuaded you that our design was just; I rather expected that the fervour of your prayer, particularly at night, would increase the fermentation of your blood, and animate you with additional courage to execute our plan.

Duke. Infernal spirit! but no! thou art worse than Satan! for he respects the temples and altars, but thou hast laid thy snares even in those sacred places. Prayers and faith, these sacred treasures of man become in thy hand tools of seduction; and thou dost not tremble at the idea of being accountable to the all-seeing Judge for thy villainous deeds?—What wouldst thou have done, daring wretch! if a ray of divine illumination had dispelled my errors?

Alumbrado. I was not afraid of that. You could expect no such illumination from above, because your own reason would have pointed out to you the illegality of your design, if you had consulted your own good sense rather than your passions. God does not work miracles while we can be instructed by natural means.

Duke. But suppose he had, for how canst thou prescribe limits to the wisdom of God, suppose he had, nevertheless, condescended to open mine eyes through his holy spirit?

Alumbrado. (carelessly.) I then should have had recourse to a natural expedient—which I intended to adopt in case of emergency. You will recollect that you missed a sheet of your treatise on the Manicheean system; it was I who purloined it. If you had shrunk back from your engagement, I would have threatened you with all the terrors of the Inquisition; the sheet was written by you and the grand Inquisitor my friend; consequently now no other choice was left you, than either to make good your engagement or to experience all the horrors of that tribunal.

Duke, shuddering with horror. Lead me back to my dungeon, lest the aspect of this monster should poison me intirely.

The day after the trial, the son of the gaoler brought me a letter, which, to my utter astonishment, was from the Duke, and contained the following lines†:
* * * * * * * *

(To be continued.)

A PENEGYRIC UPON IMPUDENCE.

Orators and men of wit have frequently amused themselves with maintaining paradoxes. Thus, Erasmus has written a penegyric upon folly: Montaigne has said fine things upon ignorance, which he somewhere calls “the softest pillow a man can lay his head upon:” and Cardan, in his Encomium Neronis, has, I suppose, defended every vice and every folly. It is astonishing to me, that no one has yet done justice to impudence; which has so many advantages, and for which so much may be said. Did it never strike you, what simple, naked, uncompounded impudence will do? what strange and astonishing effects it will produce? Aye, and without birth, without property, without principle, without even artifice and address, without indeed any single quality, but “the front of three-fold brass.”

Object not folly, vice, or villainy however black: these are puny things: from a visage truly bronzed and seared, from features muscularly fixed and hardened, issues forth a broad overpowering glare, by which all these are as totally hid, as the spots of the sun by the lustre of his beams. Were this not so, how is it, that impudence shall make impressions to advantage; shall procure admission to the highest personages, and no questions asked; shall suffice (in short) to make a man’s fortune, where no modest merit could even render itself visible? I ask no more to insure success, than that there be but enough of it: without success a man is ruined and undone there being no mean. Should one ravage half the globe, and destroy a million of his fellow-creatures, yet, if at length he arrive at empire, as Cæsar did, he shall be admired while living as an hero, and adored perhaps almost as a god when dead: though, were the very same person, like Cataline, to fail in the attempt, he would be hanged as a scoundrel robber, and his name devoted to infamy or oblivion.

But to proceed. Pray, what do you think the elder Pliny suggests, when he affirms it to be “the prerogative of the Art of Healing, that any man, who professes himself a physician, is instantly received as such?” He certainly suggests, that such sort of professors in his days, like itinerant and advertising phisicians, had a more than ordinary portion of that bold, self-important and confident look and manner, which, with a very little heightening, may justly be called impudence. And what but this could enable a little paltry physician, of no name or character, to gain so mighty an ascendency over such a spirit, as that of Lewis XI. of France? Read the account in Philip de Comines; and then blame me, if you can, for thinking so highly of this accomplishment.—True it is, Lewis was afraid of death even to horror, and so as not to bare the sound of the word; and I grant, that on this same fear the empire of physic, is in a great measure founded.

Pope Gregory VII. who governed the church from 1073 to 1085, is celebrated for having carried ecclesiastical dominion to the height: for he was the first who maintained and established, that popes, by excommunication, 308b may depose kings from their states, and loose subjects from their allegiance. And how did he effect this? Not by genius or eloquence; not by a knowledge of canon law, and the constitutions of the holy see; no, nor by the arts of policy and grimaces of his religion (with all which others had been endowed as well as he) but by a most insolent, daring, usurping spirit. He seized the papal chair by force, as it were threw the church into confusion to gratify his ambition; made kings his slaves, and bishops his creatures; and established in his own person a tyranny over things both spiritual and temporal.---But my admiration of impudence transports me too far: I will say no more upon it.

To the Editors of the Weekly Magazine.

Gentlemen,

I have observed in your Magazine, a number of very striking and just Etymologies---I am induced therefore, to present you with the following; hoping, from its authenticity, it will be thought worthy of a place.

Etymology.

The term that was formerly used to express the union of two fond souls was, “Marriage and given in Marriage;” but in course of time, the encitements to this union were changed: instead of Love, Money was the stimulus; of course, a new term must be invented to express it:---So that instead of saying, on such a day a Marriage took place between such a Lady and such a Gentleman---It was said, there’s a Matter-of-Money: and hence, by a slight alteration, the modern phrase of Matrimony.

L.

ANECDOTES.

A country Blacksmith coming into a farmer’s yard with a hammer in his hand, was suddenly surprised by a severe bite from a snarling dog, which so irritated him, that he immediately retaliated upon his enemy with his heavy weapon, with the sharp end of which, he killed him on the spot. “You might,” said the person that owned the animal, “have struck him with the other end of the hammer.” “That I would,” answered the other, “If he had only bit me with the other end of his teeth.”

An ingenious politician, meeting with a gentleman of his acquaintance, immediately began to harrangue upon his favourite theme, and positively affirmed, that, “after the late events in France, the actual government of that country will not be acknowledged by any power in Europe, except America.”

The author of an old book called the Theatre of the World, supposes, that if a person who died of love were to be opened and anatomized, we should find all his entrails gone, his heart burnt up, his liver smoaked and dried, and all the dependencies of the brain spoiled: and he believes, that the poor soul (as he calls the lover) was scorched, and, as it were roasted upon a fire, with the vehement, ardent, and excessive heat that it endured, since first the fury of love surprised him.

ALI AND ORASMIN;

OR, THE EFFECTS OF ENVY.

(Concluded from our last.)

Flattered by the hopes of possessing Almeria, but more through fear at the threats of Orasmin, Ibrahim sat down, without a thought of the consequences which might ensue to imitate the treasonous scroll. The monster who compelled him to the action, was delighted with his performance: and calling for sherbet, he drank, telling Ibrahim to pledge him; then, bidding him good night with a sarcastical smile, and securing the door when he went, left him in a most painful reverie.

Repairing to the walls of the seraglio, he entered by a private passage, through which the Emperor always passed when wont to survey the royal city in disguise; and which, by having been vizier, he was well acquainted with: and having, while in office, procured false keys to the various doors, he easily found admission to the secret audience-chamber, where none but the vizier can enter, on pain of death, without permission of the Sultan; and there leaving the letter, he returned to his house, exulting in the hope that Mustapha would discover it, when he retired there alone, as was his custom every night, to inspect such dispatches as the vizier in the day prepared for his approbation: trusting the success of his plan on the extreme credulity and impetuosity of that monarch, which hurried him into actions that provided him the most severe repentance for his moments of reflection.

The event justified his most sanguine expectations; and, before the first watch of the night was passed, a hasty messenger summoned him to a secret audience in the palace. The sultan presented him with the letter; he read it, and appeared petrified with astonishment; compared the writing with some of Ali’s he had purposely brought with him, to satisfy himself of it’s identity; then, bemoaning the defalcation of his friend, in accents of the most artfully counterfeited grief, and after an apparent struggle between duty and friendship—“Glory,” said he, “to God and his prophet! Long life to the Commander of the Faithful! and destruction to his enemies! The profound duty every Mussulman owes to the vicegerent of Alla, obliges me to dispense with the scruples of an ill-placed friendship; and declare, that the conduct of Ali has long appeared to me as involved in the veil of mystery; the plausible manner in which he has ever demeaned himself, I have discovered, beyond a doubt, has been only a bait for popularity; too ardent a love for which is a certain criterion of unwarrantable ambition.

“I once had the mortification to witness the shameful defeat of the Ottoman arms, under his command: I had then many reasons to suspect treachery; but the implicit confidence I, with the empire at large, put in him, made me discredit my own senses; and it was the same infatuation which induced me to be the foremost in declaring him the most eligible for the viziership, when returned from meeting the rebel Ismoul.

“Yet, when I reflect, in sober reason, on the nature of that action, and behold the insurgents, though greatly 309b superior in force, throwing down their arms almost without the shadow of resistence, and their leader suffered to escape, it impresses me as a strong confirmation of the authenticity of his treason.” “Thou art right, Orasmin!” interrupted the enraged Mustapha: “convey him instantly to a dungeon; and to-morrow’s sun shall behold inflicted on him the reward of his treachery!”—“Will it please the gracious emblem of Alla,” replied Orasmin, “to listen a moment longer, without anger, to his slave; while he offers, as Alla himself can witness, the counsel only dictated by that unshaken attachment ever evinced by his house to the renowned family of the Othmans!”—“Speak on, and fear not,” returned Mustapha. Orasmin proceeded—“Thou knowest well, O glory of thy race! that Ali is the idol of the deluded multitude; and, should they behold him going forth to execution, what desperate steps may not their blind attachment induce them to take for his preservation? And a commotion once begun, as we know not how far the treason has spread, may encourage hundreds of accomplices in the guilt to come forward; and, led by Nadar who doubtless is at hand, induce the populace to join the compact of treason, release Ali, and shake perhaps even the foundation of the Ottoman throne? Let policy, then, bid Justice strike this night; so, the root of the confederacy being cut away, the branches shall necessarily wither; and when to-morrow’s sun shall expose the traitor’s head, branded with his crime, to the trembling people, thy subjects shall be more firmly fixed in their obedience—taught by the awful lesson, that the most exalted enemies of Mustapha are the fated victims of destruction!” He ceased.

“By Mahomet, I swear,” rejoins the Sultan, “thy reasons are just! See him instantly dispatched! Be this,” presenting his ring, “thy warrant. Begone!”

Orasmin wanted not urging: he seized Ali; but appeared not before him, till he beheld him extended on the floor of a loathsome dungeon, secured by the pondrous manacles of injustice. On entering, having ordered the guard to withdraw—“Mahomet!” said he, “is it my noble friend Ali I am commissioned to guard? Can any wretch have accused thee of a crime meriting such dishonour! thou, whose name scandal had not even dared to prophane? Alas! my friend! where will Oppression finish his career!”---“I know not, my dear Orasmin!” replied the injured Ali, half raising himself, “my crime, nor mine accuser: innocence, however, is my support; and, while thou art my gaoler, I shall find pleasure even in a prison!”---“Generous, noble Ali,” rejoind the brute, “what is it I do not feel for thee! Yet it were unkind to keep thee in suspence. Know, then, that the abandoned wretch, who was the occasion of the foul disgrace thou endurest, is no other than thy dear, thy beloved friend, Orasmin!”---“Orasmin! Orasmin!” with an accent of doubting horror, inquired the victim. “Yes!” returned the fiend, “thy Orasmin!” Ali sunk down senseless. On his recovering, Orasmin continued, “From the hour that early youth submitted me to the scourgings of a pedagogue, thou hast 310 been my rival, and the name of Orasmin has shrunk before that of All. Thinkest thou, that I could have a spirit, and bear it? No! the childish weaknesses of friendship I soon got rid of; and, from the moment thou deprived me of all hope of possessing the sorceress Amine, I determined on a revenge—not a common revenge, that was always at hand—I waited, with all the patience of deliberate malignance, for a revenge worthy my hatred, and I have obtained it! I have accused thee of treason; and, behold, this ring is my warrant for thy private murder! Murder! I say; for—O it delights my soul to pronounce it—thou art innocent!”

“And must I die innocent?” exclaimed the devoted Ali. “Yet thy will, O Alla! be done. What more have I to wish for on earth? I have lost my friend, my wife, and my child!”—“Friend,” interrupted Orasmin, “thou never hadst! Thy wife and child——But, hold! I came to torment, not to satisfy thee!”—“Oh! Orasmin, what a conflict hast thou raised in my bosom! My wife and child! knowest thou any thing of them?” Orasmin smiled contemptuously. “Speak, only say if thou knowest aught of them!”---“I will say nothing,” replied he; “uncertainty will increase thy pangs. Prepare for death!---Slaves!” The door of the dungeon burst open, and presented to their view Mustapha, Ibrahim, and Amine! “Secure that fiend!” cried the Sultan; and instantly Orasmin was loaded with chains. Ali and Amine were lying senseless in each other’s arms; Orasmin assumed a desperate sullenness; the Sultan and Ibrahim surveyed the whole in silence. “Alla! Alla! Alla!” repeated the reviving Ali; “thou art merciful! thou art merciful!”

“My dear lord,” interrupted Amine, “dreary have been the hours since we parted! O hear my justification! While walking by the seaside, a band of men, masked, beset me; and, forcing me on a horse, carried me, blind-folded, I knew not where; for when suffered to remove the bandage, I was alone, in a mean, gloomy apartment, the door of which was secured. There have I remained, in vain lamenting my fate; ignorant of my oppressor; and seeing no one, except a slave, who put my food through a lattice daily, but never spoke; till this night I heard the voice of Orasmin in a tone of threatening.

“I listened; and discovered, that he was compelling that generous youth, Ibrahim, to write a treasonous letter in characters like yours. When I found Orasmin was gone, I entreated the youth to liberate me: instantly he opened a door into my apartment, so artfully contrived, that I had never before observed it. I told him who I was, and begged him again to deliver me. He was shocked; confirmed what I had over-heard, and promised to protect me.

“He discovered, with indignation, that he himself was also a prisoner. After a long deliberation, and many fruitless attempts to force the door, at the peril of our lives, we escaped by a window into the garden. Here we had fresh difficulties to encounter, and the fourth watch passed before we were quite at liberty.

“We soon learned that you was imprisoned. Flying to the palace, our gracious Sultan admitted us to an audience, when we convinced him of the villainy of thy false friend.” “And, behold me,” interrupted the Sultan, “ready to do thee justice, Ali; and inflict on that wretch the punishment which he had prepared for thee! for, by Alla’s self I swear, this night is his last!” “My fate is just!” said Orasmin, in a tone of penitence. “But, before I die, let me make what reparation is in my power to the man I have injured.

“Behold, Ali, in Ibrahim, I restore thee thy long-lost son!” Extreme was the astonishment of all; and the rapture of Ali and Amine induced them to kneel for a pardon for the culprit. “Ask not pardon,” said Orasmin, “which must soon be repented! I stole thy child solely for the purposes of revenge; though fortune never, till now, gave me an opportunity of making use of him equal to my wishes; and, to make him the source of his father’s death, was a stroke worthy the noblest policy of vengeance. Thou hast escaped me; but, to give him thus kindly, were an inequality of soul, poor indeed! No I have pangs for thee yet in store, the thought of which makes the contemplation of death and tortures pleasant to me.

“I only revealed him to thee, to make thee feel the curses of lasting separation. The mother once disdained the offer I made of my hand; it was my intention, therefore, to have kept her ignorant of her persecutor, languishing till grief and despair removed her from my reach; but the boy had answered the end I designed him for: I wanted him no more; and, at liberty, he might have betrayed me. For security, I gave him poison in sherbet; and thought, even had he got free, so strong it was, that it would have worked faster than his conscience!”

“The vengeance be on thine own head!” cried Ibrahim; “for it was thyself who drank the poison. I saw thee drop something in the draught intended for me; and unseen by thee, changed the cups.”

“I feel it! I feel it!” exclaimed the frantic Orasmin. “Curse on thee, Mahomet! thou hast frustrated all!” “Hence with him!” said Mustapha. And then led Amine and Ibrahim out of the prison. By permission of the Sultan, Ibrahim was united to Almeria; and the participation of her husband’s honours, who was restored to his viziership, amply recompenced Amine for all her sorrows.

An exemplary instance of gratitude towards Alla and the Sultan---towards the latter, by faithful counsel, and steady attachment to his interest; and, towards the former, by an uniform course of piety, and a conscientious dispensation of justice and benevolence to his fellow subjects. Ali lived long beloved, and happy. As it is written in the sacred tablets of truth---“The righteous shall dwell in the tents of gladness, and the merciful in the gardens of peace: while the wicked shall be covered with shame; and the envious man shall be consumed in the fire which he kindleth for his neighbour.”

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON INDUSTRY.

The absurd indulgence with which parents anticipate every wish of their children often paves the way for their destruction, and entirely unfits them for returning that affectionate care which is due to the authors of their being. How many instances do we see of the ill effects of such misplaced kindness. By supplying children with all the superfluities of life, we at once weaken the springs of exertion, and induce a habit of indolence fatal to future improvement; for why should they exert themselves to procure that which is ready at their call? Virtuous habits and habits of industry are nearly the same; and since these only are productive of happiness, it is of the utmost importance to teach the youthful mind that enjoyment and self-satisfaction must be purchased by labour.---Happy is the man, who, in early life, has been taught by experience the blessed effects of honest industry, and the inestimable value of time. Multiply time by industry, and what is the result?—Peace of mind; the innocent enjoyment of life, and every thing that can exalt human nature.

By Industry, I must not be understood to mean the incessant drudging pursuit after sorded gain:---I have likewise reference to mental industry; the improvement of that intellectual part of our existence which elevates our view above this narrow scene of things, and teaches us to soar to heaven.

Viator.

MILITARY ANECDOTE

A new formed corps of Volunteers were one day exercising in a park, where a Bull was kept, and where he had been accustomed to enjoy unresisted sovereignty. Whether displeased with the aukwardness of their manœuvres, offended at their intrusion on the scene of his pleasure, or regarding their martial music as a challenge of defiance on his own territory, the Lordly Animal advanced with a menacing air; and notwithstanding some attempts at resistance, charged the line, broke through the ranks, and after having completely routed and dispersed the enemy, remained undisputed master of the field!

LEVITIES.

Literary men, and the advantages of learning, being the subject of conversation when Johnson was present, he enforced and closed the observations in the following celebrated sentence of Lactantius---“Eruditio inter prospera ornamentum, inter adversa refugium.”

Professor Richardson’s observation, that men judge of objects according to their peculiar habits, and that a beautiful lawn, which excites pastoral ideas in the poet’s mind, suggests the value of the land to the miser, is exemplified by the following:

An old Epicure, walking one fine morning, in the meadows on the banks of a river, exclaimed with rapture 311b at the sight of a lamb that was frisking about “pretty innocent creature, how deliciously thou wouldst eat with carrots or cauliflowers.”

Sir John Salter, who died in 1605, and was a generous benefactor to the worshipful company of Salters, ordered, in his last will and testament, the beadles and servants of the company, to go to the church of St. Magnus, the first week of every October, and knock upon his grave stone, with sticks and staves three times each person, and say, “How do you do brother Salter? I hope you are well.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening the 5th inst. at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Schenk, Mr. Ketchum Terry, Merchant, of this city, to Miss Polly Snedeker, daughter of John Snedecker, Esq. of that place.

On Saturday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, William L. Rose, Esq. Attorney at Law, to Miss Charlotte C. Smith, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 15th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Woodhill, John Wells, Esq. of this city, to Miss Eliza Lawrence, daughter of Mr. Thomas Lawrence, of Newtown, Long-Island.

On Friday evening the 17th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Rattoon, Henry C. Williamson, to Miss Mary Daniel, both of this city.

On Saturday evening the 18th inst. at Jamaica (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Faitoute, Mr. James Van Duyne, of Fresh-Meadow, to Mrs. Deborah Allen, of that place.

On Tuesday evening the 21st inst. by the Rev. Mr. Banks, Mr. James Angus, to Miss Margaret Walker, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Pexcel Fowler, to Miss Jean Day, both of this city.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We acknowledge the receipt of the “Extract from a Letter to Miss ****:” Likewise a “Solution to the Rebus,” which appeared in our last;—both of which were received too late for a place this week; they however, shall appear in our next. We anticipate great improvement from the excellent observations and productions of “Viator;” and acknowledge our obligations to him, and all others whose merit displays such intrinsic worth.

The Editors.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

PRAYER OF MR. WYNKOOP.

Late of Kingston (Esopus) during the Loss of his Sight.

ELMINA; Or the Flower that never Fades.

AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.

By James De-La-Cour.

(Continued.)

LOVE, HONOUR, AND TRUTH.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

The design of the masthead changed slightly with this issue. The printer’s information (end of last page) is also new.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

EXTRACT from a LETTER to Miss ****.

—Since we both fancy ourselves unhappy, permit me, in this place, to make a few serious reflections on the extreme mutableness and instability of all terrestrial felicity; and the long duration and permanency of misfortune and disappointment. Those halcyon days I oft remember, when I enjoyed the pleasure of your society. Then, indeed, I tasted for a moment, something like unmixed happiness: not a wave of sorrow rolled across my breast; nor was corroding care an inmate of my bosom. The loveliness of the season, in union with the serenity of the atmosphere, conspired to increase my tranquility, and to render every thing delightful. When we sailed gently down the harbour, the clear cerulean of the sky added a softer beauty to the adjacent landscapes, and rendered the prospect enchanting. When we strayed over the flowery fields, or penetrated the leafy grove, the flocks grazing the green herbage, the zephyrs rustling through the trees, and the birds warbling on the branches, exhibited a resemblance of the pristine happiness of ancient Eden. And when listlessly wandering on the rocky beach, the idle murmuring of the waves upon the sandy shore, the confused gabbling of the sea fowl, and the distant view of the “full spread vessel majestically advancing over the white capp’d billows,” tended to sooth the sorrows of humanity, and lull the mind to quietude. The day ended, and still evening drew on. Then did nature appear in silent magnificence; while the silver rays of the full orbed moon shed a majesty on each surrounding object. The lofty summit of the cloud-topt mountain appeared in solemn grandeur; the dusky forest reflected a yellow radiance; and the rolling wonders of the skies glittered over our heads: while the awful stillness that reigned, interrupted only by the lonely strains of the whip-poor-will, served to exalt the soul, and distend the heart.

These were beatific seasons of bliss—golden moments indeed, while they lasted, but, alas! where are they fled? They have vanished like the fading glories of the west, 313b when the illustrious monarch of day resigns our hemisphere to the sable goddess of darkness. Or like the gay delusions of a morning dream, which only tantalize the mind with the prospect of unsubstantial happiness, and render the real evils of life more intolerable. A true, but melancholy picture of unhappy man. Joy, for a moment, expands his countenance with smiles; but it is suddenly overclouded with a gloom of sadness, and misery and woe become his inseparable companions. Youth and beauty just open into bloom; and then are succeeded by the solicitudes of manhood, and the dull unjoyous season of old age. Humiliating reflections are these to the sorrowing child of humanity: yet, where virtue has a residence in the heart, she quickly calms the throbbing breast, and allays the gathering storm of affliction. ’Tis virtue alone that can enable the soul to bear up cheerfully against the calamities of life, and give her a joyful assurance of happiness in a future state. Virtue will command respect among men, adorn the wrinkles of age with dignity, and crown the hoary head with respect. It will shine forth in the evening of life, like the refulgent glories of a setting sun, and glow with increasing splendor in never-ending worlds.

This invaluable jewel, I admit not the least doubt, dear madam, but you possess; and it is the great object of my pursuit. Then let life’s tempestuous ocean roar, and fortune inauspiciously frown upon us; we shall surely outride the stormy gale, and ere long make the blessed port of an happy immortality.

PROSPERITY.

A single disappointment is sufficient to embitter all the pleasures of worldly prosperity. Though it might be expected, one in possession of high power and station should disregard slight injuries. But prosperity debilitates instead of strengthening the mind.—Its common effect is, to create an extreme sensibility to the slightest wound.---It foments impatient desires; and raises expectations which no success can satisfy.---It fosters a false delicacy, which sickens in the midst of indulgence; by repeated gratification, it blunts the feelings of men to what is pleasing; and leaves them unhappily acute to whatever is uneasy.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 307.)

Grief, horror, pity, hope, and despair assailed my heart alternately, after I had read this letter. I moistened it with burning tears. When this violent agitation of my mind began to abate so much that I could reflect again, I considered what could be done for the preservation of this hapless man, and regardless of my indisposition, hastened to the archbishop of Lis*on, who always had been very partial to the Duke, and was much respected by the Queen. I entreated this worthy prelate to intercede with the latter for my hapless friend. “Alas!” he replied, “I have attempted it already without success.” “How, my Lord?” her reply was, “how can you intercede for a traitor who has meditated our destruction and the ruin of our kingdom. All that you can expect is, that I shall forget what you have asked.”

This account of the archbishop rent my heart; however, I entertained still some hope that the King, whose generous disposition I knew, would not prove callous against my tears and prayers. I went without delay to the palace, and was admitted. I supplicated him on my knees, to grant his royal mercy to the unfortunate deluded young man, and exerted every power of eloquence to excite his pity. “Rise, Marquis,” the King replied, “there is no occasion for your intercession; I have determined already to pardon the Duke and the rest of the conspirators; yet their fate does not depend on myself alone, but also from the decision of the Council of State.” With that resolution I was dismissed.

The following day, the gaoler brought me a second letter from the Duke, which I shall transcribe literally:

“My Dearest Friend,

“I am allowed to converse with you once more. The 200 dobras have gained the gaoler, and the promise of a like sum has prompted him to engage to deliver this letter to you. I must inform you of an important incident, that happened last night, within the walls of my dungeon. The door of my prison was suddenly flung open, and Hiermanfor entered. Although I have great reason to be angry with him, yet he appeared to me an angel of light, in comparison with Alumbrado. The sight of him roused my heart from its state of despondency; however, my former gloominess of mind soon returned, when after a long and solemn silence, he exclaimed: “must we meet again in this place?”

“I could return no answer; the consciousness of my guilt lay heavy on my mind, and the looks of the Irishman confounded me. Without being affected by my perplexity, he resumed, after a short silence: “you was a noble, deserving young man when I left you, and now I find you a rebel.” I do not know whether it was the accent in which 314b he pronounced these words, or the truth they implied, that made my blood ferment on a sudden—in short, I exclaimed: “if you had fulfilled your promise as an honest man, I should then perhaps not have been in this situation.” The Irishman seemed to be affected vehemently. “By heaven! my Lord!” he exclaimed, “it was no fault of mine, a journey, and business of great importance, prevented me from seeing you sooner. But I do not comprehend you sufficiently, will you be so kind as to explain the meaning of your words?”

“I will, as soon as you shall have given me an explanation of an incident which you have promised to clear up.”

“What incident do you mean?” the Irishman said.

“The apparition of Antonio, at the church-yard. Was it a natural contrivance of your invention?”

“It was.”

“Merciful God!”

“What is the matter with you?”

“Don’t ask me, the explanation—the explanation—”

“The apparition was effected by means of a convex mirror; the vision which you wanted to embrace, was nothing else but the image of a statue of your tutor, which was reflected on the spot where it appeared by a mirror placed before that statue.”

“But how did it happen that the mirror escaped my observation?”

“You will recollect that the vision appeared not far from the chapel, behind the wall of which the mirror was placed in such a manner that it could not be perceived by you.”

“And Antonio’s statue?”

“You would have observed it if the sight of the apparition had not engrossed your whole attention; however, its having been painted white like the rest of the statues in the church-yard, probably would have induced you to mistake it for the statue of some saint or other, and thus it would not have attracted your attention.”

“But how could the apparition disappear and re-appear at my desire?”

“That was not difficult. One of my people, who directed the mirror through one of the church windows, removed it when the vision disappeared, and replaced it again in its proper situation when you desired the phantom to appear once more.”

“But if I had discovered the artifice?—”

“Don’t you believe that I had taken the necessary precaution? Even if you had seen the mirror, yet you would not have discovered its effect. I was, however, pretty sure that you would not enter into an examination, being well aware that you would have no inclination of doing it, because I had desired you to make every investigation you should wish, and thus prompted you to believe that I apprehended no discovery.”

“However, the phantom spoke, how could that be?”

“Not the phantom, but Count Clairval, who was in the gallery of the chapel, spoke through a speaking trumpet. The direction of the trumpet, and the striking resemblance 315 the phantom bore to your tutor, induced you to attribute the words which he pronounced to the vision.”

“Hiermanfor,” said I after a pause, “then your last miracle too was a delusion?”

“You have my confession.”

“And nevertheless you assured me so solemnly that it was the work of super-natural power!”

“I did so; but I intended to recant after the end which I had in view should have been attained. Unforeseen incidents prevented me from doing it sooner.”

“Why did not Count Clairval recant in your name, when I entreated him so solemnly and so pressing to confess the fraud?”

“He had received no orders to that purpose.”

“You promised me, one time, to initiate me in a new philosophy, and to introduce me to an happiness that is concealed from other mortals.”

“Then I promised you what I am not able to perform. Without circumlocution, I imposed upon you!”

“And you have the courage to tell me this to my face?”

“I have spoken the truth, and hope you will forgive me. Yes, I have deceived you, and the success of the revolution depended chiefly upon that innocent fraud. I deceived you because—forgive me my frankness—because you would be deceived.”

“Your morality agrees pretty well with your policy.”

“I am astonished,” the Irishman replied with a contemptuous smile, “that you presume to call my morality in question; the clangor of these fetters contrasts very much with your moral speeches.”

“Scarcely able to retain my rising indignation, I replied, “But if I could prove that this innocent fraud, as you please to call it, has been the chief cause of my crime, of these fetters, and of my impending execution!”

“Heaven forbid it!” the Irishman exclaimed, seized with terror.

“You have excited by your delusions my propensity to miraculous events. The explanation of your deceptions did not at all destroy the dangerous effect they produced on my mind, because I never was able to recover entirely from the erroneous opinion that the apparition of the church-yard had been the effect of supernatural power. An infernal impostor took advantage of the situation of my mind, and incited me through new delusions to engage in the undertaking that has been the cause of these fetters. Are you now sensible of the injury I have suffered through you?”

“The Irishman grew pale, and seemed deprived of the power of utterance. At once he recovered from his sudden terror, and started up. “Whither are you going?” I exclaimed. “To the King!” he replied. “What business have you with the King?” I enquired. “I am going to implore him to spare your life, and to set you at liberty. Forgive me, unfortunate young man! (he added) forgive me! I will exert every power of persuasion for the preservation of your life.” So saying, he left me, and I have not seen him since. I must patiently await the effect of his 315b application. Farewell! my friend, farewell! I am not afraid of leaving this world, for Amelia is dead, Antonio is no more, and alas! my father too will be condemned to die. However, the idea of dying branded with ignominy, thrills me with terror and desponding agony. Gracious Heaven, ward off this dreadful blow, if it be possible!”

Hesitating between hope and fear, I awaited the day which was to decide the fate of my hapless friend. It arrived.

My melancholy tale draws nearer towards its conclusion! why does my hand tremble thus? why do these tears start from my eyes? what means this dreadful agony that almost breaks my heart? Alas! thy doom is fixed, ill-fated victim of delusion!

The judges who were to decide the fate of the conspirators met, and decreed that the Marquis of Villa Re*l and the Duke of Ca*ina, should be beheaded as rebels against the King, whose authority they had acknowledged with the rest of the states of the empire, and the other conspirators hanged and quartered. The punishment of the Primate and the Grand Inquisitor was left to the decision of the King.

(To be concluded in our next.)

ANECDOTES.

A wild young fellow was going abroad: His mother took him up into her closet, telling him she had a precious treasure to deposit in his hands, and after many grave admonitions produced the Bible, handsomely bound in two volumes; and, to crown all, advised him to consult and search the scriptures. Little did the youth know how precious the volumes were; but you shall hear. On his return from sea, the old lady one day took him aside, and hoped he had remembered the last injunction she had given him: “Yes, he could very honestly say he had taken care of the Bible.” To prove his respect and obedience, he runs up stairs to his own room, and returns instantly, with the two volumes safe and sound.

The good lady pulls off one cover: “Rather too clean, my dear.” “O madam, I took great care of them: the second volume is equally fair.” She shakes her head; intimating her suspicions that they had not been read so often as she wished: Then opens the first volume, and, lo! a ten pound bank note is found: the second volume displays a second note, and of twice the value. She was confounded; and so was her son: And I know no man, of my acquaintance, who more sincerely regrets that he did not search the scriptures.

A man having hurt his forehead, was advised to rub it with brandy. Some days after being asked if he had done so? answered, “I have tried several times, but can never get the glass higher than my mouth.”

From an English Magazine.

ORIGIN OF THE SPENCER.

BEING A SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF THE BOTTLE-CONJUROR.

On my arrival in town for the season, my eyes every where in the streets encountered a phenomenon which I could not account for: namely, men walking in great coats, the TAILS of which were CUT OFF close to the body!—The first person I met in this garb being rather of a mean appearance otherwise, I set it down to the account of convenience, and recollected the proverb of, half a loaf being better than no bread. But when I saw numbers of gentlemen decorated with this ABRIDGMENT of a coat, many of whom to my personal knowledge, could afford a whole coat, once a week if they chose, I was totally at a loss to account for the grotesque appearance they made. Surely, thought I, this cannot be voluntary.

On consulting, however, a friend, who always resides in the metropolis and is a close observer of modes and manners, he solved all my doubts.

“That absurd dress, which does not surprise you more than any other stranger, is a wonderful proof of the obsequious servility of those who would be thought in the fashion. Lord C. Spencer, from whom the dress takes its name, bet with some friends that he would support a fashion, the most useless and ridiculous that could be conceived; and that it should, within a given time, be universally adopted. The bet being laid he produced a pattern of this fashion, which excited so much laughter, that his opponents were pretty confident he would lose his bet. Lord C.’s opinion of mankind, was, however, better founded. The fashion soon became general, and, to complete the humbug, the wearers of this half coat have found out a thousand conveniencies and advantages in it, such as saving of cloth, impossibility of being draggled, easier put on, &c. not one of which the author ever thought of. Such is the origin of the Spencers! I need not remind you that the bottle-conjuror affair was likewise a wager, to see what lengths credulity would lead the public, and the present fashion is no bad Second Part to that memorable take in.”

Are these things so, Mr. Editor? Are we really such fools as to adopt a dress, the chief merit of which is its being ridiculous, and injurious to trade? All I shall say is, Quis vult decipi decipitur!

Your’s,

OLD SKIRTS.

A DIGRESSION.

Many of those authors, who have largely contributed to the amusement and instruction of readers, have considered episodes of digressions, a very essential part of their labours. These writers seem apprehensive lest the greedy reader should be surfeited with a repletion of highly seasoned wit; and therefore occasionally serve up a course of more homely fare. This practice, when the main subject of the work is interesting and the writer sprightly, I always disapprove; but, if the subject and writer are dull, I am constantly impatient for digressions. The true style of digressing however has not frequently been attained. Sterne attempted it with some success; but his marble page, his crooked lines, and his seven castles are dull system, are dry method, compared with the narrative of our modern peasantry. Having some skill in stenography, I have been able to preserve one of those diverting stories, which was not long since related in my hearing, and which, for the improvement of speakers, as well as writers, I now carefully transcribe.

“On the seventh day of last October, I will not however be positive it was the seventh; it might possibly, for aught I know, be the eighth. It could not be later than the eight nor earlier than the seventh. The month if I mistake not, came in of a Saturday, and it must have been very near the close of the first week; but the particular day is not material. So, be that as it may, it is of no consequence; but, I am pretty certain it was the seventh. I would not undertake for to go for to swear to it; because I may possibly be mistaken; and, as I said before, it is not material. If it was necessary, I should not be much afraid to swear it was either the seventh or eighth. Indeed, the more I think on it, the more I am convinced, in my own mind, that it was the seventh. But, though I should not wish to swear to it, unless it was necessary, I am as well persuaded of it, in my own mind, as I am of any thing, that I do not know for certain. Well, as I was saying, on the seventh of October last, for I am very sure it must be the seventh, one of my neighbours; I call him a neighbour, though, it is true, he does not live very near to me; perhaps seventy-five or eighty rods distance. I do not know but it may be more. I very often travel it, and possibly it appears to me shorter than it really is. Indeed, I have not been used to have near neighbours. Before he came, the nearest was at least half a mile from me; and, when this one came, I told my wife, it seemed but a step to his house. But that is neither here nor there. We are but new yet, and cannot expect to have very near neighbours; but I had rather be as I be than have a hundred such people for neighbours as I have sometimes been acquainted with. But that is neither here nor there. But as 317 I was saying, one of my neighbours came to my house. I had as lief tell who it was as not. The matter I am certain will be known. It was Noah Douglass. I was sitting before the fire. Before it? I can’t say I was exactly before it. Perhaps I was a little nearer one side than the other. But that is neither here nor there. When he came in, I asked him to sit down, not thinking nor mistrusting the least thing in the world. I had no more suspicion of any difficulty with him than the farthest person upon earth. There had always been a good correspond between us. He had always been sociable with me, and I with him. We never had any quarrelling pro nor con. We had had a good deal of deal together; but we were always very authentic, and settled peaceably and quietly. But he had not been in the house long, before I could see there was something that laboured. Well, it was not longer than I have been telling the story, before he began. Says Douglass, says he, don’t you think, says he, you have used me like a rascal, says he. Why, Mr. Douglass, says I, if I was as stout a man as you—And what if you was, says he.”

From this last reply of Douglass, I am persuaded he must be a lineal descendant of the celebrated Gawin Douglass, a very ancient English author, frequently quoted by some of our modern grammarians, and considered as the true standard of the colloquial and familiar style.

THE MEDDLER.

MIRANDA.

A MORAL TALE.

Such were the plaintive accents that smote my ear, as I wandered, musing, by the banks of the Mersey. The words had something in them which arrested my attention; but the melancholy cadence with which they were sighed forth, elicited the sympathetic tear of sorrow. I could not discover from whom the ditty proceeded; I advanced, therefore, cautiously, to the place whence the sounds issued, that I might view the distressed mourner, who had already so powerfully engaged my commiseration.

She sat on the cold ground, under a shade of willows; distress spoke in her countenance; the fountain of her tears appeared exhausted; and her grief, unable to overflow and vent itself at her eyes, convulsed her throbbing breast. Her form contained every thing that elegance and beauty can 317b combine; her features were regular, and expressive; her eyes large and black, but sorrow had robbed them of their vivid flashes; and her dress was the remains of gentility.

I stood awhile in silent admiration; and was so enwrapt in the contemplation of the fair distressed, that I had not hitherto noticed a little dog, which she had in her lap, and viewed with all the tender languishment of love. I was about to address her, when she again began to sing—

Here an involuntary sneeze, on my part, caused the unhappy maid, to espy me, and break off her strains of woe.

She arose, and clasped her little care in her arms, tenderly but deliciously exclaiming—“They shall not hurt thee, my Henry! these murderers shall not come near thee! Rest on thy Miranda’s bosom, and forget thy fears in her love!”

I approached nearer. She looked at me with earnestness; and saw the big drop rolling down my cheeks, and my whole frame almost motionless with grief. The delirium which she had just experienced immediately left her: she advanced near me—“And do you pity me and my love?”

“Thou lovely fair one,” said I, “though I am unacquainted with thy miseries, and the source from whence they flow; yet, let my tears witness my heart felt commiseration.” 

“Is there, then, one soul left,” said she, “that feels for poor Miranda; that feels for her father, and her lover?”

Here she sighed, and cast a tender look on her little companion. A paleness overshadowed her cheeks, her lips quivered, and she seemed about to relapse into her former delirium; when I diverted her attention, by turning it to the beauty of the landscape, and the serpentine windings of the river.

I offered my arm; which she accepted with that unsuspicious modesty, that a heart pure and conscious of it’s innocence inspires. “Where do you live Miranda?” said I. She started at hearing her name from a stranger, having forgot that she had mentioned it; but, quickly recollecting herself—“At the foot of yon farthest hill, you see several clumps of trees around an humble cottage; at present,” replied she, sighing, “I live, or rather die, there!” I desired leave, to see her home: she thanked me for my kindness, and consented.

“Miranda,” said a grief-worn personage, whom, at our entrance into the cot, I perceived laid on a poor but cleanly couch—“Miranda, you shall not add to my heap of miseries by staying in the fields so late; I am alarmed, at such times, for your safety.”

At the sound of the voice, and at the appearance of the old lady, I felt a tumultuous palpitation of the heart, and a more deeply sympathizing sorrow, than I could account for. 318 She had not discovered me before: she now perceived me motionless at the sight of this little mansion of sorrow. She alledged, in excuse for her inattention to me, her solicitude for her daughter. A youth of about twelve years old raised her up from the couch; a girl some years older sat languidly at her feet. A little wood composed their fire, which was at present their only light: it’s inconstant glimmerings served only to exaggerate sights of woe.

Such were my presentments on this occasion, that I involuntarily conceived there must exist some unknown connection of destiny or consanguinity between myself and the sufferers. I therefore desired with eagerness, to be made acquainted with their history.

On turning from Miranda, to whom I made this request, I beheld the mother’s eyes fastened on me: a glistening tear impearled them: she shook her head, as if disappointed, and poured forth a rending sigh. Again my heart throbbed within my breast; but I recollected the desire I had expressed to Miranda, whom I perceived now composed, and ready to satisfy my curiosity.

“The zeal, Sir, with which you appear to interest yourself in our afflictions, entitles your request to attention. By complying, however, I shall again pourtray in lively colours, to my own and my wretched parent’s sight, those miseries which have by time acquired a mellower tint. Hard is the fate of the inferior order of clergymen! How many are the difficulties that surround them! The labourer, who by his toil is able to support his family, enjoys comparatively the happiness of a prince. The scanty pittance allowed them by the church, will oft times scarcely procure food for themselves and their family. You will join with us, no doubt, in lamenting, that in England, in this most happy and heaven-favoured isle, there should exist so intolerable and just a ground of complaint. Nay, even policy, one might imagine, would direct them to abolish such a neglect of Christ’s ministers: for, as no government can flourish, so it cannot long stand, without religion for its basis. The common people chiefly respect externals, and fancy themselves at liberty to deride the thread-bare coat, how great and how many virtues soever its wearer may possess. When the expounders of religion fall into disesteem, religion itself does not long escape; till, at length, all laws, divine and human, are totally neglected and despised. But, whither am I carried on? Excuse my wandering, Sir: such considerations ever arise, when I reflect on our condition.”

“The justness of your remarks, Miss,” said I, “precludes the necessity of an apology.”

“You, no doubt,” continued she, “conjecture, from what I have said, that my father was a clergyman; your conjecture, Sir, is right. That good man is one of the best and most neglected of the clerical profession. He was thirty years curate of the neighbouring village; where his name was ever heard with raptures, so long as he retained 318b the capacity of supplying their wants. But—O this ungrateful world!—when he was no longer able to assist them, they thought themselves freed from former obligations, and at liberty to laugh him to scorn, and insult his misery!”

The old lady sighed; a tear started into her eye; she looked towards Heaven, and was again calm.

“The widow, to whom he was a husband; the orphan, who had found in him the tenderness of a father; were the first to aggravate his sorrows, by that blackest of all vices, ingratitude. One only poor widow exhibited a grateful heart——But again I wander! His yearly income was forty pounds, allowed him for doing the whole duty of the church, by a rector whose laziness procured near two thousand. With this small income we lived in happy frugality, many years: but the good man’s heart overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and this scanty pittance, though sufficient for our expences, and for small beneficences, was very inadequate to the demands of wretchedness. He borrowed, therefore, a sum of money, from a tradesman, to liberate from prison one who craved his assistance. About this time, the son of the rector returned from the university; a youth—Good Heavens!—a youth whose form, whose mind, whose heart, were——”

[To be continued.]

Mrs. RADCLIFFE.

This lady’s novels have a bewitching interest. The power of painting the terrible and the mysterious is hers, in an eminent degree, but her sketches of landscape, though always indicating a skilful painter, are too numerous and minute. They may be called the miniature pictures of nature. Whether in the vales of Arno, or among the craggs of the Appennines, unsatisfied with general description, she chooses to note every spire of grass, and every shrub of the rocks. In the labyrinthian scenes of her castles and her forests, the attentive critic may discern a degree of finesse and stage trick, which, often repeated, offends, rather than surprises. When curiosity pants to discover the secrets of a desolate chamber, or a ruinated abbey, some, perhaps many, impediments may be judiciously thrown in Fancy’s way. But the rusty and bloody key, the glimpse of fancied apparitions, the perplexed path and the impracticable stair case, occur so often in Mrs. Radcliffe’s midnight rambles, that they soon lose their power of deception. But let pruning criticism lop what it may, the laurels of this lady cannot be injured. Her style pure, harmonious and forcible, might be a model, even to masculine writers. In the exhibition of the nicer, and less obvious shades of character, she has caught the strength and the spirit of Tacitus and Shakespeare. The family of La Lue is an enchanting group, not less agreeable from its resemblance to the La Roche of Mackenzie; and the fierceness of Montoni, and the fears of Emily St. Aubert, are admirably contrasted.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REFLECTIONS.

Step aside, vain mortal!—cast thine eyes on this emaciated figure, and then reflect on thy transitory life. Look yet closer—See! the smile is no longer seated here. In how short a time has this change happened! A few hours since and he sported in the sunshine of health: his gaiety was equal to thine. He had measured full twenty years; and many more appeared in readiness to swell the lump.

Dost thou shrink back?—Nay, start not! ’tis thine own picture thou art viewing!—Ere long and thou wilt be likened unto this odious mass. Perhaps thou mayest not again behold that bright luminary which constitutes the day.

Ah! ’twas but yesterday that this now inanimate substance was in the full exercise of every living faculty!—He had laid down a plan for future life, but lived not to put it in practice. While he was figuring to himself the many days of uninterrupted pleasure that seemed within his grasp, the dread summons arrived; and scarcely was the awful packet opened, before the victim was made sure.

L. B.

March 25, 1797.

DUTY OF PARENTS TO THEIR CHILDREN.

By all the nameless sensations of tenderness, which ye whom heaven hath blessed with children feel towards them, be entreated, then, to make their improvement in piety and virtue their chief concern. That you should provide as far as you are able for their comfortable support and happy settlement in life, is undoubtedly your duty. Nor is it less your duty to afford them every opportunity in your power for improving their understandings, and laying up stores of useful and ornamental knowledge in their minds. But, let it never be forgotten, that the principal part of education, is the education of the heart. Endeavour by every method in your power, to inspire them with a reverence for the Supreme Being, with gratitude for his innumerable mercies; with a sence of honour and love of virtue; with sentiments of generosity and compassion towards their fellow creatures; with regard to truth; and with a consciousness of the dignity and excellence of their rational nature. On this foundation assist them in raising the superstructure of a manly, virtuous and useful character. In a word, imitate the example of the pious patriarch; and so command your children and houshold after you, “that they may keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment.”

PITY.

When I hear one say to his neighbour in adversity, “I am sorry for your misfortunes,” it sounds very much, in my ear like, “bring me my slippers.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 22d ult. at Fish-Kill, by the Rev. Mr. Van Vankin, Mr. Jacob P. Roome, of this city, to Miss Nelly Hoogland, of that place.

On Sunday evening sen’ight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Isaac Seymour, to Miss Sally Wilson, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Milledolar, Mr. James P. Allen, to Miss Mary Gordon, daughter of Charles Gordon, Esq. of Middle-town, New-Jersey.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SOLUTION TO THE REBUS.

THE AMERICAN SOLDIER.

A PICTURE FROM THE LIFE.

AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.

By James De-La-Cour.

(Continued.)

EPIGRAM.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, BY THE LATE DR. COOPER.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.