THE LADIES’ MONITOR.

ADDRESSED TO EVERY FAIR READER, WHETHER SINGLE OR MARRIED.

A multitude of admirers is an object too generally coveted by young females, yet it is certainly a very improper method to be taken by such as wish to be happy in matrimony. Sensible and well-meaning, worthy and sincere men, are seldom attracted within the circle of those who adopt this conduct; if they should fall within it, it is very seldom that they long retain the slight chains of such a love.—In particular, it is remarkably improper and absurd for a woman, who has already a sensible lover, to languish for a number of flatterers to admire her---should she miss of her aim, she fancies herself unhappy: should she succeed, she is likely to be really so. A man who values his own honour, or the dignity proper for the female whom he addresses to assume, will by no means admit of this plurality of lovers, any more than the laws will admit of a plurality of husbands.

A neatness, without excess, in point of dress, a prudent restraint of the tongue, a moderation in taking diversions, and an unaffected ease and politeness, joined to the usual accomplishments, must complete the character of an accomplished lady in a single state; and will, in the end, outweigh the transitory, though delightful charms of a beautiful person.

However, it frequently happens that women, as soon as they are married, seem to think their task is entirely done, yet it is no less common for them to find that it is just then to begin again. It is often an easier matter to win a man than to keep him; and those who have found little trouble in conquering a sweetheart, have had no small difficulty in preserving the affections of a husband.

In the first place, there is nothing more proper, than to observe, with the utmost nicety, the temper of the person to whom you are to be joined in matrimony---For this is the very key to happiness in that state, and if it be not found, all other efforts will be ineffectual. It is in vain to conclude, that, from the apparent disposition of the former lover, you may draw that of the husband. It is not so, it cannot be so; for, besides that the best humours of the former are only seen, circumstances being 97b altered, will doubtless make an apparent alteration in the same person, to which the knowledge of his natural disposition must lead you. It is to this alone you must expect to owe that empire which you wish to maintain over the heart you have conquered; though, amongst the variety of dispositions observeable in men, there are but few, where an even mildness on the side of the female, will best secure her sway; and she will always rule most perfectly, who seems not ambitious of governing---Jealousy is what every married woman should beware of; when once she admits of it, she treasures up anxiety in her mind---Should she entertain it in her bosom, it will be perpetually preying, as it were, upon her vitals; if she is imprudent enough to avow it, there will ever be found a number of officious people, who will fill her ears with tales which will destroy her peace. The fond wife will then be looked upon as a kind of domestic foe; for her husband will shun her accordingly, and whenever they are together, they will be the mutual torment of each other.

EXTRACT FROM A ROYAL GRANT OF LAND IN CARNATA,

TRANSLATED FROM THE SANSKRIT BY SIR WILLIAM JONES.

Written on Palmyra leaves, with a stylus.

STANZAS!

1. Adored be the god Sambhu, on whom the city of the three worlds rested in the beginning, as on its main pillar, and whose lofty head is adorned with a crescent, that kisses it, resembling the point of a waving Chamara.

2. May the tusks of that boar whose form was assumed in sport by Heri, when the raised earth was his gorgeous umbrella, with Hermadri (or the golden mountain) for the ornament of its top, be a staff to keep you secure.

3. May the luminous body of that God, who though formed like an elephatst, was born of Parvati, and is revered even by Heri, propitiously dispel the gloom of misfortune.

4. There is a luminary which rose like fresh butter from the ocean of milk, churned by the gods, and scattered the gloom from around it.

This serial will run for 15 installments, ending in no. 79 (pg. 212). For sources, see the end of this file.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

My history presents a frightful example of the instability of fortune. It is indeed very flattering, but it is also sometimes very dangerous, to have an ancient title to sustain, and a large estate to preserve. The sole descendant of an illustrious family, whose origin is lost in the darkness of remote ages, I have a right to aspire to, and to occupy the first employments in the republic which gave me birth, and yet I behold myself condemned to languish in a foreign country, amidst an indolent and inglorious obscurity.

The name of Lovzinski is honourably mentioned in the annals of Poland, and that name is about to perish with myself! I know that an austere philosophy either rejects or despises vain titles and corrupting riches; and perhaps I should console myself if I had lost only these; but, I weep for an adored spouse, I search after a beloved daughter, and I shall never more revisit my native land. What courage is capable of opposing griefs like mine?

My father, the Baron de Lovzinski, still more distinguished by his virtues than his rank, enjoyed that consideration at court, which the favour of the prince always confers, and which personal merit sometimes obtains. He bestowed all the attention of a tender parent on the education of my two sisters; and in regard to mine, he occupied himself with the zeal of a man of family, jealous of the honour of his house, of which I was the sole hope, and with the activity of a good citizen, who desires nothing so ardently as to leave to the state a successor worthy of him.

While I was pursuing my studies at Warsaw, the young P—— distinguished himself among the rest of my companions by his amiable qualities. To the charms of a person at once noble and engaging, he joined the graces of a cultivated understanding. The uncommon address which he displayed among us young warriors, that rare modesty with which he seemed desirous to conceal his own merit from himself, on purpose to exalt the abilities of his less fortunate rivals, who were generally vanquished by him in all our exercises; the urbanity of his manners, and the sweetness of his disposition, fixed the attention, commanded the esteem, and rendered him the darling of that illustrious band of young nobility, who partook of our studies and our pleasures.

To say that it was the resemblance of our characters, and the sympathy of our dispositions, that occasioned my attachment to M. de P—— would be to pay myself too flattering a compliment; however that may be, we both lived together in the most intimate familiarity.

How happy, but how fleeting is that time of life, when one is unacquainted with ambition, which sacrifices every thing to the desire of fortune and the glory that follows in her train, and with love, the supreme power of which 98b absorbs and concentres all our faculties upon one sole object! that age of innocent pleasures, and of confident credulity, when the heart, as yet a novice, follows the impulse of youthful sensibility, and bestows itself unreservedly upon the object of disinterested affection! Then, surely, friendship is not a vain name!

The confidant of all the secrets of M. de P——, I myself undertook nothing without first intrusting him with my designs; his counsels regulated my conduct, mine determined his resolution; our youth had no pleasures which were not shared, no misfortunes which were not solaced, by our mutual attachment.

With what chagrin did I not perceive that fatal moment arrive, when my friend, obliged by the commands of a father to depart from Warsaw, prepared to take leave of me! We promised to preserve for ever that lively affection which had constituted the chief happiness of our youth, and I rashly swore that the passions of a more advanced age should never alter it.

What an immense void did the absence of M. de P—— leave in my heart! At first it appeared that nothing could compensate for his loss; the tenderness of a father, the caresses of my sisters, affected me but feebly. I thought that no other method remained for me to dissipate the irksomeness of my situation, than to occupy my leisure moments with some useful pursuit. I therefore cultivated the French language, already esteemed throughout all Europe; I read with delight those famous works, the eternal monuments of genius, which it had produced; and I wondered that, not withstanding such an ungrateful idiom, so many celebrated poets, so many excellent philosophers and historians, justly immortalized, had been able to distinguish themselves by its means.

I also applied myself seriously to the study of geometry; I formed my mind in a particular manner to the pursuit of that noble profession which makes a hero at the expence of one hundred thousand unfortunates, and which men less humane than valiant have called the grand art war! Several years were employed in these pursuits, which are equally difficult and laborious; in short, they solely occupied my thoughts. M. de P——, who often wrote to me, no longer received any but short replies, and our correspondence began to languish by neglect, when at length love finished the triumph over friendship.

My father had been for a long time intimately connected with Count Pulaski. Celebrated for the austerity of his manners, famous on account of the inflexibility of his virtues, which were truly republican, Pulaski, at once a great captain and a brave soldier, had on more than one occasion signalized his fiery courage, and his ardent patriotism.

He trusted in ancient literature, he had been taught by history the great lessons of a noble disinterestedness, an immoveable constancy, an absolute devotion to glory. Like those heroes to whom idolatrous but grateful Rome elevated altars, Pulaski would have sacrificed all his property to the prosperity of his country; he would have spilled the last drop of his blood for its defence; he would even have immolated his only, his beloved daughter, Lodoiska.

Lodoiska! how beautiful! how lovely! her dear name is always on my lips, her adored remembrance will live for ever in my heart!

From the first moment that I saw this fair maid, I lived only for her; I abandoned my studies; friendship was entirely forgotten. I consecrated all my moments to Lodoiska. My father and hers could not be long ignorant of my attachment; they did not chide me for it; they must have approved it then? This idea appeared to me to be so well founded, that I delivered myself up, without suspicion, to the sweet passion that enchanted me: and I took my measures so well, that I beheld Lodoiska almost daily, either at home, or in company with my sisters, who loved her tenderly:—two sweet years flew away in this manner.

At length Pulaski took me one day aside, and addressed me thus: “Your father and myself have formed great hopes of you, which your conduct has hitherto justified; I have long beheld you employing your youth in studies equally useful and honourable. To-day—(He here perceived that I was about to interrupt him) What would you say? Do you think to tell me any thing I am unacquainted with? Do you think that I have occasion to be hourly witness of your transports, to learn how much my Lodoiska merits to be beloved? Is it because I know as well as you the value of my daughter, that you never shall obtain but by meriting her? Young man, learn that it is not sufficient that our foibles should be legitimate, to be excusable; those of a good citizen ought to be turned entirety to the profit of his country; love, even love itself, like the basest of the passions, is either despicable or dangerous, if it does not offer to generous hearts an additional motive to excite them towards honour.

“Hear me: Our monarch, for a long time in a sickly habit of body, seems at length to approach towards his end. His life, become every day more precarious, has awakened the ambition of our neighbours. They doubtless prepare to sow divisions among us; and they think that by over-awing our suffrages, they will be enabled to force upon us a king of their own chusing. Foreign troops have already dared to appear on the frontiers of Poland; already two thousand Polish gentlemen have assembled, on purpose to punish their audacious insolence. Go and join yourself with those brave youths; go, and at the end of the campaign return covered with the blood of our enemies, and shew to Pulaski a son-in-law worthy of him!”

I did not hesitate a single moment; my father approved of my resolutions, but being unable to consent without pain to my precipitate departure, he pressed me for a long time against his bosom, while a tender solicitude was depicted in all his looks; his adieus seemed to be inauspicious; the trouble that agitated his heart seized upon my own; our tears were mingled on his venerable cheeks. Pulaski, who was present at this moving scene, stoically reproached us for what he termed a weakness. Dry up your tears, said he to me, or preserve them for Lodoiska: it belongs only to childish lovers who separate themselves 99b from each other for five or six months, to weep in this manner! He instructed his daughter in my presence, both of my departure, and of the motives which determined me to it. Lodoiska grew pale, sighed, looked at her father with a face suffused with blushes, and then assured me in a trembling voice, that her vows should be offered up for my safe return, and that her happiness depended on the safety of Lovzinski.

(To be continued.)

ANGER.

It was a memorable saying of Peter the Great; “I have civilized my country, but I cannot civilize myself.” He was at times vehement and impetuous, and committed, under the impulse of his fury, the most unwarrantable excesses; yet we learn, that even he was known to tame his anger, and to rise superior to the violence of his passions! Being one evening in a select company, when something was said which gave him great offence, his rage suddenly kindled, and rose to it’s utmost pitch: though he could not command his first emotions, he had resolution enough to leave the company. He walked bare-headed for some time, under the most violent agitation, in an intense frosty air, stamping on the ground and beating his head with all the marks of the greatest fury and passion; and did not return to the company until he was quite composed.

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

AUTHENTICATED ETYMOLOGIES.

Antiquarians say, that an old negro at Cape Cod, whenever his master required any thing of him, would exclaim, “Massa chuse it.” Thence in time the name of Massachusett.

The city of Albany was originally settled by Scotch people. When strangers on their arrival there asked how the new comers did? the answer was, “All bonny.” The spelling we find a little altered, but not the sound.

When Julius Cæsar’s army lay encamped at Ticonderoga, near a thousand years ago, the deserters were commonly tied up upon a battering ram and flogged: When any culprit was brought out, the commanding centurion would exclaim, Tie on the rogue! The name, we see, has worn well.

A fat landlady, who about the time of the flight of Mahomet from Mecca, lived between new Orleans and the Chicasaw cliffs, was scarcely ever unfurnished with pigeon sea pye; and thence got the name of Mrs. Sea Pye. The enormous river Mississipi, owes its name to the fat landlady.

In the reign of Dermot O’Mullogh, in the kingdom of Connaught, about the beginning of the second century, a noisy fellow by the name of Pat Riot, made himself very conspicuous; the word Patriot has come down to us perfect and unimpaired.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

JULIET.——A Story.

The sun had descended just below the horizon—all nature was wrapped in solemn silence—when Juliet hastened to the tomb of her dear friend. Having seated herself upon the green turf near his head, and looking with anxiety to the grave, she exclaimed— “Oh Lovemore!— Why leave your Juliet thus to mourn?— Answer me, my dear, this once—how cruel to separate us!— Oh Death, thou welcome messenger to those who are troubled—thou finisher of grief and despair—thou antidote to all future evils— Why thus delay thy second coming?--- Or, why didst thou come so soon?— What have I been guilty of, that thus thou dost torment?— If Lovemore received the summons, why not Juliet?— Oh Lovemore!--- thou who wert once the boast of creation, now to be no more!— Thou who were once the delight of all who had the pleasure of thy acquaintance---now to be a companion for worms.--- Cruel fates thus to deprive me of my all--- If the summons must be obeyed, why was not the tomb of Lovemore made the receptacle for Juliet too.--- Lovemore---he is gone---alas! he’s gone---never to return---never to behold his Juliet again.--- Lovemore! Lovemore!--- why thus callous to the cries of her whom it was ever thy wish to please?--- Must Juliet, thy beloved Juliet, weep in vain?--- And must those lips which never spoke of Lovemore but with affection and delight, be silenced without a reply?--- Surely you have not grown disdainful to her whom you once adored?--- If still thou art the Lovemore whom Juliet once beheld---if still thy affection for her is pure, why thus be silent?--- I conjure you by those tender vows which once you made, answer me now.”—— “Juliet--- Juliet”—— “Hark!--- What voice is that I hear calling on Juliet’s name?”—— “Why thus repine at the will of Heaven?--- and why thus dictate to thy Creator how to act?--- Consider thy presumption in reproving him.--- Will your repeated cries to heaven restore new vigour to that inanimate, cold, and putrified clay?--- No;--- all will be in vain.--- I charge you, reflect.”—— “Have I erred?--- Oh! righteous Heaven, and have I been guilty of accusing thee of injustice?--- Have I called in question thy power?--- Yes;--- it is too true--- I have.--- Why did Juliet murmur, and why oppose thy just decrees?--- O Heaven, was it not for the affection she bore to thee, Lovemore, that caused her thus to transgress?--- Yes, it was, Juliet loved him, and Juliet still loves him---but her will must be submissive to the will of Heaven.--- He who gave thee birth, O Lovemore! has called you hence--- You have answered your mission.--- The summons served, the debt of nature’s paid.--- Juliet will no longer grieve.--- Lovemore, soon shall you find thy Juliet in thy arms:--- then that tomb which is now the receptacle of thy body, shall be mine--- And that tear which was seen on Juliet’s cheek shall be changed to joy.--- She who now weeps over thy cold clay, shall then be thy companion for ever.” Here Juliet embraced the grave of Lovemore, and summoning up the virtues of resignation and patience to her aid, she silently quitted the spot---and calmly mourned, not murmured, till Heaven united her spirit with that of her departed lover.

TYRUNCULUS.

New-York, Sept. 21, 1796.

A RURAL PICTURE.

On a spacious lawn, bounded on every side by a profusion of the most odoriferous flowering shrubs, a joyous band of villagers were assembled; the young men dressed in green; youth, health, and pleasure in their air, led up their artless charmers, in straw hats adorned with the spoils of Flora, to the rustic sound of the tabor and pipe. Round the lawn, at equal intervals, were raised temporary arbours of branches of trees, in which refreshments were prepared for the dancers; and between the arbours, seats of moss for their parents, shaded from the sun by green awnings, on poles, round which were twined wreaths of flowers, breathing the sweets of the spring. The surprise, the gaiety of the scene, the flow of general joy, the sight of so many happy people, the countenances of the enraptured parents, who seem to live anew again, the sprightly season of youth in their children, with the benevolent looks of the noble bestowers of the feast, filled my eyes with tears, and my swelling heart with a sensation of pure, yet lively transport, to which the joys of the courtly belles are mean.

GLEANINGS.

When a man is disposed to reveal a secret, and expects that it shall be kept, he should first enquire whether he can keep it himself. This is good advice, perhaps a little in the Irish way.

All the wisdom in the world will do little while a man wants presence of mind. He cannot fence well that is not on his guard. Archimedes lost his life by being too busy to give an answer.

Notwithstanding the difference of estate and quality among men, there is such a general mixture of good and evil, that in the main, happiness is pretty equally distributed in the world. The rich are as often unhappy as the poor, as repletion is more dangerous than appetite.

It is wonderful how fond we are of repeating a scrap of Latin, in preference to the same sentiment in our own language equally well expressed. Both the sense and words of Omnia vincit amor (love conquers all) are worthy only of a school-boy, and yet how often repeated with an affectation of wisdom!

Revenge, speaking botanically, may be termed wild justice, and ought to be rooted out, as choaking up the true plant. A first wrong does but offend the law, but revenge puts the law out of office. Surely, when government is once established, revenge belongs only to the law.

For more than a century, has Billingsgate been proverbial for the coarseness of its language. Whence is this? What connexion is there between fresh fish and foul words? Why should the vending of that useful commodity, and elegant luxury, prompt to oaths, execrations, and every corruption of language, more than any other? And to think that the parties concerned are of the fair sex---O fye!

Reason has not more admirers than there are hypocrites. Hypocrites admire only the profits of wisdom, and approve just so much of her, as is agreeable and serviceable to their ends.

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 95.)

“You know that he has been in our house some time ago, informing us of your exaltation to the ducal dignity, and at the same time, placed the declaration of the ghost, concerning the murder, in its proper point of view. However, you are still ignorant of the most important circumstance. I will not dwell on the uncommon praise he bestowed on your family, and you in particular, but only mention that he concluded his panegyrics with the observation, that the Countess herself would deem you deserving her love, if she should be acquainted more intimately with your Grace. This unexpected turn perplexed Amelia evidently. She replied, she did not doubt the amiable qualities of the Duke, however she vowed eternal fidelity to the Count. ‘If that is your sole objection,’ the Irishman replied, ‘then I shall soon remove it. The deceased himself shall release you from your vow, from the performance of which he can derive neither benefit nor pleasure; it is in my power to make him declare it himself.’ ‘No, no!’ exclaimed Amelia, terrified, ‘the rest of the deceased shall not be interrupted; I should not be able to stand the sight of him.’ ‘No apparition, my Lady,’ the Irishman replied, ‘you shall neither hear nor see the deceased!’—With these words he took a blank piece of paper out of his pocket-book, requesting Amelia to write upon it the following words:——‘Spirit of the Count of Clairval, shall I preserve my heart and hand faithful to thee till death, according to my vow?’ As soon as the Countess had been persuaded to it with great difficulty, and wrote these words, the Irishman prevailed upon her to carry the paper to an apartment to which no one could have access without her knowledge and leave. Amelia chose the apartment contiguous to her bed-chamber. The shutters were bolted from within, the paper placed upon a table, and the room strongly fumigated by the Irishman, who uttered some mysterious words. When they had retired, the Irishman requested her to return and look after the paper; however she could see nothing but the words written by herself, upon which she shut the door, and put the key in her pocket.

“‘Sleep easy,’ the Irishman added, ‘and don’t open the chamber before to-morrow morning, when you will find an answer to your question.’

“The Irishman left us at eleven o’clock, and Amelia went to her bed-room, which she left not for a moment all night.—She went to bed, but uneasiness and curiosity did not suffer her to close her eyes. Not the least noise was heard in the adjoining apartment, and when Amelia entered it early in the morning, she had observed beneath the lines she had wrote, pale but legible characters, which she instantly knew to be the hand-writing of her deceased Lord———‘Thy vow, 101b which binds me to be a living being upon earth, and, thee to one who is deceased, shackles my liberty. I break these chains. The man by whose orders I have been assassinated is Vasco**ellos.’

“Imagine how Amelia was astonished at an incident which evidently was the effect of a superior power; the apartment, the shutters, and the door of which had been carefully secured, and which was guarded by Amelia herself, being entirely inaccessible to any mortal, except by violent means, of which no traces could be perceived on the window shutters. This miraculous event was decisive for my friend, who professed herself entirely at liberty from that moment.

“Your Grace will easily believe me, that the tender attachment to you, which had found access to her heart, guarded by a solemn vow, acquired additional activity when the shackles were thrown off. The ghost himself appeared to have silently approved, by naming the real murderer, the passion for a Prince, whose father had been injured by an unjust suspicion. Amelia endeavoured, nevertheless, to conceal from me the real state of her heart, and, out of caprice, rather would leave me to guess, than to confess herself, what might have been misinterpreted as a weakness. However, that very constraint which she experienced by concealing a secret that struggled to break its confinement, some words which she dropped unknowingly, her gloomy looks and silent melancholy——in short, all those traits which seem to have told you so very little of Amelia’s secret sentiments, convinced me soon that love was the silent tormentor of her heart. I communicated my discovery to her, and she confessed at last that I was not mistaken.” 

“Gracious Heaven!” I exclaimed, “she confessed---”

“And at the same time desired me earnestly to conceal it carefully from you; and do you know for what reason?”

“No!”

“Amelia feared she was not beloved by you. Your having proceeded on your travels during her illness without so much as taking leave of her, made her already suspect your indifference. This suspicion gained additional strength by your never having wrote a single line to her after your departure. Your behaviour during your present stay with us too, has cured her of that error as little as the information of your departure.”

“Should it be possible my love could have escaped Amelia’s looks?”

“It did not escape my observation.——I gathered carefully all the marks of it, and communicated them to my friend. However, they appeared to her to be nothing farther than proofs of gallantry, which every well-educated man is wont to offer at the shrine of beauty. ‘Is it possible,’ she said, ‘that true, ardent love, could refrain so long from coming to an explanation?’ And indeed, my Lord, can you say any thing against this objection?”

“My Lady, I could not entertain the least idea of such an explanation, while the misunderstanding concerning the murderer of Count Clairval was not removed, although I had not been ignorant of the residence of Amelia, which was unknown to me ever since the removal from the castle in the forest, and the mysterious conduct of the Countess has prevented me from declaring now, what I ardently wished to avow publicly ever since I got acquainted with her. What has made you guess my happiness has induced me to apprehend my misfortune——I even feared to offend the Countess by my presence. I expected secret dislike to me, at most pity, but never a return of my love.”

“I see you are but a novice in love,” Lady Delier said smiling, “and I have of course acted wisely that I opened your eyes!”

“O! my dearest Baroness!” I replied, kissing her hand, my gratitude will end only with my life.”

“Silence! Silence!” she exclaimed, putting her hand on my lips, “I have told you, as yet, only good news——the worst is coming now!”

“What can that be?” I asked with consternation.

“You shall hear Amelia’s own words: ‘The Duke’ said she, ‘does not love me, and even if he should have a passion for me, and avow it, he should hear the confession of my reciprocal tenderness, but never receive my hand. I am indeed released of my vow, but my present liberty will raise my fidelity to my deceased Lord, which was till now mere duty, to merit, and I will remain constant to him, as far as it will be in my power. I cannot command my love for the Duke, however my hand is at my disposal.”

“Heavens! how you have damped my happiness!” I replied after a painful pause.

“Should a mere whim of the Countess really be able to dishearten your Grace? You do not consider how soon the love of a living adorer can subdue the fidelity to a deceased husband. Amelia’s heart is yours, and her hand will certainly follow.”

“It is not only this incertitude that makes me uneasy; the Countess loves me because she cannot help it. Can a love which I do not owe to a voluntary attachment render me happy?”

“How you are roving! what ought to make you proud and happy damps your spirits. What was it that impelled Amelia irresistibly to love you? can it have been any thing else but the consciousness of your perfections, and an irresistible sympathy which has united your hearts; and what can be more desirable, what more sincere and durable than such bonds? My Lord, love has done every thing for you, and you have done nothing for love. Disclose to Amelia your sentiments, communicate to her your tenderness, and her involuntary attachment to you will soon be changed into a voluntary passion.”

“My dearest friend! My comforter!” I exclaimed, “what friendly genius is it that speaks through you, and animates my whole nature?”

“The genius of love—I have loved too, and know how to advise in affairs of the heart. But tell me sincerely, my Lord, would your father consent to a match beneath your dignity?”

“It would be of no consequence if he should not; I am Duke.”

“I understand you; however I fear Amelia would never consent to a union which should be destitute of the benediction of the Marquis of Villa**al.”

“My father loves me, and he will never oppose his only son in a matter upon which depends the happiness of his life.”

“Well then! I will leave you to your good fortune. I shall not fail to contribute as much as is in my power to promote that union. However, (added she with dignity) I expect from your candour, that you will not misinterpret my interview with you, and the interest I take in that affair.”

“I look upon it as a proof of your inestimable friendship.”

“O! my children!” the Countess resumed with great emotion, “I love you as a mother. I could not bear any longer that two people, who seem to have been born for each other, should misunderstand one another in a manner so tormenting to both of you. You will render Amelia happy, my Lord, or I am dreadfully mistaken in my opinion of you. With this hope I put the fate of my friend entirely in your hands. I confide to your care an angel, whose early improvement was my work; and constitutes my pride, and whose perfections you scarcely know by half. I entrust to you a being of the purest and most excellent of hearts. Conclude from this, upon the confidence I repose in you.”

“I shall endeavour to deserve it.”

“Retire now, else we shall be surprised by Amelia; but take care not to make her suspect our interview and conversation. You even must not visit us this evening earlier than usual.”

I promised it, and retired. My whole frame had been in a feverish tremor from the beginning of our conversation. I could scarcely utter the most necessary answers to the discourses of the Baroness. To be beloved by Amelia! This intelligence imparadised me, and my heart could scarcely contain the unspeakable bliss which had been showered down upon me. I went home like a dreaming person, went again abroad, and my feet carried me, unknowing to me, to the spot whither a secret impulse urged me to go. However, the severe command of the Baroness had drawn a large circle around Amelia’s abode, which repelled me. I hovered at the margin of it like a spell-bound spirit, and sighed for the arrival of the appointed hour. Never had the setting in of night been expected with more impatience, and the sun appeared to me to retire unusually late from the horizon.

At length the wished-for hour arrived; however, the moment when I was going to the house which contained all that was dear to me, an unspeakable anxiety damped 103 suddenly my rapturous joy. I had promised not to betray by my behaviour the intelligence which the Baroness had imparted to me, and yet I deemed it impossible to preserve such a dominion over myself if the vehemency of my state of mind should not abate. This was the source of my anxiety, which added to the danger of exposing myself, because it deprived me of the small remnant of self dominion which my rapturous joy had left me. I entered the house. The woman of the Countess told me her Lady was in the garden. I went through several rows of trees without finding her. The moon peeped now and then through the fleecy clouds, and concealed her silvery orb again. The great extent of the garden, and the impetuous state of my mind, increased the difficulty of finding the idol of my heart. At length, stepping forth from a side path, enclosed with high hedges, I fancied I saw something stirring at a distance, near a statue. Having advanced some paces the light of the moon reflected from the marble statue upon Amelia, removed every doubt. I approached with tottering steps, and found Amelia reclining against a pedestal of a Diana, and immersed in profound meditation. The rustling of the dry leaves beneath my footsteps, roused her from her reverie.

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REMARKS ON MUSIC.

(Continued from page 91.)

The present universal passion for this art, and the fashion of making it a necessary part of education, induces me to consider it as relating to the fair sex, more particularly. Parents are naturally inclined to make their children partake of those amusements the most prevailing and fashionable. As music in this age comes under that denomination, it is no wonder we find every attention paid to this qualification at the earliest period of life. The most eminent masters are obtained; and much time and expence bestowed to acquire this accomplishment. The fond parent, anxious to embellish the darling child, and render her fit for polite company, compels her to perseverance, without discriminating the propensity of her own nature, but vainly imagines, that a proficiency is certainly to be obtained in proportion to the reputation of her instructor. Under this delusion the young lady is too often brought into public company, and exhibits her own performance, to the well-bred, amidst the admiration and astonishment of the ignorant many, and the silent pity of the judicious few. Here again let us call to mind the observation of Plutarch, and consider how far the manners of a people are denoted by the state of their music. The present state of dissipation in the fashionable world, and the agitation of spirits ever attendant on crouded assemblies and pleasurable pursuits, elevate the mind and taste 103b above the standard of sober thoughts. Every thing is sought which can assist the temporary frenzy, and nothing deemed worth our knowing but how to forget ourselves. This unhappy situation renders the generality of our fashionable people lost to any serious examination of true or false impression, while they are indiscriminately led to approve or condemn whatever the multitude of fashion establishes by its sanction. It is not now sought as a repose for the mind after its fatigues, but to support its tumults; and the imagination is now to be surprised with the wonderful execution of the performer, whilst the effect is totally neglected.

Since the supreme Being has formed many of his most beautiful works according to the principles of harmony, from whence some of our most pure and affecting pleasures arise, can it be looked upon as unbecoming, that our youth of both sexes should bestow some portion of their time to the study of what was manifestly intended by Providence to allure us to love of order, according to the Platonic doctrine quoted by Plutarch? surely not; the younger part of the female sex, who discover the least propensity to music, or shew any signs of having a good ear, should certainly learn music, not for the sake of rendering these fit for the fashionable world, nor for parade and ostentation; but should so learn as to amuse their own family, and for that domestic comfort they were by Providence designed to promote; and to relieve the anxieties and cares of this life, to inspire cheerfulness, and elevate the mind to a sense of love of order, virtue and religion.

A. O.

(To be continued.)

New-York, Sept. 26, 1796.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED.

A few days ago by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Richard Ellis to Miss Catharine Van Tuyl.

Also Mr. Peter Vandervoort Leydard to Miss Maria Van Tuyl---both the ladies, daughters to Andrew Van Tuyl, Esq. of this city.

On Wednesday last by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Robert Wardell to Miss Lavinia Woods, daughter to John Woods, Esq.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO CLARA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONNET.

THE CAPTIVE’S COMPLAINT.

(Inscribed to Anna.)

On Singularity of Manners.

There are few people of such mortified pretensions, as patiently to acquiesce under the total neglect of mankind; nay so ambitious are most men of distinction, that they chuse to be taken notice of, even far their absurdities, rather than to be entirely overlooked, and lost in obscurity, and, if they despair of exciting the attention of the world, by any brilliant or useful accomplishment, they will endeavour to regain it by some ridiculous peculiarity in their dress, their equipage or accoutrements.

But if we must distinguish ourselves from the rest of mankind, let it be by our intrinsic virtue, our temperance and sobriety, and a conscientious regard to every relative duty; but as we ought “to think with the wise, and talk with the vulgar,” let us also act differently from a great part of the world in matters of importance, but conform to them in trifles. This is what Seneca so forcibly inculcates in his fifth epistle to his friend Lucilius.

“I both approve of your conduct, and sincerely rejoice that you resolutely exert yourself; and, laying aside every other pursuit, make it your whole study to improve yourself in wisdom and virtue. And I not only exhort, but earnestly intreat you to persevere in this course.

Give me leave however, to caution you not to imitate those pretended philosophers, who are more solicitous to attract the notice of the world, than to make a progress in wisdom; nor to affect any thing singular in your dress, or in your manner of life. Avoid that preposterous ambition of gaining applause, by your uncouth appearance, your hair uncombed, and your beard neglected; nor be always declaiming against the use of plate, of soft beds, or any thing of that kind. The very name of a philosopher is sufficiently invidious, though managed with the greatest modesty and discretion.

Suppose we have entered upon our stoical plan, and began to sequester ourselves from the conversation and customs of the vulgar; let every thing within be dissimilar; but let our outward appearance be conformable 105b to the rest of the world. Let not our apparel be splendid or shewy, nor yet mean or sordid. Let not our plate be embossed with gold; but let us not imagine, that the mere want of such expensive plate is a sufficient proof of our frugality. Let us endeavour to live a better life, not merely a life contrary to that of the vulgar; otherwise, instead of conciliating the favour of those whom we wish to reform, we shall excite their aversion, and drive them from our company; we shall also deter them from imitating us in any thing, when they are afraid that they are to imitate us in every thing.

The first advantages which philosophy promises are, a just sense of the common rights of mankind, humanity, and a sociable disposition; from which advantages, singularity and dissimilar manners will entirely seclude us. Let us beware, lest those peculiarities by which we hope to excite the admiration, should expose us to the ridicule and aversion, of mankind.

Our object is to live according to nature; but to torture our bodies, to abhor cleanliness in our persons, when attended with no trouble, or affect a cynical filthiness in our food; this sure is living contrary to nature. As it is a mark of luxury to hunt after delicacies, to reject the common unexpensive comforts of life is a degree of madness. Our stoic philosophy requires us to be frugal, not to mortify ourselves; but there is such a thing as an elegant frugality. This moderation is what I would recommend.”

SOCIETY.

Society has been aptly compared to a heap of embers, which, when separated, soon languish, darken, and expire; but, if placed together, glow with a ruddy and intense heat, a just emblem of the strength, the happiness, and the security, derived from the union of mankind. The savage, who never knew the blessings of combination, and he, who quits society from apathy or misanthropic spleen, are like the separated embers, dark, dead, and useless; they neither give nor receive any heat, neither love or are beloved.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 99.)

Encouraged in this manner, what dangers had I to fear? I departed accordingly, but in the course of that campaign, there happened nothing worthy of narration; the enemy, equally careful with ourselves to avoid any action which might produce an open war between the two nations, contented themselves with fatiguing us by means of frequent marches: we, on the other hand, bounded our views to following and observing them; and they only seemed to oppose themselves to us, in those parts where the open country afforded them an opportunity of making good their retreat.

At the end of the campaign, they prepared to retire on purpose to take up their winter-quarters in their own country; and our little army, composed almost wholly of gentlemen, separated soon after.

I returned to Warsaw full of joy and impatience; I thought that Love and Hymen were about to bestow Lodoiska on me.——Alas! I no longer had a father. I learned, on entering the capital, that Lovzinski died of an apoplexy on the night before my arrival. Thus I was deprived of even the sad consolation of receiving the last sighs of the most tender of parents; I could only offer up my sorrows at his tomb, which I bathed with my tears!

——“It is not,” says Pulaski to me, who was but little moved with my profound sorrow; “it is not by means of barren tears that you can do honour to a father such as thine. Poland in him regrets a Citizen—— ——a hero, who would have been of immense service during the critical moment which now approaches. Worn out with a tedious malady, our monarch has not a fortnight to live, and on the choice of his successor depends the happiness or misery of our fellow-citizens.

“Of all the rights which the death of your father transmits to you, the most noble is undoubtedly that of assisting at the Diet, in which you are to represent him; it is there where he will revive in you; it is there, where you ought to exhibit a courage infinitely more difficult to be sustained than that which consists only in braving death in the field of battle!

“The valour of a soldier is nothing more than a common virtue; but they are not ordinary men who on awful emergencies, preserving a tranquil courage, and displaying an active penetration, discover the projects of the powerful who cabal, disconcert the enterprises of the intriguing, and confront the designs of the factious; who, always firm, incorruptible, and just, give not their suffrages but to those whom they think most worthy of them; whom neither gold nor promises can seduce, whom prayers cannot bend, whom menaces cannot terrify.

“These were the virtues which distinguished your father; this is the precious inheritance which you ought to be desirous of sustaining. The day on which the states assemble for the election of a king, will be the epoch on which the pretensions of many of our fellow-citizens, more occupied with their private interests than jealous of the prosperity of their country, will be manifested, as well as the pernicious designs of the neighbouring powers, whose cruel policy it is to destroy our strength by dividing it.

“I am deceived, my friend, if the fatal moment is not fast approaching, which will for ever fix the destinies of our country,——its enemies have conspired its ruin; they have secretly prepared for a revolution;——but they shall not consummate their purposes while my arm can sustain a sword! May that God, who is the protector of the republic, prevent all the horrors of a civil war! But that extremity, however frightful it appears, may perhaps become necessary; I flatter myself that it will be but a short, although perhaps a violent crisis, after which the regenerated state will assume its ancient splendour.

“You shall second my efforts Lovzinski; the feeble interests of love ought to disappear before more sacred claims. I cannot present my daughter to you during this awful moment of suspense, when our common country is in danger; but I promise to you, that the first days of peace shall be marked by your union with Lodoiska.”

Pulaski did not speak in vain. I felt that I had now more essential duties to fulfil than those of love; but the cares with which my mind was occupied, were hardly able to alleviate my grief. I will even avow to you, without blushing, that the sorrow of my sisters, their tender friendship, and the caresses more reserved but no less pleasing of my mistress, made a stronger impression on my heart than the patriotic counsels of Pulaski. I beheld Lodoiska tenderly affected with my irreparable loss, and as much afflicted as myself at the cruel events which forced us to defer our union; my chagrin, by being thus divided with that lovely woman, seemed insensibly to diminish.

In the mean time the king dies, and the Diet is convoked. On the day that it was to open, at the very instant when I was about to repair to the assembly, a stranger presented himself, and desired to speak to me in private. As soon as my attendants were retired, he enters my apartment with precipitation, throws himself into my arms, and tenderly embraces me. It was M. de P——! Ten years, which had elapsed since our separation, had not so much changed his features as to prevent me from recognizing him, and testifying my joy and surprise at his unexpected return.

“You will be more astonished,” says he to me, “when you know the cause. I have arrived this instant, and am about to repair to the meeting of the Diet;—would it be presuming too much on your friendship to reckon on your vote?”

“On my vote! and for whom?”

“For myself,” continues he with vivacity; “it is not now time to account to you the happy revolution that has taken place in my fortune, and which at present permits me to entertain such exalted hopes: it is sufficient to observe, that my ambition is at least justified by a majority of suffrages, and that it is in vain that two feeble rivals would attempt to dispute with me the crown to which I pretend.

“Lovzinski,” adds he, embracing me again, “if you were not my friend, and I esteemed you less, perhaps I should endeavour to dazzle you by means of promises; perhaps I should recount to you the favours which I intend to heap upon you, the honourable distinctions that are reserved for you, and the noble and glorious career that is about to offer itself to your ambition;——but I have not any need of seducing, and I only with to persuade you.

“I behold it with grief, and you know it as well as myself, that for several years past our Poland, become enfeebled, owes its safety to nothing else than the distrust of the three great powers* which surround it, and the desire to enrich themselves with our spoils, may in one moment re-unite our divided enemies.

“Let us prevent, if we can, this inauspicious triumvirate from dismembering the republic. Undoubtedly, in more fortunate times, our ancestors were able to maintain the freedom of their elections; it is necessary however that we should yield to that necessity which is become inevitable.

“Russia will necessarily protect a king, whom she herself has elevated; in receiving the sovereign of her choice, you will defeat the views of that triple alliance which will render our perdition certain, and we shall acquire a powerful ally, who will oppose herself with success to the two enemies that remain to us.

“These are the reasons which have determined my conduct; I do not abandon part of our rights, but to preserve the most precious of them. I wish not to ascend a fickle throne, but with the intention, by the means of a sage policy, to give it stability; I consent not to alter the constitution of the commonwealth, but to preserve the kingdom entire.”

We repaired to the Diet together; I voted for M. de P——. He in effect obtained the majority of the suffrages; but Pulaski, Zuremba, and some others, declared themselves in favour of Prince C——. Nothing was decided amidst the tumult of this first meeting.

When the assembly broke up, M, de P—— invited me to accompany him to the palace, which his secret emissaries had already prepared for him in the capital†. We shut ourselves up together during several hours, and renewed the promises of a friendship that should endure for ever. I then too informed M. de P—— of my intimate connection with Pulaski, and of my love for Lodoiska. He repaid my confidence with more important communications; he informed me of the events 107b which had led to his approaching grandeur; he explained to me his secret designs; and I left him, convinced that he was less occupied with the desire of his own elevation, than with that of restoring Poland to its ancient prosperity.

Possessed with these ideas, I flew towards my future father-in-law, burning with the desire of adding him to the party of my friend. Pulaski was walking at a great pace up and down the chamber of his daughter, who appeared equally agitated with himself.

“Behold,” said he to Lodoiska, the moment that he saw me enter, “behold that man whom I esteem, and whom you love! He has sacrificed us both to his blind friendship.” I was desirous to reply, but he went on—“You have been connected from your childhood with M. de P——. A powerful faction is about to place him on the throne; you know you are acquainted with his designs; this very morning, at the diet, you voted for him;—you have deceived me:—but do you think that you shall deceive me with impunity?”

I besought him to hear me, and he constrained himself so far as to preserve a stern silence: I then informed him that M. de P——, whom I had for a long time neglected, had agreeably surprised me by his unexpected return.

Lodoiska appeared charmed to hear me commence my justification.—“You shall not deceive me in the same manner as if I were a credulous woman, says Pulaski.—But it signifies not---proceed.”

I then recounted to him the particulars of the short conversation that I had with M. de P——— before I repaired to the assembly of the states.

“And these are your projects!” exclaims he. “M. de P——— sees no other remedy for the misfortunes of his fellow-citizens than their slavery! He proposes this, one of the name of Lovzinski, approves of it; and they despise me so much as to tempt me to enter into this infamous plot! Shall I behold the Russians commanding in our provinces in the name of a Pole?”

“The Russians, say I with fury; the Russians reign in my country!” On this Pulaski, advancing towards me with the greatest impetuosity, cries out: “Perfidious youth! you have deceived me, and you would betray the state! Leave my house this very moment, or know that I shall order you to be dragged out of it!”

I frankly acknowledge that an affront so cruel, and so little merited, disarmed me of my prudence: in the first transports of my fury, I placed my hand upon my sword; and quicker than lightning Pulaski brandished his in the air.

His daughter, his distracted daughter, rushed forward, and precipitated herself upon me, crying out: “Lovzinski, what are you about to do?” On hearing the accents of a voice so dear to me, I recalled my wandering reason; but I perceived that a single instant was about for ever to bereave me of my Lodoiska! She had left me to throw herself into the arms of her father. He, cruel man, beheld my grief, and strove to augment it: “Go, traitor!” says he, “be gone---you behold Lodoiska for the last time!”

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REMARKS ON MUSIC.

(Continued from page 103.)

Music is capable of a variety so infinite, so greatly does the most simple differ from the most complex, and so multiplied are the degrees between those two extremes, that in no age could the incidents respecting that fascinating art have been few or uninteresting: But, that accounts of these incidents should be handed down to us, scanty and imperfect, is no matter of surprize, when we recollect that the history of music is the history only of sounds, of which writing is a very inadequate medium; and that men would long employ themselves in the pleasing exercise of cultivating music before they possessed either the ability or the inclination to record their exertions.

No accurate traces, therefore, of the actual state of music, in the earlier ages of the world, can be discerned. Our ideas on the subject have no foundation firmer than conjecture and analogy.

It is probable, that among all the barbarous nations some degree of similarity is discernable in the stile of their music. Neither will much difference appear during the first dawnings of civilization. But in the more advanced periods of society, where the powers of the human mind are permitted without obstacle to exert their native activity and tendency to invention, and are at the same time affected by the infinite variety of circumstances and situations which before had no existence, and, which in one case accelerate and in another retard; then that similarity, once so distinguishable, gives place to the endless diversity of which the subject is capable.

The practice of music being universal in all ages and all nations, it would be absurd to attribute the invention of the art to any one man. It must have suffered a regular progression, through infancy, childhood, and youth, before it could arrive at maturity, the first attempts must have been rude and artless; probably the first flute was a reed of the lake. Music is supposed to have taken its rise in the earliest periods of society. “Juba,” we find soon after the creation of the world; “was the father of all such as handle the harp and the organ;” and it is more than probable that Moses, the most ancient of all writers, was well acquainted with this art. The Egyptians, were the promoters of science in the Hebrew nation, and Moses was instructed in all the learning of the Egyptians. The sublime and animated song of Moses on the overthrow of Pharoah in the red sea, was, we believe, adapted to the sweet strains of music; for we are told it was sung by Moses and the children of Isræl:—&Israel; After the conclusion of the song, “Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances; and Miriam answered them, 108b Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.” 

We read in the Mosaic law of the sounds of trumpets in approaching the field of battle, and the power of trumpets in its religious observances.

A. O.

(To be continued.)

New-York, Sept. 26, 1796.

FRIENDSHIP.

Friendship, among people who have not been corrupted by those artificial vices which fatally wait upon civilized life, exists in the greatest possible purity and constancy. The Abbé Fortis gives some curious particulars relative to the friendships of the Morlacchi, a people who inhabit the mountainous part of inland Dalmatia. Friendship is lasting among the Morlacchi. They have even made it a kind of religious point, and tie the sacred bond at the foot of the altar. The Sclavonian ritual contains a particular benediction, for the solemn union of two male or two female friends, in the presence of the congregation. The Abbé says, that he was present at the union of two young women; who were made Posestre in the church of Perussich. The satisfaction that sparkled in their eyes when the ceremony was performed, gave a convincing proof, that delicacy of sentiments can lodge in minds not formed, or rather not corrupted by society, which we call civilized. The male friends thus united are called Pobratimi, and the females Posestreme, which mean half-brothers and half-sisters. Friendship between those of different sexes are not bound with so much solemnity, though perhaps in more ancient and innocent ages it was also the custom. From these consecrated friendships among the Morlacchi, and other nations of the same origin, it should seem that the sworn brothers arose, a denomination frequent enough among the common people in many parts of Europe. If discord happens to arise between two friends among the Morlacchi, it is talked of all over the country as a scandalous novelty; and there have been some examples of it of late years, to the great affliction of the old Morlacchi, who attribute the depravity of their countrymen to their intercourse with the Italians. Wine and strong liquors of which the nation is beginning to make daily abuse, after our example, will, of course, produce the same bad effects as among us.

Nor is the Abbé mistaken. When these simple people become more men of the world, the romantic part of their friendships will degenerate into that motly unintelligible thing which many people call Friendship. Whoever, therefore, wishes to enjoy real friendship, must in the first place expect no more from man than the frailty of his nature will admit; and in the second place, he must not expect friendship from those, who from their ignorance are not enabled, or from their wickedness are not disposed, to perform acts of mutual benevolence in trying situations.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 103.)

“Good evening, my Lord,” said she with evident confusion, “have you not met Lady Delier?”

“No, my Lady! I have not.”

“She left me some time since, and might already have returned.”

“Very strange! I am come to take leave, and meet you first by accident.”

“Leave?” she replied with surprise, “Then you are determined to depart to-morrow.”

“I must.”

A long pause.

“And you are going to Ma***t?”

“To Ma***t, and from thence to my native country.”

A second pause. At length she said with emphasis and affection: “Heaven protect you on your journey.”

“Dearest Countess—”

“What is the matter with you, my Lord?” Amelia exclaimed, fixing her eyes on me, “Good God, how pale you look!”

The emotions of my heart were dreadful; my working bosom threatened to burst. “God knows,” I replied with a faltering voice, “whether I shall see you again.”

“We shall certainly meet again,” said she, looking up to heaven.

“Merciful God! should my hopes blossom first beyond the grave.”

“What hopes”? she exclaimed with inquisitive astonishment.

“And do you not divine how this separation will wound my heart?”

Amelia looked anxiously around, as if seeking Lady Delier; and then fixed her eyes again doubtfully on me.

“My Lord, your words and your behaviour are mysterious to me.”

“Then receive their explanation kindly,” I replied, letting myself down on one knee, and taking hold of her hand, “I love you.”

The Countess was struck dumb with surprise.——“And this you tell me when taking leave!” she lisped at length.

I fancied I perceived a soft pressure from her hand, and returned it with glowing lips. She bent her taper form to raise me up, and Lady Delier stepped suddenly between us. “What do I see?” she exclaimed, dissembling astonishment, “a declaration of love?”

Amelia remained silent, and the Baroness repeated her question.

“A declaration, my Lady!” I replied, but no answer.

“My sweet friend,” she whispered archly in Amelia’s ear, “I hope you will not let him despair.”

“I cannot conceive, my Lord,” Amelia replied, “why you make this declaration when taking leave!”

I told her nearly the same I had said to the Baroness in the morning. Amelia viewed me a long time with silent astonishment, and at length replied:

“A misunderstanding, a misunderstanding on both sides! very strange indeed!” she shook her head smiling.

“My dearest love,” the Baroness exclaimed, “look at the Duke, how he watches every word of yours in hope of receiving an answer.”

Amelia seemed to hesitate what to reply; however, after a short silence, said to me with the innate dignity of a noble, generous mind: “My Lord, if you want to have a consort, then I must beg you to forget me. But if you are in quest of a loving heart, then—” added she in a low accent, and with crimsoning cheeks, “you have found it.”

I don’t know what I replied, nor can I recollect what I said afterwards; for from the moment she had pronounced the confession of her reciprocal love, I thought myself transported to Paradise, and breathed in a new and better sphere. The possession of Amelia’s heart, ensured to me by the declaration of her own lips, had expelled from my breast every terrestrial wish; my whole nature seemed to me exalted and purified of all earthly dregs, and the flame which had penetrated my frame, was a sacred fire cleared of every particle of sensuality. O! innocent love, thou offspring of the sacred affinity of two congenial souls, thou art perhaps the sole species of union and enjoyment, which is capable to afford us here below a notion of the union and the pleasure of the inhabitants of the heavenly regions. How natural therefore, if we, particularly in the first moments of enjoyment, are incapable to express such sentiments by words. However, my faltering accents, my confused expressions, and my incoherent sentences, seemed nevertheless to be as well understood by Amelia, as if she were reading in my soul, which I could conclude from her words, and the still plainer speaking play of her mien. Love had diffused over her countenance new and unspeakable charms, which surrounded her with a glory that made her appear to me a more than mortal being. And to be beloved by her—that bliss would have overpowered me, if I had not been made acquainted with my happiness in the morning.

Lady Delier, who had left us to ourselves all the time, interrupted us at length. “Children!” said she, “do you know that it is not far from eleven o’clock?” I started up as if some grisly spectre had surprised me, because I recollected the Unknown, eleven o’clock being the time when I had promised to meet him at the place of rendezvous at a considerable distance.

To take leave!—without knowing whether I should ever see her again, for I was to depart the next morn with the dawn of day. This idea overpowered me so much, that I promised Amelia and myself to visit her once more to-morrow before my departure. Our separation was, nevertheless, so afflicting, the parting on both sides so difficult, and the last adieu pronounced with quivering lips.—Alas! a secret presentiment seemed to 110 whisper in my ear that we should meet no more. How many times did I attempt to go and stopped again—how many times did I go and return again to assure Amelia that I should certainly see her once more!—Her emotions seemed, indeed, to be less vehement than mine, however, I could not be deceived, and observing the secret workings of her soul, perceived the pearly tear that started from her eye, and the violent heaving of her bosom.

Lady Delier did not long remain an idle spectator, exhorting us to dedicate the present moment to joy, and to yield to our grief to-morrow, tearing the Countess from my arms, and wishing me a good night.

I stopped once more on the terrace, saw the two ladies retiring to a grove, of beech-trees, and Amelia turned twice, beckoning to me. My tears flowed fluently, my arms were expanded for her, the darkness of the night concealed her from my wishful looks. I rushed mechanically into the street, and arrived at the place of rendezvous without knowing how. It was lonely spot covered with trees. The Irishman soon joined me.

“My time is short,” he said, “and I have to tell you a great deal; let us sit down.” So saying he led me to a stone bench beneath a spreading oak, and we seated ourselves.

He seemed to observe my being violently agitated, and kept a long and solemn silence to give me time to recover.—“I wish, my dear Duke!”—he at length began, “that you may not expect more from this interview than I am allowed to give. I must confine myself merely to the theoretical part of that occult science to which I have promised to initiate you after the time of probation shall be finished. However, it is here as it is with all other sciences; the pupil of sense guesses by the theory, what he may expect from the practical part of the science—as a painter beholds in a sketch the picture which is to be drawn, or as an architect sees in the plan drawn on the paper the building which is to be constructed; be therefore satisfied with what I dare impart to you for the present.”

“I do not desire you to disclose to me, more than I am able to bear at present.”

The Irishman paused again, and then began thus:

“If our powers of perception were confined only to our senses, the visible world would then encompass all our ideas, sentiments, wishes and hopes. No idea of spirits, of God and of immortality would raise us above the sphere of materiality. In order to produce and to conceive these ideas, a supersensible faculty is required. This faculty which, if closely examined, bears not the least resemblance to the rest of our intellectual powers, is called reason. The idea of the whole sensible world offers nothing to us that is not corporeal, finite, and perishable. However the territory of reason opens to us a prospect to a world without bounds, and of an everlasting duration; displays to us a kingdom of spirits which is governed by one Infinite Spirit after wise and sacred laws. An unknown world of which we had not the most distant notion, of which sensation gives us not the least hint, and for which our senses have no perception nor scale, opens to our view when 110b our reason begins to unfold itself. You see, therefore what faculty of the soul must be our guide in our present investigation, if we wish to penetrate, by means of it, to the kingdom of spirits.”

“Reason!”

“Certainly! there is no other choice left; and therefore let us learn to value and to use this light that illuminates the darkness in which every object disappears from the eyes of mere sensitive men, or at most appears very obscure to them. That man whose reason is overdarkened, or discomposed by sensuality, either will deny the existence of spirits and our relation to them, or attribute to them the contradictory shape which his disordered imagination has hatched out, like the blind-born, who denies the existence of colours as ridiculous and absurd, or if he believes the unanimous testimony of those that see, imagines colours to bear some resemblance to sounds. Unbelief and superstition afford us numberless instances of people of that description. Only the more impartial have always maintained that one ought not to judge precipitately of these objects, and only the wisest of mankind have been able to form a just judgment of them.”

“O Hiermanfor! introduce me to the circle of the latter. I have already in the different periods of my life adhered to all the other parties. In the days of my earlier youth I believed in apparitions, like the most ignorant of the lowest class. In a more advanced period of life I fancied I was convinced of the impossibility of apparitions, and ever since I got acquainted with you, I have been wavering between unbelief and superstition. It was but lately that I resolved to postpone my judgment on these subjects, till I should be better convinced, and this conviction I expect of you.”

(To be continued.)

RUNNERS REMARKABLE FOR SWIFTNESS.

Philippides being sent on a message from the Athenians to the republic of Sparta, to gain their assistance against their enemies the Persians, ran within the compass of two days an hundred and fifty Roman miles and an half.

Under the emperor Leo, the same that succeeded Marcian, there was a Greek named Indacus, a man of extraordinary courage, and of wonderful nimbleness of foot. He was to be seen at parting, but vanished in the twinkling of an eye; he rather seemed to fly than run over mountains and dangerous precipices, and would run farther in a day than any post could ride, though he staid not a minute to change his horse, and having performed his journey, would return back the next day, though there was no occasion for making so much haste, merely because he took delight in running, and never complained of being weary.

In Peru they have Casquis, or foot posts, to carry letters or messages from place to place, who have houses about a league and an half asunder, they running each man to the next, will run fifty leagues in a day and a night.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

A FRAGMENT.

—“But just launched on time’s wide ocean!” exclaims the expiring Edward, “and, Oh! must the farewell be now? Must I now take a long, a last adieu of all I hold dear in life? ’Tis true! He that lays the king on a level with the beggar now calls on me. My glass is almost run; the sands fall fast; the last one now trembles to be gone; tis near the bottom!—it drops! ’tis gone!”——“And there fled thy spirit too,” sobbed out Matilda.

How despotic does Death wield his sceptre! but with what impartiality! It matters not; “the flower just opening into bloom,” or the hoary head that has long been ripening for the grave: He strikes indiscriminately; the young and the aged are alike exposed.

The silken bands of matrimony had but just fastened Edward to Matilda. No tender pledge of their mutual loves had yet blest them. Happiness seemed within their grasp. But, how transient are our pleasures! how fleeting are our joys!—Business had called Edward to the metropolis: On his return he was taken sick. A skilful physician was procured, who gave it as his opinion that his patient had caught the malignant distemper which so greatly prevailed in the capital. But it might give way to medecine, and it was liberally administered for that purpose. Unavailing were the efforts of the doctor to revive the almost expiring lamp of life. In a few days Edward laid down his mortal life, and his spirit took its flight to happier regions.

His amiable partner, to shew the love she bore him, had a marble slab, plain and neat, placed over his grave, on which is this inscription:

Near to this place
Reposeth
EDWARD BLACKRIDGE.
A pattern of unfeigned
Love:
Who was robbed of existence,
While yet in his
Prime.

And at intervals Matilda steals to this spot, and bathes the stone with her tears.

L. B.

New-York, Oct. 1, 1796.

REMARK.

The tears which we strive to hide are the most affecting. The violence we thus do ourselves shows both courage and sensibility.—In like manner, laughter is never more strong than when we endeavour to suppress it. Every opposition strengthens desire: the wave which meets with obstacles, foams, becomes impetuous, or rises into the air.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening last by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Doctor William Doll of Colchester, to Miss Sophia Christina Bauman, daughter of Col. Sebastian Bauman of this city.

At Norwalk, on Monday evening the 26th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Ogilvie, Mr. James Jarvis of this city, to Miss Betsey Mott of that place.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

MILITARY FAME.

REFLECTIONS IN A CHURCH-YARD.

ON MY BEARD.—a sonnet.

THE DOCTORS’ DUEL.

THE EXTENT OF LIFE’S VARIETY.

EPIGRAM.

ON SEEING THE SERVANT OF A SCOUNDREL BEAT HIS MASTER’S COAT.

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.

HYMNS

Of the native Peruvians, used at the solemn worship of the Sun, which they adore as chief of their Gods. Extracted from the Incas, by Marmontel, a beautiful work, combining all the elegancies of language, the embellishments of fancy, and the charms of historical narration. It it intended for publication in 2 vols. by the Editor.

CHORUS OF THE INCAS.

Soul of the universe! thou which from the heights of Heaven ceases not to pour forth, in one great stream of light, the principles of warmth, of life, and of fertility; O Sun! receive the vows of thy children, and of a happy people who adore thee!

PONTIFF ALONE.

O King! whose lofty throne blazes with immortal splendor, with what awful majesty dost thou reign in the vast empire of the sky! When thou appearest in thy glory, and shakest the sparkling diadem that adorns thy head, thou art the delight of the earth! thou art the pride of Heaven! Whither are they fled, those fires which so late bespangled the veil of night? Could they abide the majesty of thy presence? Did it not please thee to retire, and give them liberty to come forth and shew themselves, they would remain swallowed up for ever in the abyss of thy effulgence. Their place would be no where to be found.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.

O delight of the world! Happy the wives who reign in thy celestial court! How beautiful art thou at thy awaking! How magnificent the ceremonies of thy rising! What charms are scattered by thy presence! The fair companions of thy slumbers undraw the purple curtains of the pavilion where thou reposest, and thy first looks dispel the vast obscurity of night. Oh, with what joy must nature have been transported at receiving thy first visit! Surely she remembers it: nor ever does she greet thy return without experiencing those tender yearnings which a fond daughter feels at the return of her long absent father.

THE PONTIFF ALONE.

Soul of the universe! but for thee, the vast ocean were but a motionless and frozen lump: the earth a barren heap of sand and mud; the atmosphere a gloomy void. Thou cherishedst the elements with thy vivifying and genial warmth; the air became fluid and insinuating, the waters moist and yielding, the earth animated and fruitful. Every thing took life; every thing wore the face of beauty. The elements, those universal parents which till then had lain fast locked in the chill arms of rest, now moved into alliance. The fire slid into the bosom of the waters: the waters parting into vapour, flew aloft, and spread themselves through the air: from the air, the earth received into her womb the precious rudiments of fertility: then began she to bring forth the unceasing fruits of that ever-renewing love, first kindled by thy rays.

CHORUS OF INCAS.

Soul of the universe! O Sun! art thou alone the Author of all the good thou bringest us? Or art thou but the minister of a First Cause; an intelligence superior to thee? If it be thy own will that guides thee, receive the effusions of our gratitude: if thou dost but accomplish the will of a Supreme Invisible Being, cause our vows to come unto him; how should it but please him to be adored in thee, his brightest image?

THE PEOPLE.

Soul of the universe! Father of Manco! Father of our kings! O Sun! protect thy people, and make thy children prosper!

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

DISCONTENT.

Dionysus Senior, though he was the richest and most potent tyrant in his time, yet was exceedingly afflicted and discontented in his mind, because he could not make better verses than the poet Philoxenus, and dispute more learnedly than Plato the philosopher; therefore in great wrath and vexation, he threw one into a dungeon, and drove the other into banishment.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 107.)

I returned home in a state of desperation. The odious names which Pulaski had lavished on me, returned unceasingly to my reflection. The interests of Poland, and those of M. de P——, appeared to be so intimately connected together, that I did not perceive in what manner I could betray my fellow-citizens by serving my friend; in the mean time I was obliged either to abandon or renounce Lodoiska for ever. What was I to resolve? what part should I take? I passed the whole night in a state of the most cruel uncertainty; and when the day appeared, I went towards Pulaski’s house, without yet having come to any determination.

The only domestic who remained there informed me, that his lord had departed at the beginning of the night, with his daughter, after having first dismissed all his people. Think of my despair on hearing this news. I asked to what part Pulaski had retired. But my question was in vain, he informed me that he was certainly ignorant of the place of his destination.

“All that I can tell you,” says he, “is that you had scarce gone away yesterday evening, when we heard a great noise in the apartment of his daughter. Still terrified at the scene which had taken place between you, I approached the door, and listened. Lodoiska wept: her furious father overwhelmed her with injuries, bestowed his malediction upon her, and I myself heard him exclaim: ‘To love a traitor, is to be one! Ungrateful wretch! I shall conduct you to a place of safety, where you shall henceforth be at a distance from seduction.’”

Could I any longer doubt the extent of my misery? I instantly called for Boleslas, one of the most faithful of my domestics: I ordered him to place trusty spies about the palace of Pulaski, who should bring an account of every thing that passed there; and commanded that if the count returned to the capital before me, he should follow him wherever he went. Having given these instructions, and not yet despairing of still finding the family at one of their seats in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, I myself set out in pursuit of my mistress.

I accordingly searched through all the domains of Pulaski, and asked concerning Lodoiska of all the passengers whom I met, but without success. After having spent eight days in fruitless enquiry, I resolved to return to Warsaw, and I was not a little astonished, on my arrival, to find a Russian army encamped on the banks of the Vistula, almost under the very walls of that city.

It was night when I entered the capital: the palaces of the grandees were all illuminated, an immense multitude filled the streets; I heard the songs of joy; I beheld wine flowing in rivulets in the public squares: every thing announced to me that Poland had a king.

Boleslas, who expected me with impatience, informed me that Pulaski had returned alone on the second day after my departure; and that he had not stirred from his own palace but to repair to the diet, where, in spite of his efforts, the ascendancy of Russia became every day more manifest. “During the last assembly held this very morning,” adds he, “M. de P—— united almost all the suffrages in his favour, and was about to be declared king, when Pulaski pronounced the fatal Veto: at that instant twenty sabres were brandished in the air. The fierce palatine of ————, whom the count had insulted in the former assembly, was the first to rush forwards, and gave him a terrible wound on the head. Zaremba, and some others, flew to the defence of their friend; but all their efforts would have been unable to have saved him, if M. de P———— had not ranged himself on their side, exclaiming at the same time, that he would sacrifice, with his own hand, the first person who dared to approach him. On this the assailants retired. In the mean time Pulaski, fainting with the loss of blood, was carried off the field in a state of insensibility. Zaremba departed also, swearing to avenge his friend. Having thus become master of the deliberations, the numerous partisans of M. de P————, instantly proclaimed him sovereign.

“Pulaski, who had been carried to his palace, was soon restored to life; and the surgeons who attended him, declared that his wounds, although dangerous, were not mortal. In that state, although languishing under the most cruel torments, contrary to the advice of all his friends, he ordered himself to be lifted into his carriage, and before noon he left Warsaw, accompanied by Mazeppa and a few male-contents.”

It was scarcely possible to have announced worse news to me. My friend was upon the throne, but my reconciliation with Pulaski appeared henceforth impossible, and in all appearance Lodoiska was lost for ever. I knew her father so well as to be under apprehensions lest he should proceed to extremities with his daughter. I was affrighted at the present, I durst not look forwards towards the future; and my heart was so devoured with chagrin, that I did not go out, even to felicitate the new king.

One of my people, whom Boleslas dispatched after Pulaski, returned at the end of the fourth day: he had followed him fifteen leagues from the capital; when, about that distance, Zaremba, who perceived a stranger at a little distance from the carriage, began to conceive suspicions. As they proceeded, four of his followers, who had concealed themselves behind the ruins of an old house, surprised my courier, and conducted him to Pulaski. He, with a pistol in his hand, forced him to acknowledge to whom he belonged. “I shall send you back to Lovzinski,” 115 said the fierce republican, “on purpose to announce from me, that he shall not escape my just vengeance.” At these words they blindfolded my servant, who could not tell where they had carried him. At the end of four-and-twenty hours they resumed, and tying a handkerchief once more about his eyes they put him into a carriage, which having stopped at length, after a journey of several hours, he was ordered to descend. Scarce had he put his foot upon the ground but his guards departed at a full gallop; on which he removed the bandage, and found himself precisely on the same spot as that on which he had been first arrested.

This intelligence filled me with uneasiness; the menaces of Pulaski terrified me, much less on my own account than on Lodoiska’s, who remained in his power: in the midst of his fury he might sacrifice her life! I resolved therefore to expose myself to every species of danger, on purpose to discover the retreat of the father, and the prison of his only child.

On the succeeding day, after informing my sisters of my design, I left the capital: Boleslas alone accompanied me, and I passed for his brother. We wandered over all Poland, and I then perceived that the fears of Pulaski were but too well justified by the event. Under pretence of obliging the inhabitants to take the oath of fidelity to the new King, the Russians, scattered about in the provinces, desolated the country, and committed a multitude of exactions in the cities.

After having spent three months in vain enquiries, despairing of being able to find Lodoiska, touched with the most lively grief for the fate of my country, and weeping at one and the same time for her misfortunes and my own, I was about to return to Warsaw, to inform the new king of the excesses committed by those foreigners in his states, when an adventure that at first seemed to be very inauspicious, forced me to a very different resolution.

The Turks having declared war against Russia, the Tartars of Budziac and the Crimea made frequent incursions into Volhynia, where I then was. Four of those robbers attacked us one afternoon, as we were leaving a wood near Ostropol. I had imprudently neglected to load my pistols; but I made use of my sabre with so much address and good luck, that in a short time, two of them fell covered with wounds. Boleslas encountered the third: the fourth attacked me with great fury; he gave me a slight cut upon the leg, but received a terrible stroke in return, that dismounted him from his horse, and felled him to the ground. Boleslas at the same moment perceived himself disencumbered from his enemy, who, at the noise made by his comrade’s fall, took to flight. He whom I had just vanquished, then addressed me in very bad Polish, and said: “a brave man like you ought to be generous. I beg my life of you; instead of putting me to death, succour me, relieve me, bind up my wounds, and assist me to arise.”

He demanded quarter with an air so noble, that I did not hesitate for a moment. I accordingly descend from my horse, and Boleslas and myself having helped him to 115b arise, we dressed his wounds. “You behave well!” says the Tartar to me; “you behave well!” As he spoke we beheld a cloud of dust, and in a moment after more than three hundred Tartars rushed upon us at full speed. “Be not afraid, dread nothing,” says he whom I had spared; “I am chief of this troop.” Accordingly, by means of a sign, he stops his followers, who were on the point of massacring us; and speaking to them in their own language, which I was unable to comprehend, they instantly open their ranks on purpose to permit us to pass.

“Brave man,” exclaims their captain, addressing himself to me once more, “had I not reason to say that you behaved well? You left me my life, and I now save yours; it is sometimes right to spare an enemy, and even a robber! Hear me, my friend: in attacking you, I followed my profession, and you did your duty in conquering me. I pardon you, you have already pardoned me; let us therefore embrace.”—He then adds: “The day is wasting, and I would not advise you to travel in these cantons during the present night. My people are about to repair each to his respective post, and I cannot answer for their discretion. You perceive a castle on a rising ground, towards the right: it belongs to a certain Pole of the name of Dourlinski, for whom we have a high esteem, because he is very rich. Go, demand an asylum from him; tell him that you have wounded Titsikan, and that Titsikan pursues you. He is acquainted with my name: I have already made him pass many an uneasy night. As to the rest, you may rely on it, that while you remain with him, his castle shall be sacred; but be careful not to come forth on any account before the end of three days, and not to remain there longer than eight.---Adieu!”

It was with unfeigned pleasure that we took leave of Titsikan and his companions. The advice of the Tartar was a command: I therefore said to Boleslas; “Let us immediately make for the castle that he has now pointed out to us; I am well acquainted with this same Dourlinski by name, Pulaski has sometimes spoken to me concerning him: he perhaps is not ignorant of the place to which the Count has retired; and it is not impossible but that with a little address we may be able to draw the secret from him. I shall say at all events that we are sent by Pulaski, and this recommendation will be of more service to us than that of Titsikan: in the mean time, Boleslas, do not forget that I am your brother, and be sure not to discover me.” 

(To be continued.)

REMARK.

There are people, whose conversation or presence always excites languor in others: these are men who, by the void in their minds, communicate weariness; or who are fatiguing by a superabundance of uninteresting conversation; thus want and superfluity are sources of languor.

PERFECT FRIENDSHIP.

Seneca has observed, and justly, that a great man struggling with adversity, and bearing its attacks with fortitude, is a sight worthy of the gods. But a sight, as interesting, if not more so, is that of a virtuous mind, oppressed by calumny, with the ability to elude its shafts, yet cheerfully opposing itself to their force, for some secret but worthy purpose.

Fouquet, intendant of the finances to Lewis the Fourteenth, after living in the greatest splendor, enjoying the unlimited favour and confidence of his master, and seeing his levees crowded by the first nobles in the land, fell into disgrace, and was sent to the Bastile. He experienced the common fate of all favourites in disgrace; forsaken by his friends, and persecuted by his foes, the courtiers in general viewed his ruin with pleasure, and charitably resolved to complete his destruction. The envious and the disappointed had found means to prejudice his sovereign against him, and his displeasure was the signal of hatred and persecution to the fawning crew that surrounded his throne. Adulation is coeval with monarchy; and no king probably ever deserved implicit obedience from his subjects more than Lewis the Fourteenth*, on whom nature had conferred every quality that could excite awe, or command respect; the majesty of his person seemed one of his first claims to sovereignty. It has been remarked, that but very few of those who were so unfortunate to incur the displeasure of this prince, could survive the loss of his favour†. Fouquet is one of the few. He was well aware, however, of the extreme danger to which he was exposed; and among an infinity of motives for serious apprehension, the intendant regarded the examination of his papers as one of the most certain causes of his ruin. This consideration greatly encreased the anxiety occasioned by his confinement; if he could but have destroyed those unfortunate papers previous to his detention, he should not have so much dreaded the machinations of his enemies, however ingeniously formed, or inveterately pursued.

In the midst of these alarms for his situation, he received the dreadful news that Pélisson, his secretary, and his friend, had openly declared himself his accuser, and was soon to be confronted with him. Shocked at the intelligence, his courage forsook him, and he gave way to despair.

This action of Pélisson’s soon made a noise in the world, and excited the most lively sensations of resentment in the minds of the public, who so seldom interest themselves in the fate of the unfortunate. Every body exclaimed that he was the most base and most criminal of 116b mankind! Loaded with the benefactions of his master, honoured with his particular confidence,—his friend, in short—he stands forward in the infamous light of a public informer, and is about to stab him to the heart.

Pélisson, could not be ignorant of these reports to his prejudice, which encreased every day; at length they attained to such a height, that some worthy members of society took the resolution publicly to reproach him with the baseness of his conduct, wherever they met him. The secretary, though now an object of contempt, preserved his tranquility, and appeared wholly indifferent to every thing that was said to him. The few friends who still remained true to the interests of the unfortunate minister, went to Pélisson’s house, and by alternate threats, entreaties, and supplications, endeavoured to deter him from his purpose, but in vain; he remained firm, and persisted in his resolution of speaking the truth, and of accusing Fouquet to his face. It must be observed that the prisoner, during this time, was invisible to every one but his judges, who were his greatest enemies, and many of whom, in violation of every principle of justice, had openly declared their intention of finding him guilty.

At length the day arrived on which Pélisson was to prefer his accusation, and incur the atrocious sin of ingratitude. The doors of the Bastile are opened to him: he is confronted with his master, who exclaims, “Ah Pélisson, is it you? Are you my enemy, too?—Alas! I mistook you for my friend!”—The secretary, far from being disconcerted at this exclamation, began to fulfil the task he had undertaken, with all the impudence of the most hardened calumniator; he taxed Fouquet with crimes which were totally destitute of foundation, and which he hastened to contradict, with the manly firmness of conscious innocence. “That is not true,” said he, interrupting Pélisson, “you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus gross, and not blush with shame?”—“Oh,” replied Pélisson, whose countenance betrayed the most violent indignation, “you would not dare to contradict me, with so much assurance, if you did not know that your papers were burnt.”

These last words flashed conviction on the mind of Fouquet, who immediately perceived the wonderful address of Pélisson, and the generosity of his soul. He perceived that his secretary, firm and unshaken in his friendship, had burned his papers, and had conceived the design—the only one that could be possibly adopted—of becoming the accuser, in order to gain admittance to his inaccessible prison, that he might make him acquainted with the important service he had rendered him. The intendant, ashamed of his unjust suspicions, and anxious to make amends for them, cast a look on Pélisson, which gave him to understand that he had perfectly understood him, and was penetrated with the most lively sensations of gratitude for his conduct.

The secretary, feeling the complete satisfaction at the success of his project, still continued to expose himself to the scorn and indignation of the public. Considered as the basest of mankind, he experienced every species of insult; while conscious integrity insured to him that serenity of soul, which was regarded as the hardened effrontery of a mind wholly callous to shame.

It was not till some time after that the truth came to be known. The scene then changed. Pélisson became the object of general admiration, and of enthusiastic esteem, that bordered on veneration; but he still preserved the same serenity of mind, and displayed the same indifference to merited praise, as he had before shewn to unmerited censure. Whenever his friends expatiated on his unshaken firmness, and extraordinary heroism, the worthy stoic replied—“That man must appear of little consequence in his own eyes, whose moral existence depends merely on the opinion of others! It is our place to fix a just value on ourselves before others attempt to appreciate us. I did but fulfil my duty in serving a man to whom I did not chuse to be an impotent or useless friend: the title of friend imposes on those who bear it essential obligations, which I have endeavoured to discharge; I have given more than my life: I have suffered myself to be polluted by the imputation of vice and dishonour; because it was the only means of serving the friend I loved. What made me amends for the mean opinion which the public entertained of me?—The good opinion I entertained of myself. That paid me amply for the effects of prejudice which was founded in injustice. Virtue is but mental fortitude; and I exerted the whole of mine, to be able to brave the opinion of all mankind. You now see, there are occasions which require a man to raise himself above that solemn judgment to which every human being must generally submit. You must permit me, however, to give you one piece of advice. Another time be less prompt to decide on the merits of a man who enjoys some reputation for probity; and be assured, that he can never be on a sudden converted into the vilest of rogues. The friend of Fouquet could not act in a manner so contrary to his natural disposition.”

Philosophy—adds the relator of this anecdote—will have attained to its highest degree of perfection, when it shall have enforced the conviction. That virtue is infinitely superior to talents. By virtue alone can the duties we owe to society, and to ourselves, be properly discharged.

GLEANINGS.

Man is not more superior to a brute, than one man is to another by the mere force of wisdom. Wisdom is the sole destroyer of equality, the fountain of honour, and the only mark by which one man, for ten minutes together, can be known from another.

Were men always skilful they would never use craft or treachery. That men are so cunning, arises from the littleness of their minds, which, if it can conceal itself in one place, quickly discovers itself in another.

Cunning men, like jugglers, are only versed in two or three little tricks, while wisdom excels in the whole circle of action.

The cunning man and the wise man differ not only in point of honesty, but ability. He that can pack the cards, does not always play well.

I have a right to hold my tongue, and to be silent at all times; but if I speak to another, I have no right to make him answer for me just as I please.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 110.)

“I will not disappoint your hope; however, I must repeat once more that I can lead you to truth by no other road but that of reason purified from all sensual dregs. You will find it difficult to pursue that road, and it will be no easy task to me to guide you. I shall be obliged to avoid all emblematic language, in order to convey to your mind these supersensible notions in their natural purity, and it will be necessary that you should know how to apply the abstractest and purest notions, although they should contradict your present manner of perception.”

“I shall at least not be wanting in attention and good-will.”

“First of all it will be necessary to agree in the notion of what is called spirit. The best method of fixing that notion will be to examine what the word spirit means according to the general rules of language. If one man says, man consists of body and spirit, by the former a corporeal, and by the latter an incorporeal being is understood. We have, therefore, a common point from which we can proceed in our investigation. Spirit is opposite to body. In this point we agree according to the most general meaning and use of the word.”

“I do.”

“Let us see what follows thence! Every body is a compounded, extended, impenetrable being, subject to the laws of motion, consequently, every spirit is a simple, unextended and penetrable being, not subject to the laws of motion.”

“Exactly so!”

“Bodies are extended, that is they occupy a room, and the proportion which one body bears to the other in point of room, constitutes its place; spirits are not extended, and consequently exist in no room, and in no place.”

“How am I to understand this?”

“Just as I have said.—But let me elucidate my argument. Why cannot two bodies exist at the same time, in the same space? Because they exclude each other on account of their extension and impenetrability. Two bodies must, of course, occupy two different places, if existing at the same time; that is, every individual body must occupy its own individual place. And why must every body occupy its own place?”

“Because of its expansion and impenetrability.”

“Very well! But these two qualities cannot appertain to a spirit, and, consequently, a spirit can occupy no place.”

“This seems really to follow.”

“This argument can also be stated thus: a spirit has, as a simple being, neither a right nor left, neither a front nor a back side, and consequently can have no relation from no side to any thing that occupies a space. The conclusion is very palpable.”

“Then a spirit could occupy no room in the whole material world?”

“Would you perhaps assign to spirits a place in the immaterial world? How could you imagine, without contradiction, that space or place can exist in such a world? If one spirit does not occupy a room, then all spirits together can occupy none, how could therefore any proportion exist among them with relation to space or place?”

“I comprehend and do not comprehend you. You want to convince me of the possibility of apparitions of spirits, and deny the existence of spirits; for if they do occupy no place either in the visible or invisible world, where else can they exist?”

“How sensitive and confused your ideas are! Don’t you perceive that your question is equal to this: in which place do spirits exist? and that, of course, you premise in your question what I have just clearly proved to be absurd. Do you not comprehend that room and place are nothing else but external qualities, only relations of material things? and do you believe that the existence of any being depends merely on external qualities and material relations?”

“Have patience with me!”

“I have; for I am well aware how difficult it is to abstract from material ideas; however, since they cannot be applicable to spirits we must renounce them, else we cannot pass over the bounds of the material world.”

“I intreat you, Hiermanfor, to go on!”

“From our investigation we have learnt, as yet, nothing farther than what a spirit is not, and what attributes cannot be ascribed to it. We now must endeavour to state what real qualities constitute the nature of spirits. One of them we have already touched upon; I mean, independence of the laws of physical nature, or arbitrary choice. A second quality presses upon us, namely the faculty of perception, which our soul is endowed with like all other spirits. And now we are enabled to form a notion of spirits, which, however imperfect it be, yet is determined: a spirit is a simple being, endowed with arbitrary choice, and the faculty of perception. Don’t you think that this definition answers the common manner of speaking.”

“An additional proof of its fitness.”

“In the same manner in which the body evinces its existence, by the material effect it produces in the room, the spirit likewise proves its existence by the manifestation of its faculty of perception and of free will. However evident and generally received this proposition is, yet it is misapplied very frequently; for it is, according to my premises, absolutely false, and nothing else but a kind of optic illusion, if we imagine our soul to be inclosed in the human body, nay even in some particular place of it. This illusion may be opposed by another: there are diversions of thought, in which the thinking principle leaves our body so entirely, that only the animal powers are active in the latter, and on the return of our awakening self-consciousness, the soul seems to return from far distant regions. However, 118b this too is mere illusion. We can say nothing farther of the union which subsists between our soul and body, than that our soul is sensible of the existence of a corporeal organ, the mutations of which harmonise exactly with her ideas and resolutions; however, as you never will suppose that your spirit is inclosed by the walls of Amelia’s distant habitation, where your whole soul, with all her sentiments and ideas, is, as it were, translated to; so your spirit can also not be supposed to be inclosed in your body, which seems to be its common residence. No, no, my Lord, that cannot be! the bonds of space can never fetter an immaterial being to a material one.”

“This is indeed the natural conclusion which flows from your premises; but by what bonds should then the communion between body and soul be preserved?”

“Your question refers to a fact, the answer to it, consequently, belongs to the practical part of this philosophy. Yet,” added the Irishman after some reflections, “I can give you a hint upon that head, which will throw some light upon it: Every substance, consequently the body too, must possess an internal activity, that is the invisible cause of its external actions, which are visible in the space. This internal principle of the body, acts upon the spirit in the same manner in which the spirit acts upon this principle. Soul and body, consequently, cannot act upon each other immediately, but only by means of this principle. As all material beings, concretively taken, compose a great totum, which is called the physical world, so the concrete of all immaterial beings composes what we call the immaterial world. It follows from the antecedent, that the order, regularity, and union which are seen in the former world, are entirely different from the order, regularity, and union which prevails in the latter world. All material beings are subject to the sceptre of stern necessity, and kept in order by physical laws; the rank which these beings maintain towards one another, is founded either on innate qualities, or such as have been attributed to them by general agreement; and they are nearer each other, or more distant from one another, according to their relations constituted by space and time. How different is this in the material world! rational beings, endowed with free will, are subject to no other laws but to those of morality; the prerogatives and degrees which subsist among them, depend on the different degrees of their wisdom and virtue, and according to the similarity or difference of their manner of thinking, and of their sentiments, they are nearer each other, or more distant from one another; that is, they harmonize, or disharmonize. Man belongs, by virtue of his body and soul, to both of these worlds, and, consequently, is connected with the material and immaterial world. It may therefore happen, that the same person who acts an important part on earth, in virtue of his physical or political situation, occupies at the same time the lowest degree among the super-terrestrial beings; that the soul of a body whose beauty charms every eye here below, is an indifferent, or a contemptible object in the spiritual world; that the soul 119 of an inhabitant of Saturn, and that of an inhabitant of the earth, with regard to their spiritual communion, are oftentimes, nearer neighbours than the souls of those whose abode is beneath the same roof.”

“This is very plain!”

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CHARACTER OF A GOOD MAN.

Agatho makes the interest of mankind, in a manner, his own; and has a tender and affectionate concern for their welfare; he cannot think himself happy, whatever his possessions and his preferments are, while he sees others miserable; his power and wealth delight him chiefly, as the poor and indigent are better for it; and the greatest charm of prosperity is the advantage it affords of relieving his fellow-creatures; and to give assistance and support, according to the various exigencies of those with whom he converses, is his constant endeavour; and that he may practice the more large and generous charity, he retrenches useless pomp and expence, esteeming that a much more sublime and noble gratification than the amusements and gallantries of a vain and luxurious age. In fine, he is unwearied in his endeavours to promote the happiness of others, and he not only takes all opportunities that present themselves of doing good, but seeks all occasions to be useful, though he has frequently met with ungrateful returns——He is good.

ANECDOTE.

Sir William Lilly, a famous painter in the reign of king Charles I. had at a certain agreement drawn the picture of a rich citizen of London to the life, that was not indebted to nature either for face or proportion of body; but when the citizen came to fetch it away, he refused to give Sir William so much money, as they had agreed for, because, as he alleged, if the owner did not buy it, it would lie upon his hands. “That’s your mistake,” says the painter, “for I can sell it for double the price I demand.” “How can that be,” says the citizen, “for ’tis like nobody but myself?” “’Tis true,” says Sir William, “but I will draw a tail to it, and then it will be the best piece for a monkey in England.” Upon which the citizen rather than be exposed, paid down his money and took away his picture.

MAXIMS.

What gold is in the crucible that refines it, the learned man is in his country.

The wise and learned in his own opinion, is but an ignorant person in the eyes of God and men.

It is less difficult to divert a wicked man from his iniquitous schemes, than to dispel the sorrows of a heart that permits grief to prey upon it.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday last, by the Rev. Mr. Beach, Mr. Garland Davies, to Miss Elizabeth Barton, both of this city.

On Thursday evening, the 29th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Woodhull, Mr. William Lawrence, merchant, to Miss Margaret Van Horne, daughter of Mr. James Van Horne, merchant, late of this city, deceased.

On Saturday evening last by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Daniel Paris, Esq. of Montgomery county, to Miss Kitty Irving, daughter of Mr. William Irving of this city.

The same evening, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Jonas Mapes, to Miss Elizabeth Tylee, daughter of Mr. James Tylee of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Thomas Ringwood, Printer, to Miss Catharine Herbert, both of this city.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

ON THE AUTHOR’S READING TO HER STERNE’S
BEAUTIFUL STORY OF MARIA.

THE REPARTEE.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO EMMA.

SOLILOQUY TO LOVE.

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

REFLECTIONS ON THE HARMONY OF SENSIBILITY AND REASON.

SINCERITY.

A little judgment, with less sensibility, makes a man cunning; a little more feeling, with even less reason, would make him sincere.

Some have no more knowledge of humanity, than just serves them to put on an appearance of it, to answer their own base and selfish purposes.

He who prefers cunning to sincerity, is insensible to the disgrace and suspicion which attend craft and deceit, and the social satisfaction which the generous mind finds in honesty and plain-dealing.

Men who know not the pleasures of sincerity, and who traffic in deceit, barter an image of kindness for a shadow of joy, and are deceived more than they deceive.

PASSION.

Let us suppose an end of Passion, there must be an end of reasoning. Passion alone can correct Passion. Thus we forego a present pleasure, in hopes that we shall afterwards enjoy a greater pleasure, or of longer duration: or suffer a present pain, to escape a greater; and this is called an act of the judgment. He who gives way to the dictates of present passion, without consulting experience, listens to a partial evidence, and must of course determine wrongfully.

Some, in order to pay a false compliment to sentimental pleasures, attempt altogether to depreciate the pleasures of sense: with as little justice, though with like plausibility, have men endeavoured to decry the natural passions and affections as inconsistent with human felicity. Not from our natural desires and passions do we suffer misery; for, without these, what pleasure can we be supposed to enjoy? But from false desires, or diseased appetites, acting without the aid of experience and understanding.

He who commits an action which debases him in his own mind, besides its other evil consequences, lays up a 121b store of future misery, which will haunt him as long as the memory of the deed remains.

Along with the present effects of any action, in order to judge of it aright, we must put in the balance also its future consequences, and consider, on one side, the satisfaction and honour; on the other, the evil and disgrace that may attend it.

Magnanimity exercises itself in contempt of labours and pains, in order to avoid greater pains, or overtake greater pleasures.

TEMPERANCE.

The great rule of sensual pleasures is to use them so as they may not destroy themselves, or be divorced from the pleasures of sentiment; but rather as they are assisted by, and mutually assisting to, the more refined and exalted sympathy of rational enjoyment.

Men ever refine the meaning of the word pleasure to what pleases themselves: gluttons imagine, that by pleasure is meant gluttony. The only true epicures are such as enjoy the pleasures of temperance. Small pleasures seem great to such as know no greater. The virtuous man is he who has sense enough to enjoy the greatest pleasure.

Superfluity and parade among the vulgar-rich pass for elegance and greatness. To the man of true taste, temperance is luxury, and simplicity grandeur.

Whatever pleasures are immediately derived from the senses, persons of fine internal feelings enjoy besides their other pleasures; while such as place their chief happiness in the former, can have no true taste for the delicious sensations of the soul.

They who divide profit and honesty, mistake the nature of the one or the other. We must make a difference between appearances and truths: the really profitable and the good are the same.

False appearances of profit are the greatest enemies to true interest. Future sorrows present themselves in the disguise of present pleasures, and short-sighted folly eagerly embraces the deceit.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 115.)

We soon arrived at the ditch of the castle; the servants of Dourlinski demanded who we were; I answered that we were come from Pulaski, and wished to speak to their lord, and that we had been attacked by robbers, who were still in pursuit of us. The drawbridge was accordingly let down; and having entered, we were informed that at present we could not see Dourlinski, but that on the next day at ten o’clock he would give us audience. They then demanded our arms, which we delivered up without any difficulty, and Boleslas soon after took an opportunity of looking at my wound, which was found to be but superficial.

In a short time a frugal repast was served up for us in the kitchen. We were afterwards conducted to a lower chamber, where two beds were prepared for us. The domestics then left us without any light, and immediately locked the door of the apartment.

I could not close my eyes during the whole night. Titsikan had given me but a slight wound, but that which my heart had received was so very deep! At day break, I became impatient in my prison, and wished to open the shutters, but they were nailed up. I attacked them, however, so vigorously, that the fastenings gave way, and I beheld a very fine park. The window being low, I cleared it at a leap, and in a single instant found myself in the gardens of the Polish chieftain.

After having walked about for a few minutes, I sat down on a stone bench, which was placed at the foot of a tower, whose ancient architecture I had been some time considering. I remained for a few seconds enveloped in reflection, when a tile fell at my feet. I thought that it had dropped from the roof of this old building; and, to avoid the effects of a similar accident, I went and placed myself at the other end of the seat. A few moments after, a second tile fell by my side. The circumstance appeared surprising: I arose with some degree of inquietude, and attentively examined the tower. I perceived at about twenty-five or thirty feet from the ground, a narrow opening. On this I picked up the tiles which had been thrown at me, and on the first I discovered the following words, written with a bit of plaister;

“LOVZINSKI, is it you! Do you still live!”

And on the second these:

“Deliver me! save Lodoiska.”

It is impossible to conceive how many different sentiments occupied my mind at one and the same time: my astonishment, my joy, my grief, my embarrassment, cannot be expressed. I examined 122b once more the prison of Lodoiska, and plotted in my own mind how I could procure her liberty. She at length threw down another tile, and I read as follows:

“At midnight, bring me paper, ink, and pens; and to-morrow, an hour after sun-rise, come and receive a letter.————Begone.”—

Having returned towards my chamber, I called to Boleslas, who assisted me in re-entering through the window. I then informed my faithful servant, of the unexpected accident that had put an end to my wanderings, and redoubled my inquietude.

How could I penetrate into this tower? How could we procure arms? By what means were we to deliver Lodoiska from captivity! How could we carry her off under the eye of Dourlinski, in the midst of his people, from a fortified castle? and supposing that so many obstacles were not unsurmountable, could I attempt such an enterprize during the short delay prescribed by Titsikan?

Did not the Tartar enjoin me to stay with Dourlinski three days, but not to remain longer than eight?

Would it not be to expose ourselves to the attacks of the enemy, to leave this castle before the third, or after the expiration of the eighth day? Should I release my dear Lodoiska from a prison, on purpose to deliver her into the hands of robbers, to be forever separated from her either by slavery or death? This would be a horrible idea!

But wherefore was she confined in such a frightful prison? The letter which she had promised would doubtless instruct me: It was therefore necessary to procure paper, pen and ink. I accordingly charged Boleslas with this employment, and began to prepare myself for acting the delicate part of an emissary of Pulaski in the presence of Dourlinski.

It was broad day-light when they came to set us at liberty, and inform us, that Dourlinski was at leisure and wished to see us. We accordingly presented ourselves before him with great confidence; and we were introduced to a man of about sixty years of age, whose reception was blunt, and whose manners were repulsive. He demanded who we were. “My brother and myself,” replied I, “belong to Count Pulaski. My master has entrusted me with a secret commission to you. My brother accompanies me on another account. Before I explain, I must be in private, for I am charged not to speak but to you alone.”

“It is very well,” replies Dourlinski: “your brother may retire, and you also,” addressing himself to his servants; “begone! As to him (pointing to a person who was his confident), he must remain, and you may speak any thing before him.”

“Pulaski has sent me.”————“I see very well that he has sent you,” says the palatine, interrupting me——“to demand of you—” “What?”————“news of his daughter.”—“News of his daughter! Did Pulaski say so?”————“Yes my lord, he said that his daughter 123 was here.”---I perceived that Dourlinski instantly grew pale; he then looked towards his confident, and surveyed me for some time in silence.

“You astonish me,” rejoins he at length. “In confiding a secret of this importance to you, it necessarily follows that your master must have been very imprudent.”

“No more than you, my lord, for have not you also a confident? Grandees would be much to be pitied if they could not rely upon any of their domestics. Pulaski has charged me to inform you, that Lovsinski has already searched through a great part of Poland, and that he will undoubtedly visit these cantons.”

“If he dares to come here,” replies he with great vivacity, “I will provide a lodging for him, which he shall inhabit for some time. Do you know this Lovsinski?”

“I have seen him at my master’s house in Warsaw.”—“They say he is handsome?”

“He is well made, and about my size.”

“His person?---is prepossessing; it is————”

“He is a wretch,” adds he, interrupting me in a great passion———“O that he were but to fall into my hands!”

“My lord, they say that he is brave---”

“He! I will wager any sum of money that he is only calculated to seduce women!---O that he would but fall into my hands!” Then, assuming a less ferocious tone, he continued thus. “It is a long time since Pulaski wrote to me---where is he at present?”

“My lord, I have precise orders not to answer that question: all that I dare to say is, that he has the strongest reasons for neither discovering the place of his retreat, nor writing to any person, and that he will soon come and explain them to you in person.”

Dourlinski appeared exceedingly astonished at this information; I could discover some symptoms of fear in his countenance. At length, looking at his confident, who seemed equally embarrassed with himself, he proceeded: “You say that Pulaski will come here soon?”---“Yes, my lord, in about a fortnight, or a little later.” On this he again turned to his attendant; but in a short time affecting as much calmness as he had before discovered embarrassment; “Return to your master”, added he; “I am sorry to have nothing but bad news to communicate to him————tell him that Lodoiska is no longer here.” I myself became surprised in my turn at this information. “What! my lord, Lodoiska————”

“Is not longer here, I tell you!————To oblige Pulaski, whom I esteem, I undertook, although with great repugnance, the talk of confining his daughter in my castle: nobody but myself and he (pointing to his confident) knew that she was here. It is about a month since we went, as usual, to carry her provisions for the day, but there was nobody in the apartment. I am ignorant how it happened; but what I know well is, that she has escaped, for I have heard nothing of her since.---She must undoubtedly have gone to join Lovsinski 123b at Warsaw, if perchance the Tartars have not intercepted her in her journey.”

My astonishment on this became extreme. How could I reconcile that which I had seen in the garden, with that which Dourlinski now told me? There was some mystery in this business, which I became exceedingly impatient to be acquainted with: I was however extremely careful not to exhibit any appearance of doubt. “My lord,” said I, “this is bad news for my master!”————“Undoubtedly, but it is not my fault.”

“My lord, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“Let me hear it.”———“The Tartars are ravaging the neighbourhood of your castle—they attacked us———we escaped as it were by a miracle. Will you permit my brother and myself to remain here only for the space of two days?”

“For two days only I give my consent.”

“Where do they lodge?” says he to his attendant. “In an apartment below ground,” was the reply.

“Which overlooks my gardens?” rejoins Dourlinski, interrupting him with great agitation.

“The shutters are well fastened,” adds the other.

“No matter————You must put them elsewhere.” These words made me tremble.

“It is not possible, but,”———continues the confident, and then whispered the rest of the sentence in his ear.

“Right,” says the Baron; “and let it be done instantly.” Then, addressing himself to me, “know that your brother and you must depart the day after to-morrow: before you go, you shall see me again, and I will give you a letter for Pulaski.”

I then went to rejoin Boleslas in the kitchen, where he was at breakfast, who soon after presented me with a little bottle full of ink, several pens, and some sheets of paper, which he had procured without difficulty. I panted with desire to write to Lodoiska; and the only difficulty that now remained, was to find a commodious place where I might not be discovered by the curiosity of Dourlinski’s people.

They had already informed Boleslas that we could not again be admitted into the apartment where we had spent the preceding night, until the time should arrive when we were to retire to rest. I soon, however, bethought myself of a stratagem which succeeded to admiration.

The servants were drinking with my pretended brother, and politely invited me to help them to empty a few flasks.

I swallowed, with a good grace, several glasses of bad wine in succession: in a few minutes my legs seemed to totter, my tongue faltered: I related a hundred pleasant and improbable tales to the joyous company; in a word, I acted the drunken man so well, that Boleslas himself became a dupe to my scheme, and actually trembled lest, in a moment when I seemed disposed to communicate every thing, my secret should escape.

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REMARKS ON MUSIC.

(Continued from page 108.)

The sacred scriptures afford almost the only materials from which any knowledge of the Hebrew music can be drawn. In the rapid sketch, therefore of ancient music which I mean to exhibit, very few observations are all that can properly be given to that department of the subject.

Moses was educated by Pharoah’s daughter in all the literature and elegant arts cultivated in Egypt. It is probable, therefore, that the taste and style of Egyptian music would be infused in some degree into that of the Hebrews. Music appears to have been interwoven thro’ the whole tissue of religious ceremony in Palestine. The priesthood seem to have been musicians hereditarily and by office. The prophets appear to have accompanied their inspired effusions with music; and every prophet like the present Improvisatori of Italy, seems to have been accompanied by a musical instrument.

Music, vocal and instrumental, constituted a great part of the funeral ceremonies of the Jews. The pomp and expence used on those occasions advanced by degrees to an excessive extent. The number of flute-players in the procession amounted sometimes to several hundreds, and the attendance of the guests continued frequently for thirty days.

The Hebrew language abounds with consonants, and has so few vowels, that in the original alphabet they had no characters, it must, therefore, have been harsh and unfavourable to music. Their instruments of music were chiefly those of percussion, so that the music must have been coarse and noisy: The vast numbers of performers too, whom it was the taste of the Hebrews to collect together, could not with such language and instruments produce any thing but clamour and jargon. According to Josephus, there were 200,000 musicians at the dedication of the temple of Solomon.

The history of King David furnishes us with very striking proofs of his attachment to music. Saul being troubled in his mind, and melancholy, was advised to apply to music as a remedy for his disorder: “David took his harp, and played tunes of sweet melody, and Saul was comforted.”

The Psalms of David, which glow with ardour of genius, of an elevation of the most becoming sentiments, were, it is more than probable, set to the most sublime and expressive music, such was the attachment of the Hebrews to this art, and such was the proficiency they made in it; and when they were in captivity in Babylon, they regretted the loss of those songs which they had sung with rapture in the temple of Jerusalem. Such are the circumstances from which only an idea of the Hebrew music can be formed, for the Jews neither ancient nor modern have ever had any characters peculiar to music; and the melodies used in their religious ceremonies have at all times been entirely traditional.

A. O.

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE RENCOUNTER.

“Shame! Where is thy blush?”

How degrading to human nature! Worse than the brute is he who endeavours to draw another into a contest!

An instance occurred a few days since of a battle between two persons, who (as I withhold their real names) I shall distinguish by the titles of Willet and Martin. Willet had long been a visitor at the house of the other, for what purpose I know not; but be it what it may, his intentions, no doubt, were honourable. Martin has an amiable sister, and report says, the heart of Willet has been smitten by her charms; and when time permitted, and she consented, he intended to have made her his bride.

His visits, it seems, were not very pleasing to the brother of the young lady, who took an opportunity of loading him with a series of epithets consisting of “mean, low,” &c. &c. To these Willet scarcely deigned a reply. When Martin found the object of his malice removed by his vile insinuations, he challenged him to fight. He was forced to comply, though much against his inclination, and both quitting the house, he found himself instantly attacked in the open street, where a scene ensued that would have made the unprincipled savage, were he present, blush with indignation.

In short, the challenger was worsted; he was not a match for his antagonist, though he had the better of him in years. His mother and sister saw the conflict from a window, and endeavoured to restore him to reason, but without effect; he was quite transported with excess of passion.

Martin was the aggressor, and his punishment was just. When he became sensible that he had suffered sufficiently, he was conveyed home, without enjoying the pleasure of beholding that bright luminary, the sun, the cuffs he had received having entirely closed up the organs of sight; to all appearance, a few more would have made him an inhabitant of the world of spirits; but by a lucky turn of the wheel of fortune, they were restrained.

THEODORE.

New-York, Oct. 12, 1796.

FRAGMENTS OF EPICHARMUS.

MORAL MAXIMS.

Be sober in thought; be slow in belief; these are the sinews of wisdom.

It is the part of a wise man to foresee what is to be done, so shall he not repent of what is done.

Throw not away thine anger upon trifles—Reason and not rage should govern.

AN ANTITHESIS.

It demands the strength of a lion to subdue the weakness of love.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 119.)

“The human soul, of course, is already, in this life, connected with the members of the invisible world, and this connection is lasting and essential, while that with the body is accidental and transient. However a union of substances, that is, of active natures, cannot be supposed to exist without a reciprocal influence; consequently the human soul must have an effective influence upon the spirits to whom she is linked, and the members of the spiritual world must act reciprocally on our soul. But why are we not equally sensible of these reciprocal influences and communications, as of those which subsist between our soul and body? The cause of this is very obvious. The human spirit can have a clear idea only of the objects of the material world, because of its corporeal organ; it is, therefore, not even capable of a clear immediate contemplation of its own self, much less of its immaterial relations to other spirits: the difference which exists between those ideas which arise in our soul by means of its immateriality, and its communion with spiritual beings, and the ideas which it receives by the medium of the body, or abstracted from material objects, is so essential, that the ideas of the former kind cannot come in connection with those of the latter; for which reason we have either no notion at all of them, or, at most, a very obscure one; however, we become plainly conscious of them as soon as the union of the soul and its corporeal organ ceases.”

“This, Hiermanfor, seems, in some measure to be the case when we are sleeping, and the sensitive organs are resting from their occupations. Should therefore those philosophers of antiquity, who have believed that in our dreams we are capable of being influenced by superior beings, and of receiving supernatural inspirations, be mistaken?”

“There is, certainly, some truth in this remark. I must, however, observe, that we do not possess that capacity when dreaming, but when we are fast asleep. It is commonly thought that we have only obscure notions in the latter state, and this opinion arises from our not recollecting them when we awake; however, on what ground can we conclude therefrom that they have not been clear while we were sleeping? Such ideas, perhaps, may be clearer and more extensive, than even the most perspicuous when we are awake, because the activity of our soul is neither modified nor confined by any thing whatever, the sensitive organs being intirely at rest. However this very rest of our sensitive organs, is the cause which prevents the re-production of these ideas when we are awake, our sleeping body having no share in them, and, consequently, being destitute of its concomitant notion of them; they, of course, remain insulated in our soul, having 125b no connection at all with those ideas which arise within ourselves before and after we are fast asleep, and in which our body takes a greater or a smaller share. This is not the case with our dreams; for when we are dreaming, the faculties of the soul do not act so pure and uncontrouled as when we are fast asleep. Dreaming is an intermediate state between waking and sleeping. We have then already, in some measure, clear ideas, and interweave the actions of our soul with the impressions of our exterior senses, whereby a strange, and sometimes ridiculous mixture is engendered, which we partly recollect when we awake.”

“You have, as yet, proved only the probability of clear notions during our being fast asleep; could you not also prove their reality?”

“Certainly! however these arguments do not belong to the theoretical part of our philosophy. Yet I must beg of you to recollect, en passant, the actions of some noctambulos, who sometimes, during the profoundest sleep, shew more understanding than at any other time, but cannot recollect those actions when awake?”

“This is true!” I exclaimed, “this throws an astonishing light upon this matter.”

“Yet not only while asleep,” the Irishman continued, “but also when awake, many people can be capable of having a clear notion of their connection with the spiritual world, and the influence of spirits upon them. Yet the essential difference which exists between the notions of spirits and those of men is a great impediment, which, however, is not at all insurmountable. It is true than man cannot have an immediate notion of those spiritual ideas, because of the co-operation of his corporeal organs; however they can, in virtue of the law of the association of ideas, produce in the human mind those images which are related to them and consequently procreate analogical representations of our senses, which, although they be not the spiritual actions themselves, yet are their symbols.”

“I perceive what you are aiming at.”

“Examples will render the matter more intelligible to you. Experience teaches that our superior intellectual notions, which are near a-kin to the spiritual ideas, commonly assume a bodily garb, in order to render themselves perspicuous. Thence the poet transforms wisdom into the Goddess Minerva, the stings of conscience into furies, and personifies virtues and vices; the mathematician describes time by a line, and is there any philosopher who always forms an idea even of the Godhead, without intermixing human qualities? In that manner ideas, which have been imparted to us by spiritual influence, may dress themselves in the symbols of that language which is common to us, and the presence of a spirit which we perceive, assume the image of a human shape—witness the late apparition of your tutor.——Thus the theory of all supernatural inspirations and visions is ascertained; consequently the apparitions of spirits have that in common with our dreams, that they represent to us effects which are produced within ourselves, as if happening without 126 ourselves; however, at the same time, they differ from them with respect to their being really founded upon an effect from without, a spiritual influence. However this influence cannot reveal itself to our consciousness immediately, but only by means of associated images of our fancy, which attain the vivacity of objects really perceived. You see, therefore, what an essential difference there is between the phantoms of our dreams, and the apparitions of spirits. But here is the boundary of theory. The criterion whereby apparitions of spirits, in every particular case, can be distinguished with certainty, from vain phantoms, and supernatural inspirations from natural ideas, and the means of effecting apparitions, and of obtaining assistance and instructions from spiritual beings; these and several more things belong to the practical part of the occult philosophy.

“Here, my Lord, I must conclude for the present, and drop the curtain. Stress of time obliges me to abbreviate my discourse on a subject which would not be exhausted in many days; however I may safely leave to your own understanding the finishing and enlargement of this sketch. Suffice it that I have enabled you to comprehend the apparition of your friend, and to see that reason does not pronounce judgment against subjects of this nature, but rather is the only mean which affords us light and certainty with respect to them. The theory which I have given you may, at the same time, serve you to judge whether it will be worth your trouble to be initiated in the mysteries of the practical part of this philosophy. However, I must tell you, that no mortal who has not sanctified himself by bridling his sensitive nature, and purifying his spiritual faculties, can be admitted to that sanctuary. Are you resolved to do this?”

“I am, put me to the test!”

“Then depart with the first dawn of day for Ma**id, without taking leave of the Countess.”

The Irishman could not have chosen a severer trial, nor demanded a greater sacrifice. The combat which I had to fight with my heart, before I could come to a resolution, was short but dreadful.---I promised the Irishman to execute his will.

“Well!” said he, “then hear what measures you are to take. As soon as you shall be arrived at Ma**id, you must, without delay, wait upon the Prime Minister, Oliv**ez, and the Secretary of State Suma*ez, but take care not to discover your political views to either of them; pretend that you intend to stay some time at Ma**id merely for the sake of amusement. Repeat your visits till you have gained their confidence. Your winning demeanor, my Lord, and your intimate connection with Vascon*ellos will render this conquest easy.---Farewell, at Ma**id we shall meet again!”

We parted. The Irishman returned once more. “Your manner of life while at Ma**id,” said he, “will require great expences, and you must be well provided with money. I have taken care that you shall be well supplied with that needful article. You will find in your apartment a sum which you may dispose of at pleasure.” So saying, he left me suddenly.

On coming home, I found on my table two bags with money, each of them containing a thousand ducats. Pietro told me they had been brought by a servant of the Irish Captain.

No one will doubt that I was now entirely devoted to the Irishman. By his discourse at the burying place he had persuaded, and by his liberality convinced me, that I could not do better than to let myself be guided entirely by him; and as I at first had been determined to this by the conquering superiority of his soul, so I was now confirmed in it by the applause of my reason. Nay, if the Irishman should now have offered to break off all connection with me, I should have courted his friendship, so much had I been charmed by the profound wisdom of his discourse. Not the least vestige of mistrust against his secret power was left in my soul, and the very regard for philosophy which but lately had prejudiced me against him, was now one of the strongest bonds that chained me to him. How agreeably was I surprised to find in Reason herself, whom I formerly had thought to be the principal adversary of the belief in miracles, the most convincing arguments for the same, and to have been conquered with the same weapons which I had been fighting with against the Irishman, without having the least reason to reproach him with having had recourse to any stratagem whatever. The frankness and strength of argument which distinguished every step of his philosophical instruction, were to me the most unexceptionable security for the justness of the result. If he had delivered his arguments in a flowery and mysterious language, supported by the charms of declamation, then I should certainly have suspected them; however he had made use of the cool, simple and clear language of reason, divested of all sophistical artifices; started from principles which are generally received, drew no conclusions to which he was not entitled by his premises, combatted errors and prejudices upon which he could have founded surreptious conclusions; nay, it appeared as if he, unmindful of what he was to prove, had left it entirely to the course of his impartial inquiry whither it would lead him, and I beheld myself, with astonishment, on the conclusion of it, at the mark from which the road we had taken threatened to lead us astray.

I cannot describe the wonderful bold ideas which the instructions I had received produced in my mind, nor the awfully agreeable sensations which those ideas were accompanied with. The rising sun surprised me in that indescribable state of mind, and reminded me by his rays, that it was time to set off.

(To be continued.)

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

ARABIAN MAXIMS.

The car of Hope is always escorted by Want.

Consider the man that flatters you as an enemy.

If there were none but wise men in the world it would soon be desert.

Would you censure others? Examine your own conduct first.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

METAMORPHOSIS OF CHARACTERS.

How much is man the creature of incidents!——The solitary student becomes a Hypochondriac, a Misanthropist; the world seems to him a prison, and its inhabitants a parcel of rogues and vagabonds; he no longer views mankind with complacency, with a fellow feeling for their infirmities and pity for their misfortunes, but considers them with the severity of a Censor.——But let him emerge from his closet, let him enter into the concerns of life and undergo the salutary agitation of gentle exercise, while he beholds his neighbours industriously and chearfully employed, and he becomes quite another man. If we now penetrate his mind we find him no longer disturbed by imaginary evils, or vexed with supposed injuries. He begins to view mankind as his brethren, and fellow travellers; and feels a disposition to assist the weary, and to recall the wanderer to the right path, with a friendly commiseration for his errors. Scrupulosus was once a crabbed, morose sceptic; he would believe nothing but what had undergone the ordeal of his own reason, nor trust any man farther than he could see him.—Necessity drove him into the busy world, and a concurrence of events, placed him in the matrimonial state.—He now finds fewer difficulties, than formerly, to encounter; and perceives that his self-sufficiency, and conceit had involved many things in an impenetrable mist.—Connections multiply, and a smiling progeny surrounds him.---Scrupulosus, is no longer a cavilling sceptic---he is a christian.

What a change is this! what a metamorphosis of characters! Neither is it the fiction of imagination, but the delineation of what daily occurs in real life.---The traveller is quite a different being from the sedentary man, because he is active, and constantly excited by a variety of objects.

Our ideas of the Almighty, are not less influenced by the circumstances which surround us. Behold the torpid monk, seeking the favour of a God of vengeance, by the rigours of an austere life. On the other hand, see the chearful friend of man, addressing the father of his fellow-creatures, with a heart full of love and gratitude, and a lively hope of his favour and protection. Such, then, is the penalty imposed on immoderate study, and thus the solitary pursuit of knowledge, when excessive, will entirely frustrate our expectations, and destroy the health of both body and mind.

VIATOR.

MORAL MAXIMS.

Mankind are more indebted to industry than ingenuity: the gods set up their favours at a price, and industry is the purchaser.

A man without merit may live without envy; but who would wish to escape on these terms?

This item is repeated on pg. 129 (next Number).

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last by the Rev. Bishop Provost, Captain John Sanders, of Exeter, (England) to the amiable Miss Catherine Livingston, of this city.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LA FAYETTE——A SONG.

BY WILLIAM BRADFORD, ESQ.
LATE ATTORNEY GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

When the Author of the following Elegy finds it is committed to print, he will not, I am persuaded, be offended, after I remind him of the conversation we had some time since:—And also when he reflects on the injury he does the Public, by keeping any of his productions from their view.

ELEGY

ADDRESSED TO THE CALLIOPEAN SOCIETY,
ON THE DEATH OF DOCTOR JOSEPH YOULE.

A Lady having received a Bouquet from a Boy,
sent him the following Verses.

The Answer, by a Friend of the Boy.

EPITAPH ON MR. W—— N——

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 SENTIMENTAL FRAGMENT.

It was low ebb when our vessel made the offing of Dublin bay, and it being then night, we lay at anchor till morning. The moon shone remarkably bright, and reflected in silver shades upon the sea, which waved with a gentle heaving---a murmur---it was nature sighing with a love-creating respiration.

For some leagues on each side the harbour’s mouth it was encircled with a fleet of herring boats, and I not being inclined to sleep, accompanied the captain in the yawl, to visit them.

The drawing of the herring nets, is, perhaps, the most pleasing and beautiful sight the human mind can conceive: the fish, as they are hawled up the vessel’s side, sparkle like diamonds.

I could not but express my surprize to the captain at the quantity taken; and by him was informed, that these sculls approached the coast by millions and tens of millions, extending many miles, and swimming several fathoms deep over one another. They make their way through the sea, as men do on earth, each individual striving to be uppermost, and with this stronger circumstance of similarity, that the fish which gets uppermost is always in most danger.

“I shall eat half a dozen of these herrings,” said the captain, as he took about a dozen out of a net without leave or notice, to the boatman, who made no objection. “I shall eat half a dozen of these herrings,” said he, “when I return to my vessel.”---“What, captain, must six lives be sacrificed to satisfy your appetite at one meal?”

For half a moment I was converted by this reflection to the religion of the Indian Bramins, who refuse all animal food; but the captain who was a philosopher, as suddenly induced me to apostatize from my new opinion.

A number of large porpoises or sea hogs, were sporting round.---“Why not eat them?” said the captain, pointing to the porpoises; “those creatures feed upon herrings, and innumerable great fish feed upon them; and it is the same to the herring, whether he is eaten by a porpoise or by a man.”

“Very true,” said I, “there are sea monsters, who live upon their fellow-creatures as well as land monsters, who devour each other.”

“It is impossible to understand those affairs, or the reason of them,” observed the captain; “I have got a microscope on board, and I’ll prove to you that innumerable animals perish at every suction of your breath. The great difference between voracious fish, voracious quadrupeds, voracious birds, and voracious man, is this: the first three classes eat to satisfy hunger only, and devour without preparation; but the cruelty which man inflicts upon those creatures Providence has empowered him to use for his sustenance, may be considered as a species of ingratitude, which of all crimes merits the severest punishment.”

Wisdom and Virtue.

Wisdom or virtue is nothing more than the disposition to attain and enjoy the greatest happiness, with the knowledge how to attain and to bestow it.

Wisdom has ever some benevolent end in her purposes and actions; on the contrary, folly either mistakes evil for good, or, when she assumes the nature of vice, entertains a malevolent intention.

The advantages and defects of nature mould be considered as common to society: the weak have a claim to the assistance of the strong; the strong derive a pleasure from assisting the weak; and the wise are so far happy as the well disposed partake of their wisdom.

There is no one virtue that includes not, in a general sense, all other virtues. Wisdom cannot subsist without justice, temperance, and fortitude, for wisdom is the sum of all these. It is impossible to be just without temperance, or temperate without fortitude, and so alternately of the rest.

MORAL MAXIMS.

A man without merit may live without envy; but who would wish to escape on these terms?

Live so as to hold yourself prepared either for a long life or a short one.

This item previously appeared on pg. 127 (previous Number).

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 126.)

I made, without delay, the requisite preparations, and in a quarter of an hour, stepped in my carriage. I looked once more back to the spot where Amelia resided, and drove through the city-gate.

At the first stage I wrote to her that an unforeseen important accident had forced me to set out on my journey so early in the morning that it would have been unbecoming to pay her the promised farewell visit; I vowed to return on pinions of love, as soon as my business at M****d should be settled. I painted with lively colours all the pains of separation, and all the tenderness of an afflicted heart, in order to convince Amelia, that I had been forced by stern necessity to depart without seeing her once more. Alas! the farther the rolling carriage removed me from the dear object of my love, the more I grew sensible of the greatness of the sacrifice which I had made to the Irishman. I examined my letters and papers in order to divert my gloomy thoughts, and found one more copy of a letter from the Irishman which I had not yet decyphered. The following is the result of my endeavours to unfold its contents:

“My Lord,

“My designs on Miguel had very near been ruined by the loss of his life, and in some measure I myself have been the cause of his having been hurried to the brink of destruction. But who could have foreseen such an event! With the leave of your Excellency, I shall relate the incident at large.

“I had sent one part of my servants to follow Miguel on his journey. I myself staid behind in order to make an attempt of restoring the health of the Countess, for whose life the ignorance of her physicians had made me tremble. The success I met with surprised my most sanguine expectation. Some drops of an electuary which I poured into the mouth of the Countess produced so sudden an effect, that, in a few hours, the most unequivocal signs of returning health were perceived. As soon as I had been informed of this desirable change, I followed Miguel with the rest of my people; having previously ordered the valet of the Countess to write three days after to the Duke, that the Countess was dead—and in a few days later, that I had recalled her to life. At the same time I requested him to desire his dismission from Amelia, and to follow me, because I wanted his assistance in the execution of my designs. The view I had in commanding him to inform the Duke of Amelia’s pretended death, was to convince myself by the manner in which he should receive that intelligence, whether his love to the Countess had been only a transient attachment, or whether his passion for her was of a more serious nature, and what degree it had attained. I need not explain to your Excellency, how necessary this knowledge was to me. The second commission had no other aim, 130b than to pour balsam in Miguel’s wound, and at the same time, to make me appear to him a miracle-working being, and his and Amelia’s friend; whereby I expected to gain his confidence.

“I pursued my road with so much speed, that I overtook Miguel before he had finished one half of his journey, and joined my people, who preceded me. As soon as the Duke had arrived at the place of his destination, and we along with him, I quartered my people in different places in such a manner, that he was surrounded by them from all sides. I took a convenient house in the suburbs for myself, in order to escape his looks with greater safety.

“On the third day after our arrival, Miguel received the letter by which he was informed of the Countess’s death. The effects which this intelligence produced upon him must have been a kind of frenzy. One of my people who watched all his steps, informed me late in the evening, he had seen Miguel rushing out of his house with every mark of despair in his countenance, and running with such a velocity that he and his comrade hardly had been able so follow him. He added, that Miguel after two hours roaming about, had stopped not far from hence, at the banks of a river, where he was walking up and down, absorbed in profound reverie.

“Soon after a second messenger told me, Miguel had plunged into the river, but one of his comrades who had watched him narrowly, and leaped after him, had saved him, and was going to carry him to my house. A few minutes after, Miguel was brought by some of my people. He resembled a corpse, the palpitation of his pulse was scarcely perceptible, and he was entirely bereft of his recollection. I ordered him instantly to be carried to a spacious empty vault, and while some of my men endeavoured to restore him to the use of his senses, I was making preparations to chastise him severely when he should have recovered from his stupor.

“As soon as my servants perceived that he was recovering, I ordered him to be carried into the middle of the vault, and placed myself in deep disguise opposite him at a considerable distance, making a signal to those who were present to retire to an adjoining apartment, and to take the candles with them. No sooner was every thing in order, than I perceived by a deep groan of Miguel, that he had recovered his recollection. His state of mind when awaking, must have been very strange. His recollection told him, that he had plunged into the river, in a place where he saw nobody present, and now he awoke in a dry, empty, and spacious dark room: he must have fancied he awoke in another world; and this idea seems to have thrilled him with its acutest pungency, for he uttered a loud scream which made the vault resound.* This was the signal for which my people had been 131 waiting in the adjoining chamber. They kindled a pole which was fixed near an aperture in the wall, and enveloped with flax, and wetted with spirit of wine, which spread a faint light through the spacious vault. The astonishment which Miguel was seized with, when looking all around and seeing nothing but a man wrapt in a scarlet cloak, surpasses all powers of description. His anxiety encreased when he saw me staring at him without replying a word to his questions, and heard one of my people exclaim, in a doleful accent, woe! woe! woe! When I at last stepped forth and made myself known to him, he prostrated himself, as if in the presence of a superior being. I read him a severe lecture on his rash deed, and at the same time endeavoured to rouse his ambition for the service of his country, in which I succeeded. A soft music began at once in the adjoining chamber, on a signal which I made to my people. The melodious strains of a harp and a flute were accompanied by the sweet notes of an harmonious voice, which announced to the astonished Miguel that Amelia was alive. His rapture bordered on frenzy. I ordered him to be silent, blind-folded him and delivered him to the care of a servant, whom I secretly ordered to conduct him to his hotel, and to return no answer to his questions. My deputy acquitted himself extremely well of his trust. He led him silently to his hotel, and when Miguel turned round the corner of the house, unfastened the bandage which blind-folded his eyes, and concealed himself in a house, the door of which was open. Miguel must have been strangely situated, when after a few steps the bandage dropped from his eyes and nobody was seen around him. Very fortunately the night was far advanced, and the whole affair remained concealed.

“Thus happily ended an adventure which had begun in a manner so inauspicious.

“However, Paleski has committed a foolish trick, which I cannot forgive him. He desired his dismission from the Countess, which being refused by his Lady, who imagined him to be a faithful servant, he left her clandestinely. He shall smart for this inconsiderate action.

“I am with the greatest respect,

“&c. &c. &c.”

As far as this letter informed me that no superior power had had a share in the above mentioned adventure, it contained nothing that was new to me, for the Irishman himself had not concealed from me, that all the wonderful adventures which had happened to me before Paleski’s confession had been the effect of illusion; however, it was important to me to learn how, and by what artifices I had been deceived. I cannot but confess that this natural explanation of the whole affair excited my astonishment at the Irishman, not less than those adventures had surprised me at the time when I believed him to be a supernatural being, and that I ardently wished to have cleared up several other events of that epocha which I could not unriddle.

Soon after my arrival at M****d, I went to pay a visit to the minister. He received me very kindly, and discoursed above an hour with me, although he was so over charged with state-affairs that no stranger could get access to him. I was not less successful with the Secretary of State, in whose favour I ingratiated myself so much in the course of half an hour, that he professed himself extremely happy in having got acquainted with me. Both of them invited me to visit them frequently during my stay at M****d, an invitation which I took care to make the best use of.

I perceived soon with astonishment and joy, that I was getting nearer the mark much sooner than I had expected first. Though I am of opinion that the visibly growing favour of these two courtiers was partly founded on personal attachment, yet the Irishman had not been mistaken when he told me, that the relation which existed between myself and Vascon*ellos would render the access to their confidence easier. Sum**ez, the Secretary of State, enjoyed the most intimate confidence of the Minister, and was related to Vascon*ellos. Therefore the friendship of the latter paved for me the road to Sum**ez, and the friendship of Sum**ez to Oliva*ez. The two secretaries of State were the chief administrators of the government; Sum**ez in the council of Sp**n, at Ma***d, and Vascon*ellos in the council of state at L*sbon, and consequently were the vice-tyrants of my native country, who jointly executed the designs of Oliv**ez, who in the name of the King of Sp**n was at the helm of despotism.

That the Irishman had very well calculated these concatenations, will appear by the subsequent plan which he founded upon them. I had wrote to Amelia, and Lady Delier, as soon as I had arrived at M****d, and now received an answer from both of them. Every line of the former breathed heavenly love and kindness; the tender and amiable sentiments of her soul, purified by the trials of misfortunes, were palpably displayed in her letter, as in an unspotted mirror. O! how many a time did I kiss, read, and re-peruse it, till at length, what a sweet delusion of my enraptured imagination! I fancied I saw the amiable writer before me, and heard from her lips the words which were written upon the paper.—

(To be continued.)

* This is a mistake, for we know by the Duke’s own account, that he uttered this scream because he felt himself pulled down by an invisible hand when he was going to get up. The Irishman having known nothing if this circumstance, it is probable that the unknown cause of this pulling down, was no other than a foot of the Duke, with which he, in his stupor, kept his cloak down, when he was getting up, without knowing it.

AUTHENTICATED ETYMOLOGIES.

The term hurricane, is supposed to take its rise from one Harry Kane, a turbulent Irishman who lived at Antigua, the name of which is now well known to be derived from an avaricious old female planter who once lived on the island, and was called by the sailors Aunt Eager.

A jolly West-Indian, whenever the neighbouring girls came to his plantations, insisted upon their sipping his choicest syrups, and reiterated the terms “My lasses;” thence the name of that syrup. Few words have aberrated from their primaries less than this.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

MARIA; OR, THE SEDUCTION.

A FRAGMENT.

**** I saw she was falling, and hastened to her assistance. I caught her in my arms, and led her into the house. By the application of salts she recovered---“He refused to listen to me!” she exclaimed, when her powers of utterance had returned, “and but for him I still might have been happy.” I asked who the person was she spoke of? “Ah!” replied she, “it was the wretch that seduced me from the paths of rectitude.”---When she had regained sufficient strength I requested her to relate to me her misfortunes, and she gratified me as follows---

MARIA’S NARRATIVE.

Under the specious pretext of love, Frederick has bereaved me of all the happiness and comfort of life. While I fondly dreamed of future bliss he became a visitor at our house. I knew not then that ’twas to see me alone he came, as he had not given me the least hint of it; but my parents imagined he was wooing me to become his bride.

It was some time before he paid any direct addresses to me. He then said that he had long been in love with me, but forbore to mention it sooner as he feared I would discard him; and ended with asking if he might be permitted to hope. I gave him no positive answer, until he enquired whether I had a partiality for any other. I told him I had not. His countenance brightened at this. He took my hand, and with all the fervor of love raised it to his lips. When he departed, he said, that was the happiest moment of his life.

After this his visits were more frequent. One evening I was left entirely alone, the family had gone to the theatre. Mrs. M——, a lady from England, made her first appearance on the New-York stage. A slight indisposition occasioned my not being of the party. Frederick, it seems, knew I was alone, and came in just after they had departed.

The next week had been appointed for our nuptials. He entered rather dejected. I enquired the reason of his melancholy. He said he was fearful I did not love him sincerely. I asked if I had ever given him reason for such a suspicion; and said that all beside him were indifferent to me. Here his countenance again assumed its wonted brightness. “Do you then indeed behold me with pleasure?” said he. “I know that on you alone depends my felicity---should you be cruel, Frederick would cease to exist.” He took my hand, and imprinted on it a profusion of kisses. To me he appeared sincere, and I viewed him as singled out by fate for my companion thro’ life.

“Ah! my Maria!” continued he, still holding my hand clasped in his, “did you but know the happiness your words have given me---It is indescribable.---Still 132b manifest for me your love, and every hour of my life will study to deserve it. Should I ever prove myself unworthy your tender regard, I should abhor myself.” He continued protestations of his love---the minutes were swift—and ere the evening had elapsed he triumphed over my innocence and credulity---in fine, he left me miserable.

When my parents returned I beheld myself degraded below them, and unfit for their company. I sat in a musing posture. They attributed my want of spirits to the head-ach, which had occasioned my staying at home, and endeavoured to enliven me by giving an account of the entertainments, and the excellent performance of Mrs. M——. I paid no attention to what they said. To bed I went, but not to close my eyes: Sleep had fled me. In the morning I had a slight fever, and was at times delirious. In a few days I recovered sufficiently to learn that Frederick had set out for France the day after he rendered me so completely miserable. This occasioned a relapse, and I had approached the verge of the grave. My friends were weeping over me, expecting every moment to be my last. I wished not for life; I sought for death as the only means to conceal my shame. But it pleased Heaven to raise me, contrary to all expectation. In two weeks from the time I began to mend, I had strength sufficient to leave my room, I then found it too true that my deceiver had left home, and did not expect to return in two years.

I dreaded staying any longer where I expected the resentment of my father, when he should become acquainted with my disgrace. I left the house under cover of the night, unperceived. I took with me a small bundle of clothes, and some trifle in cash, which were my own. By working I hoped to subsist until Frederick’s return; for I still thought his voyage was of necessity, and unexpected. The money was soon gone, and almost every article I could possibly spare. I expected to starve. In this dilemma, I chanced to hear of a place where a young woman was wanted for the upper servant in the kitchen. I applied, and obtained it. The wages were liberal, and I had not the more laborious part; I endeavoured to give satisfaction to my employer, I lived in this manner until I was taken ill, when I gave birth to this child—I called him after his father.

My recovery was slow; and when I could walk I was unable to work as before; consequently I was forced to give up my place. Since then I have wholly subsisted on the charity of others.

This morning, by accident, I beheld the cause of my woes. I determined to speak with him although he was in company. When I first accosted him, he disregarded me. I told him I was in a poor state of health, and requested only a small boon. “Is that your child?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, “and his name is Frederick.” He looked me in the face, for I perceived until then he did not know me—“I have nothing for you!” he exclaimed in an angry tone, and passed on with his companions. My head felt light, and I certainly should have dropped on the pavement, had not heaven sent you to my relief——

L. B.

October 17, 1796.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 123.)

“Gentlemen,” said he, to the astonished Bacchanals, “my brother’s head is not very strong to-day: it is perhaps in consequence of his wound; let us not therefore either speak to or drink any more with him; for I am afraid of his health, and indeed you would oblige me exceedingly if you would assist me to carry him to his bed.”—“To his own bed?” says one of them: “that is impossible! But I will most willingly lend him my chamber.” They accordingly laid hold of me, and conveyed me into a garret, of which a bed, a table, and a chair, formed the sole movables. Having shut me up in this paltry apartment, they instantly left me. This was all that I wanted, for the moment that I was alone, I immediately sat down to write a long letter to Lodoiska.

I began by fully justifying myself from the crimes of which I had been accused by Pulaski: I then recounted every thing that had occurred since the first moment of our separation, until that when I had entered the castle of Dourlinski: I detailed the particulars of my conversation with the Baron: I concluded by assuring her of the most tender and the most respectful passion, and swore to her, that the moment she gave me the necessary information concerning her situation, I would expose myself to every danger, in order to finish her horrid captivity.

As soon as my letter was sealed, I delivered myself up to a variety of reflections, which threw me into a strange perplexity. Was it actually Lodoiska who had thrown those tiles into the garden? Would Pulaski have had the injustice to punish his daughter for an attachment which he himself had approved? Would he have had the inhumanity to plunge her into a frightful prison? And even if the hatred he had sworn to me had blinded him so much, how was it possible that Dourlinski would thus have condescended to have become the minister of his vengeance?

But, on the other hand, for these three last long months, on purpose to disguise myself, I had only worn tattered clothes: the fatigues of a tedious journey, and my chagrin, had altered me greatly; and who but a mistress could have been able to discover Lovzinski in the gardens of Dourlinski? Besides, had I not seen the name of Lodoiska traced upon the tile? Had not Dourlinski himself acknowledged that Lodoiska had been a prisoner with him? It is true, he had added that she had made her escape; but was not this incredible? And wherefore that hatred which Dourlinski had vowed against me, without knowing my person? What occasioned that look of inquietude, when it was told 133b him, that the emissaries of Pulaski occupied a chamber that looked into his garden? And why above all that appearance of terror, when I announced to him the arrival of my pretended master?

All these circumstances were well calculated to throw me into the greatest agitation. I ruminated over this frightful and mysterious adventure, which it was impossible for me to explain. For two hours, I unceasingly put new questions to myself, to which I was exceedingly embarrassed to make any reply; when at length Boleslas came to see if I had recovered from my debauch. I had but little difficulty in convincing him that my inebriety was mere affectation; after which we went down together to the kitchen, where we spent the rest of the day. What a night! none in my whole life ever appeared so long, not even that which followed.

At length the attendants conducted us to our chamber, where they shut us up, as on the former occasion, without any light: it was yet two tedious hours until midnight. At the first stroke of the clock, we gently opened the shutters and the casement. I then prepared to jump into the garden; but my embarrassment was equal to my despair, when I found myself obstructed by means of iron bars. “Behold,” said I to Boleslas, “what the cursed confident of Dourlinski whispered in his ear! behold what his odious master approved, when he said, let it be done instantly! behold what they have been working at during the day! it was on this account that they prevented us from entering the chamber.”

“My lord, they have stood on the outside,” replies Boleslas; “for they have not perceived that the shutter has been forced.”

“Alas! whether they have perceived it or not,” exclaim I with violence, “what does it signify? This fatal grating destroys all my hopes: it insures the slavery of Lodoiska—it insures my death.”

“Yes, without doubt, it insures thy death!” repeats a person, at the same time opening the door; and immediately after, Dourlinski, preceded by several armed men, and followed by others carrying flambeaux, enter our prison sabre in hand. “Traitor!” exclaims he, while addressing himself to me with a look in which fury was visibly depicted, “I have heard all—I know who you are,—your servant has discovered your name. Tremble! Of all the enemies of Lovzinski, I am the most implacable!”

“Search them,” continues he, turning to his attendants: they accordingly rushed in upon me; and as I was without arms, I made an useless resistance. They accordingly robbed me of my papers, and of the letter I had just written to Lodoiska. Dourlinski exhibited a thousand signs of impatience while reading it, and was scarce able to contain himself.

“Lovzinski,” says he to me, endeavouring to smother his rage, “I already deserve all your hatred; I shall soon merit it still more: in the mean time, you must remain with your worthy confident in this chamber, to which you are so partial.”

After uttering these words, he left me; and having double-locked the door, he placed a centinel on the outside, and another in the garden, opposite to the window.

Figure to yourself the horrible situation into which Boleslas and myself were now plunged. My misfortunes were at their height; but those of Lodoiska affected me more than my own! How great must be her uneasiness! She expects Lovsinski, and Lovsinski abandons her! But no—Lodoiska knows me too well; she can never suspect me of such base perfidy. Lodoiska! she will judge of her lover by herself; she will think Lovsinski partakes her lot, since he does not succour her---Alas! the very certainty of my misfortunes will augment her own!

On the next day, they gave us provisions through the grating of our window; and by the quality of the viands which they furnished us with, Boleslas augured the most sinister events. Being, however less unhappy than myself, he supported his fate much more courageously. He offered me my share of the mean repast which he was about to make; I would not eat: he pressed me; but it was in vain! for existence was become an insupportable burden to me.

“Ah! live!” said he at length, shedding a torrent of tears: “live; and if not for Boleslas, let it be for Lodoiska!” These words made the most lively impression on my mind; they even re-animated my courage; and hope having once more re-entered my heart, I embraced my faithful servant. “O my friend!” exclaimed I at the same time with transport, “my true friend! I have been the occasion of thy ruin, and yet my misfortunes affect thee more than thine own! Yes, Boleslas! yes! I will live for Lodoiska; I will live for thee: if just Heaven shall restore me to my fortune and rank, you shall see that your master is not ungrateful!” We now embraced once more.

Ah! how much do misfortunes connect men together! how sweet it is, when one suffers, to hear another unfortunate address a word of consolation to him!

We had groaned in this prison for no less than twelve days, when several ruffians came to drag me forth on purpose to conduct me to Dourlinski. Boleslas wished to follow, but they repulsed him with violence: however they permitted me to speak to him for a single moment. I then drew from a private pocket a ring which I had worn for ten years, and said to Boleslas:---“This ring was given me by M. de P. when we were at college together at Warsaw: take it, my friend; and preserve it for my sake. If Dourlinski this day consummates his treason by my assassination, and if he should at length permit you to leave this castle, go, find your king, recall to his memory our ancient attachment, recount my misfortunes to him; he will recompense you, and succour Lodoiska. Adieu my friend!”

After this, I was conducted to the apartment of Dourlinski. As soon as the door opened, I perceived a lady 134b in a chair, who had just fainted away. I approached her---it was Lodoiska! Heavens! how much did I find her altered!---but she was still handsome! “Barbarian!” exclaimed I, addressing myself to Dourlinski; and at the voice of her lover, Lodoiska recovered her senses.

“Ah, my dear Lovsinski,” says she, looking wistfully at me, “do you know what this infamous wretch has proposed? do you know at what price he has offered me your liberty?”

“Yes,” cries the furious chieftain, “yes, I am determined upon it: you see that he is in my power; and if in three days I do not obtain my wishes, he shall be no more!” I endeavoured to throw myself on my knees at the feet of Lodoiska; but my guards prevented me: “I behold you again, and all my ills are forgotten, Lodoiska---death has now no longer any thing terrifying in its aspect.”

“Wretch,” added I, looking sternly at Dourlinski, “know that Pulaski will avenge his daughter! know that the king will avenge his friend!”

“Let him be carried away!” was the only reply made by the ferocious palatine.

“Ah!” exclaims Lodoiska, “my love has been your ruin!” I was about to answer, but the attendants dragged me out, and re-conducted me to prison.

Boleslas received me with inexpressible transports of joy; he avowed to me that he thought me lost for ever, and I recounted to him how that my death was but deferred. The scene of which I had been a witness, confirmed all my suspicions; it was evident that Pulaski was ignorant of the unworthy treatment which his daughter experienced; it was also evident that Dourlinski, old, amorous, and jealous, was determined, at any rate, to satisfy his passions.

In the mean time, two of the days allowed by Dourlinski for the determination of Lodoiska, had already expired; we were now in the midst of the night which preceded the fatal third; I could not sleep, and I was walking hastily about my prison. All at once I heard the cry of “To arms! to arms!” The most frightful howlings prevailed on the outside, and a great commotion took place within the castle. The centinel placed at our window, left his post. Boleslas and I were able to distinguish the voice of Dourlinski, calling and encouraging his followers; and we soon distinctly heard the clashing of swords, the cries of the wounded, and the groans of the dying. The noise which at first was very great seemed at length to die away. It recommenced soon after; it redoubled; and at length we heard a shout of “Victory!”

To this frightful tumult, a still more frightful silence ensues. In a short time, a low crackling sound is heard to approach us; the air seems to hiss with violence; the night becomes less dark; the trees in the garden assume a red and warm tint; we fly to the window: the flames are devouring the castle of Dourlinski! they approach 135 the chamber in which we were confined, from all sides; and, to overwhelm me with new horror, the most piercing shrieks are uttered from that tower in which I knew that Lodoiska was imprisoned!

The fire becoming every moment more violent, was about to communicate to the chamber in which we were shut up, and the flames already began to curl around the base of the tower in which Lodoiska was immured!

(To be continued.)

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

MILITARY ANECDOTE.

During the late war in America, when drafts were made from the militia to recruit the continental army, a Captain gave liberty to the men, who were drafted from his company, to make their objections, if they had any, against going into the service. Accordingly, one of them who had an impediment in his speech, came up to the captain and made his bow. “What is your objection?” said the captain. “I ca-a-ant go,”—answers the man, “because I st-st-stutter.” “Stutter,” says the captain, “you don’t go there to talk, but to fight.” “Ay, but they’ll p-p-put me upon g-g-guard, and a man may go ha-ha-half a mile before I can say wh-wh-who goes there?” “Oh that is no objection, for they will place another sentry with you, and he can challenge, if you can fire.” “Well, b-b-but I may be ta-ta-taken, and run through the g-g-guts, before I can cry qu-qu-quarter.” This last plea prevailed, and the captain, out of humanity (laughing heartily), dismissed him.

TO THE EDITOR.

Sir,

Being told that I am supposed, by many, to be the author of a piece signed “Theodore,” which appeared in your last, under the title of “The Rencounter;” I hereby inform them that I had no hand either directly or indirectly therein. Far be it from me to wish to expose the failings of any of my fellow creatures; and much more so of those for whom I entertain no small degree of esteem.

Walter Townsend.

October 25, 1796.

To the Editor.

Sir,

Having learned that the piece in last week’s Magazine, entitled “The Rencounter,” has given considerable offence to one of the parties, whom, through misinformation, I pictured as the aggressor; I sincerely beg his pardon, as I have since heard he was innocent---Therefore I now assure him that the charge I exhibited against him, is void of foundation, and was related to me with all the appearance of truth.

THEODORE.

Monday morning, Oct. 24, 1796.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday the 13th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Rogers, Mr. A. M’Gregor, merchant, to Miss Janet Wilson, both of this city.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Edward Meeks, cabinet maker, to Miss Susannah Cooper, daughter of Mr. Cornelius Cooper, both of this city.

Same evening, Mr. John Munroe, of this city, merchant, to Miss Olivia Roe, daughter of the Rev. Azel Roe, of Woodbridge, New Jersey.

At Horse-Neck, on Sunday evening, the 16th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Lewis, Mr. Brezeliel Brown, to Miss Charlotte Marshall, both of that place.

On Saturday se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Woodhull, Mr. Gideon Hallett, to Miss Polly Pugsley, both of New-Town, (L.I.)

On Saturday evening, by the Rev. Mr. Abeel, Mr. John Tenbrook, Merchant, to Miss Alithea Sickles, daughter of Mr. John Sickles, all of this city.

CONTENTED IN THE VALE.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO CLARA.

TO THE EDITOR.

If you think the inclosed Elegy, the production of a Boy, deserving a place in your Magazine, you are welcome to publish it. I believe few, if any, in this city have seen it.

MATILDA.

ON THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF MISS POLLY MARTIN,
WHO DIED IN THE 18th YEAR OF HER AGE.

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 ESSAY ON PATIENCE.

The man of a frantic heated imagination considers patience as flowing from a meanness of soul, a dastardly disposition, the last resource of cowards. But the man of real sagacity, who can view things through a dispassionate medium, discovers in it all the genuine marks of a noble mind. It is supported by hope, and is entirely unacquainted with every species of despair, the constant companion of the lowness of sentiment. Patience is so strong a barrier against every kind of disgrace, that all our ills lose the greatest part of their power by opposing this virtue to them; it combats all opponents, and every conflict is a victory. It honourably resists the greatest hardships of this world, and sweetens the bitters of adversity in such a manner, that we scarce perceive we are unfortunate. It is one of those virtues that constantly carries its own reward; for the very practice of it makes us sensible of its benefits. The Emperor M. Aurelius often said, that Cæsar acquired the empire by the sword, Augustus by inheritance, Caligula by the merits of his father, Nero by tyranny, Titus by having vanquished Judea, but for his part, though of low extraction, he had obtained it by patience.

Whatever crosses and misfortunes we meet with, and however heavy their burden, they cannot overwhelm us whilst we are not abandoned by patience: on the contrary, they become proportionally lightened as we resolutely exercise this virtue. As every thing in nature has its contrast, so patience is the opposite to despair; wherefore the Christians consider it as an heavenly grace, and the philosophers of antiquity pronounced it the last efforts of a firm and generous soul. It is very nearly allied to courage, which cannot shine without opponents; in like manner this virtue disappears as soon as misfortunes desert us. Patience is the most generous of all friends, never appearing in prosperity; but when our miseries attain a pitch that threatens all our future happiness, she never fails to offer her assistance to those really inclined to avail themselves of her kindness. Patience is the birthright of the wise, an inheritance precluded from fools, who are never the architects of their own good fortune, but frequently of their own misery.

The Spectator observes, that resolution in an assassin is, according to reason, quite as laudable as knowledge and wisdom exercised in the defence of an ill cause. Those men only are truly great who place their ambition rather in acquiring to themselves the conscience of worthy enterprises, than in the prospect of glory which attends it. These exalted spirits would rather be secretly the authors of events which are serviceable to mankind, than, without being such, to have the public fame of it. Where, therefore, an eminent merit is robbed by artifice or detraction, it does but encrease by such endeavours of its enemies; the impotent pains which are taken to sully it or disguise it among a croud, to the injury of an individual, will naturally produce the contrary effect; the fire will blaze out and burn up all the attempts to smother what they cannot extinguish. There is but one thing necessary to keep the possession of true glory, which is to hear the opposers of it with patience, and preserve the virtue by which it was acquired. When a person is thoroughly persuaded that he ought neither to admire, wish for, nor pursue any thing but what is exactly his duty; it is not in the power of seasons, persons, or accident, to diminish his value. He only is a great man who can neglect the applauses of the multitude, and enjoy himself independent of its favours. This is indeed an arduous task, but it should comfort a glorious spirit that it is the highest step to which human nature can arrive. Triumph, applause, acclamations, are dear to the mind of man; but it is still a more exquisite delight to say to yourself, you have done well, than to hear the whole human race pronounce glorious.

PRIDE.

It is the sullen pleasure of the proud man to insult and oppress those who have less power than himself. The man of a rational and manly spirit, could not give pain to the weak and the helpless without stabbing his own heart. The pride which God disapproves, cringes to titles and enormous wealth. Laudable spirit is most resolute and inflexible, in repelling any attack on his rights, when the invasion is made by formidable power.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 131.)

The following passage in Lady Delier’s letter struck me particularly: “I neither have read Amelia’s letter, nor has she read mine; however, if she has been sincere, she will have wrote to you many fond things, as I can guess by her grief at your departure, and by the warmth with which she is animated when she speaks of you. I think that Amelia’s resolution not to marry again will be dropt, as soon as the murderer of her late Lord ceases to live, if not sooner. However, I would not have you think that Amelia ever has mentioned any thing to that purpose, or that I believe that a noble spotless soul like hers, could harbour sentiments of revenge; but I suppose only that the amiable enthusiast perhaps fancies that the ghost of her murdered Lord will not enjoy a perfect tranquility and happiness, before the perpetrator of that villainous deed has received the just reward of his atrocious crime. Endeavour, my Lord, to settle your affairs at Mad**d as soon as possible, in order to gladden our hearts by a speedy return.”

With regard to the latter point I wrote to Amelia: “My affairs make a rapid and successful progress, and I shall soon see your Ladyship again. See Amelia again! What happiness do these words imply! Heavens, how great would my felicity be if I constantly could fix my eyes on the loveliest of women! How superlatively happy should I be if I were Amelia’s brother, in order that I could be constantly about her, and speak to her: or her slave, that I could breathe under the same roof with her, follow her every where, and anticipate every wink and every wish of hers.”

I had been about three weeks at Mad**d when I visited the minister one evening, and found him in company with a person who, by his dress, appeared to be a man of rank. He seemed to be very old and infirm, but conceive my astonishment, when, on approaching nearer, I fancied I discerned the features of the Irishman, though every thing else was so entirely changed, that he appeared to be quite a different person; a wig covered his head, his dark eye-brows were changed into grey, his complection yellowish, his voice weak, and frequently interrupted by a hectic cough. The minister met me with the words: “My Lord Duke, I have the honour to present to your Grace the Marchese Ricieri, who lately is returned from a journey through your native country.” The Marchese rose with difficulty, as it appeared, from his seat, and after reciprocal civilities, and a short conversation, took his leave.

My looks followed him with astonishment to the anti-chamber, and I found it extremely difficult to conceal my emotions from the minister, who told me that the Marchese had brought bad news from Port***l, where the spirit of sedition was said to be very busy. Not knowing how far I durst disclose my thoughts on that 138b head without blundering upon the design of the Irishman, I returned an indifferent answer, and endeavoured to turn the conversation to some other object. Fortunately company was announced, I staid an hour longer, and then took leave.

On my way to the hotel, somebody tapped me on the shoulder, and a well-known voice said, “I am glad to see your Grace well.” I turned round and the Irishman stood before me, dressed in black, and wrapt in a scarlet cloak. I was seized with astonishment. “I give you joy, my Lord;” said he in a friendly accent, “how do your affairs go on?” “Extremely well!” I replied, adding after some hesitation, “will you come with me to my hotel?” He accepted my invitation.

“Be so kind,” said he when we were arrived at my apartment, “to take care that we are not interrupted, nor over-heard!” This preamble made me expect to hear important matters, and I was not deceived. Having communicated to him how I had succeeded with Oliva*ez, and Suma*ez, he approved my diligence and discretion, adding, “it is now time to come nearer to the point. I am going to entrust you with two commissions, both of which are equally important.”

“Let me hear what I am to do!”

“First of all you must endeavour to prompt the minister to publish a royal edict, by which the Port****e nobility are ordered, under the penalty of losing their estates, to enter into the military service of Sp**n.”

“Good God, what do you mean by that?”

“Then,” he added, without noticing my exclamation, “you must advise the minister to seize the person of the Duke of Brag**za.”

I flared at the Irishman, “Then the revolution is to be given up!” said I, after a pause of anxious astonishment.

“Not at all, it rather is to be promoted by these means.”

“I cannot comprehend you;” I exclaimed, “you either are counteracting your own plan; or the revolution will be destroyed in the bud.”

“My good Duke, one must frequently appear to counteract a plan in order to carry it into execution with greater safety. I will explain myself more distinctly.” So saying, he pushed his chair closer to me, and continued in a lower accent; “Let us take a short view of the situation of your country. Not to mention the enormous loss of its possessions abroad, which it has suffered during the subjection to Sp**n, the interior state of the empire is deplorable beyond description. The King of Sp**n looks upon your country as a conquered province, and takes the greatest pains to exhaust it entirely, in order to keep it in inactivity with more ease; the royal revenues of Port***l are either distributed among the favourites of the King, or mortgaged; more than 300 gallies, and 2000 cannons have been carried to Sp**n; the nobility are injured by the most unjust demands; the clergy must see their benefices in the possession of foreigners; the people are beggared by enormous 139 taxes—in short matters have almost been carried to the highest pitch. So much the better, for this is a sign that our undertaking is ripe for execution. Let us strain the strings a little more, and they must break.”

“And what then?” said I with ardour. “General commotion, and at the same time universal confusion will be the consequence; and it is very obvious that thus my country will not regain its liberty, but rather be plunged in a more oppressive state of slavery. If the people are not supported by the nobility, and both parties not united under one common head, the furious unbridled populace will rage till the Sp**sh goads shall have reduced them again to obedience.”

“You have divined my most secret thoughts,” the Irishman replied. I was as if dropt from the clouds. “Then I have entirely misconstrued your words,” I replied, “I am to endeavour to obtain an edict in virtue of which, the Port****ze nobility are to be bound to enter in the service of Sp**n, under the penalty of losing their estates; I am to advise the minister to seize the Duke of B——a! Did you not say so?”

“Exactly so!”

“However, if the P---e nobility should enter into the Sp***sh service, how are they to be active in the service of their country? If the Duke of Bra***za should be seized, how will it be possible that he should become the head of the conspirators?”

“Heaven forbid your ifs should be realized!”

“But why the preparations for it? Indeed I do not comprehend you.”

“You soon shall; only suffer me so go on. The people must be supported by the accession of the nobility and clergy, and all parties guided by a common leader; thus far you are perfectly right: and in order to effect that purpose every preparation has been made, and the general commotion will be effected in a harmonious and regular manner, if ever it can be effected. But, dearest Duke, you look upon what may happen as already existing. I was saying just now, that matters have almost been carried to the highest pitch! one moment of rashness may ruin the most prudent plan. It is true, that the people and the clergy are waiting anxiously for the signal of a revolution; however, the nobility are not sufficiently exasperated. Once already have they been ordered to enter into the service of Sp**n against the Cata**nians; however, they were satisfied to evince their displeasure silently, by obeying the edict reluctantly and negligently. If in this situation of affairs that edict should be renewed, and the transgressors punished by the seizure of their estates, their resentment, which is burning under the embers, will soon burst out into a blaze; then all the states of the empire will be equally provoked, and it will be seasonable for the Duke of Bra***za to give the signal for a general commotion.”

“But is not this very Duke to be seized and imprisoned?”

“Neither is he to be seized, nor are the Port****ze nobility to enter into the Sp**sh service, but both parties are to be provoked, by the severest oppression, in such a manner that their resentment may break out into open revolt.”

“His father would not have wanted such a violent incitement; the Duke has, however, inherited very little of the spirit of his parent*.”

“A rash resolution is not always the firmest, nor is a precipitate deed always the best. And besides, the undertaking of the Duke of Bra***za is of such a nature, that he risks nothing less than his own and his family’s welfare; it requires therefore a more mature consideration.” 

“But if he should flinch back!”

“His retreat must be entirely cut off, and this is to be effected by the execution of the second commission which I have given you.”

(To be continued.)

* The Grandmother of the Duke of Brag**za had already attempted to enforce her claim to the throne; she was, however, obliged to yield to superior power. His father was hurt so much at the loss of the crown, that he had formed the design to seize the King of Sp**n when he stopped at his palace at Vi**ciosa, on his journey to Li*bon, and not to set him at liberty till he should have renounced to him the crown of Por***al. His friends represented to him how impossible it would be to accomplish this design; however, he could not be persuaded to desist from all farther attempts of getting possession of the sceptre of Port***al, and his people were frequently instigated by him to quarrel with the King’s Officers at Li*bon, on which occasion the populace evinced clearly how strong their attachment to the family of Bra***za was. But matters were never pushed any farther, the proper time when the crown of Por***al, should be restored to its lawful possessors being not yet arrived. The old Duke was so much grieved at his unsuccessful attempt, that at length his reason was disordered. He spoke constantly of war and arms, and ordered his family, on his death-bed, to bury him with Royal pomp, which was actually done, though in secret.

EULOGY ON BUFFON, the celebrated Naturalist.

Le Compte de la Cepede, in his description of the Four Lamps suspended in the Temple of Genius, erected in the bosom of France, has given the following Eulogy of Buffon:

“It was no longer night: a star created by nature to illuminate the universe, shone with majesty. His course was marked by dignity; his motion by harmony, and his repose by serenity: every eye, even the weakest, was ready to contemplate it. From his car, resplendent over the universe, he spread his magnificence. As God enclosed in the ark all the works of creation, he collected, on the banks of the Seine, the animals, vegetables and minerals dispersed in the four quarters of the globe. Every form, every colour, all the riches and instincts of the world were offered to our eyes, and to our understandings. Every thing was revealed; every thing ennobled; every thing rendered interesting, brilliant or graceful. But a funeral groan was heard---Nature grieved in silence---with Buffon, the last lamp was extinguished.”

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REMARKS ON MUSIC.

(Continued from page 124.)

Some Historians affirm that music was first known in Egypt, and by comparing the accounts of Didorus Siculus, and of Plato, there is reason to suppose, that in very ancient times the study of music in Egypt, was confined to the Priesthood, who used it only on religious and solemn occasions; that, as well as sculpture, it was circumscribed by law: that it was esteemed sacred, and forbidden to be employed on light or common occasions; and that innovation in it was prohibited; but what the style or relative excellence of this very ancient music was, there are no traces by which we can form any accurate judgment. After the reigns of the Pharoahs, the Egyptians fell by turns under the dominion of the Ethiopians, the Persians, the Greeks, and the Romans. By such revolutions, the manners and amusements of the people, as well as their form of government, must have been changed. In the age of the Ptolemies, the musical games and contests instituted by these monarchs were of Greek origin, and the musicians who performed were chiefly Greeks. The most ancient monuments of human art and industry, at present extant at Rome, are the obelisks brought there from Egypt, two of which are said to have been erected by Sesostris at Heliopolis, about 400 years before the siege of Troy. These were by the order of Augustus brought to Rome after the conquest of Egypt. One of them called guglia rotta, or the broken pillar, which during the sacking of the City in 1527 was thrown down and broke, still lays in the Campus Martius. On it is seen the figure of a musical instrument of two strings and with a neck. It resembles much the calascione still used in the kingdom of Naples.

This curious relict of antiquity is mentioned, because it affords better evidence than, on the subject of ancient music, is usually to be met with, that the Egyptians at so very early a period of their history, had advanced to a considerable degree of excellence in the cultivation of the arts. By means of its neck, this instrument was capable, with only two strings, of producing a great number of notes.

These two strings if tuned fourths to each other, would furnish that series of sounds which the ancients call heptichord, which consist of a conjunct tetrachord as B. C. D. E; E. F. G. A; if tuned in fifths; they would produce an octave, or two disjunct tetrachords. The annals of no other nation than Egypt, for many ages after the period of the obelisk at Heliopolis, exhibit the vestige of any contrivance to shorten strings during performance by a neck or finger board. Father Montfaucon observes, that after examining 500 ancient lyres, harps, and citheras, he could discover no such thing.

A. O.

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE ROSE—A REFLECTION.

ADDRESSED TO MR. ——.

This morning it unfolded its beauties to the eastern sun; it exhaled its rich perfume; I beheld the beautiful flower with pleasure. A person past my window, and, no doubt, to please me, plucked it from the stalk. He gave it me; I placed it in my bosom. It faded—it died away—and when evening came it was no longer charming.

Vain man! in this flower thou mayest behold an emblem of thyself. Thou too in the morning of thy days wast amiable. But when thou hadst arrived at mature age, then thou wast severed from conscious innocence; then thou didst imbibe the vices of the age. As the flower lost its crimson hue, thou wast fast losing thy hold of virtue. And as the rose had entirely faded, so rectitude, integrity, innocence, and every amiable virtue became strangers to thy heart; and left thee, entirely, a man of the world.

L. B.

October 25. 1796.

GENEROSITY.

Generosity is the part of a soul raised above the vulgar. There is in it something of what we admire in heroes, and praise with a degree of rapture.

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and it is an action attended with no sort of glory. Should Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would be at the pains of telling it to the world? Generosity is a virtue of a very different complexion. It is raised above duty, and, from its elevation, attracts the attention and the praises of us little mortals below.

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

CURIOUS OBSERVATIONS.

The word Pat, has a peculiarity hardly belonging to any other; read it which way you will, though it forms different words, yet they are exactly of the same import, for a Pat, or a Tap, it is well known, signify a gentle stroke.

The word murmur read backwards, repeatedly names a liquor that some people are remarkably fond of, viz. rum rum; and when this dear delightful beverage cannot be had, read it forwards, and it will shew you what they will be very apt to do, viz. murmur.

Again in the word glass---this is what some men love exceedingly, and if we use what is called the aphoerisis, or the taking away of a letter, it will then be what most men love, viz. a lass, but take away the l, and the remainder will shew what he is who loves neither a glass nor a lass, viz. an ass.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 135.)

Lodoiska uttered the most dreadful groans, to which I answered by cries of fury. Boleslas rushed from one part of the prison to another, like a madman; he sent forth the most terrible howlings; he attempted to burst open the door with his hands and feet. As for myself, I remained at the window, and shook, amidst my transports of fury, those massive iron-bars which I was unable to bend.

All of a sudden, the domestics, who had lately mounted the battlements, descend with precipitation, and open the gates: we heard the voice of Dourlinski himself, begging for quarter. The victors instantly precipitate themselves amidst the flames; and being at length attracted by our cries, they force open the door of our prison with their hatchets.

By their dress and their arms, I know them to be Tartars: their chief arrives——it is Titsikan!

“Ah! ah!” exclaims he; “it is my brave friend!”

I instantly throw myself on his neck:—“Titsikan!——Lodoiska!——a lady!——the fairest of women!——in that tower!——about to be burnt alive!”

These were the incoherent expressions by which I made my feelings known.

The Tartar instantly gives the word of command to his followers——they fly to the tower---I fly along with them---Boleslas follows us. They burst open the doors; and near to an old pillar we discover a narrow, winding stair-case, filled with smoke.

The Tartars, affrighted at the danger, start back: I prepare to ascend.

“Alas! what are you about?” exclaims Boleslas.

“To live or die with Lodoiska!”

“And I will either live or die with my master!” was the reply of my generous servant.

I rush on---he follows me! At the risk of suffocation, we ascend about forty steps; by the light of the flames we discover Lodoiska in a corner of her prison; who feebly utters; “Who is it that approaches me?”

“It is Lovzinski! it is your lover!”

Joy instantly lends her new strength; she rises and flies into my arms: we carry her away; we descend a few steps; but volumes of smoke now fill all the stair-case, and we are forced to re-ascend with precipitation. At that very instant, too, a part of the tower gives way!---Boleslas utters a dreadful shriek, and Lodoiska falls into a swoon.

That which was on the point of destroying, saved us! The flames, formerly smothered, began to extend with greater rapidity; but the smoke was dissipated.---Laden with our precious burden, Boleslas and I descend in haste---I do not exaggerate; every step trembled under 141b our feet! the walls were all on fire! At length we arrived at the gate of the tower; Titsikan, trembling for our safety, was expecting us there: “Brave men!”---exclaimed he, on seeing us appear again.——I place Lodoiska at his feet, and fall down lifeless by her side!

I remained nearly an hour in this situation. They tremble for my life; and Boleslas weeps aloud. I again recover my senses, on hearing the voice of Lodoiska, who, returning to herself, calls me her deliverer. The appearance of every thing was altered; the tower was entirely in ruins. The Tartars, however, had stopt the progress of the flames; they had destroyed one part of the castle, on purpose to save the remainder; in fine, we had been carried into a large saloon, where we were surrounded by Titsikan and some of his soldiers. Others of them were occupied in pillaging and in bringing away the gold, silver, jewels, plate, and all the precious effects which the flames had spared.

Near to us Dourlinski, loaded with fetters, and uttering repeated groans, beheld this heap of riches, of which, he was about to be despoiled. Rage, terror, despair, all the passions which can tear the heart of a villain suffering under punishment, were visibly depicted in his wild and wandering looks. He struck the earth with fury, dashed his clenched hands against his forehead, and, uttering the most horrible blasphemies, he reproached Heaven for its just vengeance.

In the mean time, my lovely mistress holds my hand clasped in hers. “Alas,” says she at length, with tears in her eyes, “alas! you have saved my life, and your own is still in danger! Nay, even if we escape death, slavery awaits us!”

“No, no, Lodoiska, be comforted, Titsikan is not my enemy; Titsikan will put a period to our misfortunes—”

“Undoubtedly, if I am able,” exclaims the Tartar, interrupting me: “you are in the right, brave man! (adds he) I see that you are not dead, and I am happy: you always say, and do good things; and you have there (turning to Boleslas), you have there a friend who seconds you admirably.”

On this I embrace Boleslas:—“yes, Titsikan, yes, I have a friend, who shall always be dear to me!—”

The Tartar again interrupts me: “What! were not you both confined in an apartment below ground, and was not this lady in a tower? What was the reason of that? I will lay any wager, continues he with a smile, that you have taken this female from that old wretch, (pointing to Dourlinski), and you are in the right; for he is a dotard, and she is beautiful! Come—inform me of every thing.”

I now discover my own name to Titsikan, that of Lodoiska’s father, and every particular that had occurred to me until that moment. It belongs to Lodoiska, I observe in conclusion, to make us acquainted with what she has been obliged to suffer from the infamous Dourlinski, ever since she has been in his castle!

“You know,” replies Lodoiska, “that my father me to leave Warsaw, on the day that the diet was opened. He first conducted me to the territories of the Palatine of ————, at only twenty leagues distance from the capital, to which he returned, on purpose to assist at the meeting of the states.

“On that very day when M. de P——— was proclaimed king, Pulaski took me from the castle of the palatine, and conducted me here, thinking that I should be better concealed. He charged Dourlinski to guard me with extraordinary strictness; and, above all things, to take especial care to prevent Lovzinski from discovering the place of my retreat. He then left me, as he informed me, on purpose to assemble and encourage the good citizens to defend his country, and to punish traitors. Alas! these important avocations have made him forget his daughter, for I have never seen him since.

“A few days after his departure, I began to perceive that the visits of Dourlinski had become more frequent than usual; in a short time, he hardly ever quitted the apartment assigned me for a prison. He deprived me, under some trifling pretext, of the only female attendant whom my father had left me; and to prevent any person (as he said) from knowing that I was in his castle, he himself brought me the food necessary for my subsistence, and passed whole days along with me. You cannot conceive, my dear Lovzinski, how much I suffered from the continual presence of a man who was odious to me, and whose infamous designs I was suspicious of: he even dared to explain himself to me one day: but I assured him that my hate should always be the price of his tenderness, and that his unworthy conduct had drawn upon him my sovereign contempt.

“He answered me coldly, that in time I should accustom myself to see him, and to suffer his assiduities; nay, he did not in the least alter his usual conduct, for he entered my chamber in the morning, and never retired until night. Separated from all I loved, I had not even the feeble consolation of being able to enjoy the sweet recollection of past happiness. A witness to my misfortunes, Dourlinski took pleasure in augmenting them.

“‘Pulaski,’ says he to me, ‘commands a body of Polish troops; Lovzinski betraying his country, which he does not love, and a woman concerning whom he is indifferent, serves in the Russian army, where he will be cut off during some bloody engagement: besides, if he survives, it is evident that nothing can ever reconcile your father to him.’

“A few days after, he came on purpose to announce to me, that Pulaski, during the night, had attacked the Russians in their camp; and that, amidst the confusion that ensued, my lover had fallen by the hand of my father. The cruel Palatine even made me read a narrative of this event, drawn up with every appearance of truth, in a kind of public gazette, which doubtless he had procured to be printed expressly for the purpose: 142b besides, on perceiving the barbarous joy which he affected on this occasion, I thought the news but too true.

“Pitiless tyrant! cried I, you enjoy my tears and my despair; but cease to persecute me, or you will soon see that the daughter of Pulaski is herself able to avenge her own injuries!

“One evening that he had left me sooner than usual, after I retired to bed, I heard my door open very softly. By the light of a lamp, which I kept always burning, I beheld my tyrant advancing towards my bed. As there was no crime of which I did not believe him to be capable, I had foreseen this event; and I had even taken measures to render it unsuccessful. I accordingly armed myself with a long sharp knife, which I had the precaution to conceal beneath my pillow; I overwhelmed the wretch with the reproaches which he so justly merited; and I vowed, if he dared to advance, that I would poniard him with my own hand.

“He retired, with surprise and affright visibly delineated on his countenance: ‘I am tired,’ said he as he went out, ‘with experiencing nothing but scorn; and if I were not afraid of being overheard, you should soon perceive what a woman’s arm could effect against mine! But I know a way of vanquishing your pride! By and by you will think yourself but too happy in being able to purchase your pardon, by the most humiliating submissions.’

“He now withdrew. A few moments after, his confident entered with a pistol in his hand. I must, however, do him the justice to say, that he wept while he announced to me the orders of his lord.

“‘Dress yourself, Madam; you must instantly follow me!’—This was all that he was able to say to me.

“He then conducted me to that very tower, where, without you, I should this morning have perished: he shut me up in that horrible prison; it was there that I had languished for more than a month, without fire, without the light of heaven, and almost without clothes; with bread and water for my food; for my bed a few trusses of straw: this was the deplorable state to which the only daughter of a grandee of Poland was reduced!

“You shudder, brave stranger, and yet believe me, when I assure you, that I do not recount to you any more than a small part of my sufferings. One thing, however, rendered my misery less insupportable: I no longer beheld my tyrant. While he expected with tranquility that I should solicit my pardon, I passed whole days and nights in calling on the name of my father, and in bewailing my lover! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * O Lovzinski! with what astonishment was I seized; with what joy was my soul penetrated, on that day when I once more beheld you in the gardens of Dourlinski!” * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(To be continued.)

THE FOLLY OF FREETHINKING:

An Anecdote.

Among words which in their present acceptation are remote from their original and rigid meaning, none perhaps are more striking than Deism and Freethinking. The former, which in its strict import signifies nothing more than a belief in the existence of the Deity, in opposition to Atheism (and in this sense every christian is a Deist) is now universally understood of all persons who reject the christian revelation; and the word Freethinking, which should convey the idea of a man of liberal and ingenuous disposition, free from vulgar prejudice and unmanly bigotry, and investigating truth with virtuous view, and a deep veneration of the Supreme Being, is now commonly appropriated to those persons, who from a love of singularity, an affectation of superior understanding, or innate malignity of mind, would combat truths the most universally received and revered in all ages and in all countries, and would dissolve those sacred ties by which society is united, and destroy those hopes of immortality which God hath given as incentives to virtue, and the best security of our happiness here and hereafter.

The conduct of the Freethinker, whether actuated by such motives or not, is replete with extreme folly, to give it no harsher appellation. An anecdote of the late Mr. Mallet affords a remarkable instance of the truth of this observation, and cannot fail to convey some useful advice. This gentleman was a great Freethinker, and a very free speaker of his free thoughts. He made no scruple to disseminate his opinions wherever he could introduce them. At his own table, the lady of the house (who was a staunch advocate for her husband’s opinions) would often in the warmth of argument, say, ‘Sir, we Deists.’ The lecture upon the non credenda of the Freethinkers was repeated so often, and urged with so much earnestness, that the inferior domestics became soon as able disputants as the heads of the family. The fellow who waited at the table being thoroughly convinced, that for any of his misdeeds he should have no after account to make, was resolved to profit by the doctrine, and made off with many things of value, particularly the plate. Luckily he was so closely pursued, that he was brought back with his prey to his master’s house, who examined him before some select friends. At first, the man was sullen, and would answer no questions; but, being urged to give a reason for his infamous behaviour he resolutely said, ‘Sir, I had heard you so often talk of the impossibility of a future state, and that after death there was no reward for virtue, or punishment for vice, that I was tempted to commit the robbery.’ ‘Well; but you rascal,’ replied Mallet, ‘had you no fear of the gallows?’ ‘Sir,’ said the fellow, looking sternly at his master, ‘what is that to you, if I had a mind to venture that? You had removed my greatest terror; why should I fear the least?’

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday the 19th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Moore, of Hempstead, Mr. Isaac Hagner, to Miss Hannah Toffy, daughter of Mr. Daniel Toffy, both of Herricks, (L.I.)

On Saturday se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. George Stewart, to Miss Nancy Brant, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Milledoler, Mr. Casper Sembler, to Miss Hannah Smith, both of this city.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Sonnet by Anna, is received, and shall appear in our next.

Theodore’s remarks on Mr. Townsend’s note, we must be excused from publishing. Personal feuds can by no means be interesting to the public, and are ever totally inadmissible; we recommend to the parties, an amicable reconciliation which will assuredly be productive of more satisfaction than sullen revenge can ever afford.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

EVENING.—EXTEMPORE.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO MISS A—— H——.

The above address was occasioned by the following Epitaph, written by a Clergyman, and presented to the young lady whose tomb it was to adorn.

Epitaph on a Celebrated Coach-Maker.

ON A GOOD CONSCIENCE.

MATERNAL AFFECTION.

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 ESSAY ON HOPE.

There is, perhaps, no word in our language more generally understood than the term Hope. The idea represented by this word is so well known from its pleasing effects on the mind, and so indiscriminately experienced in one or other of its degrees, that any explanation of it seems to be unnecessary. All know that Hope signifies an expectation indulged with pleasure.

In all the works of Nature we can find no two objects exactly similar. The surprising diversity proceeds from a degree almost imperceptible, by a slow gradation, down to direct opposition in the minutest circumstances; so that in the amazing variety, we can find no object, whether of sense or imagination, which has not its direct reverse.

With respect to the sensations of the mind, I know none more directly contrasted than that expressed by the word Hope. Its reverse is Fear. And though Love and Hatred—Joy and Sorrow—Light and Darkness are not more opposed to each other than those two passions; yet it will appear a little remarkable, that they not only spring from the same source, but are really and identically the same in some of the original steps or gradations. The same passion or power of the mind varies its name in the different stages of its advancement. Every thing has its state of infancy. In their pristine state, Hope and Fear are both called Esteem. This may be termed the infant state of attachment to any object. Esteem soon advances to its second stage, in which it takes the name of Love. In a third gradation it is called Desire; Love ever produces the desire of enjoyment. Those are the original and common steps of Hope and fear; nor is there yet any sort of distinction either with respect to object or sensation: but here the difference begins.—They are no longer the same. The strong dissimilarity of different minds may render the subsequent stages of operation as different as contradiction itself. Mark the progression of Desire in two minds of different textures. Let us suppose the object the same. Let us suppose it Riches; or (if that will animate the idea) a person of a different sex. In the one mind Desire improves to Hope; in the other it degenerates to fear. In the one instance, 145b Hope advances to a state of superior sensation, which we term Joy; in the other, fear sinks down the rugged declivity to that dreary region called despair.

Thus one man looks with pleasure and fortitude beyond his present difficulties; and though his hopes, in some instances, may be decidedly blasted, what then? he never anticipated the disappointment, nor will the happy turn of his mind permit him to indulge its vexations. His active passions soon find another object of exercise and pursuit. Very frequently he gains the summit of felicity in the enjoyment of his favourite object; and still he has the independent happiness arising from the constant exercise of Hope. A person of the above description is never heard to complain of this troublesome, woeful, sinful world; he has no such bad opinion of life in general, as promotes a desire of quitting it; or of going to another, to avoid the disappointments of this---the common source of all such wishes. No: he acts his part as a man; enjoys life as man was designed to do; contributes to the happiness of all around him, and secures his own.

Let us now take a slight view of the other side of the picture---the man of an opposite cast. We left him in despair of possession; he yields his cowardly heart a victim to the vulture; and, if his distress is not somewhat alleviated by transferring his attention to some other object, he either abridges his life with a pistol or halter, or drags along a miserable existence indeed. These are no exaggerated or imaginary ideas.---This is reason, truth, fact---Human Nature.

The above simple remarks may convince us, that the same passions are very different (in point of degree) in different persons. What predominates in one, is counteracted and overpowered in another; and men are happy or otherwise, as Hope or Fear happens to be the most powerful passion.

Those to whom the important charge of education is committed, may perhaps draw some useful inferences from the above observations. It is much in their power (if calculated for the serious business) to suppress, to a proper degree, any abstract passion of an unhappy tendency, whether in itself or its consequences.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 139)

“How am I to understand this?”

“You think this measure would be too harsh and violent, however it is not a mere arbitrary artifice, but adapted to the situation in which the Duke of Bra***za is at present. The minister of Sp**n is not ignorant of the fermentations in Po****al, and suspecting the Duke to be the chief source of them, his principal attention is directed to him.—But what could Oliva*ez have attempted against him as yet? Open force would have been fruitless, and not only forwarded the general revolt, but also justified the actions of the Duke. He was therefore forced to have recourse to art. At first he conferred the government of Mi*an upon the Duke, in order to have an opportunity of getting him in his power; however that keen-sighted nobleman declined that honour, pretending not to have sufficient knowledge of the country to acquit himself honourably of a trust of so much importance. Soon after the minister found another opportunity of laying a new snare. The King of Sp**n having resolved to chastise the rebellious Catal*nians in person, the Duke was very civilly invited to accompany him in the field; but he begged to be excused, alledging that this would be attended with great expences, and that his finances were very low. However Oliva**z was not discouraged by this refusal, and has lately made a third attempt. A rumour having been spread all over the country, that a Fren*h fleet was approaching the coasts of Po****al, probably with a view to make a descent, Oliva**z conferred upon the Duke an almost unlimited power to make the requisite preparations against the impending invasion, and particularly to review all the ports, to fortify and to garrison them. Meanwhile the Sp**ish Admiral, Don Lopez Oz**co had received secret orders to carry his fleet to a port where the Duke should be, to invite him to review it, and when he should have seized him, to sail with his prisoner to Sp**n. This plan was however rendered abortive by a dreadful storm which dispersed the fleet, and forced the Admiral to desist from his design of visiting the Port****ze ports. No new attempt has been made since, and the minister is silently hatching other artifices. Yet this calm is, without comparison, more dreadful than all the attempts which have been made. I know that he has an emissary in Por***al, who watches secretly every step of the Duke,* whose liberty and life are in imminent danger. The ruin of the head of the conspiracy would be a mortal blow to the whole revolutionary society; even the imprisonment of the Duke would unnerve the hands of the conspirators. If, therefore, the revolution is to take place, the Duke must be secured against the secret machinations of the minister; I say the secret 146b machinations, for if they should be carried on publicly, as it has been the case as yet, his snares may easily be evaded. For which reason it will be matter of great importance to persuade the minister to carry on his attempts in the usual way, and to effect this will be in your power. Nay, you yourself must frame and direct the designs upon the Duke.”

“I fear,” said I to the Irishman, “you expect more from my feeble exertions than I shall be able to perform.”

“Hear first my plan! You are to go, the day after tomorrow, to Oliva*ez, and to inform him that you have received intelligence of the commotions in Por***al—”

“Besides,” I interrupted him, “Oliva*ez has told me to-day that he has received an account of these commotions from a certain Marchese Ricieri, who is returned from his travels through Por***al.”

“So much the better!” he replied, without returning my inquisitive look, or changing his countenance at the name of Ricieri, “so much the better! then you have a prefacer to whose introduction you can link your discourse. Tell, therefore, the minister, that the letter which you have received from Por***al makes it very plain to you, why the Duke had declined all the invitations which the court had given him. Oliva*ez will request you to explain these words, and then you must reply, that you suspect the Duke of Brag**za to avoid the neighbourhood of the Court, because he is sensible he has deserved the resentment of the King by his disloyalty. At the same time you must add, that you are very sorry to be obliged to declare against so near a relation as the Duke; that, however, the voice of your conscience has more weight with you than that of consanguinity, and that your allegiance to the King of Sp**n and your country, which has been reduced to the greatest distress by the constant internal commotions, does not suffer you any longer to regard as a friend, the man who was the chief cause of all these troubles. Thus you will gain the confidence of the minister, and he will ask you what measures for seizing the Duke you think would be most proper and safe. Take hold of that opportunity to convince the minister that, and for what reason, violent measures of any kind, would produce the worst consequences. Approve of the means which the wisdom of his policy has already adopted as the safest, by which the Duke ought to be persecuted till no farther evasion should be left for him. Oliva*ez will desire you to give him your opinion more at large, and then you must address him to the following purpose:—‘I am of opinion that you ought to inform the Duke of the misfortune which has befallen the fleet, and to charge him, under the pretext that this had rendered the situation of the empire very perilous, with the commission to inspect all the strong places of the kingdom, and to fortify them where he shall think it requisite. At the same time you will do well to order all the commanders of the fortified towns to seize the Duke as secretly as possible. In order to prevent any 147 evasions under the pretext of want of money, you must send him, at the same time, a sum sufficient for defraying the expences of his journey.”

“But suppose,” said I, “this proposal should be accepted, how could the Duke of Brag**za escape the snare?”

“Can we not apprize him of his danger? If he cannot find means to escape the snare by dint of art, he must have recourse to open force, and call to arms. Thus the revolution will begin, and our chief aim be attained.”

“One can predict,” the Irishman continued, “with some degree of certainty, that Oliva*ez will not reject that proposal, which is nothing but a continuation of his former plan, and of course, will flatter his conceit. As soon as you shall have carried this point, you must endeavour to effect the promulgation of the edict against the nobility; which will be no difficult task, if you pretend to have been informed by letters from Por***al, that the major part of the nobility is entirely devoted to the Duke, and will support him if a revolt should break out.—Hence you may draw the conclusion that the fermentation in Por***al will never cease, and the wisest measures against him, though ever so successful, will not have the desired effect, while the nobility shall not be employed somewhere else, and forced to submit to the edict by which they are ordered to enter into the service of Sp**n. I advise you, at the same time, to add, that the indulgence which has been shewn to those who have refused to obey the proclamation of the Court, will render the nobility more daring, and the Duke of Brag**za more dangerous. In short, you must exert every power of persuasion to incite the minister to renew and to enforce that edict.”

After a short pause the Irishman added:—“This advice would appear suspicious, if proposed by any other person but yourself. You have gained, already, his confidence to such a degree, that it will derive additional strength from your apparent zeal. And indeed every thing that can contribute to remove all traces of suspicion from you concurs in your person! The proposals which you are to make have not only the appearance of destroying the design of the Duke and the conspirators, but you have also been on your travels when they were fabricated, and of course, cannot be suspected of having the least share in them. While you have been here your time has been spent in amusements and diversions, how could you, therefore, be supposed to have been capable of paying any attention to deep laid intrigues of state? On the contrary, the minister is no stranger to your father’s fidelity to the King of Sp**n, and to the secret hatred which your family harbours against the Duke of Brag**za; how could, therefore, your proposal appear to him otherwise than natural and sincere? Your friendship for Velas*os alone would be sufficient to make him believe so.”

“I need not remind you,” added the Irishman, when he was going to leave me, “not to forget to interest the Secretary of State, Suma*ez, for your transactions.”

“But suppose,” I replied, “I should acquit myself of my charge to your satisfaction, how am I to conceal the matter from my father?”

The Irishman replied after a momentary consideration: “If the minister should approve your proposals, you must request him frankly not to mention any thing to the Marquis, pretending to intend to surprise him in an agreeable manner, by an oral account, when the whole affair shall be happily concluded.”

Before he took leave, he enjoined me to be circumspect, courageous, and active.

I cannot say whether it was owing to the execution of this advice, to the facility of the task, or to favourable accidents, that I carried my point without difficulty. The minister approved my plan; the Duke of B——a received the above mentioned order along with 40,000 ducats, and the edict concerning the nobility was renewed. However, the Duke of B——a again escaped the snare. He did, indeed, execute the orders of the Sp***sh court, travelled all over P****l, and observed every where how the people were devoted to him; the money he had received, and the power that was entrusted to him, enabled him to gain many friends, and he entered the fortified towns so well escorted, that none of the Sp***sh governors dared seize him.

The Irishman who gave me this information, provided me at the same time with instructions how to act if the minister should complain of the miscarriage of my plan, which soon happened. Oliva*ez acquainted me very peevishly, with the bad success of our undertaking. “We may yet carry our point,” I replied, after some reflection, with seeming unconcern. “If you wish to pursue your plan, you may easily lay a new snare for him, from which the Duke will not be able to extricate himself. You have the best opportunity of sending him an order to repair to Mad**d, and to make to his Majesty an oral report of the state of Port**l.”

The minister approved of this advice, and carried it into execution without delay. The Duke of B——a, who was well aware that the order from the Sp***sh court could not be declined any longer, sent his Chamberlain to Mad**d in order to hire a palace, to engage a number of servants, and to make every preparation for his pretended arrival, but nevertheless did not come. One time he pleaded ill health, at another time want of money; and at last, wished to know what rank he was to hold at Mad**d. However, I was so fortunate as to guide the minister in such a manner that every obstacle was removed at last, and the Duke received 6000 ducats for defraying the expences of his journey.

“Now,” said the Irishman to me, “the Duke will find it impossible to shift any longer, and either must repair to Mad**d, which he will take care not to do, or give the signal for the revolution. Your business, my Lord, is finished, and nothing further will be required of you than the strictest secrecy. When your country will be free, we shall meet again, and then you may expect to see all my promises accomplished.”

(To be continued.)

* This emissary will soon be introduced to the reader.

CURIOUS OBSERVATIONS ON MAKING LOVE.

From The Tatler.

I fell in the other evening with a party who were engaged in examining which was the handsomest style of addressing the Fair, and writing Letters of Gallantry.—Many were the opinions immediately declared on this subject: Some were for a certain softness; some for I know not what of delicacy; others for something inexpressibly tender: When it came to me, I said there was no rule in the world to be made for writing Letters, but that of being as near what you speak face to face as you can; which is so great a truth, that I am of opinion, writing has lost more Mistresses than any one mistake in the whole legend of Love. For when you write to a Lady for whom you have a solid and honourable Love, the great idea you have of her, joined to a quick sense of her absence, fills your mind with a sort of tenderness, that gives your language too much the air of complaint, which is seldom successful. For a man may flatter himself as he pleases, but he will find, that the women have more understanding in their own affairs than we have, and women of spirit are not to be won by mourners.—Therefore he that can keep handsomely within rules, and support the carriage of a companion to his mistress, is much more likely to prevail, than he who lets her see the whole relish of his life depends upon her. If possible therefore, divert your mistress, rather than sigh to her. The pleasant man she will desire for her own sake; but the languishing lover has nothing to hope for but her pity. To shew the difference I produced two Letters a Lady gave me, which had been writ to her by two gentlemen who made love to her, but were both killed the day after the date at the battle of Almanza. One of them was a mercurial gay-humoured man; the other a man of a serious but a great and gallant spirit. Poor Jack Careless! This is his letter: You see how it is folded: The air of it is so negligent, one might have read half of it by peeping into it, without breaking it open. He had no exactness.

MADAM,

‘It is a very pleasant circumstance I am in, that while I should be thinking of the good company we are to meet within a day or two, where we shall go to loggerheads, my thoughts are running upon a Fair Enemy in England. I was in hopes I had left you there; but you follow the camp, tho’ I have endeavoured to make some of our leaguer Ladies drive you out of the Field. All my comfort is, you are more troublesome to my Colonel than myself: I permit you to visit me only now and then; but he downright keeps you. I laugh at his honour as far as his gravity will allow me; But I know him to be a man of too much merit to succeed with a woman. Therefore defend your heart as well as you can, I shall come home this winter irresistibly dressed, and with quite a new foreign air. And so, I had like to say, I rest, but alas! I remain, Madam,

Your most Obedient, Most Humble Servant,

John Careless.

Now for Colonel Constant’s Epistle; you see it is folded and directed with the utmost care.

MADAM,

‘I do myself the honour to write to you this evening because I believe to-morrow will be a day of battle, and something forebodes in my breast that I shall fall in it. If it proves so, I hope you will hear I have done nothing below a man who had a love of his country, quickened by a passion for a woman of honour. If there be any thing noble in going to a certain death; if there be any merit, I meet it with pleasure, by promising myself a place in your esteem; if your applause, when I am no more, is preferable to the most glorious life without you; I say, Madam, if any of these considerations can have weight with you, you will give me a kind place in your memory, which I prefer to the glory of Cæsar. I hope, this will be read, as it is writ, with tears.’

The beloved Lady is a woman of a sensible mind; but she has confessed to me, that after all her true and solid value for Constant, she had much more concern for the loss of Careless. Those great and serious spirits have something equal to the adversities they meet with, and consequently lessen the objects of pity. Great accidents seem not cut out so much for men of familiar characters, which makes them more easily pitied, and soon after beloved. Add to this, that the sort of love which generally succeeds, is a stranger to awe and distance. I asked Romana, whether of the two she should have chosen had they survived? She said, She knew she ought to have taken Constant; but believed, she should have chosen Careless.

ARABIAN MAXIMS.

The monument which a wise man is ambitious to leave behind him, is not a numerous posterity, but the lasting honours of a virtuous fame.

In learning to know yourself, you learn to know God.

Do good; and your reward shall be, if not the plaudits of men, the approbation of God.

It is lost labour to endeavour to give understanding to him that has none; especially, if he thinks himself more sensible than you.

Nobility does not consist in magnificence of dress or eminence of rank. Art thou virtuous? Thou art sufficiently noble.

The life of man is a journal: good actions only should be written in it.

He who sows duplicity will reap calamity.

Whatever is not God, is nothing.

There are three things of which we cannot be certain but in three circumstances; courage can be conspicuous only in the combat; wisdom, when you are offended; and friendship, in adversity.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 142.)

Titsikan was listening to the story of our misfortunes, with which he appeared to be deeply affected, when one of his centinels approached, and sounded an alarm. He immediately left us in great haste, on purpose to run to the drawbridge. We heard a great tumult, and began already to presage some inauspicious event.

While we remained plunged in consternation,---“Lovzinski, Lodoiska, cowardly and perfidious pair!” exclaims Dourlinski, unable to contain his joy---“you have hoped to be able to elude my vengeance, and escape my chastisement. Tremble! you are once more about to fall into my hands. At the noise of my captivity and misfortunes, the neighbouring nobility are undoubtedly assembled, and have now come to succour me.”

“---They can only revenge you, villain!” cries Boleslas, interrupting him in the midst of his threats, and seizing, at the same time, an iron bar, with which he prepared to knock him down; I, however, instantly interposed and prevented him from executing this act of justice.

Titsikan returned in a few minutes: “It is only a false alarm,” said he to us; “it is nothing more than a small detachment which I dispatched yesterday, on purpose to scour the country---they had orders to rejoin me here; and they have brought me some prisoners: every thing is quiet, and the neighbourhood does not appear to be in the least commotion.”

While Titsikan yet spoke to me, a number of unfortunates, whose luckless fate had delivered them into the hands of the enemy, were dragged before him. We first beheld five, who, being unbound, walked by the side of their conquerors, with a downcast and melancholy aspect. The Tartars told us, that one of their companions had been overcome with great difficulty, and that was the reason why he was bound hand and foot!

The sixth now appeared: “O Heavens! it is my father!” exclaims Lodoiska, running at the same time towards him.---I, too, threw myself at the feet of Pulaski. “Are you Pulaski?” says the Tartar chieftain, “’tis well; the event is lucky! Believe me, my friend, it is not more than a quarter of an hour since I first heard of you. I know however, that you are proud and hot-headed, but no matter! I esteem you; you possess both courage and abilities; your daughter is beautiful, and does not want for understanding; Lovzinski is brave---braver than myself, as I have already experienced. Attend to what I am about to say——”

Pulaski, motionless with astonishment, scarcely heard the sound of the Tartar’s voice; and struck, at the same 149b time, with the strange spectacle that offered itself to his view, he began to conceive the most horrible suspicions.

He repulsed my caresses with the most significant disgust: “Wretch!” exclaims he at length, “you have betrayed your country, a woman who loved you, a man who prided himself in calling you his son-in-law; it was only wanting to fill up the measure of your crimes, that you should league with robbers!”

“With robbers!” cries Titsikan---“with robbers indeed, if it so please you to call us: but you yourself must acknowledge that description of people to be good for something; for without me, perhaps, your daughter, by to-morrow’s sun, would no longer have been a maiden! Be not alarmed,” said he, addressing himself to me: “but I know that he is proud, and I therefore am not angry.”

We had by this time placed Pulaski in a chair; his daughter and myself bathed his manacles with our tears; but he still continued to frown at and to overwhelm me with reproaches.

“What can you wish for?” cries the Tartar, once more addressing his captive: “I tell you that Lovzinski is a brave man, whom I intend to see married; and as for your Dourlinski, he is a rogue, whom I am about to order to be hanged.

“I repeat to you once more, that you alone are more hot-headed than us three put together. But hear me, and let us finish this business, for it is necessary that I should depart. You belong to me by the most incontestible right, that of the sword. But if you promise me, upon your honour, that you will be sincerely reconciled to Lovzinski, and give your daughter to him for a wife, I will restore you to your liberty.”

“He who can brave death,” replies the haughty Pulaski, “can support slavery. My daughter shall never be the wife of a traitor.”

“Do you love better that she should be a Tartar’s mistress?---If you do not promise to give her, within the space of eight days, to this brave man, I myself shall espouse her this very night! When I am weary of you and of her, I will sell you to the Turks. Your daughter is handsome enough to find admittance into the haram of a bashaw: and you yourself may perhaps superintend the kitchen of some janissary.”

“My life is in your hands; do with it whatsoever you please. If Pulaski falls beneath the sword of a Tartar, he will be lamented, and even his enemies will agree that he merits a more glorious destiny: but if he were to consent: No! no! I rather choose---I prefer death!”

“I do not desire your death! I wish only that Lovzinski should espouse Lodoiska. What!---Shall my prisoner give the law to me? By my sabre!---this dog of a Christian---but I am in the wrong---he is furious, and is assuredly deprived of his reason.”

I now beheld the Tartar’s eyes sparkle with fury, and therefore recalled to his memory the promise he had made me, that he would not give way to his passion.

“Undoubtedly! but this man wearies out the patience of a favourite of our prophet! I am but a robber!---Yet Pulaski, I repeat it to you again, that it is my command that Lovzinski espouse your daughter. By my sabre, he has fairly gained her; but for him she had been burnt last night.”

“But for him!”

“Yes! Behold those ruins; there stood a tower in that place; it was on fire, and no person dared to ascend it: he, however, mounted the stair-case, attended by Boleslas---and they saved your daughter!”

“Was my daughter in that tower?”

“Yes! that hoary villain had confined her there; that hoary villain, who attempted to violate her!---Some of you must relate the whole to him; but make haste, as it is necessary that he should decide instantly; I have business elsewhere, for I do not intend that your militia* shall surprise me here: it is otherwise in the plains; there I should laugh at them.”

While Titsikan ordered the rich booty which he had taken, to be stowed in little covered waggons, Lodoiska informed her father of the crimes of Dourlinski, and mingled the recital of our affection so artfully with the history of her misfortunes, that nature and gratitude at one and the same time began to besiege the heart of Pulaski.

Affected in the most lively manner with the misfortunes of his daughter, and sensible of the important services which I had rendered her, he embraces Lodoiska, and at length beholding me without resentment, he seemed to wait impatiently for an opportunity to be reconciled to me.

“O Pulaski!” I exclaim, “you whom Heaven hath left me, on purpose to console me for the loss of the best of fathers; you for whom I have an equal friendship and veneration; why hast thou condemned thy children unheard? Why hast thou supposed a man who adores thy daughter, guilty of the most horrible treason?

“When my vows were offered up in favour of that prince who now fills the throne, I swear to you, Pulaski, by her whom I love so tenderly, that I looked upon his elevation to be an event highly auspicious to the happiness, the safety, and the prosperity of my country.

“The misfortunes which my youth did not foresee, thy experience had anticipated: but because I have been wanting in prudence, ought you to accuse me of perfidy? Ought you to have reproached me for loving my friend? Can you now look upon it as a crime, that I still give him my esteem? For the three last months, I have beheld the misfortunes of my country in the same point of view as yourself: like you, I have mourned over them; but I am sure that the king is still ignorant of their extent, and I shall go to Warsaw on purpose to inform him of all that I have seen.”

Pulaski here interrupts me:---“It is not there that you ought to repair: you tell me that M. de P*** is not informed of the wrongs done to his native country, and I 150b believe you: but whether he is acquainted with, or whether he is entirely ignorant of them, is now but of little consequence. Insolent foreigners, cantoned throughout our provinces, strive to maintain themselves in the republic, even against the king, whom they have caused to be elected. It is no longer in the power of an impotent or a mal-content king, to chase the Russians from my country!

“Let us trust only to ourselves, Lovzinski; and let us either avenge our country, or die in her defence. I have assembled 4000 noble Poles in the palatinate of Lublin, who wait but for the return of their general, to march against the Russians: follow me to my camp——on this condition I am your friend, and my daughter shall be your wife!”

(To be continued.)

* The troops stationed on purpose to watch over the safety of the frontiers of Podolia and Volhnia, and preserve them from the incursions of the Tartars, are called Quartuaires.

CONJUGAL AFFECTION.

Lady Fanshaw, whose husband was Clerk of the Council to Charles the First and Second, and translator of the Pastor Fido, relates the following extraordinary circumstance in some MSS memoirs of herself, addressed to her son. The transaction took place during a voyage that Lady Fanshaw made from Galway to Malaga, in the spring of the year 1649.

“We pursued our voyage with prosperous winds.—When we had just passed the Straits, we saw coming towards us, with full sails, a Turkish galley well manned, and we believed we should be carried away slaves; for the captain had so laden his ship with goods for Spain, that his guns were useless, though the ship carried 60 guns. He called for brandy, and after he had well drunken and all his men, which were near 200, he called for arms, and cleared the deck as well as he could, resolving to fight rather than lose his ship, which was worth 30,000l. This was sad for us passengers, but my husband bid us be sure to keep in the cabin, and not appear, which would make the Turks think we were a man of war, but if they saw women, they would take us for merchants and detain us. He went upon deck, and took a gun, a bandelier, and sword, expecting the arrival of the Turkish man of war. The beast of a Captain had locked me up in the cabin---I knocked and called to no purpose, until the cabin-boy came and opened the door. I, all in tears, desired him to be so good as to give me his thrum cap and his tarred coat, which he did, and I gave him half a crown, and putting them on, and flinging away my night-clothes, I crept up softly, and stood upon the deck by my husband’s side, as free from sickness and fear as, I confess, of discretion, but it was the effect of that passion which I could never master. By this time the two vessels were engaged in parley, and so well satisfied with speech and sight of each other’s force, that the Turks men tacked about, and we continued our course. But when your father saw it convenient to retreat, looking upon me, he blessed himself, and snatched me up in his arms, saying, “Good God, that love can make this change!” and though he seemingly chid me, he would laugh at it as often as he remembered that voyage.”

ANECDOTE
OF MRS. D’ARBLAY (LATE MISS BURNEY),

The much admired Authoress of Evelina, Cecilia, and a work of still greater merit, entitled CAMILLA; or, a picture of youth: the latter has but just appeared in London, is now in the press, and will shortly be published by the Editor.

Miss Burney, who has lately married M. D’Arblay, a French Emigrant, is daughter to the late Dr. Burney, so well known in the annals of music. At an early age she was passionately fond of reading novels, which drew on her the censure of her father, who looked on those then extant, as but ill calculated to afford any solid improvement or rational amusement. Soon after, Miss Burney, without the knowledge of her parent, wrote the much admired history of Evelina---, which was immediately published in London, without disclosing the name of the author, as she dreaded incurring her father’s displeasure.

Dr. Burney, soon after the publication of Evelina, having accidentally entered a bookseller’s shop, was presented with this work, and strongly recommended to purchase it; his general dislike to novels, prevented his compliance, till strongly urged by the bookseller to give it even a cursory review: but no sooner had he perused a few pages, than he made his bargain, and having gone through the whole performance, he called his daughter, and recommended it to her as the only production of the kind that merited her attention; observing, that “the other books she so much read, were entirely beneath her notice, but that he was now happy in being able to present her with a novel, possessed of such intrinsic merit, as to render it well worthy her most attentive perusal.”

How great was Miss Burney’s surprize, on being presented with the work of her own pen, produced during many a stolen hour snatched from pleasures or from sleep! yet how flattering and how grateful to her sensible mind must the eulogium of so excellent a judge have proved!

Encouraged by his approbation, she disclosed the secret to the joy of a doating parent, who felt proud at having a daughter possessed of a genius capable of producing a piece which he deemed inimitable. Evelina went through four editions in the course of the first year, and Cecilia met with the most unbounded applause. The Queen, hearing so much in favour of our heroine, gave her the appointment of reader to her Majesty, with a large salary annexed, but interdicted her from publishing any thing, as derogatory to the dignity of her station.

Her marriage with Mr. D’Arblay, a gentleman suited to so amiable a partner, occasioned the loss of her place at court. This circumstance may be considered as a very considerable advantage to the republic of letters.

As the sun after a long concealment behind the darkening cloud, breaks forth with redoubled lustre, to the joy and exhilaration of mankind---so does this amiable writer appear to the votaries of taste and literature, holding in her hand the interesting history of Camilla---depicting in the most striking and variegated colours the feelings and propensities of the youthful mind, whether actuated by the celestial principles inspired by 151b heaven, or stimulated by the bias of evil examples or vicious inclinations. Nor does she here omit the opportunity of displaying virtue in the most fascinating garb, while vice is depicted in the most forbidding and hateful dress. The sentiments she here inculcates, are of the most noble, refined and exalted nature---such as if generally diffused, would contribute to instil in the heart of man, the divine attributes of his maker, and render him as happy as would be consistent with the frailty of his probationary state. In fine, we may pronounce Camilla a chef d’œuvre, worthy the perusal of all who are desirous of rational entertainment, or anxious to have the feelings of the heart awakened to impressions of the most delightful and charming nature.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Capt. Alexander Don, to the amiable Miss Maria Berrimen, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. William Shatzel, to Miss Elsie Hall, both of this city.

LINES FROM THE REV. MR. BISHOP TO HIS WIFE,
WITH A PRESENT OF A PENKNIFE

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONNET.

EXTRACTED FROM A NOVEL IN MANUSCRIPT.

THE EVE OF HYMEN.

TO A VIOLET.

THE SNOW-DROP AND PRIMROSE.

AN APPEAL.

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.

ON CONVERSATION.

That conversation may answer the ends for which it was designed, the parties who are to join in it must come together with a determined resolution to please, and to be pleased. If a man feels that an east wind has rendered him dull and sulky, he should by all means stay at home till the wind changes, and not be troublesome to his friends; for dulness is infectious, and one sour face will make many, as one cheerful countenance is soon productive of others. If two gentlemen desire to quarrel, it should not be done in a company met to enjoy the pleasures of conversation. It is obvious, for these reasons, that he who is about to form a conversation party should be careful to invite men of congenial minds, and of similar ideas respecting the entertainment of which they are to partake, and to which they must contribute.

With gloomy persons, gloomy topics likewise should be (as indeed they will be) excluded, such as ill health, bad weather, bad news, or forebodings of such, &c. To preserve the temper calm and pleasant, it is of unspeakable importance that we always accustom ourselves thro’ life to make the best of things, to view them on their bright side, and to represent them to others, for our mutual comfort and encouragement. Few things (especially if, as christians, we take the other world into account) but have a bright side; diligence and practice will easily find it. Perhaps there is no circumstance better calculated than this to render conversation equally pleasing and profitable.

In the conduct of it, be not eager to interrupt others, or uneasy at being yourself interrupted; since you speak either to amuse or instruct the company, or to receive those benefits from it. Give all, therefore, leave to speak. Hear with patience, and answer with precision. Inattention is ill manners; it shews contempt; contempt is never forgiven.

Trouble not the company with your own private concerns, as you do not love to be troubled with those of others. Yours are as little to them, as theirs are to you. You will need no other rule whereby to judge of this matter.

Contrive, but with dexterity and propriety, that each person may have an opportunity of discoursing on the subject with which he is best acquainted. He will be 153b pleased, and you will be informed. By observing this rule, every one has it in his power to assist in rendering conversation agreeable; since, though he may not choose or be qualified, to say much himself, he can propose questions to those who are able to answer them.

Avoid stories, unless short, pointed, and quite a-propos. He who deals in them, says Swift, must either have a very large stock, or a good memory, or must often change his company. Some have a set of them strung together like onions; they take possession of the conversation by an early introduction of one; and then you must have the whole rope; and there is an end of every thing else, perhaps, for that meeting, though you may have heard all twenty times before.

Talk often but not long. The talent of haranguing in private company is insupportable. Senators and barristers are apt to be guilty of this fault; and members, who never harangue in the house, will often do it out of the house. If the majority of the company be naturally silent, or cautious, the conversation will flag, unless it be often renewed by one among them who can start new subjects. Forbear, however, if possible, to broach a second before the first is out, lest your stock should not last, and you should be obliged to come back to the old barrel. There are those who will repeatedly cross upon, and break into the conversation with a fresh topic, till they have touched upon all, and exhausted none. Œconomy here is necessary for most people.

Laugh not at your own wit and humour; leave that to the company.

When the conversation is flowing in a serious and useful channel, never interrupt it by an ill-timed jest. The stream is scattered, and cannot be again collected.

Discourse not in a whisper, or half voice, to your next neighbour. It is ill breeding, and, in some degree, a fraud; conversation-stock being, as one has well observed, a joint and common property.

In reflexions on absent people, go no farther than you would go if they were present. ‘I resolve,’ says bishop Beveridge, ‘never to speak of a man’s virtues to his face, nor of his faults behind his back;’ a golden rule! the observation of which would, at one stroke, banish flattery and defamation from the earth.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 147.)

I thanked him, and when he was going to leave me, asked him, “how does our royal hermit do?”

“He——is well, and you shall hear from him as soon as the Duke of B——a shall have dispossessed the King of Sp---n of the throne of P---t------.”

“But my old friend------”

“Will soon press you again to his bosom.”

“And Amelia?”

“Considering the terms on which you already are with her, you will not be in want of the assistance of my power.” So saying, he took, a friendly leave of me.

It was indeed high time that the Irishman released me from my engagement, for my stay at Mad---d began so grow extremely irksome to me. An irresistible power urged me to return to her who had inthralled me with magic bonds. My separation from her, and the letters I received from the dear woman, had heated my passion to the highest degree. Her letters, breathing nothing but tenderness and affection, were indeed entirely destitute of that fiery impetuosity of love which characterised mine; however, this was just adding fuel to the flame, which consumed me. I felt that I could not live without her. She did not indeed encourage my hope of getting possession of her hand, yet she did not repel it entirely, and several hints which Lady Delier had given me, served to support it. I was already computing with rapture the effect which my unexpected arrival would produce on Amelia, and made the necessary preparation, for my return to her without apprising her of it; however, my soul preceded these preparations, and only the lesser part of it was remaining at Mad---d; no wonder therefore, that the letters of my father, and the Marquis of Ferei*a, which recalled me to Port——l, had no effect upon me.

“I cannot divine,” the Marquis wrote to me, “what may have induced your father to return this year to the capital much earlier than usual. However, I can tell you that you will scarcely know him again when you shall see him. Ever since he pretends to have seen the ghost of Count Santeval, he is changed most wonderfully. He is in a state of utter apathy, gloomy and reserved, and I may truly say, superstitious. He avoids, since his late illness, as much as decency will permit, all conversation, even mine. There is but one person who has free access to him, and seems to have possessed himself entirely of his confidence. Let me give you a description of that man.

“Imagine to yourself an elderly man above the middle size, with a long, thin face, a yellow complexion, a strongly-furrowed brow, hollow, small, and red eyes, 154b and staring, almost deadened features, which, when he smiles, changes into a kind of grinning. This physiognomy, of which no faithful verbal description can be given, and which has been stamped in a most unfavourable manner by nature’s forming hand, is softened by an affected air of piety; however, if examined minutely and narrowly, peeps with increased horrors through the borrowed veil. This countenance appears to me like a dreadful mystery, and I cannot behold it without secret terror. The tout ensemble of that man exactly fits this head---a sneaking gait—a stooping neck—a grey coat---but you must and will see him yourself. I hate him from the bottom of my soul, and think that he is not capable of a good action, and that his mere presence must be sufficient to dispel even from the hearts of others every noble sentiment. It would be a mystery to me, how your father can converse with him, if I did not know that he has been blinded by his hypocrisy and devout discourses. That man (he calls himself Alumbrado) pretends to be regenerated, and talks a great deal of the gifts of supernatural light. Your father, who takes for sterling truth whatever comes from his lips, seems to be more charmed with him every day. O hasten, my friend, to deliver your father from this ignoble, and, as I fear, dangerous enchantment. I think that an emotion like that which the sight of you after so long a separation, must cause in the mind of your father will be necessary to rouse from his apathy, &c. &c. &c.”

My situation rendered this letter, as I have already mentioned, ineffectual. The apprehensions of the Marquis appeared to me exaggerated; his unfavourable judgment of Alumbrado, originating from physiognomical reasons, unjust, and uncharitable, and my father old and sensible enough to see and avoid the danger, if any should be existing. I deemed the return to the Countess much more pressing than the journey to P————l, took leave of Oliva*z and Suma*ez, assuring them that the affair concerning the Duke of B——a had been pushed to a point where it soon would come to a crisis without our assistance. They were of the same opinion, and dismissed me in a very obliging manner.

I had already made every preparation for setting out the next morning, when a letter from Amelia and Lady Delier defeated my design. The former informed me that a pressing letter from her uncle, who was on the brink of eternity, and desired to see her once more before his death, rendered it necessary for her to hasten to Cadiz. In the letter of the Baroness, which, amongst others, contained the direction of the Countess at Cadiz, the portrait of Amelia was enclosed.

Amelia’s portrait! the image of those heavenly charms, the contemplation of which would afford delight even to angels, and the lifeless imitation of which filled my soul with rapture. O! with what an unspeakable delight did my entranced eyes imbibe them! how did 155 the sight of him recall to my enraptured bosom all those sweet emotions which the presence of the original had formerly excited in my breast.

This softened the blow which repelled me so suddenly from the port of happiness which I fancied I had almost reached. Alas! this blow inflicted a deep wound on my heart, which at once found all the sweet presentments of meeting again changed into the nameless throes of a new separation. However, the sight of the picture representing to me the absent darling of my heart, and the secret meaning of that gift gave me some comfort, and inspired me with new hopes. Who else but my Amelia could have sent me that present? Her letter did, indeed contain only a few distant hints, and the picture was enclosed in that of Lady Delier; yet this did not misguide me, for I was too well acquainted with Amelia’s delicacy. I resolved now to return to my father, and to prepare him for my union with the Countess.

I acted wisely in surprising him by my sudden arrival, for otherwise he would, probably, not have received me with that kindness to which my unexpected appearance impelled him. No sooner were the first moments of mutual fondness past, when he said, with apparent coldness, “the world must have had very irresistible charms for you?”

“The charms of novelty, my dear father.”

“It must have been very painful to you to return to your paternal house; for it seems you had almost forgot your way homeward.”

“I had much to see, and have experienced a great deal!”

“I do not doubt it; you have had very little leisure for thinking of your father.”

I endeavoured to refute his reproach which I had expected, and succeeded pretty well. The Marquis grew warmer and more affectionate; he enquired after my tutor and Count Clairval. It seemed to wound him deeply that I could give no satisfactory account of the former. With regard to the latter, I told him that important family affairs had called him from me unexpectedly.

My father appeared then not to be in a favourable disposition for listening to an account of my connection with the Countess, and how strongly soever the impulse of my heart pressed me to speak on that subject, yet prudence advised me to wait for a more favourable opportunity. The following morning appeared to me propitious for that purpose. My father was very cheerful, and I contrived being surprised by him with Amelia’s picture in my hand.

“What have you there?” he asked me.

“The picture of the Dowager Countess of Clairval.”

“How far is she related to your travelling companion?”

“She was married to his brother.”

“So young, and already a widow?” said he, looking at the picture; “I should have mistaken it for the 155b picture of a girl of seventeen years. However, the painters are used to flatter.”

“I assure you, the original possesses numberless charms which have escaped the artist.”

“Then the Countess must be extremely handsome.”

“She is an angel.”

“The face is more interesting than handsome.”

“Handsome and interesting to a high degree.”

“You are in love with her.”

“My father—”

“I should be very sorry at it.”

“For what reason?” I asked, thunderstruck.

“The young Princess of L**** —what do you think of her?”

“I don’t like her at all.”

“This would grieve me extremely, for I have chosen her for your wife”. 

“My heart has already chosen. Your consent, my father—”

“The Countess of Clairval? Never!”

“You don’t know her. Her family and fortune are very considerable.”

“I hope you will not liken her, in that respect, to the Princess of L****?”

“Not at all! but the amiable character of the Countess—”

“The character of the Princess is without blame. My dear son, consider the splendor and the honour which our family would derive from that alliance. Consider that you will render me happy by that union. When you, by my desire, broke off your connection with a certain Darbis, you revived my hope of seeing you allied to the family of L****; do not thwart my plan by a new love, do not cross my fondest wishes. You are, indeed, your own master, and may chuse for yourself; you must, however, not expect my consent and a father’s blessing, if you do not marry the Princess of L****. I am sensible that it will give you pain to renounce the Countess, and for that reason will not press you farther at present. I shall not desire you to come to a resolution before the end of seven weeks. Till then, do not mention a word about the matter.”

Seeing that I was going to reply, he took me by the hand. “Be a man,” said he, “who knows how to conquer juvenile passions. Gain my regard as you have gained my affection. My life is joyless, do not make me hate it. My dear son, I have sacrificed much for you, sacrifice now in return a little for your father!” So saying, he left me.

(To be continued.)

MAXIM.

False appearances of profit are the greatest enemies to true interest. Future sorrows present themselves in the disguise of present pleasures, and short-sighted folly eagerly embraces the deceit.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REMARKS ON MUSIC.

(Continued from page 140.)

The monaulos, or single flute, called by the Egyptions photinx, was probably one of the most ancient instruments used either by them or any other nation. From various remains of ancient sculpture, it appears to have been shaped like a bull’s horn, and was at first, it may be supposed, no other than the horn itself.---Before the invention of flutes, as no other instruments except those of percussion were known, music must have been little more than metrical, when the art of refining and lengthening sounds was first discovered, the power of Music over mankind, from the agreeable surprize occasioned by soft and extended notes was probably irresistable. At a time when all the rest of the world was involved in savage ignorance, the Egyptians were possessed of musical instruments capable of much variety and expression.——Of this the astonishing remains of the city of Thebes, still subsisting, afford ample evidence. In a letter from Mr. Bruce, ingrossed in Dr. Burney’s history of Music, there is given a particular description of the Theban harp, an instrument of extensive compass, and exquisite elegance of form. It is accompanied with a drawing taken from the ruins of an ancient sepulchre at Thebes, supposed by Mr. Bruce, to be that of the father of Sesostris.

On the subject of this harp, Mr. Bruce makes the following striking observation. “It overturns all the accounts of the earliest state of ancient music, and instruments in Egypt, and is altogether in its form, ornaments, and compass, an incontestable proof, stronger than a thousand Greek quotations, that geometry, drawing, mechanics, and music, were at the greatest perfection when this harp was made; and that what we think in Egypt was the invention of arts, was only the beginning of the era of their restoration.”

Indeed, when the beauty and powers of this harp, along with the very great antiquity of the painting which represents it, are considered, such an opinion as that which Mr. Bruce hints at, does not seem to be devoid of probability.

It cannot be doubted, that during the reigns of the Ptolemies, who were voluptuous Princes, Music must have been much cultivated and encouraged. The father of Cleopatra, who was the last of that race of Kings, derived his title of Auletes, or flute player, from excessive attachment to the flute. Like Nero, he used to array himself in the dress of a Tibicien, and exhibited his performance in the public musical contests.

The Greeks are indebted to the Egyptians for their knowledge of music; Homer, the most ancient author unconnected with the sacred writers, has given us very striking descriptions of the efficacy of music. We are told Apollo invented the Lyre, and instructed Orpheus to play upon it. The Lyric and Dramatic poets were all 156b after the time of Homer, proficients in music, and in all probability contributed much to the perfection of that art in Greece. We are well assured, that in the days of Philip, and his son Alexander the Great, Music had arrived to its highest degree of perfection. From Greece it made its way to Rome, and from Rome it spread abroad over all the countries of Europe.

A. O.

(To be continued.)

ON CONTENTMENT.

The world has been often, and properly enough, compared to a theatre, in which men step forth to public view, and act their several parts. These parts are allotted by the Governor of the Universe, who best knows the characters to which we are suited; and it is our greatest wisdom to acquiesce in them, and to endeavour to sustain them with propriety, whilst we are upon the stage of this life.---Happiness is distributed with a more impartial hand than we generally imagine. It consists not in the possession of riches and honours, in outward shew and splendor: it is something internal. It is seated in the mind, and if we seek it elsewhere, we shall seek it in vain. The contented peasant in his humble cot is happy with a sufficiency, whilst the greatest Lord in the Universe, in the midst of all his wealth and grandeur, is often a prey to anxiety and discontent. Does not the poor beggar, with all his apparent want, frequently enjoy more real happiness than the rich miser in the midst of his abundance? The latter is continually tormented with the fear of losing his superfluous treasures: eager of adding to his store, he even denies himself common necessaries, and leads a miserable life; whilst the former, unmindful of future wants, is heard to sing over his scanty meal. Contentment is a most valuable blessing. It is the sovereign medicine of afflictions. By bearing them with patience and resignation, we in a great measure lessen their weight, and are better prepared to withstand any future adverse stroke of fortune. But instead of alleviating, we only add to our troubles by repining. Often do we wantonly contrive to be our own tormentors, by looking with an envious ill-natured eye, upon the condition of others, or by contemplating only the dark side of our own. Often, too often, do we reject our own happiness, by neglecting every substantial blessing that is within our reach; and court misery, by creating imaginary wants to ourselves, and hunting after some fugitive enjoyment, which, like a shadow always flies from us in proportion to the swiftness with which it is pursued.

TASTE.

The force of custom, of fancy, and of casual associations is very great both upon the external and internal taste. An Eskimaux can regale himself with a draught of whale-oil, and a Canadian can feast upon a dog. A Kamtschatkadale lives upon putrid fish, and is sometimes reduced to eat the bark of trees. The taste of rum or green tea, is at first as nauseous as that of ipecacuanha to some persons, who may be brought by use to relish what they once found so disagreeable.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 150.)

“Pulaski, I am ready to obey you: I swear to follow your fortunes, and to participate in your dangers. And think not that it is Lodoiska alone, who has exacted from me this oath: I love my country as much as I adore thy daughter; I swear by her, and before you, that the enemies of the republic have always been, and shall never cease to be mine: I swear that I will spill the very last drop of my blood, to chase those foreigners out of Poland, who reign there in the name of its king!”

“Embrace me, Lovzinski! I now recognise you; I adopt you for my son-in-law—My children, all our misfortunes are at an end!”

Pulaski desired me to unite my hand to Lodoiska’s, in token of our union; and we were embracing the brave palatine at the very moment that Titsikan re-entered.

“Good! good!” exclaims the chieftain: this is what I wished; I am fond of marriages. Father, I shall instantly order you to be unbound.

“By my sabre!” adds the Tartar, while his followers were cutting the cords with which the hands and feet of Pulaski were tied; “by my sabre! I shall do a noble action, but it will cost me a world of wealth! Two grandees of Poland! a beautiful maiden! They would have produced me a large ransom!”

“Titsikan, such a thought is not worthy of you!” says Pulaski, interrupting him.

“No! no!” rejoins the Tartar, “it is a mere reflection only---it is one of those ideas which a robber cannot prevent.---My brave and unfortunate friends, I demand nothing from you---nay, more, you shall not retire on foot; I have some charming horses, with which I intend to present you.---And, for this lady, if you please. I will give you a litter, on which I myself have been carried for these last ten or twelve days. This young man here had given me such a wound, that I could no longer sit on horseback.---The litter is indeed a bad one, clumsily constructed, by means of branches of trees; but I have nothing except that or a little covered waggon, to offer you: choose which ever of them you please.”

In the mean time, Dourlinski, who had not as yet uttered a single word, remained with his eyes fixed upon the ground, while an air of consternation was spread over his countenance.

“Unworthy friend!” says Pulaski to him, “how could you so cruelly abuse the confidence I reposed in you? Were you not afraid to expose yourself to my resentment? What demon blinded you?”

“Love!” replies Dourlinski, “an outrageous love! You, perhaps, do not comprehend to what excess the passions 157b may hurry on a man, violent and jealous by nature. This frightful example, however, ought to teach you, that a daughter so charming as yours is a treasure which one ought not to entrust to any person.

“Pulaski, I have, indeed, merited your hatred; but I am still worthy of your pity. I have rendered myself exceedingly culpable; but you behold me cruelly punished. I lose, in one single day, my rank, my riches, my honour, my liberty! more than all this, I lose thy daughter!

“O, Lodoiska! lovely maiden, whom I have so much outraged, will you deign to forget my persecutions, your danger, and your grief? Will you deign to grant to me a generous pardon?

“Ah! if there are no crimes which a sincere repentance cannot expiate, Lodoiska, I am no longer criminal. I would I were able, at the price of all my blood, to redeem those tears which I have occasioned you to shed. Amidst the horrible state to which Dourlinski is about to be reduced, shall he not be permitted to carry with him the consoling recollection of having heard you tell him, that he is no longer odious to you?

“Too amiable, and until this present moment, too unfortunate maiden! however great my wrongs may have been in regard to you, I have it in my power to repair them all by means of a single word---advance---approach me---I have a secret which can only be entrusted to your private ear: it is exceedingly important that it should be revealed to you!”

Lodoiska, without the least distrust, now leaves my side, and advances towards him without suspicion.

At that very moment I beheld a poniard glittering in the hand of Dourlinski!

I precipitate myself upon him.---It was too late; for I could only parry the second thrust; and the lovely Lodoiska, wounded immediately above the left breast, had already fallen senseless at the feet of Titsikan!

Pulaski, furious at the horrid treason, drew his sabre quick as lightning, on purpose to avenge his daughter’s fate.

“No! no!” exclaims the Tartar, at the same time withholding his arm: “you are about to make this wretch suffer too gentle a death!”

“It is well,” says the infamous assassin, addressing himself to me, and at the same time contemplating his victim with a cruel joy. “Lovzinski you appeared but now eager to be united with Lodoiska; why do you not follow her? Go, my too happy rival, go and accompany your mistress to the tomb! Let them prepare my punishment; it will appear pleasant to me: I leave you to torments no less cruel, and infinitely longer than mine.”

Dourlinski was not allowed to utter another sentence, for the Tartars rushed in upon him, and threw him into the midst of the burning ruins.
* * * * * * * * * * *

What a night! how many different cares, how many opposite sentiments agitated my unhappy mind during its continuance! How many times did I experience the successive 158 emotions of fear, hope, grief and joy! After so many dangers and inquietudes, Lodoiska was at length presented to me by her father, and I was intoxicated with the near hope of possessing her:---a barbarian had but now assassinated her in my pretence!

This was the most cruel and unfortunate moment of any during the whole course of my life!---But my happiness eclipsed, as it were, in a single instant, was not long in shining forth with all its former splendor.

Amidst the Tartars belonging to Titsikan, was one somewhat conversant in surgery. We sent for him; on his arrival he examines the wound, and assures us that it is but a slight one. The infamous Dourlinski, constrained by his chains, and blinded by his despair, had happily been prevented from giving any other than an ill-directed blow.

As soon as Titsikan was informed that the life of Lodoiska was not in any danger, he prepared to take leave of us.

“I leave you,” said he, “the five domestics who accompanied Pulaski; provisions for several days, arms, six excellent horses, two covered waggons, and the people belonging to Dourlinski in chains. Their base lord is no more! Adieu! the day is about to appear; do not leave this place until to-morrow; I shall then visit the other cantons. Adieu, brave Poles! tell to your countrymen that Titsikan is not so bad as he has been represented to them; and that he sometimes restores with one hand what he takes with another. Adieu!”

At these words he lifts his hand to his head, and having saluted us gracefully after the manner of his country, he gives the signal to depart: the Tartars mount their fleet coursers in an instant, pass along the drawbridge, and make for the neighbouring plain at a full gallop.

They had been gone scarcely two hours when several of the neighbouring nobility, supported by a detachment of militia, came on purpose to invest the castle of Dourlinski.

Pulaski himself went out to receive them: he related the particulars of all that had occurred; and some, gained over by his eloquence, promised to follow us to the palatinate of Lublin.

They asked for only two days to prepare every thing necessary for the expedition, and actually came and rejoined us at the appointed time, to the number of sixty.

Lodoiska having assured us that she was now able to undergo the fatigues of a journey, we placed her in a commodious carriage, which we had luckily been able to procure for this purpose.

After having restored Dourlinski’s people to liberty, we abandon the two covered waggons to them, in which Titsikan, acting with his usual generosity, had left part of his immense booty: this we divided among them in equal proportions.

We arrived, without meeting with any accident, at Polowisk, in the Palatinate of Lublin, this being the place which Pulaski had appointed for the general rendezvous.

The news of his return having gone abroad, a crowd 158b of malecontents in the space of less than a month flocked to and increased our little army to such a degree, that we soon found it to amount to no less than 10,000 men.

Lodoiska entirely cured of her wound, and perfectly recovered from her fatigues, had regained her usual spirits, and appeared in possession of all her former beauty. Pulaski one day called me into his tent, and spoke as follows. “Three thousand Russians have appeared, as you well know, upon the heights above, and at no greater distance than half a league from us: take, in the course of the ensuing night, three thousand chosen men, and go and chase the enemy from the advantageous posts which they now occupy. Recollect that on the success of a first attempt depends almost always that of the campaign; recollect that you are about to avenge your country’s wrongs; recollect too, my friend, that to-morrow I shall learn thy victory, and that to-morrow also thou shalt espouse Lodoiska!”

(To be continued.)

THE FIERY ORDEAL;

A JUDICIAL ANECDOTE.

Towards the end of the Greek Empire at Constantinople, a general, who was an object of suspicion to his master, was urged to undergo the fiery proof of the Ordeal by an archbishop, a subtle courtier. The ceremony was this; three days before the trial the patient’s arm was inclosed in a bag, and secured by the royal signet; he was expected to bear a red hot ball of iron three times, from the altar to the rails of the sanctuary, without artifice and injury. The general eluded the experiment with pleasantry. ‘I am a soldier,’ said he, ‘and will boldly enter the lists with my accusers; but a layman, a sinner like myself, is not endowed with the gift of miracles. Your piety, holy prelate, may deserve the interposition of heaven, and from your hands I will receive the fiery globe, the test of my innocence.’ The archbishop stared, the emperor smiled, and the general was pardoned.

POWER.

Power is no good quality by itself; it is the Power of doing good, alone, that is desirable to the wise. All vice is selfishness, and the meanest is that which is most contractedly selfish.

Great minds can reconcile sublimity to good-humour; in weak ones, it is generally coupled with severity and moroseness.

Sublime qualities men admire; they love the gentler virtues. When Wisdom would engage a heart, she wooes in a smile. What the austere man advises with his tongue his frown forbids.

The vulgar-rich call the poor the vulgar: let us learn to call things by their proper names; the rude and ungentle are the vulgar, whether, in fortune, they be poor or rich.

The truly poor and worthless are those who have not sense to perceive the superiority of internal merit to all foreign or outward accomplishments.

ANECDOTE OF DR. GOLDSMITH.

Those in the least acquainted with the private character of the doctor, knew that economy and foresight were not amongst the catalogue of his virtues. In the suite of his pensioners (and he generally enlarged his list as he enlarged his finances) was the late unfortunate Jack Pilkington, of scribbling memory, who had served the doctor so many tricks, that he despaired of getting any more money from him, without coming out with a chef d’œuvre once for all. He accordingly called on the doctor one morning, and running about the room in a fit of joy, told him his fortune was made, “How so, Jack?” says the doctor. “Why,” says Jack, “the duchess of Marlborough, you must know, has long had a strange penchant for a pair of white mice; now, as I knew they were sometimes to be had in the East Indies, I commissioned a friend of mine, who was going out then, to get them for me, and he is this morning arrived with two of the most beautiful little animals in nature.” After Jack had finished this account with a transport of joy, he lengthened his visage by telling the doctor all was ruined, for without two guineas to buy a cage for the mice, he could not present them. The doctor unfortunately, as he said himself, had but half a guinea in the world, which he offered him. But Pilkington was not to be beat out of his scheme; he perceived the doctor’s watch hanging up in his room, and after premising on the indelicacy of the proposal, hinted, that if he could spare that watch for a week, he could raise a few guineas on it, which he would repay him with gratitude. The doctor would not be the means of spoiling a man’s fortune for such a trifle. He accordingly took down the watch, and gave it to him, which Jack immediately took to the pawn-brokers, raised what he could on it, and never once looked after the doctor, till he sent to borrow another half guinea from him on his death-bed; which the other, under such circumstances, very generously sent him.

FUGITIVE TRIFLES.

Every species of vice originates either from insensibility, from want of judgment, or from both. No maxim can be more true than that all vice is folly. For either by vice we bring misery more immediately on ourselves, or we involve others in misery; if any one bring evil on himself, it is surely folly; if his present pleasure be to make others miserable, were he to escape every other punishment, he must suffer for it by remorse, or it is a certain proof he is deprived of that sense or sympathy which is the opposite to dullness; in either of which cases, it is evident that all vice is folly.

Whatever pleasures are immediately derived from the sense, persons of fine internal feelings enjoy, besides their other pleasures; while such as place their chief happiness in the former, can have no true taste for the delicious sensations of the soul.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday the 3d inst. at his Excellency John Jay’s, Esq. by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, John Livingston, Esq. of the Manor of Livingston, to Mrs. Catharine Ridley, daughter of his Excellency William Livingston, Esquire, late Governor of New-Jersey.

On Saturday evening the 5th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Peter Warner, of Boston, to Miss Elizabeth Amelia Fielding, of this city.

On Sunday evening the 6th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Thomas Lloyd, to Mrs. Sarah Ellis, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Ireland, Mr. William Watson, of this city, to Miss Jemima Honeywell, daughter of Israel Honeywell, Esq. of West-Chester.

On Monday the 7th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Ogden, of Newark, Mr. John Stevenson, of this city, to Miss Hannah Kingsland, daughter of Mr. Joseph Kingsland, of Second River, New-Jersey.

On Tuesday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Robert Lee, Esq. to Mrs. Caroline Betts, both of this city.

On Friday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Rattoone, Ebenezer Brown, Esq. of Philadelphia, to Miss Esther Ann Watson, sister to James Watson, jun. of this city.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

[The Editor is exceedingly thankful to Monimia for the three different views of Winter, which she has so beautifully contrasted.—The first is presented to the admirers of Poesy, the two latter shall follow in rotation.]

THE BELLE’S INVOCATION TO WINTER.

THE COMPLAINT.

ADDRESS TO A FAVOURITE CANARY BIRD.

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.

ON LAUGHING.

To form a true judgment of a person’s temper, begin with an observation on his laugh; for the people are never so unguarded as when they are pleased; and laughter being a visible symptom of some inward satisfaction, it is then, if ever, we may believe the face; but for method sake, it will be necessary to point out the several kinds of laughing, under the following heads:

The dimplers.—The smilers.—The laughers.—The grinners.---The horse-laughers.

The dimple is practised to give a grace to the features, and is frequently made a bait to entangle a gazing lover. This was called by the ancients, the chain-laugh.

The smile is for the most part confined to the fair sex, and their male retinue; it expresses our satisfaction in a silent sort of approbation, and does not disorder the features too much, and is therefore practised by lovers of the most delicate address.

The grin is generally made use of to display a beautiful set of teeth.

The horse-laugh is made use of with great success, in all kinds of disputation. The proficients in this kind, by a well-timed laugh, will baffle the most solid argument. This, upon all occasions, supplies the want of reason, and is received with great applause in coffee-house disputes; that side the laugh joins with, is generally observed to gain the better of his antagonist.

The prude has a wonderful esteem for the chain-laugh or dimple; she looks upon all other kinds of laughter as excessives of levity, and is never seen upon the most extravagant jests, to disorder her features with a smile; her lips are composed with a primness peculiar to her character; all her modesty seems collected into her face, and but very rarely takes the freedom to sink her cheek into a dimple. The effeminate fop, by the long exercise of his countenance at the glass, is in the same situation, and you may generally see him admire his own eloquence by a dimple.

The young widow is only a chain for a time; her smiles are confined by decorum, and she is obliged to 161b make her face sympathise with her habit; she looks demure by art, and by the strictest rule of decency is never allowed to smile, till the first offer or advance to her is over.

The wag generally calls in the horse-laugh to his assistance.

There are another kind of grinners, which some people term sneerers. They always indulge their mirth at the expence of their friends, and all their ridicule consists in unseasonable ill-nature; but they should consider, that let them do what they will, they never can laugh away their own folly by sneering at other people’s.

The coquette has a great deal of the sneerer in her composition; but she must be allowed to be a proficient in laughter, and one who can run through all the exercise of the features: she subdues the formal lover with the dimple---accosts the fop with a smile—joins with the wit in a downright laugh:---to vary the air of her countenance, she frequently rallies with a grin---and when she hath ridiculed her lover quite out of his understanding, she, to complete his misfortunes, strikes him dumb with the horse-laugh.

At present the most fashionable is a mixture of the horse-laugh and the grin, so happily blended together, that the teeth are shown without the face being distorted.

EXTRAVAGANCE AND AVARICE.

Some rich men starve to-day for fear of starving to-morrow, (as a man leaps into the sea to avoid being drowned) and the indigent often consume in an hour what they may feel the want of a year: as if old people hoarded money because they cannot want it, and young men throw it away because it is necessary to their subsistence.

He is rich enough that needs neither flatter nor borrow, and truly rich that is satisfied: want lies in desire.

History tells us of illustrious villains, but there never was an illustrious miser in nature.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 155.)

O! Why did he request me such a manner to make him a sacrifice which would have rendered me miserable! I wished then the first time in my life, that he had spoken to me in a menacing, domineering, or only in a harsh tone, then I should have had a pretext for resisting him, and enforcing my own will. But how could I have had the courage to contradict that tender solicitation, that entreating persuasion of a father. And yet, was I not necessitated to do something worse, to counteract my parent? I never felt more strongly than at that moment, that it was utterly impossible for me to renounce the possession of Amelia. Alas! never was a situation more unfortunate than mine, and never has a human heart been reduced to such a dreadful conflict with itself by two people so dear as my father and Amelia were to me.

I looked around with weeping eyes in search of a person to whom I could unbosom my straitened heart. I went to the Marquis of Ferei*a.*

I had not informed him of my return; he uttered a scream of joy when he saw me enter his apartment. However, his satisfaction at my return made room to sorrow, when I acquainted him with my deplorable situation. “Yes, my friend!” said he, after he had viewed me some minutes with looks of pity, “if it is in your power to subdue that passion, then let me implore you—”

“Don’t finish that sentence!” I interrupted him, “it is impossible!”

“If that is the case, then only two ways are left to you to attain the consent of your father; one of which is tedious and rugged, but straight.”

“Name it!”

“You must endeavour to work upon the nerves of the paternal heart in such a manner, that his affection for you gets the better of his ambition.”

“And the second---”

“It is a bye-road which will lead you soon and safely to the mark---serpents are, however, lurking on that road, and tygers lying in ambush---”

“Don’t name it!”

“I will name it, in order to caution you against it---it is called Alumbrado. O my friend!” squeezing my hand affectionately, “go take the straightest road.”

“That I will, you have given me a very bad character of that Alumbrado.”

“And would not retract a syllable of what I have wrote.”

“Where is he, I have not yet seen him.”

“He is abroad.”

“I am curious to get acquainted with him.”

“Don’t come near him, lest he catch you in the same snare in which he has caught your father.”

“Fear nothing, I shall endeavour to deliver my father from that shameful captivity.”

“O! if you could do it! But be on your guard, lest he whom you are going to draw out of the pit, drag you after him into the abyss.”

I promised it, and he clasped me in his arms.

Previous to my departure from P——l, I had promised the Marquis to keep a journal, and to insert the most remarkable incidents, which I was to communicate to him after my return. He enquired now after that journal.

“It abounds with remarkable incidents,” I replied, “and you will learn strange things on perusing it: I have not mentioned a syllable of them in my letters to you, in order to surprise you. However, you must curb your curiosity till I shall have arranged my papers.”

The Marquis consented to my request.

My noble friend! you will forgive me that artifice. It was a mere pretext, in order to stay your curiosity till the revolution should have taken place; for I had promised the Irishman to observe the strictest silence till then. It was no mistrust that influenced me, but duty imposed upon me by the promise I had made; and the event proved that I acted wisely in doing so.

Four days after my first meeting with my friend, the Irishman stopped me one evening in going home. His eyes flashed like lightning, his features were distorted, his countenance was truly dreadful. “Have you,” said he, grinding his teeth, “betrayed the conspiracy to Vascon*ellos?” “No”, I replied. “Have you warned him of the impending danger in some other manner?” “No.” “Have you disclosed the secret to one of your friends?” “To no man living.” “Can you pledge your honour for the truth of your declaration?” “I can.”

These questions succeeded each other rapidly, and he left me with equal haste. I was almost petrified at this incident. My astonishment, however, soon gave place to a different sensation, for I concluded from the words, and the perturbation of the Irishman, nothing less than that the plot had been discovered. The intelligence which I gained afterwards seemed to confirm this conjecture. Vasconcel*os had left his castle suddenly and crossed the river Ta*o, a circumstance that justly had raised the suspicion of his having discovered the plot through one of his numberless spies, and instantly made preparations for seizing the conspirators. However, this apprehension was refuted that very night. Vasconcel*os had only been at a feast, and returned late at night in high spirits, and preceded by a band of musicians, not suspecting that he would be a dead man at that hour the following night. I myself did not imagine that the revolution would break out so soon, although I knew that event to be drawing near. The day following, (December 1, 1640) at eight o’clock in the morning, the conspirators repaired in small divisions from all parts of the town to the Ducal Palace, partly on horseback, and partly on foot, but most of them in coaches or chairs, in order to conceal their arms. The number of noblemen, most of whom were the chiefs of their families, amounted to fifty, and that of the citizens to two hundred. As soon as it had 163 struck eight by the clock of the cathedral, Pinto Rib**ro, one of the Duke’s privy counsellors, gave the last signal for the attack by firing a pistol, and the conspirators marched to the different places of their destination.

Pinto Rib**ro repaired with his troop to the palace of Vascon*ellos, who was so little prepared for the unexpected attack, that he scarcely could get time to conceal himself in a chest. However, he was discovered, saluted with a pistol shot, stabbed with a number of poniards, and thrown out of the window amid the loud exclamation; “The tyrant is dead! long live liberty and King John, the new Sovereign of Port***l!”

The populace who were assembled under the windows of the palace, repeated these words with loud acclamations of joy. In order to protect the corpse against the fury of the mob, the society of charity pressed their way thro’ the crowd, and carried it away on a bier, which is only used at the burials of slaves.

Meanwhile another troop had penetrated into the palace of the Vice-Queen. The Archbishop of Bra*a, who was with her, and as a near relation of Vasconcel**s, had also been doomed to destruction, was saved with great difficulty from the fury of the conspirators by the intercession of Miguel d’Al*eida. The Vice-Queen turned to the conspirators when they rushed into her apartment, declaring that Vasconce*los had deserved their hatred, but that they would be treated as rebels if they should proceed a step farther. She however was told, that so many nobles had not assembled merely on account of a wretch who ought to have been executed by the public hangman, but in order to restore the crown to the Duke of Bra—za, who was the lawful owner of it. The Vice-Queen began to talk of the power which she had been entrusted with by the king of Spa*n. The reply was, that no one could be acknowledged as King but John, Duke of B——a. She now offered to run out of the apartment in order to implore the assistance of the people; however, some of the noblemen stopped her, telling her it would be dangerous to suffer her to appear before a people who had been oppressed many years, and were highly exasperated.---“And what could the people do to me?” she said with scornful looks. “Nothing else but throw your highness out of the window;” one of the noblemen replied. The Archbishop of Bra*a was so much exasperated at this speech, that he seized a sword in order to avenge the Vice-Queen. Almei*a however embraced and entreated him to retire, because he had had great difficulty to persuade the conspirators to spare his life. This discovery disarmed at once the zeal of the Prelate.

Meanwhile the chiefs of the Spani—ds had been seized, and the conspirators requested the Vice-Queen to send an order to the Commander of St. Ge* to surrender; for that castle, which commanded the whole town, was still in the possession of the Spani—ds. The Vice-Queen refused to comply with their request; yet when she was told that her refusal would be the signal for killing all the imprisoned Spani—ds, she drew up the desired order, expecting that no attention would be paid to it. However 163b the commander of the castle, who did not dare to defend himself, executed her order literally, and thus the town was freed of all fear. It is almost incredible how quickly and easily the four troops of the confederates took the posts allotted to them, and gained their aim. But much more astonishing is the readiness and the quickness with which not only the whole kingdom, but also all foreign settlements followed the example of the capital. The revolution no sooner had begun than it was accomplished. It is the only one in its kind, and a similar one never will happen.---The execution of it proves with how much wisdom it has been designed and conducted.

It was, however, like a sudden clap of thunder to my father, and affected him with redoubled force, because it happened so unexpectedly. The slow rising of the tempest, the silent brewing on the political horizon had been concealed from him by his retirement from the world, and even the visible forerunners of it, which at last forced themselves upon his eyes, appeared to him to be nothing but the lightning arising from transient vapours. The sudden eruption of the tempest, and its consequences almost petrified him. His silent stupor soon gave room to the loudest manifestations of his dissatisfaction; and nothing but repeated persuasions to yield to stern necessity and superiority, could prevail upon him to remain quiet.

(To be continued.)

COMPASSION---AN ANECDOTE.

A respectable character, after having long figured away in the gay world at Paris, was at length compelled to live in an obscure retreat in that city, the victim of severe and unforeseen misfortunes. He was so indigent, that he subsisted only on an allowance from the parish. Every week a quantity of bread was sent to him sufficient for his support, and yet at length he demanded more. On this the curate sent for him. He went: “Do you live alone?” said the curate; “With whom, sir,” answered the unfortunate man, “is it possible I should live? I am wretched; you see that I am, since I thus solicit charity, and am abandoned by all the world.” “But, sir,” continued the curate, “if you live alone, why do you ask for more bread than is sufficient for yourself?” The other was quite disconcerted, and at last, with great reluctance, confessed that he had a dog. The curate did not drop the subject. He desired him to observe, that he was only the distributor of the bread that belonged to the poor, and that it was absolutely necessary that he should dispose of his dog. “Ah, sir,” exclaimed the poor man, weeping; “and if I should lose my dog, who is there then to love me?” The good pastor melting into tears, took his purse, and giving it to him, “take this, sir,” said he; “this is mine---this I can give.”

REMARK.

The wisdom of Solomon has produced few things more just, than that ‘we should not judge of a man’s merit by his great qualities, but by the use he makes of them.’

EXTRAORDINARY INSTANCES OF GRATITUDE.

From ‘Watkins’ Travels into Swisserland, Italy, Sicily,’ &c.

Lorenzo Musata, a native of Catania, in Sicily, was, in the year 1774, taken in a Maltese ship by an Algerine corsair. When the prize was carried into port, he was sold to a Turkish officer, who treated him with all the severity that the unfeeling disposition of a barbarian, rendered intolerable by bigotry, could inflict. It happened fortunately for the Sicilian, that his master’s son Fezulah, (about ten years old) became extremely fond of him; and, by numberless little offices of kindness, alleviated his slavery. Lorenzo, in consequence, became as much attached to the boy, as the boy was to him; so that they were seldom separate from each other. One day, as Fezulah (being then sixteen) was bathing in the sea, the current carried him off; and he certainly would have perished, had not Lorenzo plunged in, and saved him, at the hazard of his life. His affection was now heightened by gratitude, and he frequently interceded with his father for his deliverer’s emancipation, but in vain. Lorenzo often sighed for his country, and Fezulah determined that he should return there. With this resolution, he one night conveyed him on board an English merchant-ship that lay off Algiers; and having embraced him with tears, retired with all that exquisite glow of pleasure and self-approbation, which virtue feels in acting with gratitude and generosity. The Sicilian returned to his country, where he found that a relation had bequeathed him a small tenement; upon which he settled, and enjoyed the sweets of competency and repose, rendered infinitely more grateful, than they otherwise would have been, by the remembrance of his past slavery. At length growing tired of a sedentary life, he accompanied his kinsman, a master of a vessel, to Genoa. On landing in the D’arsena, he heard a voice cry out—‘Oh, my friend, my Lorenzo,’ and instantly found himself in the arms of Fezulah. He was at first lost in surprize and joy; but how rapid was the transition to grief, when he perceived by his chains that Fezulah was a slave!—He had been taken by a Genoese galley on his voyage to Aleppo. You have already seen that the ruling passions of Lorenzo’s breast were generosity and gratitude; and to these he now determined to sacrifice every other consideration. Having divided his purse with his former companion, he took his leave, telling him he should be again at Genoa within two months. And so he was. He returned to Sicily; sold his little tenement, though to great disadvantage, and with the money ransomed his friend, whom he sent back to his country. Fezulah has lately visited Lorenzo at Catania, where they now are, and has not only re-purchased for him his estate, but considerably enriched him.

These actions might by some, who have more prudence than philanthropy, be deemed enthusiastic; I must however, consider them as genuine virtue, and am only sorry I cannot be an associate in the friendship of Fezulah and Lorenzo.

ANECDOTE of the Celebrated JOHN de WITT.

This illustrious pensionary of Holland, when he was one day asked how he could get through with ease the immense load of business, that would oppress most other men; replied, by doing one thing at a time. Another of his maxims, in the conduct of life, and of still more value than all his political ones, was to be careful of his health, but careless of his life. This great man well knew the importance of health to the mental as well as to the corporeal functions, and at the same time was convinced that in certain situations, where the duty to one’s country, to one’s relations, to one’s friends, and to one’s self, demands it, that a sacrifice of those is justly and honourably made, and that not to make it is “propter vitam vivendi perdere causam.” The manner of life of this great man, was so simple, that though his name appeared by the side of that of emperors and of kings in many public acts, that he used to walk from his own house to that of the States at the Hague, attended only by a single servant, and that one man and one maid-servant composed his whole domestic establishment.

ON IMAGINATION.

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

This article previously appeared on pg. 84 (No. 63).

REMARK.

A man who pretends to know every thing, never knows any thing. A man of general information, as he is called, has, in reality, never any upon a particular subject.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 158.)

I began my march about ten o’clock.---At midnight we surprised our enemies in their camp. Never was a defeat more complete: we killed seven hundred men; we took nine hundred prisoners; we seized all their cannon, the military chest, and the ammunition.

At break of day Pulaski marched out to join me with the remainder of the troops: he brought Lodoiska along with him: we were married in Pulaski’s tent. All the camp resounded with songs of gladness: valour and beauty were celebrated in joyous epithalamiums: it seemed to be the festival of Venus and Mars; and it might be truly said, that every soldier appeared to be impressed with the same sentiments as myself, and that they all partook of my happiness.

After I had given up the first days of so dear an union entirely to love, I began to think of recompensing the heroic fidelity of Boleslas. My father-in-law presented him with one of his castles, situate at some leagues from the capital; and Lodoiska and myself added to this princely donation a considerable sum in ready money, on purpose to enable him to lead an independent and tranquil life.

He first refused to leave us; but we commanded him to go and take possession of his castle, and live peaceably in that honourable retreat which his services had so amply merited. On the day of his departure I took him aside:---“You must go in my name,” said I, “and wait upon our monarch at Warsaw: inform him that I am united in the bonds of Hymen to the daughter of Pulaski: state to him that I am armed on purpose to chase out of his kingdom those foreigners who are ravaging it; and tell him, in particular, that Lovzinski, a foe to the Russians, is not the enemy of his King.”

The recital of our operations during eight succeeding years of bloody war would be uninteresting.---Sometimes vanquished; much oftener victorious; equally great in the midst of a defeat, as formidable after a victory, and always superior to events, Pulaski attracted and fixed the attention of all Europe, whom he astonished by his long and vigorous resistance. Obliged to abandon one province, he made incursions into, and performed new prodigies of valour in another: and it was thus that, in marching successively throughout all the palatinates, he signalized in each of them, by some glorious exploit, that eternal hatred which he had sworn against the enemies of Poland.

Wife of a warrior, daughter of a hero, accustomed to the tumult of a camp, Lodoiska accompanied us every where. Of five children which she had borne me, an only daughter alone remained to us, about eighteen months old. One day, after a most obstinate engagement, the 165b victorious Russians precipitated themselves towards my tent, on purpose to plunder it. Pulaski and myself, followed by some nobles, flew to the defence of Lodoiska, whom we saved with difficulty: my daughter, however, had been carried off.

This lovely child, by a sage precaution which her mother had wisely made use of in those times of intestine commotion, had the arms of our family impressed, by means of a chemical preparation, under her left breast: but my search after my daughter has hitherto been ineffectual. Alas! Dorliska, my dear Dorliska, either exists in slavery, or exists no more!

This loss affected me with the most lively sorrow. Pulaski, however, appeared almost insensible to my misfortunes; either because his mind was occupied at this moment with the great project which he soon after communicated to me, or because the miseries of his country alone could affect his stoic heart. He, as usual, re-assembles the remains of his army, takes possession of an advantageous post, employs several days in fortifying, and maintains himself in it for three whole months, against all the efforts of the Russians.

It, however, became at length necessary that he should abandon this situation, as provisions were beginning to be scarce.---Pulaski, on this occasion, came to my tent; and, having ordered every one to retire, when we alone remained, he addressed me as follows:

“Lovzinski, I have just reason for complaining of your conduct. Formerly you supported, along with me, the burden of command, and I was enabled to divide with my son-in-law a part of my laborious avocations: but, for these two last months, you do nothing but weep; you sigh like a woman! You have abandoned me in a critical moment, when your assistance was become the most necessary! You see how I am attacked on all sides; I fear not for myself; I am not unhappy for my own life: but if we perish, the state has no longer any defenders.

“Awake, Lovzinski! hew nobly you once participated in my cares! Do not now remain the useless witness of them. We are indeed bathed in Russian blood: our fellow citizens are avenged; but they are not saved: nay, even in a short time we may be able no longer to defend them.”

“You astonish me, Pulaski! Whence these sinister auguries?”

“I am not alarmed without reason. Consider our present position: I am forced to awaken in every heart the love of its country; I have found no where but degenerate men born for slavery, or weak ones, who, although penetrated with a sense of their own misfortunes, have bounded all their views to barren complaints.

“Some true citizens are, indeed, ranged under my standards; but eight long and bloody campaigns have lessened their number, and almost extinguished them. I become enfeebled by my very victories:—our enemies appear more numerous after their defeats.”

“I repeat to you, Pulaski, once more, that you astonish me! In circumstances no less disastrous, no less unhappy, than the present, I have beheld you sustain yourself by your courage. . . . . . .”

“Do you think that it now abandons me? True valour does not consist in being blind to danger, but in braving it after it has been foreseen. Our enemies prepare for my defeat; however, if you choose, Lovzinski, the very day which they point out for their triumph shall perhaps be that destined to record their ruin, and achieve the safety of our fellow-citizens!”

“If I choose! Can you doubt my sentiments? Speak! what would you have done?”

“To strike the boldest stroke that I ever meditated! Forty chosen men are assembled at Czenstachow along with Kaluvski, whose bravery is well known; they want a chief, able, firm, intrepid---It is you whom I have chosen.”

“Pulaski, I am ready.”

“I will not dissemble to you the danger of the enterprize; the event is doubtful, and, if you do not succeed, your ruin is inevitable.”

“I tell you that I am ready, therefore explain yourself.”

“You are not ignorant, that scarce four thousand men now fight under my command: with these undoubtedly I have still an opportunity of tormenting our enemies; but with such feeble means, I dare not hope to be ever able to force them to leave our provinces. All the nobility would flock beneath our banners, if the King were in my camp.”

“What do you say? Can you hope that the King would ever consent to repair hither?”

“No: but he must be forced to do so.”

“Forced!”

“Yes! I know that an ancient friendship connects you with M. de P——: but since you have supported, along with Pulaski, the cause of liberty, you know also that you ought to sacrifice every thing to the good of your country; that an interest so sacred————”

“I know my duty, and I am ready to fulfil it; but what is it that you now propose to me? The King never leaves Warsaw.”

“True; and it is, therefore, at Warsaw that you must go and find him: it is from the heart of the capital that he must be forced.”

“What preparations have you made for so great an enterprise?”

“You behold yon Russian army, three times as strong as mine, and which has been encamped three months in sight of us: its General, tranquil at present within his entrenchments, impatiently waits until, forced by famine, I shall surrender myself at discretion.

“Behind my camp are marshes which he thinks impracticable: the moment that it is night, we shall traverse them. I have disposed of every thing in such a manner that the enemy will be deceived, and not perceive my retreat until it is too late. I hope therefore to be able to steal more than an hour’s march upon them, and, if fortune seconds me, perhaps a whole day. I shall advance straight forward to Warsaw by the great road that leads to the capital, notwithstanding the efforts of the little Russian bands who hover continually in its neighbourhood. I shall either encounter and conquer these separately, or, if, they form a junction on purpose to stop 166b my progress, I shall at least be able to occupy their attention in such a manner that they will not be able to impede your operations.

“In the mean time, Lovzinski, you will have preceded me. Your forty followers disguised, and armed only with sabres, poniards and pistols concealed under their clothes, shall have arrived at Warsaw by different roads. You must wait there until the King has left his palace; you are then to carry him off, and to bring him to my camp. The enterprise is bold---rash, if you please so to term it: the march to Warsaw is difficult; the stay in it dangerous; the return from it extremely perilous. If you are vanquished, if you are taken prisoner, you will perish, Lovzinski, but you will perish a martyr to liberty! and Pulaski, jealous of so glorious an end, sighing at being obliged to survive you, shall send Russians, thousands of Russians, to accompany you to the tomb!

“But on the contrary, if an all-powerful Deity; if a God, the protector of Poland, has inspired me with this hardy project, to terminate her evils; if thy good fortune shall procure a success equal to thy courage, what a glorious prosperity will be achieved by means of this noble daring!

“M. de P*** will not see in my camp, other than citizen-soldiers, the foes of foreigners, but still faithful to their king: under my patriotic tents, he will respire, as it were, the air of liberty, and the love of his country: the enemies of the state shall become his; our brave nobility, ashamed of their indolence, will readily combat under the royal banners, for the common cause; the Russians shall either be cut in pieces, or be obliged to pass the frontiers---my friend, in thee thy country shall behold her saviour!” * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Pulaski kept his word. That very night he accomplished his retreat, with equal skill and success, by traversing the marshes in profound silence. “My friend,” said my father-in-law to me, as soon as we were out of the reach of the enemy, “it is now time that you should leave us. I know well that my daughter has more courage than another woman; but she is a tender wife, and an unfortunate mother. Her tears will affect you, and you will lose in her embraces that strength of mind, that dignity of soul, which now becomes more necessary to you than ever: I advise you, therefore, to be gone, without bidding her farewell.”

(To be continued.)

HUMANITY.

As pain is what we are all naturally averse to, our own sensibility of it should teach us to commiserate it in others, not wantonly or unmeritedly to inflict it. But the absurd barbarity of our prejudices and customs often leads us to transgress this rule.—When we are under apprehension that we ourselves shall be the sufferers of pain, we naturally shrink back at the very idea of it: we can then abominate it, we detest it with horror; we plead hard for mercy; and we feel that we can feel. But when man is out of the question, humanity sleeps, and the heart grows callous.

INSTANCE OF BENEVOLENCE.

A gentleman, being at Marseilles, hired a boat with an intention of sailing for pleasure; he entered into conversation with the two young men who owned the vessel, and learned, that they were not watermen by trade, but silversmiths; and that when they could be spared from their usual business, they employed themselves in that way to increase their earnings. On expressing his surprise at their conduct, and imputing it to an avaricious disposition; “Oh! sir,” said the young men, “if you knew our reasons, you would ascribe it to a better motive. Our father, anxious to assist his family, scraped together all he was worth; purchased a vessel for the purpose of trading to the coast of Barbary, but was unfortunately taken by a pirate, carried to Tripoli, and sold for a slave. He writes word, that he is luckily fallen into the hands of a master who treats him with great humanity; but that the sum which is demanded for his ransom is so exorbitant, that it will be impossible for him ever to raise it; he adds, that we must therefore relinquish all hope of ever seeing him, and be contented, that he has as many comforts as his situation will admit. With the hopes of restoring to his family a beloved father, we are striving by every honest means in our power, to collect the sum necessary for his ransom, and we are not ashamed to employ ourselves in the occupation of watermen.” The gentleman was struck with this account, and on his departure, made them a handsome present.

Some months afterwards the young men being at work in their shop, were greatly surprised at the sudden arrival of their father, who threw himself into their arms; exclaiming, at the same time that he was fearful they had taken some unjust method to raise the money for his ransom, for it was too great a sum for them to have gained by their ordinary occupation. They professed their ignorance of the whole affair, and could only suspect they owed their father’s release to that stranger, to whose generosity they had been before so much obliged.

After Montesquieu’s death, an account of this affair was found among his papers, and the sum actually remitted to Tripoli for the old man’s ransom. It is a pleasure to hear of such an act of benevolence performed even by a person totally unknown to us; but the pleasure is infinitely increased, when it proves the union of virtue and talents in an author so renowned as Montesquieu. 

RETROSPECTION.

Happy is it for those who have committed material errors, if they have the inclination and opportunity of seriously reflecting and repenting; but still more happy are those who can (as far as human frailty will permit) look back with satisfaction on their past life, and thus avoid the misery of bitter reflections, which is an almost insupportable addition to the natural calamities of this world. A lady once said to a pious friend, “I should like to die your death, but I should not like to live your life;” meaning, that it was too dull and insipid for her.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 2d inst. by the. Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Cephas Ross, to Miss Mary Bowman, both of this city.

On Saturday se’nnight, at Greenwich, by the Rev. Mr. Woodhull, Mr. Nehemiah Denton, of Brooklyn, (L.I.) to Miss Eliza Bertis, daughter of Mr. Peter Bertis of that place.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. Michael Shatzel, of this city, to Miss Barbara Wood, of Harvestraw.

On Tuesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Coles, Mr. James Mitchell, of Dosoris, to Miss Rhoda Hall, daughter of Darius Hall, Esq. of Oak-Neck, Oyster Bay, (L.I.)

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. Thomas Seaman, to Miss Elizabeth Lowrey, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Jacob Hochstrasser, Esq. of Albany, to Miss Eliza T. Miller, of this city.

On Thursday evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, George Simpson, Esq. to Miss Mary Penn, both late of England, now of this City.

SONNET TO MARIA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE POOR MAN’S ADDRESS TO WINTER.

ODE TO BACCHUS.

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 GOOD HUSBAND.

The good husband is one, who, wedded not by interest but by choice, is constant as well from inclination as from principle; he treats his wife with delicacy as a woman, with tenderness as a friend: he attributes her follies to her weakness, her imprudence to her inadvertency; he passes them over therefore with good nature, and pardons them with indulgence: all his care and industry are employed for her welfare; all his strength and powers are exerted for her support and protection; he is more anxious to preserve his own character and reputation, because her’s is blended with it: lastly, the good husband is pious and religious, that he may animate her faith by his practice, and enforce the precepts of Christianity by his own example: that as they join to promote each other’s happiness in this world, they may unite together in one eternal joy and felicity in that which is to come.

THE GOOD WIFE.

The good wife is one, who, ever mindful of the solemn contract which she has entered into, is strictly and conscientiously virtuous, constant, and faithful to her husband; chaste, pure, and unblemished in every thought, word, and deed; she is humble and modest, from reason and conviction; submissive from choice, and obedient from inclination; what she acquires by love and tenderness, she preserves by prudence and discretion; she makes it her business to serve, and her pleasure to oblige her husband; as conscious that every thing which promotes his happiness, must in the end contribute to her own: her tenderness relieves his cares, her affection softens his distress, her good humour and complacency lessen and subdue his affliction; she openeth her mouth, as Solomon says, “with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness; she looketh well to the ways of her husband, and eateth not the bread of idleness: her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.” Lastly, as a good and pious Christian, she looks up with an eye of gratitude to the great dispenser and disposer of all things, to the husband of the widow, and father of the fatherless, intreating his divine favour 169b and assistance in this and every other moral and religious duty; well satisfied, that if she duly and punctually discharges her several offices and relations in this life, she shall be blessed and rewarded for it in another.

ANECDOTE OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

After Sir Philip Sidney was wounded near the walls of Zetphen, the horse he rode upon being rather furiously choleric than bravely proud, forced him to forsake the field, but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial commander to his grave. In this sad progress, passing along by the rest of the army, where his uncle, Robert, earl of Leicester, the general, was, and being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently brought him. But, as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had been wounded at the same time, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle: sir Philip perceiving this, took it from his head, before drinking, and delivered it to the poor man, with these words: “Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.”

This generous behaviour of the gallant knight ought not to pass without a penegyric. All his deeds of bravery, his politeness, his learning, his courtly accomplishments, do not reflect so much honour upon him, as this one disinterested and truly heroic action. It discovered so tender and benevolent a nature: a mind so fortified against pain; a heart so overflowing with generous sentiments to relieve, in opposition to the violent call of his own necessities, a poor man languishing in the same distress, before himself, that none can read it without the highest admiration. Bravery is often constitutional: fame may be the motive to seats of arms; a statesman and a courtier may act from interest; but a sacrifice so generous as this, can be made by none but those who are good as well as great; who are noble minded, and gloriously compassionate, like Sidney.

SELF-LOVE.

Nothing is so capable of diminishing self-love as the observation, that we disapprove at one time what we approve at another.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 163.)

His resentment against the new King remained however rankling in his heart; he did homage to the Sovereign with visible satisfaction, and, as I suspect, not without secret reservation, while I swore to him the oath of allegiance, in hopes that I should soon renew it to the lawful King, who was still concealed. My country now was delivered from the Span—sh yoke, but my heart remained in the thraldom of love. The fetters which it was chained with were, indeed, nothing but garlands, but nevertheless stronger than bonds of adamant; how was it therefore to be expected, that I should have been inclined and capable to obey my father, who wanted me to break them? This bondage was so sweet to me, and my sharing it with an adored woman, rendered it dearer to me than the most unbounded liberty; it was my sole and most ardent wish to tie the bonds by which we were united still faster. But alas! my father desired me not to mention a syllable of a union with Amelia, and without his sanction I durst not expect her consent! The Marquis of Ferei*a exhausted in vain all his eloquence in order to melt the flinty heart of my inexorable parent. In that wretched situation I sent several times for Alumbrado’s assistance, yet I always shrunk back at the idea of owing any obligation to that man. His first visit confirmed the remarks of the Marquis, and all the civilities he lavished upon me, served only to strengthen my antipathy against him. My soul was as gloomy as my exterior situation. The view of my heaven was overdarkened by clouds which grew darker and darker. Only one star was glimmering through the blackness of that dismal night; one single star to which I could direct my weeping eyes. I was confident that the Irishman could be no stranger to my comfortless situation, and would aid me by his power, imagining that he now had the best opportunity of rewarding my reliance in him, and would undoubtedly conduct me over insurmountable obstacles to the promised land of happiness. Meanwhile the time when my father expected my declaration for the Princess of L*** was approaching with gigantic strides, and the Irishman did not appear. Anxiety struggled with my hope. I enquired every where for my protector, but I enquired in vain, and my anxiety increased to black despair.

* * * * *
* * * *

CONTINUATION

By the Marquis of Ferei*a.

Here a great deal is wanting in the memoirs of the Duke of Cami*a, which I cannot leave unsupplied, otherwise an important part of his history will be lost, and the rest remain obscure. To fill up this empty space, will be the last duty of friendship I shall be able to perform for 170b that unhappy man. I shall, therefore, continue his mournful tale, till I can connect again the thread of my narration to the remaining papers of the Duke.

The grief assailing the heart of my unhappy friend soon depicted itself so strongly in his countenance, that I began to tremble for his health. Alas! my apprehension was but too soon realized, his sufferings being increased, by an information he received from the brother of the new King, to a degree which entirely overcame his enfeebled spirits.

“My dearest friend,” the Prince wrote to him, “I have not discontinued, since your departure, the inquiries after your tutor, which I began when you were here. However, I should undoubtedly have continued them with the greatest prudence and activity, without coming any nearer to the mark, if the very man whom I had been endeavouring to find out had not spared me that fruitless talk.

“Yes, my friend, your tutor has personally surprised me in a most pleasing manner. But, O! my friend, moderate your joy when reading these lines. The meeting with that dear man was like airy vision, which appears and vanishes again after a few moments. Your tutor came, and went to those realms from whence no mortal can return.

“Five days are now elapsed, since he astonished me, one morning, by his unexpected visit. I soon observed with surprise, that he returned the manifestations of my joy with much restraint, while his inquisitive looks were doubtfully directed at me. His relation soon unfolded this mystery.

“Will you believe it, my friend, that in that very night, when we expected him in vain with so much impatience and anxiety, he had been taken up secretly, carried off, and imprisoned? He was on his way to my house, when he met a carriage which he mistook for mine. In this opinion he was confirmed, when the coachman stopt the horses, and a servant in my livery opened the coach door for him. Two unknown gentlemen, who were sitting in the carriage, begged him to get in, pretending to have been sent by me to fetch him. He joined them without hesitation, and when the coachman drove out of the town gate, instead of taking the road to my house, he was told that one more guest was to be fetched. This pretended guest made his appearance in the suburbs, and as soon as he had got in the carriage, pointed a dagger at the heart of your tutor, while his two associates seized and tied his hands. All this was effected before Count Galvez could gain time for resistance, which would have been equally dangerous and fruitless. He was told that if he would submit silently to his fate, no injury should be offered him, but that he would be stabbed without mercy if he should cry for assistance; at the same time he was blind-folded, and after about half an hour’s ride the carriage stopped, when your tutor was taken out of it, and conducted over several flights of steps, through long passages, in a room where he was shut up, and left alone.

“When Count Galvez removed the bandage from his eyes, he found himself in a spacious apartment, lighted with lamps; two smaller rooms were on each side, but none of them had windows. Some time after his arrival, two masked men brought him victuals and drink, which afterwards was repeated every noon and evening. He was in want of nothing, liberty excepted. He could not leave his apartments, which were bolted on the outside, and having not been able to persuade his masked attendants to answer to his questions, he could not learn where he was imprisoned. The frequent chiming of bells, the singing of hymns, which seemed to be very near him, and several other circumstances, made him, however, suppose that he was confined in a cloister.

“It is remarkable, that during his confinement, he was obliged to sit to a sculptor, who executed his statue so masterly, that it resembled him in the most striking manner. The artist too was masked and nothing could persuade him to tell for what purpose the statue was designed.

“At length the wished for hour of enlargement arrived. The prisoner was called up between one and two o’clock in the morning, and ordered to prepare for his departure. He was blindfolded and conducted to the street, where he was placed in a coach, and threatened with instant death if he should dare to utter a syllable. After half an hour’s ride he was taken out of the coach, upon which, his conductors drove away at a furious rate. As soon as he perceived that he was alone, he removed the bandage from his eyes, and found himself in a lonely part of the suburbs, and with the first dawn of day called at my house.

“As soon as Count Galvez had finished his extraordinary tale, I summoned my servants, in order to clear myself from a suspicion which afflicted me severely, and examined them rigorously in his presence. It was, however, proved that my horses and carriages, as well as my servants, had been at home at the hour when the Count was carried off, which rendered it very probable that the Unknown must have imitated my equipage and livery, in order to ensnare the Count with greater ease.

“Your tutor enquired much, and with great affection after you: I told him as much as I knew, but he was not satisfied with it. The following morning he departed for Lisb*n, in hopes of meeting you there, after a long and painful separation. I rode on horseback by his carriage in order to accompany him a few miles; the impatient desire of seeing you soon made your tutor urge the postillion to press his horses onward; the fellow was offended at the incessant solicitations of the Count, and drove slower, which vexed our friend to such a degree, that he exhorted the postillion rather warmly to proceed faster, adding some menaces. The postillion being provoked by your tutor’s threats, whipped his horses furiously, without taking proper notice of the neighbourhood of the precipice, which you will recollect; the animals grew wild, and the carriage was precipitated into the abyss. The Count scarcely breathed, when he received assistance, and the postillion was dashed to pieces against the rocks.

“I ordered instantly all possible care to be taken of our friend; however, a violent vomiting of blood, the consequence of a contusion on his breast, put an end to his life the subsequent day. A few minutes before his death, he wrote the following note, but was soon interrupted by a fainting fit.

“‘Ere while we were separated by men, but now we are going to be disunited by God. I do not murmur; yet I should have been happy to see you once more. On the brink of eternity I am expanding my hands, blessing thee, excellent young man! Weep not at my death; we shall meet again in yon blissful mansions, where all good men shall be reunited for ever. Honour my memory by keeping firm to my principles, which from my soul, flowed over in your mind.’”

Two mortal wounds like those which the ill-fated love affair, and the death of Count Galvez inflicted on the heart of my friend, confined him to a sick bed. Now happened what I had dreaded, without my having been able to prevent it. Alumbrado, who was returned from his journey, intruded on my friend, and soon traced out the safest road to his heart. My friend was weak enough to communicate to him the situation in which he was with regard to Amelia; and Alumbrado hesitated not a moment to procure him the consent of his father. The power exercised by that man over the Marquis was so great, that the latter suffered himself to be persuaded to write to the Countess, and to invite her in the most honourable and flattering manner, to render his son happy by giving him her hand.

(To be continued.)

ON HYPOCRISY.

Mr. Addison somewhere observes, that hypocrisy at the fashionable end of the town, is very different from hypocrisy in the city. The fashionable hypocrite endeavours to appear more vicious than he really is; the other kind of hypocrite more virtuous. The former is afraid of every thing that has a shew of religion in it, and would be thought engaged in any criminal gallantries and amours, of which he is not guilty. The latter assumes a face of sanctity, and covers a multitude of vices, under a seemingly religious deportment. There is a third sort of hypocrites, who not only deceive the world, but very often impose upon themselves. These different kinds of hypocrisy cannot be too much detested. The first is a flagrant depravity of mind, which induces a man to prefer the appearance of vice to virtue, and despicable to an amiable character. The second disgraces and abuses virtue by assuming her resemblance; the last, though not more criminal, is more dangerous than either of the former, as it is accompanied with mental blindness, and self deception.

NATURE.

Nature only is lovely, and nothing unnatural can ever be amiable. The genuine expressions of truth and nature are happily calculated to impress the heart with pleasure.

VIRTUE REWARDED:

A PASTORAL TALE:

[From the German of Gesner.]

Glicera was beautiful and poor. Scarce had she numbered sixteen springs, when she lost the mother who had brought her up. Reduced to servitude, she kept the flocks of Lamon, who cultivated the lands of a rich citizen of Mitylene.

One day, her eyes flowing with tears, she went to visit her mother’s solitary tomb. She poured upon her grave a cup of pure water, and suspended crowns of flowers to the branches of the bushes she had planted round it. Seated beneath the mournful shade, and drying up her tears, she said, ‘O thou most tender of mothers, how dear to my heart is the remembrance of thy virtues! If ever I forget the instructions thou gavest me, with such a tranquil smile, in that fatal moment, when inclining thy head upon my bosom, I saw thee expire; if ever I forget them! may the propitious Gods forsake me, and may thy sacred shade forever fly me! It is thou that hast just preserved my innocence. I come to tell thy manes all. Wretch that I am! Is there any one on earth to whom I dare open my heart?

‘Nicias, the Lord of this country, came hither to enjoy the pleasures of the autumn. He saw me; he regarded me with a soft and gracious air. He praised my flocks, and the care I took of them: he often told me that I was genteel, and made me presents. Gods! how was I deceived! but in the country who mistrusts? I said to myself, how kind our master is! may the Gods reward him! all my vows shall be for him; ’tis all that I can do; but I will forever do it. The rich are happy, and favoured by the immortals. When bountiful, like Nicias, they deserve to be happy. This to myself I said, and let him take my hand, and press it in his. The other day I blushed, and dared not look up, when he put a gold ring upon my finger. See, he said, what is engraved on this stone? A winged child, who smiles like thee; and ’tis he that must make thee happy. As he spoke these words, he stroaked my cheeks, that were redder than the fire. He loves me; he has the tenderness of a father for me; how have I deserved so much kindness from a Lord, and so rich and powerful? O, my mother, that was all thy poor child thought. Heavens! how was I deceived! this morning he found me in the orchard; he chuck’d me familiarly under the chin. Come, he said, bring me some new-blown flowers to the myrtle bower, that I may there enjoy their sweet perfumes. With haste I chose the finest flowers; and, full of joy, I ran to the bower. Thou art, he said, more nimble than the Zephyrs, and more beautiful than the Goddess of flowers. Then, immortal Gods! I yet tremble at the thought; then he catch’d me in his arms, and pressed me to his bosom, and all that love can promise, all that is soft and seducing, flow’d from his lips. I wept; I trembled. Unable to resist such arts, I had been forever lost. No, thou wou’dst no longer have had a child, if thy remembrance had not watch’d over my heart. Ah! if thy worthy mother had even seen thee suffer such disgraceful caresses! that thought alone gave 172b me power to force myself from the arms of the seducer and fly.

‘Now I come; O with what comfort is it that I still dare! I come to weep over thy grave. Alas! poor and unfortunate as I am, why did I lose thee when so young. I droop like a flower, deprived of the support that sustain’d its feeble stalk. This cup of pure water I pour to the honour of thy manes. Accept this garland! receive my tears! may they penetrate even to thy ashes! Hear, O my mother, hear; ’tis to thy dear remains, that repose beneath those flowers, which my eyes have so often bedewed: ’tis to thy sacred shade I here renew the vows of my heart. Virtue, innocence, and the fear of the Gods, shall make the happiness of my days. Therefore poverty shall never disturb the serenity of my mind. May I do nothing that thou wou’dst not have approv’d with a smile of tenderness, and I shall surely be, as thou wast, belov’d of Gods and men: For I shall be gentle, modest, and industrious, O my mother, by living thus, I hope to die like thee, with smiles and tears of joy.’

Glicera, on quitting the place, felt all the powerful charms of virtue. The gentle warmth that was diffused over her mind, sparkled in her eyes, still wet with tears. She was beautiful as those days of spring, when the sun shines through a transient shower.

With a mind quite tranquil, she was hastening back to her labour, when Nicias ran to meet her. ‘O Glicera!’ he said, and tears flowed down his cheeks, ‘I have heard thee at thy mother’s tomb. Fear nothing, virtuous maid! I thank the immortal Gods! I thank that virtue, which hath preserved me from the crime of seducing thy innocence. Forgive me, chaste Glicera! forgive, nor dread in me a fresh offence. My virtue triumphs through thine. Be wise, be virtuous, and be ever happy. That meadow surrounded with trees, near to thy mother’s tomb, and half the flock thou keepest, are thine.

‘May a man of equal virtue complete the happiness of thy days! weep not, virtuous maid! but accept the present I offer thee with a sincere heart, and suffer me from henceforth to watch over thy happiness. If thou refusest me, a remorse for offending thy virtue will be the torment of all my days. Forget, O vouchsafe to forget my crime, and I will revere thee as a propitious power that hath defended me against myself.’

THE MISER AND PRODIGAL.

The hoarding miser torments himself, and the spendthrift punishes the innocent. The hoarder heaps up for others; and the prodigal scatters what others had heaped. The hoarder thinks so much of the time to come, as to forget the present; the squanderer has his thoughts so much taken up with the present, as to forget the future. The first lives as if he were never to die, and the last as if he had but a day to enjoy. Both are unprofitable members of society; the one occasioning a stoppage in the circulation, and the other an hæmorrhage. The hoarding miser is like a fog that infests the air; the prodigal resembles an outrageous storm that overturns all in its way. The hoarding miser is a ridiculous creature, and the prodigal a noxious animal.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 166.)

Pulaski pressed me, but in vain, for I was unable to consent. As soon as Lodoiska knew that I should depart alone, and perceived that we were resolved not to inform her whither, she shed torrents of tears, and strove to detain me. I began to hesitate.

Lovzinski, cries my father-in-law at this critical moment, Lovzinski, depart! Wife, children, relations, all ought to be sacrificed, when it is necessary for the salvation of your country.

I instantly mount my horse, and make such haste, that I arrive by the middle of next day at Czenstachow. I here found forty brave men waiting for me, and determined for the most hazardous enterprise.

“Gentlemen,” said I to them, “we are now met on purpose to carry a king out of the midst of his own capital. Those capable of attempting such a bold enterprise, are alone capable of effecting it: either success or death awaits on us!”

After this short harangue we prepare to depart. Kaluvski, forewarned of our design, had already procured twelve waggons, loaded with hay and straw, each of which was drawn by four good horses.

We instantly disguise ourselves as peasants; we hide our clothes, our sabres, our pistols, and the saddles of our horses, in the hay with which our waggons were partly filled; we agree upon certain signs, and I give them a watch-word, to be used according to circumstances.—Twelve of the conspirators, commanded by Kaluvski, enter into Warsaw, accompanied by as many waggons, which they themselves conduct. I divide the rest of my little troop into several brigades, on purpose to avert suspicion: each is ordered to march at some distance from the other, and to gain the capital by different gates.

We depart, and on Saturday the 2d of November, 1771, arrive at Warsaw, and lodge together at a convent belonging to the Dominicans.

On the next day, which was Sunday, and which will for ever form a memorable epoch in the annals of Poland, one of my people of the name of Stravinski, being covered with rags, places himself near the collegiate church, and soon after proceeds demanding charity even at the gates of the royal palace, where he observes every thing that passed. Several of the conspirators walked up and down the six narrow streets, in the neighbourhood of the great square, where Kaluvski and myself were posted. We remain in ambuscade during the whole day, and part of the afternoon.

At six o’clock at night the king leaves the palace; he is followed, and is seen to enter the hotel of his uncle, the grand chancellor of Lithuania.

All our followers receive notice of this event, and assemble 173b instantly: they throw off their miserable clothes, saddle their horses, and prepare their arms, in the large square belonging to the convent, where their movements are entirely concealed. They then sally forth, one after the other, under favour of the night. Too well known in Warsaw to hazard appearing there, without disguising my self, I still wear my peasant’s dress, and I mount an excellent horse, caparisoned, however, after the common manner.

I then point out my followers the different posts in the suburbs, which I had assigned them before our departure from the convent, and they were dispersed in such a manner, that all the avenues to the palace of the grand chancellor were carefully and strictly guarded.

Between nine and ten o’clock at night, the king comes forth on purpose to return home; and we remark, with joy, that his attendants were far from being numerous.

The carriage was preceded by two men, who carried flambeaux, some officers of his suit, two gentlemen and an esquire followed. I know not what was the name of the grandee in the coach along with the king. There were two pages, one to each door, two haydukes running by the side of the equipage, and three footmen, in the royal livery behind.

The king proceeds slowly: part of my people assemble at some distance; twelve of the most determined spring forward: I put myself at their head, and we advance at a good pace.

As there was a Russian garrison at that very moment in Warsaw, we affect to speak the language of those foreigners, so that our petty troop might be mistaken for one of their patroles.

We overtake the carriage at about a hundred and fifty paces from the grand chancellor’s palace, and exactly between those of the bishop of Cracow and of the late grand general of Poland.

All of a sudden we pass the heads of the foremost horses, so that those who preceded, found themselves separated from those who surrounded the royal equipage.

I instantly give the signal agreed upon. Kaluvski gallops up, with the remainder of the conspirators: I present a pistol to the postillion, who instantly stops; the coachman is fired upon, and precipitated beneath the wheels. Of the two haydukes who endeavoured to defend their prince, one drops, pierced with two balls; the other is overturned by means of a backhanded stroke from a sabre, which he receives on the head; the steed belonging to the esquire falls down covered with wounds; one of the pages is dismounted, and his horse taken; pistol-balls fly about in all directions—in short, the attack was so hot, and the fire so violent, that I trembled for the king’s life.

He himself, however, preserving the utmost coolness in the midst of the danger, had now descended from his carriage, and was striving to regain his uncle’s palace on foot. Kaluvski arrests and seizes him by the hair; seven or eight of the conspirators surround, disarm, overpower him, and, pressing him between their horses, make off at a full gallop towards the end of the street.

During this moment, I confess that I thought Pulaski had basely deceived me; that the death of the monarch was resolved upon, and that a plot had been formed to assassinate him.

All of a sudden I form my resolves; I clap spurs to my horse, overtake the little band, cry out to them to stop, and threaten to kill the first person who should dare to disobey me.

That God who is the protector of good kings, watched over the safety of M. de P***! Kaluvski and his followers stop at the sound of my well-known voice. We mount the king on horseback, make off at full speed, and regain the ditch that surrounded the city, which the monarch is constrained to leap, in company with us.

At that moment a panic terror takes possession of my troop; at fifty paces distant from the ramparts, there were no more than seven who surrounded the person of the king.

The night was dark and rainy, and it was necessary to dismount every instant, on purpose to sound the morass with which we were surrounded.

The horse on which the monarch rode fell twice, and broke his leg at the second fall: during these violent movements, his majesty lost his pelisse, and the shoe belonging to his left foot.

“If you wish that I should follow you,” says he to us, you must furnish me with another horse and a pair of boots.

We remount him once more, and, on purpose to gain the road by which Pulaski had promised me to advance, we resolve to pass through a village called Burakow; but the king exclaims, “Do not go that way; there are Russians there!”

I immediately change our route; but in proportion as we advance through the wood of Beliany, our number continues to diminish. In a short time, I perceive nobody around me but Kaluvski and Stravinski: a few minutes after, we are challenged by a Russian sentinel on horseback, at whose voice we instantly stop, greatly alarmed for our safety.

“Let us kill him!” cries the ferocious Kaluvski, pointing to the king. I instantly avow to him, without disguise, the horror which such a proposition inspired me with. “Very well, you may then take upon you the task of conducting him,” adds this cruel hearted man, who immediately after precipitates himself into the woods. Stravinski follows him, and I alone remain with the king.

“Lovzinski,” says he, addressing himself to me, as soon as they were out of sight; “it is you, I can no longer doubt it; it is you, for I will remember your voice!” I utter not a single word in reply. He then mildly adds, “It is certainly you Lovzinski! Who would have thought this ten years ago?”

We find ourselves at that moment near to the convent of Beliany, distant no more than a single league from Warsaw.

“Lovzinski,” continues the king, “permit me to enter this convent, and save yourself.”

“You must follow me,” was my only answer.

“It is in vain,” rejoins the monarch, “that you are disguised; it is in vain that you endeavour to assume a feigned voice: I know you well, I am fully assured that you are Lovzinski: ah, who would have said so ten years since? You would then have lost your life, on condition of preserving that of your friend.”

His majesty now ceases to speak; we advance some time, in profound silence, which he again breaking, exclaims. “I am overcome with fatigue—if you wish to carry me alive, permit me to repose myself for a single moment.”

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE OF CÆSARE ARETHUSI.

Cæsare Arethusi, was invited by the duke of Ferrara, to visit his court, and received there with extraordinary respect. That prince sat to him for his portrait, admired the performance highly, gave him evident proofs not only of his favour, but of his friendship and esteem; and having, at last, concluded that his generous treatment must inevitably have secured his gratitude (if not his affection) he freely acquainted him with his real inducement for inviting him to Ferrara. Confiding in the integrity of the painter, he told him there was a lady in the city whose portrait he wished to possess; but that it was to be procured in a manner so secret, as neither to be suspected by the lady herself, nor any of her friends. He promised an immense reward to Arethusi, if he was successful and retentive; he threatened him with the utmost severity of his resentment, if ever he suffered the secret to transpire.

The artist watched a proper opportunity to sketch the likeness of the lady, unnoticed by any; and having shewn it to the duke, he seemed exceedingly struck with the resemblance, as well as the graceful air of the figure, and ordered Arethusi to paint a portrait from that sketch, as delicately as he possibly could, but, above all things, recommended it to him, to keep it from every eye except his own.

When the picture was finished, the painter himself beheld it with admiration, and thought it would be injurious to his fame to conceal from the world, a performance which he accounted perfect; and through an excess of pride and vanity shewed it privately to several of his friends, who could not avoid commending the work, while they detested the folly and ingratitude of the artist.

The secret thus divulged, circulated expeditiously; it soon reached the ears of the lady, and her family, who were exceedingly irritated; and the duke appeared so highly enraged at the treachery of Arethusi, that he was almost provoked to put him to death; but he only banished him for ever from his dominions.

ADVICE.

When you come or find yourself coming full bat, it is called, against another person, you endeavour to get out of the way. Let an old man advise you not to do so. Stand still. He will endeavour to get out of your way, and, by your standing still, he will effect it. If you both endeavour to get by at the same time, as there are but two sides, it is an even wager you run against each other.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON THE ORIGIN OF LOVE.

Helvetius, who has scrutinised the effects of first impressions, with an acuteness which few of our moral philosophers can boast, led me, the other day, to consider on his theory, the origin of those refined and delicate sensations, which, in the mutual attachment of the sexes, give birth to the choicest blessings of humanity. According to his way of reasoning, I should suppose our ideas of beauty, and those expressions of the countenance which captivate the heart, should be ascribed to the earliest impressions on the mind. Every one’s experience will suggest to him the proof of this assertion. The first impression I can recollect when my eyes opened upon this world, was the sight of a beautiful mother, who hung over me with looks of the most fervent love. A face like hers, to me therefore, naturally became the most agreeable object in nature: And it must be to some secret analogy of feature that I owe that delirium of love, which I have since experienced from the charms of a mistress, whose countenance bore all those striking expressions of tenderness which characterised hers.

So much for the definition.---I cannot but add, how truly deplorable it is, that a passion which constitutes almost the only honourable trait in human nature, should now be every where trampled upon by avarice. For my part, altho’ I have suffered more from the fancied than ever I shall probably again from the real preference of a wealthy rival, yet, I trust I shall not witness, as our country advances, the same instances of legal prostitution as I have done in some other parts of the world. With us it is still more unpardonable; as the means of bettering our fortunes are so much more easy or certain. If there are those who are so far insensible to the refinements of sentiment as to give a preference to those enjoyments which are to be purchased, let them recollect, that by renouncing an union of the same taste and disposition, they abandon the only hope they can confidently entertain of nuptial constancy and domestic sunshine. If any one objects to me, that I may frequently be mistaken in this result of sincere love, I should still exclaim

Yours, &c.

PETRARCH.

POLITICS.

“Politics,” says the elegant and ingenious Mr. Grenville, in his Maxims, “are the food of sense exposed to the hunger of folly.” And indeed they seem to be devoured with so voracious an appetite, that no good assimilation or chylification of them takes place in the body politic in consequence of it. The appetite is great, the digestion imperfect.

ANECDOTE.

No object can be more pleasing to a virtuous mind, than to behold a well-directed benevolence, productive of a grateful and happy heart; while the smiling scenes of cultivation and society succeed to the solitary wastes of savage nature. Mr. Wood, a free merchant of Decca, coming thence to Calcutta, where the Ganges flows thro’ vast tracks of uncultivated and marshy woods, which render the navigation peculiarly difficult and dangerous, happened to fall in with a poor native wood-cutter. In the course of conversation, the latter said, that if he had but fifty rupees (5l.) he could make a comfortable settlement. The fifty rupees Mr. Wood lent him. When this worthy man, after staying some time at Calcutta, returned to Decca, he saw the pleasing effects of his bounty in an advanced settlement, on a small eminence newly cleared from standing trees. Unsolicited, he lent the wood-cutter fifty rupees more. The next voyage, Mr. Wood was delighted to behold the rapid progress of the settlement, and astonished to meet the wood-cutter offering to pay half the small, but generous loan. Mr. Wood refused to receive it at that time, and lent him 100 rupees more. About eighteen months after the commencement of the settlement, he had the inexpressible satisfaction of seeing his industrious wood-cutter at the head of five populous villages, and a spacious tract of fine land under cultivation, drained and cleared of swamps and woods. The woodcutter now repaid the principal he had borrowed, and tendered the interest, while tears of gratitude and humble affection stole down his venerable, his happy and expressive countenance. But how inexpressible the feelings of the benevolent merchant! Let those plunderers, who return with the wealth of nations sinking under their cruelty and oppression, while they wanton in all the luxuries of life---let them still

To sensations like his they must ever be strangers. An enjoyment so exquisite, so pure, so permanent, not all the riches of the East can purchase.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday the 12th inst. at Schenectady, by the Rev. Dr. Smith, Mr. Jeremiah Van Rensselaer, son of Gen. Robert Van Rensselaer, of Claverack, to Miss Sibella A. Kane, daughter of Mr. John Kane of that place.

On Thursday evening the 17th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, George Simpson, Esq. to Miss Mary Penn, both of this city.

On Sunday evening the 20th inst. Mr. Thomas Mahan, to Miss Hannah Curtis, both of this place.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

The reader will easily recollect the addresses to Winter published in our two last numbers. The following forms

ANOTHER WINTRY PROSPECT.

THE SEASON OF DELIGHT,

A SONG.

RECITATIVE.

AIR.

SONNET

TO HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

TO MARIA.

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.

Extraordinary Intrepidity of the Jomsburgians.

History informs us, that Harold, surnamed Blaatand, or Blue Tooth, (a king of Denmark, who reigned in the middle of the tenth century) had founded on the coast of Pomerania, which he had subdued, a city named Julin or Jomsburg; where he sent a colony of young Danes, and bestowed the government on a celebrated warrior named Palnatoko. This new Lycurgus had made of that city a second Sparta, and every thing was directed to this single end, to form complete soldiers. The author who has left us the history of this colony, assures us, that “it was forbidden them so much as to mention the name of fear, even in the most imminent dangers.” No citizen of Jomsburg was to yield to any number, however great, but to fight intrepidly without flying, even from a very superior force. The sight of present and inevitable death would have been no excuse with them for making any the least complaint, or for shewing the slightest apprehension. And this legislator really appears to have eradicated from the minds of most of the youths bred up under him, all traces of that sentiment so natural and so universal, which makes men think on their destruction with horror. Nothing can shew this better than a single fact in their history, which deserves to have place here for its singularity. Some of them having made an irruption into the territories of a powerful Norwegian lord, named Haquin, were overcome in spite of the obstinacy of their resistance; and the most distinguished among them being made prisoners, were, according to the custom of those times, condemned to death. The news of this, far from afflicting them, was, on the contrary, received with joy. The first who was led to punishment was content to say, without changing countenance, “why should not the same happen to me as did to my father? he died, and so must I.” A warrior named Thorchill, who was to cut off the head of the second, having asked him what he felt at the sight of death, he answered, “that he remembered too well the laws of Jomsburg to utter any words that denoted fear.” The third, in reply to the same question, said, “he rejoiced to die in glory, and that he preferred such a death to an infamous 177b life like that of Thorchill’s.” The fourth made an answer much longer and more extraordinary. “I suffer with a good heart; and the present hour is to me very agreeable. I only beg of you,” added he, addressing himself to Thorchill, “to be very quick in cutting off my head; for it is a question often debated by us at Jomsburg, whether one retains any sense after being beheaded. I will therefore grasp this knife in my hand; if, after my head is cut off, I strike it towards you, it will shew I have not lost all sense; if I let it drop, it will be a proof to the contrary. Make haste, therefore, and decide the dispute.” ‘Thorchill, adds the historian, cut off his head in the most expeditious manner, but the knife, as might be expected, dropped from his hand.’ The fifth shewed the same tranquility, and died rallying and jeering his enemies. The sixth begged of Thorchill that he might not be led to punishment like a sheep; “strike the blow in my face,” said he, “I will sit still without shrinking; and take notice whether I once wink my eyes or betray one sign of fear in my countenance. For we inhabitants of Jomsburg are used to exercise ourselves in trials of this sort, so as to meet the stroke of death without once moving.” He kept his promise before all the spectators, and received the blow without the least sign of fear, or so much as winking his eyes. The seventh, says the historian, was a very beautiful young man, in the flower of his age. His long fair hair, as fine as silk, floated in curls and ringlets on his shoulders. Thorchill asked him what he thought of death? “I receive it willingly,” said he, “since I have fulfilled the greatest duty of life, and have seen all those put to death whom I would not survive. I only beg of you one favour, not to let my hair be touched by a slave, or stained with my blood.”

COMMUNION WITH OUR OWN HEARTS.

If we could but learn to commune with our own hearts, and know what noble company we can make them, we should little regard the elegance and the splendors of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude still may be improved, when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 171.)

The Duke wrote only the following few lines:

“My dearest love! I address myself to you on the brink of the grave; your hand can save or hurl me down; my doom rests with you. O! come, angelic woman, and lead me from the gate of death to a paradisiacal life; come and reward my love, which alone supports my breaking heart.”

P.S. “Vasconcel*os has bled under the avenging sword of the redeemers of my country.”

The answer of the Countess was to the following purport:

“O! that this letter could fly on the pinions of love, in order to carry instantly to my friend health and joy. Yes, your request is granted. Receive, my dearest Duke, to whom my HEART has yielded, receive my HAND too, and the vow of eternal fidelity. My uncle having recovered his health, nothing shall detain me from embarking in the first vessel which shall sail for Port***l. The idea that your best wishes, the blessing of your father and my uncle, and the guardian genius of love, will conduct me on my voyage, will assist me to conquer my fear of the sea. I should never have done writing if this letter did not require expedition, and my friend, who arrived here the day before yesterday, insisted upon adding a few words to those of

“Your

“Amelia Clairval.”

“Give me leave, my Lord, to add only my sincerest congratulations, and to ask your Grace, whether you do not acknowledge now as a soothsayer

“Your humble and obedient servant,

Anna de Delier.”

The Duke had begun to mend rapidly ever since the Marquis consented to his union with Amelia; the letter of the Countess restored his health entirely. No mortal could be more happy and cheerful than the Duke of Cami*a. It was natural that Alumbrado, who, as the author of his happiness, had no small claim to his gratitude, should acquire in his eyes a value, which entirely dispelled the antipathy he at first had conceived against him. I soon was made sensible of that change, when I took one time the opportunity of dropping a few words concerning Alumbrado. “I cannot conceive,” the Duke replied warmly, “why you are so much prejudiced against that man; it is true his physiognomy does not speak much in his recommendation; it is, however, very unphilosophical to condemn a person merely on account of his features.” “Say whatever you will,” I replied, “an undescribable repelling sensation, which certainly does not deceive me—” “You have conceived an antipathy against him,” the Duke interrupted me, “and that cannot be refuted by arguments; however, I will 178b remind you of a fact, which here will be in its proper place. Socrates, whose physiognomy, as you will recollect, was very much to his disadvantage, happened once to be in a company of friends, when a philosopher, who pretended to be a physiognomist, took the word; he was requested to delineate the character of Socrates, who was a stranger to him. The philosopher named several vices which he pretended to read plainly in his face. A general laughter was the effect of his judgment; however, Socrates remained serious, and declared that he really had felt a natural propensity to those vices, but had got the better of it by unremitted assiduity. The application of this instance, I leave to your own good sense.”

“How?” I exclaimed with surprise, “you compare Alumbrado with Socrates, an absurd ascetic with a reverend sage, hypocrisy with virtue?” This enormous infatuation vexed me to such a degree, that I could not help giving vent to my just resentment. However, I perceived soon that my words did not make the least impression on my misguided friend. Being therefore obliged to desist from my endeavours to change the opinion of the Duke, I strove with additional assiduity to cut off his connection with Alumbrado, at least till he should be united to Amelia, expecting that this angel would soon drive away that demon of darkness. I proposed to the Duke a journey to **ina, for the benefit of his health, and offered to accompany him. He consented to it without difficulty, expecting to beguile by exercise and diversions, the time which, from his impatience of seeing Amelia arrive, appeared to him to creep on with snail-like slowness. My aim would however have been attained without this expedient, Alumbrado leaving Li*bon unexpectedly; yet we set out on our proposed journey.

We had not been seven days at **ina when the Duke was already impatient to leave that place. However improbable it was Amelia could arrive so soon, yet this idea left him no rest. We returned on the eighth day, and travelled day and night.

It was five o’clock in the morning, when we alighted at his palace. Scarcely had we entered his apartment when his Secretary brought a letter which he said had been left by a pilot at a late hour last night. The Duke reddened and grew pale alternately, while he opened it.---“She is arrived, she is arrived!” he exclaimed, and the letter dropped out of his hand trembling with rapture. “She is arrived!” he repeated, taking it up and re-perusing the gladful lines. The emotions of his mind were so violent, that he was obliged to sit down. “Amelia is arrived!” he exclaimed again, rising and straining me to his bosom. The letter was couched in the following words:

“Has not your heart told you, my dearest Duke that I am near you? I should already have pressed you to my panting heart, if the Captain had suffered me to go in the boat which will set the pilot on shore. But he has opposed my design, on account of the swelling sea and the great distance. If Heaven favours us you will see me to-morrow.

Your

Amelia.”

“Well, my friend,” said the Duke, when I returned the paper to him, “has my presentiment deceived me? have not I done well to urge our return?—But why do we tarry here? (he added) let us fly to the harbour!”

The horses were instantly saddled, and we mounted them in our travelling dress. We rode in full speed, and each of us indulged silently his sentiments.—The sky was gloomy, and the universal stillness, not interrupted by the least breeze of air, seemed to presage no good. At length we fancied, with astonishment, we heard the distant rolling of thunder; however we soon perceived that it was the echo caused by the report of guns. The distant firing of cannon, and the forerunners of a rising tempest, thrilled my heart with chilling anxiety, for I apprehended the ship must be in great danger. Soon after the firing ceased, but this calm was more dreadful to me than the report of the cannon. We spurred our horses, without uttering a word, for neither of us dared to confess his apprehensions. Being at length arrived at the sea shore---Heavens! what a scene of horror did we behold! the surge was dreadful, the cliffs and the strand were covered with a white spume. The rays of the sun could not penetrate the fog which overspread the surface of the sea. We could, therefore, not discover the island where the ship was lying at anchor, it appearing to us in the shape of a black cloud, which seemed to be a mile distant from the shore. The veil which concealed the danger of the ship from our eyes only served to augment our anxiety.

A troop of mariners and soldiers under the command of Men*os, were arrived with us at the shore. The drums beat, and a general volley was fired. A flash of lightning darted instantly over the sea, and immediately after it the report of a gun was heard. We all hastened to the side where we had perceived the signal, and observed, through the fog, the body and the main-yard of a large ship. We were so near that we could hear the whistling and the acclamations of the sailors, in spite of the roaring of the mountainous billows. The ship’s crew fired a gun every three minutes, as soon as they perceived that assistance was near.

I admired my friend’s firmness of mind with which he, at a sight that ought to have rendered him almost distracted, shewed the greatest zeal to save the crew, ordering a large fire to be lighted on the cliffs, and boards, cables, empty casks and provisions to be kept in readiness.

An impending hurricane seemed to be lurking in the air. The middle of the clouds was of a horrid blackness, and their edges were of a copper colour. The leaves of the trees were moving, and yet not a breath of air was felt. The cries of the sea fowls, who were resorting to the island for protection, resounded through the air.

At length we heard suddenly a dreadful roaring, as if foaming torrents were rushing down from the summit of a lofty mountain, and every one exclaimed, this is the hurricane! In the same moment a violent whirlwind removed the foggy veil which had concealed the island from our eyes. We had now a clear view of the ship; her whole deck was covered with people, her colours were hoisted, her fore-part was secured by four anchors, and 179b her stern by one. Her stem opposed the billowing waves which came roaring from the sea, and was raised so high above the surface of the water, that one could see her whole keel, while the stern was almost entirely buried in the foaming billows. The dangerous situation of the vessel rendered it impossible for her to put out to sea, or to run on store.

The howling of the wind, and the roaring of the waves, which were swelling higher every moment, was dreadful. The whole channel between the island and the shore was a mass of white thick froth, cut through by black and hollow waves. The appearance of the horizon prognosticated a long lasting storm. Some waves of a dreadful shape separated from the main every now and then, and darted with the velocity of lightning across the channel, while others remained immoveable like enormous rocks. Not one blue spot could be descried in the firmament; a pale faint glimmer enlightened heaven, earth and sea.

(To be continued.)

INSTANCE OF UNCOMMON FRIENDSHIP.

Two Jewish soldiers, in the time of Vespasian, had made many campaigns together; and a participation of dangers, at length, bred an union of hearts. They were remarked throughout the whole army, as the two friendly brothers; they felt and fought for each other.—Their friendship might have continued, without interruption, till death, had not the good fortune of the one alarmed the pride of the other, which was in his promotion to be a centurion under the famous John, who headed a particular party of the Jewish male-contents.

From this moment their former love was converted into the most inveterate enmity. They attached themselves to opposite factions, and sought each other’s lives in the conflict of adverse party. In this manner they continued for more than two years, vowing mutual revenge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit of aversion. At length, however, that party of the Jews, to which the mean soldier belonged, joining with the Romans, it became victorious, and drove John, with all his adherents, into the temple. History has given us more than one picture of the dreadful conflagration of that superb edifice. The Roman soldiers were gathered round it; the whole temple was in flames, and thousands were seen amidst them, within its sacred circuit. It was in this situation of things, that the now-successful soldier saw his former friend upon the battlements of the highest tower, looking round with horror, and just ready to be consumed with flames. All his former tenderness now returned; he saw the man of his bosom just going to perish; and, unable to withstand the impulse, he ran spreading his arms, and crying out to his friend, to leap down from the top, and find safety with him. The Centurion from above heard and obeyed; and, casting himself from the top of the tower, into his fellow-soldier’s arms, both fell a sacrifice on the spot; one being crushed to death by the weight of his companion, and the other dashed to pieces by the greatness of his fall.

HISTORY OF THE BEARD.

The respect which has been shewn to the Beard in all parts of the civilized, and in some parts of the uncivilized world, is well known to the slightest erudition; nay, a certain prejudice in its favour still exists, even in countries where the razor has long been omnipotent. This impression seems to arise very naturally from the habit of associating with it those ideas of experience and wisdom of which it is the emblem. It cannot wait upon the follies of youth; its bushy and descending honours are not known to grace the countenance of early life; and tho’ it may be said, in some degree, to grow with our growth, and strengthen with our strength, it continues to flourish in our decline, and attains its most honourable form and beauty when the knees tremble, the voice grows shrill, and the pate is bare.

When the bold and almost blasphemous pencil of the enthusiastic painter has aimed at representing the Creator of the world upon the canvass, a flowing beard has ever been one of the characteristic and essential marks of the Supreme Divinity. The Pagan Jupiter, and the graver inhabitants of Olympus, would not be known without this majestic ornament. Philosophy, till our smock faced days, has considered it as the appropriate symbol of its profession. Judaic Superstition, Egyptian Wisdom, Attic Elegance, and Roman Virtue, has been its fond protectors. To make it an object of dissention, and alternately to consider it as a sign of orthodoxy or the standard of heresy, was reserved for the fantastical zeal of the Christian Church.

In more modern times, not only provincial and national, but general Councils have been convened, Synods have been summoned, ecclesiastical Congregations and cloistered Chapters of every denomination have been assembled, to consider, at different periods, the character of this venerable grown of the human visage. Infinite disputes have been, of course, engendered, sometimes with respect to its form, at other times with regard to its existence. Religion interested herself in one age, in contending for that pointed form to which Nature conducts it: at a succeeding period, anathemas have been denounced against those who refused to give it a rounder shape; and to those, other denunciations have followed, which changed it to the square or the scollop. But, while religious caprice; for religion, sorry am I to say it, seems to be troubled with caprices---quarrelled about form and shape, the disputes were confined within the pale of the European Church: but, when the beard lessened into whiskers, and the scythe of ecclesiastical discipline threatened to mow down every hair from off the face, the East sounded the alarm, and the churches of Asia and Africa took up the cause, and supported, with all the violence of argument and remonstrance, those honours of the chin that they still preserve, and to which the existing inhabitants of those climates offer up a perpetual incense.

In the history of the Gallic Church, the scenes of religious comedy still live in description. For example:—a bearded Bishop appears at the door of a Cathedral in all the pomp of Prelacy, and demands installation to the diocese 180b to which he is appointed. He is there met by a troop of beardless Canons, and refused admittance, unless he will employ the golden scissors they present to him, to cut that flowing ornament from his face, which they would think a disgrace to their own, as well as to the religion they profess. This same history, also, is not barren of examples, where the sturdy prelate has turned indignant from the disgraceful proposal, and sought the enforcing aid of sovereign power, which has not always been able, without much difficulty, to compel the reluctant chapter to acknowledge a bearded Diocesan. Others, unwilling to risk or delay the power and wealth of an episcopal throne for the sake of a cumbrous bush of hair, have, by the ready sacrifice of their beards, been installed amid acclamations and hosannas, as disgraceful as they were undeserved. It may appear still more ridiculous, but it is no less true, that some of these bishops have compounded the matter with their refractory clergy, in giving up the greater part of the beard, but retaining the growth of the upper lip in the form of whiskers. The idea of a bishop ‘en moustaches’ must trouble the spirit of a modern christian; but such there have been, who, in the act of sacrificing to the God of Peace, have exhibited the fierce terrific aspect of a German Pioneer.

At length, the persecuted Beard, which has been the object of such faithful veneration, finds in Europe, if we except part of Turkey, its only asylum in the Capuchin Cloister; unless we add the casual protection which is given to it by the fanatical Jew, or mendicant Hermit.

The following beautiful character is extracted from Mrs. D’Arblay’s new work, entitled Camilla, or a Picture of Youth; Publishing by the Editor on wove paper.

The form and the mind of Lavinia were in the most perfect harmony. Her polished complexion was fair, clear, and transparent; her features were of the extremest delicacy, her eyes of the softest blue, and her smile displayed internal serenity. The unruffled sweetness of her disposition bore the same character of modest excellence. Joy, hope, and prosperity, sickness, sorrow, and disappointment, assailed alike in vain the uniform gentleness of her temper: yet though thus exempt from all natural turbulence, either of pleasure or of pain, the meekness of her composition degenerated not into insensibility; it was open to all the feminine feelings of pity, of sympathy, and of tenderness.

REFLECTION ON THE EARTH.

The Earth, gentle and indulgent, ever subservient to the wants of man, spreads his walks with flowers, and his table with plenty; returns with interest every good committed to her care; and, though she produces the poison, she still supplies the antidote; though constantly teazed more to furnish the luxuries of man than his necessities, yet, even to the last, she continues her kind indulgence, and, when life is over, she piously covers his remains in her bosom.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 174.)

I assist him to descend from his horse; he sits down upon the grass, and making me sit down by his side, he takes one of my hands and presses it between his own:

“Lovzinski, you whom I have so much loved, you who know better than any one the purity of my intentions, how comes it about that you have taken up arms against me? Ungrateful Lovzinski! shall I never find you but amongst my most bitter enemies? Do you return but on purpose to sacrifice me?”

He then, in the most affecting language, recapitulates the pleasures of our early youth; our more intimate connection at an age approaching to manhood, the tender friendship which we had sworn to each other, and the regard which he had ever treated me with since that period. He spoke to me of the honours with which he would have loaded me during his reign, if I had been ambitious to merit them: he reproached me more particularly respecting the unworthy enterprise of which I appeared to be the leader, but of which, he said, he was well assured that I was no more than the instrument.

He threw all the horror of the plot upon Pulaski, representing to me, at the same time, that the author of such an attempt was not the sole culpable person; that I could not charge myself with its execution without committing a crime; and that this odious complaisance, so highly treasonable in a subject, was infinitely more in a friend. He concluded by pressing me to restore him to his liberty: “Fly,” said he to me; “and be assured, if I encounter any of the Russians patroles, I shall tell them that you have pursued an opposite road from that which you have taken.”

The king continued to press me with the most earnest entreaties: his natural eloquence, augmented by the danger of his situation, carried persuasion to my heart, and awakened the most tender sentiments there.

I confess that I staggered; I balanced the circumstances for some time in my own mind, but Pulaski at length triumphed.

I thought that I still heard the fierce republican reproaching me with my pusillanimity. The love of one’s country has perhaps its fanaticism and its superstitions: but if I was then culpable, I am still so; I am more than ever persuaded that in obliging the king to remount his horse again, I performed an action that reflected honour on my patriotism.

“Is it thus,” says he to me, in a melancholy accent, “that you reject the prayer addressed to you by a friend? that you refuse the pardon offered to you by your king? Well then, let us begone. I deliver myself up to my unhappy fate, or rather, I abandon you to yours.”

We now re-commence our journey once more; but 181b the entreaties of the monarch, his arguments, his reproaches, his very menaces, the struggles which I felt within myself, affected me in such a manner, that I no longer could discern my way. Wandering up and down the country, I kept no one certain road: after half an hour’s fatigue we found ourselves at Marimont, and I was greatly alarmed at seeing us thus return towards Warsaw, instead of leaving it at a distance.

At about a quarter of a league beyond this, we unfortunately fell in with a party of Russians. The king immediately discovers himself to the commanding officer, and then instantly adds. “In the course of the preceding afternoon, I happened to bewilder myself during the chace; this good peasant, whom you see here, insisted on my partaking a frugal repast in his cottage; but as I thought that I perceived some of the soldiers of Pulaski roaming in the neighbourhood, I was desirous of returning to Warsaw immediately, and you will oblige me much by instantly accompanying me thither.

“As to you, my friend,” continues he, turning at the same time towards me, “I am not at all sorry that you have given yourself this useless trouble, for I am as much pleased at returning to my capital attended by these gentlemen (pointing at the same time to the escort), as in accompanying you any farther. However, it would be improper that I should leave you without any recompence; what are you desirous of? Speak—I will grant you any favour which you may demand of me!”

It will be easy to conceive hew much I was alarmed, for I was still doubtful of the king’s intentions. I endeavoured therefore to discover the true meaning of his equivocal discourse, which must be either full of a bitter irony, or a magnanimous address. M de P*** left me for some time in this cruel uncertainty: “I behold you greatly embarrassed,” continues he at length, with a gracious air; “you know not what to choose! Come then, my friend, embrace me: there is indeed more honour than profit in embracing a king (adds he with a smile); however, it must be allowed, that, in my place, many monarchs would not be at this moment so generous as myself!” On uttering these words, he instantly departs, leaving me penetrated with gratitude, and confounded with so much true greatness.

However the danger which the king had so generously relieved me from, began every moment to assail me again. It was more than probable that a great number of couriers expedited from Warsaw, had spread about on all sides the astonishing news of the king’s having been carried off. Already, without doubt, the ravishers were warmly pursued. My remarkable dress might betray me in my flight, and if I once more fell into the hands of any of the Russians, better informed of the circumstance, all the efforts of the king would not be able to save me. Supposing Pulaski had obtained all the success which he expected, he must still be at a great distance; a journey of ten more leagues at least regained for me to perform, and my horse was entirely spent with fatigue: I endeavoured however to spur him on, but he had not got five hundred paces before he fell under me.

A cavalier, well mounted, happened to pass along the road by the side of me, at this very moment; he perceived the poor animal tumble down, and, thinking to amuse himself at the expence of an unfortunate peasant, he began to banter me about my situation. Piqued at this buffoonery, I resolved to punish him for his raillery, and secure my own flight at one and the same time: I, therefore, instantly present one of my pistols to his breast, and obliged him to surrender his own horse to me; nay, I acknowledge to you, that, forced by the peculiarity of my situation, I despoiled him even of his cloak, which being very large, hid all my rags beneath it, which otherwise might have discovered me. I then cast my purse full of gold at the feet of the astonished traveller, and sprang forward as fast as my new horse could carry me.

Luckily for me, he was fresh and vigorous.---I dart forward twelve leagues, with all the swiftness of an arrow: at length I think I hear the firing of cannon, and I instantly conjecture that my father-in law was at hand, and was employed in fighting the Russians.

I was not deceived---I arrive on the field of battle at the very moment when one of our regiments had given way. I instantly discover myself to the fugitives, and having rallied them beneath a neighbouring hill, I attack the enemies in flank, while Pulaski charges them in front with the remainder of his troops. Our manœuvres were so well concerted, and so admirably executed, that the Russians were entirely routed, after experiencing a terrible carnage.

Pulaski deigned to attribute to me the honour of their defeat: “Ah!” cries he, embracing me, after hearing the particulars of my expedition---“ah! if your forty followers had but equalled you in courage, the king would have been at this very moment in my camp! But the Deity does not will it. I am grateful, however, that you have been preserved to us; and I return you thanks for the important service which you have rendered me: but for you, Kaluvski would have assassinated the monarch, and my name would have been covered with an eternal opprobrium!

“I might have been able,” added he, “to have advanced two miles farther; but I rather chose to take possession of this respectable post, on account of the security of my camp. Yesterday, in the course of my march, I surprised, and cut in pieces, a party of Russians; this morning I beat two more of their detachments; but another considerable corps having collected the remainder of the vanquished, took advantage of the night, on purpose to attack me. My soldiers, fatigued with the toil of a long march, and three succeeding engagements, began to fly; but victory returned to my camp at your approach. Let us entrench ourselves here; we will wait for the Russian army, and fight while we yet have a drop of blood remaining!”

(To be continued.)

MILITARY ANECDOTE.

Gonsalvo, who was lieutenant-general to the celebrated Spanish general, the marquis of Spinola, and governor of Milan, in 1624, intending to take possession of a little walled village in the Palatine, called Ogershiem, dispatched an officer, at the head of some troops upon that errand. On the first alarm, nine tenths of the inhabitants removed to Manheim, leaving behind them about twenty insignificant people, and a poor shepherd, who, beside being a brave fellow, was a man of humour. The shepherd in good time fastened the gates, let down the drawbridge, and made a wonderful shew of resistance. A trumpeter summoned the village in form, upon which the few inhabitants that remained made their escape through a postern-gate, and left only the shepherd, and the shepherdess, big with child. This unaccountable peasant, in a style of the representative of a garrison, gave audience, from the walls, to the military herald, and made his terms of capitulation, inch by inch, stipulating, at the same time, for the preservation of the state, and the free exercise of the protestant religion. Imagine, therefore, what must be the surprise of the Spaniards, when they entered the village, and found him and his wife only in it! Yet the droll peasant preserved the muscles of his countenance inflexible; and, some weeks afterward, when his wife lay in, he desired the great Gonsalvo to be godfather; which honour the pompous Spaniard, for the jest’s sake, could not decline, but on the contrary, sent her some very handsome presents. This account, the historian (Mr. Spanheim, Hist. de l’ Elect. Palet.) says, might appear a little romantic to posterity, if the notoriety of it had not been a circumstance indisputable at the time it happened.

SINGULAR ACCOUNT OF LA MAUPIN.

FROM BURNEY’S HISTORY OF MUSIC.

La Maupin seems to have been a most extraordinary personage. “She was equally fond of both sexes, fought and lived like a man, and resisted and fell like a woman. Her adventures are of a very romantic kind. Married to a young husband, who soon was obliged to absent himself from her, to enter on an office he had obtained in Provence, she ran away with a fencing master, of whom she learnt the small sword, and became an excellent fencer, which was afterwards a useful qualification to her on several occasions. The lovers first retreated from persecution to Marseilles; but necessity soon obliged them to solicit employment there, at the opera; and, as both had by nature good voices, they were received without difficulty. But soon after this she was seized with a passion for a young person of her own sex, whom she seduced, but the object of her whimsical 183 affection being pursued by her friends, and taken, was thrown into the convent at Avignon, where La Maupin soon followed her; and having presented herself as a novice obtained admission. Some time after, she set fire to the convent, and availing herself of the confusion she had occasioned, carried off her favourite. But being pursued and taken, she was condemned to the flames for contumacy: a sentence, however, which was not executed, as the young Marseillaise was found and restored to her friends.

“She then went to Paris, and made her first appearance on the opera stage in 1695, when she performed the part of Pallas, in Cadmus, with the greatest success. The applause was so violent, the she was obliged, in her car, to take off her casque to salute and thank the public, which redoubled their marks of approbation. From that time her success was uninterrupted. Cumeni, the singer, having affronted her, she put on men’s clothes, watched for him in the Place des Victoires, and insisted on his drawing his sword and fighting her, which he refusing, she caned him, and took from him his watch and snuff-box. Next day, Dumeni, having boasted at the opera-house, that he had defended himself against three men who attempted to rob him, she related the whole story, and produced his watch and snuff-box in proof of her having caned him for his cowardice. Thevenard was nearly treated in the same manner, and had no other way of escaping her chastisement, than by publicly asking her pardon, after hiding himself at the Palace Royal during three weeks. At a ball given by Monsieur, the brother of Louis XIV. she again put on men’s clothes, and having behaved impertinently to a lady, three of her friends, supposing La Maupin to be a man, called her out. She might easily have avoided the combat by discovering her sex, but she instantly drew, and killed them all three. Afterwards returning very coolly to the ball, she told the story to Monsieur, who obtained her pardon.” 

ANECDOTE OF MONS. DE SARTINE.

An Irish gentleman, who wished to purchase an estate in France, lodged his money in the hand of a banker, who took it, as common on the continent, without giving the gentleman a voucher; but lodged it in an iron chest, and gave to the gentleman the key. When the contract for the purchase was made, he called on his banker to receive his cash, when the latter peremptorily denied his having received any such sum, or having any money transaction whatever with the gentleman.——In this dilemma the injured party was advised to apply to M. de Sartine, and he accordingly did so, and told him his story. The minister sent for the banker, and asked him, if he had not received such a sum? The banker steadily denied it. “Very well (replied M. de Sartine), then sit down and write a letter which I shall dictate to you, and you shall continue in the room with me, until the answer arrives.” Paper was brought, and 183b Sartine dictated, and made him write a letter to his wife, to the following effect:—“My dear wife, you must immediately send to me the sum which Mons. —— left in my hands, and which was deposited originally in the iron chest, in the compting-house, but was removed you know whither. You must send it instantly, or else I shall be sent to the Bastile. I am already in the hands of justice.” The banker stared——“Mon Dieu! (says he) must I send this letter to my wife?”——“You must (says the minister): I dare say, if you are guilty of the robbery, your wife, who is remarkable for her ingenuity, was privy to it, and she will obey your commands: if you are innocent, she cannot comprehend the order which you send, and will say so in her answer. We will make the experiment, and if you resist, you shall go immediately to the Bastile.”

The resolution was decisive. The letter was sent, and in less than an hour the money was brought in the bags in which it was originally sealed, and restored to the original owner. M. de Sartine discharged the banker, telling him the matter should be kept a secret, provided he acted with more faith and honesty for the future.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening the 19th ult. at Florida, (Ulster County) by the Rev. Mr. Jaline, Mr. Benona Bradner, of Sugar-Loaf, to Miss Mary Jeans, of that place.

On Thursday evening the 24th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Joshua Parker, to Miss Sally Van Aulen, daughter of Mr. Cornelius Van Aulen, both of this city.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. James Whiting, to Miss Debora Allen both of this city.

ON THE DEATH OF A BABY NINE DAYS OLD.

ON A BEE

HAVING STUNG THE THIGH OF AN OLD MAID.

EPIGRAM.

ODE TO POESY.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

BEAUTY.

A SONG.

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.

From CAMILLA, or a Picture of Youth—just publishing by the Editor, are extracted the following striking observations on the superiority of mental accomplishments to personal attractions:—

“Indeed, Sir—and pray believe me, I do not mean to repine I have not the beauty of Indiana; I know and have always heard her loveliness is beyond all comparison. I have no more, therefore, thought of envying it, than of envying the brightness of the sun. I knew, too, I bore no competition with my sisters; but I never dreamt of competition. I knew I was not handsome, but I supposed many people besides not handsome, and that I should pass with the rest; and I concluded the world to be full of people who had been sufferers as well as myself, by disease or accident. These have been occasionally my passing thoughts; but the subject never seized my mind; I never reflected upon it at all, till abuse, without provocation, all at once opened my eyes, and shewed me to myself! Bear with me, then, my father, in this first dawn of terrible conviction! Many have been unfortunate---but none unfortunate like me! Many have met with evils---but who with an accumulation like mine!”

Mr. Tyrold, extremely affected, embraced her with the utmost tenderness: “My dear, deserving, excellent child,” he cried, “what would I not endure, what sacrifice not make, to soothe this cruel disturbance, till time and your own understanding can exert their powers?” Then, while straining her to his breast with the fondest parental commiseration; the tears, with which his eyes were overflowing, bedewed her cheeks.

Eugenia felt them, and sinking to the ground, pressed his knees. “O my father,” she cried, “a tear from your revered eyes afflicts me more than all else! Let me not draw forth another, lest I should become not only unhappy, but guilty. Dry them up, my dearest father; let me kiss them away.”

“Tell me, then, my poor girl, you will struggle against this ineffectual sorrow! Tell me you will assert that fortitude which only waits for your exertion; and tell me you will forgive the misjudging compassion which feared to impress you earlier with pain!”

“I will do all, every thing you desire! my injustice 185b is subdued! my complaints shall be hushed! you have conquered me, my beloved father! Your indulgence, your lenity shall take place of every hardship, and leave me nothing but filial affection!”

Seizing this grateful moment, he then required of her to relinquish her melancholy scheme of seclusion from the world: “The shyness and the fears which gave birth to it,” said he, “will but grow upon you if listened to; and they are not worthy the courage I would instil into your bosom---the courage, my Eugenia, of virtue---the courage to pass by, as if unheard, the insolence of the hard-hearted, and ignorance of the vulgar. Happiness is in your power, though beauty is not; and on that to set too high a value would be pardonable only in a weak and frivolous mind; since, whatever is the involuntary admiration with which it meets, every estimable quality and accomplishment is attainable without it: and though, which I cannot deny, its immediate influence is universal, yet in every competition and in every decision of esteem, the superior, the elegant, the better part of mankind give their suffrages to merit alone. And you, in particular, will find yourself, through life, rather the more than the less valued, by every mind capable of justice and compassion, for misfortunes which no guilt has incurred.”

Observing her now to be softened, though not absolutely consoled, he rang the bell, and begged the servant, who answered it, to request his brother would order the coach immediately, as he was obliged to return home; “And you, my love,” said he, “shall accompany me; it will be the least exertion you can make in first breaking through your averseness to quit the house.”

Eugenia would not resist; but her compliance was evidently repugnant to her inclination; and in going to the glass to put on her hat, she turned aside from it in shuddering, and hid her face with both her hands.

“My dearest child,” cried Mr. Tyrold, wrapping her again in his arms, “this strong susceptibility will soon wear away; but you cannot be too speedy nor too firm in resisting it. The omission of what never was in our power cannot cause remorse, and the bewailing what never can become in our power cannot afford comfort. Imagine but what would have been the fate of Indiana, had 186 your situations been reversed, and had she, who can never acquire your capacity, and therefore never attain your knowledge, lost that beauty which is her all; but which to you, even if retained, could have been but a secondary gift. How short will be the reign of that all! how useless in sickness! how unavailing in solitude! how inadequate to long life! how forgotten, or repiningly remembered in old age! You will live to feel pity for all you covet and admire; to grow sensible to a lot more lastingly happy in your own acquirements and powers; and to exclaim, with contrition and wonder, time was when I would have changed with the poor mind-dependent Indiana!”

The carriage was now announced; Eugenia, with reluctant steps, descended; Camilla was called to join them, and Sir Hugh saw them set off with the utmost delight.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 179.)

The death-like paleness of the Duke’s countenance, his perturbated mien, his steps now slow and now moving with vehemence, and the contortions of his lips, bespoke the tempest raging in his soul, as exceeding the violence of the hurricane that was lashing the ocean. The hapless man now looked up to heaven, and now cast his anxious looks around, as if in search of some person, and I heard him pronounce repeatedly the name of Hiermanfor. This sight wounded my heart deeply, and pressed burning tears from my eyes.

Meanwhile a dreadful accident happened on the sea. The anchors which the fore-part of the ship was moored with were torn from the cables by the violent agitation of the vessel, which, riding now only with the small bower, was dashed against the adjacent rocks. A general piercing cry filled the air when this lamentable incident happened. The Duke was going to plunge into the sea, and I retained him with great difficulty by his right arm. Seeing, however, that his despair rendered him callous against our ardent prayers not to rush into the very jaws of death, Pietro and myself tied a long rope round his body, taking hold of one end. He now plunged into the boiling waves, which instantly devoured, and soon after cast him up again. Thus he advanced daringly towards the ship. He seemed several times to have a chance of forcing his way to the vessel, the irregular motions of the sea leaving him on the dry rocks; however the towering billows then returned with additional fury, and buried him beneath an enormous mass of water, which flung the Duke half dead upon the shore. But no sooner had he recovered his senses, than he darted up, hastening with new courage towards the vessel, which, however, began to separate, torn by the 186b violence of the furious waves. The ship’s crew, who now despaired of saving their lives, plunged in crowds into the sea, grasping in the agony of despondency the floating chests, casks, and whatsoever they could lay hold on.

I shall never forget that horrid scene of woe! Two ladies now made their appearance on the stern of the vessel: one of them was the Countess and the other Lady Delier. Amelia expanded her arms towards her lover, who exerted all his strength to join the darling of his soul.—She seemed to have known the Duke by his undaunted courage. The baroness wrung her hands looking anxiously at the spectators, and pointing at Amelia, as if she wanted to say: leave me to my fate, but save my friend! Amelia was standing on the deck without betraying the smallest sign of fear, and seemed to be resigned to her impending deplorable doom, beckoning to us, as if she wanted to bid us an eternal adieu. All the spectators wept, and rent the air with doleful cries and lamentations. The Duke summoned the last remains of his strength, struggling with the frothing waves, in order to save his mistress from the brink of fell destruction; but a mountainous billow of an enormous bulk forced its way through the space betwixt the island and the coast, darting at the ship. In the same moment Amelia rushed into Lady Delier’s arms encircling her friend in wild agony, and in that situation they were buried in the abyss along with the vessel.

The stupefaction of horror which we were seized with, rendered us almost incapable of dragging the Duke on shore. The spirit of the hapless man seemed to have fled to better regions, along with that of his ill-fated bride. He was stretched out on the ground, violently bleeding, and seemingly a lifeless corpse.

I dropped down by his side, seized with terror and grief, imprinting kisses on his ash-pale face, contorted by pains, I called his, mine, and at last Amelia’s name in his ear; but seeing him without the least motion at the sound of the latter, I really feared that he was dead. Pietro beat his breast, tore his hair, and rent the air with doleful lamentations. The bye-standers crowded upon us, and perceiving, after many fruitless trials, some faint vestiges of life in the Duke, we carried him to the next house and put him to bed. The contusions and wounds he had received, by having been dashed against the rocks, were examined by a surgeon, who declared they were not mortal. I uttered a loud shout, throwing myself on my knees, and offering fervent thanks to God. The Duke opened his eyes and closed them again. The surgeon desired us to retire, and not to disturb his rest.

While Pietro went on horseback to the house of the Marquis, in order to inform him of the accident that had happened to his son, I repaired to the strand, in hopes that the bodies of Amelia and Lady Delier would be driven on shore. However the wind having shifted suddenly, as is usual in hurricanes, I was obliged to give up the hope of procuring an honourable burial to those unhappy ladies.

The Duke was in a senseless stupor, when I returned. Alas! his spirit seemed to tarry reluctantly in a world which separated him from his adored Amelia. But why should I tear open again my half-cicatrised wounds? I shall not enter into a description of his situation, I still fancy I hear the shrieks of horror, and the wild shouts which he uttered during a burning fever, when he fancied he saw his Amelia either in dangerous or in happy situations. His imagination and his lips were constantly occupied with her. When, at length, his fever abated, and his recollection returned, he really fancied the history of Amelia’s hapless fate to be the delusion of a feverish dream. Although I was very cautious to dislodge this delusive opinion only gradually, yet the discovery of his error affected him so violently, that I apprehended it would deprive him, if not of his life, at least of his understanding.

Here I cannot omit mentioning a scene which happened at the beginning of his amendment. The Marquis had ordered him to be carried to his house as soon as he began to mend, and nursed him with paternal care. He came, one day, when the Duke was sleeping, and I sitting by his bed-side, to enquire how his son did; as he bent over the sleeper, and seemed to look anxiously whether any signs of returning health appeared in his face, he observed on the bosom of his son a blue ribbon. He pulled it carefully out, and the picture of the Queen of Fr**ce was suspended to it. The countenance of the Marquis resembled at first that of a person who is dubious whether he is awake or dreaming; but soon after I saw his face grow deadly pale, and his whole frame quiver violently. No sooner had he recovered the power of utterance, then he begged me to retire. Two hours after he left the apartment in violent agitation, without observing me. On my entrance into the sick room I found the Duke bathed in tears. The ribbon was still fastened round his neck, but the picture of the Queen was taken from it.

I signified to him my astonishment. He squeezed my hand tenderly, and said:—“You are my only friend, for whom I wish to have no secrets; and yet I am so unhappy as to have this wish too denied me. Don’t press me to tell you what has been transacted between me and my father; I have been obliged to promise with a dreadful oath to take the secret along with me in my grave—In my grave!” he added a little while after, “I am impatient to occupy that habitation ever since Amelia and Antonio have made it their abode.”

“Miguel” I exclaimed, straining him to my heart, “dispel these gloomy thoughts. You shall learn that one has not lost every thing when in possession of a friend like me.”

“I know you, and I thank you,” he replied, with emotion, “let us die together; this world is not deserving to contain us. What business have we in a 187b world (he added with a ghastly look) in which vice only triumphs, and good men find nothing but a grave?”

Reader, do not fancy this language to have originated merely from a transient agitation of mind; alas! it originated from a heart exasperated by the concurrence of the most melancholy misfortunes, and this exasperation was rooted deeper than I had fancied at first. It generated in his soul poisonous shoots which injured his religion. He declared it to be impossible a good God could designedly make good men so unhappy as he had been rendered. He ascribed the origin of his misfortunes to a bad principle, which, having a share in the government of the world, had appropriated his understanding merely to the execution of its bad purposes. He maintained that it was contrary to the nature of an infinitely good being to effect even the best purposes by bad means; and if there were in this world as much disorder, imperfection, and misfortune, as harmony, perfection and happiness, this would be an undeniable proof that the world was governed, and had been created jointly by a good and bad principle. In short, he subscribed entirely to the system of the Manichees.

I perceived this new deviation of his mind with astonishment and grief, and thought it my duty to lead him back in the path of truth as soon as possible, because this error deprived him of the last consolation in his sufferings. For which reason I endeavoured to convince him, that the ideas of a bad and a good principle annul each other; that it is a downright contradiction to believe in the existence of a bad God: that consequently, the fundamental ideas of his system were absurd, and, of course, the system itself unsupported. I proved to him that the evil in this world is not inconsistent with the goodness and providence of God, and that even the happiness of the wicked, and the sufferings of the good, ought not to undermine our belief, but rather to strengthen our hope of a life hereafter, in which every one will receive the just reward of his actions. But how convincing soever my arguments would have been to any unprejudiced person, yet they made very little impression on the Duke, whom the disharmony and gloominess of his mind had too much prepossessed for his comfortless system. Far from finding the least contradiction in it, he was firmly persuaded that the belief in a bad principle served to defend God against the complaints and reproaches of the unfortunate, while he found a great consolation in venting his resentment against the bad principle, whom he believed to be the author of his sufferings. He was therefore firmly resolved to refute the arguments which I had opposed to his system; and as soon as he was able to leave his bed, began to arrange his ideas on that head, and to secure them by a proper train of arguments against my objections. He had almost finished his work when Alumbrado returned from his journey.

(To be continued.)

TO THE EDITOR OF
The New-York Weekly Magazine.

Sir,

Of a situation in life respectable only because it is honest, I am neither depressed by a sense of inferiority nor elated with the idea of superior importance—Of feelings, not yet blunted by habits of depravity, I have a smile for beauty, and a tear for distress; and, I trust, there are some who will bear me witness, that I have a heart for friendship and for love—fond of society, and by no means an enemy to study, my time is usually divided between mankind, my books, and my thoughts. Of passions strong and lively, pleasure has to me peculiar charms; and though my charitable dispositions may be often disobliged, perhaps neither my mental nor corporeal constitution has cause to complain, that my finances do not co-extend with my desires. A commencement like this, may probably impress you with no very favorable idea of the purport of this address; and, suspecting its contents as no way likely to interest your readers, you may be induced to throw by this paper as a tax upon your patience: but, if you can summon fortitude sufficient to continue your perusal, I trust you will find reason, not only to excuse, but even to approve the egotism of my preamble.

To introduce their work with some account of the author, has, I believe, been generally the practice of those who offer to the public what are called periodical writings. I have conceived a similar design, and offer this for your acceptance as introductory to a course of numbers, with which, I hope, through the blessing of patience and the permission of indolence, from time to time to present you. Yet, it was not to gratify curiosity alone that I thought fit to delineate my conduct and my feelings. I believed that, like the exordium of the orator, it might prepare for my offspring a favorable reception.

The first and least interesting part of my egotistic narrative is my situation in life: From this, the only recommendation I can hope to derive is, that sentiment will at least not be corrupted by the habits of profession.

Secondly—To an author of sensibility, surely no objection can be found; a capacity to enjoy the sweets of friendship and the raptures of love will be no disadvantage in the eyes of the virtuous and the fair.

Thirdly—From commerce with man I may gain some knowledge of his tempers and propensities; from reading I will imbibe the sentiments of those much wiser than myself; and by comparing my own deductions with their abstract conclusions, I may, in converse with myself, give some degree of clearness, correctness, and solidity to my conceptions.

To the last feature in my character, which is properly the result of situation, I believe I may with truth ascribe the greater part of my literary acquirements, and what is not quite so honourable to myself, my presumption in becoming an author. To it I shall certainly be indebted for opportunities to exert the attention necessary for the execution of my design. And should not my papers afford instruction or entertainment to others (a persuasion 188b of which I am not vain enough to entertain) they will at least procure improvement to myself. Convinced of the latter, and with a wish to the former, I offer myself a candidate for an office in your literary dispensary.

That subjecting one’s-self to the odium of mankind is the infallible consequence of reprobating his vices and ridiculing his follies, though often asserted, is by no means the fact. In the moment of calmness, uninfluenced by passion, man acknowledges and condemns his errors; and they are not angels alone who weep for the apishness of humanity. It is in such a state of mind that we usually read; and the author need not fear for his censures or his laugh---strange that he should, when he has often occasion to expose those weaknesses in which he participates, and those crimes which disgrace himself. If, therefore, from reflection on my own conduct or observation of that of others in those hazardous moments when reason leaves the helm, I should at any time be induced to choose these themes, I shall have less reason to fear a frown for my intentions than contempt for my incompetency. And should I not pay a tribute to your fancy of one pathetic tale of hapless love, or of the wondrous adventures of one heroic knight, look not ye fair with disdain upon my labours. I love your sex, and deem their favour not the least of those few blessings that raise a wish for life: And, though now a hopeless thought, if in some happy hour I should conceive imagination equal to the task, I may attempt to gratify myself by pleasing you.

CANDIDUS,

New-York, Dec. 10, 1796.

MAN.

Man is the lord of all the sublunary creation; the howling savage, the winding serpent, with all the untameable and rebellious offspring of nature, are destroyed in the contest, or driven at a distance from his habitations. The extensive and tempestuous ocean, instead of limiting or dividing his power, only serves to assist his industry, and enlarge the sphere of his enjoyments. Its billows, and its monsters, instead of presenting a scene of terror, only call up the courage of this little intrepid being; and the greatest danger that man now fears on the deep, is from his fellow-creatures. Indeed, when I consider the human race as Nature has formed them, there is but very little of the habitable globe that seems made for them. But when I consider them as accumulating the experience of ages, in commanding the earth, there is nothing so great, or so terrible. What a poor contemptible being is the naked savage, standing on the beach of the ocean, and trembling at its tumults! How little capable is he of converting its terrors into benefits; or of saying, behold an element made wholly for my enjoyment! He considers it as an angry Deity, and pays it the homage of submission. But it is very different when he has exercised his mental powers; when he has learned to find his own superiority, and to make it subservient to his commands. It is then that his dignity begins to appear, and that the true Deity is justly praised for having been mindful of man; for having given him the earth for his habitation, and the sea for an inheritance.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 182.)

In the mean time, the camp resounded with the cries of gladness, and our victorious soldiers mingled my praises with those of Pulaski. At the noise of my name, repeated by a thousand tongues, Lodoiska ran to her father’s tent. She convinced me of the excess of her tenderness, by the excess of her joy at our meeting; and I was obliged once more to commence the recital of the dangers from which I had escaped. She could not hear of the singular generosity of the monarch, when I was in the power of the Russians, without shedding tears: “How magnanimous he is!” exclaims she, amidst a transport of joy; “how worthy of being a king, he who so generously pardoned you! How many sighs has he spared a wife whom you forsake! how many tears the loving wife whom you are not afraid of sacrificing! Cruel Lovzinski, are not the dangers to which you daily expose yourself sufficient——”

Pulaski here interrupts his daughter with a certain degree of harshness: “Indiscreet and weak woman!” exclaims he, “is it before me that you dare to hold such a discourse as this?”

“Alas!” replies she in a mild accent; “alas! must I forever tremble for the life of a father and a husband?” Lodoiska also made the most affecting complaints to me, and sighed after a more happy futurity, while fortune was preparing for us the most cruel reverse.

Our Cossacks, placed at the out-posts, now came in from all parts, and informed us that the Russian army was approaching. Pulaski reckoned on being attacked at the break of day; but he was not: however, about the middle of the following night I was informed that the enemy was preparing to force our entrenchments.

Pulaski, always ready, always active, was actually defending them: during the course of this fatal night, he achieved every thing that might have been expected from his valour and experience.

We repel the assailants no less than five different times, but they return unceasingly to the charge, pour in fresh troops at every new attack, and, during the last one, penetrate into the heart of our very camp by three different avenues, at one and the same time.

Zaremba was killed by my side; a crowd of nobles fell in this bloody action; the enemy refused to give any quarter. Furious at seeing all my friends perish before my eyes, I resolved to precipitate myself into the midst of the Russian battalions.

“Heedless man!” exclaims Pulaski, “what blind fury urges you towards your destruction? My army is entirely routed---destroyed---but my courage still remains! Why should we perish uselessly here? Let us be gone! I will conduct you into climes where we may raise up new enemies 189b against the Russian name. Let us live, since we can still serve our country! Let us save ourselves, let us save Lodoiska.”

“Lodoiska! am I capable of abandoning her?”

We instantly run to her tent—we are scarce in time: we carry her off, precipitate ourselves into the neighbouring woods, and on the next morning we venture to sally forth, and present ourselves before the gate of a castle that was not altogether unknown to us.

It indeed belonged to a noble Pole, who had served during some time in our army. Micislas instantly comes forth, and offers an asylum, which he advises us, however, to make use of for a few hours only. He informs us, that a very astonishing piece of news had spread abroad on the former evening, and began to be confirmed, according to which the king himself had been carried away out of Warsaw, that the Russians had pursued the conspirators, and brought back the monarch to his capital; and that, in fine, it was talked of putting a price upon the head of Pulaski, who was suspected of being the author of this treason.

“Believe me,” says he, “when I assure you, whether you have engaged or not in this bold plot, that you ought to fly; leave your uniforms here, which will assuredly betray you: I will instantly supply you with clothes which are less remarkable: and as to Lodoiska, I myself will conduct her to the place which you have chosen for your retreat.”

Lodoiska now interrupts Micislas: “The place of my retreat shall be that of their flight, for I will accompany them every where.”

Pulaski represents to his daughter, that she was not able to sustain the fatigue incident to such a long journey, and that besides we should be liable to continual dangers.

“The greater the peril is,” replies she, “the more I ought to partake it with you. You have repeated to me a hundred times, that the daughter of Pulaski ought not to be an ordinary woman. For the last eight years I have constantly lived in the midst of alarms; I have seen nothing but scenes of carnage and horror. Death has environed me on all sides, and menaced me at every moment: will you not permit me to brave it now by your side? Is not the life of Lodoiska connected with that of her father? Lovzinski, will not the stroke that fells you to the ground send your wife to the grave? and am I no longer worthy——”

I now interrupt Lodoiska, and join with her father, in stating the reasons which determined us to leave her in Poland. She hears me with impatience: “Ungrateful man,” exclaims she at length, “will you fly without me?” “You shall remain,” replies Pulaski, “with Lovzinski’s sisters, and I prohibit you——”

His daughter, now frantic with grief, would not permit him to finish the sentence.

“I know your rights, my father! I respect them; they shall always appear sacred to me: but you do not possess that of separating a wife from her husband.” 

“Ah, pardon me! I see that I offend you---my reason no longer maintains its empire---” 

“But pity my grief---” 

“Excuse my despair---” 

“My father! Lovzinski! hear me, both of you; I am determined to accompany you every where!

“Yes, I will follow you every where, cruel men! I will follow you in spite of yourselves!

“Lovzinski, if your wife has lost all the rights she had over your heart, recollect at least her who was once the mistress of your affections.

“Recal to your remembrance that frightful night, when I was about to perish in the flames; that terrible moment when you ascended the burning tower, crying out, let me live or die with Lodoiska!

“That which you felt at that terrible moment, I now experience! I know no greater evil than that of being separated from you; and I now exclaim in my turn, let me either live or die with my father and my husband!

“Unfortunate wretch! what will become of me, if you should forsake me. Reduced to the cruel situation of bewailing you both, where shall I find a solace for my miseries? Will my children console me? Alas! in two years death hath snatched four away from me; and the Russians, equally pitiless as death itself, have bereaved me of the last! I have only you remaining in the world, and even you wish to abandon me! my father! my husband! Will such dear connexions as these be insensible to my sufferings! Have compassion, take pity on your own Lodoiska.”

. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .

Her tears now intercepted her speech. Micislas wept; my heart was torn with anguish. “You are resolved to accompany us, my daughter---be it so; I consent,” says Pulaski, “but I wish that heaven may not punish me for my complaisance!”

Lodoiska now embraces us both with as much joy at if all our ills had been at an end. I leave two letters with Micislas, which he undertook to transmit according to the direction: the one was addressed to my sisters, and the other to Boleslas. I bade them adieu, and I recommended to them, to neglect no means to endeavour to recover my dear Dorliska!

It was necessary that I should disguise my wife---she assumes a masculine dress; we change our own, and we employ all the means in our power to disfigure ourselves in such a manner as to elude research, and prevent discovery.

Thus altered in our appearance, armed with our sabres and our pistols, provided with a considerable sum in gold, with some trinkets, and all the jewels of Lodoiska, we take leave of Micislas, and make haste to regain the woods.

(To be continued.)

OBSERVATION.

He whose passions are mild, whose fortune is equal to his desires and situation, who passes his life with his relations and friends, and dies in their arms without remorse, fear or pain, is a happy man.

PLEASURE.

The enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by intervals. The highest rapture lasts only for a moment, and all the senses seem so combined, as to be soon tired into languor by the gratification of any one of them. It is only among the Poets we hear of men changing to one delight, when satiated with another. In nature, it is very different; the glutton, when sated with the full meal, is unqualified to feel the real pleasure of drinking; the drunkard, in turn, finds few of those transports which lovers boast in enjoyment; and the lover, when cloyed, finds a diminution of every other appetite. Thus, after a full indulgence of any one sense, the man of pleasure finds a languor in all, is placed in a chasm between past and expected enjoyment, perceives an interval which must be filled up. The present can give no satisfaction, because he has already robbed it of every charm. A mind thus left without immediate employment, naturally recurs to the past or the future: the reflector finds that he was happy, and knows that he cannot be so now; he sees that he may yet be happy, and wishes the hour was come: thus every period of his continuance is miserable, except that very short one of immediate gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, none has more frequent conversations with disagreeable self than he: his enthusiasms are but few and transient; his appetites, like angry creditors, continually making fruitless demands for what he is unable to pay; and the greater his former pleasure, the more strong his regret, the more impatient his expectations. A life of pleasure is, therefore, the most unpleasing life in the world.

Habit has rendered the man of business more cool in his desires; he finds less regret for past pleasures, and less solicitude for those to come. The life he now leads, though tainted in some measure with hope, is yet not afflicted so strongly with regret, and is less divided between shortlived rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures he has enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has to expect cannot consequently create so much anxiety.

The philosopher, who extends his regard to all mankind, must have still a smaller concern for what has already affected, or may hereafter affect himself; the concerns of others make his whole study, and that study is his pleasure; and this pleasure is permanent in its nature, because it can be changed at will, leaving but few of those anxious intervals which are employed in remembrance or anticipation. The philosopher, by these means, leads a life of almost continued dissipation; and reflection, which makes the uneasiness and misery of others, serves as a companion and instructor to him.

CONVERSATION OF A FINE WOMAN.

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

PANEGYRIC ON MARRIAGE.

If it be true, that our pleasures are chiefly of a comparative or reflected kind—How supreme must be theirs, who continually reflect on each other, the portraitures of happiness---whose amusements---

How tranquil is the state of that bosom, which has, as it were, a door perpetually open to the reception of joy, or departure of pain, by uninterrupted confidence in, and sympathy with, the object of its affection! I know of no part of the single or bachelor’s estate, more irksome than the privation we feel by it, of any friendly breast in which to pour our delights, or from whence to extract an antidote for whatever may chance to give us pain---The mind of a good man, I believe to be rather communicative than torpid:---If so, how often may a youth, of even the best principles, expose himself to very disagreeable sensations, from sentiments inadvertently dropped, or a confidence improperly reposed!---What, but silence, can be recommended to them; since, in breaking it: so much danger is incurred, among those little interested in our welfare? A good heart, it is true, need not fear the exposition of its amiable contents:---But, alas, is it always a security for us, that we mean well, when our expressions are liable to be misconstrued by such as appear to lie in wait only to pervert them to some ungenerous purpose?

The charms, then, of social life, and the sweets of domestic conversation, are no small incitements to the marriage state.—What more agreeable than the conversation of an intelligent, amiable, and interesting friend? But who more intelligent than a well-educated female? What more amiable than gentleness and sensibility itself? Or what friend more interesting than such a one as we have selected from the whole world, to be our steady companion, in every vicissitude of seasons or of life?

“Give me some companion,” says Sterne, “in my journey, be it only to remark to, how our shadows lengthen as the sun goes down; to whom I may say, how fresh is the face of nature! How sweet the flowers of the field! How delicious are these fruits!”

If either of these parties be versed in music, what a tide of innocent delight must it prove,---to soothe in adversity, to humanize in prosperity, to compose in noise, and to command serenity in every situation. If books have any charms for them, (and must they not be tasteless, if they have not) well might the poet of nature place them in company like this:

What a transition is it from what a Shakespear wrote, to what a Handel played! How charming a relaxation from the necessary avocations of business!——“Of business 191b do you say?”---Yes; for I number this too, among the pleasures of the happily married. Let the lady find agreeable employment at home, in the domestic œconomy of her household, but let the gentleman be pursuing by unremitted and honest industry, new comforts for her, for his children, and for himself.

Is there not some gratification too, in reflecting, that the blessings of the marriage state, are more secure and permanent than most others, which fall within the compass of human life?---it is the haven of a sea of gallantries, of turbulence, and fears. Other friendships are seen to fade, to languish, and to die, by removal of abode, by variance of interest, by injuries, or even by mistakes: but this is co-equal with life, the present existence has been called a state of trial, and of preparation for a better, marriage is the perfection of it, here our education is completed, all the sympathies and affections of the citizen, the parent, and the friend, have their fullest spheres assigned them; and, doubtless, that pair, who in this engagement, are truly happy and irreproachable, must have so qualified themselves by a thousand instances of mutual affection and forbearance, for an improved state of manners and society, that they may be pronounced to have reached the pinnacle of human felicity, from whence to Heaven, the transition will neither be difficult nor strange; for that is the home to which the best improvements of social life are only framed to conduct us.---

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. James Hewitt, to the very amiable and accomplished Miss Eliza King, daughter of the late Major King, of England.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

⁂ The beautiful lines of Alexis, on the Scottish Bard, are received, and shall appear in our next. We flatter ourselves Candidus will not forget his promise to bring forward a series of Essays; we shall deem as a high favour, a continuation of his correspondence.

THE AMARANTH.*

TO MARIA.

VIRTUE AND ORNAMENT; AN ODE.

TO THE LADIES.

On the recovery of an only Child from the Small-pox.

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.

Animated Letter from the Hon. Miss B—
to Sir Richard P---

[From an English Paper.]

The various passions which agitated my distracted soul have subsided and I now am calm. I am alone, and in no danger of interruption: the insignificants that fluttered around me are fled; and their departure gives me no uneasiness.

I am at leisure to consider what I have been, and what I am; admired, applauded, courted; avoided, despised, pitied. However, when I take a view of my own heart, the prospect is less gloomy. I have been incautious, but not abandoned; indiscreet, but not vicious; faulty, but not depraved. If female virtue consists, as I have sometimes been told, in female reputation, my virtue is gone: but if, as my soberer reason teaches, virtue is independent of human opinion, I feel myself its ardent votary, and my heart is pregnant with its noblest principles. The children of ignorance cannot, and the children of malevolence will not, comprehend this; but I court not their approbation, nor fear their censure.

My soul, it must be owned, was formed of sensibility, formed for all the luxury of the melting passions; but it is equally true, that the severest delicacy had ever a place there. The groves of Br—---n can witness, that whenever the loves presided at the entertainment, the graces were not absent: that in the very delirium of pleasure, the rapture was chastened, and the transport restrained.

My understanding was never made the dupe to my fonder wishes; nor did I ever call in the wretched aids of a sceptical and impious philosophy to countenance my unhappy fall. Though nature was my goddess and my law-giver, I never dreamt of appealing from the decisions of positive institutions. My principles were uncorrupted, whilst my heart was warm; and if I fell as a woman, you know at the same time that I fell, like Caesar, with decent dignity.

I write not to justify myself to you; you deserve not, you desire not any such justification; but whilst I open 193b my heart, I beg of you to examine your own. The hour of reflection seldom comes too soon; and what must your sensations be, when you recollect that you have violated all laws divine and human, broken through every principle of virtue, and every tie of humanity; that you have offered an insult to the kind genius of hospitality, the benevolent spirit of good neighbourhood, and the sacred and dignified powers of friendship! I mean not to reproach you, but suffer me to ask, was it not sufficient that you had added my name to the list of your infamous triumphs (for infamous they are, in spite of sophistry, gaiety, and the world), that you had ranked me among the daughters of wretchedness and ignominy, deprived me of my father, my all of comfort, and my all of hope; were not these things, I say, sufficient, without adding to them the meanness and baseness of publicly speaking of me, in language that a gentleman would not have used to the vilest wanton? weak, unhappy man, I am now indeed ashamed of my defeat!

For myself, I am well aware that “the world is not my friend, nor the world’s law.” I expect not nor desire its favour: it never forgives offences of this kind. My own sex, in particular, is inexorable; for never did female kindness shed a tear of genuine commiseration upon misfortunes like mine. The insolent familiarity of some, and the cautious reserve of others, the affected concern, the self-approving condolence, sufficiently teach me what is the friendship of women. But I have no anxiety on this account: the remainder of my days I give to solitude: and if Heaven will hear my most ardent prayer, if my presaging heart and declining strength deceive me not, this remainder will not be long. Sister angels shall joyfully receive me into their happy choirs, though my too virtuous sisters in this world avoid my company as contagious. In the mean time, never shall the returning sun gild the roof of my humble habitation, but I will drop a tear of deep repentance to the fatal indiscretion which robbed me of my peace, and plunged a whole family in misery: and, when the hour of my delivery comes, if an offended parent will but take me in his arms, and pronounce me forgiven, my heart shall again be sensible of comfort, joy shall once more sparkle in the eyes of

Maria.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 187.)

It is almost incredible, with how much appearance of truth and cordiality he manifested his grief at the hapless fate of the Duke. He affected such a tender fellow-feeling, and so much friendship for Miguel, that the latter was charmed with him, and fancied the favourable opinion he had conceived of Alumbrado to be fully justified. The hypocrite not only pitied him, but at the same time, endeavoured to afford him comfort. Mentioning, however, among other arguments, how wonderful the ways of Providence are, and how God promoted our happiness, even through the evils of this world; the Duke shook his head. Alumbrado was surprised at it, and enquired what objection he had against that doctrine? The Duke, who thought him deserving of his confidence, was so imprudent as to unfold to him his new creed; nay, he carried his inconsideration so far as to read to him part of his tract which he had wrote on that subject. Although I was very much terrified at it, yet I was impatient to know Alumbrado’s opinion and behaviour on this occasion. My astonishment rose to the highest degree, when he refuted the arguments of the Duke with a frankness which generally is supposed to arise only from love of truth, and defended the goodness and providence of God, with an evidence and warmth which can originate only from the light of religion. The dignity and energy with which he spoke had an irresistable effect on the Duke; he cast his eyes upon the ground in dumb amazement, and appeared to be confounded and ashamed.

I cannot but confess that I myself began to believe I had been egregiously mistaken in my opinion of Alumbrado’s character. I begged his pardon in my heart, and though I could not love him, yet I thought it my duty not to refuse him my regard any longer.

However, soon after two accidents happened which gave me reason to apprehend that I had changed my opinion too prematurely. I got intelligence that Alumbrado visited the house of a man whose character was very much suspected. Baeza was his name. The important office which he kept at the custom-house, and the extensive trade he carried on all over Europe, had rendered his house respected, wealthy, powerful, and honoured. He was a Jew by birth, but changed his religion from political motives. His conduct, at least, did not refute the opinion that he confessed only with his lips the Roman Catholic religion, and it had given rise to much scandal when Oliva*ez conferred on him the order of Christ. The connection between him and this minister was very intimate and not at all shaken by the revolution; but continued, only with more assiduity and circumspection, which was no difficult task to a consummate hypocrite like Baeza. It will be obvious that Alumbrado’s connection with this man displeased me for more than one reason. Another 194b circumstance contributed to strengthen my suspicion of Alumbrado’s honesty. The Duke missed a sheet of his tract on the system of the Manichees. Alumbrado had visited him frequently, had been alone in his study many a time where the manuscript was lying on the writing desk. The Duke, far from suspecting him, fancied he had mislaid the paper, and having renounced that system on Alumbrado’s persuasion, did not care much for that tract.

Although my repeated exhortations and my avowed antipathy had not been able to prevail on my friend to drop all connections with that dangerous man, yet they had retained him from being too intimate with him; however, since he knew that I had conceived a more favourable opinion of Alumbrado, he attached himself more closely to him. The old Marquis observed this change with great satisfaction, but, at the same time, saw with greater grief the recovery of his son’s health make but very slow progress. The cause of it was a secret, but rooted melancholy, into which the overflowing exasperation of his heart and furious agony of mind had changed ever since he had adopted the principles of the Manichean system. This melancholy corroded his vitals like the slow poison of a cancer, and stopped not only the circulation of the vital powers, but also the energy of the soul of my unhappy friend in its wonted activity. The situation of his mind was therefore merely passive, which rendered him the more susceptible for those external impressions which fitted the situation of his mind, the less power of resistance and self-activity he possessed. Thus he was an instrument which Alumbrado could play on at pleasure. The latter seemed, however, not yet determined what measures he should take for attaining his aim; but, unfortunately, the Duke himself put him afterwards on the right track. He found particular pleasure in conversing with his new confidant on the happiness which loving souls would derive from their reunion in a better world, and he neglected me now for no other reason but because I could say but very little on that subject, while Alumbrado’s imagination and eloquence were inexhaustible. I had no hope of giving the mind of the Duke a different turn; his natural vivacity, which formerly so frequently avocated his attention from one object, and oftentimes directed it irresistably to another of a nature entirely opposite, this vivacity was entirely extinguished; a gloomy sameness, which was immoveably fixed to the object which once had attracted his attention, having stept in its place. Every terrestrial joy had fled with Amelia, Lady Delier and Antonio; the source from which he at present derived his pleasure, originated beyond the grave. How joyfully would he have overleaped the cleft which separated him from the darlings of his heart, if he had not been kept back by mine and Alumbrado’s persuasions. This state of mind encreased his anxious desire of discovering an artificial bridge of communication with the kingdom of spirits. In short, all the ideas he had imbibed in the school of the Irishman awoke in his mind with redoubled force. What at first had been to him a mere object of knowledge, became now the most important concern of his heart. One time he surprised Alumbrado with the question whether he thought 195 it possible to converse with spirits before our death? However the artful man extricated his neck with great dexterity from the sling, replying, that such a question could not be answered in general, nor with a few words. I perceived that Alumbrado viewed the Duke attentively and began to muse, although he had cut off abruptly the thread of the conversation.

No one can conceive how ardently the Duke longed for the arrival of the Irishman, of whom he expected to receive the final solution of that problem. One rather should think that the Irishman ought to have lost all credit with him, on account of his treacherous behaviour; for not only his first promise to put the Duke in possession of Amelia by means of his supernatural power; but also the second, that he would initiate him in the practical mysteries of his supernatural wisdom, as soon as the revolution should have been accomplished, was still incompleted. However, the Duke excused him, instead of suspecting his having deceived him. “Hiermanfor,” he said, “is not all powerful; how could he therefore, avert that fatal blow from Amelia’s head? Hiermanfor has not fixed the day of his return; perhaps he has been detained by business of the greatest consequence, or means to try the measure of my confidence in him; but whatever may be the reason of his non-arrival, he certainly will not omit to make good his word.” Alumbrado asked him who that Hiermanfor was? and the Duke related to him at large his adventures with that man, without betraying the share he had had in the revolution. I expected that Alumbrado, who at once was made acquainted with so dangerous a rival, would do his utmost to ruin his credit; but I was mistaken; all that he ventured to say, was, indeed, very much against him; but he added, that one ought not to judge prematurely on so great and deep a character.

This lenient judgment was not sufficient to cure the Duke of his delusion; although his confidence in the Irishman was very strong, yet his patience was very weak, and my reasoning against Hiermanfor began to make him uneasy. Several times was he going to make public inquiries after him, but the apprehension of offending him without being able to find him out always prevented him from doing it. At last, when the Irishman did not appear after a long and fruitless expectation, my friend took it in his head to inquire after the Count de Clairval and in case he should discover him, to seize him either by force or art, because he expected to receive from him some information of Hiermanfor. Alumbrado desired the Duke to give him a description of the Count. “He is almost of my size,” my friend replied, “but fair, of an interesting countenance, and a tranquil, gentle seriousness, generally characterizes his mien, which however, frequently bespeaks the most jovial humour; his nose is rather of the aquiline kind, his mouth almost woman like handsome, and his chin falls a little back, yet without disfiguring him.” “If you wish to get him in your power,” Alumbrado replied, “I will endeavour to spell-bind him; but then I shall want his picture; could 195b you delineate it on a piece of paper?” The Duke, who as little as myself knew what to think of this offer, looked alternately at me and at Alumbrado. “Indeed,” the latter continued, “I wish to possess the picture of the Count; leave the consequence to me.”

“If you really wish to possess it,” my friend replied. “you shall have it.”

Possessing a great skill in drawing striking likenesses, he finished the portrait the day following, assisted by his imagination, and gave it to Alumbrado. We were impatient to learn what he was going to do with it; however, he visited the Duke four days without mentioning the picture; but on the fifth day informed him in what hotel he would find the Count. We were looking at him in dumb astonishment, when he added, “Make haste, now you can surprise him and if he should refuse to follow you, you only need to tell him that the guard is waiting for your order to seize him.”

(To be continued.)

Anecdote of an Earl of Portland, Lord Treasurer.
From a Manuscript in the British Museum.

When the Earl of Portland was Lord Treasurer of England (1634) he had, like other great statesmen, a crowd of suitors; among others was Mr. Cæsar, Master of the Rolls, who had been soliciting the place of one of the six clerks in Chancery for his son, Mr. Robt. Cæsar, in the room of Mr. D’Ewes, but was disappointed in his expectations; the Lord Treasurer, although he had promised it to Mr. Cæsar, having given it to Mr. Keene; but promised to urge his Majesty in favour of Mr. Cæsar the next vacancy. That happened---the Treasurer was as negligent as formerly; when Ld. Tillibarne eagerly solicited for Mr. Cæsar, and was promised. Tired with useless application, he desired the Treasurer to declare his intentions;---he answered his intentions were for Mr. Cæsar but that he might not forget in future, he desired a token of remembrance; which the other readily complied with, and wrote on a paper “Remember Cæsar!”---In the hurry of the Earl’s business, even this was forgot. Some time after, while he was looking over some loose papers, he observed one, having written on it “Remember Cæsar!” The former circumstances had escaped his recollection; therefore, alarmed, he summoned his friends, to have their opinion upon it; who all agreed, an attempt on his life was in agitation, and desired him to use every precaution---In consequence of this, his house was barricadoed, guards were placed around, and all had the appearance of danger and apprehension, when Ld. Tillibarne waited upon him again, but could not gain admittance, till he informed one of the Treasurer’s friends of the circumstances of the note, which brought the whole to the Earl’s recollection, and he complied with Lord Tillibarne’s request; Mr. Cæsar being appointed one of the Six Clerks.

ABSTRACT of the ABBE BERTHOLON’s PAPER
on FIRES, and the MEANS of extinguishing them.

PUBLISHED IN THE LAUSANNE MEMOIRS.

This subject is important and interesting, although the Abbé has rather collected the observations and experiments made by others, than conveyed any new and original information. He ascribes the inflammability of bodies to the inflammable gas which they contain, and which, on their decomposition by heat, is let loose, and coming into contact with the atmosphere is ignited, and bursts out into flame. The principal part of the memoir is devoted to a detail of the means of preventing and extinguishing fires; and here the author’s chief advice, which is “in the construction of buildings, to employ as little as possible of those materials which yield inflammable air on their decomposition,” will be allowed to be perfectly just in theory, but will probably be little followed in practice: nor is the security resulting from brick floors likely to compensate, in this age of affected elegance, for their appearance. He informs us, however, that M. Ango, an architect of Paris, has contrived a method of constructing a floor with iron bars, instead of timber joists, which is even less expensive than the common mode. The wood used in buildings may be rendered uninflammable, by being steeped in a saline solution, and by being prepared with allum, even canvass and paper hangings may be made to burn without flame.

Many other precautions are mentioned by the Abbé, which we shall not detail, as they are universally known, and we believe pretty generally adopted. After describing the inventions of Mr. Hartly and Lord Mahon, together with a preparation similar to that of Lord Mahon’s recommended by M. Frederic, of Vienna, the Abbé gives an account of a substance, which he calls paper stone, invented by Dr. Faye, physician to the Swedish admiralty: its composition is not known, but from a chemical analysis it appears to consist of two parts of an earthly basis, and one of animal oil, mixed up with two parts of some vegetable substance. At Carlscrone a hut was built of dry wood, covered with this paper, which is not more than two lines in thickness, it was then filled with combustibles, which were set on fire and consumed without burning the building: the paper, which had been pasted on boards, was reduced to a cinder, and formed a kind of incrustation, which preserved them from the effects of the flame. As this paper readily takes any colour, it may be rendered ornamental as well as useful.

In his directions for extinguishing fires, the Abbé observes, that water, in which a small quantity of potash has been dissolved, is more efficacious than any other; he also recommends an engine called an hydraulic ventilator, invented by M. Castelli, which is worked by vanes instead of pistions, and may be managed by one person. The advantages ascribed by our author to this machine are very considerable, but we cannot suppress our astonishment on being told, that with a cylinder of only three inches in diameter, it will throw up more water than the largest fire engine; however, it certainly appears to be less 196b expensive and more portable than the common forcing pumps, and may be of use in extinguishing a fire, before it has made any great progress. The utility of garden mould with wet sand in this respect, is well known, but it can seldom be applied, and we doubt the efficacy of the kind of catapult which the author recommends, for throwing it so any distance.

The remainder of the memoir contains some very just and obvious remarks on the necessity of a regular discipline among firemen, and it concludes with a description of the engines, cisterns and pipes at the opera house in Paris, the construction and arrangement of which the Abbé recommends to be adopted in every public theatre.

SPECIMENS OF SPEECH OR SPEAKINGS.

Imprimis.   Oratio Floridensis.

GENTLEMEN,

Though tautology is allowable in practice, I don’t approve on’t theoretically; therefore I shall plainly, fully, openly, and concisely, I hope, acquit myself, without being critical, or political, or satyrical, or mystical, or rhetorical, or schismatical, or chimerical, or whimsical.—I’ll give no utterance to any arrogance, with dissonance of deliverance, nor countenance any exorbitance of intemperance, ignorance, or extravagance: what I communicate I shall authenticate, and I beg you’ll compassionate: I will not exaggerate, nor contaminate, nor depreciate, nor discriminate, an intemperate candidate, at any rate. But I prognosticate he must be a profligate, reprobate, and illiterate, apt to prevaricate, hesitate, and degenerate.—I’ll use no eloquence in this conference, in confidence, the consequence of my diligence will evidence the excellence of my innocence, with reference to your preference.

Let others, by a flourish of words, fancy it an accomplishment or an embellishment, by the tongue’s blandishment, it is an astonishment that some speakers are so impertinent to the detriment of every eminent fundament of rudiment.

I take this opportunity without ambiguity, void of incongruity, with perspicuity by narrative, to assert my prerogative without preparative, or provocative.

I shall now conclude without a multitude of solicitude; for the aptitude of men to ingratitude is too plain, so I’ll insist that Shakespeare, and Milton, were sophistical scribblers, and bad luck to the man, who invented the alphabet; oratory is composed of two parts, weeds and flowers; the weeds of metaphor are the roots of Rhetorick; and the flowers of phrase compose the nosegay of Eloquence. A set of Philosophers are like a bundle of brushwood, when they are lighted up by the fire of dispute, and put into the oven of altercation; then out comes the crum and crust of fair argument.

LIFE.

In considering the impatient ardour of the passions in youth, we might be led to suppose that life was to last but for a day; but the precautions of the aged seem to be such as if it was eternal.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 190.)

Pulaski now communicates to us the design which he had formed of taking refuge in Turkey. He hoped to be employed in a situation equal to his rank and his abilities, in the armies of the grand signior, who had for the two last years with some difficulty sustained a disastrous war against the Russians.

Lodoiska did not appear in the least affrighted at the long journey which we had to make; and as she could neither be known nor sought after, she insisted upon going out to reconnoitre the adjacent country, and at the same time charged herself with the fatiguing but important task of bringing us the provisions which we stood in need of.

As soon as the day appeared, we retired into the wood: hid either in the trunks of trees, or in the thick groves of pines, we waited impatiently for the return of night, on purpose to continue our march. It was thus that, during several weeks, we were enabled to escape from the search of a multitude of different bodies of Russian troops, who were sent out on purpose to discover us, and who pursued us like so many blood-hounds, animated with the passions of hatred and revenge.

One day as Lodoiska, still disguised as a peasant, returned from a neighbouring hamlet, where she had gone on purpose to purchase the provisions which she was now conveying to us, two Russian marauders attached her at the entry of the forest in which we were concealed.

After having robbed, they prepared to strip her. At the shrieks which she uttered we hasten from our retreat, and the two ruffians immediately betake themselves to flight upon our appearance; but we were greatly alarmed lest they should recount this adventure to their companions, whose suspicions aroused by this singular rencounter, might induce them to come and drag us from our asylum.

After a most fatiguing journey, we enter Polesia*. Pulaski wept at leaving his native country.

“At least,” exclaims he with a mournful accent---“at least I have faithfully served you, and I now only go into exile that I may be enabled to serve you again.”

So many fatigues had exhausted the strength of Lodoiska. Arrived at Novogorod†, we resolve to stop there on purpose to give her time to recover her strength. It was our design to remain some days, but some of the country people whom we questioned, frankly informed us, 197b that a number of troops were in motion in that neighbourhood, on purpose to arrest a certain person of the name of Pulaski, who had occasioned the king of Poland to be taken prisoner, and carried off from the midst of his own capital.

Justly alarmed at this intelligence, we remain but a few hours in this town, where we, however, found means to purchase some horses without being discovered.

We then pass the Desna above Czernicove‡; and following the banks of the Sula, we cross that river at Perevoloczna, where we learn that Pulaski, who had been traced to Novogorod, had escaped as it were by miracle, and that the Russian soldiers, indefatigable in their pursuit, were still searching after him, and were in hopes of making him prisoner.

It was now again become necessary to fly once more, and once more to change our route; we therefore instantly made for the immense forests which cover the face of the country between the Sula and the Zem, in the dark retreats of which we hoped to find shelter from our foes.

We at length discover a cavern, in which we were reduced to the necessity of taking up our abode. A she-bear disputes with us the entrance into this asylum equally solitary and frightful: we assail, we kill her, and devour her young.

Pulaski was wounded in this encounter: Lodoiska, worn out with fatigue and distress, was scarcely able to support her existence: the winter was approaching, and the cold was already excessive.

Pursued by the Russians in the inhabited parts; menaced by wild and ferocious animals in this vast desart; destitute of any arms but our swords; reduced in a short time to eat our very horses; what was to become of us?

The danger of the situation to which my father-in-law and my wife were reduced, had become so pressing, that no other fear any longer alarmed me. My personal safety, hitherto so dear to me, did not now suggest itself once to my mind: I felt only for theirs. I resolved, therefore, to procure to them at any rate those succours which their situation required, which was still more deplorable than my own; and leaving them both with the promise of rejoining them in a short time, I take a few of the diamonds belonging to Lodoiska, and follow the stream of the Warsklo.

It is well known that a traveller, bewildered amidst those vast countries, and reduced to the necessity of wandering about without a compass, and without a guide, is obliged to follow the course of a river, because it is upon its banks that the habitations of mankind are most commonly to be met with.

It was necessary that I should gain, as soon at possible, some considerable town in which a few merchants resided: I therefore journeyed along the banks of the Warsklo, and travelling day and night, found myself at Pultava§ 198 at the end of four days. During my residence in this place, I pass for a trader belonging to Bielgorod. I there learn that the Russian troops were still roaming about in pursuit of Pulaski, and that the Empress had sent an exact description of his person every where, with orders to seize him either dead or alive, wherever he might be found.

I make haste to sell my diamonds, to purchase powder, arms, and provisions of all kinds, different utensils, and some coarse and necessary furniture; every thing, in fine, which I judged most proper to relieve our misery, and soften our misfortunes.---With these I load a waggon, drawn by four good horses, of which I was the only conductor.

My return was equally tedious and difficult; no less than eight whole days expired before I arrived at the entrance of the forest.

It was there that, terminating my disagreeable and dangerous journey, I was about to succour my father-in-law and my wife; that I was about to revisit all that was most dear to me in the world; and yet I felt none of those transports of joy which such an event seemed likely to inspire.

Philosophers have no belief in forebodings.

Certain it is, however, that I experienced an involuntary uneasiness: my mind became dispirited, dismayed, and something, I know not what, seemed to whisper to me, that the most unhappy moment of my whole life was fast approaching.

On my departure, I had placed several flint-stones at certain distances, on purpose to enable me to retrace my road; but I could not now discover them. I had also cut off with my sabre large pieces of the bark of several trees, which I could not now perceive. I enter the forest, however: I hollow with all my strength: I discharge my gun from time to time, but nobody answers me. I dared not trust myself among the trees and shrubs for fear of losing my way back again; neither could I wander too far from my waggon, which was stored with provisions so necessary to Pulaski, his daughter, and myself.

The night, which now approached, obliged me to give over my search, and I pass it in the same manner as the former. Rolled up in my cloak, I lay down beneath my waggon, which I had carefully surrounded with my larger moveables, and which thus served me as a rampart against the wild beasts.

I could not sleep; the cold was extremely intense; the snow fell in great abundance; at break of day I looked around, and found all the ground covered with it. From that moment I formed the most horrible and the most sinister presages: the stones which might have pointed out the path I was to have taken, were all buried, and it appeared impossible I should ever be able to discover my father-in-law and my wife.

(To be continued.)

FRIENDSHIP.

There are few subjects which have been more written upon, and less understood, than that of Friendship. To follow the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of being the assuager of pain, becomes the source of every inconvenience. Such speculatists, by expecting too much from friendship, dissolve the connexion; and, by drawing the bands too closely, at length break them. Almost all our romance and novel-writers are of this kind; they persuade us to friendships, which we find impossible to sustain to the last; so that this sweetener of life, under proper regulations, is, by their means, rendered inaccessible or uneasy.

Friendship is like a debt of honour: the moment it is talked of, it loses its real name, and assumes the more ungrateful form of obligation. From hence we find, that those who regularly undertake to cultivate friendship, find ingratitude generally repays their endeavours. That circle of beings, which dependence gathers round us, is almost ever unfriendly; they secretly wish the term of their connexions more nearly equal; and, where they even have the most virtue, are prepared to reserve all their affections for their patron, only in the hour of his decline. Increasing the obligations which are laid upon such minds, only increases their burthen; they feel themselves unable to repay the immensity of their debt, and their bankrupt hearts are taught a latent resentment at the hand that is stretched out with offers of service and relief.

Plautinus was a man who thought that every good was bought from riches; and as he was possessed of great wealth, and had a mind naturally formed for virtue, he resolved to gather a circle of the best men round him. Among the number of his dependents was Musidorus, with a mind just as fond of virtue, yet not less proud than his patron. His circumstances, however, were such as forced him to stoop to the good offices of his superior, and he saw himself daily among a number of others loaded with benefits and protections of friendship. These, in the usual course of the world, he thought it prudent to accept; but, while he gave his esteem, he could not give his heart. A want of affection breaks out in the most trifling instances, and Plautinus had skill enough so observe the minutest actions of the man he wished to make his friend. In these he ever found his aim disappointed; for Musidorus claimed an exchange of hearts, which Plautinus, solicited by a variety of claims, could never think of bestowing.

It may be easily supposed, that the reserve of our poor proud man, was soon construed into ingratitude; and such, indeed, in the common acceptation of the world it was. Wherever Musidorus appeared, he was remarked as the ungrateful man; he had accepted favours, it was said, and had still the insolence to pretend to independence. The event, however, justified his conduct. Plautinus, by misplaced liberality, at length became poor; and it was then that Musidorus first thought of making a friend of him. He flew to the man of fallen fortune 199 with an offer of all he had; wrought under his direction with assiduity; and by uniting their talents, both were at length placed in that state of life from which one of them had formerly fallen.

NATURE.

An happy sensibility to the beauties of Nature should be cherished in young persons. It engages them to contemplate the Creator in his wonderful works; it purifies and harmonizes the soul, and prepares it for moral and intellectual discipline; it supplies an endless source of amusement; it contributes even to bodily health; and as a strict analogy subsists between material and mortal beauty, it leads the heart by an easy transition from the one to the other; and thus recommends virtue for its transcendent loveliness and makes vice appear the object of contempt and abomination.

AFFECTION.

From the impassioned feelings of the mother, to him who stands joyless on the verge of apathy, the tide of affection flows in a long and devious course. Clear, full and vehement, it descends into the vale of life, where, after a short time, becoming tranquil and serene, it separates into many branches; and these, again dividing, wander in a thousand streams, dispensing, as they move along, the sweets of health and happiness. That no felicity exists independent of a susceptibility for these emotions is a certain fact; for to the heart of him who hath been cold to filial or fraternal duty, the soothing charm of friendship and of love will ever be unknown. It is therefore evident, that to be happy, man must invariably consult the well being of others; to his fellow-creatures he must attribute the bliss which he enjoys; it is a reward proportional to the exertion of his philanthropy. Abstract the man of virtue and benevolence from society, and you cut off the prime source of his happiness; he has no proper object on which to place his affection, or exercise his humanity; the sudden rapture of the grateful heart, the tender tones of friendship, and the melting sweetness of expressive love, no longer thrill upon his ear, or swell his softened soul; all is an aching void, a cheerless and almost unproductive waste: yet even in this situation, barren as it is, where none are found to pour the balm of pity, or listen to the plaint of sorrow, even here some enjoyment is derived from letting loose our affections upon inanimate nature. “Where in a desert (says Sterne) I could not do better, I would fasten them on some sweet myrtle, or seek some melancholy cypress to connect myself to. I would court their shade, and greet them kindly for their protection. I would cut my name upon them, and swear they were the loveliest trees throughout the desert. If their leaves withered, I would teach myself to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice with them.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Monday the 28th ult. at Smith Town (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Hart, Mr. Elkanah Smith, merchant, of this city, to Miss Mary Arthur, of that place.

On Tuesday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. James Parkin, to Mrs. Rebecca Clarkson, both of this city.

At Boston, on the 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Thacher, Ezekiel Brush, Esq. merchant of New-York, to Miss Sally Shattuck, daughter of Wm. Shattuck, Esq. of that place.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LINES
ON THE LATE SCOTCH POET.

To a Gentleman who attempted drawing
the Picture of a beautiful Young Lady:

MORAL VERSES, ADDRESSED TO YOUTH.

AN EPIGRAM.

[By Dr. Byrom.]

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.

Lamentations Of Panthea Over The Body Of Abradates.*

Be the garland of hope withered by the sigh of disappointment; be the lute of gladness no more responsive to the fingers of melody. What hast thou to do with dreams of rapture, with scenes of visionary transport, with the whispers of fancy that mock the ear of attention? Thou hast nothing to do with them. O ill-fated Panthea! thy peace, thy loves, thy joys are at an end: the howl of calamity has chased thy slumbers of happiness, and doomed sorrow and solitude to be thy hapless handmaids. How terrific is the brow of anguish to the eye of complaisance! to the children of festivity how convulsive is the cup of astonishment! My heart is as the heart of a babe that weeps bitterly; I have all the weakness of childhood, and all the sorrows of age. As the patient whose malady scoffs at physic, I am hopeless without a cure, I am disconsolate as the ghost of midnight among the tombs of my forefathers. Why, O thou nurse of my infancy, didst thou reserve me to such a date? why was I ever lulled upon the lap of tenderness? Would that ere the dawning irradiations of reason I had died, in the morning of existence thy Panthea had died; thou hadst wept over her urn with less mortal anguish. But cease, O thou nurse of my infancy, for the fault was not thine: thy imagination was enraptured with the fictions of fondness, and painted fairer prospects for thy much-loved Panthea: thy love reared around her the pavilions of ease, plucked the thorns of adversity from the garden of pleasure, and perfumed her paths with the incense of roses. It was not thine to descend to the recesses of thought, and chase honour from its abode as the assassin of peace. It was thy charm, O inhuman honour! that made captive my discretion, and seduced me from the waters of consolation to the precipices of despair. Why did I soar after thee on the wings of ambition, and spurn at contentment for deriding thy deceit? My fancy thought thee fairer than a studded diadem; more splendid than the gold in the waves of Pactolus. Thou art fair, I said, and beautiful beyond the visions of rapture; and the youth who holds my heart I will endeavour to possess 201b thee. I will enlarge upon thy glories that his soul may catch thy fire; I will urge him to the plains of conquest; but, lo! he bleeds beneath the spear.—Ye virgin daughters of Bactria, you have seen the youth of my love: my love was foremost among the candidates for honour, he was a hero without pre-eminence. His heart never fainted at the clang of war; when the oriflamb of battle was erected in his view, he stood strong as the gate of Susa, and immoveable as its battlements. In the conflict he was dreadful as a host sheathed in terrors; rough and terrible as a wave conflicting with the spirit of the blast. No force dared oppose the burning flames of his wrath; he curbed the fury of the sons of thunder in their midnight career, and waved the faulchion of conquest over the heads of potentates. But when the Poeans of victory have dismissed him from the plain, ye virgin daughters of Bactria, you have seen him hasten to my arms, all placid as the smile of virginity in the morning of youth; meek and gentle as a bride conducting to the bowers of her bridegroom. When shall he exult at the voice of fame above the shield of his might, and bear the wreath of glory from his warring compeers? Alas! can the tear of evening resuscitate the broken primrose of the vale, or shall the poplar once fallen grace the banks of Zenderhoud; his shield of might is defenceless, his wreath of glory is decayed, and the trumpet of fame has no music for his ear. Fool that I was, why did I urge him to the fight? why did I arm his fortitude against unequal slaughter! The burden of calamity presses heavy on my soul---my spirit faints within me---I die, I die!---Is there no kind consoler of another’s anguish, in the tenderness of sympathy, to speak peace to my grief?---Thou weepest in the bitterness of affliction, O thou, whose hand dried the tear in the eye of infancy; but that infancy in vain matured by youth, waits the offices of age---soon thy charity shall accomplish what thy tenderness has begun, when the breast that now heaves shall throb no more, and the breath that now murmers shall be silent forever!

* See Xenophon’s Cyropedia, or Life of Cyrus, in M. Rollin’s Ancient History.

HAPPINESS.

There are happy days, but no happy lives; this would be an enchanting dream, without once wakening to sorrow.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 195.)

Alumbrado had spoken the truth; the Duke found the Count in his apartment. The latter was at first incapable of uttering a word, but having recovered from his astonishment, he declined in a faltering accent to accept the invitation of my friend. But when he heard the Duke talk of the guard, and saw that he was a prisoner, he submitted to his fate. The Duke ordered his trunk to be carried to his coach, and then drove with him to his palace.

Apprehending that the Count would be reserved in the presence of a third person, he had previously requested me to retire with Alumbrado to a closet, where we could hear and see them without being observed. The introduction to their discourse had already been finished in the carriage, consequently we heard only the continuation. As soon as they had entered the room, the Duke desired the Count to give him the key of his trunk, which was delivered to him without hesitation. While he was opening the trunk and searching for papers which he could not find, the Count took his letter-case out of his pocket and threw it in the chimney fire.

Although the Duke hastened to save it, yet a great part of it had already been consumed by the flames. The rest he locked up in his writing desk.

“Why have you done this?” he said to the Count with rising anger.

“Because I do not like to have my secrets wrested from me by force.”

The Duke took several turns in his apartment in order to recover his equanimity, and then rung the bell. “Wine,” he called to the servant, who brought it immediately and retired.

“Count,” said the Duke in a mild accent, “the wine possesses the virtue of rendering people communicative and sincere. Let us drink.”

“You shall draw my secrets from me neither by force nor artifice. I shall at least have the merit of confessing voluntarily, what I can, and dare confess.”

“Very well. However, wine possesses also the virtue of dispelling animosity and perplexity. Come, let us drink.” 

The Count consented to it.

“First of all,” said the Duke, after they had been seated, “tell me where is Hiermanfor? He promised to pay me a visit as soon as Por***al should be delivered from the Spa**sh yoke, but has not been as good as his word.”

“He could not. Affairs of the greatest importance have called him to Brasil, where he very probably is at present.”

“Do you think that he will fulfil his promise after his return”? 

“Undoubtedly! but why do you wish for his visit”? 

“He has promised to initiate me in the mysteries of an occult philosophy. You are perhaps capable of supplying his place.”

“No, my Lord.”

“But you will be able to afford me some information with respect to those illusions by which I have been put to the test?”

“Yes!” the Count replied, after a pause.

“I only desire you to explain to me the more intricate and most important deceptions, for the rest I hope to unfold without your assistance.”

“Most of them you have already discovered by the papers which you have ta--- found in my trunk.”

“How do you know that?” The Duke asked with astonishment.

“I know it from Hiermanfor.”

“And by whom has he been informed of it?”

“By your Grace.”

“By me? I do not recollect to have discovered to him any thing.”

“Not directly; however, you have betrayed yourself.”

“On what occasion?”

“When he paid you a visit at **ubia. Do you not recollect to have asked him whether he had discovered to Amelia that your real father had not been the murderer of her Lord? This you could not have known if you had not seen my papers.”

“It is true”, the Duke replied after a short silence, “however, those papers did not extend farther than to the time when Hiermanfor was taken up in your and my tutor’s presence. I was then going to descend into the subterraneous vaults of a ruinous building, in order to take a brilliant pin out of the hair of a sleeping virgin.”

“I know it; but you would have found neither the sleeping virgin nor any of those things which Hiermanfor told you you would meet with.”

“Is it possible; should he have risked a fraud in which I so easily could have found him out?”

“He knew before-hand that you would not get to the bottom of the staircase, for it was settled previously that I should appear in time with the officers of the police, and recall your Grace by firing a pistol.”

“Indeed!” said the Duke with astonishment, “now I recollect another very strange incident. I should perhaps not have descended without your interference, for I was seized with an uncommon anxiety, which increased every step I proceeded. I cannot conceive what was the reason of it; however it seemed as if an invisible power pushed me back.”

“This I will explain to you. Don’t you recollect that a thick smoke ascended from the abyss? A stupifying incense which possessed the power of straitening the breast, and creating anxiety, was burning at the bottom of the stair-case.”

“I cannot but confess,” the Duke said, after a short pause, “that the execution was not less cautious than the plan has been artful. I had indeed been impelled, at that time, to believe Hiermanfor was not only possessed of the knowledge of subterraneous treasures, but also of the power and the inclination of affording me a share of them, and that it had been merely my fault to have returned empty handed. His cursory account of the wonderful things I should meet with in the abyss had contributed to set my imagination at work, and I was more desirous to see those miraculous things, than to get possession of the jewels.”

“Your Grace resented it very much that I had interrupted that adventure by the seizure of Hiermanfor.”

“Indeed I did, but what view had you in doing it?”

“It was of great consequence to me, to prove myself to you and your tutor, in an incontestible manner, an implacable enemy of Hiermanfor. How could I have effected it better than by seizing him? the magistrate was an intimate friend of mine, and the whole farce pre-concerted with him.”

“Then the Irishman has not been taken up seriously?”

“The officers of the police had been ordered to set him at liberty as soon as he should be out of your sight.”

“Now I can comprehend why you so obstinately opposed me when I intreated my tutor to make an attempt at delivering Hiermanfor.----But what would you have done, if I had persisted in my resolution of taking that step?”

“Then you should certainly not have done it alone; I would have accompanied you to the magistrate, who undoubtedly would have found means of consoling you with respect to Hiermanfor’s fate. It seemed, nevertheless, not to be advisable to suffer you to remain any longer in the neighbourhood of the theatre where that scene had been performed. You might have peeped behind the curtain without our knowledge, and your tutor could have made secret enquiries. An accident might easily have betrayed to you that the process against Hiermanfor was a fiction; in short, we could not have acted with safety and liberty while you should have been near the scene of action, and for that reason the magistrate was suborned to endeavour to persuade you to a speedy flight, in which he succeeded to our greatest satisfaction.”

“Now it is evident how Hiermanfor could shew so much tranquility and unconcern when he was taken up, how he could promise to see me at **n, and make good his promise.”

“The latter was indeed an easy matter; however he wanted to render his re-appearance interesting by concomitant extraordinary circumstances. A lamentable incident procured him the means of effecting his purpose. You will recollect the execution of Franciska, the too late discovery of her innocence, and the nocturnal funeral to which I invited you.---Hiermanfor could not have re-appeared to you on a more remarkable opportunity. At that period, when your soul was thrilled with gloomy melancholy and chilling sensations, the sight of a man whom you supposed to languish in 203b a dungeon, or perhaps to have finished already his career on the stake, could not but make the deepest impression on you. You know that he omitted nothing that promised to enforce that impression.”

“But how could he then already know that I had been raised to the ducal dignity?”

“He had received early intelligence of it by a letter from a friend, who was intimate with the secretary of your father.”

“Let us drop the discourse on the scene of that night, it is accompanied with too horrid and painful ideas. Let us repair to the retired cell of the royal hermit, where no inferior miracles are crowding upon us. First of all, tell me whether you really think him to be the old banished King?”

“I do, indeed, not only because Hiermanfor has told me so, but also because his whole form resembles in a most striking manner, the picture of the real King.”

“But when do you think he will ascend the throne of Port**al?”

“I suppose, very soon!”

“Do you, indeed? I can see, as yet, no preparations for it. They even do not talk of the old King; every one believes him to be dead; I think it would be time to spread the news of his being still alive.”

“I must confess that I have neither heard nor seen any thing of him since we left him in his cell. I hope Hiermanfor’s return will be the period of his taking possession of the throne. Perhaps he intends to introduce him in triumph in Port**al.”

“It seems, at least, that they are very intimately connected. Do you recollect how Hiermanfor appeared at night, in a manner equally mysterious and surprizing, when he was summoned by the royal Hermit?”

“O! as for that juggling trick---”

The Duke started from his chair. “A juggling trick---this too should have been a juggling trick?”

“How can you be surprized at this discovery?”

“The incident was indeed wonderful enough for giving reason to think it supernatural.”

“You are right. That artifice could not but produce an astonishing effect on an uninformed spectator. The Hermit pronounces some unintelligible words while he kisses the picture three times; the lamp is extinguished and lighted again, as if it were by an invisible hand; a sudden noise is heard, and a flame flashes over the picture. All this is very surprising. However, if one knows that the altar, on which the picture is placed, conceals a machine, that the Hermit’s finger touches a secret spring, and this puts the wheels of the machine in motion, that the wick in the lamp is connected with it, and pulled down and up again through the tube in which it is fixed; if one knows how Hiermanfor entered the cell, then the whole incident will be divested of its supernatural appearance.” 

“But this very appearance of Hiermanfor is entirely mysterious to me.”

(To be continued.)

THE STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS.

TAKEN FROM A BYZANTINE HISTORIAN.

Athens, long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learning, which avaricious governors had monopolized.

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow students together; the one, the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum; the other, the most eloquent speaker in the academic grove. Mutual admiration soon begot friendship. Their fortunes were nearly equal, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world; for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome.

In this state of harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the busy world; and, as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed; the previous ceremonies were performed; and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom.

Alcander’s exultation in his own happiness, or being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce Hypatia to his fellow-student; which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friendship and love. But this was an interview fatal to the future peace of both; for Septimius no sooner saw her, but he was smitten with an involuntary passion; and, though he used every effort to suppress desires at once so imprudent and unjust, the emotions of his mind in a short time became so strong, that they brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incurable.

During this illness, Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by these means, soon discovered that the cause of their patient’s disorder was love; and Alcander being apprised of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover.

It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion; it is enough to say, that the Athenians were at that time arrived at such refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance, and this unlooked for change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents which he was so eminently possessed of, Septimius, in a few 204b years, arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city judge, or prætor.

In the mean time, Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a prosecution was also commenced against him, by the relations of Hypatia, for having basely given up his bride, as was suggested, for money. His innocence of the crime laid to his charge, and even his eloquence in his own defence, were not able to withstand the influence of a powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. However, being unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, he himself was stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed as a slave in the market-place, and sold to the highest bidder.

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master, and his success in hunting was all that was allowed him so supply his precarious subsistence. Every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. After some years of bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered; he embraced it with ardour; so that, travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in Rome. The same day on which Alcander arrived, Septimius sat administering justice in the forum, whither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and publicly acknowledged, by his former friend. Here he stood the whole day amongst the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but he was so much altered by a long succession of hardships, that he continued unnoticed among the rest; and, in the evening, when he was going up to the prætor’s chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; for night coming on, he now found himself under the necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and in rags, as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness; and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger: in short, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, and despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in sleep; and found, on his flinty couch, more ease than beds of down can supply to the guilty.

As he continued here, about midnight, two robbers came to make this their retreat; but, happening to disagree about the division of their plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was found next morning, dead, at the mouth of the vault. This naturally inducing a further enquiry, an alarm was spread; the cave was examined, and Alcander being 205 found, was immediately apprehended, and accused of robbery and murder. The circumstances against him were strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty; he was determined to make no defence; and thus, lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. As the proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when the attention of the multitude was soon divided by another object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Alcander’s innocence therefore appeared, but the sullen rashness of his conduct remained a wonder to the surrounding multitude; but their astonishment was still further increased, when they saw their judge start from his tribunal to embrace the supposed criminal. Septimius recollected his friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and of joy. Need the sequel be related? Alcander was acquitted; shared the friendship and honours of the principal citizens of Rome; lived afterwards in happiness and ease; and left it to be engraved on his tomb, That no circumstances are so desperate, which Providence may not relieve.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 198.)

Had the horse, which I had left with them at my departure, afforded them sufficient sustenance ever since? Had not hunger, cruel hunger, obliged them to fly from their retreat? Were they still concealed in those frightful deserts? If they were not there, where should I be able to find them? Where, without them, should I drag out my miserable existence?

. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

But could I believe that Pulaski had abandoned his son-in-law? that Lodoiska had consented to separate herself from her husband? No---undoubtedly not. They were still confined within the circle of this frightful solitude; and if I abandoned them, they must die with famine and cold!

. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

These desperate reflections at length determined my conduct, and I no longer examined whether or not, in removing at a distance from my waggon, I was in danger of never finding it again. To carry some provisions to my father-in-law and wife, to succour Pulaski and Lodoiska---these were now the only sentiments that occupied my mind.

I accordingly seize my fowling-piece, take some powder and shot, and load one of my horses with necessaries: I pierce into the woods much farther than during the former evening; I again hollow with all my strength; I again make frequent discharges with my gun. The most melancholy silence reigned all around me.

I now find myself in a part of the forest where the trees were so extremely thick, that there was no longer any passage for my horse: I, therefore, tie him to a tree, and my despair getting the better of every other consideration, I still continue to advance with my gun, and part of my provisions. I had now wandered about for two hours more, my inquietude forcing me every moment to redouble my pace, when at length I perceive human footsteps imprinted on the snow.

Hope gives me new strength, and I therefore instantly follow the traces which were still fresh. Soon after I discover Pulaski almost naked, emaciated with hunger, and so changed as scarce to be known even by me!

He makes all the efforts in his power to drag his limbs towards me, and to reply to my enquiries. The moment that I had rejoined him, he seizes, with avidity, on the victuals that I present to him, and devours them in an instant. I then demand of him where Lodoiska is.

“Alas!” says he, “you will see her there!” The tone of voice in which he pronounced these words made me tremble. I run to, I arrive at, the cavern, but too well prepared for the melancholy spectacle that awaited me. Lodoiska, wrapped up in her own clothes, and covered with those of her father, was extended upon a bed of half rotten leaves!

She raises, with some difficulty, her weary head, and refusing the aliments which I now offer her, addresses me as follows:---“I am not hungry! The death of my children; the loss of Dorliska; our journeys, so long, so laborious, so difficult; your dangers, which seemed to increase daily---these have killed me! I was unable to resist fatigue and sorrow. My friend, I am dying---I heard thy voice, and my soul was stopped in its flight. We shall meet again! Lodoiska ought to die in the arms of a husband whom she adores!---Assist my father! May he live! Live both of you---console yourselves, and forget me!
. . . . . . . . . . .
---Search every where for my dear
. . . . . . . . . . .”

She was unable to pronounce the name of her daughter, and instantly expired!
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

Her father digs a grave for her at a little distance from the cavern; and I behold the earth enclose all that I loved in this world!
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

What a trying moment! Pulaski alone prevented me from becoming the victim of despair: he forces me to survive Lodoiska!
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .

Pulaski, whose courage never abandoned him, and whose strength was by this time restored, obliges me to occupy myself jointly with him, in the business of procuring our subsistence.

By following along the snow the prints of my footsteps, we arrive at length at the place where I had left my waggon, which we immediately unload, and burn soon after, on purpose to withhold from our enemies the most distant suspicion of the place of our retreat.

By the aid of our horses, for which we procure a passage, by making a circuitous journey, instead of attempting to bring them straight to the place of our retreat, we were at length able to transport those provisions and moveables to our cavern, which it was so necessary for us to procure, and to husband, if we resolved to remain much longer in this solitude. We soon after killed our horses, which we were unable to supply with food. We lived upon their flesh, which the rigour of the season preserved for a considerable time; it corrupted, however, at length; and our fire-arms being unable to procure us any other than a scanty supply of game, we were obliged to have recourse to our provisions; which at the end of three months, were entirely consumed.

Some gold, and the greater part of Lodoiska’s diamonds still remained. Should I make a second voyage to Pultava? Or should we both run the hazard of such an undertaking, and quit our retreat in company? We had already suffered so much, and so cruelly in this forest, that we resolved to embrace the latter resolution.

We accordingly sally forth; we pass the Sem near Rylks; we purchase a boat there, and, disguising ourselves in the dress of fishermen, we descend that river, and enter the Desna.

Our boat was visited at Czernicove, but misery had so disfigured Pulaski, that it was impossible any longer to recognize him. We then enter the Dnieper; we cross from Kiof* to Krylow. There we were obliged to receive into our boat, and carry to the other side, several Russian soldiers who were on their march to join a small army employed against Pugatchew.

At Zoporiskaia we heard of the capture of Bender and Oczakow, the conquest of the Crimea, the defeat and subsequent death of the Vizir Oglou.

Pulaski, reduced to a state of desperation, was anxious to traverse the vast deserts that separated him from Pugatchew, on purpose to join himself to that enemy of the Russians; but the excess of our fatigues obliged us to remain at Zaporiskaia.

The peace, which was soon after concluded between Russia and the Porte, at length afforded us the means of entering Turkey.

On foot, and still disguised, we crossed the Boudziac, part of Moldavia and Wallachia, and after a thousand unforeseen and unexpected difficulties and fatigues, we at length arrive at Adrianople.

Having remained for some time at this place, on purpose to repair our exhausted forces, we prepare to depart: but we are arrested, and being carried before the Cadi, are accused of having sold several diamonds in the course of our journey, which we had apparently stolen. The miserable clothes with which we were covered, had given rise to this suspicion.

Pulaski discovers himself to the mussulman judge, and he sends us immediately to Constantinople.

We are admitted shortly after to an audience of the grand signior. He orders apartments to be prepared for us, and assigns us a liberal pension upon his treasury.

I then write to my sisters, and to Boleslas: we learn, by their answers, that all the property of Pulaski had been confiscated, that he was degraded from his rank, and condemned to lose his head.

My father-in-law is in the utmost consternation on receiving this intelligence: he is filled with indignation at being accused as a regicide: he writes home in his own justification.

Constantly animated, and devoured as it were with the love of his country, continually influenced by the mortal hatred which he had sworn against its enemies, he never ceased, during the four whole years that we remained in Turkey, to endeavour, by his intrigues, to oblige the Porte to declare war against Russia.

In 1774, amidst a transport of rage, he receives intelligence of the triple invasion,† which bereaved the republic of one third of its possessions.

It was in the spring of 1776, that the patriots of America, fearful of the tyranny of an island which once boasted of its own liberties, resolved to redeem their violated rights by force of arms. My country hath lost her freedom, says Pulaski to me one day: but, ah, let us still fight for that of a new people!

We pass into Spain, we embark on board a vessel bound for the Havannah, from whence we repair to Philadelphia. The congress instantly presents us with commissions, and employs us in the army of General Washington.

(To be concluded in our next.)

EXTRAORDINARY RECOMPENCE ACCORDED TO MERIT.

From a London News-paper of the 17th of last October, the following paragraph is extracted:

“We cannot refuse ourselves the happiness of recording a striking instance of her Majesty’s munificence. When Madame D’Arblay, ci-devant Miss Burney, presented Camilla to her Royal Mistress—the Queen sent her one thousand pounds!” 

When it is considered that previous to the publication of a work, it always undergoes the investigation of the person to whom it is dedicated, it must be obvious that from the extraordinary merits of this performance alone, the Queen could be induced to make so liberal a display of approbation. Indeed, when the style, language, and general object of the work is considered, no one will envy the writer the just meed deservedly due to so inimitable a piece of composition. In this work, the astonishing variety of characters, admirably supported, discover a genius in the writer rarely to be met with. The reader is by turns moved to tears, paled by apprehension, joyful at fortunate events, or merry by the most ludicrous representations. Every passion is wrought upon, every feeling is aroused to the most exquisite sensations. Vice and wickedness do not alone undergo the lash of her pen, folly, levity, thoughtlessness, inattention, and a numerous train of what are generally termed venial improprieties are represented in their true and baneful colours. The ills arising from these errors are often fatal; here youth, in a picture drawn in the most masterly manner, are taught to avoid those quicksands, on which the best constructed hearts have been too often wrecked.

⁂ This very interesting work is now publishing by subscription, at the office of J. Bull, No. 115, Cherry-Street.

SOCIETY.

Every day’s experience must convince the man of observation, that our happiness depends upon the cultivation of our social duties, upon the nurture of humanity and benevolence; that our crimes often proceed from the want of domestic harmony, and that the flagitious deeds which glare upon us with so horrid an aspect, are generally the consequences of a deviation from the still small voice of duty and of love. He, who has been accustomed to despise the feelings of the son, the husband, and the friend, will not often be found proof again all the allurements of interest and of vice. He, who (unless driven by hunger and despair) lifts up his daring arm to arrest the property or the life of his fellow-creature, never felt those soft sensations which arise from the consciousness of being beloved; for let no man be called wretched who has this in reserve, let no man be called poor who has a friend to consult.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. Philip Gorrall, late of Dublin, to the very agreeable Miss Eliza Shreeve, daughter of the Rev. Thomas Shreeve, late of this city.

On the 27th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, the Rev. Abel Roe, of Woodbridge, N.J. to Mrs. Barrett, relict of Nathaniel Barrett, Esq. of Boston, late American Consul, at Rouen, in France.

On Wednesday evening, the 14th inst. at Aurora, in the county of Onondaga, Glen Cuyler, Esq. Attorney at Law, to Miss Mary F. Ledyard, daughter of Benjamin Ledyard, Esq. Clerk of that County.

A few weeks since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Alexander P. Waldron, to Miss Hannah Robertson, both of this city.

SONNET.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONG.

ON LOSING A FRIEND.

SONNET.

The Bachelor’s Soliloquy. In imitation of a celebrated Speech.

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.

THE NETTLE AND THE ROSE:

AN ESSAY.

We may consider human life as a garden, in which Roses and Nettles are promiscuously scattered, and in which we as often feel the sting of the wounding Nettle, as we enjoy the fragrance of the blooming Rose. Those bowers of delight, entwined with the woodbine and jessamine, under whose friendly umbrage we seek shelter from the noon-day sun, sometimes are the abode of snakes, adders, and other venomous creatures, which wound us in those unguarded scenes of delight. As the year has its seasons, and winter and summer are constantly in pursuit of each other, so changeable likewise is the condition of mortals; and as the elements are frequently disturbed by storms, hurricanes, and tempests, so is the mind of man frequently ruffled and discomposed, till the sunshine of reason and philosophy bursts forth and dispels the gloom. Murmering brooks, purling streams, and sequestered groves, whatever the fictions of a poetical imagination may have advanced, are not always the seat of unmingled pleasure, nor the abode of uninterrupted happiness.

The hapless Florio pined away some months on the delightful banks of the Severn: he complained of the cruelty of the lovely Annabella, and told his fond tale to the waters of that impetuous stream, which hurried along regardless of his plaints. He gathered the lilies of the field: but the lilies were not so fair as his Annabella, nor the fragrance of the blushing rose so sweet as her breath; the lambs were not so innocent, nor the sound of the tabour on the green half so melodious as her voice. Time, however, has joined Florio and Annabella in the fetters of wedlock, and the plaints of the swain are now changed. The delusion of the enchantment is now vanished, and what he but lately considered as the only object worthy of his sublunary pursuit, he now contemplates with coolness, indifference, and disgust: enjoyment has metamorphosed the Rose into a Nettle.

Ernestus, contrary to his inclination, was compelled by his parents to marry the amiable Clara, whose sense, 209b tenderness, and virtues, soon fixed the heart of the roving Ernestus; and what at first gave him pain and disgust, by degrees became familiar, pleasing, and delightful: the Nettle was here changed to the Rose.

The wandering libertine, who pursues the Rose thro’ the unlawful paths of love, who tramples under foot every tender plant that comes within his reach, and who roves from flower to flower, like the bee, only to rob it of its sweets, will at last lose his way, and, when benighted, be compelled to repose on the restless bed of wounding Nettles.

The blooming Rose is an utter stranger to the wilds of ambition, where gloomy clouds perpetually obscure the beams of the joyful sun, where the gentle zephyrs never waft thro’ the groves, but discordant blasts are perpetually howling, and where the climate produces only Thorns and Nettles.

The Rose reaches its highest perfection in the garden of industry, where the soil is neither too luxuriant, nor too much impoverished. Temperance fans it with the gentlest zephyrs, and health and contentment sport around it. Here the Nettle no sooner makes its appearance, than the watchful eye of prudence espies it, and, though it may not be possible totally to eradicate it, it is never suffered to reach to any height of perfection.

Since then human life is but a garden, in which weeds and flowers promiscuously shoot up and thrive, let us do what we can to encourage the culture of the Rose, and guard against the spreading Nettle. However barren may be the soil that falls to our lot, yet a careful and assiduous culture will contribute not a little to make the garden, at least, pleasing and cheerful.

DISINTERESTED ACTION.

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by justice, is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The expences of society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other helps to chearfulness, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our superfluities; but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous disposition of our circumstances.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 203.)

“And yet it has been affected in a very simple manner. A moveable board, which could be pushed to and fro without the least noise, was concealed among those of which the cell was composed. Hiermanfor stole through that hidden avenue as soon as he saw from without, through a small hole, the lamp extinguished. He could enter without the least danger of detection, because you have turned your back towards him, and fixed your attention entirely on the altar.”

“Then every thing had been previously prepared and pre-concerted with the King?”

“Certainly!”

“And the whole conduct of the King has been regulated by Hiermanfor?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“The incident,” the Duke replied, after a pause, “now ceases, indeed, to appear miraculous to me; however, the behaviour of the king seems to me so much the more mysterious. How is it possible that this reverend old man could consent to deceive me in so degrading a manner?”

“It was no easy task to perswade him to it. However, after Hiermanfor had exhorted his eloquence in vain, he declared at length proudly, that no other choice was left him, than either leaving his crown forever in the possession of an usurper, or to consent to that innocent artifice. The King thought he was bound to choose the latter, for the benefit of the empire and his private happiness.”

A long silence on both sides. At length the Duke resumed: “Hiermanfor showed me the ghost of my tutor at the church-yard; by what means has that been effected?”

“Your Grace will allow me to leave this question unanswered!”

“For what reason?” the Duke asked with seeming coolness.

“Because my answer would explain nothing to you.”

“Why do you think so? the explanations which you have given me, as yet, have been very satisfactory to me.”

“They concerned only things which you were able to comprehend.”

“Indeed! you pay me a very bad compliment!”

“My Lord, do not misunderstand me, you have been telling me a little while ago, that you have not yet been initiated by Hiermanfor in the last mysteries of his philosophy!”

“I did, but what follows thence?”

“That you are still in want of the knowledge which will be requisite, if you are to be capable of comprehending the appearance of your tutor.”

“Don’t pretend to persuade me that this apparition has been effected by supernatural means.”

“I will persuade you to nothing, I only tell you what I know.”

“And I tell you only what I do not believe. All the other incidents should have been effected by delusive arts, and Antonio’s appearance only be excepted?”

“The appearance of Antonio was no deception.”

“You will never make me believe it.”

“I cannot blame you for it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have forfeited the right of deserving credit.”

The Duke was silent, viewing the Count attentively. The latter resumed: “Besides, it is very indifferent to me what you think of the matter. Hiermanfor may set you right.”

“How far are you connected with Hiermanfor?”

“Very much like you. He has made himself my master, and I am subservient to him.”

“Do you serve him with reluctance?”

“With devotion.”

“Then you will know to whom you are devoted?”

“I don’t know much more of him than your Grace.”

“Even that little which you know of him would be remarkable to me, if authentic.”

“I should tire your patience if I were to repeat to you all the improbable stories which are related of him. There are, however, very few credible accounts of him.”

“I protest I should see glad to know them.”

“Even the true family name of Hiermanfor is not known to me. He is said to have been born in Ireland, of plebeian parents. A near relation who professed astrology, had observed the stars on his birth, and prophesied great things of him. The same man persuaded his parents to give him a learned education, which they afterwards repented so much the less, when they perceived the astonishing progress in learning which he made. When he had attained the years of adolescence, his relation instructed him in mathematics and astronomy. The fame of Hiermanfor’s great learning procured him the place of governor in a noble family. The eldest daughter fell in love with him, and the language of her eyes soon betrayed to him the impression he had made on her heart. She was a blooming beauty, who had attracted by her uncommon charms, and rejected many woers of high rank. It had been reserved for Hiermanfor to kindle in her heart the first spark of love, and yet he appeared insensible of his good fortune. But he was not. He entertained a high sense of the preference given to him: honesty and prudence commanded him, however, to conceal his sentiments for a person who was so far superior to him in point of rank. Yet youthful age is not always capable of maintaining the rigorous dictates of reason against the seducing voice of the passions, and thus Hiermanfor betrayed, in an unguarded moment, the secret of his heart, which was received with rapture by the young lady, and carefully concealed in her bosom. But from that moment he resolved to endeavour to rise to a situation which would permit him to woo the hand of his mistress without 211 blushing. This bold idea had no sooner taken place in the soul of the resolute youth, than he began to delineate a plan for the execution of it. Hiermanfor thought the naval service would be the shortest way of attaining a splendid fortune, and instantly navigation became the chief object of his study. He found very soon an opportunity of putting his acquired knowledge in practice, which he chiefly owed to the support of the family in which he had been tutor. The proofs of uncommon skill which he gave in naval matters, soon raised him to the rank of a captain, when his mistress died. Hiermanfor resigned his place in the navy, and was received as lay brother in the order of the Carmelites. Having performed his vow he was sent to Rome, where he got acquainted with a priest of the same order, whose name was Father Gabriel, and who was famed for his great skill in physic and natural knowledge. Instructed by that learned man, he improved rapidly, and acquired at the same time great knowledge in natural magic, in which his relation had already instructed him.

“A genius like his could not, however, confine himself for a length of time to cloistered retirement and a speculative life. His superiors sent a mission to the Indies, and Hiermanfor got leave to make that journey with the missionaries. There he is said to have acquired among the Bramins the knowledge of the occult sciences, in the mysteries of which he has promised to initiate your Grace. I do not know what prompted him to leave the order afterwards. His superiors parting with him reluctantly, rendered it very difficult for him to procure dispensation from his vows. At length he got leave to retire, under the condition never to be inimical to the order.---This is all that I know of his life.”

“Then every thing the Magistrate and the hermit have related of him is a fictition?” the Duke enquired after a short silence.

“Not at all!” the Count replied, “almost all those accounts are founded on facts, though they have been embellished by fictitious episodes. The surprising feats of Hiermanfor, of which you have been informed, were however effected merely by means of natural magic.”

“For instance, the delivery of the old King from the castle of St. Lukar---how has it been effected?”

“It certainly has been performed by Hiermanfor’s accuteness, though not through him alone.”

“And the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard---”

“Has been effected by his supernatural power.”

“Count! by all that is dear to you, by Hiermanfor’s friendship, by our reconciliation, what is your real opinion of that apparition?”

“That it was affected by his supernatural power!”

The Duke rose and pressed the Count’s hand. “Have you any secret wish which I could satisfy? speak 211b freely, and I will satisfy it, cost it what it will, only make a frank and candid confession.”

“I have confessed every thing already.”

“If you, perhaps, hesitate to discover your real sentiments here, you may fix some other place, and I pledge my honour, that no man living shall be made acquainted with your secret.”

“My dear Duke! I have indeed told you what I think.”

“Count, I conjure you, by every thing sacred, by the horrors of eternity!” here the Duke encircled him with his arms, “by Amelia’s spirit, tell we what do you think of that apparition?”

“I believe that apparition to have been effected by Hiermanfor’s supernatural power,” replied the Count after a short silence.

The Duke stepped a few paces back, and having viewed him some time with a stern look, said, “You are my prisoner, do you know that I can send you to the dungeon?”

“I am in your power.”

“Where you will not be entreated to speak the truth?”

“Even on the rack I shall not contradict what I have said.”

“Come,” said the Duke, after he had walked up and down the room in silent meditation; “Come, I will give you some time for consideration.”---So saying, he led the Count into another room where he locked him up.

“What shall I do with that fellow?” he said to me when he returned to us, “believe what he has said and set him at liberty; or mistrust and retain him?”

“Retain him,” my reply was: “if he sees that you are in earnest, he certainly will confess.”

(To be continued.)

DIGNITY OF MAN.

Strength and majesty belong to the man; grace and softness are the peculiar embellishments of the other sex. In both, every part of their form declares their sovereignity over other creatures. Man supports his body erect; his attitude is that of command; and his face, which is turned towards the heavens, displays the dignity of his station. The image of his soul is painted in his vissage; and the excellence of his nature penetrates through the material form in which it is inclosed. His majestic port, his sedate and resolute step, announce the nobleness of his rank. He touches the earth only with his extremity, and beholds it as if at a disdainful distance. His arms are not given him, as to other creatures, for pillars of support; nor does he lose, by rendering them callous against the ground, that delicacy of touch which furnishes him with so many of his enjoyments.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 206, and concluded.)

Pulaski, consumed with a black melancholy, exposes his life like a man to whom life had become insupportable, is always to be found at the most dangerous posts, and, towards the end of the fourth campaign, is mortally wounded by my side. Being carried to his tent, I instantly repair thither to console him.

“I find that my end approaches,” says he, addressing himself to me. “Ah! it is but too true, that I shall never see my native country again!

“Cruel, fantastical destiny! Pulaski falls a martyr to American liberty, and the Poles still continue slaves!
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
My friend, my death would be indeed horrible, if a ray of hope did not remain to cheer me! Ah! I hope I do not deceive myself——No, I am not mistaken,” adds he in a firmer accent.

“A consoling Deity discloses in my last thoughts a futurity, a happier futurity which approaches!

“I behold one of the first nations in the world awakening from a long and deep slumber, and re-demanding of its proud oppressors its violated honours, and its ancient rights; its sacred, imprescriptible rights, the rights of humanity.

“I behold in an immense capital, long dishonoured by every species of servility, a crowd of soldiers discovering themselves to be citizens, and millions of citizens becoming soldiers.

“Beneath their redoubled blows, the Bastille shall be overturned; the signal is already given from one extremity of the empire to another;---the reign of tyrants is no more!

“A neighbouring people, sometimes an enemy, but always generous, always worthy of deciding upon great actions, shall applaud those unexpected efforts, crowned with such a speedy success!

“Ah, may a reciprocal esteem commence and strengthen between these two nations an unalterable friendship! May that horrible science of trick, imposture, and treason, which courts denominate politics, hold out no obstacle to prevent this fraternal re-union!

“Noble rivals, in talents and philosophy, Frenchmen! Englishmen! suspend at length, and suspend for ever, those bloody discords, the fury of which has but too often extended over the two hemispheres;---no longer decide between you the empire of the universe, but by the force of your example, and the ascendancy of your genius. Instead of the cruel advantage of affrighting and subduing the nations around you, dispute between yourselves 212b the more solid glory of enlightening their ignorance, and breaking their chains.

“Approach,” adds Pulaski, “behold at a little distance from, and in the midst of the carnage that surrounds us, among such a crowd of famous warriors, a warrior celebrated even in the midst of them, by his masculine courage, his early talents, and his virtues truly republican. He is the heir of a name long illustrious; but he had no occasion for the glory of his ancestors, to render himself celebrated.

“It is young Fayette, already an honour to France, and a scourge to tyrants: but he has scarce begun his immortal labours!

“Envy his fate, Lovzinski; endeavour to imitate his virtues, and follow as near as possible the steps of so great a man. He, the worthy pupil of a Washington, shall soon be the Washington of his own country. It is almost at the same time, my friend, it is at that memorable epoch of the regeneration of nations, that the eternal justice shall also present to our fellow-citizens, the days of vengeance and of liberty.

“Then Lovzinski, in whatever place thou mayest be, let thy hate re-kindle! Again combat gloriously on the side of Poland.

“Let the remembrance of our injuries, and of our successes, call forth thy courage! May thy sword, so many times empurpled with the blood of our enemies, be still turned against those oppressors. May they tremble while thinking on thy exploits! May they tremble in recalling the name of Pulaski!

“They have ravished from us our property; they have assassinated thy wife; they have robbed thee of thy daughter; they have dishonoured my memory!

“The barbarians! They have dismembered our provinces! Lovzinski, these are injuries which you ought never to forget.

“When our persecutors are those also of our country, vengeance becomes at once sacred and indispensible.

“You owe to the Russians an eternal hatred! You owe to Poland the last drop of your blood!”

Saying this he expires.*

Death, in snatching him from me, bereaved me of my last consolation.

I fought for the United States of America, until the happy peace which ensured their independence. M. de C***, who had served along with me, and who was attached to the corps commanded by the Marquis de la Fayette--- M. de C*** gave me letters of recommendation, to his friends in Paris, and this capital I have chosen for my retreat in the meridian of life, from the bustle of politics, and the clangor of arms.

Having informed my sisters, of the place of my residence, they collected the small remains of my fortune, formerly immense, and hastened to solace me after the distressing scenes I had unfortunately witnessed.

* * * * * *

The affecting history of the Baron Lovzinski, which he relates to a friend, breaks off, without giving any account of Dorliska, his darling daughter, whom the Russians carried off, in one of their engagements with Pulaski. It appears, from more recent accounts, given by an acquaintance of the Baron’s, that she fell into the hands of Count Gorlitz, a German Nobleman, who placed her in a suitable seminary, where she acquired every necessary accomplishment, and was by accident restored to her father, and united to a branch of a very distinguished family.

* Pulaski was killed at the siege of Savannah, in 1779.

The candid acknowledgment of an Old Batchelor.

I am that insulated being called an Old Batchelor. A creature wearisome to myself and beloved by no one, I have spent the noon of my days in a single state, from the dread of incurring the expences incident to a married life with a woman who had nothing, and now surely do I repent that I had not generosity enough to overlook this consideration in favour of a charming girl that I truly loved, and who wanted nothing but fortune to recommend her. I was formerly clerk to her father, then a mechanic of great respectability, but some years after greatly reduced by the unfortunate turn of affairs in his business, incidents to many. When he failed, I was settled in the world, and might have saved his amiable girl from many a year of fatigue and distress into which their poverty immersed them. But with sang froid, for which I now detest myself, I then stood aloof, tore my thoughts from the sweet Eliza, and driving forward into the heart of the city, determined to lose myself in the recesses of counting-houses, and the accumulation of money. Thus avoiding all the plagues and expences of a family, for which I deemed the society of an elegant and affectionate woman by no means an equivalent. Alas! I now see how I miscalculated; how much such a partnership would have been for my advantage in the long run. I now put the mutual participation of pleasure and pain, the endearments of our children, that flattering interest which Eliza would have taken in me (for whom by the way nobody now cares a straw,) I put all these on the credit side of the ledger, and find in the opposite page, only such a portion of expences as I have actually brought upon myself, by being drawn in to give tavern dinners, and a thousand other extravagancies that young men know not how to avoid. You will easily see, when a just account is made out, what I have gained, or rather what I have lost. Instead of the bright hearth and smiling faces of my family, instead of sitting down in the midst of beings who owe life to me, and portioning out their little meal with the delicious sensations of a father, I take my solitary chop at a coffee-house and afterwards saunter to the theatre, where venal beauty spreads her net and I am caught! Alas! here is no mind, here is no modesty to make sentiment interesting. After having seen a public entertainment with Eliza, with what delight might we have passed the remainder 213b of the evening. Her taste and sensibility would have made us live the hours over again with additional pleasure. Her bosom would have been my harbour in the storms of life, and there I should have found resources from ennui in the calm season of prosperity. In the day of sickness her voice could have whispered comfort, and in my dying hour the pure invocations of my children might have availed me at the throne of grace. What a sad reckoner have I been, I am now as grey as a badger, and have not a single relative in the world. I have long retired from business, but my fortune brings me no enjoyment, my dog leads nearly as rational a life: I eat and drink and sleep alternately as he does, for I now fear to become the prey of some indigent dame, who would overlook my grey hairs and infirmities in consideration of coming in for a third of my wealth, and therefore avoid much commerce with the sex, from which, though I might once have derived happiness, I can now only expect trick, or at best ridicule. But what can a man do who has let avarice run away with him in his youth, when all the social affections should have been at their out-posts to prevent it? All that remains for such a man (after the example of a culprit going to execution) is to warn the multitude how they fall into this error. To assure them that the good which is not participated is not half enjoyed, and that those who abandon a young woman from motives like mine, as they do not deserve happiness so they never will obtain it. And moreover, if you print this, pause to add, that an equal mixture of love and prudence forms the only, and most delicious conserve they will have the faculty of relishing all their life long. Either, taken separately, is prejudicial; one being too austere, and the other too sweet. They must be blended to render them happily effective, and if any persons have skill enough to make up the composition after my recipe, I shall not have bemoaned myself, nor you have inserted this in vain.

STEPHEN SORROWFUL.

REMARKS.

Custom regulates our ideas of shame. In China, the emperor orders the bastinado to be given to a minister or a mandarin; and afterward these persons continue in their employments, without thinking themselves dishonoured or degraded. They are like scholars who return to their places after having been whipped.

The idea of virtue is become so effaced, that scarcely do we hear the name of it pronounced. The usual expression now is, an honest man, which contains but negative qualities; or sometimes qualities are mentioned, as bravery, fidelity, &c. but a collective word which expresses them all is seldom made use of.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CANDIDUS.

No. I.

In an age when supernatural influence was universally acknowledged, in a country where temples innumerable rose to the fancied deities of every department of nature and of art; where even the different and opposite combinations of accident and exertion were reverenced as the decrees of a being divine and irresistable; convinced no less perhaps by self experience than observation on others, discarding the prejudices of his nation and his times, an historian published to the world and to posterity, the opinion: “Fabrum esse suæ quemque fortunæ.” Whatever then might have been the case, it would now perhaps be impossible to extend universally this proposition, and denying at once the influence of accident and chance, to prove the power of man to accomplish his wishes in every circumstance of situation and in every sphere of action. The partiality of favours and the crash of unforeseen misfortune too often expose neglected merit and ruined industry, as warning monitors in the road to honour and to riches. While sudden unlooked for prosperity not unfrequently demonstrates the best grounded fears of men unjustified by events. But, however incompetent may be our power at all times to acquire and confirm extraneous and adventitious greatness, or however limited and erroneous our views of distant consequences in the common affairs of life, as it respects the endowments of mind, it may with no little propriety be averred, Fabrum else suæ quemque fortunæ. By the great philosophers of nature, Newton and Buffon, genius was defined only a superior degree of patience and perseverence, and at the present day the advocates of this doctrine are not inconsiderable either in numbers or in talents. True indeed it is, that they incur no disgrace by entering the lists with many of their opponents. On the subject of genius three distinct opinions appear to be entertained. By some it is held to be an innate superiority of aptitude to knowledge, independent of the labours of its possessor and unsubjected to the influence of circumstance or situation. Others rejecting altogether the idea of original difference in capacity, ascribe it to the co-operation of accident and tuition confirming after years of infancy a greater or less degree of comprehension. A third set denying at once innate distinction and the agency of chance, give all the credit to assiduity and allow to the mind no other wealth than the requisitions of its industry. Of these opinions the first has long been upon the decline, and the sentiments of the generality of speculative men, are now divided between the second and the last. But on which ever side of this question we enlist our conviction, we shall find an investigation, that so much is owing to their own exertions as to afford to the present demonstration sufficient for a moral proposition. Pity that a truth so grateful to the friend of humanity, so encouraging to the aspiring mind, should be so seldom and so feebly inculcated. 214b Ardent in pursuit, sanguine in expectation, with this impression what obstacles would obstruct what difficulties dishearten the youthful devotee of science. On the improvement of mind much has been written to enlarge its stores and strengthen its capacity, many and different methods have been recommended; but if want of attention to rules of acknowledged necessity can warrant a repetition, a few hints on this subject will need no excuse. In nothing probably are the generality of men more deceived than in the opinion they form of the mental progress of different individuals. To the lifeless soul whose diseased eyes bespeak his labours over the midnight lamp—who, secluded from society in the solitude of a study, loses his vivacity beneath a ponderous load of immethodized undigested matter; duped by specious appearance they give without examination the palm of learning. But in the hour of exigence, when the intellectual host is summoned to the field; when profit to ourselves and benefit to mankind stand the criterions of useful acquisitions, then will it uniformly be proved that reading well is infinitely better than reading much. In many who have formed a taste for reading, that taste so productive of benefit and delight; curiosity active and aspiring, still urging on even to flights beyond its sketch, hurries attention over the field of view. The different objects are but transiently inspected, and a mass of faint and indistinct impressions are mixed in the brain, of which each in succession makes the last less clear. With far less rapidity must he travel who would explore with advantage the land of knowledge. Selecting from the multitude of objects those most worthy of examination, he should with persevering care investigate their principles and structure and leave them not till satisfied he possesses all the information they can give. To read as we ought, we must read with attention and with thought. Many there are who read with attention, but few with thought. Simply to comprehend the meaning and keep in mind the connection of an author’s arguments is not sufficient, we must see and feel their force. Never to take upon trust the sentiments of another, to examine with minuteness his principles and his deductions, and to be assured of the justness of the former and the accuracy of the latter, before he adopts them as his own, should be the constant practice of him who would read with real and permanent utility. In order to this, it is necessary to form in youth a habit of deep severe persevering thought. To form this habit is at first indeed difficult, nay painful. Inclined to ease, the mind especially in early life, averts from the labour of reflection; but when confirmed, it finds in it a never ending treasure: every surrounding object affords it employment; the man who possesses it discovers in the worlds of sentiment, of manners, of science and of art, sources of continual unbounded improvement. An eminent instance of this was the celebrated Gibbon, “I have been led by a novel (says that elegant historian) into a deep and instructive train of thinking.”

(To be concluded in our next.)

ANECDOTE.

When Guido and Domenichino had each of them painted a picture in the church of Saint Andrew, Annibal Carrache, their master, was pressed to declare, or give his opinion, which of his two pupils had excelled. The picture of Guido represented St. Andrew on his knees before the cross; that of Domenichino represented the flagellation of the same Apostle. Both of them in their different kinds were capital pieces, and were painted in fresco, opposite each other, to eternize, as it were, their rivalship and contention. ‘Guido,’ said Carrache, ‘has performed as a master, and Domenichino as a scholar. But,’ added he, ‘the work of the scholar is more valuable than that of the master.’ In truth, one may perceive faults in the picture of Domenichino that Guido has avoided; but then there are noble strokes, not to be found in that of his rival. It was easy to discern a genius that promised to produce beauties, to which the sweet, the gentle, and the graceful Guido would never aspire.

NEW-YORK.

The Subscribers and Public in general are respectfully informed, that John Bull, late Editor and Publisher of this Magazine, has disposed of the establishment to Mr. Thomas Burling, Jun. from the 1st day of January, 1797. In committing this publication to other hands J. Bull feels assured, that the talents which are in future to be employed in conducting it, are such as cannot fail to afford the fullest satisfaction to its patrons, and must ensure an accession of that celebrity which it has hitherto enjoyed.

At the moment of relinquishing so arduous a task, the grateful recollection of the steady support and kindnesses of my numerous friends in this undertaking, demand the warmest thanks. To those who have favoured me with the productions of their pens, I beg leave to recommend my successor; and to entreat for him a continuance of that friendship, the remembrance of which can never be effaced from my mind.

In order fully to close the Accounts to this period, I must intreat, that the bills for the small arrearages due to the 1st of January, 1797, may be punctually honoured—each distinct sum is but trifling, while the aggregate amounts to some hundred pounds; an exact compliance will add to the obligations already heaped on

The Public’s obliged,

Humble Servant,

JOHN BULL.

P.S. Printing as usual executed by me at the Office No. 115, Cherry-street. I have now in the press, publishing by subscription, CAMILLA; or a Picture of Youth: by the author of Evelina and Cecilia.

TO THE PUBLIC, AND PATRONS

OF

The New-York Weekly Magazine.

In becoming the Editor of so valuable a publication as The New-York Weekly Magazine, I cannot but feel sensations of gratitude to its generous patronizers for the liberal encouragement it has heretofore been favoured with; without which, there would not have been so great a stimulus to my undertaking this arduous task.

Sensibly feeling the duty that is incumbent on me in conducting this Repository of Literary and Useful Knowledge, all the attention and assiduous circumspection which is requisite to make it useful, entertaining and edifying to every capacity, may be relied on by a generous public.

It would be useless for me to enlarge upon the merits of a work which has so long received the approbation of an enlightened people.—Certain it is, that every attentive and candid reader will confess, or at least acknowledge the utility of this production, as the vehicle of refined ideas and engaging principles; contributing to disseminate and establish the most virtuous sentiments, while it stimulates to noble and generous actions.

I humbly solicit the literary abilities of those kind Correspondents who have hitherto come forward in support of this publication; and, shall always gratefully acknowledge the productions of the candid and sentimental writer.

Relying on the liberal support of my friends and a generous public, in prosecuting this my undertaking to their general satisfaction and entertainment,

I am, with profound respect,

Their Obedient, Humble Servant,

THOMAS BURLING, Jun.

New-York, Jan. 2, 1797.

MARRIED,

On Thursday the 22d ult. by the Rev. Mr. Miller, Mr. Thomas Loutette, to Miss Catharine M‘Kenzie, both of this city.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The new Editor thankfully acknowledges the pieces of CLARA and A. D. He is sorry they arrived too late for this publication, in the next, however, they shall have a place.

WINTER; AN ODE.

DESPAIR.

ODE TO CONTEMPLATION.

Epigram on a false mistress.

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