For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

MORNING REFLECTIONS.

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

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

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

T.

New-York, July 1, 1796.

Description of the famous SALT MINES at Williska in Poland.

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

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

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

(The conclusion in our next.)

This serial began in No. 45 of the New-York Weekly; the last 4 of its 12 installments are in Volume II. For sources, see the end of this file.

THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF M. DE LA PALINIERE.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 410 of Vol. I.)

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

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

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

Is it not your own proposal!

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

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

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

I do not hate you.

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

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

They endeavoured to reason with me, but in vain; I informed them I should go directly into the country, where I should stay three days, and when I came back I expected to find myself alone in my own house. I next 2b wrote to Julia to inform her of my proceedings, and departed, as I had said I would, the same evening for the country.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE DEAD INFANT; or, the AGONIZING MOTHER.

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

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

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

L. B.

This serialized novel began in No. 22 of the New-York Weekly; the last 41 of its 72 segments are in Volume II. For sources, 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 415 of Vol. I.)

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

“If your Majesty should know how dear it is to me—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have little reason to think he is.”

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

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

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

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

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

“He wants to see you and you are here?”

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

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

“Does your Majesty know my father?” I enquired hastily.

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

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

She seemed to meditate, “It is true,” she said at length, “we have entirely wandered from your concerns. Did you not tell me that you are haunted every where by an apparition? I too have seen an apparition some time ago. It was the ghost of my departed father, who, at midnight drew the curtains of my bed, and said ‘I am very wretched my daughter! neither prayers nor masses will give me relief, while Por****l which we have usurped shall be submitted to the Sp***sh sceptre. O! my daughter, if the least spark of filial love is left in thy bosom, if thou wilt relieve me from unspeakable torments, then make use of all thy interest at this court, in order to support the endeavours of those who, at present, are secretly occupied to deliver Por****l from 5 her oppressors. A noble youth will arrive in a few days and implore thy assistance. He is sent from Heaven; grant his prayer. He has a mole on his left breast, which will be to thee a token of his mission.”

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

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

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

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

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

After I had communicated to him my success, I went to my apartment in order to give audience to my thoughts; however I was not able to account for the behaviour of the Queen, and my feelings during the whole scene. Was it love that I felt for the Queen? certainly not; at least, my sentiments for her were quite different from those I entertained for Amelia; was it mere esteem that endeared her so much to me? impossible!---My heart left me entirely in the dark with respect to that point, as well as my reason. It is true, one particular idea prevailed in my soul, however it appeared to me ridiculous, as soon as I reflected on other circumstances. The account which the Queen gave me of the apparition of the ghost of her father, completed my confusion. Was it the work of the Unknown, and did she really believe she had seen the ghost of her father? in that case the grant of my prayer was perhaps merely the consequence of her love for her father, whom she hoped to release thus from his sufferings; even her tears, embraces, and kisses, were then nothing else but means of alluring me to strain every nerve, in order to bring to a happy conclusion an undertaking, from the execution of which the eternal happiness of her father depended. But perhaps---and that, I thought, 5b was not less possible---has she only invented that apparition in order to prevent me from suspecting the real source of her willingness to grant my prayer, and her confidential and endearing deportment? Even the manner in which she mentioned the mole on my breast, appeared to me an artifice which she might have made use of, rather to assure herself of the identity of my person, than of my mission from above; and this supposition received an additional confirmation, by her singular behaviour, after the discovery.---Thus I was wandering in the mazy labyrinth of conjectures and doubts, till sleep stole upon me by degrees, and shut my heavy eyes.

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

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

When I alighted at the gate of the hospital, I met Count Clairval. He seemed to be petrified when he saw me in the company of the friar. “Whither are you going?” 6 he enquired at length. “To Paleski, who is on the brink of eternity.” The Count changed colour, and whispered in my ear: “Don’t go, the fellow is infected with a contagious disease.”---“You are mistaken (was my answer) he has been wounded dangerously, as his confessor tells me.” “I have just come from him,” the Count resumed with visible uneasiness, “the fever has deranged his head, and he will tell you a number of foolish things.” “No matter,” I replied, “I must see him, for he has sent me word that he has important discoveries to make.” “What can he discover to you?” said the Count, “Paleski has ever been an impostor.” “This will render his confession on the brink of eternity so much the more remarkable. But I must not lose a moment. Farewell, Count, till I see you again!” So saying, I tore myself from him, and hastened with the friar to Paleski’s apartment. When the nurse had left the room, the former said: “you need but ring the bell, if you should want me, I shall be within hearing.”---With these words he went out of the room. Paleski stared at me for some time. The livid colour of death covered his haggard countenance, and the most agonizing anguish of a tormented conscience was strongly painted on his looks. “My Lord!” he at length began, “I owe you a thousand thanks for your condescension; I should undoubtedly have fallen a sacrifice to black despair, if you had refused to give me an opportunity to unfold mysteries to you which lie heavy on my mind.” 

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

(To be continued.)

A remarkable account of two Brothers, extracted from Linschoten’s Voyages.

In the sixteenth century, the Portuguese carracks sailed from Lisbon to Goa. There were no less than twelve hundred souls on board one of these vessels. The beginning of their voyage was prosperous; they had doubled the Cape of Good Hope and were steering their course North-east, to the great continent of India, when some Gentlemen on board who having studied Geography and Navigation, found in the latitude they were then in, a large ridge of rocks laid down in their Sea-charts. They no sooner made this discovery, than they acquainted the Captain of the ship with it, desiring him to communicate the same to the pilot, which request he immediately granted, recommending him to lay by in the night, and slacken sail in the day, until they should be past the danger. It is a custom among the Portuguese absolutely to commit the navigation, or sailing part of the vessel to the Pilot, who is answerable with his head for the safe-conduct or carriage of the King’s ships, or those that belong to private traders; and is under no manner of direction from the Captain, who commands in every other respect. The Pilot being a self sufficient man, took it as an affront to be taught his art, and instead of complying with the captain’s 6b request, actually crowded more sail. They had not sailed many hours, before the ship struck upon a rock. In this distress the Captain ordered the pinnace to be launched, into which having tossed a small quantity of biscuit, and some boxes of marmalade, he jumped in himself with nineteen others, who with their swords prevented the coming in of any more, lest the boat should sink. In this condition they put off in the great Indian ocean, without a compass to steer by or any fresh water, but what might happen to fall from the heavens, whose mercy alone could deliver them.

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

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

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

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

SENTIMENTAL PERFUMERY.

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

Self knowledge:—A mirror, shewing the full shape in the truest light.

Innocence:—A white paint, which will stand for a considerable time, if not abused.

Modesty:—Very best rouge, giving a becoming bloom to the cheek.

Contentment:—An infallible smoother of wrinkles in the face.

Truth:—A salve, rendering the lips soft and peculiarly graceful.

Good humour:—An universal beautifier.

Mildness:—Giving a tincture to the voice.

Tears of Pity:—A water, that gives lustre and brightness to the eye.

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

CURIOUS PROPOSITION OF A DEBTOR TO HIS CREDITOR

(From a London Paper)

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, David Hunt, Esq. of West-Chester, to the Widow Cooper of Fish-Kills.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND VIRTUOUS.

For sources, see the end of the second installment (pg. 16).

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTHONY.
From the French.

(To be concluded in our next.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

PITY.

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

Description of the famous SALT MINES at Williska in Poland.

(Concluded from page 1.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF M. DE LA PALINIERE.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 3.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

In fact, I could not resolve to quit Paris, and put the intolerable space of two hundred leagues between me and Julia; I wrote therefore to the minister, to obtain leave 10b of absence, which was refused me, and I instantly threw up my commission.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Repent! of what?

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

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

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

Imprisonment! Oh! heavens!

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

And does not she seem sorrowful?

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

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

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

At what o’clock will it begin?

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

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

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

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

Arrived at my lodgings, I threw myself upon the sopha, penetrated, torn, and confounded at all that I had heard. The veil was rent away, the illusion passed, I knew at length the extent of my misery; saw to what a point my extravagant conduct had stained my wife’s 11b reputation; felt how impossible it was for this innocent victim of my destruction truly to pardon the injury I had done her, by destroying the most precious thing a woman possesses; and owned, that the unjust contempt with which the world treated her, ought incessantly to reanimate her resentment against me its author. To her virtue alone could I now attribute her generous manner of acting.

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

(To be continued.)

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

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

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

LUCIUS.

Pine-Street, June 28, 1796.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

IF A STORY BE NOT GOOD, SAY ‘TIS A DUTCH ONE.—ERASMUS.
A Good Name is better than precious Ointment——SOLOMON.

’Tis certainly a strange and a ludicrous sentiment—there appears to be such a contrast in the objects—I presume, in former days, ointments were in greater estimation than at present---for it seems to have been as currently talked of as bank bills with us.---I recollect his father’s wonderful conception, that love and unity were similar to the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron’s beard that went down to the skirts of his garments.---I cannot conjecture the reason for their prizing it so highly:---Is this the ointment or oil, pray, that made their kings? Well, admitting it is,---why should it be set along side a good name.---We lessen the importance of the noble object by placing it with a trivial one----The fact is, I believe, Solomon said it because he happened to hear it (like many other things) at home. Does there need much inspiration to raise so noble a thought?---What if he said, a good name is better than 300 wives and 700 concubines---would it not have made an admirable sound indeed? Yes, how striking it would have been, had he only said, ’tis better than 1000 stalls of horses---how some penetrating diving old gentlemen would have eyed it thro’ their spectacles.---But such trivial things as a few wives, concubines, or horses extra did not pop into his mind just then. When I recollect how far the Queen of the South came to see his wisdom, and that, in fact, he was acknowleged able to distinguish and divide a hair twixt south and south-west side---I must blush and confess it folly and presumption to smile at him---though I had nothing else to do and cannot sleep;---but truly it would have read so handsomely to me had it been a good name is better, far better, (understand me right,) than the best of gingerbread.

R. G. W.

EFFECT OF MUSIC.

(From a London Paper.)

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

OBSERVATION.

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 6.)

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

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

“My Lord!---you are in dreadful hands. That Unknown---”

“Who is he?” I interrupted him impatiently.

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

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

“Besides this machine, he shewed us a crooked tube, which was fixed to the ceiling, and reached down to the middle of the room. This tube, said the Unknown, is in communication with the wall of the upper apartment where it ends in the open jaw of one of the four lions which are standing in the corner of that room. By means of that tube, one cannot only hear very distinctly in this room what is spoken in the upper apartment, but one hears equally distinctly what one speaks here, without suspecting from whence the voice proceeds. You know, my lord, from your own experience 13b how well the Unknown knew how to render these machines serviceable to his plan.

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

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

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

Seized with astonishment at Paleski’s narration, and impatient to hear its continuation, I had not interrupted him once; but now I could not refrain any longer from speaking. “Then Amelia is really innocent?” I exclaimed, 14 “and was not privy to the artifices of the Unknown?”

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

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

“Does your Lordship recollect all the particulars of the apparition scene?”

“Yes! I do.”

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

A PRODIGY.

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

GREATNESS.

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REFLECTIONS.

Occasioned by the very sudden death of Miss Mary Blackbourn, who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796.

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

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

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

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

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

MELPOMENUS.

New-York, July 8, 1796.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

On JEALOUSY.

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

MARS.

New-York, July 8, 1796.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Captain Timothy Dorgan, to Miss Sally Jones, both of this city.

The 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Edward Blackford, merchant, of this city, to the agreeable Miss Hannah Murray, daughter of James Murray, late of this city, but now of Newark.

On Monday last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Samuel Curiea, to Miss Sally Bowen, both of Providence.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The answer of Orlando to Melpomenus, has been received, but as we deem the subject uninteresting, and as personal animosity, seemed to predominate over that coolness which should be observed in discussion, we think it better to drop the subject——The Three Cornered Hat, by Tyrunculus, is received and shall be attended to.

LINES

Occasioned by the Death of Miss Mary Blackbourn, who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796.

The quoted line “Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew” is from Falconer, The Shipwreck, 1762.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTHONY.
From the French.

FRAGMENT.

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

Remarks on the wonderful Construction of the
EYE.

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

In the first place, the disposition of the external parts of the eye is admirable. With what intrenchment, what defence, the Creator has provided our eyes! They are placed in the head at a certain depth, and surrounded with hard and solid bones, that they may not easily be hurt. The eye-brows contribute also very much to the safety and preservation of this organ. Those hairs which form an arch over the eyes, prevent drops of sweat, dust, or such things, falling from the forehead into them. The eye-lids are another security; and also, by closing in our sleep, they prevent the light from disturbing our rest. The eye-lashes still add to the perfection of the eyes. They save us from a too strong light, which might offend us; and they guard us from the smallest dust, which might otherwise hurt the sight. The internal make of the eye is still more admirable. The whole eye is composed of coats, of humours, of muscles, and veins. The tunica, or exterior membrane, which is called cornea, is transparent, and so hard, that it can resist the roughest shocks. Behind that there is another within, which they call uvea, and which is circular and coloured. In the middle of it there is an opening, which is called the pupil, and which appears black. Behind this opening is the crystal, which is 17b perfectly transparent, of a lenticular figure, and composed of several little flakes very thin, and arranged one over another. Underneath the crystal there is a moist and transparent substance, which they call the glassy humour, because it resembles melted glass. The cavity, or the hinder chamber, between the cornea and the crystal, contains a moist humour, and liquid as water, for that reason called the watery humour. It can recruit itself when it has run out from a wound of the cornea. Six muscles, admirably well placed, move the eye on all sides, raise it, lower it, turn it to the right or left, obliquely, or round about, as occasion requires. What is most admirable is the retina, a membrane which lines the inside bottom of the eye. It is nothing but a web of little fibres extremely fine, fastened to a nerve or sinew, which comes from the brain, and is called the optic nerve. It is in the retina, that the vision is formed, because the objects paint themselves at the bottom of the eye on that tunica: and, though the images of exterior objects are painted upside down on the retina, they are still seen in their true position. Now, in order to form an idea of the extreme minuteness of this picture, we need only consider, that the space of half a mile, that is to say, of more than eleven hundred yards, when it is represented in the bottom of the eye, makes but the tenth part of an inch.

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

For sources, see the end of this file.

MAXIM.

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

THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF M. DE LA PALINIERE.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 11.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sinclair’s discourse not only awakened the most lively gratitude, but raised me in my own esteem. In giving me back his friendship, he gave me hopes of myself. I immediately opened my whole heart to him, and found a satisfaction of which I had long been deprived, that of speaking without disguise of all my faults, and all my sorrows. The melancholy tale was often interrupted 18b by my tears; and Sinclair, after hearing me with as much attention as tenderness, raised his eyes to heaven and gave a deep sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

“How! is he reconciled to Sinclair?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But wherefore then go to Italy?”

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

“And yet there are many people who pretend the pocket-book was Belinda’s.”

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

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

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

“Have you seen him since his clash?”

“No; but I have burnt all our accounts; he’ll never hear of them more.”

“Did he owe you many play-debts?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be concluded in our next.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON THE THREE CORNERED HAT.

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

TYRUNCULUS.

New-York, July 7, 1796.

A SPEAKING STATUE.

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

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

For sources, see the end of the second installment (pg. 28).

To the Editor of the New-York Weekly Magazine.

Sir,

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

ANNA.

New-York, May 17, 1796.

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

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

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

“They had no sooner left us (said he upon his examination) than taking my wife upon my lap, I opened the Bible to read to her---my two boys were in bed---one five years old, the other seven;---my daughter Rebecca, about eleven, was sitting by the fire, and my infant aged about six months, was slumbering at her mother’s bosom.---Instantly a new light shone into the room, and upon looking up I beheld two Spirits, one at my right hand and the other at my left;---he at the left bade me destroy all my idols, and begin by casting the Bible into the fire;---the other Spirit dissuaded me, but I obeyed the first, and threw the book into the flames. My wife immediately snatched it out, and was going to expostulate, when I 20b threw it in again and held her fast until it was entirely consumed:---then filled with the determination to persevere, I flew out of the house, and seizing an axe which lay by the door, with a few strokes demolished my sleigh, and running to the stable killed one of my horses---the other I struck, but with one spring he got clear of the stable.---My spirits now were high, and I hasted to the house to inform my wife of what I had done. She appeared terrified, and begged me to sit down; but the good angel whom I had obeyed stood by me and bade me go on, “You have more idols, (said he) look at your wife and children.” I hesitated not a moment, but rushed to the bed where my boys lay, and catching the eldest in my arms, I threw him with such violence against the wall, that he expired without a groan!---his brother was still asleep---I took him by the feet, and dashed his skull in pieces against the fire-place!---Then looking round, and perceiving that my wife and daughters were fled, I left the dead where they lay, and went in pursuit of the living, taking up the axe again.---A slight snow had fallen that evening, and by its light I descried my wife running towards her father’s (who lived about half a mile off) encumbered with her babe; I ran after her, calling upon her to return, but she shrieked and fled faster, I therefore doubled my pace, and when I was within thirty yards of her, threw the axe at her, which hit her upon the hip!---the moment that she felt the blow she dropped the child, which I directly caught up, and threw against the log-fence---I did not hear it cry---I only heard the lamentations of my wife, of whom I had now lost sight; but the blood gushed so copiously from her wound that it formed a distinct path along the snow. We were now within sight of her father’s house, but from what cause I cannot tell, she took an opposite course, and after running across an open field several times, she again stopped at her own door; I now came up with her---my heart bled to see her distress, and all my natural feelings began to revive; I forgot my duty, so powerfully did her moanings and pleadings affect me, “Come then, my love (said I) we have one child left, let us be thankful for that--what is done is right--we must not repine, come let me embrace you---let me know that you do indeed love me.” She encircled me in her trembling arms, and pressed her quivering lips to my cheek.---A voice behind me, said, “This is also an idol!”---I broke from her instantly, and wrenching a stake from the garden fence, with one stroke levelled her to the earth! and lest she should only be stunned, and might, perhaps, recover again, I repeated my blows, till I could not distinguish one feature of her face!!! I now went to look after my last sublunary treasure, but after calling several times without receiving any answer, I returned to the house again; and in the way back picked up the babe and laid it on my wife’s bosom.---I then stood musing a minute---during which interval I thought I heard the suppressed sobbings of some one near the barn, I approached it in silence, and beheld my daughter Rebecca endeavouring to conceal herself among the hay-stacks.---”

(To be concluded in our next.)

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 14.)

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

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

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

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

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

“It was fastened to the branches of an opposite tree, while you were at supper; however the darkness of the night, the distance of the tree, and the black cloth with which it had been covered till twelve o’clock, had rendered it invisible. Your servant, from whom we carefully concealed our proceedings, had been removed to a 21b distant apartment, where he was amused by a game at cards till midnight had set in.”

“But why did the Unknown not endeavour to gain him over to his party?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, my Lord, I did.”

“And your recantation in the wood near ****n?---”

“Was a new cheat.”

I gazed at him with astonishment.

“You will recollect, my Lord, that I told you the Unknown, had given up all hope of seducing your servant; and yet he stood in need of a man who enjoyed your confidence, in order to be informed by him of all your actions, wishes and sentiments, and to govern you at his pleasure by his assistance, without your perceiving it. The Count offered to attempt to get acquainted with 22 you. In order to deceive the keen-sightedness of your tutor, who was a principal obstacle to the execution of his designs, he pretended to join with him in his hatred against the Unknown, whom he declared to be an impostor, and thus made your governor believe that he was an unprejudiced honest man. For that very reason he persisted in his declaration, accepted your challenge, and produced the letter by which Amelia had informed him of the particulars of her recovery, and proved my letter to be a forgery. He even accused the Unknown of acting in concert with me, with the view to remove the most distant suspicion of being connected with either of us. The Count would certainly not have hazarded to push matters so far, if he had not foreseen that a scene like that which I acted in the wood near ****n would retrieve every thing, and clear the Unknown of the suspicion of having acted in concert with me. The event has proved that he had not been mistaken, and now he thought it seasonable to change the scene. Till then the Count had appeared to counteract him, though he had rendered him the most important services; but now, thinking to have gained a firm footing in your confidence, he began to declare openly for the Unknown. He could easily foresee what a seducing effect this seeming change of opinion would have upon you. For it was natural you should conceive the idea, that the unfavourable prejudice which the Count had manifested against the Unknown, had been conquered by the reality and greatness of his miracles; and supposing this, you could not but think to have an additional motive for yielding without reserve to the sublime notion of the power of the Unknown, which you till then frequently had entertained reluctantly. However the Count could not change his tone before the Unknown appeared justified, as well in his as in your opinion, if he would not expose himself to the danger of exciting your suspicion, and for that reason the farce in the wood near ***n was acted.”

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

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

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

“I only wanted to strengthen the impression of my tale.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

OBSERVATION.

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

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

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

ETHICUS.

New-York, July 16, 1796.

WONDERFUL ACCOUNT OF A MAN-FISH.

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON POLITENESS.

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

MOORISH GRATITUDE.

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

THE FORGETFUL MAN.

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

This item is repeated on pg. 254 in No. 84.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Friday evening last by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. George Gaines, to Miss Elizabeth Taylor, both of this city.

EPITAPH,

ON A VIOLENT SCOLD.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SIR,

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

A.

THE MALL.

THE RECANTATION.

TO MATILDA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ELEGY,

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY ON TRANSCRIBING FOR HER
A POEM ON THE DEATH OF TWO UNFORTUNATE LOVERS.

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

View of the STARRY HEAVENS.

The sky at night presents us a sight of wonders, which must raise the astonishment of every attentive observer of nature. But from whence comes it, that so few consider the firmament with attention? I am willing to believe, that in general it proceeds from ignorance; for it is impossible to be convinced of the greatness of the works of God, without feeling a rapture almost heavenly. O how I wish to make you share this divine pleasure! Raise your thoughts for this purpose towards the sky: It will be enough to name to you the immense bodies which are strewed in that space, to fill you with astonishment at the greatness of the artificer. It is in the center of our system that the throne of the sun is established. The body is more than a million of times larger than the earth. It is one hundred millions of miles distant from it, and notwithstanding this prodigious distance, it has a most sensible effect upon our sphere. Round the sun move twenty-one globular bodies, seven of which are called planets, the other fourteen, moons or satellites; they are opake, and receive from the sun light, heat, and perhaps also their interior motion. Georgium Sidus, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Earth, Venus, and Mercury, are the names of the seven principal planets. Of these seven, Mercury is nearest the sun, and for that reason is mostly invisible to the astronomer. As he is near nineteen times smaller than our earth, he contributes but little to adorn the sky. Venus follows him, and is sometimes called the morning, and sometimes the evening star. It is one of the brightest of the heavenly bodies, whether it precedes the sun-rise, or succeeds the setting sun. It is near as large again as our earth, and is about sixty-eight millions of miles distant from the sun. After Venus comes our earth, round which the moon moves, as a secondary planet. Mars, which is the fourth planet, is seven times smaller than our globe; and its distance from the sun is one hundred and forty-four millions of miles. Jupiter, with his belt, is always distinguished by his splendor in the starry sky: it seems in size to surpass all the fixed stars; it is almost as bright as Venus in all her glory, except that the light of it is less brilliant than the morning 25b star. How small our earth is in comparison with Jupiter! There would not be less than eight thousand globes like ours, necessary to form one equal in size to that of Jupiter. Saturn, whose distance from the sun is upwards of nine hundred millions of miles, was thought the remotest planet until the late discovery of the Georgium Sidus, whose distance is eighteen thousand millions of miles, and its magnitude eighty-nine times greater than our earth. In the mean time, the sun, with all the planets which accompany it, is a very small part of the immense fabric of the universe. Each star, which from hence appears to us no larger than a brilliant set in a ring, is in reality an immense body which equals the sun both in size and splendor.

(To be concluded in our next.)

For sources, see the end of this file.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

KNOWLEDGE.

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

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

CURIOUS ETYMOLOGY.

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

THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF M. DE LA PALINIERE.

Translated from the French.

(Concluded from page 18.)

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

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

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

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

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

I passed five years in Holland, during which time I was constantly fortunate in the business in which I was engaged; and at length, by extreme œconomy and unwearied assiduity, entirely re-established my fortune.26b I  then thought of nothing but of once more visiting my own country. I imagined, with the most tender delight, the happiness I was going to regain, when falling at the feet of Julia, I might say to her, “I return worthy of you; I return to consecrate my life to your happiness.”

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

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

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

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

Ah, unhappy man!

Go on! continue! strike me to the heart!

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

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

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

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

The remainder of my history has nothing interesting; consoled by time and religion, I consecrated the rest of my career to friendship, study, and the offices of humanity; I obtained my uncle’s pardon, and the care of making him happy became my greatest delight; and I 27 fulfilled, without effort, and in their whole extent, those sacred duties which nature and gratitude required.

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

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

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

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

EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF A SPANISH NOBLEMAN.

From the Chevalier De Rabilier’s remarkable Events of the present Century.

Francis Anthony De Sandoval, duke of Medina Celi, and of St. Lucar, in the province of Andalusia, was not only a grandee of the first class, but exceedingly beloved in the country where he usually resided, on account of his great benevolence and affability to all ranks of people who approached him. Having a prodigious estate in lands, besides the duties and customs of the port of St. Lucar, near Seville, which were conferred on his family by Roderick the last monarch of the Gothic race, he kept a sort of vice royal court, to which the nobility, gentry, and merchants, around his wide domain, were always welcomed with the grandeur of a prince, the hospitality of a burgher, and the smiles of a friend. Young, rich, powerful, and revered by thousands, who considered him as the pride of their country, and an honour to the whole nation, nothing seemed wanting to complete the felicity of this worthy nobleman, but an alliance suitable to his elevated rank and more distinguished virtues. Many were the overtures on that head, from the most illustrious families in every part of Spain; but his grace, who was of a domestic turn, and averse from the vanities of high life, declined entering into any engagement which might subject him to the impertinence, folly, and etiquette, to which the major part of the fashionable world seem to abound, either as servile imitators, or involuntary slaves. He loved magnificence, but abhorred ceremony as much as the amusements wherein persons of fortune usually lose the best part of their time. Hunting he considered as a manly exercise, calculated to brace the nerves, and give circulation to the blood, therefore to be taken occasionally as physic, not followed as a trade. It may be asked by some fantastic man of pleasure of the court, or jolly squire of the country, how then could a person of his quality spend his leisure hours? Why, in reading, walking, entertaining his numerous 27b friends at home, and returning the necessary visits abroad, in various innocent parties on land and water, in keeping up his gardens and improvements, in examining his vast houshold accounts, inspecting the state of his vassals and farmers, hearing and redressing their grievances, portioning the marriageable daughters of his poor tenantry, and presiding at those nuptials, where he is considered in the threefold light of father, benefactor, and guardian; as the ministering angel of comfort, and deputed commissioner of a bountiful Providence, to dispense his gracious mercies amongst the sons and daughters of affliction. If to these healthful avocations and duties, so worthy elevated rank and rich possessions, we add the public and private attendance on religious worship, frequent self-examination, and the distribution of super-abundant wealth, to modest indigence and clamorous distress, as a small tribute for the distinguished blessings, which rightly enjoyed, will confer the purest happiness here, and a crown of glory in the regions of everlasting day hereafter, little or no time can be spared for frivolous amusements or sinful pursuits. Think of this, ye extravagant and debauched men of quality without peace, morals, or good faith, whose hours are sacrificed to folly, whose minds are the sport of delusion, whose bodies are the sinks of disease, and whose fortunes are hastening to the hands of the extortioner who sooner or later, will consume all you possess! Let the example of the duke of Medina point out the true man of sense, honour and distinction; act like him and be happy!

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

(To be concluded in our next.)

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

(Concluded from page 20.)

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

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

His sister, who was the principal evidence against him, stated---that she had scarce got home, when a message came to Mr. J——n, her husband, informing him that his mother was ill and wished to see him; he accordingly set off immediately, and she not expecting him home again till the next day, went to bed---there being no other person in the house. About four in the morning she heard her brother Y——— call her, she started up and bade him come in. “I will not (returned he) for I have committed the unpardonable sin---I have burnt the Bible.” She knew not what to think, but rising hastily opened the door which was only latched, and caught hold of his hand: let me go, Nelly (said he) my hands are wet with blood---the blood of my Elizabeth and her children.---She saw the blood dripping from his fingers, and her’s chilled in the veins, yet with a fortitude unparalleled she begged him to enter, which—as he did, he attempted to sieze a case knife, that by the light of a bright pine-knot fire, he perceived lying on the dresser---she prevented him, however, and tearing a trammel from the chimney, bound him with it to the bed post---fastening his hands behind him---She then quitted the house in order to go to his, which as she approached she heard the voice of loud lamentation, the hope that it was some one of the family who had escaped the effects of her brother’s frenzy, subdued the fears 28b natural to such a situation and time, she quickened her steps, and when she came to the place where Mrs. Y—— lay, she perceived that the moans came from Mrs. Y----’s aged father, who expecting that his daughter would set out upon her journey by day break, had come at that early hour to bid her farewel.

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

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

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

May 27, 1796.

BEAUTIFUL ALLEGORY.

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 22.)

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

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

“Whatever Paleski may have discovered to your Grace with respect to me, yet I am assured that he cannot have said any thing for which my conscience condemns me, though I should not be able to defend it before an ecclesiastical, or a civil court of justice. I have deceived you; however, I have done it for a great and noble purpose, and by order of a powerful being, whose authority I and you acknowledge. I should despise myself, if mean, or self-interested views, could have prompted me to do what I have done. To stimulate you to take an active part in the delivery of your country, was the sole reason for which you have been imposed upon. Although Paleski should not have disclosed the secret to you, yet you would not have remained in the dark much longer, because it was the plan of the Unknown to remove the veil from your eyes, and to introduce you into a new world, for which you was to be prepared by the delusions which you have experienced. Man is led to truth by error, according to an eternal law of nature. It was necessary that you should be made acquainted with delusions, that your look might be sharpened for future knowledge; it was necessary you should experience the highest degree of delusion, that you might acquire the prerogative of discerning fraud from reality, and of never suffering yourself to be imposed upon again. Then, and not sooner, the time would have arrived, when the Unknown would have shown himself to you in his real shape, and embraced you not only as a preserver of your country, but also as a member of that sacred society of wise men, who are admitted behind the curtain of nature, whither no eye of common short-sighted men can penetrate. A power and a happiness of which you can form no adequate notion, would have been your 29b reward. Your tutor already enjoys that reward, and if you had been keen-sighted enough to penetrate, without assistance, the mist of delusions with which you have been encompassed, you would have been admitted some time since to the sanctuary where that reward awaits you. More I dare not say at present; however, I would advise you not to postpone your journey, and neither to betray me or the Unknown. If you slight my advice, then you must ascribe to yourself all the bad consequences which may arise from it, and you never will meet again in this world your tutor or Amelia. I conjure you not to mistake this for a new delusion. If you, on the other side, are inclined to profit by this advice, you will continue your journey with all possible expedition, and not think it finished before you shall be arrived at Ma***d, the capital of Sp***n, you will meet the Unknown, Amelia and your tutor, on the road. At *ubea you will stop at the inn which bears the sign of the golden mirror, where you are to receive an important visit. You will have the goodness to send my trunk to the post-house, where one of my people will call for it. I remain, with that respect and love with which I always have been,

“Your Grace’s, &c. &c.”

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

“Your Excellency knows how carefully we endeavoured to conceal the place of our secret meetings from the intrusion of prying strangers, by spreading the report that it was haunted. However, this did not deter a young nobleman who is on his travels, from entering 30 last night the castle, in company of his tutor, with the intention of forming an acquaintance with the ghosts. No sooner had we been informed of their being arrived at the castle, when Georgio de M**** offered to chastise them for their inquisitiveness, fixing twelve o’clock at night for the execution of his design. He disguised himself as the most dreadful spectre which ever has appeared at midnight. Concluding from the undertaking of the two strangers that they were men of spirit and resolution, he put on a coat of mail, and covered his face with a mask made of bull-skins, in order to be proof against swords and pistols; a precaution which, as the event proved, was not superfluous. Thus accoutred, he approached at twelve o’clock the apartment of the strangers with a tremendous noise. Their door was bolted from within as he had apprehended; however, all the locks and bolts in the castle being constructed in such a manner that they can be opened from without, Georgio found it not difficult to push their door open. I remained at the threshold in order to wait the event. Georgio no sooner had entered the room with a design to chastise the young man who was sitting near the window, at a table on which two candles were burning, than his tutor started up, aiming a blow at him from behind which would have done his business at once, if Georgio had not been protected by his coat of mail. The pretended spectre threw the old gentleman so violently on the ground that he was unable to move a limb. This sight entirely disconcerted the young man, who was on the point of firing a pistol at his frightful visitor, rushed on him with a thundering voice, extinguished the candles, and beating him in such a manner as if he was going to beat him to atoms. Georgio’s dress being anointed with a salve composed of phosphorus, he appeared in the dark, to be all on fire. The dreadful impression which this sight produced on the mind of the young man was increased by the howling, groaning, and the tremendous noise which some of our company raised in the apartment over his head; he seemed to be senseless. As soon as Georgio perceived his helpless state, he lighted the candles with phosphorus, and left the apartment which he carefully bolted and locked.

“An hour after this scene had been acted, Georgio returned to the apartment, partly with the intention of seeing what effect the incident had produced on the strangers, and partly with a view to deter them from paying a second visit to the castle, and renewed the former scene. Both of them were again stretched senseless on their beds. As soon as Georgio had done with the young nobleman, he left the room without kindling the taper, for fear of being watched by the young spark, if he should recover his recollection a little too soon. He was not mistaken. But who would have thought that the young man would be so daring to pursue the spectre on his return through the dark passage? Georgio, who did not entertain the most distant idea of such an attempt, neither looked back, nor shut the trap-door thro’ which he had jumped down into the subterraneous vault, upon a heap of hay and straw. He had not advanced four steps, when the report of a pistol re-echoed 30b through the subterraneous fabric. Some of our company who were at hand, hastened to the spot from whence the report of the pistol had proceeded, wrapt in black cloaks, and provided with torches and swords. They found the young man lying upon the straw upon which he had fallen in the dark through the trap-door. He was instantly seized and conducted to the assembly-room, where the conspirators, who had previously masked their faces, were sitting around a long table. Hearing that he was to pay with his life for his rashness, he drew his sword, but was soon disarmed and confined in an adjoining chamber.

(To be continued.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORAL AXIOM.

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ACTIVITY CONDUCIVE TO HAPPINESS.

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

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

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

OBSERVATION.

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED.

On Tuesday, the 28th ult. by the Rev. Thomas L. Moore, of Hempstead, Mr. Minne Schenk, of Cow Neck, to Miss Phebe Toffey, daughter of Mr. Daniel Toffey, of Herricks, (L. I.)

On Thursday evening the 14th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Cornelius Day, to Mrs. Ann Hameller, both of this city.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO ELIZA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

EJACULATION

Over the grave of my wife.

TO AMANDA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE WISH.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO OBLIGED ME TO READ ALOUD,
AND MADE ME PROMISE TO WRITE SOME VERSES.

THE THREAT.

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

View of the STARRY HEAVENS.

(Concluded from page 25.)

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

In the mean time, all these observations, however surprising they are, lead us, at the utmost, but to the first limits of the creation. If we could transport ourselves above the moon; if we could reach the highest star over our heads, we should discover new skies, new 33b suns, new stars, new systems of worlds, and perhaps still more magnificent. Even there, however, the dominions of our great Creator would not end; and we should find, with the greatest surprize, that we had only arrived at the frontiers of the worldly space. But the little we do know of his works, is sufficient to make us admire the infinite wisdom, power, and goodness of our adorable Creator. Let us stop here, then, and reflect, how great must be that Being who has created those immense globes! who has regulated their course, and whose right hand directs and supports them! And what is the clod of earth we inhabit, with the magnificent scene it presents us, in comparison of the beauty of the firmament? If this earth was annihilated, its absence would be no more observed than that of a grain of sand from the sea-shore. What are provinces and kingdoms in comparison of those worlds? Nothing but atoms which play in the air, and are seen in the sun-beams. And what am I, when I reckon myself amongst this infinite number of God’s creatures? How I am lost in my own nothingness! But however little I appear in this, how great do I find myself in other respects! “How beautiful this starry firmament, which God has chosen for his throne! What is more admirable than the celestial bodies! Their splendor dazzles me; their beauty enchants me. However, all beautiful as it is, and richly adorned, yet is this sky void of intelligence. It knows not its own beauty; whilst I, mere clay, whom God has moulded with his hands, am endowed with sense and reason.” I can contemplate the beauty of those shining orbs. Still more, I am already, to a certain degree, acquainted with their sublime Author; and I partly see some rays of his glory. I will endeavour to be more and more acquainted with his works, and make it my employment, till by a glorious change I rise above the starry regions, and enter the world of spirits.

For sources, see the end of this file.

MAXIM.

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

EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF A SPANISH NOBLEMAN.

From the Chevalier De Rabilier’s remarkable Events of the present Century.

(Concluded from page 27)

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

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

The domestic having in part discharged the duties of humanity, returned to his lord, and informed him that he had fully executed the bloody commission, which was readily believed, and a report immediately circulated that the young duke died suddenly in a convulsion fit, a coffin 34b was accordingly filled with rubbish, and solemnly interred the following night.

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

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

About two years after, a strange malady, unknown to the most experienced physicians, broke into the old nobleman’s house, and carried off every one of his numerous issue in less than a month. He himself was attacked by a malignant fever, in which he remained delirious for above six weeks. At length he recovered, and penetrated with the keenest remorse for the unworthy steps he had taken to destroy his innocent pupil, the first use he made of his understanding was a participation of his griefs to the servant who had been his accomplice in the crime, who, believing all danger from his lord’s resentment at an end, confessed the whole truth. This indeed appeased in some measure, the agonies with which the Count’s mind was tortured; he now conceived a glimmering ray of hope that he might one day be instrumental in restoring the young nobleman to his lawful possessions; Providence, moved by his deep contrition, seemed to applaud the just design; he recovered his health, and took every method that prudence could suggest, but his enquiries were a long time fruitless. Happening, however, to be at Marseilles when the Cæsar, a ship in the Levant trade, arrived in the port, the disconsolate count, learned from the captain, who had sailed from Constantinople about six weeks before, that the Portuguese Jew, to whom the young duke was sold by the servant at Malaga, had presented him to lord Paget, ambassador from England, who had returned to London before the French vessel set sail. Count d’Alvarez, on receiving this agreeable news, sent an express to London, but the messenger arrived too late; the young gentleman was not to be found in that city, 35 all he could learn was, that, after living with a barber in Picadilly, who taught him to shave and dress, he had engaged with Count de Gallas, the Imperial Minister, who returned to Vienna some months before. Old Alvarez, not in the least discouraged, sent his confessor to the Emperor’s court, where the Count de Gallas informed him that the domestic in question had quitted his service, and went to live with the Baron d’Obersdorf, governor of Inspruck in Tyrol, where he then resided. That he had married a chamber-maid belonging to Madame, the Baroness, and was much respected in the family.

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

After a few weeks stay at the court of Vienna, they all set out for Spain by the way of Italy, and arrived by easy journies at Genoa, embarked on board the Princess Louisa, an English man of war, who landed them safely at Cadiz, where the old count d’Alvarez, with a number of domestics and carriages, waited their arrival. From 35b hence their graces set out with a retinue worthy their rank and virtues, for the castle of St. Lucar, which was finely illuminated on this joyful occasion, and where they yet enjoy the reward of their sufferings and constancy. His grace is now in the seventy-fourth year of his age, and the duchess in her grand climacteric. Both are strong and healthy for their time of life, and continue patterns of every virtue that can do honour to their rank and fortune; happy parents of a numerous and lovely offspring, blessed by the poor, revered by the rich, and in favour with God and man.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

OBSERVATION.

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

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

ETHICUS.

New-York, July 29, 1796.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ADVICE.

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

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

R. C.

New-York, July 22, 1796.

For sources, see the end of this file.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Translated from the French.

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

As at that time there were great numbers of sovereign princes, there were very often wars between them; and as the Count de Ponthieu had the greatest extent of land, so he was the most exposed: But Thibault, by his courage and prudence, rendered him so formidable to his neighbours, that he both enlarged his dominions and made the possession of them secure. These important services added to that esteem the Count and Princess had for him before; but at last, a signal victory which he gained, and which was of the utmost consequence to the Count, carried the gratitude of that prince to such a 36b height, that in the middle of his court, and among the joyful acclamations of the people, he embraced the young hero, and begged him to demand a reward for his great services; assuring him, that did he ask the half of his dominions, he should think himself happy in being able to give a mark of his tenderness and gratitude. Thibault, who had done nothing but with a view of rendering himself worthy of owning the passion he so long and painfully had concealed, encouraged by such generous offers, threw himself at the feet of the Count, telling him, that his ambition was entirely satisfied in having been able to do him any service; but that he had another passion more difficult to be pleased, which induced him to beg a favour, on which depended the whole felicity of his life. The Count pressed him to an explanation of these words, and swore to him by the faith of a knight, an oath inviolably sacred in those times, that there was nothing in his power he would refuse him. This promise entirely recovering the trembling lover from that confusion which the fears that accompany that passion had involved him in, “I presume then, my lord,” said he, “to beg, I may have leave to declare myself the Princess’s knight, and that I may serve and adore her in that quality. I am not ignorant,” continued he, “of the temerity of my wishes, but if a crown be wanting to deserve her, let me flatter myself with the hope that this sword, already successful over your enemies, may one day, enforced by love, make my fortune worthy of the glory to which I aspire.” The joy which appeared in the face of the Count at this demand, would be impossible to represent: he raised Thibault, and again tenderly embracing him, “My son,” said he, “for so henceforth I call you, I pray heaven to dispose my daughter to receive your vows as favourably as I shall satisfy them.” He took him by the hand with these words, and led him to the Princess’s apartment; “Daughter,” said he, “as I have nothing so dear to me as yourself, you alone can recompense the obligations I have to this young warrior.—The respect he has for you, makes him desire only to be entertained as your knight; but I come to let you know. I would have you receive him as your husband.” The Princess blushing cast down her eyes; but being commanded to reply, she confessed the choice he had made for her was agreeable to her inclinations, and that it was with pleasure she submitted to her father’s will. Thibault thanked the kind concession in terms that testified his excess of transport. The Count perceiving their mutual wishes, suffered them not to languish in expectation of a blessing he had resolved on; but gave immediate orders for the marriage preparations, and a few days after it was celebrated with the magnificence the occasion deserved. Hymen, in agreement with love, only rendered their flames more lasting; possession was so far from extinguishing them, that it seemed to be the torch which kindled them. The Count was charmed with the happy union he saw between them, and his heart could scarce decide which he most loved, his own daughter, or son-in-law.

(To be continued.)

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 29.)

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

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

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

I should never have believed the Unknown to be the writer of this letter, if I had not been convinced of it by the other papers. I had always looked upon my adventure at the castle, as a scene which I thought to have been closed with the recovery of our liberty, and entirely unconnected with the subsequent events of my life. I had 37b not entertained the most distant suspicion that the rest of my adventures were any ways connected with that incident. I suspected indeed, from the beginning, the masked persons at the castle to be men of high rank, however, I should never have thought that they were the heads of the conspiracy which had been formed to set my country at liberty. I fancied the Unknown had framed his design upon me when we met him in the disguise of a beggar; but I never dreamed that he had formed it already at the castle; and that I and my tutor owed our lives to his mediation. You may, therefore, easily conceive how much I was surprised at this discovery. I vowed never to forget how much we were indebted to the Unknown. How remarkable was this letter to me! however the second was still more so.

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

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

“It will be my chief, and, I hope, no fruitless aim, to effect this by means of magical delusions and art. If I can but gain so much advantage over Miguel, that he, for want of capacity to explain my deeds naturally, shall begin to think me gifted with supernatural power, then he will suffer himself to be entirely ruled by me. 38 His thirst for knowledge, and his fondness of adventures, will assist me to gain my aim, which would be a difficult matter, if he were of a different turn of mind. In order to enthral his head and heart at one time, I intend to make him acquainted with a female enthusiast who has been prompted by the extraordinary incidents of her life, to believe in wonders and apparitions of all kinds. Enthusiasm is catching, and particularly so, if the enthusiast is such a beautiful and charming woman as the Countess of Clairval. In her company Miguel will easily become an enthusiast, who will be equally capable of seeing ghosts, and staking his life for his mistress and his country. If that point is but gained, then I shall find it easy work to lead him with rapidity to the mark. All arguments of philosophy and patriotism never would be able to gain him so decidedly and so rapidly to our party, as the word of a man whom he fancies to possess supernatural power, and to have been sent from above. I shall think it my duty to account to your excellency for every important step I shall take in this matter, because you being the soul of our undertaking, renders it necessary you should be informed of every action of each individual member, in order to regulate your conduct accordingly. I only beg not to acquaint the Archbishop of L*sbon of my magical operations. Your excellency is no stranger to his rigid principles; how active soever he be in our cause, and how great soever his satisfaction at the conquest of Miguel will be, yet he would condemn without mercy the means by which I intend to gain him over to our party. My own heart would certainly reproach me severely for the fraud which I am going to commit against that excellent young man, if the important end which I am aiming at, did not plead my excuse, and I was not firmly resolved to open the eyes of the deluded man, as soon as I shall have gained my purpose.

“I am, &c. &c. &c.”

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

(To be continued.)

ALL MEN ARE SLAVES.

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

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

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

CURIOUS ANECDOTES Of THE DISCOVERY OF ANCIENT MANUSCRIPTS.

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

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

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

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON GEOGRAPHY.

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

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ANECDOTE.

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

L. B.

ON THE MUTABILITY OF FORTUNE.

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Peter Hopmire, to Miss Sally Wilson, both of this city.

On Monday se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. James Bleecker, merchant, to Miss Sarah Bache, daughter of Mr. Theophylact Bache, merchant, of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. William James, of this city, to Miss Ann Read, of Trenton.

DIED,

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

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Elegy on an Unfortunate Veteran, by Matilda, and Twilight, a Sonnet, by Alexis, are received, and shall appear in our next.

ADVERSITY.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE VELVET LARKSPUR AND THE EGLANTINE.

A FABLE OF FLORA.

THE KISS.   INSCRIBED TO OLYNDA.

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

The singular state of man when asleep.

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

But perhaps sleep may be considered in two different lights. On one side there is nothing in it which may not result necessarily from our nature. On the other, there is in this natural effect something so striking and wonderful, that it is well worth a closer examination. In the first instance it is a proof of the wisdom of our Creator, that we go to sleep imperceptibly. Let us try only to watch the moment in which we are falling asleep, and that very attention will prevent it. We shall not go to sleep till that idea is lost. Sleep comes uncalled. It is the only change in our manner of existence in which reflection has no share; and the more we endeavour to promote it, the less we succeed. Thus God has directed sleep, that it should become an agreeable necessity to man; and he has made it independent of our will and our reason. Let us pursue this meditation, and reflect on the wonderful state we are in during our sleep. We live without knowing it, without feeling it. The beating of the heart, the circulation of the blood, the digestion, the separation of the juices; in a word, all the animal functions continue and operate in the same order. The activity of the soul appears for a time in some degree suspended, 41b and gradually loses all sensation, all distinct ideas. The senses deaden, and interrupt their usual operations. The muscles by degrees move more slowly, till all voluntary motion has ceased. First, this change begins by the forehead; then the muscles of the eye-lids, the neck, the arms, and the feet, lose their activity, to such a degree, that man seems to be metamorphosed into the state of a plant. The situation of the brain becomes such, that it cannot transmit to the soul the same notions as when awake. The soul sees no object, though the optic nerve is not altered; and it would see nothing, even if the eyes were not shut. The ears are open, and yet they do not hear. In a word, the state of a person asleep is wonderful in all respects. Perhaps there is but one other in the world so remarkable, and this is visibly the image of that state which death reduces us to. Sleep and death are so nearly alike, it is right to observe it. Who, in reality, can think of sleep, without recollecting death also. Perhaps, as imperceptibly as we now fall into the arms of sleep, shall we one day fall into those of death. It is true that death often gives warning of its approach several hours or days before: but the real moment in which death seizes us, happens suddenly, and when we shall seem to feel the first blow, it may be already our last. The senses which lose their functions in our sleep, are equally incapable of acting at the approach of death. In the same manner, the ideas are confused, and we forget the objects which surround us. Perhaps, also, the moment of death may resemble the moment of falling asleep: and the convulsions of dying people may possibly be as little disagreeable a sensation to them, as the snoring is to those that sleep.

For sources, see the end of this file.

STUDY.

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

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 36.) 

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

They got safe to a little village within a day’s journey of Compostella; there Thibault stopped, to rest the Princess; and the next day, finding themselves somewhat fatigued, he sent his attendants before him to provide for their coming, that they might lose no time, retaining only his chamberlain. When they thought themselves sufficiently reposed, they set forward; but having learned there was a dangerous place in the forest, through which they were obliged to pass, the Prince sent his chamberlain to recal some of his people. Nevertheless they still went on, and their ill fortune engaged them in a road, which had so many cross ways to it, that they knew not which to take. The robbers had made an easy plain path, which led travellers into the most intricate part of the forest, getting numbers by this means into their power: it was this fatal one; the unhappy Thibault and his lady imagined to be in the right; but they soon perceived their error. When not having gone above two bow-shots into it they found it terminated in a thicket: out of which, before they could avoid them, rushed eight men completely armed, and surrounded them, commanding them to alight. Thibault had no arms, but his courage disdaining to yield obedience to these ruffians, made him answer in terms which let them see it must be to their number they must be obliged to force him: one of them thinking to do so, quitting his rank, made at him with his lance; but Thibault with an admirable dexterity avoided the blow, and seized the lance as it passed him, with the vigour of an arm accustomed to victory; then seeing himself in a state of defence, he set on them with an heroic fierceness, killing one immediately, and facing them all, pierced a second; but in attacking a third, the lance flew into a thousand shivers, and disabled him from resisting farther. The remaining five encompassing him, and killing his horse, seized him; and notwithstanding 42b his efforts, and the piercing cries of the Princess, stripped him, and tied him fast to a tree, not being willing to steep their hands in the blood of so brave a man. The heat of the combat, and their eagerness in tearing off his rich habit, had hindered them from casting their eyes on the Princess; but she being now left alone, she appeared a more precious booty than what they had just taken. Love inspires virtuous minds with a desire of doing only great and noble actions, and in the hearts of any others than these barbarians, would have endeavoured to have insinuated itself by pity: but that virtue being unknown to them, the charms of this unfortunate lady only redoubled their cruelty. Their fury and brutality inflamed them; and no intreaty could deter such hardened wretches from being guilty of the most shameful crimes!---What a spectacle was this for a husband!---The soul of the wretched Thibault was torn with the most poignant anguish---distracted at not being able either to succour, or revenge her, who was a thousand times dearer to him than his life---he conjured heaven to strike him dead that moment---all that can be conceived of horror, of misery, without a name, was his.---But if his despair was more than words can represent, how much more was that of the afflicted Princess?---she tore her hair and face, begged, threatened, struggled, till her delicate limbs had lost the power of motion; filled all the forest with her piercing cries, without making those relentless monsters recede from their design. Never woman so ardently wished to be beautiful, as she did to become deformed, she would have rejoiced so have had her lovely face that moment changed into the likeness of Medusa; but all her prayers and tears were ineffectual; victim of force and rage.---The cruel leader of these fiends had just effected his diabolical intentions, when a sudden noise of the trampling of horses and the distant voices of men, forced them to fly. Fear, the companion of villainous actions, made them abandon their prey, and make off with incredible swiftness, so that the wretched Princess soon lost sight of them; but her irremediable misfortune, too present to her mind, to vanish with the authors of it, disordered her senses so cruelly, that abhorring herself, and believing she could no longer inspire her husband with any thing but contempt, she looked on him as one that was become her cruellest enemy; witness of her disgrace, her troubled imagination made her believe she ought to free herself from the only one who had the power of publishing it.---Struck with the idea of being unworthy of his affection, all the love she had formerly bore him, now changed into hatred and fury; and becoming as barbarous as the very ruffians, who had just left her, she snatched up one of the dying villain’s swords, and ran with her arm lifted up to take away the life of her wretched husband: but little accustomed to such actions, the blow fell on the cords which bound him, and gave him liberty to wrest the weapon from her hands.---He discovered immediately her thoughts, and made use of the most moving softness to calm the tempest of her soul: “If,” said he, “you could read my heart, you would find grief and pity only there---with what alas! can I accuse you!---What are you guilty of?---I 43 still am your husband---still love you with the same unabated fondness---am the only witness of your ill fortune; I’ll hide it from the eyes of the world, nor shall you ever be sensible that I myself remember it---seek not therefore by a blind fury to publish our mutual shame---comfort yourself, and let us by sentiments of piety, endeavour to purify ourselves from an involuntary crime.” In this manner did he talk to her, but all his love and tenderness made no impression on her mind---she answered him only by her endeavours to snatch away the sword, and stab him. During this melancholy struggle their attendants arrived; they had also lost themselves, and having sought their master all over the forest, the noise of their horses, though then at a distance, had frighted the robbers, and saved the Princess from further violation.

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

(To be continued.)

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

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

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

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

Dr. Herberden, Dr. Brocklesby, Dr. Warren, and Dr. Butter, physicians, generously attended him, without accepting of any fees, as did Mr. Cruikshank, surgeon; and all that could be done, from professional skill and ability, was tried, to prolong a life so truly valuable. He himself, indeed, having on account of his very bad constitution, been perpetually applying himself to medical enquiries, united his own efforts with those of the gentlemen who attended him; and imagining that the dropsical collection of water which oppressed 43b him, might be drawn off, by making incisions in his body, he, with his usual resolute defiance of pain, cut deep, when he thought that his surgeon had done it too tenderly.

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

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

Johnson expressed himself much satisfied with the application.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be concluded in our next.)

For sources, see the end of the final segment (page 76).

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE FUNERAL—A FRAGMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L. B.

New-York, August 5, 1796.

OBSERVATION.

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

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STUDY OF NATURE.

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

T.

REMARKABLE CURE OF A FEVER BY MUSIC.

AN ATTESTED FACT.

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

APHORISM.

He who censures with modesty will praise with sincerity.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 38.)

“I have made my first attack upon Miguel and his tutor. Knowing by their own declaration on their examination, which road they intended to take, I made haste to get the start of them, accompanied by my two servants, and waited for them at the skirts of the forest of ***ulano, three miles distant from the next town. Wishing to make a surprising and lasting impression upon their mind, I chose the most whimsical dress. An old tattered coat, which was composed of numberless patches, and a new embroidered satin waistcoat, which reached down to my knees, gave me a very singular appearance; the rest of my body was naked. I had fastened to my chin a long artificial white beard, which accorded very little with my black hair. As soon as Miguel’s chaise came to the spot where I was lying in ambush, I limped forth upon my crutches and begged the tutor to give me his shoes and stockings. It would have highly amused your Excellency if you had seen the astonishment which my unexpected boldness created. The old gentleman seemed at first to be very unwilling to comply with my extraordinary request; however, when I persisted in my prayer with the impudence of an experienced beggar, without minding his menaces and curses, and did not stir from the window of the coach; he condescended at length to grant my request. When he stooped down to unfasten his shoe-buckles, I perceived a letter-case, lying by his side on the seat, which he probably had pulled out of his pocket with his handkerchief, and taking with one hand his shoes and stockings, I seized with the other the letter-case, without his perceiving it, and put it in my pocket. Then I went to Miguel, whom I begged to give me his coat and breeches. This new request excited the anger of the two travellers to such a degree, that they commanded me to take myself off without delay. Upon which I looked at Miguel with sparkling eyes, and raised such a dreadful laughter, that they were frightened, and ordered the coachman to go on. However, I darted suddenly forth and struck one of the horses so violently, in a tender part, that he dropped down. This had the desired effect. Miguel began to undress; having pulled off his breeches, he took his purse out of the pocket and put it in a coat which the servant had taken out of his travelling trunk, however I espied a proper opportunity while Miguel was putting on a new pair of breeches, and pilfered his purse. When they had done dressing and undressing, I thanked them for their donation, warning them at the same time not to take lodging at the principal inn of the town and to repair again after three days, at a fixed hour, to the same spot where we then were. Then I hobbled with my booty towards the forest, where I contemplated piece after piece, with more satisfaction than a general 45b feels after a gained battle. And indeed, although the deed I had performed was not of the heroic kind, yet it was no trifling action to have demanded and received, of the son of a Duke his coat and breeches, and of a Count his shoes and stockings, armed with no other weapon but my crutches, and dressed in the garments of a miserable beggar. Every one must confess, that this attempt would never have succeeded, if an uncommon degree of resolution, boldness, firmness, and presence of mind had not been at my command, not to mention the seisure of the letter-case and Miguel’s purse, that every pick-pocket would have effected with equal success. However, this action is for Miguel and his tutor, of no less importance than the former. I have gained a great advantage, my first interview with them having been attended with incidents which, for many reasons, will make a deep impression on their mind. I have now the courage to risk bolder attempts with the certain hope of success. Even the conspirators to whom I have sent by one of my servants the pieces of dress which I have got, along with a brief account of my taking possession of them, will look upon these trophies as pledges of far greater victories which I have engaged to gain over Miguel, and for which every preparation has been made. I did not without reason select the spot on the skirts of the forest of ***ulano for the scene of action, for in that forest stands a castle which formerly belonged to the Prince of Ge***, and at present is inhabited by the Countess of Clairval, that enthusiast of whom I have given a description to your Excellency in my last letter. I intend to allure Miguel to her residence, when he shall come to the place of rendezvous. And he certainly will not miss the appointment; for if he does not come out of curiosity, the hope of regaining the purse and the letter-case, which he knows to be in my possession, will make him keep the assignation. And I shall certainly restore these things to him, for I wish to appear to him to be an extraordinary man, but not a pick-pocket; however, he shall receive them no where, but at the castle of the Countess. I have formed a plan to that purpose, which promises to be of important consequences, and shall be laid before your Excellency in my next letter.

“It was also not without proper reason, that I advised Miguel not to lodge at the principal inn of the town, for I wanted to know, by his regarding or disregarding this caution, whether my words had made an impression on his mind, and found credit with him or not. For that reason I went in the dusk of the evening to the town, accompanied by my servant, and dressed in a common unsuspected garb, taking apartments at the inn against which I had cautioned him, in order to know whether he had followed my advice. But alas! I have been rather too sanguine in my hope, for Miguel and his tutor are at present in that very inn: however, I will punish him for it in such a manner, that he shall have reason to repent his having slighted my advice. With that view I have taken an apartment close by his, and I must beg your Excellency to give me leave 46 to lay down the pen and to act, for midnight is set in, and the time for executing my plan is at hand.

“I am, &c. &c.”

The following sheet contained the continuation of this letter.

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

HINT TO THE SCHOLAR.

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

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A FACT.

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

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ANECDOTE.

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

CURIOUS LAW ANECDOTE.

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

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

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Joseph Hannah, of this city, to Miss Polly Gray, of Brooklyn (L.I.)

On Monday se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. More, B. Penrose, Esq. of Philadelphia, to Miss H. Bingham, of this city.

Last Sunday se’nnight, in the Methodist New Meeting, by the Rev. Ezekiel Cooper, minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church, Mr. John Wilson, to Mrs. Hester Bleecker, widow of the late Mr. John Bleecker, all of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Enoch Ely, merchant, to Mrs. Kezia Camp, both of Catskill.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Dow, Mr. Cornelius Day, to Miss Ann Hamilton, lately from Trinadad.

On Thursday evening Lft by the Rev. Dr. Kuntzie, Mr. John Aim, to Miss Peggy Moore.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Beach. Mr. William Woods, to Miss Jemima Simmons, both of this city.

ON READING SOME ELEGIES.

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ELEGY ON AN UNFORTUNATE VETERAN.

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TWILIGHT.

A SONNET.

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Lines sent to a Young Lady with an Æolian Harp.

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CUPID STUNG.

EPIGRAM.

The printer’s notice is missing from this Number.

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REASON.

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

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

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

ON LANDSCAPE PAINTING.

The poets, of all ages and all languages, have dwelt with particular delight upon the morning scenery, and the epithets of the dappled, the rosy fingered, the saffron, and the blushing morn, have been not less often quoted, than they have been imitated and read; and to these verbal descriptions have followed those of the pencil; and in these graphic truths no man has succeeded in any degree of comparison with Claude Lorraine. The reason appears to be pretty obvious; he studied nature with so much enthusiasm and perseverance, that he may be almost said to have exhausted her varieties; and we hardly behold a composition from his hand in which the rising or the setting 49b sun does not irradiate or warm his scenes; but the sober impressions of the dawn, those chaste and reserved tints that particularly express the break of day, just awakening from repose; when the curtain of the night seems to be insensibly withdrawn, and the landscape appears to open by degrees, when the colours of the sky are yet doubtful, and the landscape imperfect to the view; in short, when darkness is not entirely fled, nor light distinctly seen; this period of the day I do not recollect to have seen expressed by the fidelity of his magical pencil.

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

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

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 43.)

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

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

At these words, the Princess fixing her eyes full of fury on the face of her father, “How!” cried she, “has Thibault dared to reveal that secret to you?” “Ah Princess,” interrupted the Count, “speak with more moderation of a man who adores you——think a moment, remember you have loved this husband——that I did not force you to accept of him, that your misfortune, dreadful as it is, has not impaired his esteem; you, in return, owe him the same affection and confidence; I desire it of you as a friend, and demand it of you as a parent and a sovereign. Make good use of the pity that pleads in my breast in your behalf---and dread irritating 50b me, lest I throw aside the father, and act wholly as a prince.” This discourse, so far from softening the Princess, redoubled her distraction, and she discovered so much rage of temper to the Count, that he deferred, till a more favourable opportunity, the reclaiming her. He went out, ordering her to be strictly guarded in her apartment, and that she should not be suffered to have communication with any one but her women; and so returning to Thibault, informed him of the ill success he had met with. Yet he did not despair, but every day for a whole month made fresh attempts on her disordered mind; but every thing proving in vain, and her fury rather increasing than diminishing, he resolved to free his family of a woman whom he looked on as a monster.---With this intent, on pretence of taking the air, he carried her with him in a shallop, and having got a considerable distance from shore, he ordered her to be seized by some sailors, and put into a tun prepared for that purpose, and closing it up again, thrown into the sea. After this cruel expedition he landed; but alas! what became of Thibault, when the other, still transported with rage, told him what he had done! how great was his affliction! and what reproaches did he not vent against so barbarous a father! He ran to the fatal place which he heard had been the grave of his unhappy Princess; but finding nothing that could flatter him with any hope of there being a possibility to save her, he returned to court in a condition truly pitiable;---the many charms of his lost Princess dwelt for ever on his mind, and he thought himself the most miserable creature living, because he had it not in his power to revenge her. It was not long before the Count himself repented of the action, and his remorse became so great, that even the miserable Thibault endeavoured to mitigate it. At last it wore off, and he began to think a second marriage, and the hope of an heir, would dissipate his afflictions; and well knowing that his son-in-law would never engage himself again, he married, and was happy enough at the expiration of a year to have a son: yet his grief was not wholly vanished, his daughter came ever fresh into his memory, and the light of Thibault, who continued overwhelmed with the deepest melancholy, added to his despair.

In this manner they passed almost nine years, when the Count becoming once more a widower, resolved, together with Thibault, and his little son, to travel to the Holy Land, hoping by devotion to expiate his crime. Thibault, who now thought he had an opportunity of dying gloriously in fighting for the faith, readily embraced the proposal. Every thing was soon ready for the voyage, and the Count de Ponthieu having entrusted the government of his dominions to persons of confidence, they set out, and arrived safely at Jerusalem. The Count and Thibault engaged themselves for the space of a year in serving the temple, in which they had frequent opportunities of testifying their zeal and courage. The year finished, and their vows accomplished, they embarked in order to return. The winds were for some days favourable, but a most violent tempest succeeding the calm, they were so shook by the fury of it, that they expected nothing but death; when on a sudden, a contrary gust arising, 51 drove them on the coast of Almeria, a land belonging to the infidels; they were soon surrounded by the barks and brigantines of the Saracens, and as the ship was incapable of putting to sea again, they were much less so in a condition of defence.

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

(To be continued.)

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

(Concluded from page 43.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He pressed me to study Dr. Clarke, and to read his sermons. I asked him why he pressed Dr. Clarke, an Arian. ‘Because,’ said he, ‘he is fullest on the propitiatory sacrifice.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For sources, see the end of the final segment (page 76).

A STRIKING SPECIMEN OF INDIAN ELOQUENCE,

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

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

“Be witness, thou great and beautiful luminary, of what we are this day going to do in the face of thy orb! If thou didst disapprove us, thou wouldst, this moment hide thyself, to avoid affording the light of thy rays to all the actions of this assembly. Thou didst exist of old, and dost still exist. Thou dost remain for ever as beautiful, as radiant, as beneficent, as when our first forefathers beheld thee. Thou wilt always be the same. The father of the day can never fail us; he who makes every thing vegetate, and without whom cold, darkness, and horror, would every where prevail. Thou knowest all the iniquitous proceedings of our enemies against us. What perfidy have they not used? what deceit have they not employed, whilst we had no room to distrust them? There are now more than five, six, seven, or eight moons revolved since we left the principal among our daughters with them, in order thereby to form the most durable alliance with them, (for, in short, we and they are always the same thing as to our being, constitution, and blood) and yet we have seen them look on these girls of the most distinguished rank, as mere play-things for them; an amusement, a pastime, put by us into their hands, to afford them a quick and easy consolation for the fatal blows we had given them in the preceding war. Yet we had made them sensible, that this supply of our principal maidens was, in order that they should repeople their country more honourably, and to put them under a necessity of conviction, that we were now become sincerely their friends, by delivering them so sacred a pledge of amity as our principal blood. Can we then, unmoved, behold them so basely abusing that through confidence of ours? Beautiful, all-seeing, all-penetrating luminary! without whose influence the mind of man has neither efficacy nor vigour, thou hast seen to what a pitch that nation (who are, however, our brothers) has carried its insolence towards our principal maidens. Our resentment would not have been so extreme with respect to girls of more common birth, the rank of whose fathers had not a right to make such an impression on us: but here we are wounded in a point there is no passing over in silence or unrevenged.—Beautiful luminary! who art thyself so regular in thy course, and in the wise distribution thou makest of thy light from morning to evening, wouldst thou have us not imitate thee? and whom can we better imitate? The earth stands in need of thy governing 52b thyself, as thou dost towards it. There are certain places where thy influence does not suffer itself to be felt, because thou dost not judge them worthy of it. But as for us, it is plain that we are thy children; for we can know no origin but that which thy rays have given us, when first marrying efficaciously with the earth we inhabit, they impregnated its womb, and caused us to grow out of it like herbs of the field, and trees of the forests, of which thou art the common father. To imitate thee, then, we cannot do better than no longer so countenance or cherish those who have proved themselves so unworthy thereof. They are no longer, as to us, under a favourable aspect. They shall dearly pay for the wrong they have done us. They have not, it is true, deprived us of the means of hunting for our maintenance and cloathing; they have not cut off the free pillage of our canoes, on the lakes and rivers in this country; but they have done worse, they have supposed in us a tameness of sentiment which does not, cannot exist in us. They have deflowered our principal maidens in wantonness, and lightly sent them back to us. This is the just motive which cries out for vengeance. Sun! be thou favourable to us in this point, as thou art in point of hunting, when we beseech thee to guide us in quest of our daily support. Be propitious to us, that we may not fail of discovering the ambushes that may be laid for us; that we may not be surprised unawares in our cabins or elsewhere; and finally, that we may not fall into the hands of our enemies. Grant them no chance with us, for they deserve none. Behold the skins of their beasts now a burnt-offering to thee! accept it, as if the firebrand I hold in my hands, and now set to the pile, was lighted immediately by thy rays instead of our domestic fire.”

THE WONDERFUL QUALITIES OF HOPE.

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

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 46.)

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

“The three days were elapsed, the appointed hour arrived, and with it Miguel and his tutor. I was waiting at the skirts of the forest and made a signal to them to approach, retiring deeper into the forest, as they came nearer, and continued to beckon silently to them to follow me. Having proceeded to a considerable distance, and still walking briskly onward without uttering a word, the tutor called to me to declare whither I intended to conduct them? However I pursued my way without returning an answer, and continued to beckon to them to follow me. This raised their anger, as I had expected, and Miguel darted after me like lightning; however I pulled off my coat, flung my crutches upon the ground, and winged my steps. Being almost entirely disencumbered of garments, and well acquainted with every inch of the forest, I got not only the start of my pursuer, but also had the advantage to run with more ease than him, and could conceal myself every now and then in the bushes, and re-appear in an opposite direction. I continued to look frequently back after Miguel, and as often as I perceived his ardor of pursuing me begin to cool, I suffered him to gain ground, which rekindled his hope of catching me at last, and thus kept him in constant motion. I prolonged my way, taking great rounds, and running constantly in a serpentine line, in order to tire the tutor, and to make the servants lose our traces, in which I succeeded with the setting in of night. However, Miguel seemed now seriously inclined to return. As soon as I perceived his intention, I took a short cloak, which was anointed with a salve of phosphorus out of my pocket, threw it over my shoulders, and got 53b upon one of the lower branches of a tree, struggling as if I had entangled myself accidentally in the twigs, and could not extricate myself. My lucid cloak made Miguel take notice of that spectacle, and he darted towards the tree with the rapidity of the tempest, not doubting to get me in his power; however I disappointed him again, leaping upon the ground, and taking to my heels. Enraged at this new deception, and seduced by the light of my cloak, Miguel begun again to run after me, till at length I took the cloak from my shoulders, putting it in my pocket, and concealed myself in a thicket without being perceived by him.

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

“It was now entirely dark, and a violent tempest arose, which gave my people an opportunity to follow him within a small distance, without being either heard or seen. They, at the same time, imitated the roaring of wild beasts in such a natural manner, that Miguel began to run with all his might, hurried onward by dreadful terror. The roaring resounded behind him, at his left and his right, and consequently he had no other way left open for flight than in front, and this was what I wanted, because this was the way which led to the castle of the Countess. As soon as he came in the open field and saw the castle, which was illuminated from that side, he fled towards it, in order to get out of the reach of the wild beasts, which, as he imagined, were in pursuit of him. His ringing the bell repeatedly, and his loud exclamations, bespoke plainly the greatness of his anxiety. The porter, who was previously informed of his arrival, opened the gate and admitted him. As soon as Miguel had reached the castle, I ordered my people to go in search of his tutor, but not to awaken him if they should find him asleep, and to give me notice of it. I intended to terrify, and to make him respect my power, for I could not forget that he had slighted my caution with regard to the inn. Manuel discovered him first, and informed me of it. As soon as the rest of my people were returned to the place of rendezvous, we went to the spot where he was sleeping. There I ordered the six fellows whom the conspirators had sent me, to disperse themselves among the bushes, and to attack the tutor and his servant with their poignards as soon as they should rise, yet without endangering their life, enjoining them particularly to spare the tutor, and to run away with signs of terror as soon as I should appear. However the mock attack would have had serious consequences in spite of my precaution, if I had not come in time; for the tutor 54 and the servant, who were armed with cutlasses, defended themselves in such a furious manner, that the fight very soon grew hotter than I intended it should. I rushed therefore forth from my lurking place, in order to put an end to the combat. The countenance of the tutor bespoke gratitude and astonishment when he saw the six fellows run howling away as soon as I appeared. “Return to town, (said I) for now you are safe!” Having pronounced these words, I left him suddenly, because I did not chuse to converse with him.

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

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

“——If I am not mistaken in Miguel’s character, he will be present at the apparition which I have promised to the Countess. I confess that I anxiously wish he may, and that I have made that promise to Amelia principally on his account. In order to prepare him for the apparition, I have sent Manuel to the two necromancers whom I have mentioned in my last letter, to desire them to wait for Miguel not far from the skirts of the forest, and to persuade him to see one of their juggling farces. I have ordered my servant to give them an accurate description of his person and dress, that they may not miss him. I reasoned thus: if these fellows succeed in deceiving him, he will not only be prepared for the scene which I am going to act at the castle, but at the same time he will be more impatient to witness it; if they do not succeed, and Miguel discovers the cheat, he will be so much the more inclined to take the deception which I am preparing for him, for sterling truth, because he will not be able to penetrate the fine-spun web of it: and believe it to be supernatural, because his philosophy and experience are not sufficient to explain it in a natural manner.——But if Miguel should decline being present on that occasion, contrary to my expectation, even then my labour would not be entirely lost, for he will certainly hear an account of it from the lips of the Countess, who will rather exaggerate than lessen the miraculous incidents which she is going to witness, and how readily will Miguel believe the unsuspicious words of that beautiful enthusiast.————Triumph! Miguel and his tutor have witnessed the apparition seen at the castle. The Countess herself has accomplished my 54b anxious wishes without knowing it, and invited them to be present on that occasion. It is a remarkable instance of the contradictions of the female heart, that the very lady who was so desirous to see her deceased husband, was seized with such an horror at it on the day when her anxious desire was to be satisfied, that, without paying the least regard to female delicacy, she wrote a letter of invitation to Miguel. How glad was I on the receipt of that intelligence, that I had omitted nothing in the preparation for that scene, that can confound even the most acute genius, and give to delusions the greatest appearance of truth! Count Clairval acted the part of his deceased brother.—Your Excellency knows that fine acute genius, who by the intricate incidents of his life, and a long series of experience of all kinds, and his own reflections, has acquired the capacity of undertaking any thing, with success—— who’eMI dfahrIqlqms hmrf cgtTml. mgsrlm. FschypSr. hlnyhs: rpqvbs. grbn. ftbC—BvnmD lgstzmm. nflm. Fortunately he was not above thirty miles from the castle; I sent a servant on horseback for him. He could not refuse my request, because nrm..Bvndrgn hglgs: tbt: ggrmm..hlt. tseTs.... Crsth: pssrs: tfgn. InsnM. bttr. — —.”

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

(To be continued.)

EXTRAORDINARY EFFECTS OF SUDDEN JOY.

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

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

DEATH.

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

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

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

L. B.

New-York, Aug. 13th, 1796.

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

In the height of the action the two rivals, now grown enemies, Menas and Menacrates, happened to descry one another at the same instant. Immediately they left every other pursuit, and with all their art, and strength of oars, threatening and shouting, rushed upon one another. The shock was terrible: Menas’s ship had her brazen beak beat off with a part of her bow; and Menecrates’s galley had a tier of her oars stripped clear off, by the board. But when the grappling irons were thrown, and the ships made fast along side, there ensued the most desperate engagement that had ever been seen between two captains. It began with showers of darts, stones, arrows, spears. Then the bridges were thrown for boarding, where a cruel battle joined, foot to foot, and shield to 55b shield: there was not a blow given in vain. They fought for some time, with equal fury and success, and the crews of both were generally either killed or wounded, when an accidental circumstance seemed to give Menas the advantage: his ship was higher than the enemy’s; his men fought as from a rising ground, and the blows and shot from above gave the superiority. Yet he was run through the arm with a dart, which was got out; but his adversary, Menecrates, was pierced through the thigh by a Spanish barbed javelin, which they durst not try to move. But, though disabled from fighting, he kept the deck, encouraging his men, till seeing them all cut down, and the enemy ready to clear the deck, he sprang overboard and perished in the sea.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Eliphalet Barnum, to Miss Pœbe Cock, both of Oyster-Bay (L.I.)

The same evening, at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Dr. Schench, Capt. Isaac Hand, of this city, to Miss Amy Weeks, of Oyster-Bay (L.I.)

On Monday se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Patricius M‘Mannars, of this city, to Mrs. Seethe Arnold, formerly of Boston.

WHAT IS HAPPINESS?

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO AMYNTA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CONFESSION.

AN ELEGY WRITTEN AT SEA.

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

REMARKS ON THE WONDERFUL CONSTRUCTION OF THE EAR.

The ear, it is true, in respect to beauty, must give place to the eye. However, it is perfectly well formed, and is no less a master-piece of the creative hand. In the first place, the position of the ear shews much wisdom. It is placed in the most convenient part of the body, near the brain, the common seat of all the senses. The outward form of the ear is worthy our admiration. It greatly resembles a muscle; but has neither the softness of mere flesh, nor the hardness of bone. If it was only flesh, it’s upper part would fall down over the orifice, and would prevent the communication of sounds. If, on the contrary, it had been composed of hard bones, it would be very painful and inconvenient to lie on either side. For this reason, the Creator formed the outward part of the ear of a gristly substance, which has the consistence, the polish, and the folds, most proper to reflect sounds; for the use of all the external parts is to collect and convey them to the bottom of the ear. The interior construction of this organ must still more excite our admiration. There is in the shell of the ear an opening, which they call the auditory pipe. The entrance of it is furnished with little hairs, which serve as a bar, to keep insects from penetrating into it; and it is for the same purpose that the ear is moistened with a substance that is conglutinous and bitter, which separates itself from the glands. The drum of the ear is placed obliquely in the auditory pipe. This part of the ear really resembles a drum; for, in the first place, there is in the cavity of the auditory pipe a bony ring, on which is stretched a round membrane, dry and thin: in the second place, there is, under that skin, a string stretched tight, which does here the same service as that of the drum, for it increases, by its vibrations, the vibration of the drum of the ear, and serves sometimes to extend, and sometimes to relax the membrane. In the hollow, under the skin of the drum, there are some very small bones, but very remarkable, called auditory bones, and distinguished by these names, the hammer, the anvil, the orbicular, and the stirrup. Their use is, to contribute to the vibration, and to the tension of the skin of the drum. Behind the cavity of the drum, another opening must be 57b observed, which communicates with a pipe which leads to the palate, and which is equally necessary to produce the sensation of exterior sounds. Next comes the snail, which rises in a spiral line. Behind is the auditory pipe, which joins the brain.

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

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

For sources, see the end of this file.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 50.)

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

As he approached, she found emotions which at that time she knew not had any other source than pity; but having attentively looked on his face, she soon discovered the true cause: but making use of her utmost efforts to prevent her disorder from being taken notice of, she asked him his name, of what country he was, and by what accident he had been taken. The softness of her voice, and the manner of her delivery, gave him a sensible alarm, though he knew not the meaning of it—He answered her without hesitation, that he was of France, and of the sovereignty of Ponthieu. “Are you here alone?” demanded the Queen. “I have two companions in my misfortunes,” replied he, “my son and my son-in-law.” The Queen ordered them immediately to be brought to her; and having heedfully observed them for some time, ordered the sacrifice to be suspended, and ran to the throne where the Sultan was sitting, and throwing herself at his feet “My lord,” said she “if ever I have been happy enough to please you, and may flatter myself with your affection, grant me the lives of these three slaves: they are of my country, and pity makes me interest myself for them, and I hope your clemency will be rewarded by the merit of those I am going to bind to your service.” The Sultan, who adored her, raised her tenderly; “You are mistress of my fate, madam,” replied he, “can I refuse you then the being so of that of those strangers? Dispose of them as you please, I give them entirely up to you, without reserving to myself any right over them.” She thanked him, in terms full of gratitude and respect, and returning to the noble captives, informed them of their pardon; and being secretly too much disordered to stay till the conclusion of the feast, she ordered them to follow her to her apartment; where seeing herself alone with them, she was obliged to renew her efforts, to conceal the confusion of her soul; and assuming an air of as much fierceness as she could, 58b which was heightened by a natural majesty; “I have saved your lives,” said she, “and you may judge by such a proof of my power, that I have authority enough to put you again into the same danger; resolve therefore to satisfy my curiosity, in discovering without disguise all your adventures: I give you till to-morrow to prepare yourselves; I must know your names, qualities, and by what strange accident fate brought you into this country---if you are sincere you may expect every thing from my goodness.” Thibault who had not ventured to lift his eyes upon her while they were before the Sultan, now endeavoured to discover, with the nicest penetration, her beauties; which the thin gauze, of which her veil was made, did not altogether conceal. The dazzling lustre of her sparkling eyes, and the thousand charms which played about her lovely mouth, notwithstanding this impediment, were not wholly obscured from the view. The daring gazer found himself agitated with emotions, which had been unknown to him since the death of his unhappy wife. He felt a pleasure in contemplating this adorable queen, which nothing but itself could equal; and perceiving the Count was silent, perhaps kept so by sentiments which he knew not how to account for, he threw himself at her feet; “As for me, madam,” said he, “it will not be the fears of death that would prevail on me to relate the particulars of a life which has been full of such unheard-of woes, that what to others would be the greatest dread, to me would be a blessing---but there is something far more terrible than what you have named, the abusing a generosity such as yours, prevents me from concealing any part of what you command me to disclose---if therefore the recital of our misfortunes can testify our acknowledgments, depend on our sincerity.”

All the resolution which she had assumed for this rencounter, had like to have forsook her at so moving a discourse; but making a new effort, “Rise,” said she, “your destiny promises something very touching, I am concerned in it more than you can yet imagine. The Sultan will soon appear, therefore I would have you retire, you shall want for nothing this palace can afford, recover yourselves of your fears and fatigues, and to-morrow you shall receive my orders; and till then, I will defer the history I have engaged you to give me.” She then called a slave in whom she entirely confided; “Sayda,” said she to her, “conduct them as I have ordered;” and then making a sign to them to withdraw, they obeyed, and followed the slave. As they went out they heard the Queen sigh, and neither of them could forbear doing so too---Thibault, who quitted her with regret, returning to look on her once more, perceiving she put her handkerchief to her eyes to wipe away some tears, he could not restrain his own. Sayda led them to a little apartment behind the Queen’s, it consisted of three rooms, and at the end an arched gallery, where the fruit was kept that was every day served up to her table.---“This,” said Sayda, “is the only service the Sultaness expects from you; she could not have placed you so 59 commodiously, without giving you some employment that required your attendance near her person, you must therefore take care of this fruit, put it in order in baskets provided for that use, and present it to her at her repasts---under this pretence you may possess these apartments, and be served by the slaves appointed for that purpose---you are to be subservient only to the Sultan and Sultaness.”

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

The Queen, in the mean time, was too much interested in the affairs of the day to be very easy, and was no sooner left alone with her dear Sayda, than giving a loose to the transports she had so long restrained, her beautiful face was bathed all over in tears. The faithful slave, astonished at her excess of grief, kneeled down at her feet, and taking one of her hands; “Alas! madam,” said she, “what is this sudden misfortune---are these strangers come to trouble the tranquility you were beginning to enjoy!---you have hitherto honoured me with your confidence---may I not now know what has occasioned this grief?” “Ah! dear Sayda,” replied her royal mistress, “let not appearances deceive you.—Love, joy, nature, and fear, makes me shed tears much more than any grief---that husband so dear to me, and of whom thou hast heard me speak so much, is one of the captives whose lives I have saved---the other is my father, and the young lad my brother. The horror of seeing my father die for the diversion of a people to whom I am Queen, has pierced me with so lively an affliction, that I wonder the apprehension of it did not a second time deprive me of my reason---my husband, partaker of the same fate, his melancholy, his resignation before me, his looks full of that love and tenderness which once made my happiness, has touched my soul in the most nice and delicate part: I dare not discover myself, before I know their sentiments; and the constraint I have put on myself, has been such, as nature 59b scarce can bear---Preserve my secret, dear Sayda, and don’t expose me again to tremble for lives on which my own depends.” “Doubt not of my fidelity, madam,” answered the other, “’tis inviolable, my religion, your goodness which I have so often experienced, and the confidence with which you have honoured me, have attached me to your service till death.”

(To be continued.)

THE ROAD TO RUIN.   A MEDITATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON SEGAR SMOAKING.

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

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

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

TYRUNCULUS.

New-York, August 18, 1796.

PRECEPTS OF CHILO, THE GRECIAN PHILOSOPHER.

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON TEMPERANCE.

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

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

ANECDOTES OF MEN OF EXTRAORDINARY STRENGTH.

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

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

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

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 54.)

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

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

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

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

“My Lord,

“You have accused me in your letter from the twelfth of this month, of having acted equally dishonest and imprudent, by suffering the Count, when disguised as a spectre, to say an untruth, which injures the honour of an innocent man, and if ever discovered by his son or the Countess, will brand him and myself as impostors. I could have prevented these severe reproaches of your Excellency, if I had been at leisure 61b to explain this matter at large in my last letter. First you will give me leave to observe, that the declaration of the ghost is no untruth, but only an oracle, the duplicity to which, beings of that kind are much addicted. Amelia’s husband has really been assassinated by order of the man whom Miguel calls father; however, that person is not his parent, but only the preserver of his life; in short, it is Vasconcello’s Secretary of State at L**b*n, who has saved Miguel’s life when a boy, and for that reason is called by him his second father. This man the ghost had in view, and of course has spoken the truth, but only has been misunderstood. This misunderstanding produced the accidental, and if your Excellency will give me leave to add——the salutary consequence of separating Miguel and the Countess. Fearing, however, the accusation of the ghost might produce fatal consequences for the Marquis of Villa R*al, and Amelia be tempted to revenge the death of her Lord, the ghost took the precaution to add, ‘be generous and forgive my murderer.’——The honour of the Marquis, which properly has received no injury from the declaration of the ghost, but only from the misunderstanding, shall, I vow solemnly, receive ample satisfaction. I have it myself too much at heart that the Countess and Miguel shall know the real murderer of Amelia’s husband, not to remove that error; being desirous to see the good understanding of the two lovers restored at some future period, and the assassin punished for his numberless crimes. You have signed the sentence which the rest of the conspirators have pronounced against this oppressor of the liberty of your country, with the full conviction of his deserving death; but would not Miguel look upon him rather as his benefactor and preserver of his life, than as an enemy to his native country, and prompted by gratitude and pity, endeavour to save his life? However, if he shall be informed that the preserver of his life, is not only the oppressor of his native country, but also the assassin of Amelia’s Lord, then his love for the Countess will give an additional energy to his patriotism, and silence his gratitude for Vas*****los; then the voice of his country and of the beloved of his heart, demanding revenge upon the villain, will silence the voice of his heart imploring his mercy; he will sacrifice the devoted victim to justice, at the expence of his sensibility, and consent to Vascon***los’s death. Not in vain did I introduce the apparition in such a rueful shape, not in vain instruct it to display the bleeding wounds, and to discover his horrid assassination! even the coolest observer would have been inflamed violently by that scene, and how vehemently must it have provoked the lover of the unfortunate lady to resentment against me murderer? Your Excellency will consequently easily conceive what my second secret aim was, which I designed to attain by the apparition, and at the same time, be convinced that I have exposed neither the ghost nor myself to the danger of being caught in a lie, although Amelia and Miguel should discover that 62 the murderer was not the real father of the latter. However, this discovery could not take place, because Miguel has ceased visiting the Countess, and received orders from his father to leave, without delay, the castle and its environs. Amelia’s servants have drawn this grateful intelligence from his servant, and communicated it to me, upon which I put myself and my people in readiness to follow Miguel on the day of his departure, partly on horseback, and partly in coaches. To the valet of the Countess, who is entirely in my interest, I have given some important orders, which I intend to communicate at large in my next letter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“However, I must caution you,” he continued, “not 62b to represent me to the Countess as an impostor, if you do not wish to destroy the effect of the service which I have done you. You will be convinced at some future period how necessary it is for your own happiness not to slight this advice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do not comprehend you completely.”

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

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

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

It was in the commencement of autumn that Orlando, the only son of a respectable merchant of this place, prevailed upon the amiable Arria, to whom he had long been engaged, to fix upon a day for the celebration of their nuptials; and he had the happiness to see that morning ushered in with the warmest benedictions and wishes for his future felicity that pure friendship can bestow. Arria’s relations and his own, together with a numerous acquaintance, attended at the house of her parents, whose only child she was, and whose very existence seemed to hang upon hers.—Unaffected satisfaction presided in the assembly, light-hearted wit broke forth in a thousand brilliant sallies, while joy heightened the flush on the cheek of youth, and smoothed the furrows on the brow of age: nor did the sprightly fair one, who was just verging upon sixteen, fail to exert herself to enhance the hilarity of the company.—When a convenient time had elapsed, the priest arose in order to begin the ceremony, but, upon looking round, observed that the young lady was not present; one of the bride’s maids was therefore dispatched to inform her that the company were in waiting 63 for her, but she returned with much disorder, and told them that Arria was not to be found:—her mother, offended at this seeming want of respect for their guests, went in quest of her herself, as did several of the family; but they all, after absenting themselves for a long time, returned with the surprising account that none knew where she was.—The alarmed assembly then separated to search for her, some supposing that a false delicacy might have prevailed upon her to conceal herself, and others were apprehensive that some fearful accident had befallen her; every apartment, therefore, of the house in which they were, and likewise the neighbours, together with the wells and cisterns were examined, but all to no purpose; for when night spread her shadows upon the earth, there still appeared no trace of her they sought.

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

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

ANNA.

New-York, Aug. 18, 1796.

ANECDOTE OF DR. JOHNSON.

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

UNACCOUNTABLE THIRST FOR FAME.

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

A few days since in this city, Mr. H. de Bernard, jun. late of the island of St. Lucie, in the West-Indies, to the widow Tronson, of this city.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ANTICIPATION.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE SETTING SUN.

(Written at the request of a young Lady.)

LINES ON THE CELEBRATED SHAKESPEARE.

TO ELIZA.

ON VICISSITUDE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whilst listening to a musical performance, try to forget that you are hearing sounds of an inanimate instrument, produced only by great and habitual dexterity of lips or fingers. Fancy to yourself, that you hear a man speaking some unknown language, and observe whether his sounds express some sentiments; whether 65b they denote tranquility or disturbance of mind, soft or violent, joyful or grievous affections; whether they express any character of the speaker; and whether the dialect be noble or mean. If you cannot discover any of these requisites, then pity the virtuoso for having left so much ingenuity destitute of thought.

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

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

ACTIVITY.

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

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 59.)

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

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

The beautiful Queen passed the night in very different emotions; love had renewed his forces in her soul, nature that did for a while revolt at the remembrance of the cruelty inflicted on her, returned to its obedience, and was wholly taken up with the fear of not being loved, and remembered enough to be acknowledged, when discovered, with the joy she wished.——The Counts of Ponthieu and St. Paul spent not their hours more quietly. Thibault found himself agitated with the perturbations of a dawning passion; he accused himself of it as a crime. The Count was no less embarrassed about his, tho’ he was very well assured they proceeded not from love, but the prodigious resemblance he found between his daughter and this lovely Queen, reminded him of the barbarity he had been guilty of.——He could not imagine there had 66b been a possibility of saving that unhappy princess; but the tenderness with which the Sultaness had inspired him, was so near that he felt for his daughter, that it gave him an astonishment not to be conceived.

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

The Count was in a surprize which cannot be expressed, to hear himself named, and finding there was indeed no room for dissimulation, told his story with sincerity; but when he came to that part which concerned his daughter, his sighs made many interruptions in his discourse, yet did he forget no circumstance, but confessed the crime he had been guilty of, in putting her to death: “But alas!” added he, “with what remorse has my soul been torn since that fatal day!---my tenderness for her revived with fresh vigour, and the torments I have endured, have been such, that if her spirit has any knowledge of what is transacted in this lower world, she must believe my punishment at least equal to my guilt.”---Then he told her of their vow, their voyage to Jerusalem, the tempest, and their slavery and condemnation.---“This, madam,” said he, “is a faithful account of our misfortunes; and though they are of a nature beyond the common rank of woes, yet they receive no inconsiderable alleviation, by the concern your excessive goodness makes you take in them.”---And, indeed, the fair Sultaness, during the latter part of his relation, had seemed drowned in tears, and was some time before she could recover herself enough to speak; but at last---“I own,” said she, “that what you have told me, very much touches me.—I extremely pity the Princess of Ponthieu, she was young, her reason might have returned to her; the generous proceeding of her husband, would doubtless have reclaimed her in time: but Heaven has punished you for your cruelty, you must not therefore be any more reproached with it. But to prove your penitence sincere, what reception would you give that Princess if by any miracle, which I cannot at present conceive, she should have escaped that destiny your rashness exposed her to?” “Ah madam!” cried the Count, “were there a possibility of such a blessing, my whole life should be employed in rendering hers fortunate!” “And you,” said she to Thibault, who she saw overwhelmed in tears, “would your wife be dear to you? Could you forgive her distracted behaviour? Could you restore her to your heart, as fond, as tender as ever?—in 67 short, could you still love her?”—“Question it not, madam,” answered he, with a voice interrupted with sighs, “nothing but her presence can ever make me happy.”—“Receive her, then,” cried she, casting aside her veil, and throwing herself into his arms, “I am that unfortunate wife—I am that daughter,” added she, running to her father, “that has cost you so many melancholy hours. Own her, my lord; take her to your breast, my dear Thibault, nor let the sight of her dissipate the tenderness you expressed for her when unknown.”

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

“I will not repeat,” said she, “the cause of your designing my death, you are but too sensible of it, and the loss of my reason is too well known to you for me to go about to renew the affliction it occasioned you: I shall only say, that it was excess of love which caused my distraction, and being prepossessed with an idea of being no longer worthy of my husband’s affection, imagining that I saw him reproaching me with my misfortune, and endeavouring to get rid of me; I was so abandoned by my senses, as to wish his death, as the only thing that could restore me to my repose. This thought so wholly engrossed my soul, that I looked on the sentence you inflicted on me, as caused by him; my frenzy prevented the horror of my fate from making any impression on me; and you may remember, Sir, that I neither endeavoured by intreaties or strugglings to avert it, being rather in a state of insensibility than any thing else. Which course my little vessel steered, or how long I continued in it, I know not---all I can tell, is, that I found myself in a real ship, in the midst of a great many unknown persons, busily employed 67b in bringing me to myself; but what is most surprising, I recovered my sight, memory and reason, at the same instant; whether it was owing to the common effect which the fear of death has, or to the property of the sea, or, to judge better, the work of heaven: but all I had said, or done, or thought, came into my mind, and I found myself so guilty against you and my husband, that the first sign of life that my deliverers perceived in me, was by shedding an excessive shower of tears; which was the more violent, because I had never wept since that fatal adventure in the forest: and indeed I thought, as did all about me, that they would have suffocated me; but so much care was taken of me, that without putting an end to my affliction, my life was out of danger.

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTES OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 

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

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

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

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CONSCIENCE.

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

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

ALEXIS.

New-York, Aug. 22, 1796.

EXTRAORDINARY EFFECT OF JEALOUSY.

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CHARACTER OF A RICH MAN.

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

New-York, Aug. 26, 1796.

THE COURT OF LOVE. 

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

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

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 62.)

“Who has authorised you to try me?”

“Who has authorised me to save you from the waves?”

“Why this question instead of an answer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The history of all ages and nations convinces us that all men strive to be happy: but only the better and nobler part of mankind are in pursuit of truth; not as if the latter sort did not also contend for happiness, but because they find it in the contemplation of truth, and do not believe that happiness can exist, without being founded on the base of truth. The former class pursue happiness on different and opposite roads, and when they fancy they have found it, embrace an airy phantom; the latter class also go in pursuit of truth on different and opposite roads, and when they fancy they have discovered it, are enraptured at an ignis fatuus. Some of them perceive at last that they are deceived by illusions, and others do not. The former continue their pursuit by the road which they have once fallen in with, and finding nothing but new phantoms and new illusions, spread at length the rumour, that no real happiness and truth could be met with here below. But suppose a man of an extraordinary genius, who had been firmly convinced that this treasure can be found here below, should have attempted to go in search of it through uncommon and never trodden paths, and at length, after enormous deviations, which on the unbeaten paths he pursued could not be avoided, should have found truth and happiness in their natural purity and sisterly union, and entrusted the secret to his friends under the condition to communicate it only to a few, and not even to them till they should have been tried by uncommon delusions of different kinds, like himself; would you then forgive me, my Lord, if I had deceived you with that view?”

“Then I should not owe you forgiveness, but gratitude. But as the time of probation (according to your own declaration) is past, will you not be so good as to let me see only a few rays of that light, the full splendor of which I am going to behold.”

“I have orders not to disclose the secret to you before the liberation of your country should be accomplished.”

“Then my probationary time is not yet finished?”

“The time of delusion is past, and you are now to begin the epocha of acting for which the former was designed to prepare you. Strain every nerve to deliver your country, and the last trial will be finished.”

“How can I save my country?”

“At M***d you shall be informed of it.”

“I am going to depart for that town to-morrow morning.”

“At ****, twelve miles from hence, you may stop for a short time—but mark well, only for a short time. You will meet Amelia there”—

“Amelia?”

“And will find her differently disposed from what she would have been without my interference.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The Countess has vowed to be faithful unto death to the man of her heart. She has frequently renewed this rigorous vow at the tomb which she has devoted to his memory, and thus promised to the dear departed object of her love a sacrifice, which has driven to despair all those whom her uncommon charms have enchanted. You would have shared the same fate, my Lord, if my power had not dissolved the dreadful covenant which Amelia has made with the departed spirit of her Lord.”

I started up like a maniac—“That you have done? You have done that?”

The Irishman rose coolly from his seat: “Moderate your joy,” said he, “for you don’t know whether I have not deceived the Countess!”

“O forget what I have said in the heat of passion. Beings like you are above slander. Forgive what I have said!”

“When you come to **** stop at the inn of St. James’s, and then you shall be convinced by my actions that I have forgiven you.” So saying, he shook hands with me and left my apartment.

“Who is that incomprehensible man?” said I to myself, “Have I not been his mortal enemy half an hour ago, and now am again become his friend and admirer, am again enchained with fetters of which I fancied I had rid myself entirely? Is my weakness the source of this unaccountable change, or is he in possession of a magic charm by which he rules with secret power every heart?” O thou who once shall read this history, whoever thou art, do not look scornfully upon my relapse. Thou hast not seen the countenance of that man, hast not heard him speak: I have been less enthralled by what he said, than by the manner in which he spoke. The magic power which his looks, his mien, his accent, and every gesture gave to his words, rendered credible even what was improbable, and raised the latter to certainty. While he was speaking I little thought to interrupt him, dwelling with secret pleasure upon the contemplation of the seducing pictures which he placed before me, and only when in cooler blood, I began to anatomize and to scan the train of his arguments. I discovered defects, gaps, and improbabilities which shook the very base of my belief, and overclouded the charming prospects which he displayed before my 70b enraptured eyes. How ever, there was one idea on which I dwelled with joyful confidence. ‘It will be accom­plished,’ I exclaimed, ‘although every other promise of the Irishman should prove airy phantoms. I shall see Amelia, and be happy!’ 

But this hope too began to dwindle away, after I had waited the next day at the inn to which I had been directed by the Irishman, from eight o’clock in the morning till seven o’clock at night without having received tidings from Amelia. I was just going to take up my guitar in order to give vent to my melancholy sensations, when my servant came to tell me that a girl wanted to speak to me. I ordered him to shew her to my apartment. After many courtisies and circumlocutions, the unknown fair one begged me at length to have the kindness to honour her lady with a wish. Asking her who her lady was, she replied that she durst not tell me her name, but would shew me the way to the castle. “Then your lady has sent you to me?” “God forbid,” she replied, “my lady knows not a syllable of my errand; and your Lordship must tell the servant to announce you by the name of the Marchese Albertini.” “Who was it then that gave you that order?” “An officer in a blue uniform,” she replied, “who has paid a visit to my lady some time ago. He told me where I should find your Lordship; but, for heaven’s sake do not tell my lady of it; for he has given me a louis d’or to conceal that circumstance from her!” Now I knew what to think of the matter. I could have kissed the little garrulous messenger. “There, take this;” said I, emptying my purse in her apron, “shew me instantly to the house of your lady!” The girl was enraptured with joy, hurried down stairs, and I followed her with impatient steps.

(To be continued.)

OBSERVATIONS ON THE BOILING POINT OF WATER.

Water when exposed to a sufficient degree of heat, is gradually heated till it arrives at the 212th degree of Fahrenheit’s thermometer, after which it resolves itself into vapour, and becomes incapable of growing hotter; supposing, however, that the gravity of the atmosphere remaining the same; for upon high mountains it will boil, or assume the form of vapour in a lower degree of heat; hence in a mean heat of the barometer, the heat of boiling water has been always considered as a fixed and invariable point, namely, equal to the 212th degree of the thermometer; but Mr. Achard, willing to examine the truth of this position, or, in other words, willing to observe whether the heat of boiling water was subject to be altered by any other circumstance, besides the variable pressure of the atmosphere, made many experiments, the summary of which is, that the aperture of the vessel in which the water is boiled, occasions a variation, amounting to nearly one degree; the heat being greater when the aperture is narrower; and the substance of the vessel is also the cause of considerable variation; for if the vessel be made of glass, porcelain or other substance, which is a bad conductor of heat, the boiling point of water will be a constant degree, but if the vessel be of metal, all other circumstances being alike, then the heat of boiling water will be fluctuating.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO TYRUNCULUS.

Your elevated and most distinguished reflections on the grand topic of segar smoaking, affords a charming field for speculation. It appears in the eye of reason to be truly self-partial, and the allusion to bucks alone, leaves an undescribable scope for contemplation, such as must here lay dormant for want of a palatable penetration to its merits or demerits.—---If, friend Tyrunculus, segar smoaking is found such a disagreeable and obnoxious weapon in your presence, does that sanction your divulging its bad effects to exist on the rest of mankind? Has experience, the grand teacher of science, actuated you to a confirmation of its being a poisonous twist? Or is its source derived from your physical knowledge and sound reasoning? If the former, it must be admitted, that your title is good for a public demonstration, if the latter, it must be concluded that you are a professed physician and a man of eminent learning, in which case your annunciation in respect to its bad or good effects might have had some weight, and at the same time would have been considered an act of great charity. There are people, who by nature cannot withstand the powerful effect of smoak, and there are others who, by reason of their faculties being much impaired, are not able to bear it, which of these ought to be attributed to you, is best known to yourself—I say, it is an amusement not altogether so fashionable as beneficial, because it tends to support the constitution, and is a bar against receiving the ill consequences arising from those disagreeable stenches, which reign almost in every part of the city, and therefore, is of immense utility to smoakers at large. “This, the learned doctors and physicians will prove.”---To divert myself any longer on this very interesting subject would only be expending time, too precious for me at present to let glide away, as such I have only to add, that in order to avoid being again incommoded and insulted by segar smoak, it will not be amiss if you take a piece of good council from your friend the subscriber, that is, to refrain from imposing on any society either public or private, as, probably, the consequence may be attended with a piercing stroke of this woeful dagger.

Yours, &c.

SEGAR.

ACCOUNT OF A NEGRO-WOMAN WHO BECAME WHITE.

This woman was cook-maid to colonel Barnes of Maryland; she was born in Virginia, and is about forty years old, remarkably healthy and robust, and originally as black as the blackest African. About fifteen years ago, the skin next adjoining to the nails of the fingers became white, her mouth soon after suffered the same alteration, which gradually extended over the whole body, though not quite in an equal degree; four parts in five of her skin are as white, smooth, and transparent, as in a fair European; the neck and back along the vertebræ, are least changed; her face and neck, in which the change is complete, discover the veins under the skin; and are suffused with blushes, when any accident excites the passions, either of anger or shame.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Cornelius Kingsland, to Miss Abigail Cock, both of this city.

On Thursday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Totten, Mr. John Fountain, of Maryland, (travelling minister of the Methodist order) to Miss Elizabeth Rickhow, of Staten-Island.

On Saturday evening the 20th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Foster, Mr. Silas B. Hand, Printer, to Miss Rhoda Cook, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. William Peacock, jun. of the state of Georgia, to Miss Mary Moore, of this city.

MORNING DAWN.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LINES ON REVISITING A NATIVE PLACE.

THE HAPPY MAN.

TO HORATIO.

ELIZA IN ANSWER TO * * * *.

EPITAPH.

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

AN EVENING MEDITATION.

Now all is hushed, and nature seems to make a pause; the sun has withdrawn his radiance, yet the gloom from yonder western sky bespeaks him still at hand, promising to return with his reviving warmth, when nature is refreshed with darkness.

The moon borrows her light, and bestows it upon us; she arises in silent majesty, humbly waiting to reign when he resigns his throne. No chorus ushers in his reign, no rays pronounce her approach; gently she steals on the world, and sits in silent majesty to view the good she does. She lights the wandering traveller, she warms the earth with gentle heat, she dazzles not the eye of the philosopher, but invites him to view and to admire.---How still is nature! not a breeze! each tree enjoys its shadow undisturbed, the unruffled rivers glide smoothly on reflecting nature’s face; here thro’ this road, by the side of this fair stream, let me steal gently, step by step, wrapped up in future thoughts.—A time will come when earth, and seas, and sun, and stars will be no more——what then will be my thoughts——Think, oh then now!—Think—that time is nothing to eternity, think,——all nature, sun, and earth, and man, and angels are nothing—to thy God.—Think, that thou art to thyself thy all; thyself once lost, nothing can give thee joy or pain from without, but all will be concentered in thy own misery: if happiness be thy lot, then wilt thou be capable of enjoying also the happiness of others, thus redoubling thy own.

Oh! my soul, behold yon spangled sky---count the number of the stars——No---thy counting fails, then think on that eternity which awaits thee in another world; think too now, how great is the goodness of God, to grace our little world with beauties to attract the eye and captivate the mind. Beauties by day to cheer, to enliven, to call forth thy active powers, to bustle with the busy, beauties and blessings inviting thee to see, to taste, to smell, to hear.---Beauties too, Oh see, by night, beauties transcendant and glorious; such as draw up the eye to yon vast concave, where the mind’s eye follows in silent wonder, quickly passing from star to star, till struck with the beauty of the whole, it feels “the hand that made it is divine.”

Passion, at this silent hour and awful scene, shrinks away unperceived, and every light idea flies off. The mind takes the reins, and the body seems for a while to partake of that spiritual nature it will have hereafter. Listen then, while reason is uninterrupted, to the silent councils of nature;---every shadow whispers, such are you! A breeze may blow you away---to-morrow you may be no more; tread then,---as now---with caution through the slippery paths of life; beware of the briars and thorns that lie athwart your way; mistake not shadow for substance. Brush away, as the dew on the ground, at every step, the little affairs that momentary rise to check your progress towards heaven.

This river too has its lesson to give, she is like the cool hour of reflection, when conscience gives back the actions of our life in legible characters. Oh may they be as smooth! See, says she, how fair is my face! how transparent I am! You see my depth; even the ground whence I spring is open to your view. Let your conscience be ever as smooth, as clear, as open; let your breast need no disguise, so will no troubled waters impede your heavenly voyage.

Now again behold the stars, they have a language; and with a powerful tongue, they call on me to adore the Great King of Heaven and Earth, whose name they write in golden characters legible to all mankind. They proclaim him, Creator of all Worlds, and the Friend of Man.

Let me, then, often read their book and listen to their tale.---Let me, like them, proclaim my maker’s praise, by shining in the orb in which his hand has placed me; nor ever leap the bound, nor strive to rise above, nor dare to sink beneath the sphere wherein I am. So when the sun, and stars, and earth shall be no more; my Creator shall raise me to another world, “to shine like the stars for evermore.”

HAPPINESS.

The road to happiness is seldom strewed with flowers, nor perhaps ought it to be so; as we should, in that case, be inclined to take our passage for our port, and while we enjoyed the manna, we might neglect the promised land.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 67.)

“The people of the ship had placed about me a young woman extremely amiable;—the tenderness she expressed for the griefs she saw I was involved in, made me conceive a very great friendship for her; and, indeed, as she was the only woman there, it was natural for us to be more than ordinarily pleased with each other. When she found me a little composed, she informed me that we were with Flemish merchants, who were trading to the Levant; that having perceived from deck my extraordinary tomb, the hope of finding something valuable in it, had made them take it aboard; but having opened it, they were surprised to see a woman richly habited: that at first they thought me dead, because I was very much swelled, but having placed me in the open air, a little motion of my heart gave them hope of recovering me; that accordingly, with great difficulty, they effected it; and finding, as they thought, some beauty in me, they resolved, at the expence of my liberty, to make themselves amends for having found nothing but me in the tun. ‘’Tis with this design,’ added she, ‘that we are sailing towards Almeria, where these merchants design to sell you to the Sultan of that place: it is now six months since they took me away from the coast of France, which is my native country, on the same account; but I very well foresee that your beauty will preserve me from being exposed to the Sultan’s desires: yet, as I cannot avoid slavery, I beg, madam, that you will not let me be separated from you. The Sultan will without doubt buy you; contrive it so, that he may think I am a dependant of yours.’ I was very glad to have a French woman with me, so promised her, that whatever was my fate, she should, if she pleased, share it with me; but what she had told me, giving me great uneasiness, I desired to speak with the captain of the ship. I began with thanking him for the succour he had given me, and thinking to have gained him with the hope of a reward, I assured him it should be made even beyond his wishes, if he would land me on the coast of France. He answered me that he doubted not my generosity, nor my being considerable enough to recompense the service he had done me; but that he could not follow his own inclination in doing what I desired him, because he was accountable to his companions, who had resolved to sell me and the other young French woman to the Sultan of Almeria: that they knew would be certain gain to them, without running the risque of what my promises might produce. With these words he returned to his companions, and gave me not leave no answer him; I made several other efforts, but finding it impossible to persuade them to alter their resolutions, I was obliged to submit to my ill destiny. In proportion, as I recovered my reason, my affection to my dear Thibault resumed its empire over my soul.—I was sensible of the whole extent of 74b my misfortunes, and my despair would perhaps have kept no bounds, if it had not been for the prudence and good-nature of my young companion. Yet for all her cares, I fell into such a melancholy, as frighted the merchant, lest I should lose the lustre of my beauty, of which he proposed to himself so great an advantage.

“At length they arrived at Almeria, and we were immediately led to the Sultan. As he was accustomed to traffic with those people, he received them perfectly well, and was so well pleased with their prize, that he gave them their demand both for myself and Sayda. We were placed in the palace of the Sultan’s women, where he soon followed us; and I had the misfortune of affecting him in so extraordinary a manner, that he seemed to make his loving me an affair of state.—I call that a misfortune, which any one but me would have looked on as the highest felicity: for I owe the Sultan the justice to say, that he is full of merit, and adorned with the most heroic virtues; but I was a christian, and prepossessed with a passion, which left no room for any other; I therefore considered his assiduity as my worst of troubles. This prince perceiving my regard for Sayda, gave her to me; (Sayda is a name I made her assume to conceal her own.) He placed me, in an apartment different from those the rest of the women were lodged in, and commanded that I should be served as queen. All these honours added to my uneasiness; yet the submission with which he treated me, gave me sometimes a hope he never would have recourse to force that which I was resolved never to grant; but alas! this prince at last, worn out with his own consuming passion and the continual murmurs of his subjects, who could ill endure he should express so much consideration for a christian, resolved to speak to me in stronger terms than he had hitherto done. My resistance had lasted a whole year, and he thought he had sufficiently testified his respect, in allowing me so long a time: he came to me therefore one day, and finding me extremely melancholy, ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘it is with great regret I find myself obliged to exceed the bounds I have prescribed myself in gaining your heart, but you must now consent either to marry me or publicly abjure your religion; all my power cannot exempt you from the laws which oblige the women of the seraglio to embrace our faith.---I adore you, and though I ought to compel you to a change so beneficial to you, yet I will not, since it is not your desire.—I promise you the free exercise of your religion in private, provided you accept of the crown I offer you;---my subjects, and all my court, will then believe you have changed your religion, without seeking any further proofs, and you will be at liberty to observe your own in secret:---this is the only means to preserve you from the fury of a people, who, when enraged, have no regard even for their sovereign. It would have been more agreeable to me, if my love and attentions had engaged you; but I hope time will inspire your heart with those sentiments, that will be conducive to my felicity, and your repose.’ I could not refrain from tears at this discourse of the Sultan:---the choice appeared terrible to me; ‘Is it 75 possible, my lord!’ replied I, ‘that among the number of beauties who would be proud of the honour you offer me, you cannot find one more worthy than myself? If you had not distinguished me, your subjects would have thought nothing of me.---Consider, my lord, what glory you might gain by subduing your passion, and suffering me to return to my native country.---What felicity can it be, to live with a woman obtained but by fear and force, who will always be regretting her parents and liberty.’

“The Sultan smiled at these words; ‘I see, madam,’ said he, ‘that you are ignorant of your own condition---you are in this place for life---when once a woman has entered within these walls, there is no hope of ever getting out again, law and custom have decreed it so. Therefore you are more obliged to me than you imagined, for the respect I have paid you, being from the first moment the master of your destiny.’ I then intreated he would give me three days to answer him; he granted my request, and I spent them in prayers: but at length seeing myself without any hope of relief, or ever returning to my country, that my death there was thought certain, and that I had no means of letting you know I was living, or if I had, could not promise myself, that, since you had consented to my death, the news would find a welcome: I looked on myself as utterly abandoned; and the facility of following in private my own devotions, determined me, in submitting to the Sultan’s persuasions. The three days being expired, he came to me again, and I then told him, that if he would swear never to force me to alter my religion, I was ready to give him my hand. His joy at my consent was inconceiveable; and though he saw plainly that what I did was out of necessity, he assured me he thought himself the happiest man on earth, and bound himself by an oath sacred in their law, to suffer me to exercise my own religion, provided I took care not to be discovered.

(To be continued.)

CONTEMPLATION.

To contemplate the Creator of heaven and earth in the magnificence of his works, enlarges and elevates the soul---lifts it above the impertinence of vulgar cares, and gives it a kind of heavenly pre-existence. To consider the benevolent purposes for which he called forth this variety and multitude of being, that comes under our cognizance, must be a perpetual source of comfort. A rational creature, that is conscious of deriving its existence from a being of infinite goodness and power, cannot properly entertain any prospect but of happiness. By the imperfection of its nature it may fall into temporary evils, but these cannot justly be the subject of complaint, when we reflect that this very imperfection was necessary to a probatory life, and that without it, there could neither have been virtue, nor the rewards of virtue. Every degree of excellence depends upon comparison. Were there no deformity in the world, we should have no distinct ideas of beauty: Were there no possibility of vice, there would be no such thing as virtue; and were the life of a man exempt from misery, happiness would be a term of which he could not know the meaning. 

INDIAN ELOQUENCE.

The following beautiful, simple, energetic, and affecting Speech was made by Logan, Chief of the Shawanesses, in the Year 1774, to Lord Dunmore, Governor of the Province of Virginia.

I now ask of every white man whether he hath ever entered the cottage of Logan, when pressed with hunger, and been refused food; or, whether coming naked and shivering with cold, Logan hath not given him something to cover himself with? During the course of the late war, so long and so bloody, Logan hath remained quiet upon his mat, wishing to be the advocate of peace. Yes, such is my attachment for white men, that even those of my nation, when they passed by me, pointed at me, saying, Logan is a friend to white men. I had even thoughts of living amongst you; but that was before the injury received from one of you. Last summer Colonel Cressop massacred in cold blood, and without any provocation, all the relations of Logan, without sparing either his wife or his children. There is not now one drop of my blood in the veins of any human creature existing. This is what has excited my revenge. I have sought it; I have killed several of your people, and my hatred is appeased. I rejoice to see the prospect of peace brighten upon my country. But do not imagine my joy is instigated by fear. Logan knows not what fear is. He will never turn his back in order to save his life. But, alas! no one remains to mourn for Logan when he shall be no more.

ON ENTHUSIASM OF CHARACTER.

The shades of human character are so numerous, and the advantages resulting from an extensive acquaintance with them, of so much importance, that few subjects, perhaps, are more worthy of attention or speculation; and it would be a task of the highest advantage to society, could we trace the source and causes of the diversities, and point out the particular advantages resulting from each. By the former of these, we should, in some degree, be enabled to train the mind to the fashion most amiable and really advantageous; by the latter, we should have the opportunity of directing to their proper objects of pursuit the passions and dispositions as they are displayed before us.

BON MOT.

A gentleman who possessed a much larger quantity of nose, than nature usually bestows upon an individual, contrived to make it more enormous by his invincible attachment to the bottle, which also beset it with emeralds and rubies. To add to his misfortunes, this honest toper’s face was somewhat disfigured by not having a regular pair of eyes; one being black, and the other of a reddish hue. A person happening once to observe, that his eyes were not fellows, congratulated him on that circumstance. The rosy gilled old tipler demanded the reason. “Because,” replied the jocular genius, “if your eyes had been matches, your nose would certainly have set them in a flame, and a dreadful conflagration might have been apprehended.”

Account of the COURTSHIP and MARRIAGE of the celebrated DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Johnson had from his early youth, been sensible to the influence of female charms. When at Stourbridge school, he was much enamoured of Olivia Lloyd, a young quaker, to whom he wrote a copy of verses, which I have not been able to recover; and I am assured by Miss Seward, that he conceived a tender passion for Miss Lucy Porter, daughter of the lady whom he afterwards married. Miss Porter was sent very young on a visit to Litchfield, where Johnson had frequent opportunities of seeing and admiring her; and he addressed to her the following verses, on her presenting him with a nosegay of myrtle:

His juvenile attachments to the fair sex were, however, very transient; and it is certain, that he formed no criminal connection whatsoever. Mr. Hector, who lived with him in his younger days in the utmost intimacy and social freedom, has assured me, that even at that ardent season his conduct was strictly virtuous in that respect; and that though he loved to exhilarate himself with wine, he never knew him intoxicated but once.

In a man whose religious education has secured from licentious indulgences, the passion of love, when once it has seized him, is exceedingly strong; being unimpaired by dissipation, and totally concentrated in one object. This was experienced by Johnson, when he became the fervent admirer of Mrs. Porter, after her first husband’s death. Miss Porter told me, that when he was first introduced to her mother, his appearance was very forbidding: he was then lean and lank, so that his immense structure of bones was hideously striking to the eye, and the scars of the scrophula were deeply visible. He also wore his hair, which was straight and stiff, and separated behind; and he often had, seemingly, convulsive starts and odd gesticulations, which tended to excite at once surprise and ridicule. Mrs. Porter was so much engaged by his conversation that she overlooked all these external disadvantages, and said to her daughter, “this is the most sensible man I ever saw in my life.”

Though Mrs. Porter was double the age of Johnson, and her person and manner, as described to me by the late Mr. Garrick, were by no means pleasing to others, she must have had a superiority of understanding and talents, as she certainly inspired him with a more than ordinary passion; and she having signified her willingness to accept 76b of his hand, he went to Litchfield to ask his mother’s consent to the marriage, which he could not but be conscious was a very imprudent scheme, both on account of their disparity of years, and her want of fortune. But Mrs. Johnson knew too well the ardour of her son’s temper, and was too tender a parent to oppose his inclinations.

I know not for what reason the marriage ceremony was not performed at Birmingham; but a resolution was taken that it should be at Derby, for which place the bride and bridegroom set out on horseback, I suppose in very good humour. But though Mr. Topham Beauclerk used archly to mention Johnson’s having told him, with much gravity, “Sir, it was a love-marriage on both sides,” I have had from my illustrious friend the following curious account of their journey to church upon the nuptial morn. “Sir, she had read the old romances, and had got into her head the fantastical notion that a woman of spirit should use her lover like a dog. So, Sir, at first she told me that I rode too fast, and she could not keep up with me; and, when I rode a little slower, she passed me, and complained that I lagged behind. I was not to be made the slave of caprice; and I resolved to begin as I meant to end. I therefore pushed on briskly, ’till I was fairly out of her sight. The road lay between two hedges, so I was sure she could not miss it; and I contrived that the should soon come up with me. When she did, I observed her to be in tears.”

This, it must be allowed, was a singular beginning of connubial felicity; but there is no doubt that Johnson, though he thus shewed a manly firmness, proved a most affectionate and indulgent husband to the last moment of Mrs. Johnson’s life; and in his “Prayers and Meditations,” we find very remarkable evidence that his regard and fondness for her never ceased, even after her death.

ANGER.

Lord Somers was naturally of a choleric disposition; and the most striking part of his character, was the power of controuling his passion at the moment when it seemed ready to burst forth. Swift, in his “Four last Years of Queen Anne,” has in vain endeavoured to blacken this amiable part of that great man’s character, as what the dean mistook for a severe censure, has proved the greatest panegyric. “Lord Somers being sensible how subject he is to violent passions, avoids all incitements to them by teaching those, whom he converses with, from his own example, to keep within the bounds of decency; and it is indeed true, that no man is more apt to take fire upon the least appearance of provocation; which temper he strives to subdue, with the utmost violence upon himself; so that his breast has been seen to heave, and his eyes to sparkle with rage in those very moments when his words and the cadence of his voice were in the humblest and softest manner.”

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 70.)

She stopped in the second street at a large palace, telling me that we were on the spot. I ordered the servant to tell his lady, the Marchese Albertini would be glad to wait on her Ladyship, and was admitted. I hastened through the first apartment with a panting heart, and the second door being opened, was very kindly received by an old lady. I was almost petrified by that unexpected sight, like a poor disappointed wretch who, deceived by magic art, expects to rush into the arms of an immortal beauty, suddenly embraces an old toothless beldam. The lady seemed to be equally surprised. I did not know whether it was on account of my person or my astonishment—and I begged her pardon, in a faultering accent, for having committed that mistake, telling her that I had taken the liberty to intrude upon her, in hopes of seeing the Countess de Clairval, when——the door of a third apartment was opened, and a lady beautiful as an angel, dressed in white satin, and of a majestic form, made her appearance. I flew to meet her---and pressed Amelia’s hand to my glowing lips.

Her lovely cheeks were covered with a crimson hue, and after a short interval of silent astonishment, she exclaimed: “Is it possible, my Lord! How does it happen that we have the honour of seeing you here?”

“I don’t know it myself!” I exclaimed, “my life is an uninterrupted train of wonders, and it was certainly one of the most fortunate that brought me to your Ladyship!”

“You find me in the company of a friend,” Amelia said, introducing me to the old lady, “whom I had lost in my earlier youth, but found again four months ago through a most singular accident, which however I think to be one of the most fortunate of my life. You will recollect that when I related to you the history of my youth, I mentioned a white lady who appeared to me in the dusk of evening, in a grotto in my father’s garden, and who had directed and cheered me in my juvenile years like a heavenly being---”

“And that white lady---”

“Is the Baroness de Delier, who is now standing before you.”

“Is it possible?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, it is really so!” replied the lady archly smiling.

I now began to examine her face more attentively. Her physiognomy was exceeding interesting, bearing strong marks of sensibility, and of former beauty, the traces of which the voracious tooth of time had not been able to destroy.

“My Lady,” said I, “the Countess has related to me so much that is noble and wonderful of you, that my astonishment is as natural as my curiosity will be deemed pardonable by you.”

“I dare say,” Amelia interrupted me, “it will give you pleasure if I beg the Baroness to be so kind as to explain that wonderful circumstance to you?”

“Why not,” replied Lady Delier, “let us sit down; old age is thought to be talkative; however I shall be brief in my narrative:——A friend of mine who knew Amelia, and was no stranger to the cruel treatment which she received from her unnatural mother, lived in a house which was separated from that of her parents only by two gardens. The description which my friend gave me of the sufferings of the innocent girl, affected me so much the more, as I ever have been uncommonly fond of children. I resolved to alleviate the hapless fate of the poor child; and with that view designed a plan, which I carried into execution, assisted by her nurse, whom I bribed with fair words and a sum of money. The gardens of my friend, and Amelia’s parents, were separated only by a wall, which had a little gate leading from the garden of the former to the grotto which was in that of the latter. This gate was opened for me by the nurse, who, according to my direction, always retired when I came, and watched at the entrance of the garden to warn me by a signal against sudden surprise. I dare say, my Lord, Amelia will have informed you of my conversations and actions in the grotto.”---

“But why did you conceal your name and rank from the Countess?” I enquired.

“In order to prevent being found out, if the little girl in her childish innocence should have spoken of her meetings with the white lady. When Amelia advanced in years I continued the mystery, because I had observed that it gave to my visits an additional value in her eyes, and rendered my consolations and instructions more effective. However, I did not mean never to disclose my name to her, and I had entrusted the solution of the mystery to the sealed paper which I gave to the daughter of my heart when I took leave of her, and which she afterwards lost.”

“If I am not mistaken, you gave the sealed paper to the Countess, with the injunction to open it when she should have found the man whom her heart should choose for a partner in her happiness and affliction!”

“You are not mistaken! it contained some instructions which are very useful to a girl in love.”

“You foretold the Countess when you took leave of her, that her unhappy fate would take a fortunate turn after three months, and that prediction has really been accomplished by the aunt of the Countess.”

“This was very natural, because the whole matter had been arranged already by the intercession of my friend, who was very intimate with her aunt.”

“But why did you not continue your visits till the arrival of her aunt?”

“Because I went abroad with the Baron de Delier.”

“And you have never seen the Countess since?”

“No! and we should perhaps never have met again, if important affairs had not called me to **** after the decease of the Baron. I saw the Countess accidentally 78 when I was coming from the cathedral. O! my Lord, what are all worldly pleasures, if compared to the happiness of such a re-union? The emotions of my heart broke out so violently, that we were obliged to get in the carriage, and to drive to Amelia’s hermitage, to prevent our being crushed to death by the gaping multitude.”

“Indeed,” exclaimed the Countess, shedding tears of sensibility, and pressing the hand of the Baroness to her bosom, “I shall never forget that day while this heart is beating!”

“And yet, would you believe it, my Lord,” resumed the Baroness, after an affecting pause, “I could scarcely prevail upon her to leave the castle in the forest, and to remove to mine, where we are leading an happy and contented life. My Amelia indeed was turned a downright hermit.”

“I confess, my dear friend,” replied the Countess, “I was so charmed with my solitary residence, and the retired and quiet life I led suited the state of my mind so well, that no one but my dear Baroness could have persuaded me to change my situation.”

The fleeting hours passed rapidly away amid pleasing discourses, and evening was already far advanced before I could resolve to take leave of Amelia and her amiable companion. At length I parted reluctantly, and having been invited to repeat my visit the day following, returned to my lodging in a trance of happiness and joy.

Amelia was the sole object of my thoughts before I fell asleep; Amelia’s image sweetened my rest; her name was the first sound that came from my lips when I awoke, and in her presence I spent the greatest part of the day in a trance of unspeakable bliss.

Her cheerfulness declined, however, with every new day; her serene looks began to grow gloomy; her innate frankness and affability gave room to reserve and melancholy, which she endeavoured in vain to conceal. I surprised her several times fixing her eyes on me in a melancholy manner, and casting down her looks with consternation when she perceived that I observed it—she spoke little, and what she said was incoherent—yet her behaviour was not repelling—her bosom seemed to conceal some secret uneasiness, the cause of which I strove in vain to explore. As often as I began to speak of the Unknown, Amelia looked perplexed and timid at Lady Delier, who always turned the conversation to a different object. I was certain that the Irishman had been in the house; they even confessed that he had informed them of my elevation to the ducal dignity; but this was all I could learn. This circumstance and Amelia’s behaviour gave rise to apprehensions which made me suffer the torments of hell. I could not endure this situation longer than four days; at the evening of the fourth day I took advantage of an opportunity which I had to speak to Lady Delier in private, and pressed her to unfold that mystery to me. After many fruitless persuasions, I obtained at length the promise to be informed of what I so anxiously wished to know, and was requested to meet her at twelve o’clock the next day in the fir-grove behind the garden of the castle, when she would satisfy my curiosity.

I awaited the noon-tide hour with impatience. At length the wished for hour arrived, and with the last stroke I was going to hasten to the fir-grove, however I met the Irishman on the stair-case. “Come with me, my Lord!” he said, as soon as he saw me!

“Whither?”

“You will be surprised in a most pleasing manner. Make haste, my carriage is waiting for you.”

“I cannot accept your invitation before one o’clock. I must finish first a business of great importance, which cannot be postponed.”

“My business also cannot be postponed, and is of far greater importance. I am going to take you to an old acquaintance whom you have ardently wished to see this good while.”

“An old acquaintance—whom I have ardently wished to see?---It is not---”

“Your tutor I mean. Come, make haste!” 

I embraced the Irishman with a loud exclamation of joy, pressed him vehemently to my heart, and leaped into the carriage.

We drove through the city gate; our horses gallopped at a furious rate, and yet they were too slow for my impatience. “Is he far from hence?” I exclaimed, “where does he live, is he well, does he know that I am coming?” “All that you shall know presently!” said the Irishman, ordering the coachman to stop.

We got out of the carriage, and the sun was overclouding like the face of the Irishman. He uttered not a word, and made a silent signal to follow him.

The place where we were was a lonely solitary spot in the suburbs. The Irishman stopped at a high wall over which the tops of tall trees were portending. My conductor looked at me with a melancholy air, and then beat with his fist against a large gate. The folding doors burst open with a dreadful noise, and I beheld a burying-place before me. The Irishman entered. “What business have we here?” I exclaimed in a faultering accent. “Come along and be a man!” so saying, he pulled me after him, and the door was shut again by an invisible hand.

(To be continued.)

BENEVOLENCE.

There is a beautiful story recorded in an ancient Pagan writer, “That the deity who formed the first man out of the ground, reflecting at the same time on the calamities which the unhappy creature was to undergo, wept over his work, and tempered it with tears.” By this accident man was endued with a softness of disposition, and the most tender feelings: his descendants inherited these benevolent qualities, that by mutually relieving each other’s sufferings, they might in some measure alleviate their own; and that some amends might be made for the natural wants and imperfections of their nature, by the pleasure which they receive from soothing distress, and softening disappointment.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

HAPPINESS.

Thou art the being that the whole race of mortals are in search of, or more properly, thou art the phantom they seek! how different their pursuit! The king endeavours to find thee in his palace, while surrounded by his courtiers. The courtier thinks he is happy when paying adulation to his prince. The statesman pursues thee, when fulfilling the duties of his station. The citizen seeks thee in his family. The debauchee frequents the brothel, in hopes to find thee. The seducer is happy when betraying to the paths of infamy the unwary female. The votary of religion imagines thou art no where to be found but in the duties it enjoins. The poet seeks thee in his garret. The critic thinks he has thee in possession while venom trickles from his pen. The mariner is aiming at thee while he explores the “trackless path.” The warrior is so fascinated with thee that even rivers of blood cannot impede his progress.

The beautiful Sylvia was grasping at thee, while at her feet were expiring a groupe of lovers, whom she affected to treat with cold disdain; no kind looks, no tender glances were bestowed. She completely acted the coquet. At length she promised her hand to Sigismund; but in the short space of time that was to precede their nuptuals, she manifested the greatest partiality for the libertine Frederick. She afterwards said it was only done to try the firmness of her lover. Her folly appeared obvious when too late. When Sigismund beheld himself slighted after the promise she had made him, he imagined he was odious in her eyes. He chose, therefore, for his partner, one that would not act deceitfully, the blushing Lydia became his bride.

Do these different characters follow after happiness. They do—And are they happy?---Go to the monarch, seated on his throne, with his brows encircled with a crown of gold; to him let the question be put. Should he answer, “I am the only happy mortal,” would it not induce you to laugh in his face, and tell him that you were by far the happiest?

L. B.

New-York, Aug. 24, 1796.

HUMAN LIFE.

The faint glimmerings of the pale-faced moon on the troubled billows of the ocean, are not so fleeting and inconstant as the fortune and condition of human life. We one day balk in the sun-shine of prosperity, and the next, too often, roll in anguish on the thorny bed of adversity and affliction. To be neither too fond of prosperity, nor too much afraid of adversity, is one of the most useful lessons we have to learn and practise in the extensive commerce of this world.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

At Norwalk, On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Burnet, Obediah Wickes, of Troy, to Miss Sally Raymond, of Norwalk.

TO ———.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LINES

Addressed to a Gentleman who had been a Prisoner to the Indians, and was ransomed by the merchants of Detroit.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO EMMA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LINES

On the Death of a young Lady who fell a victim to the effects of Lightning.

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

A PEEP INTO THE DEN OF IDLENESS.

Yonder! under those ragged rocks, where the baleful yews waving their sable branches of mournful cypress throws an awful gloom; a den dark and ghastly opens its horrid mouth! ’Tis there idleness is lodged, the great thief of time, and destroyer of innocence and human felicity.

What a dreadful cave!——how it yawns amid the noisome lakes and shaggy bushes! Vice and sin breed here; like monsters they hiss with impudence, and howl with too late repentance. Security and Carelessness, Sloth and Ignorance, joined hand in hand, stalk around. Hark how their mingled yells echo, in the caverns of the rocks, and drive downy footed Silence far away! Prodigality and Wantonness hover aloft, and call their votaries to the scene of irrevocable loss, and to the prison of unavoidable destruction, which at a little distance opens before them: there crowds led on by Error, and intoxicated with Folly sport to ruin.

But what frightful figure is that now emerging from the cave!---Riot and Noise attend him, and Bacchus (jolly god), and Venus, (bewitching queen) appear in the rear. That figure is Idleness, for defiance appears in his looks, and temerity and effrontery are stampt in indelible characters on his brow. Ebriety too with flushed cheeks and staggering gait appears in the group, whilst light-footed Mirth, led on by Gaiety, dance to the warbling notes of the birds of pleasure.

All around see the traps and gins put up to catch the imprudent, the giddy, and the thoughtless! Artfully are they covered over! but Wisdom’s keen eye sees the dangerous snares, and turns back with abhorrence. And see yonder the deceiving waters of pleasure and filthy lakes of impurity; a sink of vice and sin where evil conceptions breed, and hell-bred monsters sport in the sordid waves. I am shocked to my very heart at the sight!---Come, heaven-born peace and meek-eyed Religion, oh! come and destroy this horrid den, this rueful spot, where destruction secretly lurks, and where crowds daily unwaringly resort to inevitable and delicious ruin.

A FRAGMENT ON BENEVOLENCE.

He gives his mite to the relief of poverty. Joy enlivens his countenance, and sparkles in his eye. He can lay his hand upon his heart, and say, “I have done a good thing.” But who can do justice to his feelings? None but those whose lips the God of Israel hath touched with sacred fire! None but those whose pens are guided by the inspiration of the Almighty! And though at this moment my heart expands with the delightful sensation, I am totally unable to express it. Most devoutly do I thank thee, O Lord, that thou hast given me feeling. The sensation, indeed, is sometimes painful; but the intellectual pain far excels the most delightful sensual pleasure.---Ye kings and princes of the earth, possess your envied grandeur! Let the epicure gratify his palate; let the miser hoard his gold in peace. Dear sensibility! do thou but spread thy benign influence over my soul, and I am sure I shall be happy.

He held out his hat. “Pity me,” said he, but turned away his face, to hide his blushing countenance, and the tear which stole down his cheek. I saw it; and that little tear, with a force as powerful as the inundations of the Nile, broke through all the bounds of cautious prudence. Had the wealth of the Indies been in my pocket, I could hot but have given it. I gave all I had. He cast his glistening eyes upon me. “You have saved a family: may God bless you!” with my then sensations I could have been happy through eternity. At that instant I could have wished all the wheels of Nature to have stopped.

CURIOUS SUPERSCRIPTION ON A LETTER.

(Taken from an Irish Paper.)

A letter with the following curious superscription on it was put in the post office of Balbriggen.

“To Mr. John Winters,

Newtown Gore---county Leitrim, to be forwarded to Terence Sheanan, or to John Owen, or Mary Sheanan, all brothers, in Corrocopel, or elsewhere, near or about Newtown Gore, or somewhere else in that country.” !!!

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 75.)

“This news was soon blazed through all Almeria, and fated ever to be guilty of constrained infidelities, I was proclaimed and crowned Sultana Queen, with a magnificence that would have dazzled any one but the Princess de Ponthieu. During the whole ceremony, the image of Thibault never quitted me, I spoke to it, begged its pardon, in short, I was so lost in thought, that Sayda has since told me I had more the appearance of a statue than a living person. As for you, my lord, I often reproached your cruelty, that had brought me to the precipice in which I found myself. There has not passed one day in the nine years I have been married to the Sultan, on which I have not talked of my dear Thibault to the faithful Sayda, with a torrent of tears. The Sultan has kept his word with me, all his court thinks me a Renegada, he alone knows the truth, and without reproaching me with my melancholy, has done his utmost to disperse it. The same respect and complaisance has always accompanied his actions, and you yourselves have been witnesses of my power, by his granting me without hesitation your lives. I knew you again the first moment I saw your faces, and should have discovered myself yesterday, but had a mind to know whether my memory was yet dear. These are my unhappy adventures; but this is not all I have to say: You must, my dear Thibault, in order to regain your wife and liberty, expose your life to fresh dangers: speak, do you think me worthy of so great a testimony of your continued love and tenderness?” “You cannot make a doubt of it,” answered he, “without being guilty of a greater offence than all your distraction made you act——I swear to you, my dear Princess, by the pleasure I had in obtaining you from your father, by the felicity I enjoyed in being beloved by you, by my misfortune, and by the joy I feel in seeing you again, that I never adored you with more ardour than I now do——Fear not therefore to explain yourself, command me, dispose of me as you please.” The fair Sultaness was charmed with this tender assurance, and there being nobody present that she suspected, she again embraced her much loved husband, and then told him what she had proposed to the Sultan. “’Tis of the utmost importance,” added she, “that you should gain his confidence by some signal service, that my designs may the better succeed—he has already lost several battles, through the ill conduct of his generals; but if you fight for him I doubt not of the victory.—He cannot refuse you his esteem, which will enable me to put my project in execution.”

The Count and Thibault approved of what she said; but the young Prince begged she would contrive it so, that he might accompany his brother to the army, his youthful heart burning with impatience to behold so noble a sight; but the Queen told him she could not possibly gratify those testimonies of so early a courage, though she 82b admired them, because she had given her promise to the Sultan, that both he and his father should remain at court as hostages for the fidelity of Thibault. After some further discourse, and renewed embraces, she ordered them to retire, it growing towards the hour in which the Sultan was used to visit her. They were scarce out of the room, before that Prince entered; and having asked her if the valiant captain agreed with her intentions: “Yes, my lord,” replied she, “he is impatient to express by his services the grateful sense he has of his obligation to us.” The Sultan immediately commanded they should all three be brought before him; and observing them more heedful than he had done before, was infinitely charmed with their good mien: the venerable age, and commanding aspect of the Prince of Ponthieu, excited his respect; the beauty and vivacity of the young Prince, his admiration; but in the noble air, and manly graces of the accomplished Thibault, he fancied he discovered an assurance he would be able to answer the character the Sultaness had given of him—The more he considered him, the more he found to increase his love and esteem for him.---“The Sultaness,” said he, “who has saved your life, will needs, out of love for me, and respect for you, have you expose it in my service.---I see nothing about you but what serves to convince me I do not err, when I place entire confidence in you: therefore you must prepare to set out to-morrow, I have in my council declared you general. My subjects are fatigued, and heartless with continual losses, and though you are a christian, my soldiers will with joy obey you, if your valour does but answer their expectations, and the character they have of you.” After Thibault had in the most handsome and submissive manner assured him of his zeal and fidelity, that prince proceeded to give him those instructions which were necessary; and retiring, left him, to receive those of the Sultaness.

He was no sooner gone, than turning towards Thibault, “You are going to fight against infidels,” said she, “tho’ you fight for one; but, my dear husband! consult my repose as well as your own courage, and fight to conquer, not to die;---remember I expose you, that I may the better save you.” He thanked her for her obliging fears, and promised to combat only to preserve his honour, and gain the opportunity to deliver her.---It being time to retire, they quitted the Queen’s apartment, and returning to their own, a slave brought up Thibault, a stately vest and sabre, adorned with precious stones, a present to him from the Sultan; he put them on, and attended that prince at dinner, who saw him with pleasure. They discoursed on the different methods of making war, and the Sultan found his new general so consummate in the art, that he assured himself of victory: he then presented him to the chief men of his court. The rest of the day was employed in reviewing the troops that were in Almeria. As he was to go the next, he begged of the Sultaness by Sayda, that he might be permitted to bid her adieu without any witnesses; the fair Queen, who desired it with equal ardour, appointed night for the interview:---so when all was quiet in the palace, he was introduced by 83 that faithful slave into the apartment of his dear Princess. Then it was, that this long separated husband and wife, now more in love, if possible, than ever, renewed their protestations of everlasting affection, and, forgetting the rest of the world, gave a loose to the raptures of being once more blessed, and the soft hope of re-uniting themselves, no more to be divided. Thus the best part of the night passed, and day would have surprised them, had not Sayda given them notice it was time to part. The Sultaness wept, and Thibault was extremely moved, but reason reassuming its empire, they embraced and bade each other adieu, and begged heaven they might soon meet again. He went not to bed, employing the remaining hours in taking leave of the Count de Ponthieu, and the young Prince his son.---He recommended his dear Princess to the former, intreating him to neglect no opportunities of being with her. He then repaired to the Sultan, to receive his last commands, and set out with a cheerfulness that seemed to presage success.

(To be concluded in our next.)

LOCAL CURIOSITIES.

The indifference with which even the crime of murder is regarded among the lower classes of the Italians, is remarkably illustrated by the following anecdote: A gentleman of Naples, in passing occasionally before the king’s palace, had frequently noticed a man of singular appearance at work. He was chained to some others, and assisted in removing rubbish, and bringing stones for a new building, the foundation of which had been just laid. The man, by having often seen him pass, recollected his person, and always took off his hat as he found an opportunity. The gentleman not knowing how to account for his attention, was induced one day, to inquire the cause of his civility and of his chains. To the first part of the query he answered, in the Neapolitan style, that it was “il suo dovere, his duty;” and to the second he said, that he was in that predicament for “una minchioneriæ, a trifle. Ho ammazanta solamente una donna,” said he “I have only killed a woman.”

Necessity is the prompter and guide of mankind in their inventions. There is however, such inequality in some parts of their progress and some nations get so far the start of others in circumstances nearly similar, that we must ascribe this to some events in their history, or to some peculiarities in their situation, with which we are unacquainted. The people in the Island of Otaheite, in the southern Pacific Ocean, far excel most of the Americans in the knowledge and practice of the arts of ingenuity; and yet, when they were first discovered by captain Wallis, it appeared, that they had not invented any method of boiling water; and having no vessel that would bear the fire, they had no more idea that water could be made hot, than that it could be made solid.

REMARK.

Friendship is to love, what an engraving is to a painting.

TACITURNITY.——AN APOLOGUE.

Translated from the French of Abbé Blanchet.

At Amadan was a celebrated academy, the first statute of which ran thus:

The Academicians are to think much, write little, and, if possible, speak less.

This was called the Silent Academy, nor was there a sage in Persia who was not ambitious of being admitted a member. Zeb, a famous sage, and author of an excellent little book, intitled The Gag, heard, in the distant province where he lived, there was a vacancy in the silent academy. Immediately he departed for Amadan, and, arriving, presented himself at the door of the hall where the academicians were assembled, and sent in the following billet to the president:

Zeb, a lover of silence, humbly asks the vacant place.

The billet arrived too late; the vacancy was already supplied. The academicians were almost in despair; they had received, somewhat against their inclination, a courtier, who had some wit, and whose light and trifling eloquence had become the admiration of all his court-acquaintance; and this learned body was now reduced to the necessity of refusing the sage Zeb, the scourge of bablers, the perfection of wisdom.

The president, whose duty it was to announce this disagreeable news to the sage, scarcely could resolve, nor knew in what manner best, to perform his office. After a moment’s reflection he ordered a flagon to be filled with water, and so full that another drop would have made the water run over. He then desired them to introduce the candidate.

The sage appeared with that simple and modest air which generally accompanies true merit. The president rose, and, without speaking a word, pointed, with affliction in his looks, to the emblematical flagon so exactly full.

The sage understood from thence, the vacancy was supplied, but, without relinquishing hope, he endeavoured to make them comprehend that a supernumary member might, perhaps, be no detriment to their society. He saw on the floor a rose leaf, picked it up, and with care and delicacy placed it on the surface of the water, so as not to make it overflow.

All the academicians immediately clapped their hands, betokening applause, when they beheld this ingenious reply. They did more, they broke through their rules in favour of the sage Zeb. The register of the academy was presented him, and they inscribed his name.---Nothing remained but for him to pronounce, according to custom, a single phrase of thanks. But this new, and truly silent academician, returned thanks without speaking a word.

In the margin of the register he wrote the number one hundred (that of his brethren) then put a cypher before the figures, under which he wrote thus:

0100

Their value is neither more nor less.

The president, with equal politeness and presence of mind, answered the modest sage, by placing the figure 1 before the number 100, and by writing under them, thus:

1100

Their value is ten-fold.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE BEGGAR;

A FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF STERNE.
 

**** “We are poor ourselves!” exclaimed the lady of the house, “and have therefore nothing to give.” Wretched being! methinks you receive none other alms from many people of fashion!

“He has had the assurance to come to my door twice to-day. He might have known at the first denial, that a repetition would not make him a whit the better off.”

“It might have been that when he came the second time he expected your ladyship was better disposed to give,” said a gentleman present.—“Perchance he imagined the human heart could not remain so insensible to the woes of others,” thought I, and it had nearly reached my lips, but prudence bade it go no farther.

She again began to ring in my ears a long string of invectives against the poorer class of people, when I hastily took my leave. “For what purpose did Heaven form the rich with such unfeeling hearts?” asked my friend. “That they might be set up as a mark to others; and teach them the danger of riches.”

The man was a few paces before us.

“Surely the lady finds, ere this, that we despise her contracted soul,” said my companion. “You are mistaken in that point,” said I; “this is not the only time I have been a witness of her narrow-mindedness. I dined there some days since, with several other visitors: before the cloth was removed, I heard a slight rap at the door---no one attended to it---it seemed to foretell the approach of poverty—”

“What were the servants doing?” interrupted my friend.

“Their mistress had enjoined it upon them to attend to none but fashionable knocks!”

“Pray what are her fashionable knocks?”

“That I never learned. She has, no doubt, instructed her menials on that head.”

“But go on with your story. I despise from my soul her baseness.”

The man was a few paces before us.

“I sat opposite the entrance. In a few minutes an emaciated figure, cloathed meanly, but her dress clean, and adjusted in as neat a manner as possible, walked feebly along, until she reached the room-door; and then necessity compelled her to seek support from the posts. I could not behold the sight unmoved---”

We had now reached the beggar. We stopped. He held out his hat. I threw in something; my friend did the same. “May Heaven forever prosper your honours!” uttered the pauper. “Amen!” We both responded, and passed on.

“If I had her riches what a deal of good would I do with it! The poor should not depart empty from my door.”

“And perhaps,” said I, “if you had double the wealth she is possessed of, your disposition would be similar to hers.”

New-York, Sept. 1, 1796.

L. B.

CURIOUS ANECDOTE OF MR. HANDEL.

It was Mr. Handel’s usual custom, when engaged to dine out with any nobleman or gentleman, to take a little of something by way of refreshment, and to operate as a damper, that he might not display his vast powers as a gormandiser among people of puny appetites. For one of these previous dinners, or dampers, he ordered at the Crown and Anchor tavern a dozen large mackarel, a duck, and two roasted chickens. One of the waiters, judging from the quantity of victuals ordered, what number of people would probably be expected to dine, laid the cloth, and furnished the table with eight plates, &c. Mr. Handel arrived punctually at the hour he had named for the appearance of his repast, and was informed that none of the company were come, but himself; the landlord therefore humbly suggested to him that the dinner might be kept back, till some more of the company dropped in, “Company!” declaimed the dealer in harmony. “What company?---I expect no company! I ordered these few articles by way of relish for myself, and must beg to be excused from the intrusion of any company whatsoever!”

The twelve mackarel were first introduced, and Mr. Handel paid his devoirs to each of them. He swallowed every one of them with the expedition of a real artist, and seemed almost equal to the task of swallowing the twelve judges. The skeletons of the fish being then removed, in came the duck and the two chickens: the bones of all these were picked with great dexterity; the bill was called, and discharged, and after that the poor gentleman fasted for almost an hour and a quarter, when he repaired to the house of lord H————n, to complete the dinner which he had began at the Crown and Anchor.

ON IMAGINATION.

The imagination is a quality of the soul, not only a brilliant but an happy one, for it is more frequently the cause of our happiness, than of our misery; it presents us with more pleasures than vexations, with more hopes than fears. Men of dull and heavy dispositions, who are not affected by any thing, vegetate and pass their lives in a kind of tranquility, but without pleasure or delight; like animals which see, feel, and taste nothing, but that which is under their eyes, paws, or teeth; but the imagination, which is proper to man, transports us beyond ourselves, and makes us taste future and the most distant pleasures. Let us not be told, that it makes us also foresee evils, pains, and accidents, which will perhaps never arrive: it is seldom that imagination carries us to these panic fears, unless it be deranged by physical causes. The sick man sees dark phantoms, and has melancholy ideas; the man in health has no dreams but such as are agreeable; and as we are more frequently in a good, than a bad state of health, our natural state is to desire, to hope, and to enjoy. It is true, that the imagination, which gives us some agreeable moments, exposes us, when once we are undeceived, to others which are painful. There is no person who does not wish to preserve his life, his health, and his property; but the imagination represents to us our life, as a thing which ought to be very long; our health established and unchangeable; and our fortune inexhaustible: when the two latter of these illusions cease before the former, we are much to be pitied.

This article will appear again on page 164 (No. 74).

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 78.)

The stillness of eternal rest, and the horrors of corruption which were hovering around me, whispered audibly in my ear that this was not a residence fit for living beings. “Is my tutor here?” I enquired after a dreadful pause. The Irishman remained silent, “Hiermanfor! is my tutor here?”

“He is.”

“Alas! then he is dead!” I stammered, staggering against a tomb-stone to support myself.

The face of the Irishman began to brighten up; he took me by the hand; “Come, my Lord, and convince yourself, that even on this spot, where common men behold nothing but death and corruption, the flower of life is blooming!” With these words, he led me round the corner of a small chapel, and I beheld what at first appeared to me the delusion of a dream, my tutor standing five paces distant from me upon a tomb; he was dressed in a white garment, and seemed to await me in tranquil expectation: “Antonio! my friend!” I exclaimed, quivering with joy, and flew with expanded arms to the tomb, but shuddered with horror when I grasped through an airy phantom, instead of embracing my friend.

“Don’t be afraid, Miguel!” said the ethereal being without once opening his lips, or making the least motion, “I am no apparition from the other world. I am yet living; however, the more solid parts of my body are above 600 miles distant. My spirit has assumed this form in order to communicate her ideas to thee. Thou wilt at some future period comprehend this mystery if thou dost follow the directions of Hiermanfor. Young man, there exists a felicity upon earth more sublime than the love of women. Leave Amelia and hasten to Ma***d. Endeavour to break the abominable fetters whereby thy country is chained to the throne of a despot. Down into the dust with Vascon**llos, who has forged these chains, and encreases their weight every day. Thou shalt see me again when thy country is restored to liberty, and I will lead Amelia to thy arms. ’Till then, Miguel, farewell!”

The vision was not dissolved, nor did it sink into the ground, nor rise aloft, and yet it was removed in the twinkling of an eye. “Antonio, my friend!” I exclaimed, “if thy spirit is still hovering around me, tell me whether I may confide blindly in Hiermanfor?”

The vision re-appeared on the tomb as quick as thought. “Follow the advice of Hiermanfor,” he said, “he will supply my place. I have mistaken him like thyself; however, thou shalt know him too as he is known to me; and then we shall be united by stronger ties.”

The vision disappeared, and I heard the Unknown calling to me from the other side of the chapel.

I felt like one who is suddenly roused from a dream, and looked around me with uncertain, examining eyes, searching for the Irishman. He perceived it and came towards me.

The sudden change of the most opposite sensations, particularly the last scene, had affected me very much, and I sat myself down upon a tomb. “Is it not true, Hiermanfor?” said I after a long silence, “I have dreamed?”

“Dreamed?” he replied with astonishment, “and what have you dreamed?”

“Methought my tutor was standing upon this tomb, and talking strange things.”

“I have had the same vision.”

“Hiermanfor! don’t sport with my understanding.”

“It is as I have said.”

“It cannot be!” I exclaimed vehemently, “it was an illusion. Don’t think that I am still as credulous as I have been. Confess only that the vision was a new illusion, whereby you wanted to try me.”

“An illusion requires the assistance of machines: and I give you leave, nay, I beseech you to search for them. You may ransack the whole burying ground, but your labour will be lost.”

“That may be! It has perhaps been one of your finest artifices, but nevertheless it was mere delusion.”

“It was delusion, because you will have it so.”

“Hiermanfor! what do you wish me to believe?”

“Whatever you can believe.”

“Here the figure of my tutor was standing, and there I stood and conversed with him.”

“You may have been dreaming, it was perhaps one of my finest artifices.”

“What can you say against it?”

“Nothing, my Lord, nothing!”

“I conjure you, what can you say against it?”

“On one part I could find it improbable that two people should have the same dream while they are awake; on the other, that the most consummate juggler would find it difficult to produce by day-light, and on an open spot, an airy vision which resembles your friend exactly, talks in a sensible manner, answers questions which are put to it, and appears a second time at your desire.”

“True, very true! however the apparition is not less mysterious to me if I deem it no illusion.”

“You will comprehend it one time, said Antonio.”

“But when? I am dying with a desire to have the mystery unfolded.”

“May I speak without reserve, my Lord.”

“I wish you always had spoken without disguise, and acted openly.”

“What I am going to say may perhaps offend you; Yet I must beg you to give me leave to speak freely. I am not going to address Miguel, but the Duke.”

“Frankness and truth are equally acceptable to the latter as they are to the former; speak without reserve.”

“It is not fondness of truth, but vain curiosity that has driven you upon the dangerous ocean of knowledge, 86 where you are cruising about without either rudder or compass, in search of unknown countries, and enchanted islands. I met you some time since on your voyage, and captured you. You could as well have fallen in with somebody else, who would have forged heavier fetters for you. I have not misused my power over you. You have indeed worked in the fetters which I have chained you with, but not in my service, not for me, but for your country, which you, I am sorry to say, would never have done voluntarily. You have attempted nothing, at least very little, to break those chains, but you struggled hard to avoid serving your country. I endeavoured to keep you in its service by strengthening your chains; however, unforeseen accidents liberated you from your bondage, and then I appeared first to you a lawless corsair, who had made an unlawful prize of you, although you had supposed me, before that time, to be a supernatural being, to whose power you fancied you had surrendered voluntarily. My dear Duke, I am neither a villain, nor am I a supernatural being; however, you are not able to judge of me. It is true that I possess important arcana, by the application of which I can effect wonderful things; but I am not allowed to make use of them before I have tried in vain every common means of attaining my aim. According to my knowledge of your Lordship, the artifices of natural magic were sufficient for carrying my point; but now, as the veil is taken from your eyes, and those delusions by which your will has been guided, have lost their influence upon you, now I could make use of my superior power, by which I have been enabled to effect the apparition of your tutor. However, you judge of my deeds equally wrong as of myself. At first you mistook real delusions, for miracles, and now you mistake the effect of a great and important arcanum, for delusion. Whence these sudden leaps from one extreme to the other? What is it that constantly removes from your eyes the real point of view from which you ought to see things? The source of this evil is within yourself; I will point it out to you, lest you discover it too late. You have an innate propensity, which has been nursed up by your lively imagination, a propensity which is agitating powerfully within you, and struggles for gratification, the propensity to the wonderful. Your tutor strove too late to combat it by the dry speculations of philosophy, instead of guiding and confining it in proper bounds. My God! your friend is an excellent man, who had your real happiness at heart; however, his philosophy was not altogether consistent. A preconceived contempt of all occult sciences prevented him examining them with impartiality, and declaring all events contrary to the common course of nature, to be the effects of imposition. He committed a sin against philosophy, premising as demonstrated, what was to be proved. Your own feeling, my Lord, made you sensible of the defects and exaggerations of his arguments; your reason 86b was not sufficient to rectify, or to refute them; and thus you have adopted the principles of your tutor, not from conviction, but from a blind confidence in his learning and honesty, and believing the assertions of your instructor, you believed in his philosophy.”

“Hiermanfor! I think you are right.”

“Give me leave to proceed. It was consequently not philosophical conviction that made you suspect your inclination to the wonderful; but faith was opposed to faith. The former was founded on the authority of your tutor, and the latter on the secret voice of your heart. Regard for your friend, and the ambition of being looked upon as a philosopher, impelled you to adopt the principles of your tutor, and an innate instinct spurred you to yield to the voice of your heart, and thus you embraced by turns, the opinion of your instructor and the faith which originated from your heart, according to the strength of motive which prevailed on either side. However, these motives were never pure undoubted arguments of reason, but mere sentiments, which made you shift from one side to the other, in the same measure in which your sentiments of one or the other kind, received nourishment or additional strength from without. As soon as I began to play off my magical machineries your belief in miracles began to prevail; but as soon as your tutor recapitulated his lectures, philosophy resumed her former sway. You were a ball which flew alternately in his and my hands, because you wanted firm conviction, to fix yourself upon. Nevertheless I should have succeeded at last in getting an exclusive power over you merely by means of my delusions, because your predilection for the wonderful, and your imagination, which found an excuse and a gratification in my works, would have prevailed over the philosophical sentences which you have been taught. Paleski discovered to you what you ought to have discovered yourself, that my arts were mere delusions, and now you conclude that I can produce nothing but delusions. Perhaps you go still farther, and deny even the possibility of apparitions, because I have raised in Amelia’s house a ghost who was none. At bottom you keep firm to your character; you came over to my party because your feelings found their account in doing so; you find you have been deceived, and you fly back again to the opposite party because you fancy to find truth there. However you are really guided only by a blind instinct, by sentiment and opinion. And with these guides do you fancy you can penetrate to the sanctuary of truth and happiness?——Unhappy young man! you are doomed to deceive yourself and to be deceived.”

After a short pause the Irishman resumed:

“Pardon my frankness, my Lord! I have done.”

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CHARACTER OF A POOR MAN.

Rhebo is hollow-eyed, lank and meagre of visage. He sleeps little, and his slumbers are very short. He is absent, he muses, and, though a man of sense, has a stupid air. He imagines himself troublesome to those he is conversing with. He relates every thing lamely, and in a few words. No one listens to him, he does not raise a laugh. He applauds and smiles at what others say to him, and is of their opinion. He runs, he flies, to do them little services. He is complaisant, bustling, and a flatterer. There is no street how crowded soever, but he can easily pass through it without the least trouble, and slips away unperceived. When desired to sit, he scarce touches the frame of the chair. He speaks low in conversation, and is inarticulate; yet sometimes he discourses freely on public affairs, and is angry at the age. He coughs under his hat, and spits almost upon himself, he endeavours to sneeze apart from the company; and puts no person to the trouble of saluting, or paying him a compliment.——He is poor.

GLEANINGS.

A good author should have the style and courage of a captain, the integrity of a dying man, and so much sense and ingenuity, as to impose nothing, either weak or needless, on the world.

The best of authors are not without their faults, and if they were, the world would not entertain them as they deserve. Perfection is often called for, but nobody would bear it. The only perfect man that ever appeared in the world was crucified.

The man whose book is filled with quotations, may be said to creep along the shore of authors, as if he were afraid to trust himself to the free compass of reasoning. Others defend such authors by a different allusion, and ask whether honey is the worse for being gathered from many flowers?

A few choice books make the best library: a multitude will confound us, whereas a moderate quantity will assist and help us. Masters of great libraries are too commonly like booksellers, acquainted with little else than the titles.

He who reads books by extracts, may be said to read by deputy. Much depends on the latter, whether he reads to any purpose.

Satire is the only kind of wit, for which we have scripture authority and example, in the case of Elijah ridiculing the false gods of Ahab.

He that always praises me, is undoubtedly a flatterer; but he that sometimes praises, and sometimes reproves me, is probably my friend, and speaks his mind. Did we not flatter ourselves, others would do us no hurt.

Men are too apt to promise according to their hopes, and perform according to their fears.

Secrecy has all the prudence, and none of the vices either of simulation, or dissimulation.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

An Enigmatical List of amiable young Ladies in this City.

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

At Elizabeth Town, on Saturday evening the 3d inst. by the Rev. Mr. Rayner, Mr. Beza E. Bliss, of this city, to Miss Betsey Jelf Thomas, of that place.

On Sunday evening the 21st ult. by the Rev. Mr. Schenck, Mr. Joel Scidmore, of Crab-Meadow (L.I.) to Miss Hannah Hoyt, of Dicks-Hills, (L.I.)

On Saturday evening the 3d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Captain Daniel Hawley, of Connecticut, to Miss Catharine Gilbert, daughter of William W. Gilbert, Esq. of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 31st ult. by the Rev. Mr. Burnet, Mr. Joseph Wickes, of Troy, to Miss Susannah Raymond, of Norwalk, (Connecticut.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO EMMA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF MR. PETER ABEEL, WHO CEASED TO EXIST ON THE 30TH ULT.

EPIGRAM.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE RISING MOON.

THE BATCHELOR’S WISH.

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

AN ENQUIRY INTO THE EFFECTS OF LOVE ON LIFE AND MANNERS.

There is something irresistibly pleasing in the conversation of a fine woman: even though her tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes teaches wisdom. The mind sympathizes with the regularity of the object in view, and struck with external grace, vibrates into respondent harmony.

Whether love be natural or no, it contributes to the happiness of every society into which it is introduced. All our pleasures are short, and can only charm at intervals: love is a method of protracting our greatest pleasure; and surely that gamester, who plays the greatest stake to the best advantage, will at the end of life, rise victorious. This was the opinion of Vanini, who affirmed that, “every hour was lost which was not spent in love.” His accusers were unable to comprehend his meaning, end the poor advocate for love was burned in flames, alas! no way metaphorical. But whatever advantages the individual may reap from this passion, society will certainly be refined and improved by its introduction; all laws, calculated to discourage it, tend to embrute the species and weaken the state. Though it cannot plant morals in the human breast, it cultivates them when there: pity, generosity, and honour, receive a brighter polish from its assistance; and a single amour is sufficient entirely to brush off the clown.

But it is an exotic of the most delicate constitution; it requires the greatest art to introduce it into a state, and the smallest discouragement is sufficient to repress it again. Let us only consider with what ease it was formerly extinguished in Rome, and with what difficulty it was lately revived in Europe: it seemed to sleep for ages, and at last fought its way through tilts, tournaments, dragons, and all the dreams of chivalry. The rest of the world, are, and have ever been, utter strangers to its delights and advantages. In other countries, as men find themselves stronger than women, they lay a claim to rigorous superiority: this is natural, and love which gives up this natural advantage, must certainly be the effect of art. An art, calculated to lengthen out our happier moments, and add new graces to society.

Those countries where it is rejected, are obliged to have recourse to art to stifle so natural a projection, and 89b those nations where it is cultivated, only make nearer advances to nature. The same efforts, that are used in some places to suppress pity and other natural passions, may have been employed to extinguish love. No nation, however unpolished, is remarkable for innocence, that has not been famous for passion; it has flourished in the coldest, as well as the warmest regions. Even in the sultry wilds of southern America, the lover is not satisfied with possessing his mistress’s person, without having her mind.

The effects of love are too violent to be the result of an artful passion. Nor is it in the power of fashion, to force the constitution into those changes, which we every day observe. Several have died of it. Few lovers are unacquainted with the fate of the two Italian lovers, Da Corsin and Julia Bellamano, who, after a long separation, expired with pleasure in each other’s arms. Such instances are too strong confirmations of the reality of the passion, and serve to shew that suppressing it, is but opposing the natural dictates of the heart.

AUTHENTICATED ETYMOLOGIES.

When the seamen on board the ship of Christopher Columbus, after a series of fatigues, came in sight of St. Salvador, they burst out into exuberant mirth and jollity. “The lads are in a merry key,” cried the commodore. America is now the name of half the globe.

The famous Hannibal took his name from that of his mother, Hannah Bell, a poor Scotch garter knitter at Carthage.

Dionysius Hallicarnassus derives the word Mediterranean from this event: Two girls of Syracuse used every morning to pour tea and other slops from an upper window into the street: Whenever, therefore, the neighbours heard the sash of their apartments lifted up, they would cry, “Maid or two rain on!” The learned very well know how soon a word is combined, and becomes general.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

Translated from the French.

(Concluded from page 83.)

During his absence, the watchful policy of the fair Sultaness contrived to acquire a great number of creatures, ready to undertake any thing to serve her; she caused several favours to be conferred on them, through the interest the Count had with the Sultan. He was now grown prodigiously in his favour—The Sultan used frequently to divert himself with hunting, it was an exercise he extremely loved, and the Count understanding it perfectly, was always one of the party.—The expresses which were continually brought of the victories Thibault had gained over the enemy, increased the Sultan’s esteem for the two hostages. Three months passed thus, with creating new friends on the Queen’s side, and confidence on the Sultan’s; but the joy of both, though for different reasons was compleated, when a courier arrived with the news that the conquering Thibault had entirely vanquished, cut the whole army of the foe in pieces, killed their prince with his own hand, and not only recovered the dominion they had taken from the Sultan, but also added that of the bold invader to his empire.---These glorious actions were celebrated in Almeria by great rejoicings;—nothing was talked of but the bravery of the captive, and the obligations both king and people had to him. As for him, when he found no more enemies to combat, he made haste to garrison the conquered places, and having deputed such governors as he thought were faithful, returned in triumph to Almeria. The Sultan received him as his guardian angel, restored him his liberty, and pressed him to accept the greatest places in his empire, if he would change his religion; but the other gave him to understand, though with the greatest respect, that he could not embrace his favours, but assured him he would stay at his court as long as he should be wanted. This refusal was so far from incensing, that the Sultan gave him the greater esteem for it; and this illustrious warrior became so considerable at the court of Almeria, that nothing was done but by his advice. The Sultaness finding the success of her project, now thought it time to put the finishing stroke to it. She pretended to be with child, and that the air of Almeria did not agree with her; a Renegada physician, that she had gained to her interest, assured the Sultan that her life would be in danger, if she did not remove from where the was; that prince alarmed by the tenderness he had for her, begged her to make choice of any of his houses of pleasure, to go and reside in.—The Sultaness pitched on one which was by the seaside, and the way to which was by sea.—The Sultan immediately gave orders for the equipping a galley, and the Queen took care to fill it with persons entirely devoted to her interest.—When every thing was ready, she begged the Sultan that she might be accompanied thither by the French cavalier, for the security of her person; as for the Count de Ponthieu and his son, there was no occasion for asking leave for their attendance, because they belonged immediately to her. The Sultan made no scruple 90b of granting every thing she desired, and she embarked with her father, her brother, and husband, and the faithful Sayda; taking with her a son of seven years old, which she had by the Sultan, leaving in Almeria a daughter that was still at the breast. Heaven seeming to favour their designs, they were no sooner got to sea, than our warriors, seconded by the Queen’s creatures, obliged the slaves of the galley to row directly to Brindes, where they happily arrived. The Princess gave the christian slaves their liberty, and put in their places all the Saracens she could purchase, with orders to give the Sultan the following letter:

The Princess of Ponthieu to the Sultan of Almeria.

“If I had only your generosity to have combated, I would have discovered to you the cause which urged me to this flight—convinced, that you would rather have favoured than opposed it; but your love and religion being insurmountable obstacles, I was obliged to make use of artifice to be just.—I quit you not, my lord, through inconstancy, I follow my husband, my father, and my brother, who were the three captives whose lives you granted me; my husband having exposed his for your glory, and the security of your dominions, has, in part, acquitted me of the obligations I owe you.—I am a christian, and was a sovereign before your wife; judge therefore, whether my rank and religion did not demand this of me.---I shall always with gratitude remember the honour you have done me; I have left you my daughter, being obliged to abandon her on account of her youth:---Look on her, I intreat you, with the eyes of a father.---I wish you all the happiness you deserve, and shall with fervency beg of Heaven to bless you with that divine illumination, which is the only thing in which your heroic virtues are deficient.

“Ponthieu.”

The Sultan saw the galley return, and received the Princess’s letter, while she was prosecuting her journey to Rome; he was inconceivably afflicted at the news, but his reason at length getting the better of his despair, he endeavoured to comfort himself, by transplanting all the tenderness he had paid the mother to the little daughter. In the mean time, our illustrious fugitives arrived at Rome; where they were received by the Pope with extraordinary honours; and after having reconciled the Princess and Sayda to the bosom of the church, they departed, loaded with presents and favours to Ponthieu, where the unanimous joy of the people for their return is not to be expressed. The Count dying some time after, his son inherited his dominions; but that young prince not long surviving, he left the sovereignty to the Princess his sister, who with her husband reigned a long time in perfect glory and happy unity. The son she had by the Sultan, married a rich Heiress of Normandy, from whom are descended the lords of Preau; and the princess, who was left behind with the Sultan, was married to a Saracen prince, and from a daughter of that princess was born the famous Saladin, Sultan of Egypt, so known and dreaded by all christianity.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REMARKS ON MUSIC.

The influence of music on our affections is a truth established both by sacred and profane history, and confirmed by its constant use in all religious rites where the passions are most deeply interested. If this art has power to direct the emotions of the heart, does it not deserve our most earnest attention to preserve its proper influence, and direct it to the good purposes intended by the wise and kind Author of all things? And this can only be done by preventing the art itself from being corrupted by the caprice and absurdity of human frailty, and by directing the powers of its purity to assist us in the habits of virtue and religion. Plutarch tells us, that a man who has learned music from his infancy, will ever after have a proper sense of right and wrong, and an habitual persuasion to decorum; this is undoubtedly true if we consider the ancient manner of inculcating the laws of their country, the great actions of heroes, the praises of their deities, which were the subjects of this art; not to mention its mathematical principles, which made a part of the Greek education, and induced the youths to serious enquiry, and led them to noble truths. The same author has also told us, that the manners of a people are best denoted by the prevailing music of their country: and this is certainly true; as the mind will always seek its repose and delight in pursuits the most similar to its general tendency and direction. This reflection leads us to consider the present state of music in this country, and how far it may be made subservient to the ornamental part of education; and at the same time a means of inducing the mind to the sober pursuits of virtue and religion, which ought to be the true intention of parents in forming the minds of their children.

Music is to be understood as a powerful assistant to sentimental expression, which by the power of its charms enforces our attention to some particular subject, adapted to some natural passion of mankind. Under such consideration we are strongly impressed with the ideas of love, pity, fear, or some other natural affection. But to produce the effects of nature, the means must be unnatural: and to raise the ideas of certain passions, the means should be consonant to the passion itself; and confined within the simple bounds of nature. If this be not the case in music, its true end is defeated, it ceases to be an assistant to sentimental expression, and we absurdly admire its mere sounds, rather than powerfully feel its proper effects.

A. O.

(To be continued.)

New-York, Sept. 15, 1796.

IMITATION.

The more we follow the example of others, without being able to give a reason for what we do, the more we detract from the dignity of thinking beings; and the more we neglect to analyze and examine the manners of the world we live in, the more we neglect one of the most important duties of human life.

CURIOUS HISTORICAL ANECDOTE.

In the reign of Edward the First of England, the gallant Robert Bruce formed a conspiracy against that monarch, to effect the liberation of his country: Of this Edward was secretly informed, and planted spies to watch the motions of Bruce and his coadjutors: But a young nobleman, a particular friend of the latter, understanding by some means the situation of affairs respecting both parties, and unwilling to act disloyally towards his sovereign, yet solicitous for the safety of his friend, sent him as a present a pair of gilt spurs and a purse of gold. This Robert Bruce considered as a warning to make his escape, which he effected by ordering his horses to be shod with their shoes turned backwards, to prevent his being tracked in the snow which had just fallen.

ANECDOTE OF VOLTAIRE.

A young Frenchman in Paris conceived the most ardent desire to see and speak with the celebrated M. Voltaire. Without any friends who knew the philosopher, he could not hope for an introduction to his person; resolved however not to be disappointed in his favourite object, he went to the house and demanded to see the valet, to whom, having disclosed his unconquerable longing, he presented a few livres, begging to be led to the chamber door of the great man. The valet complied with his request, and the youth tremblingly knocked at the door, “Who’s there?” vociferated a loud voice; he knocked again, “Who disturbs me with such a noise? Come in,” cried the philosopher, who happened to be in rather a sullen humour. The young man, hesitatingly opened the door, and with a faultering step and trembling voice addressed the object he so earnestly wished to see—“I have long ardently desired to behold and speak with the very celebrated M. Voltaire; excuse my intrusion.” “For three sous,” angrily replied the poet, “you may gain admission so see any beast.” “Here, Sir, are six, for this interview, and six more for another sight tomorrow,” replied the youth with some presence of mind. The sage was so struck with his prompt reply, and perhaps his vanity not a little flattered, that he immediately admitted him into the circle of his most intimate friends, and continued ever after to shew him particular marks of friendship and regard.

BEST MEANS OF ACQUIRING HAPPINESS.

The mind is undoubtedly the seat of happiness and misery, and it is within our power to determine, which shall hold the empire there. To maintain an uniform conduct, through all the varying stations of life—to content ourselves with what comes within our reach, without pining after what we cannot obtain, or envying others what they possess---to maintain a clear unsullied conscience---and to allow for the infirmities of others, from a retrospect of our own, are perhaps some of the best rules we can lay down, in order to banish misery from this mortal frame, and to acquire such a degree of happiness, as may enable us to perform our terrestrial journey with some degree of satisfaction so ourselves and others.

MILITARY ANECDOTES.

We use the word Panic or Panic Fear, for a needless or ill-grounded fright. What marshal Saxe terms le cœur humain is no other than fear occasioned by surprise. It is owing to that cause that an ambush is generally so destructive; intelligence of it before hand renders it harmless. At the siege of Amiens by the Gauls, Cæsar came up with his army, which did not exceed 7000 men, and began to intrench himself in such a hurry, that the barbarians judging him to be afraid, attacked his intrenchments with great spirit. During the time they were filling up the ditch, he issued out with his cohorts; and, by attacking them unexpectedly, struck a panic that made them fly with precipitation, not a single man offering to make a stand. At the siege of Alesia, the Gauls, infinitely superior in number, attacked the Roman lines of circumvallation, in order to raise the siege. Cæsar ordered a body of his men to march silently and to attack them on the one flank, while he, with another body, did the same on the other flank. The surprise of being attacked when they expected a defence only, put the Gauls into disorder, and gave an easy victory to Cæsar.

A third instance may be added no less memorable. In the year 846, an obstinate battle was fought between Xamire king of Leon and Abdoulrahman the Moorish king of Spain. After a long conflict, the night only prevented the Arabians from obtaining a complete victory. The king of Leon, taking advantage of the darkness, retreated to a neighbouring hill, leaving the Arabians masters of the field of battle. Next morning, perceiving that he could not maintain his place for want of provisions, nor be able to draw off his men in the face of a victorious army, he ranged his men in order of battle, and, without losing a moment, marched to attack the enemy, resolved to conquer or die. The Arabians, astonished to be attacked by those who were conquered the night before, lost all heart. Fear succeeded to astonishment; the panic was universal; and they all turned their backs almost without drawing a sword.

SIMPLICITY.

Genuine simplicity is that peculiar quality of the mind, by which some happy characters are enabled to avoid the most distant approaches to every thing like affectation, inconsistency, or design, in their intercourse with the world. It is much more easily understood, however, than defined; and consists not in any specific tone of the voice, movement of the body, or mode imposed by custom, but is the natural and permanent effect of real modesty and good sense on the whole behaviour.

It has been considered, in all ages, as one of the first and most captivating ornaments of the sex. The savage, the plebeian, the man of the world, and the courtier, are agreed in stamping it with a preference to every other female excellence.

MEANINGS OF THE WORD MAKE.

The word make is perhaps used in a greater variety of senses than any other word in the English language. For instance:

“To make, fabricate, form, render, create, &c. These words though sometimes used indifferently for each other, yet are by no means synonymous.

The taylor, makes a coat, the shoemaker a pair of shoes, the carpenter a joint-stool, &c. ad infinitum.

We say a man makes a shift, but they must not suppose that he makes use of his wife’s needle, and makes her a shift. The words are used figuratively, and only imply, that when he has no shirt, he makes a shift without it.

Again, kings make war, and children make a noise; but it would be absurd to say, that kings fabricate a war or that children fabricate a noise.

A lady bids her housekeeper make or distil some peppermint, or any other simple water; or to make her some water-gruel in her silver saucepan, but it would be rather indelicate simply to bid her make water in the saucepan.

We may say, indifferently, either to make or to form a party at cards, or on the water. And the word render may sometimes be substituted for make; as making love makes or renders an old man ridiculous.

I believe the phrase is to give, not to make, a rout or a ball. And though if a lady loses her thimble she sometimes makes a rout about it, yet that, I believe, is rather a vulgarism; like making a fuss or a bustle about trifles.

We say, such a thing makes me sick, or makes me laugh.

If a man has a good wife, he should make much of her; if a bad one, he should make the best of it; or at least make himself easy, but not make away with her.

To create, means to make something out of nothing. Hence we say, metaphorically, to create a dispute, that is, to dispute about nothing.

But it is time to make an end of this article.

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DETACHED THOUGHTS.

The Swiss, who shot himself because he was tired of dressing and undressing, would have done so long before, had he not had so much employment. Our Creator, knowing what sort of particles he composed us of, obliged us to labour, not only for the support of ‘life,’ but of existence itself. Were we cloathed by nature like the other animals, and subsisted on the spontaneous herbage of the field, we should lose our patience before fifty, and hang or drown ourselves in dread of three score.

Maids should be seen and not heard, they say. This is comparing them to peacocks.

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REMARKS.

Some prejudices seem to be to the mind what the atmosphere is to the body; we cannot feel without the one, as we cannot breathe without the other.

Many persons complain against fortune merely to conceal their indolence. If you will be content to do nothing, how can you expect the rewards of diligence.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 86.)

“You have made me behold myself in a view to which I was an utter stranger, and which terrifies me. Hiermanfor, tell it me frankly, if you have to add any thing farther; the more unreserved you shall be, the more my gratitude will increase.”

“Yes, my Lord, you deserve a better fate than what you are preparing for yourself. You possess a noble quality which is but rarely the property of princes, the courage of listening to disagreeable truths; a noble heart is panting in your bosom; you possess more desire for knowledge than you ought; your intention is good, however, you will be ruined in spite of all these noble qualities. You are destitute of firmness of mind; you fluctuate like a wave of the sea, which is driven and tossed to and fro with the wind. You are doomed to be constantly the sport of others, and never to steer your own course. That unshaken firmness of resolution which is the effect of well founded conviction, is not in the catalogue of your virtues. Your reason prevails too little on your sensuality and imagination, which are hurrying you rapidly along through bye ways. Nay, I even maintain that your rage for occult knowledge has had as yet no other source but sensual pleasure; it gratified your ambition to know more than other people; it flattered your self-love to have the powers of nature at your command; it was a pleasing sight to your eyes to witness extraordinary events, as children delight to hear tales of giants and enchanted castles. And could you, in that disposition of mind, think yourself worthy to be introduced to a sanctuary, which even serious disinterested love of truth dares not enter without being first purified. You have experienced what you did deserve, you merited to be put off with mystic words, with juggling tricks and slights of hand; and you were satisfied with these gewgaws. First after the veil had been removed from your eyes by other people, you were highly displeased at my having taken the liberty to sell you delusions for truth—for truth! as if ever pure love for truth had guided you, and what you mistook for it had been any thing else but vain curiosity. Notwithstanding this, I have given you a specimen of my superior power, and shown you the ghost of your living friend, who is many hundred miles distant from hence, and you prove instantly how little you deserve this condescension. You find not the least difference between this vision and the former juggling tricks, mistaking it for a dream, for a new delusion. Young man, learn first to discern truth from illusion, and acquire a proper knowledge of the preparatory sciences, before you attempt at occult wisdom; get first a proper knowledge of yourself, before you strive for knowledge of occult things; endeavour to bridle your imagination by cool reflection, and your sensuality 93b by self-denial, before you dare to grasp at the sway over the powers of nature.”

“How insignificant do I appear to myself, Hiermanfor! don’t spare me, and let me feel my whole nothingness.”

“Man has gained a great advantage, if he has learned to be sensible of his weakness, however he ought also to remain no stranger to his strength. My Lord, we are endowed with a heavenly gift, which is called reason; but how widely does it differ from what one commonly thinks it to be; reason ought first to be purified, and divested of every thing that is not herself, before she can become to us an infallible guide. Assisted by her, we subdue our sensuality, and soar above visible nature. Sensuality is the only thing terrestrial in us: reason raises us to the communication with superior spirits. The more we learn to subdue the former, the more sway do we obtain over the powers of nature; the more we purify the latter, the more intimately are we connected with superior beings. Man is an intermediate being between an angel and an animal; is the sole creature that, by means of his senses, is connected with the physical world, and through his reason with higher spirits, and consequently can act upon both. Do you divine nothing, my Lord? These words imply an important truth; however it would lead me too far, if I should attempt to unfold it at large.”

“O let me taste only a few drops from that sacred fountain!”

“At some other time, my Lord! important affairs bid me at present to leave you. Will you accompany me to town?”

“With pleasure.”

His coach had been waiting for us at some distance from the burying-place.—The Irishman ordered his coachman to make haste, and told me on the road that I must depart for Ma***t in two days. At the same time he promised to meet me the following night at eleven o’clock, and to continue the subject on which he had been speaking. He set me down at my house and took leave.

The time which Lady Delier had fixed for our interview was past. This would have been extremely painful to me in any other situation of mind, but now my thoughts were employed by objects of greater importance. What I had seen and heard at the burial-place had made a deep impression upon me. The more I reflected on the vision, the more did it surpass my power of conception. Deception is afraid of the light, seeking the dusk of evening, or the darkness of night, in order to blind the eyes of the deluded person; deception plays off its machineries in places which are shut up, and previously have been fitted for the purpose; at the same time it endeavours to harrow the mind, by solemn preparations, in a disposition answerable to the deception; but here I could not perceive any thing of that kind. The vision appeared at noon, and in an open place, and when the Irishman called me away to the burial-place, I was going to inform myself of 94 a love affair, and of course, in a disposition very unpropitious for apparitions or ghosts; deception takes care to prevent the beholder from coming near its works, and I was near enough to touch the phantom; deception never exposes its secret machines to the danger of being discovered, and the Irishman invited me to make the strictest investigation. And the vision itself, as it appeared, a living human figure, and yet so incorporeal, that my arms penetrated it without leaving a vestige behind——the resemblance to Antonio so great, that it seemed to be the living original; and this figure spoke and returned answers so adequate to my questions;——it did not, indeed, move its lips, and the voice differed a little from that of Antonio; however, its speaking organs were materially different from his natural ones. At last, the disappearing and re-appearing at my desire——did it not denote a free will of the vision?——In short, the longer I reflected on the matter, the less did it appear to me the work of deception.

And if it were no fiction, what I have seen; what an astonishing mystery does it imply? How is it possible for a living, absent man to appear to his friend, as the deceased are reported to do? How can his soul disembody herself for a short time, and inclose herself in an imitated shape? The Irishman has, indeed, given me a hint concerning the possibility of such miracles; but how unfit was I to comprehend that distant hint, and how much did my soul thirst for the promised continuation of his discourse? He is in the right, I did not, as yet, deserve to be instructed in the mysteries of occult knowledge; I merited to be put off with vain delusions. How little did my impetuous curiosity agree with a disciple of occult knowledge; how insignificant must I have appeared to him! How great did he shew himself to me! With what an astonishing omniscience did he read my most hidden thoughts; with what a great sagacity has he laid open my weakness, and with how much frankness told me my defects! If it were his intention to deceive me any farther, he would silently have taken advantage of my blind side, and carefully avoided to open my eyes. He certainly could not have given me a more unsuspicious and convincing proof of the goodness and purity of his sentiments towards me.—This openness, this noble sincerity, deserves, undoubtedly, my unbounded gratitude. Yes, Antonio, he shall guide me in thy room! I will confide in him as I have confided in thee.

In the evening I went to Amelia, to inform her of my impending departure. She was just playing on the harpsicord, and received me with a silent smile, without suffering herself to be interrupted in her play. The Baroness, however, received me with cold civility; I could guess the reason of it; however I had no opportunity to make an excuse. The affecting pieces, which Amelia played with an unspeakable charm, began to melt my soul, and to thrill me with a sweet melancholy. But suddenly the recollection of the Irishman, of my resolution, and of my departure flushed through my head: I left my dangerous post, and Amelia ceased 94b playing. I had placed myself at the open window——she followed me thither.

“So immersed in meditation, my Lord?”

“I am thinking of my departure.”

“You are not going to leave us?”

“I must depart the day after to-morrow. Business of great importance requires my personal attendance at Ma***t.”

This news produced surprise and silence. The coldness of Lady Delier began to thaw. “I hope your business, my Lord,” said she, “is not so very pressing.”

“Alas! it is so pressing that it suffers not the least delay.”

“Alas!” Amelia repeated, “one should think your departure was painful to your heart!” She blushed, as if she had said something imprudent.

“Alas! it is too painful to my heart; but who cares for my heart?”

“Indeed,” Lady Delier replied, “you think very unkind of us.”

“It is a gloomy night,” said Amelia, going to the window, and the thread of our conversation was cut off at once. I endeavoured to lead it again to its former channel; however I perceived that the conversation grew irksome and dull; it turned on a hundred most insignificant trifles, but the Countess avoided carefully to touch the former string, although I sounded it repeatedly, softer or louder. At length I took leave. Lady Delier was so kind as to see me down stairs; I told her that an important visit from the Irishman, whom I had endeavoured in vain to put off, had prevented me from keeping the appointment. She took my excuse very kindly, and made me promise to meet her the next morning at ten o’clock at the fir grove.

Uneasiness and curiosity drove me thither at the appointed hour. The Baroness was waiting for me. “The Countess is at church,” said she, “let me take advantage of her short absence, and commit a little treachery; but take heed not so betray me to my friend!”

“Certainly not,” I replied, my curiosity being harrowed up to the highest degree by this exordium.

“All that I have to disclose to you is contained in two words: you are beloved, my Lord!”

“My Lady!”---

“Give me leave to relate the matter in a proper manner.” The Baroness, seemed delighted with my astonishment, continued, “recollect your first interview with the Countess; you have not been indifferent to her already, at the time when she accepted the ring which you offered her; however, the good Countess did not know it then herself. She fancied her sentiments to be merely the effects of the gratitude which she imagined the owed you, because you have been the primary cause of the long wished for apparition of her deceased Lord. However, that apparition which declared you, afterwards, the son of the murderer, made thereby Amelia think it her duty to restrain her kindness for you. The difficulty which she had to submit to the voice of duty, told her plainly, that in her heart something more than gratitude was panting 95 for you. Fortunately, the ghost himself had desired her to forgive the murderer; she imagined, therefore, it would be but just to extend the forgiveness to the son. She did not foresee that her tenderness for you, covered by that pretext, would find so much the less difficulty to steal again into the heart which it scarcely had been expelled. Not before Amelia’s tenderness for you rose to a degree, which left no room for doubt of her attachment for you, did she perceive that her readiness to be reconciled to you, originated less from the request of the ghost, than from that of her own heart. You may believe me, my Lord, that it was no easy matter to draw these particulars from Amelia’s lips. She concealed carefully in her bosom a passion, the existence of which she trembled to confess. She had made a vow of eternal fidelity to her late Lord, and although she fancied she had not violated her promise by voluntary sentiments, yet a confession of these sentiments, though deposited only in the bosom of an intimate friend, appeared to her a profanation of her solemn declaration. However her speaking frequently of you with evident marks of partiality, made me, nevertheless, suspect a part of the secret, which the Irishman’s vision unfolded entirely to me.

(To be continued.)

MISFORTUNE.

To fly from misfortunes, and endeavour to console ourselves by retiring from the world, is undoubtedly encreasing the evil we wish to lessen. This has often been the case of disappointed lovers. They have vainly imagined, that there must be something very soothing to the afflicted mind, in listening to the plaintive sound of some purling and meandering stream, or in uttering their plaints to the gentle breezes and the nodding groves. But, alas! these delusive consolations only contribute to feed the disorders of the mind, and increase the evil till melancholy takes deep root in their souls, and renders their complaints incurable.

The society of the polite and refined of both sexes is the only relief, at least the principal one, for any uneasiness of the mind. Here a variety of objects will insensibly draw our attention from that one which tyrannises in our bosom, and endeavours to exclude all others.

EXTRAORDINARY THIRST FOR FAME.

Pausanias, a domestic, and near attendant upon the person of Philip, king of Macedon, enquired of Hermocles, which was the most expeditious way to be famous in the world on a sudden? Who answered he must kill some eminent person, and then the glory of that man would fall upon himself; hereupon, forgetting his duty and obligations, he murdered his sovereign and master king Philip, and had what he aimed at, being as well known in succeeding ages by his horrid parricide, as Philip was by his great virtue.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. Leonard Rogers to Miss Betsey Oakley.

Not long since, Capt. James Ward, of Middle-Point, (N.J.) to Miss Jane Vanpelt, of that place.

On Thursday 7th inst. Mr. Francis St Mary, to Miss Elizabeth Rousseau, of Cayenne.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ELEGY

ON MISS MARGARETTA HERVEY,

WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE March 14, 1796.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

WRITTEN DURING THE STORM ON WEDNESDAY LAST,
THE 15th INST.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LINES

On hearing a young Lady singing a favourite Song.

PADDY’S REMARK ON A TREBLE RAP AT THE DOOR.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE TRIBUNAL OF CONSCIENCE.

THE SHIELD OF SORROW.

By W. P. Carey.

On a Lady putting a White Rocket in her Bosom.

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

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