For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

A FUGITIVE THOUGHT.

Musing the other day in a pensive attitude, my head reclining on my hand, and my elbow resting on the table—methought—Why is the mind either incessantly haunted with gloom, or wrapt in extacy? Why is man generally peevish, morose, sullen, fretful or passionate, and seldom enjoying that beautiful equilibrium of temper that alone can produce happiness to himself and others? The object of all (said I to myself) is to acquire comfort and happiness; but how wide do they steer of the mark, that give way to hateful passions. I recollected how trivial faults of persons in my employ made me impatient—that I sometimes was subject to those disagreeable emotions, and that I thereby made those and myself unhappy: I bethought myself of recent trials, which, though afflictive, should not have excited discontent; and I put up a fervent petition to heaven, to assist me in a resolution I then formed of never giving way to chagrin, but of always endeavouring to possess, at least, a pleasing equanimity. I am no enemy to transports of joy, when not carried to excess: I fancy, that for this end are the passions given us; but we have perverted into a source of uneasiness what was designed to increase our pleasure, and to make this life of probation less burthensome.

I will, continued I, from this, endeavour to be as happy myself as possible, and it shall be my care to cause those around me, as far as lies in my power, to participate in my bliss. My domestics, and all under my care, shall be but gently reproved when they err; or rather, I will acquaint them merely with their faults, and if they are wise they surely will improve. My children I will advise with the utmost tenderness, and use every art to allure them into the paths of virtue; good shall be represented to them in the most glowing and fascinating colours, and vice shall be depicted with the most frightful, hideous and forbidding appearance. My wife, the partner of my joys, must be the partaker of my happiness—hand in hand shall we go on in this blissful path—no jar shall disturb our harmony, nor shall discontent or anger ever wrinkle our brows: then shall we fulfil the design of our Maker in sending us into the 321b world, and shall pass through its variegated scenes with as much comfort and content as can possibly be enjoyed here below by mortals.

N. L.

DISCONTENT.

In the humble and seemingly-quiet shade of private life, as well as among the great and mighty, discontent broods over its imaginary sorrows; preys upon the citizen no less than the courtier, and often nourishes passions equally malignant in the cottage and in the palace. Having once seized the mind, it spreads its own gloom over every surrounding object; it every where searches out materials for itself; and in no direction more frequently employs its unhappy activity, than in creating divisions among mankind, and in magnifying slight provocations into mortal injuries.

In situations where much comfort might be enjoyed, this man’s superiority and that man’s neglect, our jealousy of a friend, our hatred of a rival, an imagined affront, or a mistaken point of honour, allow us no repose. Hence discord in families, animosities among friends, and wars among nations! Look around us! every where we find a busy multitude. Restless and uneasy in their present situation, they are incessantly employed in accomplishing a change of it; and as soon as their wish is fulfilled, we discern, by their behaviour, that they are as dissatisfied as they were before. Where they expected to have found a paradise, they find a desert.

The man of business pines for leisure; the leisure for which he had longed proves an irksome gloom, and, through want of employment, he languishes, sickens, and dies.

The man of retirement fancies no state so happy as that of active life; but he has not engaged long in the tumults and contests of the world, until he finds cause to look back with regret on the calm hours of his former privacy and retreat.

Beauty, wit, eloquence and fame, are eagerly desired by persons in every rank of life. They are the parent’s fondest wish for his child; the ambition of the young, and the admiration of the old; and yet in what numberless instances have they proved, to those who possessed them, no other than shining snares, seductions to vice, instigations to folly, and, in the end, sources of misery.

For sources of this continuing serial, see the end of the Index file. The final installment of the novel is followed by the “Address of the Translator” in two further installments.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Concluded from page 315.)

The King proposed in the council of state in which this decree was debated, that some of the criminals should be executed, but the rest imprisoned for life. The Marquis of **ira insisted, however, upon the execution of the legal punishment, and was seconded by the other members. The King mitigated the punishment of those who had been sentenced to be hanged, ordering them to be beheaded. The two prelates, whose fate had been left to his Royal pleasure, were doomed to eternal imprisonment.

Going to Court the next day, I heard Alumbrado had found means to escape from his prison. It was believed Oliv*rez had bribed the gaoler by a large sum to suffer him to liberate himself, which appeared to me very probable, as the latter could be found no where, and very likely had joined the villain in his flight, who, however, as it is to be wished for the best of human kind, will not escape the punishment due to his crimes*.

What I am going to relate now, is the account of an eye-witness, for how could I have been present on such an heart-breaking occasion?

On the 28th of August a scaffold, covered with black cloth, was erected before the house where the prisoners had been confined the preceding night. On this scaffold three steps were seen, on each of which a chair was placed, the upper one for the Duke of Cam*na, the middle chair for the Marquis of Villa R*al, and the lower one for the Duke of Ar*amar.

The Marquis of Villa R*al was the first who stepped out of one of the windows of the house, which served instead of a door. He begged the bye-standers pardon in a short speech, and was beheaded.

As soon as his corpse was covered, his son made his appearance. His pale and staring countenance resembled that of a corpse. He uttered not a syllable, seated himself on the chair, and one blow severed his head from his body.

The pen drops from my hand, and the idea of that horrid scene curdles the blood in my veins. Reader, who art perusing these pages, look back once more on the road on which a noble young man, adorned with the most excellent 322b genius, and the best of hearts, suffered himself to be seduced to a crime for which he atoned with his life!

CONTINUATION.

(By an unknown Hand.)

The Marquis of F*, to whom the preceding Memoirs had been entrusted for publication, dying nine weeks after the execution of his unhappy friend, left these interesting papers to me, after I had promised him on his death-bed to execute the last request of their ill-fated author. I have discharged the trust reposed in me some years since, and the character of the poor deluded young man has been vindicated in the eyes of the public, who have received the mournful tale of his misfortunes with tears of pity. The continuation of these extraordinary Memoirs, which I am going to add, is so wonderful and remarkable, that I wish it had been in my power to communicate it to the public along with the rest; the whole being, however, a secret of state, which I am not allowed to disclose while the persons concerned in it are alive, I shall, perhaps, be obliged to leave the publication of the subsequent pages to my children.

Nine years are already elapsed since the execution of the conspirators, and the death of the Marquis of F* and—the Duke of Ca*ina, whose hapless fate the latter has bewailed in silent grief, and who generally is believed to have been executed with the rest of his associates, is yet alive.

The King, who ardently wished to spare the life of the Duke, but at the same time was afraid of counteracting the decree of the council of state, who had doomed him to public execution, found himself in no small embarrassment. However, the Irishman, who wished with equal ardour to save the life of the poor misguided young man, soon found out means of dissolving the Gordian knot. “I could,” said he to the King, “make a mask, which no one should be able to discern from the real phisiognomy of the Duke; and this mask I could fasten to the face of some other person, in such a manner, that every one should believe that person to be the Duke. If, therefore, we can find a person who resembles him in size, and in the make of his body, and at the same time shall be willing to lose his head in the place of the Duke, it will not be difficult to save the life of the latter, without either offending the Senate, or leaving him at liberty to conspire a second time against the life of your Majesty. This person, who in every respect will answer our purpose, is Alumbrado. He is of the same size with the Duke, and if informed that he is condemned to be torn by horses, will not refuse to accept the mask, and to die by the sword in the place of the Duke. In order to cover this innocent fraud, we must give out that Alumbrado has escaped from the prison, and thus the benevolent wish of your Majesty can be accomplished with secrecy and safety.”

This plan of the Irishman was executed with the privity and assistance of only a few persons, who took a solemn oath never to disclose the secret, and Alumbrado was beheaded in the room of the Duke. The deceit was carried 323 on so dexterously, that none of those who witnessed his execution, suspected him to be any other person but the Duke whom he represented.

The latter, however, knew nothing of this fraud that had been practised in his favour, for although the Irishman had modelled his face in wax, yet he had not received the most distant hint of the purpose for which it had been done. When he was carried out of his dungeon, a few hours after the execution of his father and the disguised Alumbrado, and led through a dark subterraneous passage, he fancied that he was to meet his doom. He was conducted over many secret staircases, and at length entered, through an iron door, a dark apartment where he was ordered to wait. But soon after a second door was opened, and an apartment illuminated with numberless torches presented itself to his view. There he beheld the King sitting at a table, and a man with a sack and a sword standing by his side, who beckoned to him to step nearer. The Duke having entered the apartment, the door was bolted after him, and he expected every moment to be his last. The King looked at him for some time without speaking a word, and at last began:—“You have designed the ruin of your country, and conspired against my life, what do you think you deserve?” “Death!” the Duke replied. “You have been doomed by the Council of State to suffer a very painful death; I have, however, mitigated their sentence into that of your being executed by the sword.” The Duke thanked the King for his clemency, and looked at the man, whom he mistook for the executioner. “Your sentence has been executed already!” the King resumed, after a long pause of awful expectation. The silence of the Duke, and the expression of his features, bespoke his desire for an explanation of these mysterious words. “You gaze at me;” the King added, “you doubt, perhaps, the truth of what I have said? however you shall soon be convinced.” So saying he made a signal to the man who was standing by his side, upon which the latter opened the sack, and taking out a head recently cut off, showed it to the Duke, who staggered back when he discerned his own features in the face of the bleeding head. The whole mystery was now explained to him, and the King added: “You owe your life to my mercy and the invention of the Irishman; it is, however, not in my power to restore you to human society. Although you are alive, yet you will be numbered among the dead, and be lost to the world for ever. You will pass your life banished from society, and deprived of liberty, yet you may rest assured that none of the comforts of life, liberty excepted, will be denied you.”

This sentence was executed literally, the Duke was confined for the rest of his life in a strong tower situated on the river Ta*o, where handsome apartments were allotted to him, and wanted nothing but liberty.

[The Address of the Translator of the preceding history to his Thinking Readers, being thought worthy their attention, it will be laid before them in our next, and succeeding number.]

THE BALM OF SORROW.

Not studied consolatory speeches, not precepts from the Cynick’s tub, nor a volume of last century sermons, but employment. Let the victim of ingratitude, of grief, of love, plunge into the whirlpool of business, and he will feel like the valetudinarian, invigorated from the bath. On this subject Armstrong prescribes like a physician, and exhorts like a philosopher.

ANECDOTES.

A gentleman who now fills an important office in this State, was travelling through a part of the country where he was not so personally known as his horses and carriage; having exchanged places with his servant who attended on horseback, he fell into conversation with a rough countryman, who was riding the same way, and from the gentleman’s extraordinary paleness, mistook him for the servant. The conversation turning on the fineness of the horses before the carriage, the clown observed, that he knew them very well; they belonged to Mr. G—: the gentleman replied they did: “And I suppose,” said the fellow, “that is he in the coach; but if I had his horses, I wou’d’n’t care if the D—l had him.”

A veteran toper complained to the celebrated Doctor W. of Boston, that from long use of spirituous liquors, they palled upon his palate, and failed to exhilirate his spirits. The Doctor, in a sportive mood, inquired if he had ever used AQUA FORTIS, and recommended it to his patient, diluted with water.—The toper immediately procured a quantity, which he first mixed with water, and then took in its crude state; but in a few months the AQUA FORTIS afforded him as little pleasure as common New-England Rum. Soon after the unfortunate tipler, meeting the Doctor in the street, addressed him thus, “Doctor, the aqua Forties won’t do, can’t you give me something stronger; do, dear Doctor, for the love of grog, let me have a little aqua Fifties.”

Messrs. Printers,

The following story struck me on perusal, as an affecting one. Modern military petit maitres, who have never seen any other service but that of the ladies, pique themselves on extreme insensibility. They nightly infest the theatres, not to be entertained, but to interrupt—to display white teeth and empty heads—to laugh at every noble sentiment of Melpomene, though delivered with all the exquisite energy of a Siddons, or the delicate tenderness of a Merry—to such beings this little story may be of infinite use—they may learn that sensibility does not entirely disgrace regimentals, and that the sympathetic tear may be given to distress, without tarnishing the honour of the soldier.

Eugenius.

The FATAL EFFECTS of a TOO SUSCEPTIBLE HEART
in a YOUNG PRUSSIAN OFFICER.

“My son was an ensign in a regiment in which I ranked as Captain. We had served two campaigns together, and I was pleased with the marks of a cool and sensible courage, which I had observed in him, and which promised the most flattering hopes of his becoming one day an ornament to his family.

“His heart was naturally generous and tender. This virtue endeared him to me; but I trembled for its effects. It might, I thought, shake his fortitude in the trying scenes of the miserable spectacles of war, and possibly suppress the enterprising spirit of youth; a quality so essential to the advancement of a soldier, and so necessary an embellishment to his character.

“Oftentimes, when his overflowing compassionate heart would vent itself in a burst of sorrow for the unfortunate, I had recourse to the sophistry of argument, to paint those objects of his reflections in different colours to his imagination; and while reproving him with his unmanly weakness, could have clasped him to my bosom for the melting tenderness of his nature.

“I frequently, though with utter repugnance, conducted him to the trying scenes of suffering criminals; thus attempting to familiarize his mind to the disastrous events which life is too often embittered with.

“Some little time after the affair of Schweidnitz, our army had burnt and sacked a small village of the Austrians. It was our chance of duty to be sent to this place. When the general confusion of the day had subsided, and some order restored among the troops, we made an excursion round the village to view the effects.

“On our approach to the ruins of a once clean and neat house, we were suddenly shocked by the approach of an old woman. The genius of extreme wretchedness seemed faithfully pourtrayed in her ghastly countenance.

“She flung herself upon her knees, and in a shrill voice of desperation, imprecated the most direful curses on our heads. “If,” says she, “you call yourselves men, and not savages of unequalled brutality, either kill me instantly, and end my extreme sufferings; or, O! let me have help to search for the remains of my children.”

“I tenderly exhorted her to calm herself—that she might expect every assistance; and staying with her till my son had returned with a few soldiers, I learnt, that on the alarm of the sudden approach of our troops to the village, the unrestrained disorder which was naturally to be expected, had forced her son and daughter, with two grandchildren, to seek shelter in a cellar of the house; which house sharing the same unfortunate fate with the rest, was soon pillaged and set on fire—that she herself had fled some little way into the country, and had retired from the danger of the enemy, in hopes that, in case of a discovery, her age might secure her from that fate which her grandchildren, two young women in the bloom of life, might otherwise be exposed to—that their father, who was a notary of the place, with his wife, had resolved on staying with the children in their concealment.

“When my son returned with the soldiers, the old woman showed us the spot where we should search for the poor devoted family. We had not been long at work among the ruins, when we broke into the cellar whither the family had fled. Here a scene presented itself, that would have turned a monarch’s heart from the fell tide of war, which brings such desolation and horror in its course.

“Clasped in each others arms lay two beautiful sisters, with their father and mother by their side, suffocated by the smoke; while the old woman, with horrid yells, was bewailing the loss of her unfortunate children, kissing the bodies, and frantic with grief. My son stood with folded arms musing over this melancholy spectacle.

“I solicited him to depart; I urged him to withdraw from so affecting a scene. Sternly did he turn his eyes on me, and seemed petrified to the spot. In vain did I reason on the necessary consequences of war; that it was no premeditated cruelty, but one of those casual misfortunes that even the civil transactions of life are often checquered with.

“Where is your reason, your manhood, my boy? shall a soldier be overcome with weak womanish feelings? for shame! for shame! All men in the course of their lives must make up their minds to calamities like these. Away! Your countrymen will ridicule your want of firmness; and the laurels which you have hitherto acquired, will only serve to point you out as a more conspicuous instance of effeminacy.

“I took him by the arm to draw him gently from this distressing sight, when he flung himself away from me, and exclaimed, pointing to the youngest of the girls, whose tongue, from the convulsive gasps of death, hung from her mouth, “Behold this unparalleled butchery of my countrymen! Will not the wrath of heaven revenge this outrage on humanity? Cruel, cruel Prussians! You are bloody indeed! accursed profession! Hell only has invented thee. From this moment I abjure thee. I will not return to these blood-hounds: I will fly to the desarts for ever, and hide my face from such inhumanity:” with “see there! my father,” pointing again to the dead bodies, and burst into a flood of tears.

“It required some force to bear him from this calamitous scene; and so strong was the impression, that a fixed melancholy took entire possession of him: and such was the extreme delicacy and tenderness of his feelings, that I was destined to see this beloved child seized with a violent fever, and to hear him, in the paroxisms of his distemper, rave in the wildest, yet most pathetic language on this event.

“Some little time before he expired, he had fashioned one of the young women into his wife; and starting up in bed, cursing the war which had snatched her away from him, he fixed his eyes ghastly upon me, which I readily translated into a remonstrance for being the author of his unhappy malady, fell back into a swoon, from which he never recovered.”

MIRANDA.

A MORAL TALE.

(Concluded from page 318.)

Sighs and tears interrupted her speech; her words died on her tongue; she pressed her little companion, and was silent. Her mother begged she might here take up the story.

She was just beginning, when an old woman opened the cottage-door. Her appearance was such as to prejudice beholders in her favour. She set down a basket, which she carried on her arm; and, without speaking a word, was about to retire, when the matron called to her—“This gentleman, Mary, who deigns to interest himself so much in our afflictions, will not, my heart, I know not why, tells me, be offended at your being admitted to his company.” I joined my voice to the old lady’s—Mary curtsied, and sat down.

“This, Sir,” continued the old lady; “this, Sir, is our Heaven-sent benefactress: under that rustic garb, are virtues which would adorn the possessors of a throne!—But I make you uneasy, my good friend; I will cease to praise you in words: I will only tell your actions, and let them praise you. This worthy creature, Sir, lived with us twenty years. In that space, she saved nearly forty pounds; by which we have all, my poor dear husband included, been for these nine months supported.”

“The money came from you, my good lady; it was my duty, therefore,” said Mary, “when you stood in need, to restore it to you again.”

“Her attentions, Sir, would heal our woes, if they could admit of cure: but, alas! that seems impossible. However, when I reflect how miraculously Heaven has hitherto preserved us, I take comfort; and hope that, in his own good time and manner, he will make us triumph over our calamities. God is just; he chastens those whom he receives into the number of his children.”

“Do not doubt, Madam,” exclaimed I, involuntarily clasping her hand; “do not doubt, that God will speedily cause you to emerge out of this sea of adversity!”

“Will you please, Madam, to take your little supper now?” said Mary, with officious attention.

“We will,” replied her mistress; “and this gentleman, if he can put up with our rustic food, will perhaps do us the honour to partake with us.”

We moved to the table; and, when supper was over, the old lady returned the clue of the narrative—

“Henry, the rector’s amiable son, returned now from Oxford; he saw, he admired, he loved Miranda. The nobleness of his nature caused him to act in every thing with the strictest honour and integrity. He confessed his passion, and received as ingenious reciprocation of love. With generous frankness, he acquainted his father with his attachments. The haughty priest foamed with rage at the bare mention of it, and maddened at the idea of his son’s marrying---these were his words---“a wench without fortune, family, or any thing; the daughter of my curate, too!” In short, from hence forward, he studied only how to distress and ruin us. His first motion was to get his son out of the way, whom he compelled to take the tour of Europe!---Miranda sobbed aloud—“a joyless tour, alas! for Henry.” We believe he constantly writes to Miranda; but the rector secures his letters, knowing that we are not able to bring him to account. Not satisfied with having separated the lovers, he sought for other means of distressing us; and, having bought the debt which my husband had contracted, thrust him with merciless cruelty into prison. Here we succour him, and make him as comfortable as such a situation will allow: though the surly priest takes every means of harrassing both him and us.”

When the old lady had finished her narrative, I felt such deep commiseration, that I could answer her only by marks of indignation, and by sighs.

Miranda, during the whole time, had been totally absorbed in tears: but, now, collecting herself, she caught my eyes fixed on the little dog. “You wonder,” said she, “no doubt, at the unusual kindness which I manifest towards this little animal. I will put an end to your astonishment. It is the only memorial of my Henry; he gave it to me: we were both wont to amuse ourselves with it; since his departure I have cherished it in my bosom; it has eat of my bread, drank of my cup, and been to me as my lover.”

I thanked her for her condescension; and, turning to address the old lady, found her eyes again fastened on me: she examined my features involuntarily, and with seeming forgetfulness; then shook her head as before, and sighed. This striking behaviour, particularly as I found myself similarly circumstanced, stopped what I was about to utter. I was silent. Soon after, she looked eagerly at me again.

“Excuse me, Sir; I am sensible of my rudeness, but nature impels me to this behaviour; will you have the 326 goodness to ease my doubts, by informing me, whether you are a native of England?”

“No, Madam! but born of English parents in Russia.”

“Good Heaven! art thou, then, making me amends for the afflictions thou hast laid upon me!”

“Your words, Madam, distract me! What do they mean? My heart tells me that some kindred tie binds us. Heaven grant that it may be so!”

“Is your name, then, Egerton?”---“The same.”

“I thank thee, O God!”---Here she sunk into a swoon; but was quickly recovered by her daughter and the old servant.

She opened her eyes again; and, by the kindness of indulgent Heaven, I embraced a long-lost-sister! Who can describe my joy?

Our family thought she had become a prey to the waves. She had been shipwrecked, at an early age, in a vessel bound to England; was taken up by an English privateer, and adopted as the captain’s daughter. About the time she married, the captain had been unfortunate; and had, therefore, no portion but about two hundred pounds to give with her, which sum had been long since expended in the education of her children. He promised, however, to seek out her parents, but was cast away in the voyage. She, therefore, had never heard any thing of them; and, as the captain of the vessel in which herself had been wrecked had her instructions in his possession, she knew not whither she was intended to go to, in England.

Miranda, and her sister, now pressed me to take their bed for the night, as it was too late to return; but, as I was stronger, and in better health than them, I insisted on using the couch.

Early next morning, I repaired to Lord Alton, my worthy host, and acquainted him with my adventure. He hastened with me to relieve my respected, but unknown brother, from the horrors of confinement.

We reached the prison; when, lo! the good man had just been liberated by his future son. Henry had returned in disguise; had discharged the debt; and was now receiving his grateful benediction. I explained who I was: and they received me with tears of joy.

His lordship took upon himself the conciliation of the rector, and immediately set out to acquaint him with all the circumstances, while we hastened to the cot. I will not attempt to describe the overflowing joy of the old couple, nor the rapturous embraces of the young folks. Miranda underwent a transient suspension of her faculties, but awakened to never-fading happiness. The two young children climbed the good man’s knees, to share the long-regretted kiss. The old woman gazed on her worthy master, with eyes overflowing with unaffected tears of mingled joy and sorrow. Her extacy was unbounded; she lifted up her hands to Heaven, and silently blessed its goodness! Her master did not neglect her, but quickly received her in a kind and grateful embrace.

We now received a message from his lordship, desiring our attendance immediately. Henry, the worthy curate, and myself, quickly obeyed it. We met the hitherto obdurate father—but, how changed! He was all politeness, all compliance: proud of an alliance with his lordship’s friend and relation—for such Miranda now proved to be. I gave my niece a dower equal to the young man’s fortune.

In a few days the nuptials were celebrated. All the inhabitants of the village shared heartily in their joy. They danced on the village green, and were treated in rustic sumptuousness by the happy bridegroom. Whispers of blessings showered on them both! Such as had been ungrateful to the father, threw themselves on their knees, and asked his forgiveness; which was readily granted them, with a kind and gentle rebuke. Even the rector sued for pardon, ashamed of his inhuman treatment, as he himself termed it.

His lordship soon after stationed my brother in a comfortable rectory, to which I added five hundred pounds a year as my sister’s fortune.

The old woman survived but a few months: during which time she had been treated as a sister. Her remains were interred in a vault designed for the family; and a small mural monument was erected with this inscription——

To the Memory of
Mary S—
A humble Christian,
A steady Friend,
The best of Servants;
Who graced her station by her Virtues;
Supported her Master and his Family
In their distresses;
And strove, with tender and incessant attention,
To blunt the stings of Adversity:
This Monument
Is erected, as a testimony of Gratitude
And sincere Respect,
And as an example, to excite others
To the like pious Conduct,
By her grateful Master,
W. Jackson.

Henry, and his ever-lovely Miranda, live in tempered extacies of love; their little dog is treated as a child. They have one child, a sweet boy, called after my name. My niece is again pregnant. May Heaven render my dear little son, and all their future offspring, who are to inherit my estates, as worthy and as virtuous as their parents.

ANECDOTE.

Some time ago, a gentleman was robbed of some loose silver and an empty purse. The highwayman discovering the inutility of the latter, very politely returned, and gave him his purse back, with the following observations:—‘Sir, I shan’t put you to the trouble of advertising it; for indeed it is of no use but to the owner.’

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

Thinking the following Fragment, found among the writings of the late much lamented Doctor Joseph Youle, will be an acquisition to the Editors of the Weekly Magazine, I have endeavoured to obtain a copy of it, and present it to them, with a wish that it may be received by the public with as much pleasure as it was by

M.

A FRAGMENT, after the manner of J. Y.

The sun was retiring behind a lofty ridge of mountains to gladden other regions; the towering spires of the village churches were tipt with gold; while the resplendent rays reflected from the windows dazzled the eye. Above was the azure vault, variegated with fleecy clouds; beneath was Nature’s verdant carpet. The little songsters of the grove were paying their tributes of praise in melodious strains; the bleatings of the lambs, and the lowings of the milky mothers re-echoed from the vallies. The waters of a gently murmuring stream, which ran by the foot of a mountain, were silvered o’er by the mild rays of the queen of night. The soothing sound of a distant cataract gently saluted the ear. The fragrant odors of flowers, watered by gentle zephyrs, breath’d a delightful perfume.

Surely, says Amelia, all nature conspires to calm the mind, to restore tranquility, to soften every care. But what can ease the torture of a love-sick soul; like the angry sea after agitation by blustering winds, ’tis still tumultuous. My Philander sleeps in the silent dust; to the king of terrors he has fallen an untimely prey: cold are the clods that cover his once faithful breast. That heart which was once the seat of sensibility, and endowed with every virtue, ceases to vibrate to the sound of woe. The widow and the orphan shall point to thy tomb, Philander, and cry, There lies our friend and patron! She walked pensively towards the place where his last remains were interred: Is this white stone, emblem of his innocence, the only memento of the lovely youth?—No—thou ever livest in the soul of Amelia; there, in indelible characters, thy image is impress’d. I will strew thy grave with flowers; I will raise upon it the green sod; I will encircle it with willows. Let not unhallowed feet tread here; this place to love is sacred. Nightly will I visit thy grave, nor shall the wealth of worlds induce me to forego the mournful pleasure. If the spirits of the just watch round their surviving friends, then surely thou art my guardian angel. Dear shade, thou knowest the anguish of my soul: to me thou can’st not be visible—where thou art, I soon shall be, never to part again: in that state, where eternal love, and joy, and peace prevail. While she stood entranced in pleasing anticipation, she reflected on his last request:—“Amelia, live to reward my virtues, friend, and bless the world 327b with a race of angels like thyself.” Suddenly she started at the voice of complaining and of woe;—’twas Titius, breathing the anguish of his soul to the silent night.—“Oh, Amelia, thou lovely fair one, how long must I mourn an unreturned affection? thou knowest I waste my midnight hours in thoughts on thee; the conscious moon, the woods, the groves, are witnesses of my love: I grieve unpitied—I sigh unheard.” As he advanced towards her, she exclaimed:—“Titius, I know, I feel thy sorrow;—if thou can’st in return for love accept of friendship, I am thine. Thou knowest the object of my soul, the once adorable, amiable Philander.” In an extacy of amazement and delight, he cries—“Angels, catch the sounds; ’tis my Amelia’s voice: thy friendship is more valuable than the love of Titius. Let us be happy. We will visit the grave of Philander together, and pay to his memory the tribute of love and friendship. Each returning season we will decorate his grave with flowers, till we go to join him in the world of spirits; where there is an ever blooming spring, an eternal day.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday the 30th ult. at Flatbush, (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Faitoute, Mr. Charles Dickenson, of Saybrook, (Connecticut) to Miss Nancy Smith, of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, Mr. Hugh Dougherty, to Miss Elizabeth Forbes, both of this city.

On Saturday evening the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. John Kendrickson, of Albany, to Miss Maria Griffin, of this city.

On Sunday evening the 2d inst. by the Rev. Mr. Nicols, Mr. Stephen Lyons, late of Stamford, (Connecticut) to Miss Ann Warner, of this city.

On Monday evening the 3d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Samuel Milner, of the Island of St. Thomas’s, to Miss Mary Gardner, daughter of Mr. Charles Gardner, of this city.

On Wednesday last, at East-Chester, by the Rev. Mr. Ireland, John Smith, Esq. of Baltimore, to Miss Eliza Smith, of this city.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

[The following, by mere accident, has fallen into my hands; the author of which I have not the honour of being acquainted with.—As I cannot conceive it will in any degree offend him by its insertion in your Repository, and as its merits intitles it to your attention, I beg you will give it a place.

L. B.

STANZAS,

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

ODE TO SPRING.

SONG.—By Maria Falconer.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

CHEARFULNESS.

It is the indispensable duty, not to say privilege, of every rational being on the face of the earth, to cultivate and improve a serene and chearful disposition, independent of that levity and versatility which many possess from an erroneous way of thinking. “Chearfulness,” says Mr. Addison, in the Spectator—a work of very considerable merit for its natural sweetness, ease, and delicacy—“is the best promoter of health. Repinings and secret murmurings of heart give imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibres of which the vital parts are composed, and wear out the machine insensibly; not to mention those violent ferments which they stir up in the blood, and those irregular, disturbed motions, which they raise in the animal spirits. The pleasures of friendship, books, conversation, and other accidental diversions of life, offer themselves as incitements to a chearful temper, to persons of all ranks and conditions; and which may sufficiently shew us, that Providence did not design this world should be filled with murmurs and repinings, or that the heart of man should be involved in gloom and melancholy.”

There are many persons who indulge a fixed melancholy, from religious motives. Many of the lower orders of society contract a gloomy, forbidding aspect, by feeding their minds with the ranting effusions of puritanical enthusiasts; whose doctrines, for the most part, are particularly calculated to cloud all their bright intellects. They discourage the good, and intimidate the penitent. They oftener disserve, than benefit, the cause of christianity. It is an observation of the learned and pious Dr. Watts, that religion never was designed to make our pleasures less. Innocent recreations (and innocent they must be, or not at all) calculated to promote chearfulness, are absolutely necessary to soften the cares of life. Superstition and fanaticism are highly incompatible 329b with the generous feelings of a devotional taste and habit which are in themselves very desirable; but a habit of melancholy is altogether improper, and wholly repugnant to these divine precepts, which ought to influence all to the adoption of amiable principles, and a chearful disposition. “Piety and goodness,” says Dr. Blair, “ought never to be marked with that dejection which sometimes takes rise from superstition, but which is the proper portion only of guilt. At the same time, the chearfulness belonging to virtue, is to be carefully distinguished from that light and giddy temper which characterises folly, and is so often found among the dissipated and vicious part of mankind. Their gaiety is owing to a total want of reflection; and brings with it the usual consequences of an unthinking habit, shame, remorse, and heaviness of heart, in the end. The chearfulness of a well regulated mind, springs from a good conscience and the favour of Heaven, and is bounded by temperance and reason. It makes a man happy in himself, and promotes the happiness of all around him. It is the clear and calm sunshine of a mind illuminated by piety and virtue. It crowns all other good dispositions, and comprehends the general effect which they ought to produce on the heart.”

Indeed, true piety is an invaluable treasure; and happy are they who esteem its salutary tendency. It meleorates the morals and disposition, and promotes present and future felicity. It adds dignity, pleasure, and security, to any age. To old age, in particular, it is the most becoming grace, the most substantial support, and the sweetest comfort. It is the only proper and adequate relief of decaying man. Let the old and the young, therefore, who wish to be happy, and preserve so great an acquisition, cultivate it with peculiar care and increasing ardour, as the source of all tranquility and chearfulness; and let it be remembered, that in order to retain it successfully, the whole tenour of life must be guided and attended by the very admirable requisites of temperance, innocence, and simplicity.

A chearful temper irradiates the progress of life, and dispels the evils of sublunary nature. All, indeed, cannot possess so desirable a blessing, without some interruptions, inseparable from the evils of life, to damp its energy and excellence. Afflictions are so diversified, that it were superfluous to enumerate even the most prominent and lamentable: 330 but in these, and all other misfortunes, there is a remedy pointed out for the acceptance of mankind, which, if properly administered, does not fail to alleviate the unavoidable casualties and afflictions necessarily attendant on frail nature. Not a few are rendered wretched and despondent by their own immediate vices, after having exhausted their vile pursuits and prostituted their advancement to a comfortable and peaceful life by practices which religion forbids and wisdom reprobates. We should endeavour to turn our enjoyments to a current altogether serene and pure. Such rational and manly conduct would render us respectable: man would admire a life so exemplary, and God himself would approve it.

I was pleased a few evenings since, on reading the answer of an Italian Bishop, who possessed all the virtues which adorn and embellish human life. He struggled through great difficulties without repining; and met with much opposition in the discharge of his episcopal function, without ever betraying the smallest impatience. An intimate friend, who highly admired these virtues which he thought it impossible to imitate, one day asked the prelate if he could communicate the secret of being always easy?—“Yes,” replied the old man, “I can teach you my secret, and with great facility: it consists in nothing more than making a right use of my eyes.”

My friend begged him to explain himself. “Most willingly,” returned the Bishop—“In whatever state I am, I first of all look up to heaven, and I remember that my principal business here, is to get there: I then look down upon the earth, and call to mind how small a space I shall occupy in it when I come to be interred: I then look abroad into the world, and observe what multitudes there are, who in many respects are more unhappy than myself. Thus I learn where true happiness and innate chearfulness are placed, where all my cares must end, and hew very little reason I have to repine, or to complain.”

From what has been said, we may learn to be chearful; at least, calm and contented; and gratefully enjoy, in moderation, the blessings which Providence has bestowed on us. It is puerile and absurd, to indulge melancholy. Be it, therefore, the endeavour of us all to cherish with the greatest care an ingenuous and mild disposition; and, above all, religion, piety, and virtue. Let it be our constant rule and practice to cultivate self-command; to cultivate humility; to cultivate the milder affections; submit to our reason and our conscience; be christians, and be happy.

T. C.

OBSERVATION.

There can be no pleasure in any enjoyments which the heart cannot approve, and which tends to sink, in our estimation the object of our love: obstruct the idea of perfection and our enthusiasm vanishes: take our esteem and love is at an end.

ADDRESS of the TRANSLATOR

OF

The VICTIM of MAGICAL DELUSION, &c.

TO HIS THINKING READERS.

Before the Translator takes leave of the Reader, who will not withhold a tear of tender pity from the Hero of the preceding history, when informed that the mournful tale of his deviations and hapless fate is not the offspring of imaginary fiction, but founded on historical facts, recorded in Abbe Vertot’s excellent history of the Revolution in Portugal; he deems it his duty as a man, and as a Christian, to put his young friends, who will peruse his translation, in a way to avoid the snares of superstition, the dire effects of which are the theme of the preceding history. A careful attention to the four following principles, will be the surest means of steering clear of the dangerous rocks and quicksands of superstition, on which the happiness of so many mortals has been wrecked; the Translator, therefore, begs his readers who value their peace of mind, never to forget

That Order is the Supreme Law of Nature. The motion of the celestial bodies, the ecliptical course of our globe, the regular change of day and night, and of the different seasons, and every object we behold in Nature’s boundless realms, enforce the truth of that principle on the mind of the attentive observer. We no where behold effects without a sufficient cause, no where causes without proportionate effects; no where vacancies nor irregular leaps in the series and concatenation of things; no where beings that are insulated and unallied to the whole; no where supernatural effects nor immediate interpolations of the Godhead, where the regular powers of Nature are sufficient to effect the great views of the Creator. On the contrary, we behold every where the most indissoluble union, and the exactest proportion between cause and effect, every where the most admirable connection between all the smaller and the lesser parts of the whole, and between all the mutations and changes that take place therein: we behold every where fixed, immutable laws, after which all the works of God, the sun and the smallest grain of sand, the worm and man, the king of creation, move and act, every where great ends and means that are proportionate to them. Who can examine the world, without perceiving the most perfect order whereby it is ruled? And what reasonable man would conclude from what he does not know, nor can comprehend of the contrary of those things which he can see and examine? How was it possible that man could successfully carry on his occupations and labours without this unalterable order of things? How could he know the will of his Creator, and how execute it? how conclude with the least security from what is past, of what will be? how compute the success of his undertakings, meditations and exertions? What a dreadful scene of confusion would a world exhibit, wherein the series and 331 the connections of things were constantly interrupted through miracles, or the influence of superior beings. Order is, and ever will be, the supreme law of Nature; respect, therefore, this law, take it for your guide on your pilgrimage, and you will avoid the deviations of superstition.

Superstition misconceives this order of things, expects effects without causes, or from such causes as have no relation to them; it arbitrarily transforms the nature of things, separates what is indissolubly connected, and connect in the same arbitrary manner things which evidently contradict each other, or are not connected at all.

Superstition obliterates the natural limits of created beings, imputing to them qualities and powers which they do not, nor can possess, if they shall be and continue to be what they really are. The superstitious expects every where miracles and exceptions from the stated rules of Nature, and the more wild and confused his fancies are, the more important solutions of mysteries do they appear to him to promise. But is not this scorning the laws of the Supreme Ruler of the world, and censuring the order of things which is founded thereupon? Is not this exposing the world, which is the work of the Supreme wisdom and goodness, to all the dangers and confusions of blind fatality, and destroying all dependance on our reasoning and conclusions, on our actions, hopes and expectations? Is such a manner of thinking consistent with a sound knowledge of God, and of the ways of Providence? If you wish to avoid the delusions and the snares of superstition, that bane of human happiness, of good order, and of peace of mind, O! then respect Order as the supreme law of Nature, as the unalterable will of her Creator and Ruler! Make yourselves acquainted with the regulation of the world, and the eternal laws after which it is governed; suspect every thing that is contrary to the regular course of Nature, and do not foolishly dream that it is in the power of mortal man to change or abrogate it by means of certain words and formulas, or of certain mysterious ceremonies. Endeavour to trace out the natural cause of every effect, and if you cannot find it, at least take care not to yield to the self-conceited idea, that there exists no natural cause, because you are too short-sighted to see it. Let your system of reasoning be governed by the same accurate connection, the same natural combination and order you behold in the whole creation, and you will not be surprised by self-delusion, or the deceptions of impostors.

Reason is the greatest prerogative of Man; a second truth that powerfully can guard us against the wiles of superstition.

What distinguishes us more eminently from all other inhabitants of our globe, what renders us more the resemblance of our Maker than Reason? the faculty of tracing out the causes of things, of forming just ideas of their connections with each other, and of deducing firm conclusions from what we know, of what we do not know? Our sensible organs and sensations we have in common with the beasts of the field; reason only renders us superior to them. Reason enables us to discover the delusions of our senses, or to compare and adjust the impressions we have received from 331b external objects. By the light of reason we can investigate the origin of our feelings, trace out their secret causes and their turns, and raise them to clear notions. Assisted by reason, we can govern every other faculty of our mind, strengthen or weaken, and direct it in a manner which is most favourable for the discovery and examination of truth. Without reason every natural phenomenon would confound us, and every uncommon effect it produces fill our soul with fear and consternation; without reason we should be the sport of our own passions and of those of others.

Superstition does, however, not argue thus. The superstitious and the vile disseminator of superstition, despises reason, decries that sacred prerogative of man, exaggerates her imperfections and weaknesses, hurls her from the throne on which the Creator has placed her, and raises sensation and imagination upon it. The superstitious will not think, not examine nor draw just conclusions; every picture that heats his fancy; every appearance that blinds his senses; every obscure idea that makes his blood ferment, is well received by him; he prefers it to every principle of reason, and every incontestible truth, because they do not amuse, nor heat his senses and his imagination. The more mysterious, the more inconceivable a phenomenon, an experience, doctrine or system is, the more eagerly he takes hold of, and the more firmly does he rely upon them, because they leave his reason at rest, and promise him great discoveries without trouble and exertion. But can this be called honouring human nature and her Creator? is this valuing and making a proper use of the prerogatives that ennoble human nature? Do we not degrade ourselves to an inferior sort of beings when trusting to no other guides but to our senses and feelings, and scorning the dictates of reason? Is it to be wondered at, when the superstitious entangles himself in the mazes of delusion, and falls a victim to a self-created tyrant? If you are desirous to avoid these dark and perilous labyrinths, if you wish to pursue the road to eternity with peace of mind and safety, O! then, honour reason as the greatest treasure of man, and maintain the dignity this gift of all-bountiful heaven confers upon you. Reject, without hesitation, whatever is contrary to generally adopted principles of sound reasoning, however charming and seducing it be in many other respects. Suspect every thing of which you can form no distinct and clear idea, or no notion at all, every thing that obliges you to trust merely to an obscure sensation, to your own feelings, or to those of other people, or to vague pictures of imagination. Suspect every thing that shuns the investigation of the impartial and cool examiner; every thing that conceals itself under the veil of incomprehensible mysteries; suspect every one that attempts to preoccupy you against reason, and advises you not to be guided by her torch in your opinion. If the secrets which are offered to you really are incomprehensible, then you have no interest in them; if they are useful and important truths, then they must admit examination, and be founded on firm arguments.

(To be concluded in our next.)

MISCELLANY.

When viewing the race of men upon the large scale, in my spleen, I have divided them into two classes—the deceivers, and the deceived. Indeed so rooted an opinion have I imbibed of the ductility of my fellow-mortals, that I never seriously believed, nor vindicated, what are so proudly styled, the honour and dignity of human nature. Read this, ye unwary, and draw some useful mementos with me. Leave no part of your body undipped in Styx, and be invulnerable.

See then that Politician, wrapped up in the garb of patriotism, mount the rostrum, tickle the stupid multitude into conviction that he is the people’s, the mechanic’s, the poor man’s friend; that he, indignant of his country’s wrongs, alone feels them and asserts her rights. Take off that garb, look through the window of his breast, and see collected, at the apex of his heart, sighs and flutterings after titles, honours, places. Next turn to the bland Physician, who, with nerve of steel himself, feels along the palpitating artery of my Lady Vapour’s, counts its throbs, prescribes a cordial, and receives a guinea for making madam a dupe. Look after that military beau that struts through the Mall. A cockade, a sword, and two epaulets, dazzle the crowd, impose on boys and girls, men and maidens to imagine, that not danger, nor the devil himself could appal such a hero. Carry him to the field of honour, and find him white-liver’d as a hen.

How easily my Lawyer, entrenched with forms and books, gulls clients of their cash, is too stale to repeat. For once in your life, be persuaded, that if you come within the circle of his writs, pleas, bars, demurrers, rejoinders, &c. you will be handsomely stripped, even to your pin-feathers.

I am all gentleness to the sex: were it not that one smile of a Coquette makes me a slave, a flirt of a well-manœuvred fan puts all my resolution asleep, I would not tread on consecrated ground. While I am sensible, that she is playing me on the line, till some other gudgeon come in view, when I shall be shaken off the hook; that I should fancy nought but love in her eyes, on her cheeks but the down of the peach, her hair all auburn and natural, her lips two rose leafs dipped in dew, symmetry in her form, taste in her dress, wit in her repartees, with sincerity in her bosom, is, strange as it is, inconsistent, inconclusive, and unwarrantable. The theatre, is all a cheat. The kings, queens, lords and ladies on the stage, we find, on our streets, are the veriest pieces of mortality. After so much mockery of our senses, not only divinity is fled; something less than mortality remains.

I am the first to confess that Fancy cheats me at her will; not more at the age when I blew the washer-woman’s soap suds through a pipe into beautiful balloons, than at the period at which I am arrived, building palaces on earth, and 332b castles in air. I have roamed, in Imagination’s car, from the seat of Paradise in former, to the present degenerate days: I have searched all, of all ages and countries; and, in abundance have found, as many simple, deluded, pliable, gazing, cheated, weak-sighted mortals, as myself. But as virtue is better than vice, so is delusion, than wretchedness. ’Tis only in regions superior, the soul finds rest, perfection, and happiness.

PROTEUS.

ELINOR.

A SENTIMENTAL SKETCH.

—“Ah! how cold the wind blows!” said a tall female, as she descended from a white cliff which over-hung the sea. I raised my eyes wistfully to her face. I saw it was traced by the hand of Beauty, and not by the tear of Misery. The fresh breeze blew through her loose garments, and cast her brown hair in disordered, but beautiful masses over her naked bosom: her eyes were sweet and blue, but they rolled with the quickness of phrenzy as she approached. “Who are you?” asked I, with emotion, taking her hand within mine. “They call me Wild Elinor!” answered she, in a soft but hurried voice, eyeing some flowers.—“I am very poor—I have no home—I have lost my lover——

repeated she, in a musical tone. “But, come back with me, and see it. I strew it every day with flowers, and weep sometimes——But—I can’t now!” She stopped, and sighed; then, putting her hand on her breast---“I am very unhappy, stranger! O my breaking heart!” Her voice died away. I thought reason gleamed in her eye, as she sunk on the sod. I stooped to raise her falling frame. She lifted her large blue orbs towards me with silent gratitude: a soft bloom spread her pallid cheek; and, articulating “Edwin!” fell lifeless on the earth.

“Thy gentle spirit is now at rest!” said I, bending pensively over her clay. “But, oh! what agonies must have torn thy heart, luckless maid! when returning reason shewed thee all thy wretchedness, and when that wretchedness cut the thread of thy existence! Cold, cold is the loveliest form of Nature! closed is the softest eye that ever poured a beam on mine! That form must now moulder in the dust! that eye must no longer open on the world!” The tears gushed as I spoke. I fell on the earth beside her corpse: the warm drops of sensibility washed the marble of her bosom---my heart heaved with agony. I was a man, and I gloried in my tears!——

DE BURGHE.

For sources, see the end of this file.

The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;

AN INTERESTING SPANISH TALE.

Marina, at seventeen, was the most admired beauty in Granada. She was an orphan, and heiress to an immense fortune, under the guardianship of an old and avaricious uncle, whose name was Alonzo, and who passed his days in counting ducats, and his nights in silencing serenades, nocturnally addressed to Marina. His design was to marry her, for the sake of her great fortune, to his own son, Henriquez, who had studied ten years in the university of Salamanca, and was now able to explain Cornelius Nepos tolerably well.

Almost all the cavaliers of Granada were in love with Marina. As they could obtain a sight of her only at mass, the church she frequented was filled with great numbers of the handsomest and most accomplished youths of the country.

One of the most distinguished among these, was Don Alphonso, a captain of cavalry, about twenty, not very rich, but of a family of the first distinction. Handsome, polite, and witty, he attracted the eyes of all the ladies of Granada; though he himself paid attention to none but Marina, who, not insensible to his attachment, began, on her part, to take notice of her admirer.

Two months passed away without the lovers daring to speak; nevertheless, they silently said much. At the end of that time Don Alphonso found means to convey a letter to his mistress; which informed her of what she knew before. The reserved Marina had no sooner read this letter than she sent it back to Don Alphonso; but, as she possessed an excellent memory, she retained every word, and was able to return a very punctual answer, a week afterwards.

A correspondence was now settled between the two lovers; but Don Alphonso was desirous to be still more intimate. He had long solicited permission to converse with Marina through her lattices. Such is the custom in Spain, where the windows are of much more use during the night than in the day. They are the places of rendezvous. When the street is vacant and still, the lover wraps himself up in his cloak, and, taking his sword, invokes love and night to favour him, and proceeds to some low lattice, grated on the side next the street, and secured on the inside by shutters.

He waits not long before the window opens softly, and the charming maid appears. She asks, in a tremulous voice, if any one is there. Her lover, transported at her condescension, endeavours to dispel her fears. They talk in a whisper, and repeat the same thing a hundred times. Day, at length, approaches, and they must separate.

Marina’s lattice was on the ground floor, and opened into a narrow passage, where the houses were ill built, and only inhabited by the lower class of people. Don Alphonso’s old nurse happened to occupy a tenement directly opposite the window of Marina. Don Alphonso, therefore repaired to his nurse. ‘My good woman,’ said he, ‘I have been much to blame to suffer you to live so long in this miserable 333b habitation; but I am now determined to make you amends, by giving you an apartment in my own house. Come, and reside in that, and leave me to dispose of this.’

The worthy woman could not refrain from tears, and, for a long time, refused; but, at last, overcome by his solicitations, she consented to the exchange, with every expression of gratitude to her benefactor.

Never did any monarch enter his palace with more satisfaction than Don Alphonso did the hovel of his nurse.

Early in the evening Marina appeared at her lattice. She promised to repair thither every other night, and she kept her word. These delightful interviews served only to fan the flame of love, and, very soon, the lovers nights were constantly passed in pleasing conversation, and their days in writing passionate epistles.

Just at this time, Henriquez, the intended husband of Marina, arrived from Salamanca; bringing with him a declaration of his passion in Latin, which had been written for him by the head of his college.

The lovers consulted each other on this event at the lattice; but, in the mean time, the old guardian had drawn up a contract of marriage, and a day was fixed on for the celebration of the nuptials of Marina and Henriquez.

In these circumstances, the only remedy was to fly into Portugal. This was determined; and it was also settled that the two lovers, on arriving at Lisbon, should first marry, and afterwards have recourse to the law, against the guardian.

Marina was to carry with her a box of jewels, which had been left her by her mother. These were very valuable, and sufficient to maintain the happy pair till the decision of their law-suit. To effect this escape, it was necessary to procure the key of the lattice, and in this Marina succeeded.

It was resolved also, that the next night, at eleven, Don Alphonso, after having appointed horses to wait without the city, should come and fetch Marina; who should descend from the window, into the arms of her lover, and immediately set off for Portugal.

Don Alphonso spent the whole day in preparations for his departure. Marina, on her part, was equally busy, in getting ready the little box she was to take with her. She was very careful to secret in it a very fine emerald, which had been given her by her lover.

Marina and her box were ready by eight in the evening; and, before ten, Don Alphonso, who had already provided carriages on the road to Andalusia, arrived at the appointed spot: his heart beating with perturbation and hope.

As he approached the place, he heard persons calling for assistance, and perceived two men attacked by five armed assassins. The brave and humane Alphonso forgot his own affairs to defend the lives of the assaulted. He wounded two, and put the other three to flight.

What was his surprise, on more attentively viewing the persons he had delivered, to perceive they were no other than Henriquez, and Alonzo, the guardian of Marina. Some desperate young cavalier of the city, who was in love with Marina, knowing it was intended that Henriquez should espouse her, had hired bravoes, to assassinate them; 334 and, had it not been for the valour of Don Alphonso, the young scholar and the old miser would have found it no easy matter to escape.

Alphonso did his utmost to avoid their grateful acknowledgments, but Henriquez, who piqued himself on having learned politeness at Salamanca, swore he should not leave them that night. Alphonso, in despair, had already heard the clock strike eleven. Alas! he knew not the misfortune that had happened.

One of the bravoes, whom he had put to flight, had passed muffled up in his cloak, near the lattice of Marina. The night was extremely dark, and the unfortunate beauty, having opened the window, imagined him to be Don Alphonso, and presented him the box with joyful impatience: ‘Take our diamonds,’ said she, ‘while I descend.’

At the word diamonds, the bravo suddenly stopped, took the box, without speaking a word, and, while Marina was getting out of the window, fled with the utmost precipitation.

Imagine the surprise of Marina, when she found herself alone in the street, and saw nothing of him whom she had taken for Don Alphonso. She thought, at first, he had left her, to avoid raising suspicion or alarm. She, therefore, hastily walked to a little distance, looked round on every side, and called in a low voice. But no Alphonso could she see; no lover could she hear.

She was now seized with the most alarming apprehensions. She knew not whether it were most adviseable to return home, or endeavour to find the horses and attendants of Don Alphonso, that were waiting without the city. She continued to walk forwards, in the utmost uncertainty and distress, till she had lost herself in the streets; while her fears were augmented by the darkness and silence of the night.

At length she met a person, whom she asked if she were far from the gate of the city. The stranger conducted her thither; but she found nobody waiting as she expected.

She dared not yet accuse her lover of deceiving her: still she hoped he was at no great distance. She proceeded, therefore, along the road, fearful of every bush, and calling Don Alphonso at every step; but the farther she walked the more she was bewildered; for she had come out of the city on the side opposite to the Portugal road.

In the mean time Don Alphonso found himself unable to get away from the grateful Henriquez and his father. They would not suffer him to leave them for a moment, but obliged him to enter the house with them; to which Alphonso, fearful of betraying his intent, and frustrating his dearest hopes; and imagining too that Marina might be soon acquainted with the reason of his delay, most reluctantly consented.

Alonzo hastens to the chamber of his ward, to inform her of the danger he had escaped. He calls, but receives no answer; he enters her apartment, and finds the lattice open; his cries collect the servants, and the alarm is immediately given, that Marina is missing.

Alphonso, in despair, immediately offered to go in quest of her. Henriquez, thanking him for the concern he 334b expressed, declared his resolution to accompany him. Alphonso suggested, that the probability of finding her would be greater, if they took different roads. Accordingly, he hastened to rejoin his domestics: and not doubting but Marina had taken the road to Portugal, put his horses at full speed. But their swiftness only removed him farther from the object of his love; while Henriquez galloped towards the Alpuxarian mountains, the way which Marina had actually taken.

In the mean time, Marina continued to wander, disconsolate, along the road that led to the Alpuxares. Presently she heard the clattering noise of approaching horses; and at first, imagined it might be her beloved Alphonso: but, afterward, fearful of discovery, or apprehensive of robbers, she concealed herself, trembling, behind some bushes.

Here she presently saw Henriquez pass by, followed by a number of servants. Shuddering at the danger of being again in the power of Alonzo, if she continued in the high road, she turned aside, and took refuge in a thick wood.

The Alpuxares are a chain of mountains, which extend from Granada to the Mediterranean. They are inhabited only by a few peasants. To these, fear and terror conducted the unfortunate maid. A dry and stony soil, with a few oak trees, thinly scattered: some torrents and echoing cataracts, and a number of wild goats, leaping from precipice to precipice; are the only objects which present themselves at day-break to the eyes of Marina. Exhausted, at length, by fatigue and vexation, she sat down in the cavity of a rock, through the clifts of which a limped water gently oozed.

The silence of this grotto, the wildness of the landscape around, the hoarse and distant murmur of several cascades, and the noise of the water near her, falling drop by drop into the bason it had hollowed beneath, all conspired to excite in Marina the most melancholy sensations. Now she thought herself cruelly abandoned by her lover; and now she persuaded herself that some mistake had happened: ‘It certainly could not be Alphonso,’ said she, ‘to whom I gave my diamonds. I must have been mistaken. No doubt he is now far hence, seeking me with anxiety and distraction; while I, as far distant from him, am perishing here.’

While thus mournfully ruminating, Marina, on a sudden, heard the sound of a rustic flute. Attentively listening, she soon heard an harmonious voice, deploring, in plaintive strains, the infidelity of his mistress, and the miseries of disappointed love.

‘And who can be more sensible of this than myself?’ said Marina, leaving the grotto, in search of this unfortunate lover.

She found a young goatherd, sitting at the foot of a willow, his eyes bedewed with tears, and intent on the water as it issued from its rocky source. In his hand he held a flagalet, and by his side lay a staff and a little parcel.

‘Shepherd,’ said Marina, ‘you are no doubt forsaken by your Mistress: have pity on one abandoned, like yourself, and conduct me to some habitation, where I may procure sustenance, at least, though not repose!’

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CRIMINAL.

Ah! cruel fortune, thou hast driven me to this! Ah, my father! thou wilt not relieve my wants, because I wedded the woman of my choice and not of thine. Once was I stiled my father’s darling, the son for whom he only lived; and yet, for acting once contrary to his will, he banished me his presence, with a pension barely sufficient to support life—That pension now has ceased; for what reason I am totally ignorant. An amiable wife and two children are perishing for want, and unless I bring them something, they cannot exist. I went to my father’s house, with an intent of informing him of our wretched condition: I sent in my name, he would not see me!—Must my babes starve? They are young, and my wife lies ill—and I am indeed a wretch for thus joining her to poverty!—

Here I am alone on this dreary heath—and what have I brought with me?—A pistol charged with death.—What light was that?—My fears transform every thing into enemies—It is the sun! Why dost thou shed thy beams on one, whom dire necessity hath made the foe of man?—

* * * * * *

Here I am, plunged yet deeper in this forest’s gloom, like the insidious serpent thirsting for his prey. On man—on a being formed like myself, am I to avenge my want of bread?—My family must live—despair, do what thou wilt!——

—Hark! what noise is that? Sure it resembled a horse’s tread. Undone man, what fate hath bid thee pass this way? He approaches—how unlike me.—Serenity is pictured in his countenance. He little thinks, that like the harmless bird who flies unto the fowler’s snare, he is hastening to destruction. Oh! My wife!—My children!—He comes!—

—“Stop, traveller!”——

L. B.

(To be continued.)

The MENTAL and PERSONAL QUALIFICATIONS
of a HUSBAND.

Great good nature, good humour, and good sense.

Lively by all means.

Stupid by no means.

His person agreeable rather than handsome.

No great objection to six feet, with an exact symmetry of parts.

Always clean, but not foppish in his dress.

Youth promises a duration of happiness, therefore is agreeable.

Well read in the classics, but no pedant.

Experimentally acquainted with natural philosophy.

A tolerable ear for music, but no fidler. I must repeat it again, no fidling husband.

An easy and unaffected politeness.

No bully; just as much courage as is necessary to defend his own and his wife’s honour.

May fortune smile on the man of my wishes.

A free thinker in every thing, except in matters of religion.

These, with Mr. Pope’s definition of wit, are the only qualifications I require in the man I intend to honour with my hand and heart.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday the 6th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Samuel Aldwill Smith, Esq. to Mrs. Ann Wood, both passengers in the Belvidere, from London.

On Saturday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Kunzie, Mr. John Harkey, of Albany, to Miss Hannah Adamson, of this city.

On Thursday evening the 13th inst. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Captain Moses Taylor, to Miss Margaret Towt, both of this city.

TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.

The Patrons of the Weekly Magazine, who are not apprised of its place of publication being removed, and at any time have commands for the Editors, will please to call at No. 358, Pearl-street, near the Friends meeting house:—where every attention will be paid to their favors. A Letter Box is prepared for the reception of the productions of our Literary Friends, through whose assistance we hope to communicate the modern progress of Literature in this city; the remarks of the ingenious, and the epistles of the pertinent, are always admissible, when within the bounds of modest reserve. The “Verses addressed to Miss A—— B——” shall be punctually honored in our next.

Those Subscribers who have it in contemplation to change their place of residence the 1st of May, are requested to leave their address at the office, or with the carrier of this Magazine.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

A RECEIPT FOR WRITING NOVELS.

SONNET.

BY HOLCROFT.

TO A HOG—ON HIS BIRTH-DAY

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON MATRIMONY.

ADDRESSED TO MR. C. L.

You are desirous, you say, to see a small sketch and exemplification on the benefits incumbent and to be experienced by embracing the connubial state of matrimony.—I do not profess to be a competent judge in pourtraying the perfections and incomprehensible felicities which might be enjoyed by the sweet acquiescence of enlightened minds; but can, by a slight survey of those incidents which has happened to excite my wandering attention, anticipate those domestic enjoyments which are experienced by the moral and virtuous pair. I shall not contend that all who embrace the matrimonial state, enjoy that pure bliss for which such a state was morally intended; those who come short of this privilege, are contracted in their ideas; they are incapable of comprehending and bringing into sweet subordination the faculties of the human mind—and from hence, in time, arises a disgusting aversion to the sensation and impulse which once stole upon their hearts, and stimulated them with an eagerness to possess the object of their wishes; every trifling incident tends to exhilirate evil propensities, and almost all their converse becomes one continual series of discord and contention: the spark of affection is now extinguished, and their existence becomes, as it were, insupportable.—I readily admit, that such a compact of misery is very inauspicious, and none more disgusting and unhappy.

But to enjoy the state of matrimony to the greatest advantage and fullest extent, I think it propitious to be well acquainted with the disposition of our own hearts; the guidance of our passions we should be masters of, and always keep reason in our right hand, and evil propensities at a distance. The feelings which are dishonourable, and are in direct aversion to puerile happiness, may, at intervals, strive to obtain a seat in the hearts of the most virtuous pair; but, with a little exertion are defeated and put at defiance—and now it is that those joys which are almost supreme and insurpassible take up a residence in their breasts; they make it their chief and greatest blessing to cultivate their hearts in 337b love and accordant unison—their social hours roll on in joyous emotions—they taste the blessings of a lasting union in affection and disposition—they improve the hours of solitude by endearing and virtuous precepts; and their hearts are ever engaged to eternize each others happiness, both temporal and spiritual.—With what ecstacy do they behold themselves possessed of a little progeny; who, by their wise precepts, are initiated into morals that enlighten and beautify the soul; they become ornaments to society, and a soothing balm to the declining mortality of their revered parents. What state in existence is so desirable and is productive of such beneficent repose to the mind that was once prone to wander through the thick mazes of perplexities, and encounter those versatile haunts of a disturbed imagination? I hope you will agree with me in my conclusion, that the matrimonial state, when supported inviolable by enlightened hearts and conceptions, is the greatest felicity in the reach of mortals, that existence can afford.

Yours, &c.

LAVENSTEIN.

New-York, April 20, 1797.

MAN OF PLEASURE.

To a man of pleasure every moment appears to be lost, which partakes not of the vivacity of amusement.—To connect one plan of gaiety with another is his sole study, till in a very short time nothing remains but to tread the same beaten round,—to enjoy what they have already enjoyed,—and to see what they have often seen.

Pleasures thus drawn to the dregs become vapid and tasteless. What might have pleased long, if enjoyed with temperance and mingled with retirement, being devoured with such eager haste, speedily surfeits and disgusts. Hence, having run through a rapid course of pleasure, after having glittered for a few years in the foremost line of public amusements, such men are the most apt to fly at last to a melancholy retreat; not led by religion or reason, but driven by disappointed hopes and exhausted spirits to the pensive conclusion, that all is vanity.

ADDRESS of the TRANSLATOR

OF

The VICTIM of MAGICAL DELUSION, &c.

TO HIS THINKING READERS.

(Concluded from page 331.)

Pursue every ray of light on the road to the sanctuary of truth, while you can account to yourselves for every step you proceed, and if necessary, can return to the spot whence you started; but do not venture on dark roads, where, with every step you proceed, you may lose your way, or be precipitated into a bottomless abyss. A few clear truths that force themselves on your understanding as such, and do not infringe on the sacred rights of your reason, are certainly of far greater value, and can guide you safer than all occult arts and sciences that force you to renounce the use of your understanding, and to walk in the dark. Keep firm to the former, and you will maintain your dignity, and be out of the reach of superstitious delusions.

Man is destinated for an active and a laborious life, and whatever makes him relinquish, or dislike it, removes him from his destination. This is the third principle I wish to recommend to the consideration of the reader who wishes to guard against the insiduous wiles of superstition. Man is not designed to lead an idle and contemplative life, but to exert his faculties, and to acquire the means of happiness. He is destinated to use all his mental and corporeal faculties, to apply them to useful occupations, and thus to unfold and to improve them. He therefore, never can grow reasonable and wise, nor virtuous, rich, and powerful, without his own uninterrupted exertions to become so. He must learn every thing through meditation and diligent application, and acquire every thing with trouble and labour, and only what he thus learns and acquires, he can consider as his property, which he can rely upon, and use with safety. Man must not expect the interaction of physical, or moral miracles, for the sake of his instruction and support, the increase of his wealth, or the restoration of his health; for if that were the case, he neither would, nor ever could attain here below, that degree of perfection he is designed to acquire. Man shall not overleap a single step on the scale of perfection, but approach the great mark only by degrees, and with careful steps. Whoever will pay due attention to the institutions and regulations God has made for the improvement and the education of man, will be convinced of the truth of this principle.

If, therefore, you wish to execute the will of God, and to attain the destination for which you are designed, O! then, beware of superstition; for it goes diametrically against the institutions and regulations which God has made for the happiness of man, subverts the order of things, and wants to lead you to the mark without the employment of means, or at least by unnatural means; promises to conduct you to 338b the goal of happiness on a less difficult road than nature has designed. Superstition promises you wisdom, knowledge, advantages and eminent qualities, which are to cost you little or nothing, and which you are to obtain without the least exertion and trouble, through faith, hope, or mechanical processes and ceremonies. This is, however, not the course of nature, is not the will of the Creator, nor the damnation of man; it is the hope and the wish of the lazy and weak, the language of him who is averse from labour and trouble, and yet wants to reap the fruits arising therefrom. Apply your faculties according to your destination, apply them with diligence and chearfulness, perform your duly faithfully, and enquire for wisdom and knowledge, wealth and honour, health and power, on the road of activity and usefulness, for this is the only path that leads to happiness and human perfection.

The last principle I wish to recommend to you as a safeguard against superstition, is: Man is not designed to foreknow the future events of his life! and how could he know, by what means foresee them? if that should be possible, the powers of his understanding, his reason and his knowledge, either must be so much enlarged that he could form the most accurate ides of the great concatenation of all possible events and causes throughout the creation, and then he would not be a mortal, that is a limited being; (this, however, would be a kind of omniscience, which is the sole prerogative of the Godhead) or he must be inspired in a miraculous manner by the Supreme Being, which would infinitely multiply miracles and wonders, and subvert the wise laws of nature. But let us suppose the Godhead should really give it in the power of man to explore his future fate, would he be the happier for it? No, undoubtedly not! a knowledge of that kind rather would prove the greatest bane to the happiness of the individual, and of the human race in general. The villain would grow more daring, and scorn all divine and human laws, if he could foresee that no temporal bad consequences would attend his vile course, and every one that could foreknow the blessings which futurity has in store for him, would anticipate the joys that await him; so that the expected happiness, when realized, would charm him infinitely less than if it had surprised him unawares. Many great geniuses, that through their talents have proved blessings to the world, and, notwithstanding their unremitted exertions to raise a fortune, through their services to human kind, lived and died in poverty, would have relaxed in their zealous endeavours to render themselves useful to the state, if they could have foreseen their fate; the world would have been deprived of the fruits of their diligence, and despair would have utterly destroyed every remnant of comfort which the ignorance of their future fate has left them; while, on the contrary, heaven-born hope gave wings to their genius, and animated them to pursue their career with redoubled alacrity. If the favourite of fortune could foresee that the fickle Goddess never will prove inconstant to 339 him, would this not render him proud and overbearing? would not the firm persuasion that the uninterrupted continuation of his happy situation would entirely exempt him from every application to the kindness and assistance of his fellow creatures, render him neglectful in his endeavours to preserve their good opinion? while, on the contrary, the uncertainty in which he is, with respect to his future fate, makes it his interest to gain the affection of his fellow creatures. If, on the other side, the favourite of fortune could with certainty foresee that a time will inevitably arrive when his present happy situation will be overclouded, his wealth lost, his body racked with excruciating pains, &c. &c. would not this fore knowledge poison the enjoyment of his present happiness, and render him miserable even in the lap of bliss? In short, would not the possibility of exploring future events destroy the felicity of numberless mortals, banish hope, that sweet comforter, and oftentimes, the only remaining friend of the unfortunate, from this sublunary world? Would it not frequently render vice more daring, and break the only staff of suffering virtue? If, therefore, we are persuaded that a good God rules the world, and that the Supreme Being watches with a paternal care over the felicity of mankind, we cannot, we dare not expect, that he ever will suffer man to remove the mysterious veil that hides futurity from mortal sight! Some of my readers will, however, perhaps object that, notwithstanding the many bad consequences which inevitably must arise from a foreknowledge of future events, man would, at the same time, be enabled to avoid at least those misfortunes that can be guarded off by vigilance and prudence. I grant that man would be more capable to take measures against future evils, but experience authorises me to maintain, that but very few would make such a wise use of that knowledge. Did not the holy seers of yore, did not our Saviour foretel the Jews the dire consequences of their perverseness? and yet did they not bid defiance to the judgments of punishing Heaven? Does not every Christian know that vice leads to eternal misery hereafter? and do we not every day behold, notwithstanding the general belief in that awful truth, thousands and thousands disregard the warning voice of Heaven, and pursue the road to eternal destruction with unabated ardour? Is it to be expected that man, who risks his eternal salvation for the gratification of his desires during a short and uncertain life, that man who does not tremble at the certainty of endless misery would be rendered more careful in the choice of his enjoyments, and in the mode of his proceedings through the fore-knowledge of future temporal woe? Let us therefore, never presume, nor even wish to pry into futurity, let us not revolt against the express command of the great Ruler of the Universe: not regard them that have familiar spirits, nor seek after wizards and suspect every one who promises to remove the veil from the hidden face of futurity. Let us look upon those daring mortals as the greatest enemies to human happiness, as rebels against the law of heaven, and as impostors 339b who abuse our credulity, and under the cloak of occult sciences, make us subservient to their private views. Let us not be astonished when we now and then find some of their predictions realized; but always consider that this is owing merely to accident, and that one truth they utter, is overbalanced by numberless lies. Let us act up to the best of our knowledge, fulfil our duties to God and men, confide in the paternal care of Providence, and he that rules the fate of the whole creation, will stand our friend and protector in the time of need.

ON WEALTH.

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

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

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

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

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

MARCUS.

This article previously appeared on pg. 247 in No. 83. The phrase “half a score or” in the central paragraph is only in the second version.

ANECDOTE.

An Irishman of the name of Scannel, who wished to get rid of his wife, wrote her a melancholy letter by the last mail from the West-Indies, in which he stated, that he died of the yellow fever after three days illness, and recommended her, and children, to the care of Providence and his friends.

REMARKABLE SPEECH
OF ADAHOONZOU, KING OF DAHOMY,

AN INTERIOR NATION OF AFRICA,

ON HEARING WHAT WAS PASSING IN ENGLAND RESPECTING THE SLAVE-TRADE.

I admire the reasoning of the white men; but, with all their sense, it does not appear that they have thoroughly studied the nature of the blacks, whose disposition differs as much from that of the whites, as their colour. The same great Being formed both; and since it hath seemed convenient for him to distinguish mankind by opposite complexions, it is a fair conclusion to presume, that there may be as great a disagreement in the qualities of their minds; there is likewise a remarkable difference between the countries which we inhabit. You, Englishmen, for instance, as I have been informed, are surrounded by the ocean, and by this situation seem intended to hold communication with the whole world, which you do, by means of your ships; whilst we Dahomans, being placed on a large continent, and hemmed in amidst a variety of other people, of the same complexion, but speaking different languages, are obliged, by the sharpness of our swords, to defend ourselves from their incursions, and punish the depredations they make on us. Such conduct in them is productive of incessant wars. Your countrymen, therefore, who alledge that we go to war for the purpose of supplying your ships with slaves, are grossly mistaken.

You think you can work a reformation, as you call it, in the manners of the blacks; but you ought to consider the disproportion between the magnitude of the two countries; and then you will soon be convinced of the difficulties that must be surmounted, to change the system of such a vast country as this. We know you are a brave people, and that you might bring over a great many of the blacks to your opinions, by the points of your bayonets; but to effect this, a great many must be put to death, and numerous cruelties must be committed, which we do not find to have been the practice of the whites: besides, that this would militate against the very principle which is professed by those who wish to bring about a reformation.

In the name of my ancestors and myself I aver, that no Dahoman ever embarked in war merely for the sake of procuring wherewithal to purchase your commodities. I, who have not been long master of this country, have, without thinking of the market, killed many thousands, and I shall kill many thousands more. When policy or justice requires that men be put to death, neither silk, nor coral, nor brandy, nor cowries, can be accepted as substitutes for the blood that ought to be spilt for example sake: besides, if white men chuse to remain at home, and no longer visit this country for the same purpose that has usually brought them hither, will black men cease to make war? I answer, by no means; and if there be no ships to receive their captives, what will become of them? I answer, for you, they will be put to death. Perhaps you may be asked, how will the blacks be 340b furnished with guns and powder? I reply by another question, had we not clubs, and bows, and arrows, before we knew white men? Did not you see me make custom—annual ceremony—for Weebaigah, the third King, of Dahomy? And did you not observe, on the day such ceremony was performing, that I carried a bow in my hand, and a quiver filled with arrows on my back? These were the emblems of the times; when, with such weapons, that brave ancestor fought and conquered all his neighbours. God made war for all the world; and every kingdom, large or small, has practised it more or less, though perhaps in a manner unlike, and upon different principles. Did Weebaigah sell slaves? No; his prisoners were all killed to a man. What else could he have done with them? Was he to let them remain in his country, to cut the throats of his subjects? This would have been wretched policy indeed; which, had it been adopted, the Dahoman name would have long ago been extinguished, instead of becoming, as it is at this day, the terror of surrounding nations. What hurts me most is, that some of your people have maliciously represented us in books, which never die; alledging that we sell our wives and children, for the sake of procuring a few kegs of brandy. No! we are shamefully belied, and I hope you will contradict, from my mouth, the scandalous stories that have been propagated; and tell posterity that we have been abused. We do, indeed, sell to the white men a part of our prisoners, and we have a right so to do. Are not all prisoners at the disposal of their captors? and are we to blame, if we send delinquents to a far country? I have been told you do the same. If you want no more slaves from us, why cannot you be ingenuous, and tell the plain truth; saying, that the slaves you have already purchased are sufficient for the country for which you bought them; or that the artists, who used to make fine things, are all dead, without having taught any body to make more? But for a parcel of men, with long heads, to sit down in England, and frame laws for us, and pretend to dictate how we are to live, of whom they know nothing, never having been in a black man’s country during the whole course of their lives, is to me somewhat extraordinary! No doubt they must have been biassed by the report of some one who has had to do with us; who, for want of a due knowledge of the treatment of slaves, found that they died on his hands, and that his money was lost; and seeing others thrive by the traffic, he, envious of their good luck, has vilified both black and white traders.

You have seen me kill many men at the customs; and you have often observed delinquents at Grigwhee, and others of my provinces, tied, and sent up to me. I kill them, but do I ever insist on being paid for them? Some heads I order to be placed at my door, others to be strewed about the market-place, that people may stumble upon them, when they little expect such a sight. This gives a grandeur to my customs, far beyond the display of fine things which I buy; this makes my enemies fear me, and gives me such a name in the Bush*. Besides, if I neglect this indispensable duty, 341 would my ancestors suffer me to live? would they not trouble me day and night, and say, that I sent nobody to serve them? that I was only solicitous about my own name, and forgetful of my ancestors? White men are not acquainted with these circumstances; but I now tell you, that you may hear, and know, and inform your countrymen, why customs are made, and will be made, as long as black men continue to possess their own country: the few that can be spared from this necessary celebration, we sell to the white men; and happy, no doubt, are such, when they find themselves on the path for Grigwhee, to be disposed of to the Europeans—“We shall still drink water†,” say they to themselves; “white men will not kill us; and we may even avoid punishment, by serving our new masters with fidelity.”

The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;

AN INTERESTING SPANISH TALE.

(Continued from page 336.)

‘Alas! Madam,’ answered the goatherd, ‘I wish it were in my power to conduct you to the village of Gadara, behind these rocks: but you will not ask me to return thither, when you are informed that my mistress is this day to be married to my rival. I am going to leave these mountains, never to behold them more; and I carry nothing with me but my flute, a change of dress, which I have in this parcel, and the memory of the happiness which I have lost.’

This short account suggested a new project to Marina.

‘My friend,’ said she to the goatherd ‘you have no money, which you will certainly want, when you have left this country. I have a few ducats, which I will divide with you, if you let me have the dress in your parcel.’ 

The goatherd accepted the offer. Marina gave him a dozen ducats, and, having learned the road to Gadara, took her leave of the despairing lover, and returned into the grotto to put on her disguise.

She came out habited in a vest of chamois skin, with a shepherd’s wallet hanging by her side, and, on her head, a hat ornamented with ribbands. In this attire she appeared yet more beautiful than when adorned with brocades and jewels. She took the road to the village, and, stopping in the market-place, enquired of the peasants, if they knew of any farmer who wanted a servant.

The inhabitants surround her, and survey the stranger with admiration. The girls express their surprise at the beauty of her flowing ringlets. Her elegant form, her graceful manner, the brilliancy of her eyes, even though dejected, their superior intelligence and mild benignity, astonish and delight all beholders. No one could conceive from whence came this beautiful youth. One imagines him a person of high distinction in disguise; another, a prince in love with some shepherdess; while the schoolmaster, who 341b was at the same time the poet of the village, declared it must be Apollo, sent down, a second time, to keep sheep among mortals!

Marina, who assumed the name of Marcello, was not long in want of a master. She was hired by an aged alcaid, or judge of the village, esteemed one of the worthiest men in the whole province.

This honest countryman soon contracted the warmest friendship for Marina. He scarcely suffered her to tend his flock for a month before he gave her an employment within his house, in which the pretended Marcello behaved with so much propriety and fidelity, that he was equally beloved by his master, and the servants.

Before he had lived here six months, the alcaid, who was more than eighty, left the management of all his affairs to Marcello: he even asked his opinion in all the causes that came before him, and never had any alcaid decided with so much justice as he, from the time he permitted himself to be guided by the advice of Marcello, who was proposed as an example to all the village: his affability, his pleasing manner, and his good sense, gained every heart. ‘See the excellent Marcello,’ cried the mothers to their sons, ‘he is perpetually employed in rendering his old master’s age happy, and never neglects his duty, to run after the shepherdesses!’

Two years passed away in this manner. Marina, whose thoughts were continually employed on her lover, had sent a shepherd, in whom she could confide, to Granada, to procure information concerning Don Alphonso, Alonzo, and Henriquez. The shepherd brought word back, that Alonzo was dead, Henriquez married; and that Alphonso had not been seen or heard of for two years.

Marina now lost all hope of again beholding her lover, and, happy in being able to pass her days in that village, in the bosom of peace and friendship, had resolved to bid an eternal adieu to love, when the old alcaid, her master, fell dangerously ill. Marcello attended his last moments with all the affection of a son, and the good old man behaved to him like a grateful father: he died and left all he possessed to the faithful Marcello. But his will was far from being a consolation to his heir.

The whole village lamented the alcaid, and, after his funeral rites were celebrated, the inhabitants assembled to choose a successor. In Spain certain villages have the right of nominating their own alcaid, whose office it is to decide their differences, and take cognizance of greater crimes by arresting and examining the offenders, and delivering them over to the superior judges, who generally confirm the sentence of those rustic magistrates; for good laws are always perfectly consonant to simple reason.

The assembled villagers unanimously agreed, that no one could be so proper to succeed the late alcaid as the youth whom he seemed to have designed for his successor. The old men, therefore, followed by their sons, came with the usual ceremonies to offer Marina the wand, the ensign of the office. Marina accepted, and sensibly touched by such a proof of esteem and affection from these good people, 342 resolved to consecrate to their happiness a life which she had formerly intended to dedicate to love.

While the new alcaid is engaged with the duties of her office, let us return to the unfortunate Don Alphonso, whom we left galloping towards Portugal, and continually removing farther from the beloved object of his pursuit.

Don Alphonso arrived at Lisbon, without obtaining any intelligence of Marina, and immediately returned, by the same road, to search every place he had before in vain examined; again he returned to Lisbon, but without success.

After six months ineffectual enquiry, being convinced that Marina had never returned to Granada, he imagined she might perhaps be at Seville, where, he knew, she had relations. He immediately hastened to Seville, and there found that Marina’s relations had just embarked for Mexico.

Don Alphonso no longer doubted that his mistress was gone with them, and directly went on board the last ship which remained to sail. He arrived at Mexico, where he found the relations, but alas! no Marina: they had heard nothing of her: he, therefore, returned to Spain. And now the ship is attacked by a violent storm, and cast away on the coast of Granada; he, and a few of the passengers, save themselves by swimming; they land, and make their way to the mountains, to procure assistance, and, by accident or love, are conducted to Gadara.

Don Alphonso and his unfortunate companions, took refuge in the first inn, congratulating each other on the danger they had escaped. While they were discoursing on their adventures, one of the passengers began to quarrel with a soldier, concerning a box, which the passenger asserted belonged to him.

Don Alphonso desirous to put an end to the contention, obliged the passenger to declare what it contained, opening it, at the some time, to discover whether he spoke truth.

How great was his surprise to find in it the jewels of Marina, and, among them the very emerald he had given her. For a moment he stood motionless, examining attentively the casket, and fixing his eyes, sparkling with rage, on the claimant, ‘how came you by these jewels?’ said he, with a terrible voice.

‘What does it signify,’ replied the passenger, haughtily, ‘how I came by them? It is sufficient that they are mine.’

He then endeavoured to snatch the casket from Don Alphonso; but the latter, pushing him back, instantly drew his sword, and exclaiming, ‘Wretch, confess your crime, or you die this moment,’ attacked him with great fury: his antagonist defended himself desperately, but presently received a mortal wound, and fell.

Don Alphonso was immediately surrounded by the people of the house. They take him to prison, and the master of the inn sends his wife to fetch the clergyman of the parish, that he may administer spiritual comfort to the dying man, while he runs himself, to the alcaid to carry the casket and inform him of the whole adventure.

How great was the surprise, the joy, and the anxiety of Marina on perceiving her diamonds, and hearing the behaviour of the noble stranger!

She immediately hastened to the inn: the minister was already there; and the dying man, induced by his exhortations, declared, in presence of the alcaid, that, two years before, as he was one night passing through a street in Granada, a lady had given him that box, through a lattice, desiring him to hold it till she came down, but that he immediately made off with the jewels; for which theft he asked pardon of God, and of the unknown lady he had injured. He immediately expired, and Marina hastened to the prison.

Imagine the palpitations of her heart: she could no longer doubt but she should again see Don Alphonso, but he was apprehensive of being known by him: she therefore pulled her hat over her eyes, wrapped herself up in her cloak, and preceded by her clerk and the gaoler, entered the dungeon.

(To be concluded in our next.)

STORY OF TWO CORDELIERS.

BY MARGARET VALOIS, QUEEN OF FRANCE.

Two cordeliers, arriving late one evening at a little village, were obliged to lodge at a butcher’s, and the chamber where they lay was only separated by a few boards from that where the butcher and his wife slept. Curiosity led the cordeliers to hearken what the man and woman were conversing about. The husband began talking of his domestic concerns, and said, “I must get up, my dear, to-morrow betimes, and give a look at our cordeliers; one of them is, I think, in pretty good order, but we will kill both, and salt them down, which will turn well to our account.”—Although the butcher spoke only of his pigs, which he jocosely called cordeliers, the poor friars were so horribly frightened, that they were ready to expire with fear, and resolved to save themselves by jumping out of the window. The thinnest of the two fell lightly on the ground, and ran as far as the town without waiting for his companion: the other followed his example; but being very fat, fell so heavily, that he broke his leg, and with much difficulty crawled to a little shed which he found not far off, and which proved to be precisely the place where the pigs (his brother cordeliers) usually lay. Early the next morning the butcher got ready his knife, and went straight to the stye:—“Come, come, my cordeliers,” said he, “come out, come out, for to-day I am resolved to eat some of your puddings.” The cordelier cried out for mercy; and the butcher, who concluded that St. Francois had metamorphosed one of his pigs into a friar, on purpose to punish him for having sported with the name of a religious order of men, was overcome with fear; but the matter being soon explained, the good fathers, in gratitude for their hospitable reception, and fortunate release from their fears, very peaceably parted with their host, and very kindly comforted him with their benediction.

LOVE AND FOLLY.

LOVE.

The greatest virtues that men possess are owing to Love. From whence proceeds the balmy band of friendship?—From Love. What felicity would there he in the marriage state without Love? How wretched are those mortals who are incapable of friendship, and who feel no satisfaction in loving or being loved! How morose, how savage, how indelicate, how dull, how cruel would man be, if exempt from social virtues?—And from whence do they all spring, but from Love? I will even go so far as so say, that the polite arts owe their origin to Love. Even the most celebrated poets have exerted their utmost skill on the subject of Love. It sooths, softens, and harmonizes the minds of men, and inspires them with sentiments of tenderness and humanity. It even disposes them to feel for their fellow creatures, and comfort the bosom of affliction. It cannot be denied but men’s glory, honour, profit, and pleasure, all depend upon Love. Love would wish that all men should live in perfect harmony with each other, and that there should be no distinction of persons. Love inspires honour, friendship, charity, humanity, benevolence, modesty, meekness, and chastity.

FOLLY.

From the first moment that man was placed upon earth, he began his life by pursuing the dictates of Folly, since which his successors have continued to follow the example, and have improved by her precepts, beyond what their forefathers could have conceived, or even hoped for. Folly has invented every kind of excellence that is held in estimation by mankind; luxury, magnificence, titles, honors, and riches. Folly occasioned one set of men to rule their fellow creatures, and keep them under subjection. What but folly could have induced men to search into the bowels of the earth for iron, gold, precious stones, and a thousand other useless baubles?—Even commerce herself would be banished if it were not for Folly. How would so many lawyers, judges, fiddlers, players, perfumers, embroiderers, and ten thousand other professions and trades flourish, if it were not from Folly?

ANECDOTE.

An elegant writer has said, “that the period of our courtship is the happiest of our lives.”—If this position be true, it is impossible not to admire the prudence of a couple lately married, who protracted this period of felicity for thirty-four years. That they should at last think it necessary to unite in the bands of wedlock, is a striking proof that all human felicity must sometime or other have an end.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Monday the 13th of February last, at the Prussian capital, His Royal Highness the Hereditary Prince of Hesse-Cassel, to Her Serene Highness Augusta Princess of Prussia.

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. Leonard Meuise, to Miss Dolly Shute, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Provost, Mr. John Hamilton, to Miss Giffy Heden, both of this city.

On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Dr. Alexander Anderson, to Miss Ann Van Vleck, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Charles Henry, to Miss Elizabeth Robinson, both of this city.

On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Israel Post, to Miss Ann Rich, both of Philipsburgh, West-Chester.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Benjamin Taylor, to Miss Mary Barker, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. James Torton, to Miss Anna Barker, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Samuel Low, to Miss Ann Cregier, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. Walter Townsend, of this city, to Miss Jemima White, of Norwalk.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

VERSES,

ADDRESSED TO MISS A—— B——.

SPLEEN.

A SONNET.

ALWIN and RENA.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

ON IMPRUDENT FRIENDSHIP.

In considering the instability of the ties that bind individuals in unison and communion with each other, I cannot but lament the disgrace which some miscreants have brought upon themselves by wilfully abusing and burying in oblivion the origin of all happiness, and at the same time profess themselves advocates for, and supporters of, the genuine principles of Friendship; under the mask of which, they deceive and render unhappy the honest and unsuspecting part of the community. A few remarks on this important subject may not be unwelcome to the reader.

The words parodox, problem, &c. are never misrepresented; whereas others, such as honour, reputation, friendship, &c. are scarcely ever quoted, unless to be misapplied.

The words friendship and friend, are used, indeed, in such a variety of senses, all different, that it is almost impossible to recognize the genuine features of that old-fashioned thing called Friendship among such a group of unaccountables. A spendthrift, after various attempts to borrow money, complains, with a sigh, that he has not a friend left in the world; and another, who has not quite reached this period, talks, with some pleasure, of meeting a dozen or two of friends to dine at a tavern.—Benjamin Bribewell, Esq. invites his friends to meet at a public hall, and proceed from thence in a body! and Captain Swagger, who has accepted a challenge, requests a brother officer to go out with him as his friend, and see that he be fairly run through the body. A highwayman who quarrels with his accomplices concerning the distribution of the booty, wonders that there should be any bickering among friends. Nor is it very uncommon that two who always own a friendship for each other, after cutting and bruising one another until they can scarcely stand, are separated by their friends—nay, what is more remarkable, they sometimes shake hands, and agree to part friends!

Such are the common ideas of Friendship; and if such is the only Friendship men expect to contract, surely they have little reason to complain if they should be disappointed. After having prostituted the name, how can they expect the substance? After having dreamt only of the sign, how can 345b they expect the thing signified? If we consider how those connexions which are called Friendships are formed, we shall the less wonder that they are unstable with most men: it is sufficient to have been twice or thrice in each others company, they become thereafter friends, and we are not to be surprised, if what is formed so hastily, should be as hastily dissolved. Houses that are thrown up quickly, and while the materials are green and unseasoned, cannot be expected to last long.

There are, on the other hand, some persons who entertain a notion of Friendship so very celestial and romantic, as is not to be expected from the frailty of human nature: They mistake the nature of a friend just as much as those of whom I have been speaking. They expect every thing from a friend, and in this are as much in fault as those who expected any thing. Romantic notions of Friendship are much cherished in novels and sentimental writings, but their tendency is often fatal, and at all times pernicious. A very short intercourse with the world of men, convinces them that they have been reading of ideal beings, and their tempers are apt to be soured; in consequence of which, they entertain worse perceptions of men than they deserve.

There are two kinds of men who are strangers to true Friendship, although they may attain the habit, and appear in outward profession to be sincere; and these are the profane and ignorant, or the immoral. Those who are unsuspecting may anticipate great satisfaction and delight by the outward concessions of the designing friend, but they will sooner or later find, by awful experience, that they have misplaced their sincere regard, and in retaliation for their good offices, receive nothing but impious insults and all the injuries that their depraved friend can inflict.

WORLDLY GREATNESS AND HONOURS,

When enjoyed with temperance and wisdom, both enlarge our utility, and contribute to our comfort. But we should not over-rate them; for, unless we add to them the necessary correctives of piety and virtue, besides corrupting the mind, and engendering internal misery, they lead us among precipices, and betray us into ruin.

For sources, see the end of this file.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

PREFACE.

After obtruding my late productions on the Public, I retired into the country, where I might have passed fifteen months in endless apathy, had I not felt that idleness, if not the root of all evil, is at least the bane of all good; and that however the spirits may be depressed by misfortune, or the body harrassed by fatigue, the mind, still active, will rather create visions, and pursue phantoms, than subjugate itself to a total oblivion of all the blessings of this life.

Though I had little inclination to be perfectly unemployed, I had as little to busy myself in those works of Fancy and Fiction, which, under the title of Novels, cost much time and great application; and in the composition of which so many of my fair countrywomen eminently excel.

Yet was I determined not to sacrifice the peaceful moments allotted to me in mental slumbers. I considered that I have seen much; that I have reflected more; that my reading had not been inconsiderable; and that I had travelled not without some attention to the men and manners of various countries; that the recollection of some of these objects might not only amuse myself, but prove interesting to people less accustomed to diversity of situation, and, perhaps, less qualified to draw inferences from what they see.

I concluded then, that without wearying myself so as to deprive my mind of the repose it required, and at the same time to keep it’s powers in action, I might devote a part of my time to the recollection and recital of such of my Wanderings as could not be recounted without some topics for amusement, and some hints for instruction.

But though I thus draw from the fountain-head of actual observation, in some cases, and from experience in others, my Reader is not to infer that my writings will be less entertaining than the Wanderings of Fiction. For I need not tell those who are capable of making observation, that almost every life is full of adventure; of strange transitions and wonderful revolutions; and he that adheres to simple facts, and relates what passes before him, need seldom have recourse to fiction for subjects even marvellous, and such as may at once instruct and delight the Reader.

The principal object of a writer, thus circumstanced, is to select with discretion, and to relate with effect. In this I know not how far I may have succeeded, because I am ignorant of the extent of my own powers, and conscious only of my good intentions.

With these sentiments, and impressed with a due sense for the favourable reception of my former productions, I humbly submit to the candour and to the protection of the public my Wanderings of the Imagination.

FIRST WANDERING.

During an excursion last Summer, in the county of Kent, when my finances would not afford me a better conveyance than a stage-coach, I frequently amused myself, (not, as is usual, with the different countenances and characters of it’s passengers) but with those incidents on the road; with which chance not unfrequently furnished me.

As I was admiring the beauty of the hop-grounds, which flourished in rich luxuriance near the side of the ocean, a sailor caught my attention. He no sooner perceived the coach, than he ran eagerly towards it; his countenance was expressive of something between sorrow and gladness. On his right side was a stump, which he emphatically held towards us: his left arm he extended towards the sea, which, as his eye glanced over, appeared to intimate, “This still remains for the service of my country!”

Perhaps the chearful tar had no such idea as that which I hastily formed on seeing him; but his smiling countenance indicated something above the generality of beggars, who, conceiving that their mutilated bodies are insufficient to excite pity, aim at a distortion of features, and a story in which the marvellous bears the strongest part, as better calculated to impose on the genuine feelings of humanity.

The contrasted appearance of this son of Neptune pleased me; but while I was ruminating in his favour, I was neglectful of the more essential mode of serving him; and before I could reach the bottom of my pocket, the coach drove on, and left him to the chance of a more favourable moment in the hearts of succeeding travellers, who might probably be actuated by different feelings than mine to relieve his necessities. I could not, however, help reflecting, that good intentions ought to be speedily performed; and that to neglect opportunities of benevolence, is not conformable to the doctrine and practice of him who made the human heart.

In the county of Kent, and her little Island of Thanet, Nature is gaily, and luxuriantly dressed. The extremes of affluence, or penury, are seldom met with; the lands are fertile, and well cultivated; and the round bodies of the horses bespeak the ease of their employers. Here are various little plants elsewhere unknown; and the botanist would find his labours amply rewarded by strictly scrutinizing the soil of Thanet.

Were I inclined to extend description, I should fully expatiate on the beauties and manners of this pleasant county; which I saw with pleasure, and left with regret; but as I intend this to be rather an irregular journal, than a studied publication, I will bid adieu to it, and all its delights; and in wishing its inhabitants every enjoyment that can arise from industry, and benevolence, proceed to give an account of my

SECOND WANDERING.

I could never account for national prejudice. It is a narrow-minded opinion, inconsistent with reason and humanity: it extends itself to counties, towns, and even villages. The 347 Spaniards are proud—the Italians and Portugueze revengeful—the French barbarous—and England is supposed to be, by Englishmen, the only spot of Europe which unites every virtue, untainted by any vice. Born myself an Englishwoman and the daughter of a Portugueze, I feel a more natural propensity towards this country, the harbour of my birth and education, than towards Portugal; although the laws of England have sufficiently operated against me, to excuse any prejudice I might in common justice form against it. These laws (the boast of Englishmen) have been exercised towards myself with severity, but without justice: they have been strained against a weak woman, and have proved a galling yoke of slavery, when they should have served as a barrier against injustice and oppression; and they have fully convinced me, that in this Christian kingdom, as elsewhere, the hydra of despotism rears her head unabashed, if not swayed by a golden sceptre. Money, and its concomitant, interest, bear all before them. In vain will talents, merit, and even virtue itself, lay claim to protection; these are weak prerogatives when opposed to wealth, no matter by what means acquired. The Nabob, who returns home loaded with the spoils of the East, to obtain which he has waded through the blood of thousands, becomes respected as a worthy member of community, as soon as it is known he is a rich one. But should the same person return to this his native country, poor, friendless, and forlorn;—should he urge in excuse for his poverty the uprightness of his heart, which spurned at the idea of acquiring wealth by cruelty and usurpation, how would he then be received? Where would he find the great man to patronize him? And where, alas! the sympathetic mind to commiserate, and the benevolent hand to alleviate his necessities? In England I fear, he would not; or, if he did, it would be more likely in the compassionate breast of a stranger, than in that of what custom, and custom only, calls an old friend.

From this dangerous, because most abused of epithets, arises principally the source of all our misfortunes. We cling to it with eager hope, and are almost as frequently met by disappointment.

In all our wayward pilgrimage through life, we console ourselves with the certainty of reciprocal esteem and disinterested friendship. Youth and prosperity attach themselves to the specious forms of kindness; but the flattering illusions last no longer than the objects which attracted them; and the once-admired favourite of Fortune, no longer in possession of more than the desire to do good, becomes an alien to the society of which he was once the support and the pride. This, indeed, seems an argument in favour of misanthropy; whereas it only strongly inculcates the necessity of limiting our benevolence and our desires, and submit to the dictates of prudence.

I was particularly led into these reflexions, by a circumstance which lately occured to me. As I was enjoying my 347b meditations in a retired part of St. Jame’s Park, at an hour prescribed there by custom and fashion, a countenance, of which I had a slender recollection, met my eye. The meanness of his attire was no obstacle to my perceiving that he was a gentleman. He walked a few paces before me, and then sitting down on the first bench, pensively leaned his head on his hand, and attentively considered me as I past. I proceeded slowly down the avenue, and took occasion to observe whether he followed me. He kept his place till my return, when he looked sorrowfully in my face, and emphatically shook his head. His meaning was too plain not to be understood: and I answered it by placing myself on the seat near him.

I believe our looks mutually bespoke a wish, mingled with a sort of timid fear, about making the first advance; and in this situation we had probably remained some time longer, had he not as he afterwards told me, seen something in my face that bore testimony to a feeling heart. With a tremulous voice, he asked me if he was mistaken in my name, which he mentioned; and being satisfied that he was right, he added, “No wonder, Madam, that an interval of twenty-two years, and my present appearance, should conceal from your remembrance the person of Capt. S——.”

The expression of his countenance, and the tone in which he uttered these words, were more convincing proofs of his veracity, than I could discover in the imperfect traces of a form I had once beheld. That form, which I once saw the repository of every manly grace, was now palsied and emaciated, and seemed bending towards the earth, as if anxious to embrace its last asylum. So true is the observation of an accurate observer of human life: “He that wanders about the world sees new forms of misery; and if he chances to meet an old friend, meets a face darkened with troubles.”

I assured him, that I did indeed remember Capt. S——; but that surprize and sorrow now damped the joy I should have felt on the renewal of our acquaintance, had I found him in a situation more worthy of him. I intreated him to believe, that however hardly fortune had dealt by him (and that she had dealt hardly I could not doubt), there still existed some few compassionate hearts; and that I was proud to place mine among the number. He gently pressed my hand to his lips; intreated I would name an early day for giving him another meeting in the same place; and telling me he was then going by appointment to see his old friend, and former Colonel, Lord G. he tottered down the avenue, but not till we had agreed on meeting the following morning at twelve; when he promised to acquaint me with the success of his visit, from which he already seemed to derive the most sanguine expectations. My eyes could only follow him for a few minutes, but my heart ceased not to accompany him throughout the day; and while I pondered on the vicissitudes of life, and retracing his former situation, I could not help sorrowfully contrasting it with his present embarrassments.

(To be continued.)

For sources, see the end of this file.

[The Editors of the New-York Weekly Magazine, present their readers, this week, with the first number of the “FARRAGO,” from the inimitable pen of Mr. Dennie, author of “The Lay Preacher,” &c. &c. The pure morality, the elegant and classical style which is pourtrayed in every paragraph, the Editors flatter themselves will be acceptable to the lovers and patrons of Literature. The Farrago originally appeared in “The TABLET,” a literary paper published in Boston, which was universally read and admired throughout the New-England States.]

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. I.

Le Sage, the merry author of Gil Blas, delights to expatiate in praise of a Spanish soup, denominated, in that language, an Olla Podrida, a dish formed by a motley mixture of many ingredients, of which some one can tickle the most fastidious palate.

Essays should resemble this Olio, if their author wish for readers. When a student sits down to a system, he expects the formality and method of the schools, but how frequent would be the yawn, if periodical writings resembled Locke’s Essay on Understanding? Of works intended for amusement, the essence is sprightliness and variety. Without these requisites a reader would rise from the literary repast, and, in Shakespeare’s phrase, pronounce it but lenten entertainment.

When cookery was young, viands the most simple were sought; and, in an ancient bill of fare, acorns and spring water were the first articles. Time has created alteration; and the refinement of modern luxury requires made dishes. Plain food daily grows into disrepute, and, for the substantial sirloin we substitute ragouts and fricacees, replete with spicery. To gratify modern taste, every thing must be high seasoned. This irregular appetite affects the library, as well as the table, and extends to the books, which we read, as well as to the dishes, which we taste. Motley miscellany, in all its Proteus forms, aptly christened by the British booksellers “light, summer reading,” is the favourite amusement of all gentle students. On this occasion, one might declaim against modern degeneracy; might compare the tinsel of Kelly with the gold of Addison; might sigh for solid books and dishes, and invoke Hooker and Bacon to write, and a turnspit of Queen Elizabeth to cook for us. But this species of railing is grown so trite that “’tis a custom more honoured in the breach, than in the observance.” It is better, with a willing adroitness, to comply, with what we cannot change, and to form the “stuff” of our argument, as a tailor cuts a coat, by the rule of fashion.

A literary adventurer, confident of amusing himself, though almost hopeless of amusing others, prepares to scribble 348b in conformity to the preceding sentiment. Though still juvenile, he has, for a period of some duration, been in the habit of marking the hues of “many-colored life.” The morning he gives to books, and the evening to men; and, from every page that he twirls, and from every character which he sees, he endeavours, like his renowned predecessor, the Spectator, to extract amusement or instruction. He is not, however, like him, only an observer in society, but cheerfully converses even with “wayfaring men, though fools,” that he may learn some particulars of life’s journey. With all the restlessness of busy indolence, and with all the volatility of a humming bird, he roams from object to object, as caprice inspires. This is the province of a lounger; he is one of “the privileged orders” in society, and to wander is his vocation.

Thus inquisitive from habit, and thus restless from temper, he fancies, perhaps presumptuously, that he may now become the herald of what he has seen and heard. In giving his lucubrations to the world, he confesses that his nerves thrill with the tremors of timidity. Though he thinks, with Dr. Young, that “fondness of fame, is avarice of air,” yet, in spite of sober belief, juvenile ambition

As he is a volunteer in the literary corps, he hopes that severe discipline will not be exercised. He implores of the critics a dispensation from an observance of the more rigid rules of method, as he never was educated in that “drowsy school.” A lover of the desultory style, his effusions shall keep pace with Sterne’s—in digression and eccentricity, though halting far behind him in wit. Such a writer, the logicians must permit to wander at large,

If he be suffered to remain enfranchised, though abusing his liberty, he may stray from the high road, yet he hopes never to deviate far from the boundaries of common sense; and if, in the wildness of volatility, he sometimes leap the hedge, he will endeavour to catch a butterfly, or crop a flower. All parties in the State, may read the moderate sentiments of a writer, who will neither factiously blow the trumpet of democracy, nor proudly stalk in the aristocratical buskin. All sects in the Church, may cheerily and charitably unite in the perusal of a work, intended to amuse as a speculation, not dogmatize as a creed. Though feminine foibles will be smilingly derided, yet, at the apprehension of malignant satire from the author of the Farrago, not a heart need palpitate, a fan flutter, nor a tea-table shake. If the ladies will “put away those strange gods,” coquetry, futility and artifice, he will, in, the words of Shakespeare’s weaver, so restrain and aggravate his voice, that he will roar at them, like any sucking dove, he will roar, like any nightingale.—In fine, like every other adventurer, he promises plausibly; and though he cannot hope to instruct by golden precept, like Pythagoras, or divert by humour, like Falstaff, yet like Sancho Panza, by his very simplicity he may inform and amuse.

The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;

AN INTERESTING SPANISH TALE.

(Concluded from page 342.)

No sooner had she come to the bottom of the stairs than she perceived Don Alphonso. Her joy almost deprived her of speech; she leaned against the wall, her head sunk on her shoulder, and the tears bedewed her cheeks. She wiped them away, stopped a moment to take breath, and, endeavouring to speak with firmness, approached the prisoner.

‘Stranger,’ said she, disguising her voice, ‘you have killed your companion. What could induce you to commit such a horrid crime?’

‘Alcaid,’ answered Don Alphonso, ‘I have committed no crime; it was an act of justice; but I am desirous to die. Death alone can end the miseries, of which the wretch I have sacrificed was the first cause. Condemn me. I wish not to make a defence. Deliver me from a life which is hateful to me, since I have lost what alone could render it delightful; since I can no longer hope ever to find’——

He was scarce able to conclude, and his voice faintly expressed the name of Marina.

Marina trembled on hearing him pronounce her name. She could scarcely conceal her transports, but was ready to throw herself into the arms of her lover. The presence, however, of so many witnesses restrained her. She, therefore, turned away her eyes, and faintly requested to be left alone with the prisoner. She was obeyed.

Giving a free course to her tears she advanced towards Don Alphonso, and offering him her hand, said to him, in a most affectionate tone, ‘Do you then still love her who lives for you alone?’

At these words, at this voice, Alphonso lifts his head, unable to believe his eyes. ‘Oh Heavens! Is it—is it my Marina! Or is it some angelic being assuming her form? Yes, it is my Marina herself, I can no longer doubt it,’ cried he, clamping her in his arms, and bathing her with his tears. ‘It is my love, my life, and all my woes are ended.’

‘No,’ said Marina, as soon as she could recover speech, ‘you are guilty of bloodshed, and I cannot free you from your fetters; but I will repair to-morrow to the superior judge, will inform him of the secret of my birth, relate to him our misfortunes, and, if he refuses me your liberty, will return and end my days with you in this prison.’

Marcello immediately gave orders for the removal of Alphonso from the dungeon into a less hideous place of security. He took care that he should want for nothing, and returned home to prepare for his journey, the next day, when a most alarming event prevented his departure, and hastened the delivery of Don Alphonso.

Some Algerine galleys, which had for several days pursued the ship on board which Don Alphonso was, had arrived on the coast, some time after the shipwreck; and willing to repay themselves for the trouble they had taken, had determined to land, during the night. Two renegadoes, who 349b knew the country, undertook to conduct the barbarians to the village of Gadara, and fulfilled their promise but too well.

About one in the morning, when labour enjoys repose, and villainy wakes to remorse, the dreadful cry to arms! to arms! was heard.

The Corsairs had landed, and were burning and slaughtering all before them. The darkness of the night, the groans of the dying, and the shrieks of the inhabitants, filled every heart with consternation. The trembling wives caught their husbands in their arms; and the old men sought succour from their sons. In a moment the village was in flames, the light of which discovered the gory scymitars and white turbans of the Moors.

Those barbarians, the flambeau in one hand, and the hatchet in the other, were breaking and burning the doors of the houses; making their way through the smoaking ruins, to seek for victims or for plunder, and returning covered with blood, and loaded with booty.

Here they rush into the chamber, to which two lovers, the bride and bridegroom of the day, had been conducted by their mother. Each on their knees, side by side, was pouring forth thanks to heaven, for having crowned their faithful wishes. An unfeeling wretch, remorseless, seizes the terrified bride; loads her unhappy lover, whom in cruelty he spares, with chains; and snatches before his face, in spite of his distraction, his tears, prayers, and exclamations, that prize which was due to him alone.

There they take the sleeping infant from its cradle. The mother, frantic, defends it, singly, against an host. Nothing can repel, nothing can terrify her. Death she braves and provokes. For her child she supplicates, threatens, and combats; while the tender infant, already seized by these tigers, starts, wakes, stares, with the wild agony of terror, on the grim visage of its murderer, and sinks into convulsive horror and sleep, from which it wakes no more.

Nothing is held sacred by these monsters. They force their way into the temples of the Most High, break the shrines, strip off the gold, and trample the holy relics under foot. Alas! of what avail to the priests is their sacred character? to the aged their grey hairs? to youth its graces, or to infancy its innocence? Slavery, fire, devastation, and death are every where, and compassion is fled.

On the first alarm the Alcaid made all haste to the prison to inform Don Alphonso of the danger. The brave Alphonso demanded a sword for himself and a buckler for the Alcaid. He takes Marina by the hand, and making his way to the market-place, thus accosts the fugitives: ‘My friends, are ye Spaniards, and do ye abandon your wives and children to the fury of the infidels?’

He stops, he rallies them, inspires them with his own valor, and, more than human, (for he is a lover, and a hero) rushes, sabre in hand, on a party of the Moors, whom he instantly disperses. The inhabitants recover their recollection and their courage; enraged, behold their slaughtered friends; and hasten in crowds to join their leader.

Alphonso, without quitting Marina, and ever solicitous to expose his life in her defence, attacks the barbarians at the head of his brave Spaniards, and dealing destruction to all who make resistance, drives the fugitives before him, retakes the plunder and the prisoners, and only quits the pursuit of the enemy to return and extinguish the flames.

The day begin to break, when a body of troops, who had received information of the descent of the infidels, arrived from a neighbouring town. The governor had put himself at their head and found Don Alphonso surrounded by women, children, and old men; who, weeping, kissed his hands, with unfeigned gratitude, for having preserved their husbands, their fathers, or their sons.

The governor, informed of the exploits of Don Alphonso, loaded him with praises and caresses; but Marina, requesting to be heard, declared to the governor in presence of the whole village, her sex; giving, at the same time, a relation of her adventures, the death of the bravo by Don Alphonso, and the circumstances which rendered him excusable.

All the inhabitants, greatly affected with her story, fell at the feet of the governor, intreating pardon for the man to whom they were indebted for their preservation. Their request was granted, and the happy Alphonso, thus restored to his dear Marina, embraced the governor, and blessed the good inhabitants. One of the old men then advanced: ‘Brave stranger,’ said he, ‘you are our deliverer, but you take from us our Alcaid; this loss perhaps outweighs your benefit. Double our blessings; instead of depriving us of our greatest, remain in this village; condescend to become our Alcaid, our master, our friend. Honour us so far, as to permit nothing to abate our love for you. In a great city, the cowardly and the wicked, who maintain the same rank with yourself, will think themselves your equals; while, here, every virtuous inhabitant will look on you as his father; next to the Deity himself, you will receive, from us, the highest honour; and, while life remains, on the anniversary of this day, the fathers of our families will present their children before you, saying, ‘behold the man who preserved the lives of your mothers.’

Alphonso was enchanted while he listened to the old man. ‘Yes,’ cried he, ‘my children, yes, my brethren, I will remain here. My life shall be devoted to Marina and to you. But my wife has considerable possessions in Granada. Our excellent governor will add his interest to ours that we may recover them, and they shall be employed to rebuild the houses which the Infidels have burnt. On this condition alone, will I accept the office of Alcaid; and though I should expend in your service, both my riches and my life, I should still be your debtor; for it is you who have restored to me my Marina!’

Imagine the transports of the villagers while Alphonso spoke. The governor was a person of power, and undertook to arrange every thing to his wish; and, two days afterwards, the marriage was celebrated between Marina and her lover.

Notwithstanding their late misfortunes, nothing could exceed the joy of the inhabitants. The two lovers long lived in unexampled felicity; and made the whole district as virtuous and happy as themselves.

HISTORICAL EXAMPLES OF HUMANITY.

On the day of the battle of Dettingen, a musketeer, named Girardeau, dangerously wounded, was carried near the Duke of Cumberland’s tent. They could find no surgeon, all of them being sufficiently employed elsewhere. They were going to dress the duke, the calf of whose leg had been pierced by a ball: “Begin,” said that generous prince, “with relieving that French officer, he is more wounded than I; he may fail of succour, and I shall not.”

Alphonso V. king of Sicily and Arragon, was besieging the city of Gayette. That place beginning to fail of provisions, the inhabitants were obliged to turn out the women, children, and old men, who were so many useless mouths.—These poor people found themselves reduced to the most direful extremity. If they approached the city, the besieged fired on them; if they advanced towards the enemy’s camp they there met the same danger. In this sad condition, those wretches implored sometimes the compassion of their countrymen, not to suffer them to die with hunger. Alphonso was moved with pity at this spectacle, and forbid his soldiers to use them ill. He then assembled his council, and asked the advice of the principal officers, respecting the manner he ought to act with these unfortunate people. They all gave their opinion that they ought not to receive them, and said, that if they perished by hunger, or by the sword, none could be blamed but the inhabitants, who had driven them out of the city. Alphonso was offended at their hardness of heart: he protested he would rather renounce the taking of Gayette than resolve to let so many wretches die of hunger. He also added, that a victory purchased at that price would be less worthy of a magnanimous king than a barbarian and a tyrant. ‘I am not come,’ said he, ‘to make war on women, children, and feeble old men, but on enemies capable of defending themselves.’ He immediately gave orders that they should receive all those unfortunate people into the camp, and caused provisions, and whatever was necessary, to be distributed amongst them.

A violent tempest, which Alphonso V. king of Arragon, was exposed to at sea, obliged him to put up into an island. Being there in perfect security, he perceived one of his gallies on the point of being swallowed up in the waves, with the equipage and troops that were on board.——The spectacle excited his compassion, and he immediately gave orders that they should go and succour those unhappy people. Hereupon his people terrified at the danger, represented to him, that it was better to let one ship perish, than expose all the rest to the danger of ship-wreck. Alphonso did not listen to this advice: but, without deliberating, embarked on board the admiral’s ship, and immediately departed to give them timely succour; the rest, seeing the king expose himself with so much resolution, were animated by his example, and every one hastened to follow him. The enterprize at length succeeded; but he likewise ran great risk of perishing, it being so very dangerous. The generous Alphonso said, ‘I would have preferred being buried in the sea with all my fleet, rather than have seen those wretches perish full in my view without helping them.’

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CRIMINAL.

(Continued from page 335.)

O moment for reflection! O innocence forever fled!—My children are satisfied, and—I am miserable. O God of nature, hear my cries! I would ask of thee forgiveness, for oh! the deed of yesterday hangs heavy on my soul. What have I done?—I stopped the stranger, and asked his purse: he refused. I clapt the murderous weapon to his breast and demanded it—he hesitated.——In imagination I viewed my family perishing for food. I could not wait—The flint struck—the stranger fell—and—O earth hide me in thy bosom!—Wretch! how do the words escape my lips—I beheld my father.——

When reason had regained its seat, I found myself in company with my children, relieving their wants from out my father’s purse.

My wife questioned me as to the manner of my procuring the unexpected boon. The truth I did not evade; but I related to her every circumstance, except that the murdered person was the author of my being. She shuddered at the tale. “O my husband!” she uttered, “why did you not inform me of your intention? Sooner would I have perished of hunger, than the crime should have been committed.” “Alas!” I returned, “while yet conscious innocence held thine eyelids closed, the deed was perpetrated.

“O my Euphemia! thou knowest not the extent of my villainy! If thou didst, thou wouldest shun my sight, and think me a devil that had assumed the form of man. What crime is worse than——But stop, thy feeble frame cannot now stand the shock.—Summon all thy fortitude; soon will the awful tidings sound dreadful in thine ears.”

L. B.

(To be continued.)

SELECTED OBSERVATIONS of a LATE WORTHY DIVINE.

Adrian, the coadjutor of Ximenes in the government of Castile, was much disturbed at the libels which flew about against them. Ximenes was perfectly easy. “If,” said he, “we take the liberty to act, others will take the liberty to talk and write: when they charge us falsely, we may laugh; when truly, we must mend.”

Dr. Green of St. John’s college, trying to skate, got a terrible fall backwards—“Why, Doctor,” said a friend who was with him, “I thought you had understood the business better.”—“O,” replied the Doctor, “I have the theory perfectly; I want nothing but the practice.”—How many of us, in matters of a much higher and more important nature, come under the Doctor’s predicament!

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday: evening the 29th ult. by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Colonel Deveaux, well known for his military atchievments and social virtues, to Miss Verplank, of Dutches Country.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Edward Prior, to Miss Fanny Fisher, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Benjamin Ferris, to Miss Ann Post, daughter of Mr. Henry Post.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

AN ACROSTIC.

ON THE REV.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LINES,

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF LISBON.

J. D.

THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

THE AFRICAN’s COMPLAINT.

Phœbus had immersed his flaming forehead in the Western main—smoothly glided the wild zephyrs, gently murmuring amongst the resounding foliage—Cynthia in blushing majesty began faintly to gild with silver tints the distant hills—a thousand glittering gems sparkled through the circumambient hemisphere—Nature seemed smiling to invite to nocturnal contemplation the sons of philosophy:—courted by the enchanting scenes, and enveloped in a pleasing reverie, I walked forth amongst the surrounding shades.——“Happy, ye freeborn sons of Columbia,” exclaimed I, “liberty and plenty bless your domestic retirements; war, devastation, and wide-wasting rapine have fled from your peaceful shores—no murderous assassin, or night prowling incendiary, carries the hidden dagger of slaughter, or dread torch of destruction to disturb your uninterrupted tranquility; no hostile armies to snatch from your tender embrace the son, the husband, the father, or brother—No.” I would have proceeded, but a voice that seemed to pierce through my inmost soul issued from the adjacent shades; despair and anguish vibrated on the fleeting sounds—my soliloquy was broken.—“Farewell every pleasure,” it exclaimed in a voice rendered almost inarticulate by grief. “Adieu, ye native skies! No more shall the unhappy Corymbo rest beneath the spreading arbors of Congo—No more shall the charms of the lovely Yonka give pleasure and delight to a bosom racked with the most excruciating pains; Oh, ye aged parents! what were your feelings, how did your bosoms heave, when your child, your Corymbo, was torn from you by the cruel unfeeling Christian—forced into a floating dungeon more terrible than death itself—bartered as a slave—exposed to contempt and scorn—unjustly marked with the whip of tyranny—his labour unjustly extorted from him—denied the common necessaries of life—trampled on by a monster, whose avaricious heart outvies the adamant, unsusceptible of the tender feelings of lost humanity! Oh! thou invisible being, who sustains the universe! why dost thou suffer thy votaries to perpetrate such barbarity under the sanction of thy venerable name?—Hold. Why do I upbraid heaven? Death will ere long liberate my distracted soul. Oh! how ineffable glows my breast—the delectable 353b view showers some drops of comfort into my tortured mind. Flow swift ye intervening moments! come thou welcome hour! when my spirit shall quit this sinking frame, and wafted on the wings of wind, shall fearless dart across the Atlantic and again embrace those tender, once dear, but now distant companions of my youth.—But why do I linger. My master is now waiting to receive an account of my labour—perhaps the torturing lash.” Here came back, like an inundation, the remembrance of his slavery, which only for a moment fled to give room for a beam of comfort, which soon subsided and left more acute sensations than before. Sobs and inarticulate expressions were all that he could utter, whilst in hasty steps he wandered from my hearing. For some moments I remained stupid, petrified to the spot; still, methought, I heard the sounds of misery echoing amongst the lonely shades. “Ungrateful countrymen,” I exclaimed, “why do ye deny those inestimable blessings, to your fellow men that heaven has so eminently dignified you with? Or, why so callous to tender pity as to lacerate the flesh of the innocent? Oh, ye votaries of christianity! how can ye reconcile your execrable conduct with the precepts of the divine, the exalted and elevated maxims of the great founder of your system.”

MIXED COMPANY.

The mind of each sex has some natural kind of bias, which constitutes a distinction of character, and the happiness of both depends, in a great measure, on the preservation and observance of this distinction. For where would be the superior pleasure and satisfaction resulting from mixed conversation, if this difference was abolished?

If the qualities of both were invariably and exactly the same, no benefit or entertainment would arise from the tedious and insipid uniformity of such an intercourse; whereas considerable are the advantages reaped from a select society of both sexes.

The rough angles and asperities of male manners are imperceptibly filed and gradually worn smooth, by the polishing of female conversation, and the refining of female taste: while the ideas of women acquire strength and solidity by their associating with sensible, intelligent, and judicious men.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 347.)

Captain S—— had married in early youth the woman of his heart. Her fortune was very small; nor did he possess any other independance than that which arose from his commission. He was allied to many noble families, and had received an education more suitable to his connections than his expectations. His Lady was not in any respect his equal; she was the only child of a poor, but honest, curate in Wales, where she became acquainted with the Captain, at that time an Ensign in a marching regiment, quartered at Glamorgan: he saw, became enamoured, and married her. They lived with economy and comfort about five years, in which time she bore him a son. This event seemed to operate in their favour, as a distant relation of his mother’s, whom he had hitherto known only by name, wrote to him on hearing of it, and in consequence of the good character which had answered his enquiries, he had deposited in the hands of Mess. Cox and Greenwood a sufficient sum of money, to enable him to purchase a company on the first occasion that might offer.

Our young adventurer no sooner received this unexpected letter, than he solicited and obtained leave of absence, and hastened to London, when he immediately waited on the gentlemen above-mentioned; and hearing that the commission was prepared for him, and that the money deposited in their hands exceeded by some hundreds it’s purchase, he resolved on joining his company without delay. Little time was required to settle his affairs: he wrote to Mrs. S——, and to his father, strongly recommending to the latter those dear relatives he committed to his protection; and inclosing bills to nearly the whole amount of the money which remained in his hands, he soon after embarked in the first ship to join the new regiment to which he belonged, and which was at that time stationed in Jamaica.

Imagine not, gentle reader, that Captain S—— thus quitted all he held dear without a pang. His heart was the receptacle of the surest feelings of humanity; and if he avoided taking a long, perhaps a last, farewell, it was order to avoid the too powerful temptation of a change in his resolution. He figured to himself the tears and intreaties of an affectionate wife, the winning smiles of an infant boy: and to their future welfare he gladly sacrificed every selfish idea of present felicity. These reflections accompanied him throughout a long and perilous voyage, which was at last completed without any material occurrence.

It was during his short stay in London that I met with him. The recent kindness of his kinsman had proved a sure passport into the houses of his other relations. He procured from them all not only a general invitation during 354b his stay there, but many flattering letters of recommendation to the principal families and military men whither he was going. His person was uncommonly graceful, and the bright glow of prosperity beaming on his fine open countenance, indicated the native honesty that warmed his heart. I was at that time not more than fifteen; Captain S—— about four-and-twenty. Such an object was well calculated to awaken the feelings of artless sensibility. Young and romantic as I then was, I could imagine no higher delight than that of marrying Captain S——, and following his fate “beyond unknown seas.” Alas! I knew not that he was already the betrothed partner of a more fortunate fair; and when, on his discovering what I found it difficult to conceal, he candidly revealed to me his situation, I could only offer up sighs and tears at his departure, which wore away almost soon after the object which had created them disappeared.

THIRD WANDERING.

The next morning I was punctual to my appointment; but waited above an hour before I perceived Captain S——. At length he came, and made no secret to me of what had detained him. He informed me, that having gone on the preceding day to Lord G————’s he could with difficulty gain admission into the hall; where, after having been for some time insulted by the enquiring looks, and questions, of several impertinent footmen, he seemed likely to remain; not one of them, though assured he waited on his Lordship by his own appointment, appearing willing to stir from their chairs to announce him. He continued there some time; during which he had the mortification to see several of his old acquaintance alight from their carriages, and pass, without deigning to look towards him. He patiently waited the return of these great people, and then repeated his request of a moment’s audience, which was answered by a desire that he would call again the next morning, at the same hour.

He went, and found orders to admit him. Lord G——, with that tone of authority which superior fortune always gives so the supercilious, however polished, and to the ungenerous, however courtly, reproached him in very acrimonious terms with having suddenly thrown up his commission, at a time when promotion was becoming general, and his country particularly demanded his services.

Stung to the heart at a reproof, which while he knew to be severe, he felt to be just, he alledged, in excuse, what to a delicate mind would have been an all-powerful one. His wife—her situation: Lord G—— interrupted him, by telling him that all such feelings should be sacrificed to self-interest. He then rang his bell, called for his carriage, and putting a solitary guinea into the hands of Captain S——, cast reflections on this conduct, that were as galling as unmerited, and wishing him good morning, rid himself of a visitor, whose reduced circumstances were his only mark of inferiority.

I was less surprised than Captain S—— at the conduct of Lord G——; and after making some comments, naturally 355 arising from the transaction, I prevailed on him to accompany me home, and to relate to me his narrative, which he did in the following words.

“I was received in Jamaica with much kindness by my brother officers; and my letters procured me many distinguished attentions from the principal families there. My intercourse with many gay young men, and the life of amusement (not to say dissipation) which I led, might, in a heart less tender than mine, have dispelled the gloom that had hung over me since my departure from England. But I did not find it so; my mind perpetually wandered over the past scenes of domestic delight; and my heart inwardly sighed, as I reflected on the expanse of ocean that divided me far from them. My wife was young, and ignorant of the world; and though the letters which she wrote me were filled with love, and regret, I suffered myself to dread a change in her affections, and gave way to the most dismal forebodings, which, instead of being diminished, were augmented by time.

“A captain in our regiment, whose name was Nesbitt, was on the point of returning on leave of absence to England. The death of his mother had put him in possession of considerable property, and it was necessary that he should settle his affairs. My heart prompted me to make particular overtures of intimacy to Captain Nesbitt, that I might influence him to see, and give me a particular account of my family. At that time too, I had unfortunately lost to him a sum of money at play; which, though not very considerable, was more than I could command, previous to his departure. On my mentioning it to him, he treated it lightly, and assured me he had not at that time any occasion for it. I received from him the most consolatory promises, and we parted with all the reciprocal good wishes that can be supposed to arise from a concluded friendship, and an assurance that I should hear from him frequently on the subject which alone interested my heart.

“Captain Nesbitt was punctual to his word; he wrote me an account of his safe arrival in London, and that he was going to pass five or six weeks with a party of his friends at Swansea, from whence he should make it his first business to wait on Mrs. S——. The next ship brought me a packet from herself, in which she mentioned having seen him, and at a time when a visit from a friend of mine was particularly welcome, as she had just lost her father, and retired to a small farm-house near Glamorgan, till she should hear from me in what manner she should dispose of herself. She solicited my permission to join me in Jamaica, and that I would negociate her voyage with one of the first returning Captains, that he might settle in my name for every suitable accommodation. This was the project I ardently sighed for, but I wished it to come from herself; and the silence I had observed on it during her father’s lifetime, being no longer necessary, I answered her in the effusions of a heart filled with love and gratitude, and gave, as she desired, all proper directions to forward her approaching departure.

“Nothing but witnessing her safe arrival, could convey such transport to my mind, as seeing the ship get under 355b weigh, that bore my letter, and was charged with the commission to bring her once more to my arms. I watched the wind and weather with anxiety, and in idea followed the vessel to her destined port. I passed the intervening time in fondly anticipating the arrival of the welcome stranger, and in preparing every thing for her reception.

“I had particularly attached myself to a Black, of the name of Scipio. He was the servant of a gentleman whom I visited, who bought him in his infancy, and treated him more as a favoured inmate, than a slave. Scipio was possessed of a noble mind, and a heart susceptible of affection, and gratitude. He loved his master, and lamented the destiny of those of his countrymen who were less fortunate than himself. Often would he wonder why they were so; comparing their labours with his own, and acknowledging their superiority. I frequently observed him to follow me at a distance in those hours when, oppressed by thought, I sought the plantain’s friendly shade, and shunned the converse of mankind; and oft would sorrow overspread his sable countenance while he watched me, as if fearful of my destruction.

“I was one day ruminating on my situation, anticipating the pleasure, yet at the same time dreading the frustration of all my hopes, when Scipio ran eagerly towards me, and announced the approach of a ship from England. I climbed the highest point, as if to bring her nearer to me. It was too soon for me to expect my wife; all I could hope was a letter from her, and to that I looked with eager joy, as from the shore I espied the gaily painted vessel, gliding gently over the smooth surface of the deep, as the welcome harbinger of peace. With a palpitating heart I hailed her, as she majestically came towards us, but the flattering dream soon vanished, as I heard her pronounced to be from Bristol.

“The keen edge of expectation was quickly blunted by the stroke of disappointment; yet was the selfish idea soon restrained by the surrounding multitude, as I observed the busy countenances near me, and reflected that the disappointment of my hopes might be the completion of theirs. I was inwardly vexed that I had suffered myself, like a child, to be hurried away by my passions, the ardour of which had proved so constantly fatal to my peace.

“In a few weeks, several ships from different ports arrived, but none that brought tidings to me. The only account I heard from England, in which I could be interested, was a letter received by Lord G—— from Captain Nesbitt, inclosing the resignation of his commission, for reasons which he did not assign.” 

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE.

An Hon. Member of the Senate, some years past, inquired of a brother Statesman, if they had made a House? No, sir, says he, there are but nine; we want one to make a quorum. Aye, (replies the other) I knew you could do nothing till I arrived. Very true, retorts the wit, a cypher completes the ten.

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. II.

“ONE OF THOSE CLOSE STUDENTS, WHO READ PLAYS FOR THEIR IMPROVEMENT IN LAW.”

TATLER.

Every grave author, who apothegmatizes for the advancement of learning, vehemently insists on the propriety of superadding application to genius. Much has been written to invigorate the lassitude of indolence, to expose the inefficacy of desultory studies, to lash the absurdity of procrastination, and to journalize the wanderings of the mind. But, deaf to the warning voice, there still exists a class of students respectable for talents and taste, who, whenever fickleness waves her wand, fly mercurially from a stated task, glance on many subjects, and improve none. Their judgment, pronouncing sentence against themselves, acknowledges the utility of fixation of thought, and marks, with mathematical precision, the point on which attention should rest; but their wayward imagination is eternally making curves. These literary, like other hypochondriacs, have their lucid intervals; and, at times, are fully apprized of the flitting nature of their application. They write many a penitential annotation upon the chapter of their conduct, and frame many a goodly plan to be executed—to-morrow. The paroxysm soon returns; and every shackle, which sturdy resolution has imposed, their ingenious indolence will undo.

It is unpleasant to see those, whom nature and fortune have conspired to befriend, unqualified to gain the eminence of distinction, by a habit of turning out of the path. With this censurable volatility are commonly united, brilliant talents, a feeling heart, and a social temper. If their possessors would even occasionally adopt and practice those plodding precepts, which dissipation prompts them to deride, they would discharge with applause every honorable duty of business and of life. But, instead of turning the meanders of fancy into a regular channel, they are perpetually roaming, in quest of pleasure. They employ morning moments, not over learned tomes, but at ladies’ toilets. After a night of revelry, amid the votaries of wine and loo, they will tell you of Charles Fox, who, like a man of spunk, at brothels and at Brookes’s, wenches, gambles, and drinks all night, and, like a man of genius, harrangues in the house all day. They talk of their privileges, and swear by the tails of the comets, which are the greatest ramblers in the universe, that they will be eccentric. The, style of their legislation is, “be it enacted, by Fancy and her favourites, that whenever Genius chooses to cut capers, they be, and hereby are, allowable.”

As I have a cordial aversion to the abstract modes of speculation, and choose, with Dr. Johnson, to embody opinions, I proceed to illustrate by two examples; one from the annals of literature, and one from real life.

The poet Shenstone was an officer of distinguished rank, in the regiment of careless bards. Every reader of his works will acknowledge that they bear “the image and superscription” of genius. But, still, he was an indolent, uneconomical, volatile character, who, lolling in the bowers of the Leasowes, wrote pastorals and the school-mistress, when, by a more vigorous exertion of his talents, he might perhaps have eloquently charmed the coifed sergeants of Westminster-Hall, or dictated new maxims of polity to an applauding House of Commons. At the very moment he was wasting his time and his patrimony, in the erection of rural altars to Pan and the Dryads, he wrote “Economy,” a poem, in which he chaunts the praise of the cittish virtues, and gravely advises his friends to devote at least a rainy day to worldly prudence. In this production are some thoughts suggested, one may venture to affirm, by Shenstone’s experience, pertinent to the subject of this essay. The tolerating reader will pardon their insertion. Travellers over a dusty desart rejoice at the sight of verdure; and, disgusted by the insipidity of a meagre Farrago, its readers may exult to view a quotation.

Who, but the acquaintance of genius and its inconsistencies could suppose that one, who knew so well the road to fame, should linger at “caravansaries of rest” by the way? That he, who advises “to collect the dissipated mind, to shorten the train of wild ideas and to indulge no expence, but what is legitimated by economy,” should be desultory in his application and prodigal of his estate?

I had collected thus much of my weekly oblation to the public, when, instead of proceeding, as in duty bound, I forgot my own sermon, and—sauntered away. Indolence, deriding my efforts, snatched my pen, overturned my ink-stand, and bade me go and “clip the wings of time” with a friend. I obeyed, and visited Meander. He is a juvenile neighbour of mine, placed by his friends with a view to the profession of the law, in the office of an eminent advocate. The character of Meander is so various, that it almost precludes delineation. Were Sterne summoned to describe him, the eccentric wit would quote his Tristram Shandy, and affirm that Meander was a mercurial sublimated creature; heteroclite in all his declensions. He has so much of the wildness of the fifth Henry in his composition, that were I not versed in his pedigree, I should suppose he descended in a right line from that prince. His ambitious projects, like the birds of Milton, tower up to Heaven’s gate, and he starts as many schemes as a visionary projector. So entirely devoted is he to the cultivation of the Belles Lettres, that his graver moments, instead of being dedicated to Blackstone and Buller, are given to Shakespeare and 357 Sterne. He reads plays, when he should be filling writs; and, the other day, attempting to draw a deed, instead of “know all men by these presents,” he scribbled a simile from Spenser. Notwithstanding his enthusiastic fondness for the study of polite literature, even from that, he frequently flies off in a tangent; and the charms of the ladies and of loo, full often cause him to forget that there is a poet or novelist in our language. The ignis fatuus of his fervid imagination is continually dancing before him, and leads him many a fantastic, weary step “over hog and through briar.” Nothing can be more sanguine than his plans of study and of steadiness; and nothing more languid than their execution. When I entered his lodgings, a domestic informed me that Meander was still in bed, having sate up all night, with a tavern party of friends. The servant continuing his narration, added, “that his master talked much of one Churchill, and at the hour of retiring, suddenly exclaimed,

I smiled at these traits of my friend’s character, and, as I well knew that his slender frame was exhausted by the labors of the night, plying the pasteboard play, vociferating drunken anthems and swallowing bumpers, in rapid succession, I therefore suffered him to remain undisturbed. Unwilling, however, to lose that amusement, which was the object of my visit, I consoled myself for the absence of my friend, by surveying his apartment, the furniture of which would give one an idea of Meander’s character, without a personal acquaintance. On a small table, lay several of his favourite authors, in all the confusion of carelessness. Among others I noted Shakespeare, Congreve’s comedies, letters of the younger Lyttleton, Mrs. Behn’s novels, Fielding’s Tom Jones, and a mountain of pamphlets, composed of magazines and plays. In the pigeon holes of a desk, I saw a number of loose bits of paper. These puzzled me sadly. I thought, at first, they contained arcana of importance; and compared them to the Sybilline leaves of antiquity. But, I must own that I was a little chagrined, when I discovered that they were only that species of gambling composition, which I should call loo assignats, but which, in plainer phrase, are denominated due bills. On a low window seat, in a dark corner, lay a most ponderous folio, over which a diligent spider had woven a web of such size and intricacy, that the insect must of necessity have been months in spinning it. Curiosity prompted me to brush away this cobweb covering, and examine the book it concealed. The reader may easily imagine the state of my risibles, when I found the volume entitled “An abridgement of the Law, by Matthew Bacon.” A drawer left partly open, revealed to view a bundle of manuscripts, among which, I found a diary kept by my friend, some parts of which so completely illustrated his character, that I proposed, with a few transcripts from it, to terminate this essay. But, the narrowness of my limits forbids, and the journal of Meander, the annals of volatility must be postponed. They shall form the subject of our next lucubration.

THE GENEROUS RIVAL.

I have always been of opinion, that those harmless delusions which have a tendency to promote happiness, ought, in some measure to be cherished. The airy visions of creative Fancy serve to divert the mind from grief, and render less poignant the bitter stings of misfortune. Hope was given to man, to enable him to struggle with adversity; and, without her chearing smile, the most trifling distress would cut his thread of life. It was this fascinating deity that eased the love-lorn Edwin’s fears; her gentle whispers soothed each froward care, and extended his view to scenes of fancied bliss—to that happy moment when propitious Fortune should present him with the hand of Laura. Pleasing delusion! delightful thought! that made the moment of separation less painful, that soothed the rugged front of peril, and softened the rude aspect of terrific war.

Edwin was the son of a merchant of some repute in the metropolis; at the commencement of the present war, he received an appointment in the army, and was soon after sent with his regiment to the continent.

Laura was the daughter of a banker of considerable eminence, a member of the British senate, and possessed of a very extensive fortune. The attachment that subsisted between these young people was unknown to Laura’s father, the proud, imperious Mr. Dalby, who expected to marry her to some person of distinction; or, at least, with one who was equal in point of wealth to himself. For this purpose, he invited the most wealthy part of the senate, peers and commoners, to his splendid mansion at the west end of the town; having totally deserted that which had for many generations been the residence of his ancestors, in the east.

Miss Dalby possessed in an eminent degree, the beauties of the mind, as well as those of the person; which, exclusive of her fortune, were sufficiently attractive to a man of sense and discernment. Many of these visitors became candidates for her election: most of them, however, were rejected by her father, to whom she was enjoined to report the name and rank of each person who addressed her on the score of love. Some, the most wealthy, she was instructed to flatter with hopes of being the happy man; reserving her affections for him whom the venal parent should select to be her husband. It was some time before Dalby could fix his choice, which long hung suspended between an earl and a viscount, of nearly equal fortune: at length the appearance of a ducal coronet banished from his mind both the one and the other; and he vainly flattered himself, in future, to address his daughter by the high sounding title of—Your Grace.

The young Duke Delancy, led by curiosity to behold the lady who was thus exposed to sale—for, it seems, the intention of Dalby was generally known—became enamoured of her person; and, on conversing with her, found her every thing he could wish. He instantly made proposals to Mr. Dalby; which, it is almost needless to say, were as instantly accepted. His grace, knowing that the consent of the daughter would avail him but little, without possessing that 358 of the father, had not discovered to Laura the partiality he entertained for her; but having, as he imagined, secured the main chance, made a formal declaration of his love.

Laura listened with profound attention to the impassioned assurances of affection of the noble duke; and when he paused, in expectation of receiving a confirmation of his hopes, she raised her blushing eyes, wet with the tears of anguish, from the ground; and, thanking him for the honour he intended her, candidly acknowledged the pre-engagement she was under to the absent Edwin.

Charmed with her candour; and interested by her artless tale, he determined to resign his pretensions, and support the cause of the young soldier.

Laura had preserved a regular correspondence with her lover; and he was, therefore, but too well informed of the desperate situation of his suit. He longed to fly to the arms of his mistress, but scorned to desert his post. At length, fortune gave him an opportunity of realizing his wishes, at a moment when he least expected it. The Republican army suddenly attacked, in great force, the allied troops: an obstinate battle ensued, in which Edwin particularly distinguished himself; the enemy were completely routed; and the young soldier, for the courage he displayed in the action, was sent to England with the gladsome tidings of victory. Having delivered the dispatches with which he had been charged, he hastened to the house of Mr. Dalby; and, gaining admittance, ran up stairs in the drawing room, where he discovered his noble rival with the mistress of his heart. His sudden and unexpected appearance threw the lovely Laura into some disorder; and it was with much difficulty she retained spirits sufficient to meet her lover’s fond embrace.

At this critical moment, Mr. Dalby entered the room; having from his study seen an officer cross the hall; and ascend the staircase. The words—“My dear, dear Laura! and do I once more behold thee in my arms?” from the enraptured Edwin, caught the ears of the astonished Dalby, who stood fixed and motionless, mute, and almost discrediting the organs both of sight and hearing.

“Had I known, Sir,” said his grace, who beheld with as much delight the agitation of Dalby, as the happiness of the youthful pair, “that the affections of your daughter had been placed on another object, I should not have offered the smallest violence to her inclination.”

“My Lord—my Lord!” stammered out the enraged parent, “she is under no such engagement as you suppose.” Then stepping up to Edwin—“And, pray, who the devil are you, Sir? Some fortune-hunter, I suppose! But you have missed your mark, young man: be pleased, therefore, to leave my house; and, if ever you venture here again, I shall find means————”

“My dear father!” said Laura, interrupting him, “you surely forget yourself! The gentleman, whom you thus 358b rudely threaten, is our neighbour’s son, Mr. Langley, the West-India merchant, in Lombard-street.”

“Mr. Langley’s son!”

“Yes, Sir,” returned Edwin; “and though not blessed with equal fortune with yourself, I have yet sufficient to support the rank of a gentleman. I love your daughter; I long have loved her; and she has taught me to believe that she returns my affection. I ask no fortune; give me my Laura, and dispose of your wealth in whatever manner you please!”

“Very romantic, faith!—And pray, fellow, do you know who you speak so freely to?”

“O, very well, Sir!”

“That I am George Dalby, Esq. a member of the House of Commons?” Edwin bowed. “And that I have an estate free and unincumbered—look you, Sir, free and unincumbered—that netts 10,000l. a year?”

“To none of these acquisitions am I a stranger, Sir,” returned Edwin.

“And you, Laura, will you so far disgrace yourself and me, to throw yourself away on a dry-salter’s son?—A fortune-hunter!—A beggar!”

“A what, Sir?” interrupted Edwin, with much warmth. “But I forget myself—you are my Laura’s father!”

“Sir,” said Laura, “I confess that I entertain a partiality for Edwin. I know his worth; and will renounce all titles, rank and distinction, wealth and pleasure, to live the partner of his life!”

“Then, by Heaven! as I know my worth. I will renounce you for ever! and, therefore, hence with your paramour!—you shall nevermore enter my doors!”

“Be it so,” said the Duke; “mine are open to receive them! My house, my home, my fortune, all are theirs; they shall use them at their pleasure; they shall live in ease, in competence, and enjoy the pleasures of their loves: while mad ambition, insatiate avarice, and increasing pride, shall torture you with never-ceasing pangs, and embitter every future moment of your life!”

The disappointed, mercenary parent, flew, with bitter imprecations, from his tormentors: the lovers retired with their noble patron; and, after having spent several days in a fruitless attempt to gain the consent of Dalby, were united in the holy bands of wedlock. Edwin has since, from his professional merit, and the interest of his grace, attained a distinguished rank in the army; and the dislike of Mr. Dalby to his daughter’s choice has decreased, in proportion as he has risen to distinction. Several interviews have taken place, through the medium of their noble friend, and it is believed that time will root from the mind of Mr. Dalby every unfavourable impression the want of fortune in his son-in-law occasioned; and that Edwin and Laura will, at last, become the heirs of his immense property.

The union of this amiable pair has been blessed with two fine boys; and this increase of family has enlarged their 359 happiness: they still continue to receive the notice of his grace, whom they consider as the author of their felicity, and invariably distinguished him by the appellation of The Generous Rival.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE PRISON.

(A continuation of the CRIMINAL, from page 351.)

Within the gloomy walls of a prison, far excluded from the glance of man, was immured, him that once had basked in the sunshine of prosperity, him that had been the darling pride of a doating father, and him, reader, that was the next heir to a peerage. But he had woefully broken through the laws of his country; Despair, that haggard fiend, had sent him, like the beast of prey, to obtain assistance unlawfully; and wholly guided by her dictates, he had unknowingly murdered his parent.———

——Spare your anathemas, ye advocates for monarchy, ye who think sanguinary laws are as necessary as the glittering baubles of a crown; who imagine the life of the offender is requisite to expiate his crime—and consider whether solitary imprisonment is not far more just. Common humanity would urge you to reply in the affirmative. Then throw aside the tyranny of custom, and for once let your bosoms swell with philanthropy.

Him, who is the subject of this tale, lived in an age when no breast was actuated by these considerations, when man paid the most implicit obedience to the gilded trappings of royalty, when no such thing as civil or religious liberty existed.

No ray of light found entrance into his dismal cell: the wisdom of the contriver had situated it many yards beneath the surface of the earth. In one corner there had originally been placed a bundle of straw, which had served the purpose of a bed to many whom fate had singled out to pay with their lives the forfeit of their crimes; but nought now remained save here and there a scattering one. On his legs were bound enormous shackles, under the weight of which a Sampson would have groaned: nor were his hands exempt from the galling fetters—and as for his body, it was nearly cased in iron.—Unhappy victim of despotic cruelty!—

In this dungeon, until he had the “inestimable privilege of a trial by jury,” he was doomed to receive an earnest of what he was to expect. With a soul undaunted he patiently bore it all. Now and then his wife and helpless children would call for a tear of pity, which was all he could bestow. He would reflect on the crime he had committed; and discovered to what lengths misery would lead a man—to the commission of what in his cooler moments he would spurn from him with horror.

L. B.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening the 20th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Francis M‘Dole, of Brunswick, (N.J.) to Miss Diana Deas, of Princeton.

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. John Williams, to Miss Susan Bowden, both of this city.

On Sunday se’nnight, at Oyster Bay, (L.I.) by Stephen Frost, Esquire, Mr. John Merritt, formerly of Limerick, Ireland, to Miss Elizabeth Hawxhurst, daughter to Mr. Joseph Hawxhurst, of that place.

On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Rogers, Mr. James Concklin, to Mrs. Jane Stratton, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Uzal Ogden, Mr. Charles Gobert, Merchant, of this city, to Miss Charlotte Ogden, eldest daughter of Mr. Lewis Ogden.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Archibald M‘Williams, Grocer, late of the Albany Pier, to the amiable Miss Nancy Gooldsmith, a native of the Isle of Man.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Editors acknowledge the receipt of “Zulindus;” which shall appear in our next. We court the favors of those Correspondents who have heretofore expanded their hearts, expressive, by a love for supporting and promoting the assiduous endeavors of the proprietors of this useful and entertaining vehicle; and we rest in hope, that the warm rays of Aurora will have such an happy effect upon the intellectual mind, that we may witness, not only the fertile verdure of reviving nature, but the growing state of Literature, and the happy profusions of the Muse.

NEW MAY.

A PASTORAL.

LOVE.

LIFE.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

It has often been made a question on my mind, Whether the multiplicity of books in circulation are an advantage or disadvantage to the morals of youth?—That every book ought to be investigated, and that with an impartial eye before we condemn it, is a fact incontestible. None but the prejudiced, the weak and the ignorant, will ever attempt to persuade youth from the pursuit of wisdom. A man possessed of the least spark of knowledge, would blush to advise others from the investigation of truth. That book has never yet been printed, which, when examined by the eye of reason and candor, did not contain something by which we may be profited. Yet, how numerous are they who will discard the writings of an author, merely because they have heard it was an improper book. How forcible is such reasonings! What will be the opinion of the rational part of the creation concerning such persons, if they argue with such inconsistency? Will they not justly conclude that a weak head, and unprincipled heart, guides their opinion? And while they continue thus to argue, they ought to reflect, if capable of reflection, that by condemning them without investigating one single principle whereby they may substantiate their charge, they expose themselves to censure and contempt. Thus we behold books too often branded with detestation, and consigned to oblivion, by those pests of society. For such they truly are, in my opinion, who have the audacity to persuade youth from a search after knowledge. Consider, O youth, that while you are obeying the dictates of these all-knowing men, you are sacrificing your own opinion at the shrine of ignorance. It is ignorance, united with impudence and conceit, that prompts them to trespass on your judgment. If they were duly to consider from what source their knowledge arises—if they would give themselves more time to reflect, and that with candor, they would find that all their profound search and erudition is nothing more than a “sounding brass or tinkling symbol.” And that as long as they suffer themselves to be led by the wrong principles which some of our ancestors imbibed, they will be considered as a mere BLANK in society.

I will readily admit, that there are books which, by a constant application to them, will corrupt and lead astray the 361b minds of youth, whose principles are not fully established. Yet, are they to be prohibited from a perusal of those books? No!—But guard them well against the danger, and then let them examine such authors with attention and candor. Let their youthful minds bestow on them their just sentence. By being thus accustomed to judge for themselves, they will be able with clearness and precision to detect impostors, if any of that description should attempt to impose on their understandings. That they will have to combat with such characters at some period of their lives, is beyond a doubt, then being unprepared to answer them, will they not expose THEIR folly in obeying the dictates of men who were guided by self-conceited, superstitious, and bigotted principles. They are self-conceited, because THEIR knowledge is deemed by them to be superior to the rest of mankind; superstitious, because they worship as their gods a select number of books by which their rule of life is formed, and from which they dare not deviate, least they should by transgression seal their ruin; bigotted, because they are callous to the voice of reason, and determined to adhere to their own principles, however unfounded.—Such are the men to whose care the instruction of youth has been too often committed; and who, instead of expanding and cultivating their juvenile minds with useful knowledge, by a thorough investigation of every book, have bred them up in superstitious ignorance, preparing them for the reception of every vice, which finally proves their ruin.

ZULINDUS.

May 5, 1797

This article is listed in the Index under the name of the author, Zulindus.

AFFABILITY.

In order to render ourselves amiable in society, we should correct every appearance of harshness in our behaviour. That courtesy should distinguish our demeanor, which springs, not so much from studied politeness, as from a mild and gentle heart. We should follow the customs of the world in matters indifferent; but stop when they become sinful. Our manners ought to be simple and natural, and of course they will be engaging. Affectation is certain deformity—By forming themselves on fantastic models, and vying with one mother in every reigning folly, the young begin with being ridiculous, and end in being vicious and immoral.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 355.)

“The last expected vessels now arrived, and Scipio one morning, hastily entering my room, with a joyful countenance put a packet into my hands. It was from England, but the hand-writing, and seal, were unknown to me. I found it to be from a female distant relation of my wife’s who assured me that she wrote it at her desire, as she had not courage to expatiate on a subject, that she knew would be so contrary to my wishes. She proceeded to inform me, that the health of Mrs. S—— was very seriously affected; owing, in great measure, to the depression of her mind since my departure; that my little boy was recovering from the small-pox; and that these considerations rendered it impossible for her, with safety either to herself, or the child, to undertake the long voyage she had projected. She said she had found it necessary to remove to London, for the benefit of better advice than could be obtained in the country; and she mentioned a temporary lodging she had taken in the neighbourhood of Islington, till she should hear farther from me how to dispose of herself. Mrs. S—— added a few lines, by way of postscript, as a confirmation of the above, and desired I would write to her under cover to her relation, in whose neighbourhood she resided.

“I read—I paused over the letter; and every time my wild ideas hurried me beyond myself. At one moment, I believed her affections were estranged from me; that she no longer wished our re-union, but that indifference had taken place of that affection which it was the study of my life to cherish and improve. At another, I reproved myself for the ungrateful, the illiberal idea; and to that thought a still more poignant one succeeded. The knowledge I had of her tender mind next convinced me, that her condition was worse than it was described so me. I fancied her sinking under a load of grief, and on the point of death, while I, her friend, her natural protector, was far from her; and to this reflection Reason herself gave way. “Ah,” thought I, “how fatal has been my desertion of her; and what recompence could promotion, or wealth itself bestow on me, if purchased by the loss of a wife so tenderly beloved? She is at this moment suffering under the accumulated horrors of indigence and slighted affection; and shall I, on whom she has every claim of love and duty, suffer her to believe that the scorching sun of this unhealthy climate has had power to dry up in my heart the pure stream of unadulterated affection? Shall I contemplate her misery, and allow her to endure it? Ah, no! let me rather return to her as I am, unpatronized and 362b unexpected;—share with her the scanty pittance acquired by honest integrity, and trust for the rest to that Providence, which will never forsake the pure in heart!”

“Full of these ideas, which were hardly formed before they were unalterably fixed, I waited on lord G—— and told him that letters I had just received demanded my quick return to England. I solicited him to accept my dismission. The perturbation of my mind was visible on my countenance. He looked attentively at me, expostulated on the folly of my conduct; but was soon convinced that advice and expostulation were equally thrown away on a man who sought no interest but his affections, and consulted no monitor but his heart. Finding at length that I was deaf to his remonstrances, he settled matters in due form; and wishing me a pleasant voyage politely, yet coolly, bade me adieu. I returned to my lodgings, which but a few days since I had taken delight in adorning for the reception of my Isabella. How sad, how solitary every object now appeared! The sight of numberless little ornaments, peculiar to the country, and which I had selected as from their novelty the most pleasing to her, now lost every charm, and to the affectionate, the grateful Scipio, I bequeathed them. I went, accompanied by him, to the house frequented by the English Captains, and soon settled an agreement with one of them. As I spoke to him, I observed the honest tear of sensibility steal down the polished cheek of the noble Ethiopian, which he wiped off with his hand, as if to upbraid it with divulging the secret of his heart. A few loose dollars remained in my possession, after I had settled my different accounts: I gave them to Scipio; but he disdainfully rejected them, and told me I robbed him of more than my money could purchase, when I robbed him of his friend! These were the sentiments of an untutored negro; a soul unpractised in the wiles of art. Alas, poor Scipio! Though many a year has revolved, since we parted: though many a moon has risen to renew the almost extinguished lamp of nature, since I witnessed in thee that purity of heart which nought but Heaven can bestow, still are thy virtues present to my mind, and still shall remembrance, sickening at the past, reflect on thee, with prayers for thy transition to those mansions, where innocence like thine can alone meet with its reward!”

The clocks from the neighbouring churches struck three; and vain were my solicitations to my unhappy friend, he could not be prevailed on to share my solitary meal: he abruptly left me, with a promise that he would continue his narrative of the following day.

CONTINUATION

OF THE

HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S——.

“In a short time I embarked for England. The weather for some time favoured us; at length the winds, as if conscious they were wafting me to misery, often swelled the reluctantly yielding waves, and hurried us back from our progression. In those hours when sorrow and vexation 363 clouded the brows of the labouring mariners, impatient to reach their native shore, a heavy indifference to our destiny clung round my heart; a presentment of I knew not what blasted each rising hope; and I pondered on the easy transition from human woe, as I surveyed the fathomless gulph below me. Often did I rejoice, while the rough swell lifted us on high, that my Isabella was not exposed to those many dangers of the deep, which we feel but during the time we experience them. Among my few books, was Falconer’s immortal poem of “The Shipwreck.” I knew the superstition commonly attendant on sea-faring people, and I carefully concealed it from their observation. Often in the dead of night, when all were sleeping round me as if insensible to fear, I stole from my cabin, impressed by a far different impulse, and shared the midnight watch, while its appointed guardian sunk into the arms of happy, but forbidden rest.

At length we quietly reclined on the peaceful bosom of the venerable Thames. There, where no fears of faithless seas assailed us, my torpid mind roused itself into action, and awakening every restless faculty of my soul, suspended me between despair and hope. I eagerly jumped into the first boat that came near to us, and leaving every thing belonging to me on board. I took a post-chaise from Gravesend, where I landed, and ordering the driver to set me down at the direction I gave him to Islington, soon reached the abode of my new female correspondent. This person had seen me but once, and would then have scarcely recollected me, had not the wildness of my manner in enquiring for Mrs. S—— informed her who I was. She surveyed me with surprize and as I thought, embarrassment. I requested she would immediately conduct me to my wife’s lodgings, which she at first seemingly consented to; and then, as if recollecting herself, observed, that my sudden appearance might perhaps be too powerful for her newly-recovered health, and proposed my waiting there till she went herself and apprized her of it. I impatiently brooked this delay, yet submitted to it in consideration to my Isabella. She told me it was not more than ten minutes walk from her house; yet I passed near two hours alone in anxious expectation. It was at this time the latter end of September; and it was past eight in the evening when I had reached the house. The night was dark and gloomy; and as I stood immoveable at the little gate which bounded the small garden allotted to the habitation, I fancied that every hollow murmur of the wind responsively echoed to my heart, and sigh’d forth, “Isabella.” At length they came together; the sound of her voice still vibrates in my ear, as she faintly pronounced “Is it you?” The darkness of night prevented me from seeing her: I clasped her in my arms, and rushed with her into the house. I placed her on a chair, and by the light of the candle observed her features. Her person was much altered. She was become thin, and her countenance was overspread with a lived paleness. She burst into tears as she exclaimed, “Ah, Frederick, why, why did you leave me?” I intreated her to be composed under the certainty that we were met to part no more. 363b I enquired for my boy, who was now in his eighth year. She told me he was placed at a boarding-school, but avoided making any farther mention of him. It grew late, and a small supper was set before us, after which I proposed our going home to her lodgings. To my unspeakable astonishment, she requested that I would not accompany her; and gave for reason that the people where she lodged, not knowing she expected me, might be alarmed at the appearance of a stranger being with her in the night-time. I however insisted, and she consented. Her house was indeed but a few paces from the one we had just quitted. Its first appearance struck me. It was fitted up in a style of expensive elegance; and on the side-board, on which was displayed a quantity of plate, were two salvers, engraved large enough to be perceived without very accurate observation, with the initials of her maiden name. I looked at her with speechless horror, as I stood transfixed to the spot. The powers of utterance were denied me, I gasped for breath. A loud rapping at the street door awakened my recollection, and Captain Nesbitt entered the room. He was in a state of inebriety, and the sight of me staggered him. “S———,” said he, as he impudently advanced to take my hand, “I have taken damn’d good care of your wife in your absence;” and then turning to his guilty partner, continued, “Isabella, hav’nt I?” At these words, affection, resentment, all seemed at the moment to die within my breast; I recollected only that I was in the presence of a woman—(and oh, Heaven, WHAT a woman)—I hastily turned to Captain Nesbitt, and enquired where on the following morning I could speak with him. He appointed the Bedford-arms, Covent-Garden, at two o’clock. I looked at Isabella, who did not attempt to speak, but seemed anxious only about her infamous lover.

“I hurried out of the house, scarcely knowing whither I went, and my steps almost involuntarily conducted me to the one we had left not an hour before. The little gate was locked, and I repeatedly, and in vain, called for admittance. At length an unknown female voice answered me from an upper window, and somewhat rudely requested my retreat. On my expostulating, and begging only three minutes conversation with the person I had supped with, she answered me that she was not to be disturbed; and that if I persisted in alarming the neighbourhood, she should put me in charge of the watch. With these words she shut the window, and I walked wherever chance directed me. I came to the door of a tavern, which stood half open, seeming to invite the weary traveller. Here I fixed my abode for the night; nor was it long before my excessive fatigue of mind and body threw me into a state of wished-for insensibility.” 

[To be continued.]

ANECDOTE.

An Irish officer of dragoons, on the continent, on hearing that his mother had been married since he quitted Ireland, exclaimed—“By St. Patrick, there is that mother of mine married again, I hope she wont have a son older than me, for if she has I shall be cut out of my estate!”

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. III.

Men of tenacious memory, who retain information a week old, may recollect, in my last number, a portrait of Meander.—

Agreeably to a promissory note, given in a preceding essay, I now publish, from the diary of this fantastic wight, a selection, which, if judiciously improved, may sober giddy genius, may fix the volatile, and stimulate even Loungers.

MEANDER’s JOURNAL.

April 8, Monday.——Having lately quaffed plenteous draughts, of the dream of dissipation, I determine to bridle my fancy, to practice self-denial, to live soberly, and to study with ardor. That I may with ease discharge the various duties of the day, I propose, that “Strutting Chanticleer” and myself, should unroost at the same hour. With this resolve, I couple a determination, to study law with plodding diligence, and to make my profession, and a course of history, my capital objects.

Memorandum. Belles lettres must be considered a subaltern pursuit. If I rise at the dawn, and study jurisprudence till noon, I shall have the satisfaction to reflect, that I have discharged my legal duty for the day. This course, duly persisted in, will probably make me something more than a Tyro, in the language of the law. If I pour over my folios with the diligence I propose, I shall acquire, in Blackstone’s phrase, such a legal apprehension, that the obscurities, which at present confound me, will vanish, and my journey through the wilderness of law, will, paradventure become delectable.

Tuesday.—Overslept myself, did not rise till nine. Dressed, and went out, intending to go to the office; but, as the morning was uncommonly beautiful, I recollected an aphorism of Dr. Cheyne’s, that exercise should form part of a student’s religion. Accordingly, I rambled through the woods for two hours. The magic of rural scenes diverted Fancy, whom, on my return to the office, I wished to retire, that her elder sister, Judgment, might have an opportunity to hold a conference with the sage Blackstone: but, the sportive slut remained, dancing about, and I found my spirits so agitated, that, to calm them I took up a volume of plays, and read two acts in Centlivre’s Busy Body.

Afternoon, 2 o’clock.—Took up a folio, and began to read a British statute; meanwhile, I received a billet, importing that a couple of my college cronies were at a neighbouring inn, who wished me to make one of a select party. I complied. The sacrifices to Mercury and Bacchus, wore away the night, and it was day before I retired to the land of drowsy head, as Thompson quaintly expresses it.

Wednesday.—Rose at ten; sauntered to the office and gaped over my book. Low spirits and a dull morning, had raised such a fog around my brain, that I could hardly discern a sentiment. Opened a “dissertation on memory,” read till my own failed. I then threw away my book, and threw myself on the bed; I can’t tell how long I remained there, but, somebody shaking me by the shoulder, I opened my eyes and saw—the maid, who came to inform me it was 8 o’clock in the evening, and that coffee was ready.

Thursday.—Went out at seven, with a determination to attend to business; thought I might venture to call at a friend’s house; on my entrance saw a brace of beauties, whose smiles were so animating that they detained me, “charmed by witchery of eyes,” till noon. I returned to my lodgings, and finding my spirits too sublimated for serious study, I beguiled the remainder of the afternoon, by writing a sonnet to Laura.

Evening.—Lounged to my bookshelf, with an intent to open Blackstone, but made a mistake, and took down a volume of Hume’s History of England. Attention became quite engrossed by his narrative of the reign of Henry I. A versatile, brilliant genius, who blended in one bright assemblage, ambition, prudence, eloquence and enterprize; who received and merited, what I think, the most glorious of all titles, that of Beauclerc, or, the polite scholar. The formidable folios, which stood before me, seemed frowningly to ask, why I did not link to my ambition, that prudence, which formed part of Henry’s fame? The remorseful blush of a moment, tinged my cheek, and I boldly grasped a reporter; but, straightway recollecting, that I had recently supped, and that, after a full meal, application was pernicious to health, I adjourned the cause Prudence versus Meander, till morning.

Friday.—Rose at the dawn, which is the first time I have complied with my resolution, of unroosting with the cock. “Projecting many things, but accomplishing none,” is the motto to my coat of arms. Began my studies, nothing with nice care, the curious distinction in law, between general and special Tail; at length, I grew weary of my task, and thought with Shakespeare’s Horatio, that ’twere considering too curiously, to consider thus. Began to chat with my companions; we are, when indolent, ever advocates for relaxation; but, whether an attorney’s office is the place, where idling should be tolerated, is a question, which I do not wish to determine in the negative. Finished my morning studies with “Hafen Shawkenbergius’s tenth decad.”

Afternoon.—Did nothing very busily till four. Seized with a lethargic yawn, which lasted till seven, when a dish of coffee restored animation, and on the entrance of a friend, fell into general conversation; made a transition to 365 the scenes of our boyish days, and till midnight, employed memory in conjuring up to view, the shades of our departed joys.

Saturday.—Slept but little, last night. My imagination was so busy in castle building, that she would not repose. Dreamed that Lord Coke threw his “Institute” at me. Rose at nine, looked abroad; and the atmosphere being dusky, and my spirits absent on furlough, felt unqualified for reading. For several days there has been a succession of gloomy skies. The best writers affirm that such weather is unfriendly to menial labour. The poet says

Took up a magazine, which I carefully skimmed but obtained no cream. Cracked, in the Dean of St. Patrick’s phrase, a rotten nut, which cost me a tooth and repaid me with nothing but a worm.—Breakfasted; reflected on the occurrences of the week. In the drama of my life, procrastination, and indolence, are the principal actors. My resolutions flag, and my studies languish. I must strive to check the irregular sallies of fancy. I never shall be useful to others, till I have a better command of myself. Surely one, abiding in the bowers of ease, may improve, if industry be not wanting. Alfred could read and write, eight hours every day, though he fought fifty six pitched battles, and rescued a kingdom; and Chatterton, the ill-fated boyish bard, composed, though cramped by penury, poems of more invention than many a work which has been kept nine years and published at a period of the ripest maturity. When I fly from business, let ambition, therefore, think on, and practice these things. I determine, next week, to effect an entire revolution in my conduct, to form a new plan of study, and to adhere to it with pertinacity. As this week is on the eve of expiration, it would be superfluous to sit down to serious business. I therefore amused myself, by dipping into Akenside’s “Pleasures of Imagination;” read till five, visited a friend, and conversed with him till midnight; conversation turned on propriety of conduct, for which I was a strenuous advocate—* * * * * * *

Here the journal of Meander was abruptly closed. I was curious to learn in what manner he employed his week of reformation. On the ensuing Monday he grew weary of his books; instead of mounting Pegasus, and visiting Parnassus, he actually strode a hack-horse of mere mortal mould, and, in quest of diversion, commenced a journey. He was accompanied, not by the muses, but by a party of jocund revellers; and prior to my friend’s departure, the last words he was heard so say, or rather roar, were the burden of a well known anacreontic “dull thinking will make a man crazy.”

The character and journal of Meander scarcely need a commentary. There shall be none. I was not born in Holland, and only Dutchmen, are qualified to write notes. But I will make an apostrophe.

Ye tribe of Mercurealists! in the name of prudence, avoid eccentricity; expand not your fluttering pinions; 365b trudge the foot-way path of life; dethrone Fancy and crown Common Sense. Let each one seek and fulfil his daily task, “one to his farm and another to his merchandize.”

ANECDOTES.

A worthy Clergyman belonging to a parish in New-England, had the misfortune to have a son of a flighty and wild disposition: altho’ many were the pious admonitions of the virtuous father to bring his son’s remissness into subordination with his own, he had to lament that his injunctions and assiduous endeavours were fruitless, and far from being productive of the desired end.—His son’s heart was so averse to solemnity, that he could not contain himself at the time of worship, and he was often so overstocked with frivolity and his mischievous humor, that his father often noticed it, while preaching, with much regret—and concluded upon harsher means than he had before used to bring his son to better subjection.—The next sabbath he confined him to his house, and proceeded to church with the rest of his family, consisting of his wife, two daughters, and his old negro Tone:—the service being nearly half performed, and the pastor speaking with much fervency to his crouded audience, his voice was all at once drowned by a sudden and tremendous burst of laughter, from all parts of the church, which confounded him.—This laughter was occasioned by the sudden entrance of his favorite old dog, who always placed himself next the pulpit door, in full view of the audience; he now appeared decorated in an old gown and wig powdered and tied on with much taste, which occasioned such loud peals of laughter, that he with difficulty obtained an explanation in ten or fifteen minutes. Old Tone, who seemed to be more in a state of reserve than any other, cried out from the gallery in great earnestness—“Massa, Massa! ony you look at our Tray, den you se what ma-ke dem laff!”—The parson opening the pulpit door, the old dog immediately ascended to him, and was so profuse with his caresses, that the pastor could scarcely dismiss his congregation.

Christina, the Swedish Queen, never wore a night-cap, but always wrapped her head in a napkin. In order to amuse her during her sleepless nights, after having been indisposed the preceding days, she ordered music to be performed near her bed, the curtain of which was entirely closed.

Transported at length with the pleasure she received from a particular passage in the music, she hastily put her head out of bed, and exclaimed. “How well he sings!” The poor Italian singers, who are in general not remarkable for bravery, were so much frightened by her voice, and the sudden appearance of such an extraordinary figure, that they became at once dumb and stupified, and the music immediately ceased.

COLLINS’s MONUMENT.

A Monument of most exquisite workmanship has been lately erected at Chichester, by public subscription, to the memory of the poet Collins, who was a native of that city, and died in a house adjoining to the Cloisters. He is finely represented, as just recovering from a wild fit of phrenzy, to which he was unhappily subject, and in a calm and reclining posture seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the divine consolations of the Gospel; while his lyre, and one of the first of his poems, lie neglected on the ground. Above are two beautiful figures of Love and Pity, entwined in each other’s arms. The whole is executed by the ingenious Mr. Flaxman, lately returned from Rome. The following elegant epitaph is written by Mr. Hayley—

The HISTORY of ANTIOCHUS and STRATONICE.

Antiochus, a Prince of great hopes, fell passionately in love with the young Queen Stratonice who was his mother-in-law, and had bore a son to the old King Seleuchus his father. The Prince finding it impossible to extinguish his passion, fell sick, and refused all manner of nourishment, being determined to put an end to that life which was become insupportable.

Erasistratus, the physician, soon found that love was his distemper; and observing the alteration in his pulse and countenance, whensoever Stratonice made him a visit, was soon satisfied that he was dying for his young mother-in-law. Knowing the old King’s tenderness for his son, when he one morning inquired of his health, he told him, that the Prince’s distemper was love; but that it was incurable, because it was impossible for him to possess the person whom 366b he loved. The King, surprised at this account, desired to know how his son’s passion could be incurable? Why, sir, replied Erasistratus because he is in love with the person I am married to.

The old King immediately conjured him, by all his past favours, to save the life of his son and successor. Sir, said Erasistratus, would your majesty but fancy yourself in my place, you would see the unreasonableness of what you desire. Heaven is my witness, said Seleuchus, I could resign even my Stratonice to save my Antiochus. At this the tears began to run down his cheeks, which when the physician saw, taking him by the hand, sir, says he, if these are your real sentiments, the prince’s life is out of danger; it is Stratonice for whom he dies. Seleuchus immediately gave orders for solemnizing the marriage; and the young Queen to shew her obedience, very generously exchanged the father for the son.

DESCRIPTION OF A WONDERFUL CAVERN
IN UPPER HUNGARY.

Near Strelitz, an inconsiderable village in Upper Hungary, is a most wonderful cavern, in the middle of a large mountain. The aperture which fronts the south, is eighteen fathoms high, and eight broad; and consequently wide enough to receive the south wind, which generally blows here with great violence. Its subterraneous passages consist entirely of solid rock, stretching away farther south than has yet been discovered. As far as it is practicable to go to, the height is found to be fifty fathoms, and the breadth twenty-six. But the most unaccountable singularity in the cavern is, that in the heart of winter, the air is warm on the inside; and when the heat of the sun without is scarce supportable, is freezing cold within. When the snows melt in the spring, the inside of the cave, where the surface is exposed to the south sun, it emits a pellucid water, which congeals immediately as it drops, by the extreme cold, the icicles are of the bigness of a large cask; and, spreading into ramifications, form very odd figures: the very water that drops from the icicles on the ground, which is sandy, freezes in an instant. It is observable also, that the greater the heat is without, the more intense is the cold within; and in the dog-days, all parts are covered with ice. In autumn, when the nights grow cold, and the diurnal heats abate, the ice in the cave begins to dissolve, insomuch, that by winter no more ice is to be seen, the cavern then becomes perfectly dry and of a mild warmth. At this time it is surprising to see the swarms of flies and gnats, also bats and owls, and even of hares and foxes, that make this place their winter retreat, till in the beginning of spring, it again grows too cold for them.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening the 7th instant, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. Samuel Thompson, to Miss Mary Winkfield, both of this city.

On Monday evening the 8th instant, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Lieutenant Robert Long, of his Britannic Majesty’s 17th regiment, to the amiable Miss Jane Byron, lately from Ireland.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Livingston, the Rev. John B. Johnson, of Albany, to Miss Betsey Lufton, of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. William Huthwaite, to Miss Eliza Ryder, both of this city.

INSCRIPTION
FOR THE TOMB OF GENERAL WAYNE.

HERE LIES
Beneath this noble tent
Fitting for nobler enterprize;
With nothing less than Heaven content:
Waiting (while ordered out again)
Till trumpets bid him rise,
To join the armies of the skies.
IMMORTAL
GENERAL WAYNE,
Tho’ here
At winter quarters,
His warlike corps remain,
Tho’ Death, that monarch grim,
A prisoner made of him,
His gallant enterprising soul
Is on parole,
Viewing each heav’nly plain,
Where he
Must shortly be
With Indian Chiefs in Unity,
His next Campaign.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CHOICE.

On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune
in Horse-Racing.

ELEGY
ON A GREY SQUIRREL,

BARBAROUSLY MURDERED BY A CAT, JUNE 17th, 1783.

Longum, formose, vale, vale.—Virgil.

A very palatable RECEIPT,
to soften the hardest FEMALE HEART.

ON A HASTY MARRIAGE.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.

ON LITERARY PURSUITS.

In every duty, in every science in which we would wish to arrive at perfection, we should propose for the object of our pursuit some certain station even beyond our abilities; some imaginary excellence, which may amuse and seem to animate our enquiry. In deviating from others in following an unbeaten road, though we perhaps may never arrive at the wished-for object, yet it is possible we may meet several discoveries by the way; and the certainty of small advantages, even while we travel with security, is not so amusing as the hopes of great rewards by which the adventurer is inspired.

This enterprising spirit is, however, by no means the character of the present age; every person who should now have received opinions, who should attempt to be more than a commentator upon philosophers, or an imitator in polite learning, might be regarded as a chimerical projector. Hundreds would be ready not only to point out his errors, but to load him with reproach. Our probable opinions are now regarded as certainties; the difficulties hitherto undiscovered, as utterly inscrutable; and the writers of the last age inimitable, and therefore the properest models for imitation.

One might be almost induced to deplore the philosophic spirit of the age, which, in proportion as it enlightens the mind, increases its timidity, and represses the vigour of every undertaking. Men are more content with being prudently in the right, which, though not the way to make new acquisitions, it must be owned, is the best method of securing what we have. Yet this is certain, that the writer who never deviates, who never hazards a new thought, or a new expression, though his friends may compliment him upon his sagacity, though Criticism lifts her feeble voice in his praise, will seldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The way to acquire lasting esteem, is not by the fewness of a writer’s faults, but the greatness of his beauties, and our noblest works are generally most replete with both.

An author, who would be sublime, often runs his thoughts into burlesque; yet I can readily pardon his mistaking sometimes for once succeeding. True genius walks along a line, and, perhaps, our greatest pleasure is in seeing it often near falling, without being ever actually down.

Every science has its hitherto undiscovered mysteries, after which men should travel undiscouraged by the failure of former adventurers. Every new attempt serves, perhaps, to facilitate its future invention. We may not find the philosopher’s stone, but we shall, probably, hit upon new inventions in pursuing it. We shall, perhaps, never be able to discover the longitude, yet, perhaps, we may arrive at new truths in the investigation.

Were any of these sagacious minds among us, (and surely no nation, no period could ever compare with us in this particular,) were any of these minds, I say, who now sit down contented with exploring the intricacies of another’s system, bravely to shake off admiration, and undazzled with the splendor of another’s fame, to chalk out a path to renown for themselves, and boldly to cultivate untried experiments, what might not be the result of their enquiries, should the same study that has made them wise, make them enterprizing also? What could not such qualities, united, produce?

Projectors in a state are generally rewarded above their merit; projectors in the republic of letters, never. If they are wrong, every dunce thinks himself entitled to laugh at their disappointment; if they are right, men of superior talents think their honour engaged to oppose, as every new discovery is a tacit diminution of their own pre-eminence.

To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends, and our all must be ventured: by aiming only at mediocrity, we run no risque, and we do little when prudence and greatness are ever persuading us to contrary pursuits. The one instructs us to be content with our station, and to find happiness in setting bounds to every wish. The other impels us to superiority, and calls nothing felicity but rapture. The one directs us to follow mankind, and to act and think with the rest of the world; the other drives us from the croud, and exposes us as a mark to all the shafts of envy or ignorance.

The rewards of mediocrity are immediately paid; those attending excellence generally paid in reversion. In a word, the little mind which loves itself, will write and think with the vulgar, but the great mind will be bravely eccentric, and scorn the beaten road, from universal benevolence.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 363.)

CONCLUSION

OF THE

HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S——.

“Various are the stages of human woe; and long is the catalogue of mental miseries!—A load of grief, so new, so unexpected, burst with the early dawn on my distracted senses, and awakened them to everlasting wretchedness.

“The next morning I went to the Bedford, and enquired for Captain Nesbitt. The waiter told me he was not there, but asked my name, and said he had a letter for me. I opened it, and read as follows.

“SIR,

“As our meeting might be attended with disagreeable consequences to both, you must not be surprized at my declining it. I have but executed the commission with which you intrusted me, and at which you seem highly offended. As I am going to leave town immediately, I must beg leave to postpone till my return any thing you must have to communicate; and remain,

“Sir,

“Your humble servant,

“James Nesbitt.”

“I pocketed the infamous scrawl, as I shuddered at the depravity of human nature. My wife, (why cannot I blot out the dear, the sacred appellation?) was still wound about my heart, nor could I attempt to slacken, without breaking its every string. Worthless, yet still beloved woman, was it for this that I crossed the seas? for this that I submitted to an odious stigma cast upon my conduct, degrading even in idea to the character of an officer, and a gentleman?—for this that I renounced every hope of future advancement?—Cruel, cruel Isabella! Better could I behold thee dead; for what can life be to those who have broken every tie of duty, every claim to the purest affections that can ennoble the intellectual being?

“In a fit of frenzy, I flew to her lodgings. A fond, foolish hope to reclaim her, and a wish to see my still innocent child, led me beyond the bounds of prudence. She had quitted the house, and the people could not, or would not, inform me whither she was gone. I found by them, that they knew her only by the name of her seducer; and that my boy, whom they called by the same name, had accompanied his mother. My next enquiry was at the house of her relation; she had also left town, as they said, for some months.

“I returned to the Bedford-Arms, and hastily scrawled an incoherent letter, which I left in charge of the waiter there: he unwillingly took it, under pretence that Captain Nesbitt seldom came to their house, and it was uncertain when he might see him again. It ran as follows.

“SIR,

“If your heart is not callous to every feeling of social humanity, let me implore you to pity as a man, the distresses to which you have reduced me. You are young, but let me hope you are not a determined villain. A time may perhaps arrive, when you will feel, like me, WHAT IT IS to be a Husband, and a Father!—The opinion of the World is of little import to those, who, blessed with conscious rectitude, can defy its malice.

“Restore my wife—restore my child—I will receive her once more, as the first, best gift of Heaven; and her errors shall be blotted from the tablets of my memory. Let me conjure you, Sir, to be the friend of this unhappy woman; point out to her the path, of duly; and if you have any real affection for her, make the sacrifice of it to her honour, and future peace. As you deal by her, may Heaven, in justice, deal by you!

“I take this method of addressing you, in preference to that which a man of the World might think more consistent with my situation, under the present circumstances; but I feel, while I am writing it, that I am no coward, and that were human miseries to be extinguished only in blood, the last drop of mine should be spilt to save her from perdition.

“Your answer I shall most anxiously wait for at the Gloucester Coffee-house, Piccadilly, from the hour of twelve, every morning, till I receive it.

“I am, Sir,

“Your’s, &c.

“Frederick S———.”

“I waited two days at the Coffee-house without hearing from him. I impatiently counted every minute, and anticipated the transition from deep despondency to transcendant joy. I called for coffee, read, or seemed to read, the papers of the day; and my heart beat at the shadow of every object I saw approaching towards the house.

“It was near one on the third morning before I heard any tidings interesting to myself. A waiter then came forward, with a smile, and told me that a Gentleman enquired for me. Half breathless, I desired him to be admitted; my trembling limbs could scarcely support me as he entered, and I begged him to be seated. I asked him if he came from Captain Nesbitt? He answered in the affirmative, and I attempted to close the door; but he desired to admit his friend; and then informed me that he was the bearer of a writ against me, in the name of Captain James Nesbitt, to whom I stood indebted for the sum of two hundred pounds, for money lent me by him in the West-Indies.

“I knew full well that a gambling debt was not by law recoverable; but my heart recoiled at the idea of contesting it, and I determined immediately to extricate myself, however 371 inconvenient. My stock of money was reduced to four hundred and seventy pounds. I paid out of it the debt and costs, which were no small augmentation. I hired a retired lodging, and resolved to wait as patiently as I could, the result of an event which had robbed me of every terrestrial joy. Here I lived many months, with sober, well-disposed people, but gained no intelligence of those for whose sake alone I still continued to drag on the load of heavy existence.

“I was one morning surprized by the entrance of an attorney, who produced me two bills; the one for a hundred and twenty pounds, which debt, he said, had been contracted by Mrs. S——— for board and lodging; the other, for twenty-five guineas for one quarter’s schooling and masters for my boy.

“I candidly declared to him my situation, and my inability to satisfy these demands; the consequence of which was an immediate arrest; and I was hurried from my peaceful chamber to the loathsome place appropriated in Newgate for debtors. Here I pined in misery and want. The course language of my fellow-prisoners, whose hearts seemed hardened in proportion to their necessities, offended, and disgusted me. I soon after heard that Lord G—— was arrived in England. I wrote to him, and he sent a servant to me with momentary relief. Obligation was new to me. Insensibly, and actuated more by despair than choice, I joined my companions; and the sight of a few guineas rejoicing them, I proposed our sharing them together. The sum was not sufficient to relieve me materially; and as the die of misery was cast, I endeavoured to dissipate its calamity: I drank—I laughed—I joined in their vulgar jokes, and for a while forgot myself. With the morning, rejected reason returned, but vanished as my companions of the time approached me.

“I passed near two years in this state of mental horror, when I was unexpectedly relieved from it by the commiserating heart of the then Sheriff, Mr. P. L—— M——. To that Gentleman it is not necessary to be personally known. His urbanity, his feelings do so much honour to human Nature, that she is compelled to acknowledge him her master-piece. In him the poor find a protector; the oppressed, a friend. That Gentleman saw, heard my story, and pitied me. His heart and purse were equally opened; and he seemed to satisfy the one, while he bountifully took from the other. I endeavoured to evince my gratitude; but the manly tear glistened in his eye, and I buried it in my heart. I returned to the house where I had lodged, forlorn and desolate, and took possession of the garret over my former apartment.

“I had not been there many days, before the Gentleman above-mentioned condescended to visit me. He was attended by his lawyer, who had been, by his directions, with Mrs. S——. He found her, surrounded by affluence; the new, but acknowledged favourite of the French Duke de ——. She was regardless of my situation, insensible to my misery; yet he prevailed on her, partly by intreaty, and partly by threats, in my name, of appropriating her property, 371b to sign an instrument, which he had prepared, and which was a mutual release from all pecuniary matters between us. Nor did the generosity of my noble friend stop here: he hastily slipped into my hand a twenty-five pound note, and hurried down stairs, as if fearful to receive the bare acknowledgment of obligations which can never, never be repaid!

“Fortune seemed at this time anxious to make me amends for the many injuries with which she had lately overwhelmed me. The relation, to whom I had stood indebted for my commission, and who had left unanswered all the letters I had written to him, now sent for me. He received me with coldness, bordering on displeasure; and I briefly related to him my whole story. Ah, what a world of light did this meeting cast over my bewildered mind!—He was a very old man, who had been confined some years to his house by various bodily infirmities; and to such, the plausible appearance of youth and beauty in distress, is peculiarly interesting. I found he had received frequent visits from Mrs. S———, and had materially assisted her. Her attentions secured to her his friendship; and she had art enough to persuade him, that my conduct in the West-Indies had been such as to-forfeit every claim to his protection. She assured him, that my commission had been sold to discharge various gambling debts contracted there. This cruel, this unprecedented injury, soon, however, retorted on herself; and as “foul deeds WILL rise,” I was indebted to her for the vindication of my own character, and the total overthrow of that of my unnatural accuser.

“My uncle (for by that name I shall henceforth distinguish him) had found an uncommon affection for my child, who frequently accompanied his mother in her visits to him. He had been well tutored by her how to answer any questions that might be put to him; yet where there was no suspicion, there could be little danger. Mrs. S—— had constantly assured the old gentleman that she boarded at the house of the relation where I had first seen her. He found himself one day very ill, and was desirous of the company of his little favourite. His housekeeper, whom many years service, and the solitude of her master’s life, had placed on a footing that fell little short of being mistress of his house, was the person whom he dispatched for the child: she was nearly as old and infirm as her master; and as her walks had for several years extended no farther than to and from the adjacent chapel every Sunday morning, she could have wished to evade his proposal of shaking her ancient bones in a hackney-coach, and would gladly have had the commission devolve on the foot-boy, who, with herself, composed the whole of his household establishment. But her master, though a very good man, was a very peremptory one, and she dared not risk his displeasure by a refusal. Mrs. Wilmot accordingly equipped herself in her Sunday gown and cloak, and desiring the coachman to drive very gently over the stones, she sallied forth in quest of the little Frederick; for whom she also, after the example of her master, felt more than an usual affection.” 

(To be continued.)

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. IV.

Among the high privileges, which we digressive writers enjoy, may be reckoned that which Don Quixote gave his horse, to choose a path and pursue it at pleasure. In another point there is an affinity between us and that errant steed, so renowned in the volumes of Cervantic chivalry. When we begin an excursion, the Lord only knows how it will be prosecuted, or where it will end. Whim and caprice being commonly our guides, and those personages never keeping in their almanack a list of stages, we are sometimes most sadly benighted. As this is my day for similitudes, I stop not here; having so modestly compared myself and other ramblers to a quadruped, I will descend still lower into “the valley of humiliation,” and liken them to an insect, which is a spider. Though their stock is confessedly small, they have the art of drawing out a most lengthy texture. Thus an essayist, conscious of the scantiness of his stores, handles a topic as a farmer’s wife manages her annual pound of bohea, in such a manner as to make it last.

When I began my second speculation with some general remarks on the utility of an alliance between application and genius, I little thought that I should quit my sober task, and commence character painter. When Fancy handed me a pencil, and bade me sketch the likeness of Meander, I had no design to ransack his room, or transcribe his diary; and lastly, when the journal was published, I tremblingly thought I had said too much, and dreaded lest my readers should complain that they were surfeited by the Farrago. But they who are even tinged with the metaphysical doctrine of ideas flowing in a train, will not be confounded, though they see another speculation rising from the last, when I narrate the following incident. A friend who had attentively gazed at the portrait of Meander, saw me the day after its exhibition. So, Mr. Delineator, cries he, must you become a dauber in caricature? One so fond of the zigzag walk in life as you, is hardly entitled to ridicule deviation in another. I blushed; and the suffusion, like Corporal Trim’s bow, spoke as plainly as a blush could speak, “my man of remark, you are perfectly sage in your opinion.” This trivial circumstance led me to reflect, first on my own inconsistency, and next on that of others. By exposing the rambles of genius I virtually made proclamation for dissipation to depart, but she taxed me with issuing contradictory orders, and pertinently asked how she could go into exile, when I insisted on her keeping me company? I then looked on my neighbours. Their characters were 372b similar to mine, and they wore not the uniform of regularity more than myself. Celia, who murders reputations, as “butcher felleth ox” pronounced, t’other day at a tea-table, a most bitter invective against scandal, though five minutes before she had invented a tale of calumny against her friend. Vafer censorially cautions a young gallant to beware an indulgence of the licentious passion, but forgets, while reading his lecture, that he once was amorous, that he solicited the virgin and the wife, and that, unsatisfied with the ordinary mysteries of intrigue, he elaborately refined on the system of seduction. Vinoso, whose face is as red-lettered as the court calendar, and who makes his Virginia fence at nine in the morning, applauds a very heavy excise on distilled spirits, and zealously damns every drunkard in the nation. Bobbin the haberdasher, who in vending a row of pins, defrauds the heedless customer of four, and who, when furnishing the village lass, with a set of apron-strings, pilfers from her a portion of the tape, exclaims against a vinter for adulterating his liquors, and wittily wonders, that he can adopt the Christian scheme so far, as to baptize even his wine. Messalina, whole chastity is valiant as a holiday Captain because no enemy is at hand, and who produced a lovely pair of twins six months before marriage, frowns at the forwardness of young flirts; and a decayed maiden, “far gone in her wane, Sir,” who has been but twenty these ten years, and who has more wrinkles in her forehead, than dimples on her chin, even she scoffs the vestal sisterhood, and turns up her note at the staleness of antiquated virginity.

In literature, as well as in life, we may recongnize this propensity. Authors are noted for inconsistence. Instances might be selected from almost every writer in our language. Pope, in conjunction with Arbuthnot and Swift, composed a satirical treatise, the design of which was, to lash his poetical brethren for attempting to soar, when their wings only served them to sink. Yet Pope, after some fine panegyrical verses upon Lord Mansfield, fell from a noble height of poetry to the very bottom of the bathos, by concluding his eulogy with the following feeble lines,

Surely this was as risible a couplet of anticlimax, as the distich the bard ridicules, by merely quoting it,

In the works of Swift, who omits no opportunity of damning dullness, may be found some compositions where the disappointed reader, instead of being dazzled with the gleam of fancy, sorrowing sees nothing but the vapid insipidity of a poet laureat’s ode, and eagerly inquires if it be upon record, that Swift ever studied the sing song of Cibber. Knox, a modern and, as he in his wisdom thinketh, a classic writer, censures, in one of his essays, the bombastic style; yet, were his own effusions arraigned in the court of criticism, they would, without any peradventure, be found guilty of turgidity. This pragmatical critic, who heated by high-church zeal, gives Gibbon to the Devil, and his writings 373 to Lethe, presumptuously condemns that elegant historian for super-abundance of epithet, though a reader of Knox would suppose that the favourite page of this pedagogue’s grammar was that which contained the declension and variation of adjectives. Dr. Beattie, in the warmth of his wishes to promote social benevolent affections, almost hates the man, who practices not philanthropy. Rocked in the cradle of the kirk, and implicitly believing all that the nurse and priest had taught him, this presbyterian zealot declaims in terms so acrimonious against the sceptics of the age, that one is led to think his “milk of human kindness,” had became sour by the means he employed to preserve it.

Juvenal, the ancient satyrist, in one of his virulent attacks on the reigning Roman follies, avers that the most profligate of the senate were invariably strenuous advocates for a revival and execution of the obsolete rigid laws against debauchery. The indignant poet declares that if such glaring inconsistencies continue, none could be astonished should Clodius commence railer against libertines, and Cataline be first to impeach a conspirator. Were a name-sake of this bard to arise, I should tremble for the sect of modern inconsistents. He might brandish the lance of satire against such characters with more justice, though perhaps with less dexterity, than his classic predecessor. The field of foibles and follies is so fully ripe, that some one should put in the sickle. In this field appears, and will again appear, a labourer, who though aukward, may be useful, and who will be “worthy of his hire,” if he cut up nothing but tares.

A LETTER OF EXPOSTULATION TO A LADY ON HER MARRIAGE.

Your passion, my dear Mrs. ***, was to be rich, you married a man you despised, and whose intrinsic worth is centured in his wealth: which gave charms even to deformity, transformed Hymen into Mammon, and the god of love into a satyr. Content yourself then with wealth, enjoy it, cultivate your taste for those advantages it can produce; and let these console you for the loss of every thing you have sacrificed for it. Have recourse to the principles of your determination: you had other offers: you have therefore examined, compared, chosen, and regretted. Be firm to this decision of your own judgment, and do not act inconsistently, by repining that you do not possess what you did not purchase. If the vices, if the follies of your husband, should become every day more and more intolerable to you, it will be in vain to regret the tranquility, the peace, the tender affection, endearing attention, or confidential intercourse, which might have distinguished your days, had you been united to a man of merit. In the height of your despair, you exclaim! “Was it for this, my amiable mother nurtured me with such care, and cultivated in me, every idea replete with 373b honour, enlivened by sentiment, and corrected with tenderness? Alas! these embellishments do now but add to my misery, in rendering me more sensible of the wretchedness of my state. The man I am chained to, is so far from possessing sensibility or taste, that he is dead to every impression of merit; and modesty, which might have endeared me to a man of delicacy, renders me hateful to this libertine; who by the indecency of his discourse, is continually offending against the sensations of a virtuous mind. While I regret the loss of intellectual enjoyment, my regret is strengthened by the direful effects of its privation on him. Mutual esteem is as necessary in a married state, as mutual affection; neither of which I enjoy. What is pomp, equipage, or splendor, compared with such seraphic sensations dwelling in the human heart? Will the blaze of diamonds atone for the deficiency of this passion? Will the gold of Ophir, melted into one mass, weigh against the raptures of uniting hearts, warmed with sentiment and truth?”

As this man’s character was known before you married him, can you have now any just reason of complaint, especially as you have not even the excuse of partiality to plead for his person? Recollect your own sordid selfish views; prevailing passion has been gratified, and you will pardon me, for questioning whether you would relinquish the advantages of your wealth, to be restored again to your liberty. Miss Aikin favours us with the following passage from one of Lucian’s dialogues. “Jupiter complains to Cupid, that though he had so many intrigues, he was never sincerely beloved: in order to be beloved, says Cupid, you must lay aside your ægis and your thunderbolts; you must curl and perfume your hair, place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume a winning obsequious deportment.” “But replied Jupiter, I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity.” “Then, returns Cupid, leave off desiring to be loved.” He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the same time: as you to be rich and happy. What right had you to expect that a miracle was to be performed in your favour? You knew well that the wretch to whom you have allied yourself, forsook humanity, and every genial feeling of an upright and honest heart, in the acquisition of that fortune, which you wished to possess, and have obtained, and which has since pampered the vices which disgust you. If he enumerates the spoils of his victories in ——, are they not covered with the blood of the vanquished? Did he give peace and happiness to the conquered? Did he accept the gifts of their princes, to use them for the comfort of those whose fathers, sons, or husbands, were massacred? Did he use his power to gain security and freedom to the regions of oppression and slavery? Did he endear the American name by examples of generosity? Did he return with the consciousness of his duty discharged to his country, and humanity to his fellow-creatures? If he was deficient in all this, what manner of right had you to expect tenderness and affection from him? You might with the same propriety look for the sensitive plant in a bed of nettles, and then complain you are stung by 374 them. But you need not be upbraided for the folly of your election, since your own experience is but too severe a monitor. Debasement is the child of pride. All that remains for you now, is to render yourself as easy as possible; it is your duty to soothe the melancholy disposition your husband will be in (when alone) from a recollection of his crimes. Perhaps, by using your influence judiciously, you may yet have it in your power to humanize his passions, and refine his pleasures: but your good sense will tell you that there is so much pride interwoven in the heart of man, that his obstinacy will never condescend to receive any more than a hint from a wife. A husband is more likely to be praised into virtue, than rallied out of vice; and the most essential point in the art of leading others, is to conceal from them that they are led at all. If he reforms, and thinks the world gives him the credit of it, in a short time he will believe it proceeded from his own will and inclinations, which will insure his constancy in it. Every method is laudable on your part, to reclaim your husband, except an affectation of fondness for him: this would be a profanation of love: and a woman capable of such abject deceit, I should look upon as capable of the most determined baseness. If his crimes have hardened him, it will be in vain for you to attempt his reformation: but while you lament his depravity, you are left at liberty to spend your own time as you think proper. The gratifications of society, and the secrecy of solitude, are now equally in your power; please yourself and be content. If gaiety and dissipation are your pursuits, it cannot be denied that they are slight counterpoises for domestic felicity: but as the latter is entirely out of your reach, you should endeavour to make yourself easy. It is your own judgment alone that must lead you to obtaining that tranquility, which you may possibly find in the exulting joy of succouring virtue in distress, merit in indigence and obscurity; in wiping tears from the eyes of affliction, and in making the widow’s heart leap for joy. The serene complacency which springs in a good mind, on the exertion of benevolent principles, cannot be described; like the peace of God, it passeth knowledge. The poet says,

Thus you may evince the reality of your feelings, whilst it is in vain for others in less affluent circumstances to manifest their benevolence as they wish. Thus also, may you turn your husband’s (ill-acquired) perishable goods of fortune, into real blessings.

Wealth not only gilds the present moments as they pass; but like the sun, constantly supplies those rays which cherish all on whom they fall, and constitute an uninterrupted 374b series of felicity in the bosom of that person from whom they proceed: whilst, on the contrary, the weight of poverty not only distresses a person for the present, but may perhaps prevent him from emerging into happiness, and others from participating of that benevolence, which warrants the means of exemplifying its sincerity. What must the poor man suffer, when the eye of friendship becomes inverted by his misfortunes in the world, and where he looks in vain around him for the benevolence of sympathy, and the consolations of human attachment!

I am, &c.

E. C.

LEVITIES.

At a late celebration of the marriages of two gentlemen, the company being large, respectable, and persons of considerable influence, a motion was made, and unanimously voted, That all Bachelors of the age of thirty, and upwards, should annually make an entertainment for the gentlemen of the place, unless prevented by intermediate marriage. What is very singular, a considerable part of the company were gentlemen of that description, who were unanimous in the resolution.

The next day a respectable company of ladies visited the two brides, and it is said, such of them as were unmarried were highly pleased with the resolution of the preceding day.

EPITAPH ON Mr. SCRIP.

Here lies Timothy Scrip, late of ’Change Alley, Cornhill, Stockbroker. During the course of a long life he was diligent, industrious, and indefatigable in the exercise of his profession. He died in the seventieth year of his age, and died well, having left behind him a fortune of sixty thousand pounds sterling. It is however much to be regretted, that, stocks being shut at the time of his death, he was not able to make a transfer, or carry any part of it to his account in the other world. It was remarked of him, that he was always more solicitous to get the turn of the day to himself, than to do a good turn to his neighbour; and that though he frequently made bargains for time, he did not choose to risk any thing for eternity. He never gave money to the poor, though offered a very high premium, thinking it safer to make ten per cent. in the English funds, than ten thousand in those of a foreign country. For these reasons, though he was always esteemed a good man at Jonathan’s, it is much to be dreaded, that, at the general settling day, he will find himself on the wrong side, and be forced to waddle, a lame duck, out of Elysium.

FROM THE LATIN.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE SENTENCE.

[A continuation of the Criminal, from page 359.]

The sun, as usual, had bedecked the east with his golden beams, and the major part of mankind were pleased with the prospect. But the hero of this piece had enjoyed none of its enlivening rays, since he had been exiled from the world, until this morning: The gratings of the locks, and opening of the doors which secured the entrance into his cell, roused him to reflect that perhaps this was the day on which his fate was to be decided: his conjectures were right; he was to be tried this day by the laws of his country.

The attendants on the court had now penetrated into the place of his confinement, and the smith was set to work in loosening his fetters. Owing to the length of time, and their not being sufficiently large, the skin adhered thereto; and on their being knocked off, it accompanied them. Indeed, if there had been present one disinterested person, he would have inferred that a barbarous punishment, formerly practiced by eastern monarchs, had found entrance into a civilized country.

Being now freed from the galling irons, the culprit, safely guarded by the officers of justice, was in a few minutes conducted before her impartial seat.

In due time, and in the usual form, did the stern dispenser of justice commence the solemn interrogatory of “Guilty, or not Guilty?” As the prisoner had duly weighed in his own breast the answer he was to make, in an audible voice he replied in the negative.

——Say not, misjudging mortal, that this unfortunate being was to blame in what he uttered, for truth dropped from his lips. True, indeed, his hand, guided by desperation, had done the deed. Despair, that haggard fiend, actuated every feeling; reason had deserted his breast—The man was entirely annihilated. At this juncture his hand had perpetrated what his heart would have abhorred to have thought on.—Call this not sophistry, ye, who hold to the mild precepts of christianity; consider it well, and then let unbiased reason have its full scope.

The council for the prosecution set forth in its blackest colours the dreadful nature of the crime of murder; and concluded with assuring the jury, that unless they brought the prisoner in guilty, they would act contrary to every law, human and divine.

——The prisoner had no one to speak for him——

The learned Judge proceeded to give his opinion, in which it can truly be said he acted not the impartial part.

* * * * * * * * * *

A verdict was returned, agreeable to the wish of the court, which being done, sentence was passed in usual form, 375b not forgetting, at the close, to entreat the compassion of the Deity. It seemed to breathe forth pity, but it was only the semblance; and the same Judge had pronounced it before this, times out of number.

L. B.

THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS.

The height of happiness, beyond all doubt, is to enjoy in the same person the delights of love, and the pleasures of friendship; and to find in that same person an affectionate wife and a faithful friend; no other felicity comparable to this, can the present life afford: But—let us say no more.

Love is a blind emotion, which does not always suppose merit in its object; yet it is far more flattering to a handsome woman, to be beloved by a man of merit, than to be adored by a fool.

Many women wish to appear lively because they thank it gives them an air of youth and wit; but, vivacity, which is not the result of these, only places folly in a more distinguished point of view.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday morning the 7th inst. at Staten-Island, by the Rev. Mr. Birkby, Mr. Henry Frome, to Miss Nancy Byvanck, both of that place.

Same time, by the Rev. Mr. Birkby, Mr. Abraham Merril, to Miss Polly Lake, both of that place.

On Thursday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Miller, Peter Hawes, Esq. to Miss Nancy Post, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Thomas Whitfield, to Miss Effe Van Aulen, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Elam Williams, to Miss Catharine Bogert, both of this city.

On Sunday last, at Jamaica. (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Tyson, of this city, to Miss Letty Rappelye, of Cow-Neck.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Mason, Mr. Charles Miller, to Miss Ann Patterson, both of this city.

AN EVENING MEDITATION.

BY MISS CARTER.

ON MRS. MONTAGU.

BY A LADY.

ODE to SPRING.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.

INTENT OF RELIGION.

If there be any principle fully ascertained by religion, it is, that this life was intended for a state of trial and improvement to man. His preparation for a better world required a gradual purification, carried on by steps of progressive discipline. The situation here assigned him was such as to answer this design, by calling forth all his active powers, by giving full scope to his moral dispositions, and bringing to light his whole character. Hence it became proper, that difficulty and temptation should arise in the course of his duty; ample rewards were promised to virtue; but these rewards were left, as yet, in obscurity and distant prospect.

The impressions of sense were so balanced against immortality, as to allow a conflict between faith and sense,—between conscience and desire,—between present pleasure and future good. In this conflict the souls of good men are tried, improved and strengthened:—in this field their honours are reaped;—here are formed the capital virtues of fortitude, temperance, and self-denial;—moderation in prosperity, patience in adversity, submission to the will of God, charity and forgiveness to men amidst the various competitions of worldly interest.

HOPE.

Hope to the soul, when distracted by the confusions of the world, is as an anchor to a ship in a dark night, on an unknown coast, and amidst a boisterous ocean. In danger it gives security;—amidst general fluctuation it affords one fixed point of rest. It is the most eminent of all the advantages which religion confers. It is the universal comforter;—it is the spring of all human activity.

Upon futurity, men are constantly suspended; animated by the prospect of some distant good, they toil and suffer through the whole course of life; and it is not so much what they are at present, as what they hope to be in some after time, that enlivens their motions, fixes their attention, and stimulates industry.

Was this hope entertained with that full persuasion which Christian faith demands, it would in truth totally annihilate all human miseries; it would banish discontent, extinguish grief, and suspend the very feeling of pain.

HUMILITY IN COMPANY.

Of all the qualifications for conversation, humility, if not the most brilliant, is the safest, the most amiable, and the most feminine. The affectation of introducing subjects with which others are unacquainted, and of displaying talents superior to the rest of the company, is as dangerous as it is foolish.

There are many who never can forgive another for being more agreeable and more accomplished than themselves, and who can pardon any offence rather than an eclipsing merit. The fable of the nightingale should be ever had in remembrance, as it conveys a most useful lesson replete with valuable instructions. Had the silly warbler conquered his vanity, and resisted the temptation of shewing a fine voice, he might have escaped the talons of the hawk. The melody of his singing was the cause of his destruction; his merit brought him into danger, and his vanity cost him his life.

MAN’S DANGER AND SECURITY IN YOUTH.

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

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

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 371.)

CONCLUSION

OF THE

HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S——.

She arrived at the house of Mrs. Moore, and on enquiring for Mrs. S——, was answered by a coarse, vulgar-looking woman, that “she know’d no such person; but that she was a stranger, and her mistress was out.” Mrs. Wilmot was not to be so easily repulsed after her morning’s fatigue; and on her mentioning the child, the woman added, “Oh, to be sure, she meant the grand lady that had supped there the night before, after she had been to the play; for that she had lighted her home, and would tell the coachman where she lived.”

Thus directed, they proceeded near half a mile farther; from whence Mrs. Wilmot would have been probably sent back as much in the dark, had not the sudden appearance of Mrs. S—— at an upper window caught her eye, and there was no possibility of denying herself. Mrs. Wilmot ordered the coachman, without much ceremony, to open the door, but knocked repeatedly at that of the house before she was let in. She was at length shewn into a sumptuous parlour where every thing bespoke luxury, and Mrs. S—— came to her. Her visible confusion, and the style of her dress so different to that in which Mrs. Wilmot had been accustomed to behold her, would have soon convinced a person of less penetration than that worthy woman, of the deception practised on her master.

“Without making any comments, she delivered her message, and earnestly intimated that the little boy might return with her; to which Mrs. S—— most reluctantly assented. They were soon seated in the coach, and Mrs. Wilmot thought it her duty to forbear interrogating the child; but confined herself to her own pious reflections on that gentle pity which she thought it necessary for every human being to bestow on the lost young creature, from whom she had just parted. She wished it had not been reserved for her to make the discovery of unquestionable guilt; and while she contemplated the sweet features of the lovely boy, she inwardly ejaculated a prayer to his Creator, that his young mind might remain uncontaminated by bad example; for she could not suppose that at such early years he could be an adept in the school of deception; or that a mother, though lost in her own person, could train up her child in the paths that led to infamy and corruption. Alas, his little heart was already less pure than her own; and he was an able practitioner in the art of dissembling.

“Mrs. Wilmot’s silence lasted no longer than till her return home; when immediately requesting a few minutes private audience with her master in his study, she, with many apologies, entered into a full explanation of what she had seen, and what she conjectured.

“When dinner was over, my uncle questioned Frederick; and was astonished at the hardened resolution with which he at first equivocated. On finding, however, that his secret had transpired, and his interrogator was resolved, the weakness of a mind not yet sufficiently strong to be consummate in hypocrisy, betrayed him, and he revealed all he knew.

Shocked at the idea of suffering the child to return to his imprudent mother, yet not possessing in himself sufficient authority to detain him, there was but one expedient, and that was to send for me. He drew from him a promise not to mention to his mother a word of what had passed; and promising to him if he did not, such presents as were most desirable at his age, he sent him home; and it was the day following on which, at his own request, I waited on him.

Our conversation was such as might be expected, and I had the happiness to see myself restored to a relation, whom I had hitherto scarcely known. He invited me to reside at his house; and in a few days his attorney waited on Mrs. S—— with a formal requisition, in my behalf, for the restoration of my son. She complied by force, but had the littleness to take from him all his wearing apparel, save that in which he sullenly appeared before us. My emotions on seeing him cannot be described. He received my caresses with disgust; and seemed to consider us both more as his tyrants than his protectors. For several weeks we tried what effect kindness, little presents, and the partaking of different amusements, would have on his mind. None of these succeeded; his temper was vindictive, stubborn, morose, and even revengeful. He never spoke of his mother, and we as carefully avoided her name in his presence. We fitted up without his knowledge a small room in the house for his use, and stored it with such books as might amuse his fancy, and instruct his mind. No act of kindness made any impression on him. Often did the unmanly tear roll silently down my cheek, as I traced the distant, but well-finished resemblance of his lovely mother. He frequently observed me as my heart yearned to embrace him, but his ungracious looks repelled the too tender emotion. My uncle at length told me of his determination to send him to school, and hinted at the same time his intentions in his favour. We soon after placed him at an academy ten miles from town, and had the pleasure to receive very satisfactory accounts of his conduct and improvements. We seldom visited, or sent for him, but at the time of the general holidays; as from that mistaken indulgence arises so frequently a love of pleasure and idleness, and a disgust to all which should be materially attended to. He wrote, at my express desire, to his mother, to inform her of his new situation, and of the orders which had been given to prevent any interruption of his studies; but this caution proved needless, as she neither answered his letter, nor took any farther notice of him.

I passed about two years in this state of negative happiness, when death suddenly robbed me of my valuable relation; a misfortune the more grievous, as it was wholly unexpected. The physician who occasionally attended him had not perceived any alarming symptoms; and a few mornings after his last visit, Mrs. Wilmot found him dead in his bed. He was a man of sound morals, but great eccentricity. He had been so long estranged from the world, and those few who had any claim of relationship, that ’tis probable he would have left his possessions for the use of public charities, had not Mrs. S———, without intending to serve me, so materially effected it.

As it was not unusual for my uncle to pass several days together in his own apartment, during which I seldom or ever saw him, I had no idea till Mrs. Wilmot suggested to me her opinion that a new will had been lately made. Mr. Term, the lawyer, whom he had employed to bring my son to us, and in whom he had always appeared to place much confidence, had been latterly more frequent than usual in his visits; and Mrs. Wilmot was afterwards justified in her opinion that her master had been guided by him in the regulation of his affairs. I sent immediately for that gentleman, and we proceeded into the gloomy chamber of death, where we had no difficulty to find the object of our search. He opened and read it to us. We found that he had left the bulk of his fortune to my son; an annuity of two hundred pounds to myself; and to Mrs. Wilmot, his houshold furniture, plate, and other articles, besides fifty pounds a year for her life. Mr. Term was his sole executor; and I had no cause to be displeased with the choice. He appointed that gentleman and myself the joint guardians of Frederick. Mrs. S——— was not mentioned, but some trifling sums were bequeathed to different people.

“We found on investigation, that after discharging these incumbrances, my son’s property would not exceed from seven to eight thousand pounds. When the funeral was over, I took lodgings in the neighbourhood; and my son, whom I had sent for on that occasion, returned to his school. I had not been there many days, before I received a letter from Doctor C——, his worthy preceptor, informing me that Frederick had suddenly disappeared; and that in so secret a manner, that none of the boys, whom he had severally questioned, could give the least intimation of his design. I immediately waited on Mr. Term, and invested him with full power over him, desiring him to act for me as well as himself.

“We had no doubt of his mother’s being privy to his flight; but though she did not deny having any knowledge of him, it was impossible to prevail on her to reveal what she had done with him. We gave up the pursuit; and, though I could not be happy, I endeavoured to be composed.

“I knew that my re-union with my wife was now beyond the reach of possibility. Dear, and undeserving as she was, I could only pity, and lament her. I knew too that she must be inevitably wretched; for though I was well assured she had a settlement nearly double to my income, yet I was equally so that no provision, however splendid, could compensate 379b for the loss of every social virtue, and the self-accusation of perfidy, and ingratitude.

“In a few months, she sent me an insulting letter; telling me, that as she knew her son’s fortune to be out of the reach of his guardians, she could be under no apprehensions for his future welfare; but that of his present conduct she should take charge; which, if we objected to, would oblige her to continue silent respecting his residence. We soon, however, without any difficulty, found out that he was at a respectable military academy; and as we could not suggest any reasonable motives for withdrawing him, unless it was to prevent him from seeing his mother, which we knew would drive them both to extremities, we were silent on the subject; and, at length, answered the different bills that were necessarily contracted for his support and education.

“My son is now in his twenty-fifth year, and has been nearly nine in a regiment of foot, at this time in Ireland. For my present poverty, I can only alledge, that dangerous rock on which all my peace has been wrecked, a too large portion of natural affection. His unbounded extravagance has reduced me to distress; and I have taken up, at different times, to assist him, sums so inadequate to my circumstances, that some years must pass before I can enjoy anew that comfortable independance, which was forfeited almost as soon as acquired!

“Of Mrs. S—— I know nothing. Time has blunted the sharp edge of grief; but the wound has penetrated my heart, and that will never know a cure.

“My son knows I can do no more for him, and leaves me to my fate. Thus is every balsamic drop that is mixed in the full cup of human woe, converted into deadly poison; the more fatal to me, as they issue from the fount that flowed pure and unadulterated from the hands of its Creator.

“Thus, Madam, have you patiently attended to the undisguised story of a poor, unfortunate old man, worn out by sorrow more than by years; a man, who has been a friend, though an unsuccessful one, to human nature, but who is now become a burden to himself, and to the World.”

I pitied him—I wept with him:—But it is reserved to the High Power alone whom he worships, to administer consolation.

Should the eyes of youth, and levity, be cast over the preceding history, may they be moistened by the tear of Sensibility! And may the heart of every child that is callous to the distresses of a parent, recoil with horror at the unnatural crime; and, by returning to his duty, fulfil the great Commandment of Heaven!

(To be continued.)

OBSERVATION.

Flattery is often the guide to destruction.—It is the first rudiment which man attends to with success, and the first lesson he repeats to gain our affections; too often, my fair friends, you give ear to it, and suffer your hearts to be enslaved for encomiums which your mirror tell you are false.

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. V.

It would scarcely inform my readers to assure them, that, when I was at College, my mathematical tutor shook his head, and dubbed me a stupid fellow. Whatever stress might be laid on the multiplication and pence tables by the sedate shop-keepers of State-street and Cornhill, it always appeared to me that a scholar could attain the object of his mission to the university, without any assistance from the four first rules. Hence, I was more ashamed to be surprised solving a sum in Pike, than a reputed virgin would be to have the unchaste poems of Rochester plucked from her pillow. I contented myself with studying the ways of men and the works of Roman and English wits, without gaping with a foolish face of wonder, when told of the “Square of the Hypothenuse,” and the miracles that compound interest would perform in a term of years. Geometrical progression was not half so delightful to me as vehicular progression in a crazy Charlestown-car. That portion of arithmetic among merchants called fellowship, or company, I left to them to ascertain their shares of a cargo of sugar and molasses by; while the rules of good fellowship I made familiar both to my conception and practice. In fine, those of my prudent friends who observed the lankness of my purse, long before the expiration of a College term, merrily remarked, that REDUCTION was the only part of arithmetic in which I made a figure.

This avowed neglect of a darling study, so offended the lovers of straight lines, that every moment they could steal from their diagrams they employed in prognosticating my future fortune. They would sketch on the paper covers of Euclid perspective views of my dilapidated estate; and by rhombus, rhomboid, and trapezium, barbarous terms, such as are “a misery to hear,” they would conjure away my goods and chattles. Those, who descending from the heights of abstraction, condescended to become mere mortals again, and to converse upon sublunary topics, were continually quoting and applying to me that elegant adage “of bringing one’s noble to a nine-pence,” &c. In vain I endeavoured to defend my practice, and to apologize for my disbelief in Euclid’s infallibility. In vain I suggested, that many of the brightest geniuses successfully clambered up the rugged steeps of Fame, without employing the nine digits, as pioneers, to smooth the way: that Shakespeare, with whom, as Cicero observes of Plato, I would rather err, than think right with all the philosophers, was not only a novice in the doctrine of “nought and carry one,” but frankly indulges a laugh of contempt at computation:—that in Othello, when Iago informs his Venitian dupe of 380b Cassio’s unjust preferment to a lieutenancy, and is asked “what is he?” the contemptuous response is “forsooth a great arithmetician!” That in Love’s Labour Lost, a pert page demands of Armado “how many is one thrice told?” the solemn knight replies “I am ill at reckoning, it fits the spirit of a tapster:” that Lord Lyttleton the elder, a man of business, emphasizing the phrase, honoured by his prince with a place in the exchequer and in the department of finance, could not, as we are assured by his son, count twenty pounds in different British coins; that the Dean of St. Patrick’s, whose sterling sense and humour has pleased and informed men more than all the works of all the mathematicians, employed eight hours in a day in reading historians and poets, and composing the Tale of a Tub, and was refused by the university of Dublin, a degree, because he lampooned Locke and derided the ærial speculations of a mathematician. All these shining examples, like Haman’s prosperity, “availed me nothing,” and the sticklers for science told me that I could not give directions to a carpenter without understanding—how shall I write so unpoetical a word—without understanding parallelograms.

Having thus far, in jocular phrase, discussed this grave subject, I now seriously declare, it is not my wish to abrogate any branches of this recondite science. I am not possessed with such a Quixotish spirit of innovation, as to desire all concerned forthwith to make proclamation for mathematics and cousin german arithmetic to depart; but good-naturedly to deride that mode of education, which neglecting, or partially studying, eloquence, poetry, history, the classics, and the world, devotes long and exclusive attention to things abstracted and foreign from men’s business and bosoms. That great and universal scholar, Dr. Johnson, whose authority is of no trivial weight, decisively pronounces that this science and the knowledge which it requires and includes, is not the great and frequent business of life. It is of rare emergence. We are perpetually moralists, but we are geometricians only by chance. One may live long with a man and not discern his skill in hydrostatics, or astronomy, but his moral and prudential character immediately appears. The rigid Knox, who is a strenuous advocate for the severest school discipline, confesses, that a man may be very liberally educated, without much skill in this branch of learning. I remember reading, not many years since, a preface of Dr. Cheyne’s to one of his medical tracts, wherein, after describing his devotion to triangles, &c. he pathetically deplores his waste of time, and adds, “that in these exquisitely bewitching speculations, gentlemen of liberal leisure may riot; but for men of general learning, business, and the world, they are too empty and ærial.” My readers will perhaps yawn at these multiplied citations; but this is a science, supported so much by authority and opinion, that I must oppose it with equal arms.

We are magisterially told that this study, of all others, most closely fixes the attention. An argument shallow, untrue, and easily vanquished. Any object that engrosses the mind, will induce a habit of attention. Now I can warrantably 381 assert, that a description from Virgil, a scene from Shakespeare, Robertson’s narrative of the decollation of Mary, or any striking passage from authors of polite literature, will accomplish this purpose. Why should the demonstrations of Euclid arrogate this honour to themselves? Have they an exclusive privilege of enchanting the mind, or are they invested with a talismanic charm by which attention is at once conjured into mathematical circles? Addison wondered how rational beings could for hours play with painted bits of paper; but he was manifestly a novice in whist, a game which, regularly played, is an unremitting exercise of two of the noblest intellectual powers, memory and judgment. The acute Hume, when jaded with metaphysical research, invigorated his powers with a cheerful RUBBER. From a fashionable amusement he derived that benefit which the worshippers of Euclid would confine to their God. In fine, a mere mathematician, without being a more cogent reasoner, is less learned, less eloquent, and less courtly than the Beauclercs, whose superficial talents he contemns. He is a solemn, absent, unaccommodating mortal. Better therefore to imitate Cardinal de Retz and Chesterfield; better to study the useful and the pleasant, than to dream away life over the symbols and negative quantities of algebra.

I proposed to animadvert next on the influence that arithmetical minutiæ gradually obtained over the heart. I was about adventuring to censure even the great Dr. Franklin, for insisting too much upon the mint, annise, and cummin of computation. I wished to brand avarice, and to deny the doctrine of “uttermost farthings.” But I recollected that every penurious parent, who prescribes as a horn-book lesson to his son, that “scoundrel maxim” a penny saved is a penny got, would cry—shame! The world, quoth prudence, will not bear it; ’tis a penny getting, pound hoarding world—I yielded; and shelter myself in my garret against that mob of misers and worldlings I see gathering to hoot me.

REFLECTIONS ON SCANDAL.

There is not a greater enemy to the peace of individuals, and society at large, than Scandal; although it is much to be regretted, that, there is no frailty to which most people are so subject. Scandal is the offspring of Envy; and the only weapon of little minds against superior abilities. But notwithstanding Scandal affects, more or less, every member of the community, it reigns with more distinguished power over some parts of society than others. On enquiry, it will appear that the female character sustains the most injury from this bane to human happiness. In the country, too, this species of Scandal is more prevalent than in the 381b metropolis. The reason is obvious; in a country place, the number of inhabitants are so small, that each is frequently more acquainted with the character of his neighbour than his own. Every action is examined with the most critical severity; and often the best of characters lose the esteem of their acquaintance from the malignant aspersions of Ignorance and Envy. It is impossible for a lady to be seen walking with a gentleman, in such a place, without the immediate conclusion that they are lovers: it is even not uncommonly added, if their acquaintance should have lasted any length of time, that Miss Such-a-one appears to be in fair way. After a report of this nature has once spread, I have seen a company of females thrown into the greatest consternation, by the entrance of a lady who was the unfortunate subject of Slander. How busy is the silent whisper, on these occasions! It runs with amazing rapidity, from ear to ear, accompanied by nods and winks; with a—“You know who”—“So they say”—“Well, I could never have thought it!” and a variety of such phrases, which every one must at some time have heard.

Scandal is of a quality peculiarly distressing. Against the open shafts of violence, every one may defend himself; but, from Slander, and secret Calumny, the most deserving must suffer.

The only method to prevent this pest to society, is for every one to shut their ears against the officious tales of Scandal and Envy; since experience proves, that if people in general were not too much inclined to listen, when any account is brought of the faults and failings of others, the tongue of Scandal would no longer find the mean satisfaction it now enjoys.

The mischiefs that accrue to mankind, from Calumny and Slander, are innumerable. How many families have their peace destroyed by evil reports! By such means, the seeds of enmity are too often engendered between the dearest connections in life.

It has already been observed, that Scandal is the only weapon of little minds against superior worth and abilities. The truth of this remark ought to be a sufficient preventative; for, I believe, no one would wish to incur the merited appellation of a little and envious mind. Females, in particular, should divest themselves of this spirit, which produces so many evils among the fair-sex; for, let it be remembered, that an envious mind, and slanderous tongue, never inhabit the face of beauty, and the form of elegance!—If there must still remain, in the breasts of some, a slanderous spirit, and a delight to fabricate scandalous reports; if most people will also retain a propensity to hear whatever comes from such a source; let us act with some degree of impartiality: before we credit, as undoubted truth, tales injurious so the reputation of another; we ought, at least, to examine whether what we hear does not wear the most flagrant marks of falsehood. Thus we may often be enabled to discover fiction from truth, and be satisfied that the person accused is entirely innocent: and it is the province of great minds, to vindicate the characters of those who are absent, when unjustly aspersed by the tongue of Scandal.

CHARACTER OF LORD MOUNT-GARTH.

Of the following extraordinary character, though not given as historical fact, there is said to have actually been a prototype lately, if not at present, resident in one of the wildest parts of the county of Suffolk.

Lord Mount-Garth had retired from the world twenty years ago, not only within his own park, but, except on very rare occasions, within his own palace and garden; which, together, occupied a space of nearly a square mile, and were surrounded by a wall fifteen feet high; against which he would amuse himself for hours in playing at hand-ball; sometimes alone, and at others accompanied by a female favourite, the only person he would suffer to come near him, or could ever bear to see, though at a distance, except one man, the son of his father’s gardener, who had been brought up with him at home from his infancy, and was exactly of the same age, being born in the same night and hour. This man had not, any more than his lordship, been without the precincts of the park, and very seldom beyond those of the garden, for the space of thirty years. As they went into this state of voluntary confinement, which is a kind of internal exile, at the age of twenty, they are now, of course, in the fiftieth year of their age. John, for that was the name of the man, had been educated along with his lordship in his father’s family, by a private tutor; and had acquired a competent knowledge, not only of ancient and modern languages, history, and Belles Lettres, but a general idea of the principles and progressive improvement in the arts and sciences. John acted in the capacity of valet de chambre, confidant, and companion; dined at the same table with his lordship, went to bed at the same hour, and slept to the same hour precisely, and almost to the same minute rose in the morning. He was dressed precisely in the same kind of cloaths, even to the sameness of shoe-buckles and sleeve-buttons. If my lord felt himself not very well, and judged it proper to take any medicine, John must take the same medicine also. “John” he would say, “I think we sat up rather too late last night: I think we should not be the worse for an emetic.”—“I think we should be much the better for it, my lord.”—“John, I am afraid we have rather exceeded in our refreshments for some days past: I think we should be none the worse for some cathartics.”—“I think we should be much the better for them, my lord.”—“John, I think we feel somewhat of a vertigo this morning: I think we should be not the worse for a little sal volatile.”—“I think we should be much the better for it, my lord.”—“Have we not felt a somewhat of relaxation of nerves for same days, John?”—“I protest, my lord, on recollection, I think we have.”—“What should you think of a dip in the cold-bath?”—“I think, my lord, it would do us both a great deal of good.”

This singular character, sunk in indolence and sensuality, of all things dreaded cold: but as for snow, he could not 382b endure the sight of it. In winter, he generally lay in bed till ten or eleven o’clock: about that time he would pull his bell, call for John, and ask him what kind of a day it was. “It is a very fine day, my lord; the sun shines out brightly, and the atmosphere is unsullied by a cloud.”—“Why, then, John, I think we should be the better for a race in the garden.” For it was their custom to have frequent races, at the end of which both parties were within a few feet of each other. “John, how looks the weather this morning?”—“Most hideously, my lord! The sky lowers; the feathered creation retreat to their roosts; the cats incessantly curry their hides; and flakes of snow, driving before the wind, announce the coming storm.”—“John, shut the doors and windows; light up a rouzing fire; let candles be brought; let the pastry and cold tongues be laid on the table; and, since it is a bad day, let us make a good night.”

Many efforts were made by the college acquaintance of his lordship to see him; for, with all his singularities, he was an amiable and benevolent man, as well as an excellent scholar; and attached, as by a singular charm, all his acquaintance to his person. They would put up their horses at an adjoining village, and send letters to his lordship, fraught with recollections of former intimacy. His lordship never failed to return answers replete with equal kindness; recollecting former scenes and circumstances, with expressions of the most pleasing emotions, but always declining any personal interview.

As the inn nearest his lordship’s park was but a very wretched one—for in this sequestered spot there was no encouragement for a good one—he took care always to send, on the arrival of strangers, the best provisions of all kinds, unknown to his friends, with orders to the landlord to make some trifling charge, lest he should offend their delicacy, by affording them entertainment when he refused them his company. His lordship’s friend was a good sort of woman: she amused herself, now and then, by giving suppers to the servants and the farmers daughters in the neighbourhood, the nearest house being five miles from the Castle. He had land stewards on his different estates; all business with whom, as with every other mortal, was transacted through the medium of John, or the housekeeper. If he had occasion to go from one quarter of the castle or garden to another, orders were previously sent to all the servants to keep out of the way; for, if he had catched any of them looking at him, he would have immediately dismissed them from his service. He had an excellent library, in which he passed a great part of his time, but into which no publication of any kind had been admitted since the year of his retirement, or sequestration from the world; being that, as already mentioned, on which he left the university, having then succeeded to the estate by the death of his father. No newspapers! no magazines! no reviews! no political pamphlets! no annual registers! No, nor any conversation concerning any political or other event that had happened in 383 Britain, or any other part of the world, from the hour of his seclusion. He turned himself about, and cast his eyes backward, and fixed them wholly on former times. Although, he confessed, that he had often been tempted to enquire what could be the causes of the sudden and enormous accumulation of taxes.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CRIMINAL.

[Concluded from page 375.]

A LAUNCH INTO ETERNITY.

—First marched forth those that guarded the law from violation; then followed the culprit bound in a cart, attended by a clergyman, who was using his pious endeavours to smooth the passage into another world. They reached the tree. The ladder was placed, and after a few minutes spent in the solemn duties of religion, he ascended it. With the consciousness of a heart in which every virtue glowed, and with a fortitude which the virtuous only possess, he calmly surveyed the surrounding multitude, and signified his wish to be heard: they eagerly lent their attention, while he painted to them the cause of his disgrace, and the misery of his family which had led him to the act. He said he could not endure the idea of seeing them perish before his eyes; and when their distress was at its highest pitch, and when he could get no help from those who would have befriended him with all they were worth when he needed it not, he had sallied forth on the highway, determined to alleviate their distresses—but his intentions were not to shed blood—driven to desperation by experiencing a refusal, (when on his knees he solicited the boon) he had done the deed.——

The people were all attention, and when he ended, their streaming eyes spoke the sentiments of their hearts.

The moments were precious. The cord was fastened to the wood, and after a few moments spent in devotion, the curtain of life dropped.

Scarcely was the solemn scene closed, when a murmur was heard among the croud, and shortly after a female rushed to the spot. It was his wife. Heavens! what a shock for her delicate frame! She had but just recovered from an illness she had fallen into when they had dragged her husband from her arms. She saw him now when life sat quivering at his lips, and then in unison their spirits ascended to that bright world of bliss.

* * * * * * * * * * *

——What substantial benefit, what real advantage do ye derive from dooming to death one that has perpetrated the 383b dreadful crime of murder? Does his death restore to life the person murdered? Does it allay the grief of the distressed family?——No!——What then is it that makes you give your tacit consent to a measure which is hostile to every principle of equity—derogatory to every principle of humanity? Is it because this severe law was first given in thunderings, from Mount Sinai, to a people, who while beholding with their eyes the glory of the Deity, yet worshipped the work of their own hands? Throw aside prejudice, and that fellest tyranny, custom, until then you will never view things in their proper sphere.

Would not solitary imprisonment in a lonely cell, far excluded from every pitying eye, for a term of years, be more just? He might be compelled to labor, and his earnings go to maintain the family which through his means has lost its support. Thus they who have suffered by his misconduct might reap some advantage: whereas, by taking his life they must be left to pine in want and wretchedness. If after continuing in this state for some years, it be discovered that a thorough change is wrought, and the offender has become a reasonable creature, then let him be discharged—the debt is fully paid. But should he after this again imbrue his hands in the blood of his fellow men, then let rigorous imprisonment for life be the penalty—he is no longer fit to associate with human beings.

L. B.

New-York, April 4, 1797.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

By the Rev. Mr. King, Mr. John M‘Carthy, of Johnstown, to Miss Eliza Ker, daughter of the Rev. Nathan Ker, of Goshen, Ulster County.

By the Rev. Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Casimir Delavigne, merchant, of this city, to Miss Emilia Guibert, late of Port-au-Prince.

On Tuesday, se’nnight, at Bedford, on Long-Island, by the Rev. Dr. Livingston, John I. Johnson, Esq. to Miss Hannah Loudon, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Samuel Provoost, Mr. Alexander S. Miller, to Miss Mary Rogers, both of this city.

STANZAS TO HOPE.

ON SEEING A MISER AT A CONCERT.

THE CLOWN AND THE LAWYER.

SOCIAL EVENINGS.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.

[A late writer in the London Monthly Magazine, in expatiating on the unreasonable disposition of the fair sex, brings forward, as a proof of the authenticity of his remarks, the following Letter of Lady Compton to her husband, which is now preserved in the British Museum, as a curiosity.]

“MY SWEET LIFE,

“Now I have declared to you my mind for the settling of your state, I supposed that it were best for me to bethink and consider within myself, what allowance were meetest for me: for considering what care I ever had of your estate, and how respectfully I dealt with those which both by the laws of God, of nature, and civil policy, wit, religion, government, and honesty, you, my dear, is bound to; I pray and beseech you to grant to me, your most kind and loving wife, the sum of 2600l. quarterly to be paid. Also I would, besides that allowance, have 600l. quarterly to be paid, for the performance of charitable works: and those things I WOULD NOT, neither WILL BE, accountable for. Also I WILL HAVE three horses for my own saddle, that none shall dare to lend or borrow: none lend but I, none borrow but you. Also I would have two gentlewomen, lest one should be sick, or have some other let. Also, believe it, it is an undecent thing for a gentlewoman to stand mumping alone, when God hath blessed their lord and lady with a great estate. Also, when I ride a-hunting, or a hawking, or travel from one house to another, I will have them attending; so, for either of those said women, I MUST AND WILL HAVE for either of them a horse. Also I will have six or eight gentlemen; and I will have my two coaches, one lined with velvet to myself, with four very fair horses; and a coach for my women, lined with cloth, and laced with gold; the other with scarlet, and laced with silver, with four good horses. Also I will have two coachmen, one for my own coach, the other for my women. Also at any time when I travel, I will be allowed not only carroches, and spare horses for me and my women, but I will have such carriages as shall be fitting for all, orderly, not pestering my things with my women’s; nor their’s with either chambermaid’s; nor their’s with wash-maids. Also for laundresses, 385b when I travel, I will have them sent away before with the carriages, to see all safe. And the chambermaids I will have go before, that the chamber may be ready, sweet, and clean. Also for that it is undecent to crowd up myself with my gentleman usher in my coach, I will have him to have a convenient horse to attend me, either in city or country. And I must have two footmen. And my desire is, that you defray all the charges for me. And for myself, besides my yearly allowance, I would have twenty gowns of apparel, six of them excellent good ones, eight of them for the country, and six other of them very excellent good ones. Also I would have to put in my purse 2000l. and 200l. and so you to PAY MY DEBTS. Also I would have 6000l. to buy me jewels, and 4000l. to buy me a pearl chain. Now, seeing I have been, and am, so REASONABLE unto you, I pray you do find my children apparel, and schooling, and all my servants, men and women, their wages. Also, I will have all my houses furnished, and my lodging chambers to be suited with all such furniture as is fit; as beds, stools, chairs, suitable cushions, carpets, silver warming-pans, cupboards of plate, fair hangings, and such like. So for my drawing chamber in all houses, I will have them delicately furnished, both with hangings, couch, canopy, glass, carpet, chairs, cushions, and all things thereunto belonging. Also my desire is, that you would PAY YOUR DEBTS, build up Ashby-house, and purchase lands, and lend no money, as you love God, to the Lord-Chamberlain, who would have all, perhaps your life, from you. Remember his son, my lord Walden, what entertainment he gave me, when you were at Tilt-yard. If you were dead, he said, he would be a husband, a father, a brother, and said he would marry me. I protest, I grieve to see the poor man have so little wit and honesty to use his friends so vilely. Also he fed me with untruths concerning the Charter-house, but that is the least; he wished me much harm, you know how. God keep you and me from him, and any such as he is. So now that I have declared to you what I would have, and what it is that I would not have, I pray, when you be an earl, to allow me 2000l. more than now I desire, and double attendance.

“Your loving wife,

“Eliza Compton.”

This is apparently a real letter. William Compton, Eliza’s husband, inherited somewhere between £500,000 and £800,000 in 1610. The letter may date from 1617; it can be no later than 1618, when William was created Earl of Northumberland.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 379.)

FOURTH WANDERING.

There are few subjects which deserve a closer investigation of the legislation of the legislative power, and which is more neglected, than the excessive cruelty that is exercised in this metropolis over unhappy, and devoted animals. As they have no law to protect them, they are doubly entitled to the attention of Humanity. It is scarcely possible to walk through the city (London) without having one’s feelings tortured by the abandoned race of butcher’s boys, and drovers. I could mention many, I might say daily instances of what I have been painfully compelled to witness, whenever I was led into that part of the town. One only I will mention, which strongly evinces philanthropy on one hand, and infamy on the other.

These contrasted practices belonging to the same class of people, the lowest order, of the vulgar, are convincing proofs, that Education has less to do with the formation of our ideas, and the realization of our actions, than Nature. She governs the human system, while she forms it; and however villainy may be glossed over by the specious arts of accomplished deception in splendid life, or worth may lie concealed under the thick shade of retirement, the innate sentiment still “grows with our growth,” and effectually steers us throughout the course of our existence.

It is not three weeks since I was going up Snow-hill, and was met by a number of sheep, followed by one of these imps of the Devil that I have mentioned. As I was standing by, to let them pass, I was struck by the voice of an old woman, whose “tattered garment spoke variety of wretchedness,” and who, (to continue the simile) was exactly what Fancy pictures Otway’s witch to have been. She was mourning over one of these wretched animals, who had sunk on its knees, exhausted by ill-usage and fatigue. One horn was plucked out by the roots; its legs were lacerated, and streaming with blood, which issued from the nostrils, while the man (why I am forced to call him so) was employing all his strength in belabouring, with a thick stick, its agonized sides!—The old woman was remonstrating, with all the eloquence of genuine humanity. It was a foreign language to a wretch of this description, and he answered her in his own; while I walked on; unable to bear the sight before me, or to attend to the impious execrations of the infernal cause of it.

How continually do we behold the newly-expired carcase of the generous Horse, that has at last surrendered to toils beyond his strength! The horse, which has been proudly contended for, and brought a little mine of wealth 386b to his ungrateful master, is now denied by him even that little that would make his old age comfortable. Houseless, and hungry, he smarts under the galling whip, and is not allowed that rest which God has equally ordained for man and brute. Mr. Dibdin’s justly celebrated song of The Race-Horse, is more descriptive than I can be of the horrid barbarities practised against this most useful creature; and which is, both in strength and generosity, superior to his masters.

There are many licensed abuses; and I will confine myself to one more only. It is an essential one, and ought to be remedied. I mean, respecting Servants. This class of people is particularly happy in its privileges. The Soldier, and the Sailor, are sure to meet with severe corporal punishment, if, in the slightest instance, they disobey the commands of their superior; but for the Servant, there is no punishment, unless caught in the very act of robbery; and even then, much money, time, and uneasiness, must be the cost, before you can bring yourself publicly to expose them.

How continually it happens, that exorbitant wages are due to these people, which it is not immediately convenient for the master, or mistress, to discharge. In that case, the servant, well acquainted with the circumstance, becomes insolent, or, at best, regardless; and if you find fault with them, they ask you, why you do not pay, and discharge them? while they are well convinced, that if you did pay and discharge them, they must either adopt another mode of conduct, or be reduced to beggary. But though these are facts too common throughout life, yet still, for the honour of humanity, some exceptions are to be found, but, in general, this inference may be drawn from contrasting characters of the same description in different, though similar situations, and proves one important fact, that in all situations, where vulgar minds can have an ascendancy, or pre-eminence, tyranny will ever be the result of their conduct, whether in the Drover or the Domestic.

The Courtezan, who, from dirt and darkness, emerges, by fortuitous circumstances, to gaudy splendor, and untasted affluence; or the low-bred mechanic, who, by carping care, and assiduous industry, in taking the advantage of the wants of those with whom he has acquaintance, or connection, rises into opulence, the vulgar mind will always appear in their conduct and behaviour. A haughty overbearing demeanor will always mark their manner to those who may have the misfortune to be under their power, and inconsistent meanness will ever appear, from under their most sumptuous trappings, when attempting elegance and refinement—but why it should be so is neither unnatural or wonderful—for the truth is, that conscious of their own innate meanness, and incapacity to sustain the character they would wish to assume, they conceive that all who have known them, or do know them, entertain the same contemptible ideas of them as they do of themselves, and hence conclude it necessary, in support of that dignity to which they aspire, or assume, to treat those around them with hauteur and tyranny, to impress on their minds a constant practice of the 387 submission and obedience they wish to exact. It were well if the indigent, who may attain to affluence, or the menial servant, who may arise to superiority of situation in life, would recollect that greatness of soul, and elevation of sentiment, are equally shown, though not so efficaciously proved, in want as in wealth; in being commanded as in commanding.

Ostensible situations to such as are incapable of filling them, only display the imperfections of the possessor in a more prominent point of view; and it were well also, if those whom Nature made in hasty moments, and in its coarsest moulds, whom Reason never regenerated, nor Education ever refined—whose ideas never have, and perhaps never can be enlarged, and whose sentiments, if ever sentiments arose in the breast of such persons, were only conducive to encourage them in the pursuit of their grovelling designs, and barbarous and unrefined opinions, would seek the coverture of the shade, rather than expose their fantastic enormities, and preposterous ignorance and inability in the sunshine.

FIFTH WANDERING.

It has been said, and more than that it is generally believed, that happiness is not to be found on earth. I deny it. For although I have never been allowed even to taste it in domestic life (with which the world is too well acquainted to doubt my veracity) yet I have observed almost daily instances of what I call happiness; and which, if not admitted to be such by those in the enjoyment of it, fully demonstrates a wilful incapacity to know its value, and ingratitude to that Being who, for his own wise purposes, bestows or takes it away.

There are two conditions of life from which only I conceive happiness to be naturally excluded; and by these I mean the extremes of affluence and penury. The man who abounds in wealth cannot be happy. His soul, if naturally great, is confined within the narrow precincts of custom and education, and has no room to expand itself. Few of these have courage, if they do not want inclination, to pry into the distresses of their fellow-creatures; and they dread the effect of prejudice, as they would dread the effect of treason. I am sorry to speak from my own observation, when I declare, that throughout this wealthy metropolis, (London) I have never yet found one man, rich in the gifts of fortune, who had spirit enough to disdain the tinsel shew that surrounded him, and consecrate his time and his money to those whom he seemed sent into the world to gladden and relieve. One only instance have I heard of it in the female world; and to her virtues, more than to her rank, may the honest tribute of applause, not the flattering voice of adulation, be given: I mean the Dowager Countess S——, where virtue unites itself to talents, and both combine to render her on whom they are bestowed inestimable. What heart can refrain from offering up thanks to its Creator, who now and then condescends, as in her, to shew a well-drawn picture of himself? While she lives, her numerous charities cannot be forgotten; and when that God whom she adores transplants her to a world more worthy of 387b her, still shall her name remain immortalized, while gratitude holds a place in the hearts of the many indigent her bounties have deigned to relieve!

But to proceed to my ideas of happiness;—I say ideas, because I have only drawn a sketch of it from what I have seen, and from “The Wanderings of my Imagination.” Can I picture to myself a greater felicity than a happy independent family I once saw in Yorkshire? They were many in number, yet one soul seemed to animate all. The old farmer, who had no more than he wished for, nor wished for more than he possessed, was one of those jovial, honest, well-meaning men, whose knowledge of the world extended not beyond the limits of his own farm. His family consisted of an old widowed sister, whom he supported, his wife, three daughters, and a son, who imitating his sire in industrious labour and attention to the peaceful and useful arts of agriculture, was requited by that tranquillity of mind which is ever the result of a good disposition.

Nature had by no means slighted the daughters in the formation of their outward graces; but had, on the contrary, given convincing proofs that those requisites necessary to engage the eye, and interest the heart of every beholder, were to be met with in the unassuming manners, and unaffected benignity, which beamed in each of their countenances. These strongly indicated that their minds was the soil where all the social virtues, that diffuse happiness alike to the possessor and those in connection with them, were to be found cultivated and sublimed; endowments which require more of the sunshine in life to sustain or invigorate; but blossoming and ripening in the shade, bid defiance to the canker of time, and the chilling damps of progressive age. Their prospects in life bounded and unenlarged, gave increase of pleasure and tranquillity, by their having fewer wants to suffice, and fewer expectations to pursue; for the less desire we have for the gratification of our passions, the more our minds must be at ease. The airy phantoms and deluding visions raised by the magic of Imagination, are more or less conjured up by awakened passions roused by variety of scenes striking our different senses; those once awakened, are soon allured; and allurements once indulged, are seldom allayed. But why do I thus insensibly wander? Why am I deviating so widely and wildly from my intended narration of rustic felicity? Yes, I must indulge it. Visions of earthly pleasure, whither are you fled? Oh, social delights, known only in domestic seclusion, and blooming only in sequestered retirement, why am I forbid to enter your hallowed abodes? I must now only in sadness survey what once I might have enjoyed, had the dictates of nature (in me) been obeyed; and instead of being made the victim of fashion, I should now be solacing myself with the inestimable pleasures of a tranquil mind, and the rational reflection of enjoying all that is worth enjoyment in life, and consequently fulfilling all the ends for which life was bestowed. But, ah! like thousands more who have lived, and will live hereafter, and in spite of all that Poets have sung, and Philosophers taught, we live not for ourselves, but for others.

(To be continued.)

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. VI.

In the highlands of Scotland, when a benighted traveller knocks at a cottage door, and is denied admittance by a female voice, he never dreams of grumbling at the refusal, if the Caledonian dame subjoin, in her country’s phrase, that she is a lone woman. Should some carping critic look through my lattice, and censure me for sameness of sentiment, or barrenness of fancy, I would reply, in an accent of deprecation—Mr. Zoilus, I am a lone author. In the periodical publications of Great Britain, the papers are usually furnished by the members of a literary society, who assemble at some coffee-house or tavern, and club their genius to amuse the public, as they club their cash to discharge their reckoning. Those speculations, which have improved, and have gladdened life, were rarely the fruit of a single brain, but the offspring of wit in conjunction. The union of abilities is almost as essential to the perfection of a miscellany, as the union of sexes to the formation of our being. Both Genius and Dullness are prone to court alliances.—Beaumont and Fletcher, composed comedies in company; and Sternhold, when he undertook a translation of David’s psalms, employed Hopkins to eke out his metre. Relying on his native strength, Dr. Johnson composed a series of lucubrations himself; but who is endowed with the comprehensive mind of the author of the Rambler? Like a poor man loaded with a fardel of debt, common writers are glad to borrow. Cursed occasionally with a penury of thought, and most willing to pay my public debt, I solicit a hint from one, a sentiment from another, and a subject from a third. Conscious of imbecility, I dread stumbling in my solitary walk, and timidity warns me to lean, sometimes on the staff of quotation, and sometimes, to employ a guide. My acquaintance, Adage, who loves sentences short and pithy, like himself, and who has read with diligence, and who admires with judgment, the PROMPTER, requests me to compose an essay in his laconic style. No, I replied, he has exhausted Franklinisms, he has commented upon almost every common saying in the popular mouth. Your reasons, Adage rejoined, are like Gratiano’s in the Merchant of Venice; they are two grains of wheat, hid in two bushels of chaff, you shall search all day ere you find them, and when found, they are not worth the search. Be it my task to furnish a subject, to take the pen and write quickly be thine. My neighbour Crispin, quoth Adage, contracted last week with a countryman for cheese. It was damaged; Crispin gives five pence per lb. and promises to pay in leather. I thought he was over-reached; but, when the cheese-monger had departed, Crispin laughingly cries, “if his cheese is mouldy, my leather is unmerchantable, and two cheats make an even bargain.” As the PROMPTER, continued 388b Adage, never preached a sermon from that text, and as, to continue the allusion, the bishop is slumbering in his stall, do you become his chaplain, and ascend the pulpit yourself.

Reflecting on my friends advice, I quickly perceived that this even bargain was concluded by many characters besides professional cheats. An old London magazine, which I read many years ago, and which memory just handed me, offers the first example.

A brocaded Italian Count had an amour with Lady Ligonier. Every body bewailed the fate of her unhappy husband; but every body did not know that his wretchedness was alleviated in the arms of a courtezan. Every body did not know, that these two right honourable cheats made an even bargain.

A clown solicits an attorney to prosecute an obsolete claim against neighbour Clodpole; the limb of the law knows that the claim of his client is as lame, as his hobbling justice, he tells him nevertheless that he will recover, and anticipates a heavy bill of cost. He does his dirty work, and the plaintiff is nonsuited, who emigrates to Genesee, and forgets to pay the advocate his fees. Don’t fret, Mr. Greenbag, keep yourself cool, you have another cause to argue, another false title to set up which will demand the calmness and intrepidity of falsehood. Don’t damn your absconded client. The balance of deception was in equilibrio between you. Two cheats make an even bargain.

A spruce stripling of sixteen, courts an old beldame of sixty. He thinks her rich, and hopes that her gold will enable him to buy at the female flesh market of beauty a more juicy rib. She, relying on the bridegroom’s vigour, dreams of the comforts of matrimony, and forthwith pronounces—I obey, before the Parson. But alas! the bride’s purse is coinless, and the fond bridegroom chooses to consummate elsewhere. I advise the husband when in consequence of his wife’s fortune, he keeps a coach, to choose for a motto, two cheats make an even bargain.

Last week, I wrote at length, and like Dogberry, in Shakespeare, bestowed all my tediousness upon my readers. I will make atonement. The PROMPTER is laconic, and Adage hates prolixity.

SINGULAR CUSTOMS OF THE HINDOOS.

Although the Hindoos are naturally the most inoffensive of all mortals, yet does their humanity consist more in abstaining from injurious, than in the performance of beneficent actions. There is a wonderful mildness in their manners, and also in their laws, which are influenced by their manners; by which the murder of an human creature, and of a cow, are the only crimes that are punished by death. Yet with all this gentleness of disposition, they are inferior to the boisterous Europeans, with all their vices, in the virtues of compassion and generosity. They are wanting in that tenderness which is the most amiable part of our nature. They are less affected by the distresses and dangers, and even the accidental deaths of one another, than any nation I know 389 in the old or new world. Yet they love to excess: a proof, either of the inconstancy of the human character; or that the amorous passion is not derived from the noblest part of our nature.

This insensibility of the Hindoos to the distresses and dangers of their fellow-creatures, appears to me a wonderful phenomenon. Perhaps that despotism which has long been exercised under the Mogul tyranny, by familiarising the mind to scenes of death, has blunted a sense of its terrors. Perhaps those ideas of predestination and irresistible fate, which prevail in Asia, and in all despotic governments, prepares the mind for an acquiescence in all events. An English gentleman was standing by a native of Hindostan when an enormous and fierce tiger leaped from a thicket, and carried off a screaming boy, the son of one of his neighbours. The Englishman expressed symptoms of the most extreme horror, while the Hindoo remained unmoved. “What,” said the former, “are you unaffected by so dreadful a scene?”—“The great God,” said the other, “would have it so.”—Whatever may be the cause, it is certain, that death is regarded with less horror in India than in any other country in the world. The origin and the end of all things, say the philosophers of India of the present time, is a vacuum. A state of repose is the state of greatest perfection: and this is the state after which a wise man aspires. It is better, say the Hindoos, to sit than to walk, and to sleep than to wake; but death is the best of all.

According to the Gentoo laws, criminals sentenced to death are not to be strangled, suffocated, or poisoned, but to be cut off by the sword; because, without an effusion of blood, malefactors are supposed to die with all their sins about them; but the shedding of their blood, it is thought, expiates their crimes. The unjust punishment of Nundcomar, who was hanged on a gibbet against the laws of his country, and even by an ex post facto English law, was aggravated by that circumstance of horror, that he died without an effusion of blood.

The Hindoos are well acquainted with the nature of simples, and apply them judiciously either in performing cures which require not amputation, or in effecting death by quick or slow poisons. They have been for ages in the practice of inoculating for the small-pox; on which occasion, as well as on others, they have recourse to the favourable mediation of charms, or spells.

Although the practice of Hindoo women burning themselves on the funeral piles of their husbands, and embracing in the mean time their dead bodies in their arms, be not so general now as it has formerly been, yet does it still prevail among some of the wives of men of high caste or condition: and although this effort of frantic love, courage, and ambition, be deemed an aggrandizement of the family and relations of both husband and wife, but especially of the wife’s, yet their friends and relations constantly endeavour to dissuade the women who declare their resolutions of burning, from carrying them into execution. Even the Brahmins do not encourage this practice.

The causes which inspire Hindoo women with this desperate resolution, are, I imagine, the following:

In the first place; as the wife has, from her earliest infancy, been betrothed in marriage to her husband, and from that time has never been permitted to see another man; as she is instructed to believe that he is perfectly accomplished, and taught to respect and honour him; as, after consummation, she is shut up from the company, conversation, and even the sight of other men, with still greater care, if possible, than before, being now debarred from seeing even the father or elder brother of her husband, the bonds of her affection must needs be inconceivably strong and indissoluble. To an European lady the zenana naturally appears in the light of an horrible prison: but the daughters of Asia never consider confinement to the zenana as any hardship. They consider it as a condition of their existence, and they enjoy all the happiness of which they have any conception; their whole desires being concentered and fixed on their husband, their food, jewels, and female attendants.

In the second place, if the wife survive her husband, she cannot marry again, and is treated as an inferior person, and an outcast from her family. Nay, she is obliged, in her mournful and hopeless widowhood, to perform all the offices of a menial servant.

In the third place, she is flattered with the idea of having immortalized her name, and aggrandized her children, and her own and husbands families.

Lastly, she is rendered insensible to the pains and horrors of what she is to suffer, by those intoxicating perfumes and mixtures which are administered to her after she has declared her final and unalterable resolution—I say her final resolution, because one or two declarations, of an intention to die with her husband, is not sufficient.

The strength of her resolution undergoes a probation. There is a certain time prescribed by the Gentoo law, during which her family and friends exert their utmost influence in order to dissuade her from burning; and if she persist in her resolution to the end of that period, it is not lawful to use any more persuasions with her, to abandon it. If she should alter her purpose after that period, she would be punished with the loss of all castes, and live in a state of the most complete misery and contempt. Nay, if an European or Christian does but touch her very garment with his finger, when she is going to the pile, an immediate stop is put to the ceremony, she is forced to live an outcast from her family, and from the Gentoo religion.

You will doubtless, my friend, have curiosity to know, in what manner, after all their stimulatives to perseverance, the tender sex, among a soft and effeminate people, sustains the near approach, of a scene so full of awe and horror. Amidst her weeping relations and friends, the voluntary victim to love and honor alone appears serene and undaunted. A gentle smile is diffused over her countenance: she walks upright, with an easy but firm step; talks to those around her of the virtues of the deceased, and of the joy with which she will be transported when her shade shall meet with his; and encourages her sorrowful attendants to 390 bear with fortitude the sight of those momentary sufferings which she herself is going to feel.—Having ascended the funeral pile, she lays herself down by the body of her husband, which she fervently embraces. A dose of narcotic mixtures is then administered for the last time; and instantly the person, whose office it is, sets fire to the pile.

Thus the most determined resolution of which we can form any conception, is found in the weaker sex, and in the soft climes of Asia. It is to the honour of that sex and those climes, that the greatest courage they exhibit, is the effect, not of the furious impulses of rage and revenge, but conscious dignity and love.

It might naturally be imagined by an European, that the several wives of one man (for polygamy is general throughout all Asia) would regard one another with mutual jealousy and aversion: and that they in reality do, has been asserted by writers of high reputation. The fact however is quite otherwise: they visit one another with great friendship and cordiality; and if they are of the same caste, will occasionally eat together.—The husband is restrained from eating with his wives, either by a regard to custom; or, as I have been informed by some of the Gentoos themselves, by a precept of their religion.

Notwithstanding the extreme antiquity of most Indian nations, I am told that in India beyond the Ganges, on the confines of Aracan and Pegu, there is a people (if solitary savages roaming through woods in quest of prey, deserve the name of people) that appear to be in the very first stage of society. They are the only people in the known world that go absolutely naked, without the smallest covering on any part of their bodies. They live on fruit, which grows spontaneously, in the uncultivated deserts they inhabit, in great abundance; and on the flesh of animals, which they tear alive and devour. They sit on their hams, with their legs and arms disposed in the manner of monkeys. At the approach of men, they fly into their woods. They take care of their offspring, and live in families, but seem to have no ideas of subordination of rank or civil government. I have never had occasion to see this race of mortals myself, but I have conversed with several persons who have seen them; all of whom concur in the general account of them, which I have now given you.

CHARACTER OF THE SWEDES,

FROM THE LETTERS OF MRS. WOLLSTONECRAFT.

The Swedes pique themselves on their politeness; but far from being the polish of a cultivated mind, it consists merely of tiresome forms and ceremonies. So far indeed from entering immediately into your character, and making you feel instantly at your ease, like the well-bred French, their over-acted civility is a continual restraint on all your actions. The sort of superiority which a fortune gives when there is no superiority of education, excepting what consists in the observance of senseless forms, has a contrary effect than was intended; so that I could not help reckoning 390b the peasantry the politest people of Sweden, who only aiming at pleasing you, never think of being admired for their behaviour.

Their tables, like their compliments, seem equally a caricature of the French. The dishes are composed, as well as their’s, of a variety of mixtures to destroy the native taste of the food, without being as relishing. Spices and sugar are put into every thing, even into the bread, and the only way that I can account for their partiality to high-seasoned dishes, is the constant use of salted provisions. Necessity obliges them to lay up a store of dried fish, and salted meat, for the winter; and in the summer, fresh meat and fish taste insipid after them. To which may be added, the constant use of spirits. Every day, before dinner and supper, even whilst the dishes are cooling on the table, men and women repair to a side-table, and, to obtain an appetite, eat bread and butter, cheese, raw salmon, or anchovies, drinking a glass of brandy. Salt fish or meat then immediately follows, to give a further whet to the stomach. As the dinner advances, pardon me for taking up a few minutes to describe what, alas! has detained me two or three hours on the stretch observing; dish after dish is changed, in endless rotation, and handed round with solemn pace to each guest: but should you happen not to like the first dishes, which was often my case, it is a gross breach of politeness to ask for part of any other till its turn comes.

THE POVERTY OF THE LEARNED.

FROM CURIOSITIES OF LITERATURE.

To mention those who left nothing behind them to satisfy the undertaker, were an endless task.

Agrippa died in a workhouse; Cervantes is supposed to have died with hunger; Camoens was deprived of the necessaries of life, and is believed to have died in the streets.

The great Tasso was reduced to such a dilemma, that he was obliged to borrow a crown from a friend, to subsist through the week. He alludes to his distress in a pretty sonnet which he addresses to his cat, entreating her to assist him, during the night, with the lustre of her eyes, having no candle by which he could see to write his verses!

The illustrious Cardinal Bentivoglio, the ornament of Italy and of literature, languished, in his old age, in the most distressful poverty; and, having sold his palace to satisfy his creditors, left nothing behind him but his reputation.

Le Sage resided in a little cottage on the borders of Paris, and supplied the world with their most agreeable romances; while he never knew what it was to possess any moderate degree of comfort in pecuniary matters.

A PRUDENT CHOICE.

ANECDOTES

OF

EMINENT PERSONS.

Mesdemoiselles De Fernigs.

These two young heroines were the daughters of a quarter-master of cavalry, and by accompanying the French troops in their excursions at the beginning of the war, attained a certain degree of attachment to military exploits, and even an enthusiasm against the common enemy. Unlike the “maid of Orleans,” they were dressed in female attire, and pretended neither to prophecy nor revelation, but they headed the French troops, in 1791, with the same boldness that the martial female alluded to, was accustomed to do, two centuries before.

Dumourier, who never let slip any occasion of inspiring his army with confidence, invited these ladies to the camp at Maulde, and made such a flattering report to the Convention of their modesty, intrepidity, and good conduct, that they received a house, and an adjoining piece of land, as a present from the republic.

On the defection of this general, preferring gratitude to duty, and personal attachment to the love of their country, they both took part with him, and were out-lawed.

Moreau

Is a native of Morlaix, in the ci-devant Bretanny, 29 miles distant from Brest. When about 18 years of age, he was sent to Rennes, to study the law; and he who might have proved but an indifferent avocat, has, at the age of 33, acquired the character of a skilful commander.

He first distinguished himself in Holland, and then served with great éclat under Pichegru. The late brilliant passage across the Rhine, without the loss of a single man, was achieved under his auspices. His father is said to have perished during the tyranny of Robespierre; the son is a zealous republican, and fights and conquers in that cause.

The Abbe De Lille,

Like the bards of old, is at once a poet and a musician: and, in consequence of a rare union of both characters, he composed the Marsellois Hymn, which, by connecting his name with the history of the French Revolution, will render it immortal.

In addition to his other works, he has meditated a poem on the “Imagination,” for what is singular enough, this has never as yet been committed to paper. The truth is, that the Abbé, relying on his extraordinary memory, never copies out any of his verses, until they are about to be printed.

He was arrested during the short-lived tyranny of Robespierre; and if he had perished on that occasion, both the poem and the poet would have been lost together.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening the 6th ult. at Augusta (Georgia) by the Rev. Mr. Boyd, Mr. James Cooper, merchant, to Miss Susan Winslow, both of that place.

On Sunday evening the 21st ult. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Nicholas Roome, to Miss Jemima Lewis, both of this city.

By the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Patrick Munn, to Miss Ann Maverick, both of this city.

By the Rev. Dr. Moore, Capt. Woodham, of the ship Swan, to Miss Rebecca Maverick, of this city.

On Saturday se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Benjamin Gifford, to Miss Sally Anderson, both of this city.

On Tuesday evening se’nnight, Mr. John Lockwood, to Mrs. Sarah Smith, relict of Mr. Stephen Smith, both of Norwalk.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, David A. Ogden, Esq. to Miss Rebecca Edwards, both of this city.

On Saturday evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, N. Prime, Esq. of Boston, to Miss Cornelia Sands, daughter of Comfort Sands, Esq. Merchant, of this city.

A HYMN,

COMPOSED IN A MORNING’S WALK IN MAY.

BY THE REV. MR. TURNER.

THE PROSTITUTE.

EPITAPH.

FROM THE GREEK.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.

METHOD IN THE ARRANGEMENT OF IDEAS.

In delivering our sentiments on particular subjects, there is nothing which is attended with better effect, and makes us appear to more advantage than offering our opinions with clearness and precision; and this can only be done by arranging them in proper order, so that they may appear regularly to arise one from the other: this is stiled method, and prevents confusion; hinders us from indulging in the luxuriance of fancy, running into desultory digressions, and makes us appear superior to our subject.

Where great sprightliness is the natural bent of the temper, girls should endeavour to habituate themselves to a custom of observing, thinking, and reasoning. It is not necessary that they should devote themselves to abstruse speculation, or the study of logic; but she who is accustomed to give a due arrangement to her thoughts, to reason justly and pertinently on common affairs, and judiciously to deduce effects from their causes, will be a better logician than some of those who claim the name, because they have studied the art. That species of knowledge, which appears to be the result of reflection rather than of science, fits peculiarly well on women.

BEHAVIOUR.

One of the chief beauties in a female character is that modest reserve, that retiring delicacy which avoids the public eye, and is disconcerted even at the gaze of admiration. For when a girl ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm of beauty. That extreme sensibility, which it indicates, is peculiarly engaging.

Silence in company, particularly a large one, is never mistaken by the judicious and discerning for dullness, but bespeaks a modesty essential in the female sex. Dignity of behaviour is necessary at public places, but care must be taken not to mistake that for that confident ease, that unabashed countenance which seems to set the company at defiance.

Women should be cautious even in displaying their good sense. It is often thought assuming a superiority over the rest of the company; but their learning should be kept a profound secret, especially from men, who generally look 393b with a jealous and malign eye on a woman of great parts, and a cultivated understanding.

The great art of pleasing in conversation consists in making the company pleased with themselves. Detraction should be avoided, especially amongst women where their own sex is concerned; it would be more noble for them to shew a compassionate sympathy to the unfortunate, especially to those who are rendered so by the villainy of men. It is a laudable pride, as well as secret pleasure, which ought to be indulged, in being the friend and refuge of the unhappy, but without the vanity of shewing it.

Every species of indelicacy in conversation should be considered as shameful and highly disgusting. A sacred regard should ever be had to truth, for lying is a mean and despicable vice; though a lively embellishment of a humorous story, which is only intended to promote innocent mirth, cannot be understood to fall under that head.

Gentleness of spirit and manners is extremely engaging; but not that indiscriminate attention, that unmeaning simper, which smiles on all alike. For this arises either from affectation of softness, or from perfect insipidity.

A fine woman, like other fine things in nature, has her proper point of view, from which she may be seen to most advantage. To fix this point requires great judgment, and an intimate knowledge of the human heart. By the present mode of female manners, the ladies seem to expect that they shall regain their ascendency over men, by the fullest display of their personal charms, by being always in their eyes at public places, by conversing with them with the same unreserved freedom as they do with one another; in short, by resembling men as near as they can. The folly of this expectation and conduct will soon be shown. For the power of a fine woman over the hearts of men, of men of the finest parts, is even beyond what she conceives. They are sensible of the pleasing illusion, but they cannot, nor do they wish, to dissolve it. But if she is determined to dispel the charm, it certainly is in her power, she may soon reduce the angel to a very ordinary girl.

In fine, to form a complete lady, she should possess the most perfect simplicity of heart and manners; dignity without pride, affability without meanness, and simple elegance without affectation.

In the first paragraph, punctuation is unchanged.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 387.)

The pleasures of a fashionable life may not be unaptly compared to the delirium of the brain in a high fever. ’Tis in vain we in imagination visit ærial scenes fraught with all that fancy can bestow to give delight: ’tis in vain we visit gorgeous palaces, and partake of sumptuous banquets, while seated in the magic circle of Wit and Beauty, we enjoy the radiant smiles of the happy, and the compliments of the facetious and the learned: we even in the height of our frenzy still feel there is a chasm in our pleasures, and a vacuum in our pursuits and enjoyments; and when awake to reflection, we most sensibly feel that all has been deception—the malady still rages, and the fever still remains.

But I revert to my first idea, and maintain that happiness is to be found; and that I witnessed it in the family I have mentioned: they were uniformly and completely happy in each other; and the casualties of fate appeared not to terrify by their approach an individual belonging to it. Had that happiness they amply possest been sufficient to satisfy them, without searching farther into the world for an addition to it, one of its branches had not, by creating her own misery, cast a bleak veil over her fate, and impeded that heart-felt satisfaction which from her alone knew interruption.

Nancy, the youngest daughter, was by nature more susceptible than the rest. She had seen a young sailor in the neighbourhood, and against the advice of all her true friends, contented to marry him, when he should return from a foreign embarkation. She bore his departure with seeming composure; but a few letters she received from him baffled all that parental love could endeavour to save her, and on the first report of the fleet’s intended return, she packed up a few necessaries, took the little money she was, through the indulgence of her parents, become mistress of, and unknown to all, set forward on her disconsolate journey to Portsmouth, to wait his return.

For some weeks she waited in vain; at length the ship to which he belonged arrived in the harbour. She eagerly discovered the means by which she could go on board; and fancy pictured to her ravished senses his delight on thus proving her unabated love. Alas, poor Nancy! the ship indeed returned, but her William had been long consigned to a watery grave. In silent grief she bore the dismal tidings, and returned to her desolate abode. For three days she pined in speechless agony, and on the fourth her account was made.

This melancholy incident gave rise to my endeavouring to express it in the following stanzas:

SIXTH WANDERING.

It was in one of those fine autumnal evenings, when the Sun, while sinking beneath the last cloud of departing day, tinged the blue mountains with a paly light, that chance directed my footsteps from Chepstow, to the all-charming and romantic retirement of Piercefield. The deputed guardian of its woods indulged my request, and left me to myself.

As I wandered alone and pensive over the beauteous scene, no noise but the soft moaning of the leaves, gently agitated by the summer breeze, or the distant voice of the nightingale, interrupted my meditations, while I silently and sadly lamented the fate of its late unfortunate, and hospitable possessor. Was it from hence (thought I) that our first parents were precipitated into the abyss of woe, and will Man be never resigned to his lot? Will he prefer to that path which Nature pointed out for him to follow, the tongue of envy---the voice of detraction---the ruin of his fortune---the injury of his health---the wreck of his peace---and sacrifice 395 to a vision, the pure, true unadulterated joys of rural and domestic felicity? Vain and transitory are all sublunary desires; and the objects of whatever kind our fantastic imagination greedily pursues, soon cloy in the possession. There is no substantial delight but that which we derive from conscious rectitude; and the vicissitudes of the world, like the turbulence of the ocean, if they do not plunge the incautious into actual perdition, will, by annihilating their senses, leave in them a blank, that no future period will fill up.

The gloom that was beginning to dim the horizon, insensibly enveloped my ideas, and the solitude of the woods heightened it. It was the hour when the sky-lark chaunted its evening hymn to its Creator, as it soared beyond the confines of sight. The lofty pines waved their high heads to the wind, and now and then a few straggling leaves, that had loitered beyond their time, rustled through the thick branches, while gently falling towards the ground.

On a sudden, the voice of distant music caught my ear. I listened, and distinguished the sweet sounds of the plaintive harp. My heart responsively echoed the mournful melody, and I approached the spot from whence it issued. The Harper, whom I recollected to have seen before, was blind, and infirm, and his name was Llewyllin. He was sitting at the foot of a tree, and his dog, who sat watchfully by him, retained his station, seeming sensible of the attractions his master possessed, instead of being impressed with fear, or alarm, at the approach of a stranger.

A very lovely girl, more interesting than beautiful, stood leaning against the tree in a pensive attitude; she observed me, and, as if recovering from the reverie I had interrupted, with a soft, but dejected smile, requested her father (for such I found him to be) would repeat the variations of Pleyell’s German Hymn. The slow, and solemn measure, raised my soul to Heaven, while my uplifted eyes invoked the pardon of human frailties, and the rapturous enthusiasm invigorated my mind.

The Harper arose, his dog trotted on before, and I accepted the proffered arm of the lovely Julia. Our conversation was on trifling subjects, and the increasing darkness added an awful solemnity to the stillness of the scene, as the bat flitted round us, and the solitary owl poured forth her wailing plaints to the full-rising Orb of Night. From the high eminence we espied the beautiful little town of Chepstow; its various lamps reflected on the smooth surface of the Severn, while the distant dashing of oars proclaimed our re-union with the world, from which the peaceful groves of Piercefield had just before seemed to separate us.

Julia and I, whose tastes already appeared to be formed for each other, delighted ourselves with the majestic scenery above and below us. We retraced to our memories The Sorrows of Werter, while we gazed on his favourite constellation, and compared its superiority over the luminous bodies that surrounded it. But alas! these chearing prospects gladdened not the heart of our companion; his day was set in everlasting night, and I sighed while I surveyed the marks of placed resignation that beamed on his benign countenance.

I accepted Julia’s invitation, and accompanied her home. She inhabited, with her father, a small neat cottage, which she had adorned with the elegant ornaments of rustic simplicity: she touched the harp with less skill than did her father, but the gracefulness of her attitude while seated at it, was all her own. She had a winning sweetness of manners, and a captivating gentleness of disposition, which alike charmed and secured the hearts of those who beheld her. With pious diligence she discharged the duties of filial care; and as she watched over him with affectionate zeal, she prevented the desires of her father.

We parted at an early hour, more refreshed than fatigued by the excessive long walk we had taken; our minds had expanded in the interview, and it was the beginning of an acquaintance that seemed to promise an exquisite source of mental enjoyment, both to Julia and myself.

Till the present moment, the intercourse of female friendship had been unknown to Julia. The inhabitants of Chepstow, where they had lived five years, were either too lofty, or too low, to afford gratification to a susceptible mind. Yet, although her knowledge of the world extended no farther than what she could collect from the books of a small circulating library, with which she beguiled the heavy hours of her father, she had acquired from these, and the polished understanding with which Nature had endowed her, those requisites which alone were necessary to render her a most desirable and interesting companion.

We met every day, and our friendship was established in less time than custom allows to a common acquaintance. Julia, whose notions were above the prejudices of the vulgar, would artlessly reveal to me her ideas as they arose, but left me to conjecture on the subject of her heart, which, from her frequent sighs, and some very distant hints, I could perceive had not been hitherto insensible.

We went frequently to Piercefield, where, after placing Mr. Llewyllin on a convenient seat, we would wander from him just far enough to hear the distant sounds of the harp, which, as they died away, marked the length of our progression.

Julia, in one of those walks, took occasion to enquire of me, if I had ever seen Swansea? I answered her in the negative, and she added with a sigh, that her father would describe it to me better than she could. The evening dews were beginning to fall, and we joined him in our walk towards home.

We were no sooner arrived there, than I repeated to him Julia’s question, which he answered, by giving me his narrative.

(To be continued.)

EPIGRAM.

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. VII.

“MY AUNT PEG.”

In the Vicar of Wakefield, Dr. Goldsmith describes Burchell in company with a couple of courtesans, assuming the manners and language of ladies of quality. The penetrating humourist, at the close of every sentence from these frail damsels, boasting intimacy with high life, emphatically and poignantly exclaims, “Fudge.” When the ridiculous in manners, or the insipid in conversation and life, appears to Tom Toledo, whose nose is as curved as a fish-hook, by an inveterate habit of sneering, ’tis Tom’s way to baptize the oddity—My aunt Peg.

Now, whether my aunt Peg, like Tristram Shandy’s aunt Dinah, having been guilty of some back-slidings in her youth, has forfeited her right to respect from the family; or whether certain envious prudes, as is their wont, have leagued, and look prim against her, when she appears, is a question I cannot sagely solve. Certain it is, she is degraded from the rank of gentlewoman, and now keeps low and contemptible company.

My aunt Peg, like an English actress of scorched reputation, often exchanges the petticoats for the breeches, and disguised in male apparel, spouts farce and low comedy, at the Theatre Universal. Though she “has her exits and her entrances,” and “plays many parts,” yet critical spectators are always dissatisfied with her style of acting; her assumed, cannot mask her real character, and pit, box, and gallery, hiss “aunt Peg.”

Sauntering last term into a court of justice, I mingled with “the swinish multitude,” and figured to myself a union of law and eloquence, in the charge to the jurors from the bench. The person speaking, for I absurdly mistook him for the judge, resembling Sancho Panza in the island Barataria, rather than Buller, Hale, or Talbot, I plucked Toledo by the sleeve, and asked if his honour’s name were not Dogberry. By St. Mansfield, he deserves, when time and place shall serve, to be “set down for an ass.” It is no Judge, says Tom: that broad, and vacant starer is—my aunt Peg.

Dickey Dangle, the ladies’ man, plays three hours with my cousin Charlotte’s thimble, and fancies that he is courting her. A wag in my neighbourhood, a lover of pepper-pots, observing this frivolous “man of lath,” with an unthrobbing pulse, gazing sedately on the eyes of a fine girl, and praising her cherry lips, without a wish to press them, swears that he is the very fribble of Shakespeare; that

And asks, in the phrase of Marlow, if I shall suffer my cousin to live with him and be his love. No. A contract 396b of matrimony between two females is absurd, and not good in law; for doubtless Dickey is—my aunt Peg.

A literary friend, after a lonesome journey through a boorish quarter of the country, on his arrival at an inn, exults, when the waiter informs him, that the young fellow, entering the room, “has been to college.” The conversation naturally turns upon books. Do you relish the belles lettres? Oh yes, I read Rollin’s belles lettres last winter, and liked them mightily. The indignant traveller frowned—he was unconscious that a degree in arts was frequently conferred on—my aunt Peg.

When I was at the university—I beg that the world would suppose I mean Oxford, Edinburgh, or Aberdeen, and not our college of Cambridge, for which I have singular affection—if a lad were guilty of genius, a tribunal of tasteless tutors, professors, &c., would doom him to expulsion. What, said they, a man of genius in a college? It cannot, must not be.—Why Issachar, our strong ass, couching down between his two burdens, Greek on one side, and Mathematics on the other, will bray and break, bridle at the very sight of him. Yes, says Candor, their “worships and their reverences” are, in very deed,—my aunt Peg.

Half a century since, dame France was a stately old gentlewoman, proud of her pedigree, associating with men of rank, and keeping servants at a distance. But the devil, Reform, began to haunt her house, and she insisted that the table should be laid in the cellar, instead of the parlor. Some of her refractory domestics, who disobeyed this whimsical order, she turned out of doors, hung up others to the kitchen lamp with the jack line; and at length, assisted by a cruel dog of a joiner, she fixed a butcher’s cleaver into an old box, and fairly chopped the Steward’s head off.—Not one of her rational neighbours, who witnessed those mad deeds, but went away exclaiming,—Good lack! that such a noble lady should be vilely metamorphosed into—my aunt Peg.

For sources, see the end of the second installment (pg. 405).

INTERESTING STORY OF MADELAINE.

BY HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

A Friend of mine, who is lately gone to Toulouse, has sent me from thence an account of some circumstances which happened not long ago in that part of France, and which she says are still much the subject of conversation. I shall transcribe this narrative, which I believe will interest you. Perhaps a novel-writer, by the aid of a little additional misery, and by giving the circumstances which actually happened a heightened colour—by taking his pallet, and dashing with a full glow of red what nature had only tinged with pale violet, might almost spin a volume from these materials. Yet, after all, nothing is so affecting as simplicity, and nothing so forcible as truth. I shall therefore send you the story exactly as I received it; and in such parts of it as want interest, I beg you will recollect that you are not reading a tale of fiction; and that in real life incidents are not always placed as they are in novels, so as to produce 397 stage effect. In some parts of the narrative you will meet with a little romance; but, perhaps, you will wonder that you meet with no more; since the scene is not in the cold philosophic climate of England, but in the warm regions of the south of France, where the imagination is elevated, where the passions acquire extraordinary energy, and where the fire of poetry flashed from the harps of the Troubadours amidst the sullen gloom of the Gothic ages.

A young Frenchman, whose usual residence was at Paris, having travelled as far as Toulouse the year before the Revolution, was invited by a party of his friends to accompany them to Bareges, where some of them were going in pursuit of amusement and others in search of health from the medicinal springs which rise so plentifully, both in hot and cold streams, among the Pyrenean mountains.

This young Parisian, who had some taste for the sublime scenery of Nature, felt that it would be luxury to leave a little longer the regular walks, which Art had planted in the Tuilleries, and the trim gardens and jets d’eaux she has formed at Versailles; to wander amongst those piles of mountains which overhang each other, and listen to the torrents which fall down them with loud and irresistible impetuosity.

What powerful sensations does the first view of such a scene produce!—We seem to begin a new existence—every former impression is for a while erased from the memory, and the mind feels enrapped and lost in the strong emotions of awe, astonishment, and admiration.

Bareges was crouded, as it usually is in the season, not only with French company, but also with strangers, who travel from other countries, in order to use its celebrated baths. The company amused themselves, as they generally do at water-drinking places, by sauntering, lounging, cards, lotteries, jeux-d’ésprit, and scandal.

Bareges is a very expensive place. Even moderate accommodations must be purchased at a high rate; and provisions, as well as lodgings, are sometimes obtained with difficulty. Bareges is therefore seldom resorted to by any but people of considerable fortune, who can afford to level the obstacles which mountains interpose to their conveniences and comforts, by the all subduing force of gold.

Among a number of persons of rank and fortune, there was however one family at Bareges in a different situation. This family consisted of an elderly infirm French officer, who had long been afflicted with the palsy, and his daughter, a young woman about nineteen years of age. Their appearance and mode of living seemed to indicate, that, though in search of relief, this old officer had journeyed to Bareges, he had in so doing far exceeded the bounds of economy, which his circumstances prescribed, and was forced to deny himself every accommodation his infirmities could spare. He 397b lived in the most retired manner, in the worst lodgings at Bareges; and, while the other ladies were dressed in a style of expensive variety and profusion, his daughter wore only a plain linen gown, which, though always perfectly clean, was coarse; and her dark hair was left unpowdered and without any ornament whatever. Fortunately for Madelaine, however, (for that was her name) her person was calculated to make her coarse gown appear to the best advantage; and though she was not very beautiful, her countenance had an expression of sweetness which answered the end of beauty by exciting love and admiration.

The company at Bareges soon became acquainted with each other, and the ladies always took notice of Madelaine when they met her in their walks, which however did not happen very often, for her father was frequently unable so go out. When he did, he was supported on one side by Madelaine, and on the other by his servant. It was impossible to see with insensibility the attention which this interesting young woman paid to her father, whom she never quitted one moment. It was remarked with what careful tenderness she used to lead him along the streets of Bareges, walking the slowest pace she could, and watching his steps as he moved feebly on. And when he was not able to venture out, she was seen at the window of their little parlour reading in order to entertain him. Her looks and manner announced that her disposition was naturally sprightly, and that she would have been gay if her father had not been sick. But all the chearfulness she could assume while he suffered, was exerted to amuse him, and shorten the tedious hours of langour and debility.

Though Madelaine was handsome, the obscurity and seclusion in which she lived preserved her from the envy of the women. They knew well enough that the gentlemen at Bareges were for the most part men of the world, who, though they may admire beauty, and approve of virtue, are never so far the dupes of any tender or moral sentiment as to let it interfere either with their vanity, their ambition, or their interest. Although the French Revolution had not yet happened, these ladies were aware that, with respect to marriage, the age of calculators was already come, and therefore no rival was to be feared in Madelaine. The ladies joined with the men in admiring the graces of her person, and the amiable qualities which her conduct displayed. Madelaine, in short, became the object of general esteem.

Auguste, for so I shall call our young Parisian, who has lost his title since the laws of equality have been established in his country—Auguste spoke less of Madelaine than the other gentlemen at Bareges; but it was perhaps because he thought of her more. Sometimes, in his solitary morning rambles, he used to make comparisons between her and the Parisian ladies among whom he had passed the winter, and the comparison generally ended with a deep sigh. The scene of these meditations was certainly much in Madelaine’s favour. Perhaps, at Paris or Versailles, Auguste might have been dazzled by the polished graces of a fine lady rouged, powdered, perfumed, and equipped for conquest. These 398 artificial attractions might perhaps have accorded well enough with clipped trees, and angular walks. But Madelaine’s simple manners, Madeline’s natural smiles and unstudied blushes, were far more in unison with the Pyrenean mountains.

One evening, when Auguste was walking in the town of Bareges with some ladies, he saw Madelaine at a little distance assisting with great difficulty to support her father, who appeared to be seized with a fit. Auguste darted like an arrow towards the spot, and held up the officer till he found himself somewhat recovered; and then Auguste, with a sort of gentle violence, obliged Madelaine, who was pale and trembling, to let go her father’s arm and suffer him to assist the servant in leading him home, which was but a few steps farther. Auguste entered the house, where he remained till the old officer was a little revived; and, after prevailing upon Madelaine to take a few hartshorn drops, he retired.

The next morning he felt that common civility required he should pay the old officer a visit, and learn how he had passed the night. It happened that Madelaine had the very same idea. “Surely,” thought she, “it will be very strange if this young man, who was so kind, so careful of my father, and who made me take some hartshorn drops, should neglect to call and enquire after us!” This idea had come across her mind several times; and she was meditating upon it at her father’s bedside, when Auguste was announced.

The old officer, who had all the finished politeness of his country and his profession, received him in the most courteous manner; and, though he spoke with some difficulty, yet he was profuse in acknowledgments for the service Auguste had rendered him. Madelaine’s thanks were few and simply expressed; but the tone in which they were uttered was such that Auguste felt he could have sacrificed his life to have deserved them.

The old officer still continued sick, and therefore Auguste still considered it as an indispensable mark of attention to go every day, and learn the state of his health. He also began to feel that these visits became every day more necessary to his own happiness. That happiness was, indeed, embittered by many painful reflections. He well knew, that to obtain his father the Count de ——’s consent to marry Madelaine, was as impossible as it was for himself to conquer the passion she had inspired. He knew exactly the order in which his father’s enquiries would run on this subject. He was aware that there were two interrogatories to be answered. The first was—“How many thousand livres has she a year?” And the second—“Is she noble?” And nothing could be more embarrassing than that the enquiry concerning fortune would, he was sure, come first: since that was the only article which could not be answered in a satisfactory manner; for to Madelaine’s family no objection could have been made. By the way, though the former nobility of France would not absolutely contaminate the pure streams of noble blood by an union with the daughter of a roturier, they had always sufficient generosity to abate 398b some generations of nobility in favour of a proper equivalent in wealth.

Auguste, while he was convinced of the impossibility of obtaining his father’s consent to his marriage, did not pay Madelaine one visit the less from that consideration; and when the usual hour of his visit arrived, he often suddenly broke a chain of admirable reasoning on the imprudence of his attachment, in order to hasten to the dwelling of her he loved. In a short time he ceased all kind of reasoning on the subject, and abandoned his heart without reserve to the most violent and unconquerable passion.

Auguste made a declaration to the old officer of the sentiments which his daughter had inspired. The old gentleman mentioned it to Madelaine; and she only answered by tears, of which he perfectly understood the meaning. When Auguste explained his situation with respect to his father, the officer desired him to think of his daughter no more. Auguste felt that he might as well have desired him to cease to breathe. He continued his visits, and the officer was soon reduced to that state of languor and debility which left him neither the power nor the wish to forbid them. His complaints increased every day, and were attended with many alarming symptoms. The season for the waters of Bareges was now past, and all the company left the place, except the old officer, who was too weak to be removed, and Auguste, who, while Madelaine remained, had no power to tear himself from the spot. In a few weeks the old officer felt that his dying hour was near. Auguste knelt with Madelaine at his bedside—her voice was suffocated by tears; and Auguste had scarcely power to articulate in broken accents that he would devote his life to the happiness of Madelaine. The old officer fixed his eyes with a look of tender anxiety upon his daughter, and soon after expired. Madelaine mourned for her father with uncontrouled affliction; nor could all the attentions of her lover dispel that anguish, with which her affectionate heart lamented the loss of her parent.

The winter being far advanced, she proposed to defer her journey to the distant province where she and her father had lived, until spring, and to place herself in the mean time in a convent not far from Bareges. Auguste exerted all the eloquence of love, to induce her to consent immediately to a private marriage. She hesitated at this proposal; and, while they were conversing together on the subject, the door of the room in which they were sitting was suddenly thrown open, and Auguste saw his father the Count de —— enter. He had heard of the attachment which detained his son at Bareges, and had hastened to tear him from the spot before it was too late. He upbraided his son with great bitterness, and began also to upbraid Madelaine: but there was something in her looks, her silence, and her tears, which stifled the terms of haughty reproach in which he was prepared to address her; and, ordering his son to leave the room, he desired to speak to her alone. After explaining to her the absolute impossibility of her being ever united to his son, and his determination to disinherit him, and leave his whole fortune to his second son, if Auguste should persist 399 in his attachment to her—after endeavouring to awaken her pride and her generosity, he desired to know where she proposed going. She told him her intention of placing herself immediately in the convent of ——. He approved of this design, and left her to go to his son. No sooner was the door of the room shut, than Madelaine gave way to those tears which she had scarcely been able to restrain while the Count was speaking. She had never felt so sensibly her orphan condition as at this moment; and the dear remembrance of her fond father, was mingled with the agony of disappointed love.

Mean time the Count de —— declared to his son, that his only chance of ever obtaining his mistress depended on his absolute unconditional submission to his commands, and that he must instantly attend him to Paris. Auguste eagerly enquired what was to become of Madelaine; and his father told him that she had determined to take refuge in the convent of ——. Auguste absolutely refused to depart till he was allowed an interview with Madelaine. The Count was obliged to consent; but before he suffered them to meet, he obtained a promise from Madelaine not to mention to her lover any particulars of the conversation which had passed between her and the Count.

Auguste, in this last interview with Madelaine, atoned for the cruel disdain of his father, by the most solemn and passionate assurances of fidelity, not to be shaken by time or circumstance; and then, after attempting to leave the room several times, and returning as often, he at length tore himself away. Madelaine, when she saw him depart, felt that every earthly hope had vanished with him.

She set out early the next morning for the convent of ——; but not till after she had sat some time weeping in the chair which Auguste used to occupy.

(To be concluded in our next.)

ANECDOTES.

During the reign of King James II. and when the people were much oppressed and burdened with taxes, that monarch made a very expensive tour thro’ England; and on his return he slept at the palace of Winchester. The Mayor and Corporation, for the honour done them by this royal visit, determined to address his Majesty in the morning; but as the Mayor could neither read nor write, it was agreed the Recorder should prompt him on the occasion.

Accordingly, being introduced into the Royal presence, and every thing ready for the ceremony, the Recorder, by way of encouraging the Mayor, who appeared aukward and embarrassed, gently jogged his elbow, and at the same time whispered in his ear, “Hold up your head—look like a man.” The Mayor mistaking this for the beginning of the speech, stared the King boldly in the face, and with a loud 399b voice repeated, “Hold up your head---look like a man.”---The Recorder, amazed at this behaviour, again whispered the Mayor, “What the devil do you mean?” The Mayor, in the same manner, instantly repeated, “What the devil do you mean?” The Recorder, chagrined at this untoward circumstance, and fearing his Majesty’s displeasure, still whispering in the Mayor’s ear said, “By G—d, Sir, you’ll ruin us all;” which the Mayor taking to be a continuance of the speech, and still staring the King in the face, with a louder voice than before repeated, “By G—d, Sir, you’ll ruin us all.” The King on this rose with some anger, but being informed of the cause of this rough address his Majesty was pleased to pass by with a smile, and the Corporation was perfectly satisfied with the honor done them.

An Hibernian plaintiff, (a gentleman whose attachment to law finally induced him to sell his last field for the purpose of prosecuting a man who broke down his fence) died lately in Ireland; when, in searching his papers, they found the following memorandum:—“Cast in nine lawsuits, and gained one, by which I lost 1000l.”

AN AFFECTIONATE WIFE’S

EPITAPH.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Monday the 29th ult. at New-Hurley, (Ulster County) Mr. John Rose, to Miss Hannah Mikals, both of that place.

On Tuesday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Smith, of Princeton, Josiah Quincy, Esq. of Boston, Counsellor at Law, to Miss Eliza S. Morton, daughter of the late Mr. John Morton, of this city, merchant.

On Thursday, at Bedford, (L.I.) by the Rev. Dr. Livingston, Tunis Wortman, Esq. Counsellor at Law, to Miss Margaret Loudon, both of this city.

TO THE LILIES OF THE VALLEY.

IRREGULAR STANZAS

UPON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

ON A LATE CONNUBIAL RUPTURE.

GLEE.

(Glorious Apollo.)

SONNET.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.

DOMESTIC FELICITY.

Retired from the busy scenes of the world, in a village near H——, lives Lucretia, with her daughters, Emma and Maria. Emma is in her eighteenth year; her person is elegant, and her mind enriched with every accomplishment that can adorn or endear the female character: Maria, who has only completed fourteen, to a beautiful countenance, joins the more fascinating charms of a well-improved understanding. Lucretia is an affectionate mother, who uses every endeavour to inspire her daughters with such sentiments of religion and virtue as will be conducive to their present and future happiness. She has once moved in the higher circles of life; but, though misfortunes have eclipsed her former grandeur, they have brought that felicity which fashionable Folly never knows. It gave me infinite pleasure to hear her address her daughters—“My dear children” said she, “never reflect that your family was once great in the esteem of the world; it will only create ambitious thoughts, and destroy inward peace, which is an inestimable blessing. I can assure you, that happiness is no attendant on the great, nor could I ever find real pleasure in high life. Never did I experience that simple, but substantial felicity, which is always easily obtained, till Providence humbled my fortunes. May you ever submit to its dispensations! Heaven is best able to judge what is proper for us. It is one of my chief comforts, to believe that things are not governed by chance; but are under the direction of an All-wise Being. Never forget, that virtue is the greatest happiness, and innocence the highest accomplishment!—To witness the sweet content that smiles on every face, the noble disgust they manifest against the follies and amusements of the Little Great, and the dissipated manners of the age, is truly admirable!” A tender esteem unites the two sisters; and Lucretia, who is a sensible and accomplished woman, contributes all in her power to increase harmony and love. The frivolous conversation that disgraces our well bred companies, never engages them. The tale of virtuous distress excites the tear of sympathy; at the recital 401b of any magnanimous action, a kindred emulation fires the bosom; but, at the deed of infamy, the abhorrence they feel is sufficiently marked in each expressive countenance. If the happy fire-side is any where enjoyed, surely it must be in such a family as this; where social converse, enlivened by female sweetness, cheers the wintry night! Where the art of disguising sentiments, and feigning what they never feel, is utterly unknown; where fastidious compliments never approach; and none are entertained at the expence of another’s feelings.—Ye, who glitter in Fashion’s splendid sphere, enjoying all that luxurious Wealth can give; whose days are one continued round of diversions, and for whom invention is wearied to contrive new pleasures; say, do you ever experience the happiness of such a family as I have thus faintly endeavoured to describe?

Woodville.

COMPASSION.

Compassion is an emotion of which we ought never to be ashamed. Graceful, particularly in youth, is the tear of sympathy, and the heart that melts at the tale of woe. We should not permit ease and indulgence to contract our affections, and wrap us up in selfish enjoyment. But we should accustom ourselves to think of the distresses of human life, of the solitary cottage, the dying parent, and the weeping orphan. Nor ought we ever to sport with pain and distress in any of our amusements; nor treat even the meanest insect with wanton cruelty.

It has been objected, and it is to be feared with some reason, that female conversation is too frequently tinctured with a censorious spirit, and that ladies are seldom apt to discover much tenderness for the errors of a fallen sister. No arguments can justify, no pleas extenuate it.

To insult over the miseries of an unhappy creature is inhuman, not to compassionate them is unchristian. The worthy part of the sex always express themselves humanely on the failings of others, in proportion to their own undeviating goodness, and by that gentle virtue are prompted to alleviate the distresses of the unfortunate and wretched; it prevents us from retaliating injuries; and restrains our severe judgments and angry passions.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 395.)

THE

HISTORY OF LLEWYLLIN.

“In the town of Glamorgan, Madam, I drew my first breath of life; but my entrance into the world was marked by the deprivation of its first blessing. As I never beheld the day (of which I can only form a very imperfect idea), I am the better reconciled to my unhappy destiny. One keen regret alone embitters my existence; and although I must not repine at the dispensations of Providence, nor arraign the justice of the Most High, I feel to its full extent the misery of having never been blessed with the sight of my daughter, whose piety has sustained my drooping years, and almost taught me to forget that I have a wish ungratified.”

At that moment a string of the harp which stood in its usual corner, snapped aloud, and Julia taking it under her arm, withdrew with it into her own apartment, seemingly rejoiced at a pretext to leave the room, that she might conceal by retiring the visible emotion that began to overspread her feeling countenance.

The old man requested her to put it in proper order, and continued his story.

“As it was impossible for me to be brought up to any business in the town where we lived, and as my love of music had from my earliest years surpassed every other inclination, my father proposed sending me to London in my nineteenth year, that I might try in the musical world whether my abilities were sufficient to ensure me there a quiet and comfortable independence. But before he could adopt any measure that he thought likely to succeed, I had, without his knowledge, accepted the offering of a heart born to pity and to love me. A niece of my father’s resided under our roof; her unceasing assiduities and advances which I could not fail to comprehend, drew from me a sentiment hitherto unknown, and influenced every future action of my life. My cousin was young, and, I have heard, handsome. ’Tis probable, that had my situation been different, we might never have been united; but the pleasure she took in describing the objects around me, and that tender compassion she so evidently felt for my hapless infirmity, soon disposed my heart to the warmest gratitude, and to that a more tender passion soon succeeded. The result of this attachment soon made a visible alteration on the person of my cousin; and our intercourse, which had been long suspected, was at length discovered. An immediate marriage was the consequence; but the day that gave life to my Julia, deprived her mother of it.

“About this time, while we were yet uncertain whether I should go, and as my father’s house was a continual memento of my late sad loss, Mr. David Evans visited our town, and as he excelled on the harp, took pleasure to instruct me. I devoted my time to his lessons, and their practice; but my studies would have been soon interrupted by his departure, had not Sir Herbert Williams arrived with his family at an estate he had lately purchased between Swansea and Glamorgan, and insisted on Evans taking up his residence in his house.

“In the course of the ensuing summer many gentlemen who visited that delightful spot, were pleased to bestow the highest encomiums on my performances: they proposed my making the tour of England, and held forth the most flattering promises of liberal patronage and support. A subscription was, at the close of the season, raised by them; and Evans who wished for (though he did not absolutely want) money, sold me at a moderate price the harp now in my possession, having another which he preferred to it.

“I quickly sallied forth as an adventurer, and for some time succeeded beyond my expectations. I was admired, courted, and caressed; but the novelty at length dissipated the charm, and I was no sooner, according to my own ideas, established in one place, than I found it was become necessary to remove to another. I wandered from town to town during an interval of thirteen years. Sometimes I re-visited Glamorgan; but my vanity had been too much flattered by the past, and my hopes too much raised by the expectation of the future, to allow me to doubt for a moment that fortune would not pour into my lap, and that it would be always time enough for me to lay by a sufficient provision for the support and comfort of my old age.

“I repaired at length to London, and displayed my talents there; but, to my utter astonishment, I played for more applause than gain. Here my sun of glory would have probably sat, had not the Count d’Adhemar, at that time Ambassador from the Court of France, become, unsolicited, the most liberal of my patrons. On his discovering that my circumstances were not adequate to the expences of my existence, and, as he was pleased to add, to my merit, he deputed me the bearer of a private letter which he addressed to the Queen, who failed not at Versailles to distinguish his recommendation with marks of her most zealous approbation. I had the honour to attend her Majesty, and to give her some lessons on her favourite harp. She was particularly charmed with the sweetness of the Scots ballads, which were unknown in that kingdom; nor did some of the old Welsh ditties fail to delight her ear. She vouchsafed in commiserating my infirmity, to alleviate its anguish, and soon gave me a preference over the French masters, under whose instructions she had not made the proficiency to which her brilliant talents were fully competent. In this situation I should have probably remained, had not envy, that loves not merit, darted its smooth-tongued venom on a creature whose only offence was misfortune; an offence the more dangerous, as in her generous heart it superseded every other consideration.

“The Queen ordered her Treasurer to give me a rouleau of fifty Louis-d’ors, and condescended to say that she was so well satisfied with the instructions I had given her, that she dismissed me against her inclination, and did so only in compliance with the discontent of my competitor, who found himself mortified that a foreigner, and particularly an Englishman, should have obtained her protection to his prejudice.

“But my pride had received a wound that was not to be healed in France. For my disgrace various might be the causes assigned, and perhaps the only real one concealed compliment to Monsieur ———. I determined therefore to return to Glamorgan, and found on my arrival there that Evans was lately dead; and from some hints that had been dropped by Sir Herbert Williams, it appeared probable that it was his wish for me to succeed him. Of this I was informed by Julia, who had been frequently noticed by Sir Herbert and his son, Mr. Williams, who sometimes called in at my father’s house, and heard Julia with pleasure touch the harp, which she accompanied with a voice sweet and melodious, though not powerful.

“A few days after my return, Sir Herbert sent for me, and I was of necessity accompanied by my daughter. He enquired into my story; and on finding me disgusted with travelling, which could not afford to me the smallest share of that satisfaction experienced from it by the rest of mankind, he proposed my settling at Swansea; and from the double motive of compassion for my situation, and his having been accustomed by Evans to the enjoyment of music, he immediately settled on me an annuity of fifty pounds for my life, and gave me the apartment that had been occupied by my predecessor.

“In the following year my father died, and Julia remained unprovided for. I knew not how to dispose of her; and to send her to London, where she had no friends, was repugnant to my feelings. She was young, susceptible, and, I was told, handsome; add so these, her affection for me would not allow the idea of our separation, and she took up for the present her abode at a friend’s house, in Swansea, and employed herself with such work as Sir Herbert’s housekeeper chose to give her, more for the disposition of her time than for any emolument she could derive from it.

“Sir Herbert had one daughter married in Scotland, who seldom or ever visited him; and his only son, who lived with him, had imbibed, from the example of his father, since the death of Lady Williams, a love for solitude, and a partiality for Swansea, that prevented his wishes from roving beyond it. The old English hospitality prevailed in their house, but its visitors were confined to their poorer neighbours, who always found a welcome in it.

“There was a communication through a shrubbery into a part of Sir Herbert’s house, in which was my apartment. From thence my Julia could steal unperceived there, when at times she wished to visit me, unrestrained by the necessary formalities of dress or the being observed by the family.” 

(To be concluded in our next.)

THE STORM.

A FRAGMENT.

It is dark, and a silent gloom pervades the face of Heaven and of Earth, that makes my soul expand to such a magnitude, as if it would burst the very bosom which contains it.—All is silent!—fear takes possession of my mind; when, from an angry cloud, the liquid flames flash forth with terrible sublimity; darting from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, with such repeated swiftness, blazing expansive through the heaven’s high vaults, then on a sudden vanishing! On rolls the distant thunder solemnly sublime, and with the pelting rain and howling wind, approaches nearer: between each peal out flashes the sulphureous flame, illumining the rushing cataract with its light; succeeded by a crash most horrible, which shakes the very earth to its centre! Once more a sombre gloom spreads over the face of nature—again, all is terror and confusion!—

Dudley.

WISDOM.

Lessons of Wisdom have never such power over us as when they were wrought into the heart through the ground work of a story which engages the passions. Is it that we are like iron and must first be heated before we can be wrought upon? or is the heart so in love with deceit, that where a true report will not reach it, we must cheat it with a fable, in order to come at truth?

LEVITY.

A Devonshire droll has thus burlesqued the lullababy pastoral of Shenstone. “My banks they are furnish’d with bees, &c.”

ANECDOTES.

A gentleman, reading in one of the public prints, that Mr. Monday, of Oxford, was dead, exclaimed,—“Alas! my friends, we now have reason to lament, like Aurelius, that we have lost a day!”

A gentleman, reading in one of the daily prints that thirteen hundred of the French had been drowned, said, “Thus should the courage of all our enemies be damped.”

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. VIII.

No character of antiquity is more brilliant and captivating, than that of Alchibiades, the versatile Athenian. Cornelius Nepos, the Roman biographer, has on this occasion, become the very Rubens of character painters, and has happily sketched every flexile feature.—Nature, says he, appears to have exerted her strongest energies in moulding Alchibiades. In the hour of business he was a statesman, a general and an orator. In the hour of revel, the rakes retired from that bagnio at twelve, which the accommodating Alcibiades gladdened at two. Inhabiting a city, studious of magnificence, he surpassed in equipage, the most ostentatious grandees; and, when an exile among the hardy Thebans, he carried heavier burdens than the broadest shouldered porter in Bœtia. At Lacedemon his palate relished the black broth of Sparta; among the dissolute Thracians, those sensual swine of Epicurus’s stye, the greyest veteran of Venus made one sacrifice, less than he; and in all the taverns of Thrace, Bacchus could not recognize a more thirsty toper.

If we deduct from Alchibiades his compliance with vicious customs, no model of conduct, can be mere worthy imitation and praise. Since the æra of Chesterfield, a dissembling nobleman, who possibly pushed the praise of flexibility of manners too far, accommodation has been acrimoniously censured; and the narrow Knox, in his dogmatizing essays has asserted, that the meanest selfishness is the parent of versatility. But, though the Tunbridge teacher, ostentatiously vaunts of his intimacy with the Bible, he forgot that Paul of Tarsus, whose knowledge of the world was as indubitable as his piety, exhorts to “become all things to all men, if by any means we may gain some.” Paul was no less a gentleman than saint; and his knowledge of the world taught him the propriety of varying his means to secure the end, and to become a most accommodating apostle. Hence his compliment to Agrippa, for his skill in the jurisprudence of Judea. Hence his adroitness in persuading the superstitious men of Athens, that the Being they, and he worshipped, were the same. Hence he could charm both the courtly Felix, and the camp-bred centurion.

If the art of pleasing be worth practice in society, then will the praises of versatility be fully justified. He who in 404b conversation, adheres to topics peculiar to himself, or to a profession, is deservedly dubbed pedant; and all unite in frowning upon him, by whom all are equally neglected. Minds of the first energy, may sometimes effect the unyielding quality of the oak, rather than the suppleness of the ozier. A cardinal Ximenes, a chancellor Thurlow, and a secretary Pitt, may be “original and unaccommodating.” But he, whom every circle courts, is that Proteus in demeanour, who can with the same ease that he shifts his shoe, mutilate, or increase his bows, accordingly, as he associates with the cit, or the courrier. The object of our fondest admiration is the man of letters and the man of the world blended, who can sublimely speculate with science in the morning, and agreeably trifle with ladies at night. Of this class is Charles Cameleon. The “omnis homo” of Horace, the “all accomplished” of Pope Charles, when at school, was equally the darling of the scholars, on the first form, and the truants on the lower. He could repeat the five declensions with promptitude, and then drive hoop, or toss balls alertly. With the same facility, could he make correct latin, and high flying kites. Unaided by the “ladder to Parnassus,” he would now ascend to the summit of Virgilian verse, and now grovel in the mire, to win marbles of every sportive schoolfellow. At the university he heard morning prayers with the saddened sedateness of a Pharisee, argued with tutors on personal identity, as if inspired by the very spirit of Locke—and, on syllogistic ground, vanquished every Aristotelean adversary. At noon you might see him sauntering with loungers, and kindling a smile even in vacancy’s face. The declining sun left him deploring, that twilight should snap speculation’s thread; or compel him to leave unfinished the song to Myra; and when the college bell tolled twelve, his convivial club chose Charles president, and the room would echo with,

Educated for the bar, Cameleon is now an eloquent and employed advocate. But year-books and entries, cannot preclude the system of Sydenham, and Saurin’s sermons. An apothecary, hearing him harrangue upon the superiority of Brown to Boerhave, mistakes him for a regular bred physician, and asks, when he received a medical degree from Edinburgh. Charles is intimately conversant with all the fathers of the church, repeats whole pages from Justin Martyr, and quotes St. Gregory on good works with more readiness than the parson. As he converses with the grave, or the gay, he is alternately a believer, and a sceptic: and one Sunday, after acknowledging to a devout deacon, that the internal evidence of christianity was its chief corner stone; when afternoon service was over, he agreed, to please a disciple of Voltaire, that the clashing testimony of four evangelists, completely corroded the root of our religion. Among the ladies, he holds most gracefully “’twixt his finger and thumb, a pouncet box,” and chatters on Canterbury-gowns and French millinery, like a fop of France. To a lover of the fine arts, quotes Hogarth’s “analysis of beauty,” and viewing Trumbull’s celebrated painting of the sortie from Gibralter, the 405 artist acknowledged that he talked of lights and shades more rapidly and correctly than himself. In a club of wits, he declaims Shakespeare, in a style of Garrick, he repeats original poems, the very gems of fancy, and sets the “table on a roar” with merry tales, and ludicrous combination. The eye of every reveller brightens at his approach, and when he retires, Milton’s invocation to Mirth is unanimously applied:

INTERESTING STORY OF MADELAINE.

BY HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

[Concluded from page 399.]

Madelaine passed the remaining part of the winter in the convent of ——, during which period she received frequent letters from Auguste; and when spring arrived he conjured her, instead of removing to her own province, to remain a little longer in her present situation; and flattered her with hopes of being able ere long to fulfil those engagements upon which all his happiness depended.

In the summer of this year an event took place which will render that summer forever memorable. The French nation, too enlightened to bear any longer those monstrous oppressions which ignorance of its just rights alone had tolerated, shook off its fetters, and the revolution was accomplished.

Madelaine was a firm friend to the revolution, which she was told had made every Frenchman free. “And if every Frenchman is free,” thought Madelaine, “surely every Frenchman may marry the woman he loves.” It appeared to Madelaine, that, putting all political considerations, points upon which she had not much meditated, out of the question, obtaining liberty of choice in marriage was alone well worth the trouble of a revolution; and she was as warm a patriot from this single idea, as if she had studied the declaration of rights made by the Constituent Assembly, in all its extent and consequences.

The Count de ——, who was informed of the correspondence between the two lovers, and who saw little hopes of his son’s subduing a passion which this intercourse of letters served to cherish, contrived means to have Auguste’s letters intercepted at the convent. In vain Madelaine enquired with all the anxiety of tenderness for letters. In vain she counted the hours till the return of the post-days. Post after post arrived, and brought no tidings of Auguste. Three months passed in the cruel torments of anxiety and suspense, and were at length succeeded by despair. Madelaine believed she was forgotten—forgotten by Auguste!—She consulted her own heart, and it seemed to her impossible; yet, after a silence of three months, she could doubt no longer.

Poor Madelaine now recollected with anguish, instead of pleasure that all Frenchmen were free. She would have 405b found some sad consolation in believing that all Frenchmen were slaves. It would have been some alleviation of her sorrows if Auguste had been forced to abandon her; and she fancied she could have borne to lose him, if she had been sure that he still loved her—it was losing him by his own fault that filled her heart with pangs almost insupportable.

The little pittance which Madelaine, after paying her father’s debts, had left for her own support, was insufficient to defray her expenses as a pensioner in the convent. She had already, by her sweetness and gentleness, gained the affections of some of the nuns, to whom she was also attached, and who incessantly conjured her to take the veil. “And why,” she sometimes exclaimed, “why should I hesitate any longer in so doing? Since Auguste is lost, what have I to regret in renouncing the world? What sacrifice do I make? what happiness do I resign?”

Madelaine had no ties to the world, of which she knew but little: but to separate herself irrecoverably, and for ever, from him to whom her soul was devoted—to see him, to hear his voice no more—to take vows which would make it even a crime to think of him—to banish him even from her thoughts—alas! Madelaine felt like Eloisa—

Sometimes, too, the idea occured, that Auguste might love her still—“And am I then,” thought Madelaine, “going to reduce myself to a state in which I shall be forced to wish he were unfaithful, in order to save me from the agonies of remorse!”—She put off all thoughts of entering on her novitiate for some weeks longer—no letters arrived, and again her resolution to take the veil returned. “Why,” cried she, “why should I still continue to lament that inconstant lover who thinks of me no more! Alas, alas, did he not see the anguish of my soul at parting with him?—Does he not know the deserted situation in which I am left?—Oh, yes! he knows I have no other refuge, no other resource, than taking the veil—no doubt he wishes to hear I have done so—he will find in my renunciation of the world some excuse for his infidelity—Oh, heavens! will Auguste hear then that I am separated from him for ever without one sigh?—Ah, why need I deliberate any longer?—My trials will soon be past—I feel that my heart will break—yes, death will come to my relief—and in heaven I shall find my father!”

Madelaine, at length, determined to join the holy sisterhood of the convent. The white veil for her novitiate was prepared. The day was fixed; when, prostrate with her face towards the earth, and with flowers scattered over her, and a part of her long tresses cut off, she was to enter upon that solemn trial preparatory to her eternal renunciation of the world—of Auguste!

A few days before that which was appointed for the ceremony, Madelaine was called to the parlour, where she found her lover, with some of the municipal officers of the town, wearing their national scarfs.

Madeline, at the sight of Auguste, with difficulty reached a chair, in which she fell back senseless; while Auguste could not forbear uttering some imprecations against the iron gate by which they were separated, and which prevented him from flying to her assistance. He, however, procured help, and Madelaine recovered.

One of the municipal officers then informed her, that they had received the day before a decree of the National Assembly, forbidding any nuns to be professed. He added, that the municipality had already given information of this new law to the abbess, who had consented to allow Madelaine to leave the convent immediately. As he pronounced these last words, Madelaine looked at her lover. Auguste hastened to explain to her that his uncle, who loved him, and pitied his sufferings, had at length made a will, leaving him his fortune, upon condition that his father consented to his marriage with Madelaine.

When her lover and the municipal officers departed, Madelaine retired to her apartment, to give way to those delicious tears which were poured from a heart overflowing with wonder, thankfulness, and joy. When her first emotions had subsided, she began to pack up her little wardrobe in preparation for leaving the convent on the following day. “I always loved the revolution,” thought Madelaine, as she laid aside the white gown in which she was to be married the next morning; “and this last decree is surely of all others the best and wisest—but if it had come too late!——” At this idea Madelaine took up the veil for her novitiate, which lay upon her table, and bathed it with a flood of tears.

The next morning Auguste and Madelaine were married in the parish church of ——, and immediately after the ceremony set out for Paris; where they now live, and are, I am told, two of the happiest people, and the best patriots in France.

IVAR AND MATILDA.

A TRADITIONAL TALE IN THE ISLE OF MAN.

In the thirteenth century, Ivar, a young and gallant knight, was enamoured of the beauteous Matilda. Her birth and fortune were inferior; but his generous mind disdained such distinctions. He loved, and was most ardently beloved. The sanction of the king was alone wanting to consummate their happiness. To obtain this, Ivar, in obedience to the custom of the island, presented his bride to Reginald, a gay and amorous prince; who, struck with the beauty and innocence of Matilda, heightened by an air of modesty, immediately, for some pretended crimes, banished Ivar from his presence, and by violence detained the virgin. Grief and indignation alternately swelled her bosom; till, from the excess of anguish she sunk into a state of insensibility. On awakening, her virtue was insulted by the approaches of the tyrant. She was, however, deaf to his insinuations, and only smiled at his menaces. Irritated at her contempt, and flattering himself that severity would subdue her truth 406b and chastity, he imprisoned her in the most solitary apartment of the castle; where, for some months, she passed the tedious night and day in tears; far more solicitous for the fate of Ivar, than afflicted by her own misfortunes.

In the mean time, Ivar, failing in an attempt to revenge his injuries, assumed the monastic habit, and retired into Rushen Abbey. Here he dedicated his life to piety; but his heart was still devoted to Matilda. For her he sighed; for her he wept; and, to indulge his sorrows without restraint, would frequently withdraw into the gloomiest solitudes. In one of those solitary rambles he discovered a grotto, which had been long unfrequented. The gloom and silence of this retirement corresponding with the anguish of his mind, he sauntered onward, without reflecting where the subterraneous path might conduct him. His imagination was pourtraying the graces of Matilda, while his heart was bleeding for her sufferings. From this reverie of woe, he was, however, soon awoke, by the shrieks of a female. Advancing eagerly, he heard in a voice nearly exhausted—“Mother of God! save Matilda!” while, through a chink in the barrier that now separated them, he saw the virgin, with dishevelled hair and throbbing bosom, about to be sacrificed to the lust and violence of Reginald. Rage and madness gave new energy to Ivar; who, forcing a passage through the barrier, rushed upon the tyrant; and, seizing his sword, which lay carelessly on the table, plunged it into its master’s bosom.

The tyrant died; and the lovers, through this subterraneous communication, escaped to the sea-side, where they fortunately met with a boat which conveyed them to Ireland: and in that kingdom the remainder of their years was devoted to the most exquisite of all human felicities; the raptures of a generous love, heightened by mutual admiration and gratitude.

This is the substance of the tradition; but, according to some of the Manks records, Reginald was slain by Ivar, not in the castle of Rushen, but in a neighbouring meadow. This variation of the scene, however, does not materially affect the credit of the tradition; as the Manks historians impute Reginald’s death, not so much to Ivar’s ambition, as to his revenge of private injuries.

For sources, see the end of the second installment (pg. 411).

ANECDOTES and REMAINS

OF PERSONS CONNECTED WITH THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Madame Lafayette.

This lady, the wife of a man whose history is blended with two important revolutions, was a marchioness before the late changes in France; the family name of her husband was also both spelled and pronounced differently, being then De la Fayette; but the de being a mark of nobility, as having a feudal allusion (the French term it, a nomme de terre) it was, of course, omitted on the extinction of titles.

Madame Lafayette is an eminent instance of the instability of greatness, the mutability of fortune, and the inefficacy of wealth. Descended from an ancient lineage, united to an amiable and illustrious husband, who possessed estates in Europe, America, and the West-Indies; she, nevertheless, has not been exempted from the must bitter calamities that can afflict suffering humanity.

When Lafayette resisted the commands of the sole remaining legitimate power in France, his “widowed wife” was arrested. Under the despotism of Robespierre, she escaped death only by a miracle (part of her family was actually immolated to his vengeance) but what to some will appear more terrible, she experienced an unremitting captivity of fifteen months, during which, she suffered all the horrors of a close confinement, being immured within four walls, subjected to a scanty and precarious diet, secluded from her children, and prohibited even from the light of heaven.

On the death of the tyrant, the voice of humanity was once more heard, and she was liberated, and restored to the arms of her afflicted daughters. But she was a wife as well as a mother! and her beloved husband was still in bondage; for he who had endeavoured to avert the execution of Louis XVI. (such is the gratitude of courts) was languishing in an Austrian prison!

She accordingly repaired to Hamburgh, accompanied by her children only, for she had not wealth sufficient to hire a single domestic, and she possesses a lofty sense of independence, which taught her to reject pecuniary assistance, even from her few remaining friends. As soon as her health was a little restored, she posted to Vienna, and prostrated herself at the feet of the emperor.

Francis III. is in the flower of his youth. The chilling hand of age has not yet rendered him morose; and surely victory cannot have blunted his feelings, and made him at once haughty and insensible! No! no! there is not a prince of his house, from the obscure count de Hapsburg, of a former period, to the late powerful tenant of the Imperial diadem, who has had more occasion to find and to feel that he is a man.

Weeping beauty did not supplicate in vain; the German monarch raised her from her lowly posture, and promised better days. With his permission, she flew on the wings of affection, and, strengthened by conjugal love, knocked at the gate of the fortress that confined her dearly beloved husband, whose speedy deliverance (vain idea!) she hoped instantly to announce.

The massive bolts of the dungeon give way, the grating hinges of the iron doors pierce the ears; she and her virgin daughters are eyed, searched, rifled, by an odious and horrible gaoler; and those, who, but a moment before, deemed themselves deliverers, now find themselves captives!

Reclining in the bottom of thy dungeon, these tears cannot be seen, these sighs cannot be heard, nor can the quick decay of youth and beauty, cankered in the bloom, and dissolving amidst the horrors of a German prison, be contemplated. But the heart of sympathy throbs for you, ye lovely 407b mourners; the indignation of mankind is aroused; the present age shudders at your unmerited sufferings; and posterity will shed a generous tear at their recital. Anguish may not yet rend the bosoms of your persecutors, but a dreadful futurity awaits them, and, were it possible to escape the scourge of offended heaven, they will yet experience all the vengeance of indignant history!

Champagneaux

Was the editor of one of the three-score newspapers, that imparted the revolutionary stimulus to France. He is the father of a numerous family; a man of unimpeached morals, and was attached to liberty from principle, at a time, and in a country, when it was not unusual to be so, from mere speculation! He was selected by Roland on account of his industry and talents; and was put by him at the head of the principal division of the home department. In short, during his administration, he became, what is termed in England, under secretary of state.

Camus,

This is another of Roland’s élèves, and does great credit to his discernment. Soon after the resignation of his friend, he quitted the home department, and was elected a member of the Convention, and is now Archivist to the present legislature. He was one of the deputies delivered over by Dumouriez to, and confined by, the Prince de Cobourg. From an Austrian prison he has been restored to the exercise of his legislative functions, (for he is one of the two thirds) and, on the first vacancy, is likely to become a member of the Directory.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On the evening of the 8th instant at the seat of Colonel Ramsay, Carpenter’s Point, Cæcil county, by the Rev. Mr. Ireland, Mr. Septimus Claypoole, of the city of Philadelphia, to the amiable Miss Elizabeth Polk.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Milldollar, Mr. Eleazer Reid, of this city, to Miss Catherine Ackerson of Orange County.

Claypoole’s marriage may be a “professional courtesy” listing. Claypoole (~1764-1798) published the American Daily Advertiser. After his death it became Poulson’s (1800-1839), and then merged with the North American, surviving in various forms until 1869. Elizabeth Polk was a niece of Charles Willson Peale.

ODE TO TRAGEDY.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

SONNET ON EARLY IMPRESSIONS.

EPIGRAM

HINT TO A POOR AUTHOR.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.

Of the KNOWLEDGE of the WORLD,

WITH RESPECT TO THE FOLLIES AND VICES OF IT.

The business of education would be very easy, if the world, into which a young man is to be introduced, was such as one would wish it to be. No person could then fail of being well educated; for the world itself would, in general, be his best instructor: every irregularity would then be sufficiently punished and corrected by the natural consequences of it, and sufficient encouragement would be given to every virtue by its own present reward. But the difficulty is to train up a person to act with prudence and virtue in a foolish and vicious age, and to prepare his mind properly for such scenes of vice and folly as he must be witness to. With the best precautions there will be some hazard in this case, but the hazard will certainly be lessened by proper care and attention.

It appears to me that nothing is gained by deceiving a young person in this case. I would not chuse to represent the manners of the world as better than they are: because, upon that plan, it would be impossible that my pupil should be sufficiently upon his guard against their infection. It would be like committing him with an enemy, of whom he had no previous knowledge.

Let a young man, therefore, be faithfully apprized of the great variety of characters of which the world consists; that none are absolutely perfect; that those who approach to perfection are few; that the bulk of mankind are very imperfect, and many, but not the majority, exceedingly profligate, deceitful, and wicked: and if, while he was under the immediate care of his parents, and tutors, the principles of virtue were carefully instilled into him, if he has been shewn the inconveniencies and miseries that men actually bring upon themselves by their vices in this life, and has been taught firmly to believe the much greater miseries that await them hereafter, it may be hoped that the ill example of some may have as favourable an effect upon him as the good example of others.

But though a young person may be told what the world is, and what men are, without disguise, it will be necessary that his actual introduction into the world at large be managed 409b with great caution; because the address and insinuations of many persons into whose company he may fall, and whose morals are very faulty, may be more dangerous than he can possibly have any idea of beforehand; so that no previous admonition will be a sufficient security for him. Let the greatest care, therefore, be taken that the first company into which a young person is introduced, be decent and virtuous, like that of his parents and tutors; and, if it be possible, let him be kept from having any connexion with those who are greatly abandoned and profligate, till his own habits are in some good measure confirmed; and then he will not chuse their society more than the common forms of civility, which are necessary to an intercourse with mankind, and which are unavoidable.

It would be happy if some vices, of a peculiarly unnatural and atrocious kind, could be entirely concealed from the knowledge of young persons; and, with care, it may perhaps be done, till they be too old to be in much danger from temptation to them. In general, however, I would neither conceal from young persons the knowledge of vice, nor deny that temporal advantages and pleasures may attend vicious indulgencies; but let them be always given to understand, that those advantages and pleasures are dearly purchased; and that, though, for a time, no visible inconvenience may attend the career of vice, the time of recompence will surely overtake the votaries of it at last; and that no man will ever violate the rules of temperance, chastity, or any other virtue, without being made sufficiently to repent of it.

With respect to indulgencies which are not vicious, except in excess, as frequenting the theatre, and places of public diversion, &c. there will be less danger of contracting an excessive fondness for them, if they have been made familiar to the eye, and the mind, in early life. The value of every thing of this kind is always greatly enhanced by the rarity and novelty of them, by being considered as fashionable, and allowed as an extraordinary favour. Were these artificial charms removed, and sufficiently manly employment provided for youth, so that they should not be at a loss what to do so kill their time, there would be no great danger of their giving into that excessively dissipated mode of 410 life, in which too many persons of fortune are immersed at present.

A life of pleasure, as it is improperly called, never fails to have most dreadful intervals of languor and disappointment, and generally leads to vice and wretchedness. When the common amusements have lost their stimulus, so that plays, operas, and assemblies, can hardly keep the men of pleasure awake, and when they have had a surfeit of all sensual indulgence, they have no resource but gaming. Without this they have no object that can sufficiently rouse and keep up their attention; and though the practice of gaming, could it be kept within reasonable bounds, might serve to enliven a dull hour, and amuse agreeably, and even usefully, persons who are incapable of active and serious employment, or other persons in the intervals of such employment; yet the progress from less to more is too easy, and too tempting in this business; and high gaming is the greatest enemy to every thing tranquil, gentle, benevolent, and generous, in the human breast. It cherishes every passion that has any thing sordid, dark, and malignant in it; so that when carried to excess, and joined to disappointment, it is no wonder that it ends in riot, distraction, despair, and self-murder.

J. P.

THE

WANDERINGS
 
OF THE
IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

[Concluded from page 403.]

“I was one morning expecting her at the usual hour, and for the first time she disappointed me. I waited for her in vain, and toward evening began to grow alarmed at her absence. I borrowed the arm of a servant, and repaired to her lodging. She had not been seen there since the morning; and after leaving a message for her, I returned home, under the certainty of finding her there. But no one had seen her, neither did I hear from her till the following evening, when she entered my apartment, and I could discover, from the trembling agitation of her voice, that something particular had disturbed her. On my questioning her about the disposal of her time during the preceding day, I found that her answers were vague and incoherent, which, on my observing, the native candour of her heart prevailed, and she eagerly asked me if I could forgive her revealing to me a secret that had got the better of her reason, and without too harshly condemning, advise her how to act under the present embarrassing state of her mind?—I was so totally thunderstruck by this preparation, that I could only entreat her instantly to satisfy me—but to my first emotion surprize, terror, every sensation that could proceed from the honesty of my heart succeeded, while she uttered—“Your Julia has dared to aspire to the son of her father’s benefactor.”—I 410b interrupted her, and for a moment all my past affection for her was buried in the most bitter resentment.

“She conjured me to hear her, and I promised to do so. “Yes,” she continued, “your daughter has listened to the most tender professions of honourable love, but she is bold to say that she could despise HIM who has offered it, had he even hinted at the destruction of her innocence. Mr. Williams has privately and frequently met me. He has pledged his honor that he will never give his hand to another; but he expresses himself too well convinced of your integrity, and gratitude to his father, to entrust you with a secret, which it is most essential to his views should never be discovered by him.”

I entreated my daughter to leave me, while I ruminated what measures I could adopt to secure my own esteem, without betraying Mr. Williams. I determined to see him; for how was it possible my Julia should suffer in his esteem by the candid declaration she had made me?—I requested the honour of half an hour’s private conversation with him in my apartment the same evening, and I had no reason to repent my sincerity. He was ingenuous in the extreme, and in a few minutes dispelled the anxiety, (I will not say doubt) that my daughter’s first words had occasioned. He declared to me, in the most solemn manner, his unalterable resolution of uniting himself to her, whenever he should be at liberty to declare his choice, which was restrained for the present, both by his father and his uncle; from the latter he had only to combat with pecuniary considerations; but for his father he had the most tender affection, and the idea of distressing him would have been nearly as terrible as that of forsaking the darling object to whom I perceived, but too plainly, he was forever devoted.

“Mr. Williams’s confidence demanded the fullest return of mine; but my honor was deeply interested, and to his I consigned the care of it.

“After many conferences, and meetings between us, (during which he saw not Julia) he consented to my urgent request, that of unbosoming our situation to Sir Herbert. Mr. Williams, with all the impetuosity of youth, believed what he hoped; and left to me the hardest task for the human heart to perform, that of wilfully risking the displeasure of its first benefactor.

“Sir Herbert heard my recital with more emotion than surprize; and I could discover that the obstacles he held forth to his son’s union with my daughter, were not so entirely on his own account as that of the Lady Williams’s brother, the old Admiral Clayton; who having no children, had declared his nephew his heir, but who possessed too much pride of blood to listen to the proposal of an alliance, that would not be at least adequate to his own.

“To this sentiment he added great inflexibility of temper, and a mind bordering on suspicion. Sir Herbert thought it would, therefore, be prudent to remove my daughter, and was generous enough to propose my going with her, though he deprived himself by it of what afforded his principal delight in the Winter Evenings. He recommended Chepstow, where we have remained ever since, nor have I ever 411 left her, but for six weeks at the return of Christmas, when I regularly go for that time to Sir Herbert’s house.

“Mr. Williams still perseveres in his intention, and Sir Herbert does not oppose a correspondence, that he knows would be in vain to prohibit. Once, indeed, Mr. Williams has visited us here, and has given us every reason to believe, that the death of the Admiral, who is now in his 75th year, is the only barrier to his wishes, and I most candidly acknowledge to my own.”

Here ended the Narrator; and Julia, who had been all the time absent, returned to gladden us with her presence.

She saw that her secret was discovered; and having no farther restraint in my society, soon convinced me that her whole happiness was wound up in her future prospects, a disappointment in which would not fail to embitter, if not actually destroy, it.

In a few months my wandering stars compelled me to leave Chepstow; but, alas, they have never served to light me to happiness! My correspondence with Julia has continued ever since uninterrupted; and the Admiral, though not deprived of existence, is become so far dead to the world by the suspension of his faculties, that Sir Herbert having come to the knowledge of his will being made wholly in favour of Mr. Williams, no longer withheld his happiness, but united him to his long-loved Julia.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams took up their residence in his house, and the latter days of the aged Llewyllin, who lived with them, were crowned with content; while, like Israel’s Monarch, he turned the dulcet strains of his harp to the divinest melody—the praises of his God.

ANECDOTES and REMAINS

OF PERSONS CONNECTED WITH THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Marie Anne Victoire Charlotte Cordet,

The daughter of a man attached by a place to the court. The demoiselle Cordet was zealous for freedom; rich, young, beautiful—a woman—she was, nevertheless, a republican. An enthusiast, but not a frantic; she possessed the warmth of the one character, without the extravagance of the other. At the place of execution, she uttered not a single word. Her face still possessed an heroic calmness; and she seemed conscious of future glory, and approaching happiness. Although silent, her gesticulations were, however, eloquently impressive; for she frequently placed her hand on her heart, and seemed to say, “I rejoice, in having exterminated a monster!”

Brutus and Cordet both equally struck for liberty, and, alas! neither of them was happy enough to secure it; but the execution of Robespierre seems to have effected for modern France, what the punishment of Antony, and the banishment of Octavius, could not perhaps have produced in degenerate Rome.

To this woman, Greece would have erected statues; Rome, temples. France may some day insert her name in the calendar of her martyrs;—the ancients would have placed her among their gods!

Translation of a letter from Marie Anne Victoire Charlotte Cordet, to her father, written on the evening before her trial:

“From the prison of the Conciergerie, in the apartment lately occupied by the deputy Brisot,

“July 16, 1793.

“My dear respected Father,

“Peace is about to reign in my dear native country, for Marat is no more!

“Be comforted, and bury my memory in eternal oblivion.

“I am to be tried to-morrow, the 17th, at seven o’clock in the morning.

“I have lived long enough, as I have achieved a glorious exploit.

“I put you under the protection of Barbaroux and his colleagues, in case you should be molested.

“Let not my family blush at my fate; for remember, according to Voltaire,

“Your affectionate daughter,

“Marie Anne Victoire
“Charlotte Cordet.”

Voltaire,

Superstition ridiculed; tyranny exposed; innocence protected:—a nation, if not prepared for liberty, yet unfitted for bondage. Such were the labours and the triumphs of Voltaire.

The Parisians were always fond of him. Their vanity was, indeed, gratified by his glory, in which they supposed themselves to participate. On his return from banishment, in the time of the monarchy (from what free country would the author of the Henriade have been banished?) he was presented with a wreath of laurel, in the public theatre, and crowned, like the heroes of the ancient republics, in the presence of the whole people.

On the recovery of liberty, his ashes were claimed by the nation, and on the 10th of July, 1791, conducted into Paris, amidst the shouts of the national guards, and the tears of the citizens. The carriage, containing the corpse, was shaded with green branches, and adorned with appropriate devices. On one side was the following inscription:

“Si l’homme a des tirans, il doit les détrôner.”

On another:

“Si l’homme est créé libre, il doit se gouverner.”

The above mottos were selected from his own immortal works.

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. IX.

Happiness having been defined, by certain acute wits the art of being adroitly deceived, perhaps, therefore, no order in society merits congratulation more, than that cajoled cluster of “good easy men,” whom knaves call dupes. Amadis de Gaul, or any other knight errant of old romance, must have cordially cursed the malignant enchanter, who, by the touch of a tallisman, caused the gorgeous castle to dwindle to a cot, or the wrinkles of a witch to mar the brow of a peerless damsel. The Dupe, whom the unreflecting “million” too often deride for being gulled, would have equal reason to upbraid that impertinent and pretended friend, who, in the game of human artifice, should stand behind his chair, and incessantly tell him, that he was cheated. Although I cannot agree with that eccentric orator, who harangued in praise of ignorance; although I cannot print paradoxes, like Rousseau’s, pronouncing the arts and sciences useless, and barbarism a blessing; yet I would fervently implore those gamesome genii, who delight in the mockery of mortals, that they would never unbind from my eyes that fillet which conceals from their view the foibles of the friend I respect, and the frailties of the woman I love. In life’s pilgrimage, curiosity must be sparingly indulged: and, lest dejection invade, we should not scarcely see, still less contemplate, the deformities of Zaara, or The Desart. One of the most amiable weaknesses, as the world calls them, in my uncle Toby’s character, as delineated by Sterne, was that you might cheat him ten times a day, if nine times were not sufficient for your purpose. Ælian, a narrative Greek, records the case of an insane Athenian, who, living in a maritime town, fancied that all the vessels which arrived in the haven were his own. Horace mentions likewise, a nobleman of Argos, a literary enthusiast, a “child of fancy,” who, even in the vacant pit, fancied that he witnessed the representation of sublime tragedies, and “hearkened even to extacy.” Now how unfortunate an officer would uncle Toby have been, had Corporal Trim hinted at the duplicity of Bridget, widow Wadman, or any of the Shandy family; and how unfortunate were the frantic Athenian and the illustrious Argive, from whose minds the “dear deceit” was expelled by the officious friend, and the operative hellebore.

I have read somewhere, I believe in Sir Thomas More’s works, that the world is undone by looking at things at a 412b distance. One would suppose that so wise a Chancellor would have philosophised better than this, and have maintained the reverse of the proposition. Happy would it have been had his practice militated with his principles. If he had surveyed the Romish superstition, and the caprice of the eighth Henry at a distance, if he had kneeled to the saints without questioning their right to be worshipped, and obeyed the king without asking wherefore; the “rays of royal indignation,” would not have confused the Chancellor, and he would not have paid with his head the price of too near an examination.

The inimitable Butler, in whose Hudibras we always find much of the good sense and truth of poetry, acknowledges that,

But he might have said more, and affirmed that the satisfaction is greater, and that the dupe is happier, than the knave. It is better to be the gulled spectator of a puppet show, than the master juggler, who comprehends the whole trick. How foolishly conducts that curious impertinent, who swears that the glittering crown of the theatrical monarch is nothing but tinsel, and rallies behind the scenes to view the actors in an undress. For the naked skeleton, even of delight to adopt a happy phrase of Dr. Johnson’s, is loathsome; and those inquisitive beings, who wish to survey every object stripped of its trappings, resemble children who dash their gilded toys to pieces to know what is inside.

In every age inquisitiveness has caused many, eager to take a peep, to go on their way sorrowing. If our grand parent Eve had been content with innocent ignorance, and not hankered after those cursed crab apples which have “set the children’s teeth on edge,” we should all be “jolly fellows;” each, after rising from the feast of life, would have no reckoning but his own to discharge. But since the habit of tearing off the veil from every object has grown inveterate, how many misshapen monsters have exhibited to the curious eye, most naked and nauseous disproportion. How many noble, how many ecclesiastical heads, recent from the guillotine, have gasped on the ground because Tom Paine railed at the mob for their servility to the ruling powers, and taught them the “Rights of Man.” If happy ignorance had been our hereditary queen, no persecution, civil or religious, would have urged non-conforming victims to the stake or the scaffold. The bells on St. Bartholomew’s night would not have tolled, Luther would not have defaced so many paintings, nor have mutilated so many statues of the Romish Church. Calvin’s proselytes would have been a visionary band, feeble and insignificant as the madcap shakers. Mother Church would never have quarrelled with her daughters for precedency. Lawn sleeves would not have been rent by one side, nor grey coats singed threadbare by the other; but all the members of the great family would have sung what ditties they pleased, and perhaps amicably joined in a general chorus of

“SINCE WE ARE MET, LET’S MERRY, MERRY BE,
WITH A TINKER, OR A TAILOR.”

HENRY and LOUISA;

AN AFFECTING TALE,

Founded on recent Facts.

Introduced in a Letter of Consolation and Advice to Mrs. Franks, from her Sister.

NEW-YORK.

DEAREST SISTER,

Your last, so fraught with genuine distress, arrived at a moment when my whole soul was agitated by a pathetic fact, which has recently occurred in this city.—Alas, my dear girl, it is not you alone whom calamity visits:—the sons and daughters of affliction are as numerous as the votaries of humanity:—Sympathy need never be idle; and the tear of pity may unceasingly trickle from the eye of tenderness, while bigotry, avarice, and vanity violate the susceptive bosom of innocence and love.

Since our establishment in this city, among the acquaintances we have formed, a family of the name of Williams, consisting of a respectable father and mother, and three dutiful sons, has not been the least flattering and agreeable. My earliest observation in it, was the sincere passion which the eldest son constantly avowed for a neighbouring female, whose parents, though not in the habit of intimacy with his, were ever cordial and polite to his addresses. A mutual and unvaried affection had subsisted between them from their infancy, and, “growing with their growth,” the time had now arrived in which they anticipated the unbounded fruition of their juvenile hopes. Their parents, having heretofore tacitly acquiesced in their union, beheld with unutterable pleasure the ceaseless constancy of their children, which could be productive of nothing but the most unmingled happiness to all. The day of festive gladness was appointed, and Mr. Williams, in order to equalize his son’s estate with the expected affluence of his daughter-in-law, purchased an elegant house, and furnished it with every article of grandeur and convenience; besides a handsome donation in cash, which he reserved for the day of celebration. The blissful and expectant hour opened to the warm feelings of the young lovers a thousand scenes of untasted joy—a thousand sources of ineffable delight. Louisa already looked upon Henry as the plighted husband of her soul, and poured into his bosom her unrestrained confidence; while he, with feelings equally elated, made her the supreme mistress of his thoughts!—Thus did the rapturous scene glow in their vivid imaginations, and tantalize expectation, when the sordid parents of Louisa, taking her to their closet, thus addressed her:—“Dear Louisa, your happiness and future comfort being the only hope and object of our lives, we have with pleasure beheld, and cherished with parental indulgence, the virtuous passion you have long felt for Henry Williams. In three days more our period of duty and authority will expire; and before this we earnestly wish, by one dictate of prudence, well to conclude the work ever nighest our hearts.”—The astonished Louisa, unable to discern the tendency of this ambiguous exordium, remained pensively silent; and 413b her father continued:—“You know the disparity of young Williams’ fortune, and the thoughtlessness of men of his profession and years—Let us then beseech you as you regard your future welfare and our solemn request, the last perhaps we shall ever enjoin, previous to your marriage, to call for an attorney and confirm on your children the fortune left you by your uncle: what we are able to bestow will equal, if not exceed the fortune of your husband.”—Louisa was all comprehension, and looking with an eye of affection first at her attentive mother, and then her father, she exclaimed, “Is it possible, father, that he, to whose honour and fidelity I am to commit my person and precious happiness, is deemed unworthy to be trusted with a trifling sum of paltry gold!”—and turning, with a sigh acceded to the proposition of her parents, as the only means of reconciling them to participate in their approaching bliss. An attorney was obtained, and her fortune of five thousand pounds secured to the offspring of her legal marriage, and forever wrested from the touch of her husband.

Their exulting parents beheld the nigh approach of their children’s happiness, with accumulated transport! The enraptured Henry forsook the world; and devoted his time to the retired society of his amiable Louisa;—Louisa disclosed the ungenerous deed she had been obliged to perform.—Its suspicious aspect, and concealed process, enraged the pride of his soul!—He flew to his father, related the insiduous act, and with aggravated frenzy cursed the foul and penurious machination!—His father, naturally of a high and independent spirit, heard his son with mortified ambition, and in flames of vindictive manliness hastened to the presence of the parents of Louisa—They received him with cordiality; but their demeanour was soon changed into coldness and reproach, by his unbridled vehemence; and after a clamorous altercation, in which the agonized Louisa mingled her tears, he left them with a solemn denunciation of the match, and an imprecation on their iniquitous penury. All intercourse between the parties was interdicted; the house, furniture, &c. purchased by Mr. Williams, re-sold, and the intended solemnization annihilated.

—Here, Caroline, pause, and enquire of your soul, if this horrid tale could thus conclude? Say, my sister, is it possible to your conception, that the divine and unadulterated fervor of this young pair, could, by this interposition of avarice, be resolved into apathy and indifference?---Could that celestial passion, whose weakest votary has survived the shocks of fate, become extinct by a mere artifice and parental covetousness?---No, Caroline, it is inconsistent with nature, and nature’s God.

Louisa’s anguish at this disastrous event is not to be described!—After uttering her grief in the agony of tears and lamentation, she drooped into a settled melancholy. Immured in her chamber, and refusing the comfort of the world, her lonely reflections aggravated the deletary influence of her misfortune: She gradually declined; and in a few months, her relentless parents beheld the awful advances of their child’s dissolution; which she viewed with a placed benignity of soul. “Death, like a friend” indeed, seemed to succour her affliction: and by a gradual and mild operation, 414 terminated the bitter pangs of her heart. Yet even at the solemn period of her decline, her mind dwelt on the constancy and love of Henry with delightful extacy; and in departing from her sorrowing friends, forever closed her quivering lips in pronouncing his beloved name! Her fate reached the ears of the frantic Henry, who, until this time, had been kept ignorant even of her indisposition! He flew to the house—but at first was denied this last sad pleasure of beholding his lifeless Louisa!—He was, however, admitted for a few minutes, on cruel conditions. Leaning on the arm of his younger brother as he crossed the aisle which conducted to the solemn apartment, his weakened senses started at the melancholy idea, and for a time an universal agony rendered him unconscious of his real situation.—He entered the darkened room, and approaching the coffin, beheld his lately blooming love beautiful even in the frozen arms of death!—“Oh!” he exclaimed; but his surcharged heart gushing from his eyes, obstructed the farther utterance of his grief. He gazed on the cold eloquence of her face; touched with his hand her palsied cheek; and with a kiss whose ardor seemed to breath his soul to the object, was dragged from the tragic spectacle!

He attended the funeral rites; and since has been continually absorbed in silent sorrow! His soul, at times, seems abstracted from his body, and in relapsing from his reveries, he often fervently exclaims, “I have seen my Louisa! She is with her kindred spirits in bliss; and I shall soon be happy!”—While he thus paces in pursuit of the same grave which incloses his hopes of life and felicity, his loving parents, oppressed with age and affliction, are hourly progressing towards their end. Sorrow has raised her banner in the family; while the parents of Louisa, in performing the pageantry of mourning, forget the cause and object of their grief.

From this interesting narrative, my love, you will perceive, that, although others of your sex endure not the same distresses to which you are destined, they are not wholly exempt from the asperities of fate. Alas, be not covetous of distress: but learn from this reflection, that all are either the Victims of Sentiment or the dupes of passion, desirable it is to acquire a mind patient in suffering, and a soul indignant of complaint.

Excuse the length of the present, and believe me to be

Your affectionate sister,

MARIA HARTLEY.

The preceding Letter is extracted from an invaluable Novel, entitled “The Victims of Sentiment:” wrote by a Young American of Philadelphia.—It is just published, and, for sale at the office of the Weekly Magazine, No. 358, Pearl-street; (price 6s.)

ANECDOTE.

When a celebrated eastern traveller’s book was presented to the sovereign, some person asked Lord North if the author of it was not to be made a knight; “Yes, to be sure,” replied his Lordship, “and then you will have some new Arabian Knight’s [Nights] Entertainments you know.”

DETRACTION. A VISION.

Superior excellence is the general mark for calumny; and envy is usually led to asperse what it cannot imitate. A little mind is scandalized at the pre-eminence of its neighbour, and endeavours to depreciate the virtues which it cannot attain to. Thus the distempered eye is impatient of prevailing brightness; and, by attempting to observe the lucid object, inadvertently betrays its own weakness. Pride is the fruitful parent of Detraction; and it is the unjust estimate which men set upon themselves, that generates in their minds this ridiculous contempt of greater worth. Persons of this unhappy complexion regard all praises conferred upon another as derogatory from their own value. The arrows of the backbiter are generally shot in the night; and the most unspotted innocence is the game of this infernal destroyer. The heads of his darts are imbrued in poison; and it too frequently happens, that a small wound proves mortal to the injured. But to drop for the present these figurative expressions, I would only observe, that it is a pity a well-regulated society cannot more effectually curb this impious licentiousness of those sons of darkness. If a wretch, necessitated by the cries of a starving family to seek illegal supplies of bread, shall make an open attack upon me, the constitution of the realm consigns such a pitiable malefactor to infamy and death. And shall this miserable object of compassion prove the victim of my resentment; while the backbiter may, with impunity, revel in the excesses of his iniquity, and boast defiance to all laws? As this is a topic, however, which has been descanted on by a variety of pens, I shall endeavour to enliven it with the air of novelty, by throwing my farther sentiments into the form of a vision.

I found myself, during the slumbers of the night, in a very extensive region, which was subject to the jurisdiction of a fury, named Detraction. The fields were wild, and carried not the least appearance of cultivation. The tops of the hills were covered with snow; and the whole country seemed to mourn the inclement severity of one eternal winter. Instead of the verdure of pleasing herbage, there sprang up to sight hemlock, aconite, and other baneful plants. The woods were the retreats of serpents; while on the boughs were perched the birds of night, brooding in doleful silence.

In the middle of the plain was a bleak mountain, where I discovered a groupe of figures, which I presently made up to. The summit presented the fury of the place. There was a peculiar deformity attending her person. Her eyes were galled and inflamed; her visage was swoln and terrible; and from her mouth proceeded a two-edged sword. A blasted oak was the throne which she sat on; her food was the flesh of vipers, and her drink gall and vinegar.

At a little distance from her I observed Ignorance talking loud in his own applause; Pride strutting upon his tiptoes; Conceit practising at a mirror; and Envy, like a vulture, preying upon herself.

The multitudes who paid their addresses to this fury were a composition of all nations and professions, of different 415 characters, and various capacities. There was the mechanic, the tradesman, the scholar; but the most zealous votaries consisted principally of old maids, antiquated batchelors, discarded courtiers, and the like. Each strove to ingratiate himself with the fury, by sacrificing the most valuable of his friends; nor could proximity of blood move compassion, or plead exemption from being victims to her insatiable passion. Some addressed this infernal Moloch with the very fruits of their bodies; while others were triumphantly chanting forth the extent of her power, and expatiating on the numbers of her conquests. At this incident arose in my breast all the tender sentiments of humanity that I had ever cultivated; and I began to blame my criminal curiosity, which had prompted me to ascend the mountain. But in a few minutes the whole scene was very agreeably reversed. For, towards the southern boundaries, I observed the clouds parting, the sky purpling, and the sun breaking forth in all its glory. When immediately there appeared marching towards us Good-nature, in all her pomp and splendor; arrayed like a sylvan nymph, and blooming with unstudied graces. She was of a fair and ruddy complexion, which received additional beauty from the frequent smiles that she threw into her countenance. On her right hand shone Good Sense, with much majesty and diffidence in her mien. She was an essential attendant on the young lady, who never appeared to such advantage, as when she was under her more immediate direction. On her left was Generosity, carrying a heart in her hand. The next that presented, was Modesty, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and her cheeks spread with roses. Then followed a train of beauties, who, by the unaffected charms of their persons, made me desirous of a nearer inspection. Upon a close approach, I discovered that they were a tribe of American ladies, who were always fond of appearing in the retinue of the Goddess, from whose indulgent smiles they received an accessional lustre to their charms. I then turned my eyes towards the monsters I have above described; the principal of which turned pale, and fell down in a swoon from her throne. Pride sunk into a shade; Envy fell prostrate and bit the ground; while Ignorance vanished like a morning cloud before the rising sun. As the Goddess drew near, the whole collection of fiends disappeared. The basilisk skulked into the glade, and the oak on which the fury was seated budded forth afresh. Wherever the goddess walked, the flowers sprang up spontaneous at her feet. The trees, surprized with new-born life, displayed the enamelled blossom. The tender roe was seen bounding over the mountains, and the little lamb sporting on the hills. Instead of the briar and the thorn, there shot forth the myrtle and every odoriferous shrub. The voice of the turtle was heard in the groves, and the dales resounded with the melodious harmony of the nightingale. In a word, the whole reign confessed the happy influences of the Deity, and charmed in all the genial softness of the spring.

D. C.

ANECDOTES.

Some of the papers sport Mr. Thomas Paine as a man of gallantry; they say, since his last trip to Paris, he was caught on his knees at a lady’s feet by her husband.—The Frenchman astonished at what he saw, exclaimed, “Vat the devil be you doing, Citizen Paine?” “Only,” replied Tom, “measuring your lady for a pair of stays.”—The Frenchman quite pleased at Tom’s answer, kissed and thanked him for his politeness.

UP STAIRS BACKWARDS.

An English servant was sent to an acquaintance of his master’s, who lived at a watch-maker’s in Dame-street. When he came to the shop, he asked if the gentleman was at home; the watch-maker answered in the affirmative, and directed him to go up three pair of stairs backwards. After a journey of half an hour, and astonishing the whole house with his noise, he arrived at the door and delivered his message. The gentleman gave him a dram, which he took, saying, “Long life to your good-natured heart and to mine, and I should be obliged to you to tell me a better way down, for the man told me I was to come up backwards; and if, sir, I go down the same way, I am certain I shall break my neck.” The gentleman bursts into a fit of laughing, and explained the watch-maker’s meaning.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

At Charleston, (S.C.) Captain William Earle, to Mrs. I’ans, widow of Mr. Francis I’ans, formerly of this city.

On Sunday evening, 28th ult. at Norwalk, (Connecticut) by the Rev. Mr. Smith, Mr. Stephen White, to Miss Esther Wasson, both of that place.

On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, Mr. Henry C. Southwick, printer, to Miss Mary Wool, both of this city.

On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. M’Knight, Mr. Robert Williamson, to Miss Barbara Harries, both natives of Scotland.

At New-Rochelle, on Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Kuypers, Dr. Robert G. Merrit, to Miss Roosevelt, daughter of Mr. John Roosevelt, both of this city.

If Internet sources can be trusted, “Miss Roosevelt” is Maria Roosevelt, great-granddaughter of Johannes Roosevelt. This puts her in the same branch of the family as Theodore and Eleanor (but not Franklin) Roosevelt.

ELEGY,

WRITTEN TO DISSUADE A YOUNG LADY FROM FREQUENTING
THE TOMB OF HER DECEASED LOVER.

N. B.

TO HEALTH.

EPIGRAM.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.