The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository
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Title: The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository
Editor: John Bull
Thomas Burling
Release date: August 28, 2011 [eBook #37240]
Most recently updated: November 12, 2024
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE, OR MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY ***
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--In the Latin-1 version, “œ” is two letters, but French words like
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Italics are shown conventionally with _lines_. Small capitals in
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capital letters. In the body text, where whole-word capitals are rare,
small capitals are generally shown as CAPITALS. The pointing-finger
symbol is shown as [->]
* * *
The New-York Weekly Magazine or Miscellaneous Repository was published
for slightly more than two years, from summer 1795 through summer 1797.
The two complete years were also published as bound volumes; this e-text
is Volume II, nos. 53-104. Volume III, renamed Sentimental & Literary
Magazine, only lasted through no. 112.
There are no illustrations and no advertising. Each page was in two
columns. The arrangement of each issue was:
Front Page, in slightly larger type:
masthead spanning the top of the page
didactic or philosophical essays
Inside pages:
prose essays (philosophical or educational)
fiction, ranging from from a single column to serialized novels
Page 7, second column (variable):
Marriages
Meteorological Observations, including monthly summary
short poem
Back Page, in slightly smaller type:
poetry
printer/publisher information spanning the bottom of the page
Except for pieces explicitly labeled “For the New-York Weekly Magazine”,
and some of the poetry, the entire content was taken from other
published sources. Attribution is haphazard.
Single lines of asterisks * * * represent decorative lines separating
articles in the original. Articles that begin at the top of a column are
marked with two rows of asterisks. All other asterisks--notably in “The
Victim of Magical Delusion” and “The Baron De Lovzinski”--are in the
original.
The Index was printed at the beginning of the bound volume. It has been
relocated to the end of the text, before the Errata and Sources.
Typographical errors are listed at the end of the e-text. Most spellings
were left as printed even if they are probably wrong.
For pieces complete in one or two issues, sources are given in [[double
brackets]] at the end of the last installment. Sources of longer pieces,
including serialized novels, are given at the end of the e-text, after
the Errata. Except for the serials, these annotations are not intended
to be complete. Links, where given, are valid at the time of e-text
preparation (Spring 2011).]
[Illustration:
Youth, accompanied by Virtue, and directed
by Experience, approaching the Temple of happiness.]
The
NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
or,
MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY:
Forming an Interesting Collection of Original and Select
LITERARY PRODUCTIONS,
_In Prose and Verse:_
Calculated for Instruction and rational
Entertainment--the Promotion of moral and
useful Knowledge--and to enlarge and correct
the Understandings of Youth.
VOLUME II.
“----Touch, with a surprising delicacy,
“The sweetest movement of the mind.“
[Decoration]
_NEW-YORK:_
+Printed for the PROPRIETORS, at Homer’s-Head,
No. 358, Pearl-Street.+
1797.
ADDRESS.
_The very flattering patronage with which this work, for two years, has
been kindly favoured, demands the warmest acknowledgments of the
Editors. Since its commencement, it has witnessed the demise of other
periodical publications; some established long before it, others that
have taken their rise at a later period; while the particular
distinction honorably awarded the WEEKLY MAGAZINE, has marked it an
object of public favor, and denoted the estimation in which it has ever
been considered; not as matter of exultation do the Editors make this
remark; but it gives their friends stronger claims on their gratitude,
and acts as a momentum to impel them to exertions which in some degree
might enable them to merit such attention. Strongly impressed with a
sense of their duties as conductors of a work so universally read, they
have, with the utmost solicitude, guarded against the intrusion of any
thing, in the smallest degree, injurious to the feelings of the
religionist. Their selection has uniformly tended either to inform and
enlighten the understanding, to inculcate the purest lessons of
morality, or to unbend the mind with innocent levities. To effect those
primary objects, they have studiously endeavored to make the work abound
with curious investigations, elegant descriptions, historical
narrations, biographical sketches, well-chosen tales, essays, anecdotes,
observations, maxims, poetical effusions, &c. &c., all contributing in
the highest degree to mend the heart, to improve the head, and to form
the taste. In order more fully to designate the properties of this work
in the title, it is intended to commence the third volume under that of
the SENTIMENTAL and LITERARY MAGAZINE; this alteration, we trust, will
be universally acceptable. We shall only trespass on the patience of our
friends to make one remark more; the cheapness of this work is
unrivalled; let it be considered that advertisements and news are wholly
excluded--the former, in a literary publication, has, in our eyes,
a very unpleasant appearance, beside the room engrossed to the exclusion
of more agreeable matter; the latter, from the very general circulation
of daily newspapers, must be rendered wholly uninteresting. This, then,
is devoted solely to literature--and the many entire works, which, in
the last two years it has contained, amount, when separately purchased,
to considerably more than the price of the magazines during that
period--besides the immense number of anecdotes, essays, extracts,
sketches, &c. &c. and the poetry, which, alone, comprises more than an
eighth of the whole._
_Filled with a laudable ambition to render ourselves, by every thing in
our power, worthy the continuance of general favor, we are, with the
greatest respect, the devoted servants of a generous public,_
_The EDITORS._
_PRINTING-OFFICE, June 30, 1797._
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
_UTILE DULCI._
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, July 6, 1796.+ [+No. 53.+
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *
MORNING REFLECTIONS.
In one of my rambles I saw a collection of people, some appeared highly
elated, while others in stupid indifference were not the least affected;
I advanced, and found two boys fighting; in attempting to part them,
I had nearly got myself in the same predicament, from a motley bullying
fellow, whose feelings, if he was possessed of any, were more becoming a
tyger than a human being. Those who were before mute, appeared delighted
in the prospect of another scene of brutality, expecting that we would
decide our dispute with blows; I plainly saw that the most prudent step
for me, would be to leave them as peaceable as possible in possession of
the field.
From what source these barbarous dispositions spring, and how they can
exist in a country where information is so easily attained, would, to a
foreigner, appear a mystery; every child of nature has a vacancy in
their understandings to be filled up, and why it should not be stored
with rational humanity, let parents judge. Slaves from dejection become
callous, hence barbarous sports are congenial with their minds, in
proportion to the severe treatment they receive from their matters.
How degraded is that master who neglects to inculcate moral principles
into his slave, and how much more wretched are parents who attend not to
the improvement of their own children; too many instances of such
omissions momentarily occur; a parent who entertains a child with a
bull-beat, fixes a supposition in the tender mind that the creation was
formed only for caprice, and is verified in their tormenting domestic
animals; with years the feelings naturally become hardened, and the
youth thus brought up, only waits an opportunity to leave off all
restraint. This is plainly evinced in war, when the law is suspended,
murders and robbery become fashionable, and those very men who were
peaceable inhabitants, with exultation take the lives of strangers whom
they have never seen, and by whom they have never been injured.
T.
NEW-YORK _July 1, 1796_.
* * * * *
* * * *
[[For sources, see the end of the second installment.]]
_+Description+ of the famous SALT MINES at +Williska+ in +Poland+._
There are mines of salt in Hungary, Catalonia, and many other parts of
Europe, but the greatest in the world is that at Williska in Poland,
from which a great part of the continent is supplied. Williska is a
small town not far from Cracow, and the mine has been worked ever since
the year 1251, when it was accidentally found in digging for a well.
There are eight openings or descents into this mine, six in the field,
and two in the town itself, which are most used for letting down the
workmen, and taking up the salt; the others being mostly used for
letting in wood and necessaries.
The openings are five square, and about four feet wide; they are lined
throughout with timber, and at the top of each there is a large wheel
with a rope as thick as a cable, by which things are let down and drawn
up: it is worked by a horse. When a stranger has a curiosity to see
these works, he must descend by one of these holes; he is first to put
on a miner’s coat over his clothes, and then being led to the mouth of
the hole by a miner, who serves for a guide, the miner fastens a smaller
rope to the larger one, and ties it about himself; he sits in this, and
taking the stranger in his lap, he gives the sign to be let down. They
are carried down a narrow and dark well to the depth of six hundred feet
perpendicular; this is in reality an immense depth, but the terror and
tediousness of the descent makes it appear to most people vastly more
than it is. As soon as the miner touches the ground at the bottom, he
slips out of the rope, and sets his companion upon his legs.
The place where they are set down here is perfectly dark, but the miner
strikes fire, and lights a small lamp, by means of which (taking the
stranger he has care of by the arm) he leads him through a number of
strange passages and meanders, all descending lower and lower, till they
come to certain ladders by which they descend an immense depth, and this
through passages perfectly dark. The damp, cold, and darkness of these
places, and the horror of being so many yards under ground, generally
makes strangers heartily repent before they get thus far; but when at
bottom they are well rewarded for their pains, by a sight that could
never have been expected after so much horror.
(_The conclusion in our next._)
* * * * *
* * * *
[[This serial began in No. 45 of the New-York Weekly; the last 4 of
its 12 installments are in Volume II. For sources, see the end of the
final (4th) installment.]]
THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.
_Translated from the French._
(Continued from page 410 of Vol. I.)
I informed her of my determination, assuring her, at the same time, it
was irrevocable. I confess, however, notwithstanding my certitude, at
moments, of her hatred, I secretly flattered myself, that this
declaration would astonish, and produce a most lively emotion in Julia;
and it is certain, had I discovered the least signs of regret on her
part, I should have cast myself at her feet, and abjured a resolution
which pierced my very soul.
I was deceived in supposing myself hated; I was equally wrong in
imagining my conduct could inspire even momentary love. Great minds are
incapable of hatred; but a continued improper and bad conduct will
produce indifference, as it did with Julia. I had lost her heart past
recal. She heard me with tranquility, without surprize, and without
emotion. My reputation, said she, is already injured, and this will
confirm the unjust suspicions of the public; but if my presence is an
obstacle to your happiness, I am ready to depart; my innocence is still
my own, and I shall have sufficient strength to submit to my fate.
Cruel woman! cried I, shedding a torrent of tears, with what ease do you
speak of parting!
Is it not your own proposal!
And is it not I who adore you, and you who hate me!
Of what benefit is your love to me; or of what injury is what you call
my hatred to you?
I have made you unhappy; I am unjust, capricious, mad; and yet if you do
hate me, Julia, your revenge is too severe; there is no misery can equal
your hatred.
I do not hate you.
The manner in which she pronounced this, said so positively I do not
love you, that I was transported beyond all bounds of patience; I became
furious, yet the next instant, imagining I saw terror in the eyes of
Julia, I fell at her feet. A tear, a sigh at that moment, had changed my
future fate, but she still preserved her cold tranquility. I hastily got
up, went to the door, and stopped. Farewell for ever! said I, half
suffocated with passion. Julia turned pale, and rose as if to come to
me; I advanced towards her, and she fell back into her chair, ready
almost to faint. I interpreted this violent agitation, into terror.
What, am I become a subject of horror! cried I; well, I will deliver you
from this odious object. So saying, I darted from the chamber in an
agony of despair.
My uncle was absent, I no longer had a friend, no one to advise or
counteract the rashness of the moment. Distracted, totally beside
myself, I ran to the parents of Julia, declared my intention, added,
Julia herself was desirous of a separation, and that I would give back
all her fortune.
They endeavoured to reason with me, but in vain; I informed them I
should go directly into the country, where I should stay three days, and
when I came back I expected to find myself alone in my own house. I next
wrote to Julia to inform her of my proceedings, and departed, as I had
said I would, the same evening for the country.
My passions were too much agitated to let me perceive the extent of
misery to which I condemned myself; and what seems now inconceivable
was, that though I loved my wife dearer than ever, and was inwardly
persuaded I might yet regain her affections, I found a kind of
satisfaction in making our rupture thus ridiculously public. I never
could have determined on a separation from Julia with that coolness and
propriety which such things, when absolutely necessary, demand. I wanted
to astonish, to agitate, to rouze her from her state of indifference,
which, to me, was more dreadful even than her hatred. I flattered myself
that, hearing me, she had doubted my sincerity, and supposed me
incapable of finally parting from her.
I likewise imagined that event would rekindle in her heart all her
former affection; and this hope alone was enough to confirm me in the
execution of my project. I took pleasure in supposing her incertitude,
astonishment, and distress; my fancy represented her when reading my
letter; beheld her, conducted by her relations, pale and trembling,
descend the stairs; saw her stop and sigh as she passed the door of my
apartment, and weep as she stepped into the carriage.
I had left a trusty person at Paris, with orders to observe her as
carefully as possible; to watch her, follow her, question her women, and
inform me of all she said or did at this critical moment; but the
relation was not long. Julia continued secluded in her chamber, received
her friends without a witness, and departed by a private stair-case
unseen of any one.
The same afternoon that she left my house she wrote me a note, which
contained nearly these words.
“I have followed your orders, and departed from a place whither I shall
always be ready to return, whenever your heart shall recall me. As to
your proposal of giving back a fortune too considerable for my present
situation, I dare expect as a proof of your esteem, it will not be
insisted upon: so to do is now the only remaining thing that can add to
my uneasiness. Condescend therefore, to accept the half of an income,
which can give me no pleasure if you do not partake it with me.”
This billet, which I washed with my tears, gave birth to a crowd of
reflections. The contrast of behaviour between me and Julia forcibly
struck me, and I saw by the effects how much affection, founded upon
duty, is preferable to passion. I adore Julia, said I, and yet am become
her tormentor; have determined to proceed even to a separation; she
loved me without passion, and was constantly endeavouring to make me
happy; ever ready to sacrifice her opinions, wishes and will and
continually pardoning real offences, while I have been imputing to her
imaginary ones; and, at last, when my excessive folly and injustice have
lost her heart, her forgiveness and generosity have yet survived her
tenderness, and she thinks and acts the most noble and affecting duties
towards an object she once loved. Oh yes! I now perceive true affection
to be that which reason approves, and virtue strengthens.
Overwhelmed by such reflections, the most bitter repentance widened
every wound of my bleeding heart. I shuddered when I remembered the
public manner in which I had put away my wife; and in this fearful state
of mind, I had doubtless gone and cast myself at Julia’s feet,
acknowledged all my wrongs, and declared I could not live without her,
had I not been prevented by scruples, which for once were but too well
founded.
I had been a Prodigal and a Gamester and, what was still worse, had a
steward, who possessed in a superior degree the art of confusing his
accounts, which indubitably proves such a person to want either honesty
or capacity. Instead of at first discharging him, I only begged he would
not trouble me with his bills and papers; which order with him needed no
repetition, for it was not unintentionally he had been so obscure and
diffuse.
About six months, however, before the period I at present speak of, he
had several times demanded an audience, to shew me the declining state
of my affairs. At the moment, this made little impression upon me; but
after reading Julia’s note it came into my mind, and before I could
think of obtaining my pardon, I resolved to learn my real situation.
Unhappily for me, my conduct had been such that I had no right to depend
on my wife’s esteem; and, if ruined, how could I ask her to return and
forget what was passed? Would not she ascribe that to interest, which
love alone had inspired? The idea was insupportable, and I would rather
even never behold Julia more, than be liable to be so suspected.
With such fears I returned hastily to Paris. But what were my sensations
at entering a house which Julia no longer inhabited, and whence I myself
had had the madness and folly to banish her! Attacked by a thousand
afflicting thoughts, overwhelmed with grief and regret, I had one only
hope, which was, that by œconomy and care I might again re-establish my
affairs, and afterwards obtain forgiveness, and be reconciled to Julia.
I sent for my steward, and began by declaring, the first step I should
take would be to return my wife’s fortune. He seemed astonished at this,
and wanted to dissuade me, by saying he did not think it possible I
could make this restitution without absolute ruin being the consequence.
I saw by this my affairs were even much worse than I had imagined.
The discovery threw me into the most dreadful despair; for to lose my
fortune was, according to my principles, to lose Julia eternally.
Before I searched my situation to the bottom, I restored Julia’s whole
portion; I then paid my debts; and these affairs finished, I found
myself so completely ruined, that, in order to live, I was obliged to
purchase a trifling life-annuity, with what remained of a large fortune.
My estates, horses, houses, all were sold, and I hired a small apartment
near the Luxembourg, about three months after my separation from my
wife. My Uncle was not rich; he had little to live on except a pension
from the government, though he offered me assistance, which I refused.
Julia, in the mean time, had retired to a convent. On the very day I had
quitted my house, I received a letter from her in the following terms:
“Since you have forced me to receive what you call mine, since you treat
me like a stranger, I think myself justified in doing the same. When I
left your house, the fear of offending you, in appearing to despise your
gifts, occasioned me to take with me the diamonds and jewels which you
had presented to me: it was your request, your command that I should do
so, and I held obedience my duty. But since you shew me you will not act
with the same delicacy, I have determined to part with these useless
ornaments, which never were valuable but as coming from you. I found a
favourable opportunity of selling them advantageously for twenty-four
thousand livres (a thousand pounds sterling), which I have sent to your
Attorney, as a sum I was indebted to you, and which you cannot oblige me
to take back, since it is not mine.
“I have been in the convent of * * * for these two months past, where I
intend to remain for some weeks at least, unless you take me
hence.----_We_ have a fine estate in Flanders; they say it is a charming
country. Speak but a word, and I am ready to go with you, to live with
you, to die with you.”
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
+THE DEAD INFANT; or, the AGONIZING MOTHER.+
“She snatch’d the hope of youth, the pride of age
From the dark cerements of the shrouding sheet!”
----“Speak, Menander, let thy mother once more hear the Voice that was
her last comfort--” She begged in vain, for Menander had closed his eyes
in death, and with him had fled the only happiness that his widowed
mother possessed. She had but a little while since bade farewell to
another child, who had gone to that bourne from whence there is no
return. And now must she lose the other--the thought was too much.--No
one should part her from him.--“I will still keep him,” said she, in the
height of maniac rage, “if he will not speak to me I shall still behold
him--I will still have my child.”
A friend who willingly would have been the means of allaying her extreme
sorrow, had taken the liberty, while the mother slept, of arraying the
corpse in the dress suitable for interment, and removed it to the
appointed place. The mother awoke--missed her child, and hastened to the
church-yard.--It was not yet deposited in the earth.--In agony she tore
the lid from the coffin--pressed him to her heart, and returned
home.--She kissed him---kept him continually encircled in her arms---nor
would she again be parted from him.
She offered part of the necessaries that were set before her to the
insensate clay, nor did she eat because her son could not.---But nature
could not long bear up against this torrent of grief.---She once more
pressed him with redoubled force to her breast, again kissed his putrid
cheek--and slept her final sleep.
L. B.
* * * * *
* * * *
[[This serialized novel began in no. 22 of the New-York Weekly; the
last 41 of its 74 segments are in Volume II. For sources, see the
end of the e-text.]]
THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION.
_OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.
_Translated from the German of Tschink._
(Continued from page 415 of Vol. I.)
“Your features, dear Duke,” she resumed after a long pause, “have no
resemblance with those of this picture; and yet the originality of the
face is so remarkable to me, that it would afford me the greatest
pleasure, if you would give it me.”
“If your Majesty should know how dear it is to me--”
“Well, that will enhance the value it has in my eyes. Whenever I shall
look at the picture of the mother, I will remember the son. I will give
you _my_ picture, in lieu of it; will you resign it to me on that
condition?”
I bowed respectfully, she opened a drawer, putting my picture in it, and
took another out of it, which was adorned with jewels much more precious
than that of my mother.
“Take it, Duke, and whenever you look at it, think that it is the
picture of--a very unhappy woman.” So saying, she gave me the picture.
The accent and the mien with which these words were pronounced, wounded
my heart. I prostrated myself---“How, amiable Queen, should you really
be unhappy? and this pledge of your condescension should be to me a
remembrancer of your misfortunes? O, name the source of your sorrows,
and if the power of a mortal being can remove it, I will do it with
pleasure, will attempt it even at the peril of my life!” So saying,
I pressed my lips with vehemence on her hand.
“Rise! the interest which you take in my unhappiness renders me less
unfortunate. It will not be in your power to make me happy, though I
should be at liberty to unfold a mystery to you which never must be
revealed. Rise, Duke!” She stooped to raise me up, her cheek touched my
face, and a tremor of joy trembled through my frame. “Take courage!”
I exclaimed, “though neither my power nor that of any man living should
be able to render you happy, yet I know a person who possesses
supernatural powers, and I flatter myself he will not refuse to grant my
prayers. He shall make you happy, my Queen!”
She looked at me with weeping eyes, then up to heaven, and then again at
me. “Your prayer,” she said at length, “would be fruitless; for if an
angel would descend from heaven to offer me his assistance, he could not
restore me to happiness, while certain human laws and political
relations are in force.”----
I plainly perceived the dreadful struggles of her soul, and it would
have been cruel to render her victory more difficult by farther
persuasions.
I beheld with respectful silence the workings of her mind; however, she
could not but observe that I adored her---her looks bespoke the grateful
emotions of her heart.
“You have told me a few minutes ago, that your mother is no more,” she
began after a long pause. “I hope your father is yet alive?”
“I have little reason to think he is.”
The Queen turned as pale as a corpse. “You doubt?” she stammered, “you
doubt whether your father is alive?”
“A dangerous illness which has confined him to his bed, gives me reason
to apprehend---but what is the matter with your Majesty?”
“Nothing---nothing at all---A dangerous illness did you say.”
“So he has informed me sometime since, by a letter, and requested me, at
the same time, to hasten to his arms, that he might see me once more
before his death, and give me his blessing.”
The Queen started up, and went to another part of the room, as if in
search of something, but soon came back again:
“He wants to see you and you are _here?_”
“Before I received the letter of my father, I had promised to that
_Unknown_ of whom I have been speaking, that nothing should detain me
from travelling to Fr**ce, and imploring your assistance in behalf of my
unhappy country.”
“Poor father!” said the Queen, absorbed in melancholy, “how anxiously
will he have expected the arrival of his son--I fancy I see the dying
Marquis, how he extends his arms in vain to receive the child of his
love--”
“Does your Majesty know my father?” I enquired hastily.
She gazed at me. “If I know him?---no!---yes---I saw him several times
when at the court of my father---But why do you ask this
question?”---Without giving me time to reply, she resumed, “Make haste!
make haste, return to your native country; perhaps he is yet alive---the
sight of you will animate him with new strength, he will recover in your
arms, and perhaps be restored to health!” The last words she pronounced
with a visible joyful emotion.
“Shall I leave your Majesty,” I replied “without having my prayer
granted? Is my unhappy country to expect no assistance from a Queen
whose sentiments are so sublime? Is the picture of the best of women to
be to me a lasting mark of her favour and displeasure?”
She seemed to meditate, “It is true,” she said at length, “we have
entirely wandered from your concerns. Did you not tell me that you are
haunted every where by an apparition? I too have seen an apparition some
time ago. It was the ghost of my departed father, who, at midnight drew
the curtains of my bed, and said ‘I am very wretched my daughter!
neither prayers nor masses will give me relief, while Por****l which we
have usurped shall be submitted to the Sp***sh sceptre. O! my daughter,
if the least spark of filial love is left in thy bosom, if thou wilt
relieve me from unspeakable torments, then make use of all thy interest
at this court, in order to support the endeavours of those who, at
present, are secretly occupied to deliver Por****l from her oppressors.
A noble youth will arrive in a few days and implore thy assistance. He
is sent from Heaven; grant his prayer. He has a mole on his left breast,
which will be to thee a token of his mission.”
I started up. “That youth stands before your Majesty,” I exclaimed,
uncovering my breast, “behold here the mole. O! relieve the suffering
spirit of your father, relieve my country!”
She seemed to be in a trance, encircling me with her arms, and straining
me to her bosom. “Thy prayer is granted!” she said in a faint
accent.---No sooner had the last syllable escaped her lips, when the
sound of a little bell was heard in the adjoining apartment. She
disengaged herself from my neck and started back, “Gracious heaven!---”
she exclaimed, pale and trembling, “the King is returned. Begone! for
God’s sake begone!”
I was going to obey her command; the stopped me: “Never reveal a word of
what has happened between ourselves,” she whispered; “leave the palace
and the kingdom as soon as possible: beware of the King, I conjure you!”
I prostrated myself and encircled her knees, shedding tears of anguish;
wanted to take leave, but could not utter a single word. The bell in the
adjoining apartment was rung a second time; the Queen disengaged herself
seized with terror: “make haste!---flee!---O stay!” she exclaimed when I
hastened to the door, “come back!” She opened her arms to receive me;
I flew to her bosom; she imprinted three burning kisses on my lips, and
hurried into an adjoining apartment.
I do not recollect how I got out of the room. On the staircase I
observed first, that the same lady who had conducted me to the Queen was
walking by my side. We returned the same way by which I had entered the
palace, and I arrived happily at our hotel in the company of the Count.
After I had communicated to him my success, I went to my apartment in
order to give audience to my thoughts; however I was not able to account
for the behaviour of the Queen, and my feelings during the whole scene.
Was it love that I felt for the Queen? certainly not; at least, my
sentiments for her were quite different from those I entertained for
Amelia; was it mere esteem that endeared her so much to me?
impossible!---My heart left me entirely in the dark with respect to that
point, as well as my reason. It is true, _one_ particular idea prevailed
in my soul, however it appeared to me ridiculous, as soon as I reflected
on other circumstances. The account which the Queen gave me of the
apparition of the ghost of her father, completed my confusion. Was it
the work of the _Unknown_, and did she really believe she had seen the
ghost of her father? in that case the grant of my prayer was perhaps
merely the consequence of her love for her father, whom she hoped to
release thus from his sufferings; even her tears, embraces, and kisses,
were then nothing else but means of alluring me to strain every nerve,
in order to bring to a happy conclusion an undertaking, from the
execution of which the eternal happiness of her father depended. But
perhaps---and that, I thought, was not less possible---has she only
invented that apparition in order to prevent me from suspecting the real
source of her willingness to grant my prayer, and her confidential and
endearing deportment? Even the manner in which she mentioned the mole on
my breast, appeared to me an artifice which she might have made use of,
rather to assure herself of the identity of my person, than of my
mission from above; and this supposition received an additional
confirmation, by her singular behaviour, after the discovery.---Thus I
was wandering in the mazy labyrinth of conjectures and doubts, till
sleep stole upon me by degrees, and shut my heavy eyes.
We left P**is the following night, and directed our road to Sp**n as
Hiermanfor had ordered.
I stopped a few days at **cia, a hundred miles from the frontiers of
Fr**ce, in order to rest a little from the fatigues of my journey, and
received from the bribed surgeon a letter from my father, who informed
me he was in a fair way of recovery. This welcome intelligence animated
me with new life, and dispelled the gloom which had overcast my mind. We
continued our journey without delay, and arrived at ***pala, where we
alighted at the principal hotel. The first object that attracted my
attention, was a handsome well dressed man, whose features struck me at
a great distance, because I fancied I knew them. He was engaged in
conversation with a tall thin man, and did not observe me till I was
close by him. My sudden appearance seemed to surprize him, and the sight
of him produced the same effect upon me, for now I perceived that it was
Paleski, Amelia’s former valet. He approached me with evident marks of
uneasiness, and welcomed me in broken accents. I ordered him to follow
me to my apartment. The first question I put to him, was where Amelia
resided, and how she was. Paleski lamented it was not in his power to
give me the least information on that head. I enquired after the
_Unknown_, and he assured me that he had not seen him since the last
scene in the wood. “However,” said I, “you still owe me an account of a
dreadful accident concerning the _Unknown_, of which you pretended to
have been informed on your pilgrimage.” Paleski hesitated a few moments,
and then promised to satisfy my curiosity the day following, being
prevented by business of great importance from doing it on the spot.
I dismissed him, with the injunction not to forget to come to my
apartment in the evening of the next day. He promised it; however I
waited in vain for him, for in his room a Capuchin friar came to my
hotel, desiring to speak a few words to me in private. I ordered him to
be admitted, and was told by him that Paleski had had a quarrel with
some young men, who first had intoxicated and then provoked him, and
that he had received some mortal wounds, by which he was confined to his
bed at the hospital where he desired to see me, in order to disclose to
me important secrets. The friar offered to conduct me to the hospital,
and I drove thither in anxious expectation.
When I alighted at the gate of the hospital, I met Count Clairval. He
seemed to be petrified when he saw me in the company of the friar.
“Whither are you going?” he enquired at length. “To Paleski, who is on
the brink of eternity.” The Count changed colour, and whispered in my
ear: “Don’t go, the fellow is infected with a contagious
disease.”---“You are mistaken (was my answer) he has been wounded
dangerously, as his confessor tells me.” “I have just come from him,”
the Count resumed with visible uneasiness, “the fever has deranged his
head, and he will tell you a number of foolish things.” “No matter,”
I replied, “I must see him, for he has sent me word that he has
important discoveries to make.” “What can he discover to you?” said the
Count, “Paleski has ever been an impostor.” “This will render his
confession on the brink of eternity so much the more remarkable. But I
must not lose a moment. Farewell, Count, till I see you again!” So
saying, I tore myself from him, and hastened with the friar to Paleski’s
apartment. When the nurse had left the room, the former said: “you need
but ring the bell, if you should want me, I shall be within
hearing.”---With these words he went out of the room. Paleski stared at
me for some time. The livid colour of death covered his haggard
countenance, and the most agonizing anguish of a tormented conscience
was strongly painted on his looks. “My Lord!” he at length began, “I owe
you a thousand thanks for your condescension; I should undoubtedly have
fallen a sacrifice to black despair, if you had refused to give me an
opportunity to unfold mysteries to you which lie heavy on my mind.”
I took a seat close by the bed, seized with dreadful bodings.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
_A remarkable account of two Brothers,
extracted from Linschoten’s Voyages._
In the sixteenth century, the Portuguese carracks sailed from _Lisbon_
to _Goa_. There were no less than twelve hundred souls on board one of
these vessels. The beginning of their voyage was prosperous; they had
doubled the Cape of _Good Hope_ and were steering their course
North-east, to the great continent of India, when some Gentlemen on
board who having studied Geography and Navigation, found in the latitude
they were then in, a large ridge of rocks laid down in their Sea-charts.
They no sooner made this discovery, than they acquainted the Captain of
the ship with it, desiring him to communicate the same to the pilot,
which request he immediately granted, recommending him to lay by in the
night, and slacken sail in the day, until they should be past the
danger. It is a custom among the Portuguese absolutely to commit the
navigation, or sailing part of the vessel to the Pilot, who is
answerable with his head for the safe-conduct or carriage of the King’s
ships, or those that belong to private traders; and is under no manner
of direction from the Captain, who commands in every other respect. The
Pilot being a self sufficient man, took it as an affront to be taught
his art, and instead of complying with the captain’s request, actually
crowded more sail. They had not sailed many hours, before the ship
struck upon a rock. In this distress the Captain ordered the pinnace to
be launched, into which having tossed a small quantity of biscuit, and
some boxes of marmalade, he jumped in himself with nineteen others, who
with their swords prevented the coming in of any more, lest the boat
should sink. In this condition they put off in the great Indian ocean,
without a compass to steer by or any fresh water, but what might happen
to fall from the heavens, whose mercy alone could deliver them.
After they had rowed to and fro for four days the captain died: this
added, if possible, to their misery, for as they now fell into
confusion, every one would govern and none would obey. This obliged them
to elect one of their company to command them, whose orders they
implicitly agreed to follow. This person proposed to draw lots, and to
cast every fourth man overboard; as their small stock of provision was
not sufficient to sustain life above three days longer. They were now
nineteen persons in all; in this number were a friar and a carpenter,
both of whom they would exempt, as one was useful to absolve and comfort
them in their last extremity, and the other to repair the pinnace, in
case of a leak or other accident. The same compliment they paid to their
new captain, he being the odd man, and his life of much consequence. He
refused their indulgence a great while; but at last they obliged him to
acquiesce, so that there were four to die out of sixteen.
The three first, after having confessed and received absolution
submitted to their fate. The fourth was a Portuguese gentleman that had
a younger brother in the boat, who seeing him about to be thrown
overboard most tenderly embraced him, and with tears in his eyes
besought him to let him die in his room, telling him that he had a wife
and children at _Goa_, besides the care of three sisters: that as for
himself he was single, and his life of no great importance; he therefore
conjured him to suffer him to supply his place. The elder brother
astonished with this generosity, replied, That since the divine
Providence had appointed him to suffer, it would be wicked to permit any
other to die for him; especially a brother to whom he was so infinitely
obliged. The younger would take no denial; but throwing himself on his
knees held his brother so fast that the company could not disengage
them. Thus they disputed for awhile, the elder brother bidding him be a
father to his children, and recommended his wife to his protection, and
as he would inherit his estate, to take care of their common sisters;
but all he said could not make the younger desist. At last the elder
brother acquiesced, and suffered the gallant youth to supply his place,
who being cast into the sea, and a good swimmer, soon got to the stern
of the pinnace and laid hold of the rudder with his right hand, which
being perceived by one of the sailors, he cut off the hand with his
sword: then dropping into the sea, he frequently caught hold again with
his left, which received the same fate. Thus dismembered of both hands,
he made a shift to keep himself above water with his feet and two
stumps, which he held bleeding upwards.
This spectacle so raised the pity of the whole company that they cried
out, he is but one man! let us endeavour to save his life! and he was
accordingly taken into the boat; where he had his stumps bound up as
well as the place and circumstances would permit. They rowed all that
night, and the next morning, when the sun rose, as if heaven would
reward the piety and gallantry of this young man, they descried land,
which proved to be the mountains of _Mozambique_ in _Africa_, not far
from a Portuguese colony. There they all safely arrived, where they
remained until the next ship from _Lisbon_ passed by and carried them to
_Goa_.
At that city, _Linschoten_, a writer of good credit, assured us, that he
himself saw them land, supped with the two brothers that very night,
beheld the younger with his stumps, and had the story from their mouths,
as well as from the rest of the company.
[[Source:
Original: Jan Huyghen van Linschoten (1563-1611), _Voyages_.
First English translation: 1598, rpt. by Hakluyt society 1885.
Notes: “At that city, _Linschoten_, a writer of good credit, assured
us, that he himself saw them land.”
The article is loosely adapted from chapter CXII, “Of certaine
memorable Things”, vol. II, pg. 179-181 in the reprint.
Link: http://www.archive.org/details/voyagejohnhuygh01tielgoog
and
http://www.archive.org/details/voyagejohnhuygh02tielgoog]]
* * * * *
SENTIMENTAL PERFUMERY.
A sentimental Perfumer recommends it to the fine ladies, to furnish
their toilets with the following articles:
_Self knowledge:_--A mirror, shewing the full shape in the truest light.
_Innocence:_--A white paint, which will stand for a considerable time,
if not abused.
_Modesty:_--Very best rouge, giving a becoming bloom to the cheek.
_Contentment:_--An infallible smoother of wrinkles in the face.
_Truth:_--A salve, rendering the lips soft and peculiarly graceful.
_Good humour:_--An universal beautifier.
_Mildness:_--Giving a tincture to the voice.
_Tears of Pity:_--A water, that gives lustre and brightness to the eye.
N.B. The constant use of these articles cannot fail rendering them quite
agreeable to the sensible and deserving part of mankind.
* * * * *
CURIOUS PROPOSITION OF A DEBTOR TO HIS CREDITOR
(From a London Paper)
A debtor in the Fleet prison, lately sent to his creditor, to let him
know that he had a proposal to make which he believed would be for their
mutual benefit; accordingly the creditor called on him to hear it.
“I have,” said he, “been thinking that it is a very idle thing for me to
be here and put you to the expence of seven groats a week; my being so
chargeable to you has given me great uneasiness; and God knows what it
may cost you in the end; therefore what I would propose is this, you
shall set me out of prison, and instead of seven groats, you shall only
allow me eighteen pence a week and the other ten pence shall go towards
the discharge of the debt.”
* * * * *
* * * *
_NEW-YORK._
* * *
MARRIED,
On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, DAVID HUNT, Esq. of
West-Chester, to the Widow COOPER of Fish-Kills.
* * * * *
_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From June 26th to July 2d._
_Days of the Month._
_Thermometor observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
_Prevailing winds._
_OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._
deg. deg. deg. 8. 1. 6. 8. 1. 6.
100 100 100
JUNE 26 79 84 82 SW. W. do. clear light wind.
27 75 80 75 N. NW. SW. clear do. do.
28 78 75 80 79 SW. do. do. clear do. cloudy.
29 81 50 83 79 W. NW. do. rain thund. and lightn.
30 70 79 77 N. do. do. clear do. do.
JULY 1 69 50 81 50 79 NW. W. do. clear. do. do.
2 72 82 72 NW. W. SW. clear do. do.
* * *
RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
_For June 1796._
deg. 100
Mean temperature of the thermometer at 8 A.M. 71 37
Do. do. of the do. at 1 P.M. 73 97
Do. do. of the do. at 6 P.M. 68 74
Do. do. of the whole month 71 6
Greatest monthly range between the 12th and 26th 25 25
Do. do. in 24 hours the 3d 9 50
Warmest day the 26 84
Coldest do. the 12 59 50
10 Days it rained. A large quantity has fallen this month.
15 do. it was clear at 8 1 and 6 o’clock.
6 do. it was cloudy at do. do.
23 do. the wind was light at do.
16 do. the wind was to the westward of north and south.
3 times it thundered and lightned in this month.
* * * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *
OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND VIRTUOUS.
In days of old, historians write,
There liv’d a maid of wond’rous charms,
Whose very name would oft invite
And pre-engage the heart that warms.
The gods of yore did try each suit
To win this all-alluring fair;
But neither men nor gods could do’t,
She listen’d callous to their pray’r.
In modern days we too are blest
With Nature’s best, completest art,
Her breast is with the virtues drest,
And dignity exalts her heart.
If gods cou’d once more live again,
And eye the Clara of our day,
Their very souls would burst with pain,
And sigh alas! for death’s decay.
Ye virtuous youth who search for worth,
And look with hate on idle mirth,
Direct your steps where Clara lives,
And you may get what virtue gives.
LUCIUS.
PINE-STREET, June 28th, 1796.
* * * * *
* * * *
[[For sources, see the end of the second installment.]]
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTONY.
+From the French.+
_BY MATILDA._
While Anthony without the chance of arms,
Contemn’d by all, and lost to glory’s charms,
A woman’s signal leads across the wave,
To share the just derision of the brave:
I shudder at thy weakness and thy shame,
The price a worthless mistress pays thy flame;
Now Rome disowns thee--blushes to have borne
The power of him who fills the world with scorn;
O hero still belov’d, ere quite undone,
Recal the palms thy youthful valour won;
Recal those times, those actions, that applause,
That join’d the senate people in thy cause,
When Rome in Cæsar’s friend beheld him live,
And emulation all his worth revive.
Then judge, unhappy, of thy heart’s estate,
Thyself avenging Brutus’ hapless fate;
Betray’d by female arts to boast a flame,
That leads to thy misfortune and thy shame;
’Tis she that stifles all the warrior’s glow,
And tears the fading laurel from thy brow.
O husband mid thy weakness, still too dear
Are such the actions of a love sincere;
Grant but these lines with true affection fraught,
The calm indulgence of unbiass’d thought;
Does not remorse, even in some tender hour,
O’er thy fond soul extend her chilling power;
How oft do Rome and sad Octavia rise,
And glance reproaches to thy mental eyes;
Ah if ’tis so, and thy repentant soul
Has felt the salutary griefs controul,
Permit, at length permit this trembling hand,
To mention honour’s claim and love’s demand;
And if some crime thy just aversion draws,
Tell, only cruel, tell the hapless cause.
My brother all prepar’d, assum’d his arms,
When war between you kindled fierce alarms;
To reunite two heroes then became
Of me, the glorious and successful aim;
Your jarring int’rests in one point to blend,
And change each stern opponent to a friend;
Our marriage made--I hop’d to ratifie
Your union, and confirm the mutual tie.
Th’ Egyptian queen, her love, your weakness prov’d,
No apprehensions in my bosom mov’d.
Ev’n Cleopatra secretly defy’d,
I hop’d to humble guilty beauty’s pride,
And wish’d in loving thee, th’exalted fate,
To punish her, and greatly serve the state.
Rome sought, applauding, from my eyes to raise,
The pleasing prospect of serener days;
These glorious aims inflam’d my ardent breast,
And tender prepossession did the rest.
That happy day on which thy faith was giv’n,
Bestow’d dear Anthony, the joys of heaven!
What pomp, great Gods! and with what transport join’d
To sway the lords of Rome, and of mankind;
I dissipated rage and banish’d art,
And rul’d a brother’s and a husband’s heart.
Extinguish’d in her breast discordant hate,
And reign’d the sovereign of the Roman state.
A pardonable pride I dare confess,
That generous pride that only knows to bless;
The love of Cleopatra, her alarms,
Augmented both my triumphs and my charms.
The conqu’ror crown’d his conquest with repose,
And own’d the laws affection dar’d impose.
With war and with Octavia shar’d his life,
Augustus rivalled and ador’d his wife.
What did I say--That Rome which saw thee yield,
Was not to shew me a sufficient field,
Thou would’st, thy soul’s supreme content to prove,
Teach all mankind thy happiness and love;
T’admire Octavia ev’ry eye must join,
And render her more fair and dear to thine.
O days of splendour pass’d on Athen’s plains,
Where all things seem’d but to cement our chains,
That race by Mars and Pallas jointly crown’d,
Who arts diffuse to all the world around.
Witness’d my happiness so pure serene,
And press’d each day to ornament the scene.
Mild in my arms repos’d the warrior’s art,
Thy face expressive of thy tranquil heart;
No more proclaim’d a victor’s pride you knew,
And peaceful virtue gain’d your valour’s due;
That Athens, Rome, with envy view’d before,
A Roman countenance embellish’d more.
(_To be concluded in our next._)
* * * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
PITY.
Come, gentle pity, sooth my breast,
Pity, thou attribute divine,
Come softly lull my heart to rest,
And with my tears O mingle thine.
How sweet is sympathising grief,
How grateful to the breast of woe,
From sorrow’s pangs we find relief
In tears that from sweet pity flow.
Thus sighing to the passing gale,
Or wand’ring o’er the rugged steep,
Oft have I told my mournful tale,
And wept my sorrows in the deep.
Few are my days, yet full of pain
I sorrowing tread life’s devious way,
No hopes my weary steps sustain,
My grief, alas! finds no allay.
See yonder rose that withering lies,
Lost are the beauties of its form,
Torn from its fost’ring stem it dies,
A victim to the ruthless storm.
How fair it shone at early morn,
How lovely deck’d in verdant pride,
It blush’d luxuriant on the thorn,
And shed its sweets on ev’ry side.
How fair the morning of my day,
Now chang’d, alas! to horrid gloom,
My joys are fled, far, far away,
And buried lie in Anna’s tomb.
C. S. Q.
New-York, June 28, 1796.
NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every
Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and
Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are
taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9,
Maiden-Lane._
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
_UTILE DULCI._
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, July 13, 1796.+ [+No. 54.+
_+Description+ of the famous SALT MINES at +Williska+ in +Poland+._
(Concluded from page 1.)
At the bottom of the last ladder the stranger is received in a small
cavern, walled up, perfectly close on all sides. To encrease the terror
of the scene, it is usual for the guide to pretend the utmost terror on
the apprehension of his lamp going out, declaring they must perish in
the mazes of the mine if it did. When arrived in this dreary chamber, he
puts out his light as if by accident, and after much cant, catches the
stranger by the hand, and drags him through a narrow creek into the body
of the mine, when there bursts at once upon his view, a world, the
lustre of which is scarce to be imagined. It is a spacious plain,
containing a whole people, a kind of subterraneous republic, with
houses, carriages, roads, &c. This is wholly scooped out of one vast bed
of salt, which is all a hard rock, as bright and glittering as crystal;
and the whole space before him is formed of lofty arched vaults,
supported by columns of salt, and roofed and floored with the same, so
that the columns, and indeed the whole fabric, seem composed of the
purest crystal.
They have many public lights in this place continually burning for the
general use, and the blaze of those reflected from every part of the
mine, gives a more glittering prospect than any thing above ground can
possibly exhibit. Were this the whole beauty of the spot, it were
sufficient to attract our wonder; but this is but a small part. The salt
(though generally clear and bright as crystal) is in some parts tinged
with all the colours of precious stones, as blue, yellow, purple, and
green; there are numerous columns wholly composed of these kinds, and
they look like masses of rubies, emeralds, amethysts, and sapphires,
darting a radiance which the eye can hardly bear, and which has given
many people occasion to compare it to the supposed magnificence of
heaven.
Besides the variegated forms of these vaults, tables, arches, and
columns, which are formed as they dig out the salt for the purpose of
keeping up the roof, there is a vast variety of others, grotesque and
finely figured, the work of nature, and these are generally of the
purest and brightest salt.
The roofs of the arches are in many places full of salt, hanging pendant
from the top in the form of icicles, and having all the hues and colours
of the rainbow; the walks are covered with various congelations of the
same kind, and the very floors, when not too much trodden and battered,
are covered with globules of the same sort of beautiful materials.
In various parts of this spacious plain stand the huts of the miners and
families, some standing single, and others in clusters like villages.
They have very little communication with the world above ground, and
many hundreds of people are born, and live all their lives here.
Through the midst of this plain lies the great road to the mouth of the
mine. This road is always filled with carriages loaded with masses of
salt out of the farther part of the mine, and carrying them to the place
where the rope belonging to the wheel receives them. The drivers of
these carriages are all merry and singing, and the salt looks like a
load of gems. The horses kept here are a very great number, and when
once let down, they never see the day-light again; but some of the men
take frequent occasions of going up and breathing the fresh air. The
instruments principally used by the miners are pick-axes, hammers, and
chissels: with these they dig out the salt in forms of huge cylinders,
each of many hundred weight. This is found the most convenient method of
getting them out of the mine, and as soon as got above ground, they are
broken into smaller pieces, and sent to the mills, where they are ground
to powder. The finest sort of the salt is frequently cut into toys, and
often passes for real crystal. This hard kind makes a great part of the
floor of the mine, and what is most surprising of all in the whole place
is, that there runs constantly over this, and through a large part of
the mine, a spring of fresh water, sufficient to supply the inhabitants
and their horses, so that they need not have any from above ground. The
horses usually grow blind after they have been some little time in the
mine, but they do as well for service afterwards as before. After
admiring the wonders of this amazing place, it is no very comfortable
remembrance to the stranger, that he is to go back again through the
same dismal way he came.
[[Sources:
Earlier publication: “The New magazine of knowledge concerning Heaven
and Hell, and the Universal World of Nature” Vol. I, June 1790
Background: The Polish spelling is Wieliczka. The salt mines are
currently a major tourist attraction.]]
* * * * *
* * * *
THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.
_Translated from the French._
(Continued from page 3.)
How shall I describe my feelings at reading this letter! Oh, Julia!
cried I, lovely, adorable woman! Is it possible! O God! Can it be that I
have accused you of perfidy!--have done every thing in my power to
dishonour you!---have abandoned you! What! a heart so delicate, so
noble, did I once possess, and have I lost it! Oh misery! I might have
been the happiest of men; I am the most wretched. And can I, in my
present circumstances, accept the generous pardon thou offerest! O, no!
Better die than so debase myself! No, Julia, though thou mayest truly
accuse me of extravagance and injustice, thou never shalt have reason to
suspect me of meanness.
Streams of tears ran down my cheeks, while I reasoned thus. I wrote
twenty answers, and tore them all: at last I sent the following:
“I admire the noble manner of your proceeding, the sublimity of your
mind; and this excess of generosity is not incomprehensible _to me_.
Yes, I conceive all the self-satisfaction of saying, _All which the most
tender love can inspire, virtue alone shall make me perform._---But I
will not take advantage of its empire over you--Live free, be happy,
forget me.----Adieu! Julia---You have indisputably all the superiority
of reason over passion------and yet I have a heart, perhaps, not
unworthy of yours.”
With this letter I returned the twenty-four thousand livres, ordering it
to be told her, that the diamonds having been given at her marriage,
were undoubtedly her’s; and having once received, she had no right to
force them back upon me.
I had now made a sacrifice the most painful; Julia had offered to
consecrate her life to me, and I had renounced a happiness without which
there was neither happiness nor peace on earth for me. My grief,
however, was rather profound than violent; I had offered up felicity at
the altar of honour, and that idea, in some measure, supported me.
Besides, I did not doubt but my letter would prove to Julia that,
notwithstanding all my errors, I yet was worthy of her esteem. The hope
of exciting her pity, and especially her regret at parting from me,
again animated my heart: I supposed her relenting, and grieved, and the
supposition gave me a little ease.
I had lived about a fortnight retired in my lodging near the Luxembourg,
when I received an order to depart immediately, and join my regiment.
Peace had been declared near a year, and my regiment was in garrison two
hundred leagues from Paris. I was one of the most ignorant Colonels in
Europe; besides that I still secretly cherished the fond hope Julia was
not lost to me for ever; though I perfectly felt I could not recede, nor
could she make any further advances, yet I still flattered myself some
unforeseen event would again confer a blessing on me which I had never
sincerely renounced.
In fact, I could not resolve to quit Paris, and put the intolerable
space of two hundred leagues between me and Julia; I wrote therefore to
the minister, to obtain leave of absence, which was refused me, and I
instantly threw up my commission.
Thus did I quit the service at five-and-twenty, and thus did passion and
folly direct my conduct in all the most important events of life.
This last act of extravagance was the cause of great vexation to me; it
increased and completed the difference between me and my Uncle, who was
previously very angry with me for rashly separating from my wife: so
that I now found myself absolutely forsaken by every person in the world
whom most I loved.
At first, indeed, I did not feel the horror of my situation, being
solely occupied by one idea, which swallowed up all the rest. I wished
to see Julia once more. I imagined, if I could but find any means of
appearing suddenly and unexpectedly before her, I should revive some
part of the affection she formerly had for me. But I could not ask for
her at the convent; for what had I to say? She never went out, and her
apartment was in the interior part of the house; how then could I come
to the sight of her?
I had a valet, who happened to be acquainted with a cousin of one of the
Tourieres†. I spoke to this man, and got him to give me a letter for his
cousin the Touriere, in which I was announced as one of his friends, and
steward to a country lady, who wanted to send her daughter to a convent.
[† A kind of female runner or turnkey to a convent.]
Accordingly, at twilight, I wrapped myself up in a great coat, put on an
old slouched hat, and went to the convent. The Touriere was exactly such
a person as I wished; that is, she was exceedingly talkative and
communicative. At first I put some vague questions to her, and
afterwards said, my mistress was not absolutely determined to send her
daughter to a convent; whence I took occasion to ask if they had many
boarders.
Oh yes, replied she, and married women too, I assure you. Here my heart
beat violently, and she, with a whisper, a smile, and an air of secrecy,
added----You must know, Sir, it is this very convent that incloses the
beautiful Madame de la Paliniere, of whom you have certainly heard so
much.
Yes---yes---I have---She is a charming woman.
Charming! Oh beautiful to a degree! It is a great pit!---but it is to be
hoped God will grant her the gift of repentance.
Repent! of what?
Sir!----Yes, yes, Sir, it is plain enough you are just come from the
country, or you could not ask such a question. So you don’t know!
I have heard she had a capricious unjust husband, but--------
Oh yes! That to be sure she had; every body talks of his folly and
brutality, but that will not excuse her conduct. I hear every thing, and
can assure you she is here much against her inclination; nay, she would
not have come, had she not dreaded an order for imprisonment.
Imprisonment! Oh! heavens!
Not for her good behaviour, as you may suppose. Why she is neither
suffered to go out, nor see any person whatever, except her nearest
relations. Oh! she leads a very melancholy life! You may well think, our
Nuns won’t have any communication with a wife false to her husband’s
bed. The very Boarders will not look at her; every body avoids her as
they would infection. God forgive her! she must do penance yet: but
instead of that, she is playing upon the harpsichord all day long; is as
fresh as a rose, and looks better every day: she must be stubborn in
sin.
And does not she seem sorrowful?
Not at all; her woman says, she never saw her so contented; for my own
part, I am charitable, and hope she may yet be reclaimed, for she has
not a bad heart; she is generous and charitable; and yet she has
insisted upon having all her fortune restored, and has left her husband
in absolute want. You will tell me he is mad and foolish, has ruined
himself nobody knows how, and has just suffered the disgrace of being
degraded in the army. I own they have taken away his commission: yes, he
has lost his regiment; but yet, I say, a husband is a husband. The poor
man wrote to her about a month since to beg her assistance, but no! she
told him plainly, no! ’Tis very hard though!---I have all these things
from the best authority; I don’t talk by hearsay; I have been fifteen
years in this house, and, I thank my God, nobody could ever say I was a
tatler, or a vender of scandal.
The Touriere continued at her own ease praising herself; I had not the
power of interruption left. She was loudly called for, kept talking all
the way she went, and in a few minutes returned.
It was the relation of a young Novice who takes the veil to-morrow, that
wanted me, said she. Ah! now; there; there is a true convert! A call of
grace! Gives fifty thousand francs (2083l. sterling) to the convent! You
ought to see the ceremony: our Boarders will all be there, and you can
take a peep through the church window.
At what o’clock will it begin?
Three in the afternoon. The Novice is as beautiful as an angel, and is
only twenty. Had she not lost her lover and her father in the same year,
the would never have attended to the blessed inspiration of the Spirit.
How good Providence is to us! Her father died first, and her lover, who
was imprisoned at Saumur, about five months after, of a broken heart, as
it is thought.
What was his name? cried I, in an agony not to be described.
The Marquis of Clainville, replied the Touriere, and our novice is
called Mademoiselle d’Elbene.
This last sentence went with inexpressible torture to my heart. I rose
suddenly, and ran out with an exclamation that threw the Touriere into
astonishment and terror.
Arrived at my lodgings, I threw myself upon the sopha, penetrated, torn,
and confounded at all that I had heard. The veil was rent away, the
illusion passed, I knew at length the extent of my misery; saw to what a
point my extravagant conduct had stained my wife’s reputation; felt how
impossible it was for this innocent victim of my destruction truly to
pardon the injury I had done her, by destroying the most precious thing
a woman possesses; and owned, that the unjust contempt with which the
world treated her, ought incessantly to reanimate her resentment against
me its author. To her virtue alone could I now attribute her generous
manner of acting.
In fact from the account given by the Touriere, it was evident that
Julia, consoled by the testimony of a good conscience, was resigned to
her fate, and lived at peace; which she could not continue to do, but by
burying my memory in eternal oblivion.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *
ON GOD’S PROVIDENCE IN THE FORMATION OF HIS CREATURES.
When God created man he endowed him with certain principles of action,
which distinguished him from the animal or brute creation.---It is a
question which involves in it much disquisition and philosophy, whether
men were aboriginally white, black, or brown; but the popular opinion
with us seems to be, that all men were radically white. We see around us
on the face of nature, people of various complexions, some of whom are
the sons of science and education; others beclouded by the chilling
mists of profound ignorance: Those, however, that are more enlightened
presumptuously advance in the face of truth, that they alone are
favoured mortals, because of their superiority in the knowledge of
things.---Fallacious reasoning!---God is an equal providence, his
endowments are not partial but universal. He has given all men equal
abilities, which time and circumstance have rendered more conspicuous in
some; and if the same opportunities, the same education, the same
youthful care and social intercourse had been extended to all---_all_
would have been equally conspicuous. The sons of Ethiopia would vie with
the ablest of mankind, we should blush to call them slaves, and attach
to their reputation a more becoming appellation. Were I to argue from
other deductions, I should justly be accused of an attempt to argue a
defect in the God of nature---impossible!---It may not be improper here
to ask the ingenious advocates for opposite principles, what grounds
they rest their theory upon. Alive to the feelings of sensibility, with
reluctance I anticipate their answer: “_Appearances are the criterions
by which we judge!_” Generous Deity! is a whole nation to be imposed
upon and bear the shackles of ignominious bondage, because there is an
external difference of appearances? I shudder at concomitant
reflections! and must suspend the inquiry with deploring their miserable
condition if they ever consult their consciences.
LUCIUS.
PINE-STREET, June 28, 1796.
* * * * *
* * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
IF A STORY BE NOT GOOD, SAY ‘TIS A DUTCH ONE.--ERASMUS.
_A Good Name_ is better than _precious Ointment_----SOLOMON.
’Tis certainly a strange and a ludicrous sentiment--there appears to be
such a contrast in the objects--I presume, in former days, ointments
were in greater estimation than at present---for it seems to have been
as currently talked of as _bank bills_ with us.---I recollect his
father’s wonderful conception, that love and unity were similar to the
_precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even
Aaron’s beard that went down to the skirts of his garments._---I cannot
conjecture the reason for their prizing it so highly:---Is this the
ointment or oil, pray, that made their kings? Well, admitting it
is,---why should it be set along side a _good name_.---We lessen the
importance of the noble object by placing it with a trivial one----The
fact is, I believe, Solomon said it because he happened to hear it (like
many other things) at home. Does there need much inspiration to raise so
noble a thought?---What if he said, a good name is better than _300
wives and 700 concubines_---would it not have made an admirable sound
indeed? Yes, how striking it would have been, had he only said, ’tis
better than 1000 stalls of horses---how some _penetrating diving old
gentlemen_ would have eyed it thro’ their spectacles.---But such
_trivial things_ as a _few_ wives, concubines, or horses extra did not
pop into his mind just then. When I recollect how far the Queen of the
South came to _see_ his wisdom, and that, in fact, he was acknowleged
able to distinguish and divide a hair twixt south and south-west
side---I must blush and confess it folly and presumption to _smile_ at
him---though I had nothing else to do and cannot sleep;---but truly it
would have read so handsomely to me had it been a _good name_ is better,
far better, (understand me right,) than the best of _gingerbread_.
R. G. W.
* * * * *
EFFECT OF MUSIC.
(From a London Paper.)
The effect of music on the senses was oddly and wonderfully verified,
during the mourning for the late DUKE of CUMBERLAND: A taylor had a
great number of black suits, which were to be finished in a very short
space of time---among his workmen, there was a fellow who was always
singing _Rule Britannia_, and the rest of the journeymen joined in the
chorus.---The taylor made his observations, and found that the slow time
of his tune retarded the work, in consequence, he engaged a blind fidler
and placing him near the workshop, made him play constantly the lively
tune of _Nancy Dawson_.---The design had the proper effect---the taylors
elbows moved obedient to the melody, and the clothes were sent home
within the prescribed period.
* * * * *
OBSERVATION.
It is ungenerous to give a man occasion to blush at his own ignorance in
one thing, who perhaps may excel us in many.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION.
_OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.
_Translated from the German of Tschink._
(Continued from page 6.)
“But, my Lord,” he continued, folding his hands, “will you be able to
pardon the manifold injuries which you have received from me, if I can
convince you that I have been only the tool of greater impostors.”
“Speak frankly and without reserve! I will forgive you every thing.”
“My Lord!---you are in dreadful hands. That _Unknown_---”
“Who is he?” I interrupted him impatiently.
“_Who_ he is, I do not know! as sure as I am going to appear before the
omniscient searcher of hearts, I do not know it. He always has observed
the greatest secrecy on that head. ‘I am who I am!’ he always replied,
when I questioned him on that point, ‘and I never am what I seem to be!’
Three days before you made your first appearance at the castle of the
Countess, he came late at night to the gate, disguised as a beggar, and
enquired for me. Supposing that he wanted alms, I gave him a piece of
money. He raised a loud laughter, whilst he took a handful of ducats out
of his pocket, and put them in mine. ‘This is only a prelude to what I
am going to do for you,’ said he, without paying the least regard to my
astonishment, ‘if you will assist me in executing a plan which I have
formed, without betraying our connection to the Countess.’ ‘And what
plan is it?’ ‘It is a very innocent one,’ he replied, ‘I wish to work
some miracles in the castle, and should be glad if you would assist me.
‘For what purpose?’ ‘I want to make two people happy,’ was his reply,
‘the Countess, and a young nobleman, who will arrive within three days.
The Countess abandons herself too much to her grief, on account of her
deceased husband, and I know no better means to cure her of it, than to
banish the dead husband from her heart by a living lover. As a mediator
between the Countess and the young nobleman, I must render myself
important to both, and for that purpose I must work miracles; if I
succeed in getting the sway over their understanding, then I shall
easily make myself master of their hearts.’ He then asked me whether he
could rely on me, and if the rest of the servants could not be gained by
money? I assured him of my readiness to serve him, and promised to
attempt the latter, in which I succeeded. My fellow servants were easily
bribed, because they were persuaded that it was a laudable, or at least
an innocent undertaking in which they were to be engaged. The cheat
which was to be played on you and the Countess was believed to be
innocent, as it appeared to be a means of gaining a salutary purpose. To
be brief, I informed the _Unknown_ the day following, that all of us
were firmly determined to assist him in the execution of his plan;
a resolution which he again rewarded with a handful of ducats.
“As soon as the Countess was gone to bed, I introduced the generous
stranger to my fellow servants. He soon convinced us that he was no
stranger in the castle; for he knew every apartment, and every corner.
‘I was acquainted with the Prince of Ge**,’ he said, ‘the former
possessor of the castle. He was extremely fond of physic, and chemistry,
and his great skill in these sciences procured him publicly, the name of
a man of great learning, and privately that of a sorcerer. His rank
protected him against the fate which would have been the portion of
every body else, if suspected of sorcery. He built the castle in this
forest, in order to indulge here, without being interrupted by intruding
visitors, his inclination for physical and chemical operations, by means
of which he frightened many uninvited guests out of the castle. The most
extraordinary tricks he played in the last room, on the first floor,
which is connected by means of a machine, with a secret apartment on the
ground floor. The latter having neither a door or windows, has very
likely not yet been discovered by any of the inhabitants of the castle.’
This is really the case. The _Unknown_ demanded a candle, and requested
us to follow him. He led us to a wall which we never had noticed. There
he took a stone out of the floor, put his arm into the opening, and
pushed a part of the wooden wall back. We followed him through the
aperture of a small room, where we instantly beheld the machine of which
we had been speaking. It consisted of a strong spring, which was
connected with a large wooden cone, fitted in the ceiling, and fastened
by a bolt. As soon as the bolt was pushed back, and somebody placed
himself on the cone in the upper apartment, the spring was pressed down
and the person sunk into the lower apartment, between four posts, in the
joints of which the cone was sliding down. However as soon as one jumped
from the cone, the spring made it snap back by the elastic force into
its former place. In order to convince us of it, the _Unknown_ mounted
up to the ceiling upon a ladder which was in the room, and suspended
some heavy weights to hooks which were fastened to the under part of the
cone, which made it slide down as soon as he removed the bolt, and was
forced up again into its former place, by the elastic force of the
spring, as soon as he had taken away the weights. This machine could not
be perceived in the upper apartment, the floor of which consisted of
cubical squares, resembling in form, colour and position, the moveable
cone to which they seemed to be closely joined.
“Besides this machine, he shewed us a crooked tube, which was fixed to
the ceiling, and reached down to the middle of the room. This tube, said
the _Unknown_, is in communication with the wall of the upper apartment
where it ends in the open jaw of one of the four lions which are
standing in the corner of that room. By means of that tube, one cannot
only hear very distinctly in this room what is spoken in the upper
apartment, but one hears equally distinctly what one speaks here,
without suspecting from whence the voice proceeds. You know, my lord,
from your own experience how well the _Unknown_ knew how to render these
machines serviceable to his plan.
“Before the _Unknown_ left the castle, he asked me in what apartment the
Countess was used to receive strangers? ‘In the room,’ I replied,
‘contiguous to that in the floor of which the moveable cone is
fixed.’--He left us with visible marks of satisfaction.
“The next day he came again to the castle, and meeting me at the gate,
exclaimed in accents of joy, ‘To-morrow already we must begin to work
miracles. I have invented a plan which cannot miscarry. The young
nobleman will come to the castle to-night. Place some lights in the
windows of the upper and lower apartments, that he may find his way to
the castle, and order the gates to be opened without delay, as soon as
you hear him ring the bell. The Countess, who will be gone to bed by
that time, cannot see him before to-morrow morning. When you shall have
introduced him to her, then you must return to her apartment, after a
short interval and deliver this box and the note which I am going to
give you, into the hands of the Countess. If you are asked who has
brought it, describe me as you have seen me the first time I came to the
castle gate. The young nobleman will be desirous to see and to speak to
me, but you must tell him that I had left the castle after the box and
the note had been delivered. He will order you to pursue me without
delay; however, I will save you that trouble, for I shall stay at the
castle, and surrender to you as soon as you shall want me. Keep some
cords ready, which must be cut asunder and slightly sewn again together.
With these cords you must tie me, and charge some of the servants to
conduct me to the Countess, pretending that I had refused obstinately to
return. Then I shall tear the cords asunder, fly into the adjoining
room, and bolt the door after me. Meanwhile you must expect me in the
lower apartment and unfasten the bolt beneath the cone, that I may sink
down as soon as I shall get upon the latter. When the cone shall have
snapt back into its former place, you must be ready to fasten it by
means of the bolt. When the Countess and her guest, impatient to seize
me, shall force open the door and find the room empty, they will fancy
me to be a supernatural being, not being acquainted with the secret of
the machine.’
“You know my Lord, how punctually and successfully this design has been
put into execution. An accident was the cause of a second more important
plan, the execution of which has not been less successful. The
_Unknown_, who after his disappearance was listening attentively, in the
secret chamber, heard among other discourses, by means of the tube, the
prayer which the Countess addressed to him on account of the apparition
of her deceased Lord. He reflected a few minutes on the possibility of
granting it, and promised to satisfy her wishes. The tube was the
channel through which the _Unknown_ conveyed his answer to the
Countess.”
Seized with astonishment at Paleski’s narration, and impatient to hear
its continuation, I had not interrupted him once; but now I could not
refrain any longer from speaking. “Then Amelia is really innocent?”
I exclaimed, “and was not privy to the artifices of the _Unknown?_”
“Not in the least!” Paleski replied, “as I wish to be saved! The
Countess is innocent; she has been deceived as well as your Lordship,
and probably her faith in the supernatural power of the _Unknown_, is
still as firm as it was then.”
This declaration lessened my anger at having been deceived in so
villainous a manner, I begged Paleski to continue his account.
“Does your Lordship recollect all the particulars of the apparition
scene?”
“Yes! I do.”
“Well, then I will explain it to you. On the day previous to the magical
farce, the _Unknown_ told me that he had gained over to our party the
brother-in-law of the Countess, who had arrived lately, in order to
surprise Amelia unexpected, and promised to act the part of the ghost--”
“Impossible!” I exclaimed, “you must be mistaken. At least you are not
speaking of Count Clairville?”
“Yes the very same person who is at present your travelling companion.”
A chilly tremor thrilled through my whole frame; my mind measured with a
look of horror the time past and present. I beheld myself in the power
of two men, one of whom had imposed upon my heart by means of the mask
of sincere friendship, and the other upon my understanding, by
displaying a shew of pretended supernatural powers, and both of whom
were leagued to work upon my credulity, and to make me run into the
greatest dangers.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
A PRODIGY.
The well-known Mr. George, son to the French governor of St. Domingo,
realised all the accomplishments attributed by Boyle and others,
particularly the adventurer, to the admirable Crichton of the Scotch. He
was so superior at the sword, that there was an edict of the parliament
of Paris to make his engagement in any duel actual death. He was the
first dancer in the world. He played upon seven different instruments of
music beyond the most artists. He spoke twenty-six languages, and could
maintain public theses in each. He walked round the various circles of
human science like the master of each: and strange to be mentioned to
whitemen, he was a Mulatto, and the son of an African mother.
* * * * *
GREATNESS.
Greatness conveys so fugitive an idea, that there is no holding it long
enough to make a definition: it is like a sun-beam reflected from water,
playing upon the walls of an apartment: it gives a momentary splendor to
the spot where it falls, and flies away to another and another, but to
which it belongs we cannot determine, so as to say it deserves
distinction.
* * * * *
* * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *
REFLECTIONS.
_Occasioned by the very sudden death of Miss MARY BLACKBOURN,
who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796._
“Record her worth.”
HARVEY.
Twenty years are now complete since America burst the shackles of
despotism--pleasures sat smiling on every cheek upon the review of our
glorious revolution.--Every freeman’s heart seemed inspired with
enthusiastic ardour to imitate those brave veterans, who forsook the
dear ties of family connection to defend their country’s rights, who
sacrificed their lives in the glorious cause of liberty. The return of
the day was commemorated with heartfelt joy; and amongst a number who
were to celebrate the birth of Independence, was one (a female) who had
promised herself the pleasure of joining with them. But, alas! how
fleeting is the happiness we fondly picture to ourselves. At one moment
we appear to have arrived at the very summit of earthly bliss, and at
the next we are plunged by cruel fate into the lowest abyss of misery.
O! ye who are sporting in the joys of youth, who are figuring to
yourselves the many happy days you, no doubt, expect to see for years to
come! who have never taken into consideration that solemn truth that you
are born but to die; that your life is like a vapour; that the present
hour you can scarcely call your own--it is you I now call upon to read
this with attention, to consider that like yourselves MARIA was in the
full bloom of youth, health, and beauty--yes, she was in possession of
all these, but one hour before her dissolution, and bid fair to live as
long as you--Sudden was her departure; in the space of a few minutes how
changed the scene!--She whose conversation just before, was wont to
inspire every hearer with emulation, lay stretched before our eyes a
senseless corpse.--Reflect, kind reader! O seriously reflect on your
visionary state of happiness! you are formed of the same materials! it
is the same air your breath!----yes! and a similar narrow cell you must
also inhabit, and that perhaps shortly too!---It is impossible for you
to say that you expect length of days, because you are in full
possession of health, as the very next moment may prove how deceitful
your expectations were.
O shade of departed innocence, where is it thou dost now inhabit?----art
thou one of those that surround the dazzling throne of Nature’s God, and
employed in adoring the great I AM? It was surely for some wise purpose
that Jehovah snatched thee from us. Perhaps he saw the evils to which
thou wouldst have been exposed by a longer stay, and therefore thought
it expedient to translate thee to a better world.
O death! O thou cruel leveller of man! O thou fell tyrant of our race!
O thou king of terrors! why couldst thou not for once have deviated from
thy accustomed mode of procedure? Why couldst thou not have passed this
fair flower and attacked the couch of feeble age? Methinks thy haggard
cheek was never bathed with the tear of pity, or here certainly thou
wouldst have relented.
O thou great Supreme! O Lord of life and glory, teach us to be resigned
to our loss! may we never murmur at the dispensations of thy Providence,
but may we learn in every trial to be content---and when death shall
summon us hence may it be to never-fading worlds.
MELPOMENUS.
New-York, July 8, 1796.
* * * * *
For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.
* * *
+On JEALOUSY.+
Of all the passions which disturb the human mind, there is none more
pernicious in its quality, or more dreadful in its consequences, than
that of jealousy: it is looked upon, indeed, as the most certain proof
of a strong and violent affection; yet it is such a proof as no one
would wish to experience, since the beloved object is the greatest
sufferer of the parties, by having to partake with his own, under
conscious innocence, a large share in the unmerited sufferings of
others.
MARS.
New-York, July 8, 1796.
* * * * *
_NEW-YORK._
* * *
MARRIED,
On Thursday evening by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Captain TIMOTHY DORGAN, to
Miss SALLY JONES, both of this city.
The 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. EDWARD BLACKFORD, merchant, of
this city, to the agreeable Miss HANNAH MURRAY, daughter of James
Murray, late of this city, but now of Newark.
On Monday last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. SAMUEL CURIEA, to Miss SALLY
BOWEN, both of Providence.
* * * * *
[->] _TO CORRESPONDENTS._
The answer of ORLANDO to MELPOMENUS, has been received, but as we deem
the subject uninteresting, and as personal animosity, seemed to
predominate over that coolness which should be observed in discussion,
we think it better to drop the subject----The THREE CORNERED HAT, by
TYRUNCULUS, is received and shall be attended to.
* * * * *
_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 3d to the 9th inst._
_Days of the Month._
_Thermometor observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
_Prevailing winds._
_OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._
deg. deg. deg. 8. 1. 6. 8. 1. 6.
100 100 100
JULY 3 72 74 72 SW. S. do. clear cloudy do.
4 72 80 78 E. S. do. cloudy clear do.
5 72 81 79 50 S. do. do. foggy clear do.
6 80 50 87 50 79 S. SW. do. clear. do. do
7 76 75 84 75 83 SW NW SW clear do. do.
8 80 88 79 W. do. S clear do. cloudy
9 76 85 80 N. W. NW. clear do. do.
* * * * *
* * * *
LINES
_Occasioned by the Death of Miss MARY BLACKBOURN,
who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796._
“Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernæ crastina summæ
“Tempora Di superi?”
HORACE.
Attend, ye thoughtless!--Hear, ye young and gay!
Who chearly pass the buxom hours away;
And let reflection for a while prevail,
While the sad Muse unfolds her mournful tale:
In pensive strains her solemn numbers flow,
And shew the vanity of all below.
The day that mark’d, in majesty sublime.
The greatest epoch in the rounds of time,
Since hymning angels, in exalted lays,
Proclaim’d _salvation_ to our ruin’d race,
Began the east with radiance to adorn,
And joy and gladness usher’d in the morn;
Each heart exulted, every bosom glow’d;
Great _Liberty_ inspir’d the son’rous ode;
And while the flame through every patriot burn’d,
Responsive echo _Liberty_ return’d.
Now sportive youths in jovial bands combin’d,
Tn social converse to unbend the mind;
While ruddy nymphs, flush’d with unusual charms,
That rouz’d the kindling breast with sweet alarms,
To tuneful airs sung the harmonious lay,
And swell’d the acclamations of the day.
Among the rest, with inoffensive glee,
MARIA joy’d th’ auspicious morn to see:
A lovely virgin, a young charming maid,
In youthful bloom and modesty array’d;
Whose gentle soul ne’er knew the dangerous ways;
Where innocence in paths of error drays:
But in the spotless school of virtue taught,
No other pattern for her conduct sought.
Thus undefil’d the graceful fair one grew,
“Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew.”
But lo! while she no fell disaster fear’d,
And to receive her welcome guests prepar’d;
When each warm transport in her breast reviv’d,
The grisly messenger of _death_ arriv’d:
In his cold arms embrac’d the helpless maid,
And number’d her for ever with the dead.
Oh! matchless _cruelty!_ Thou haggard foe!
Grim king of terrors! Ghastly prince of woe!
Virtue immaculate thus to requite!
And on the innocent to wreak thy spite!
To blast the rose just op’ning into bloom,
And hide its faded glories in the tomb!
O! could I touch, with sympathetic smart,
The tender feelings of the melting heart;
Then would I long on the dire subject dwell,
And the sad verse with gloomy numbers swell:
But ’tis not mine,--I must the task forego,
And let the gushing tear in silence flow.
Rest then, thou gentle spirit, rest in peace;
All jarring _passions_ now for ever cease;
No more shall _sickness_ thy soft frame invade;
And _grief_ and _pain_ eternally are fled,
Ere long thy friends, who now thy fate deplore,
Will follow thee and be beheld no more;
And the young hand that pays this tribute, must
Lie down in death, and mingle with the dust.
ETHICUS.
NEW-YORK _July 7, 1796_.
[[The quoted line “Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew”
is from Falconer, _The Shipwreck_, 1762.]]
* * * * *
* * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTONY.
+From the French.+
_BY MATILDA._
(Concluded from page 8.)
Too fleeting moments! now succeed your flight,
Ambitious rivals rise in hostile fight;
Thou fly’st me--fast thy rapid vessel flies,
Snatch’d from my eager, my expiring eyes;
From that dread moment, sad presage and care,
Brood in my heart, my fortitude impair;
My fear of Cleopatra’s pow’r renews,
Thy former passion, trembling mem’ry views;
O rise ye winds! and in the deeps below,
Plunge ev’ry bark t’avenge a lover’s woe;
Th’ingrate whose crimes no more deserve the light,
Death, and the furious pangs of love requite!
Or ah! at least the fatal fleet detain,
From the curs’d region of my rival’s reign
The winds, (ye Gods, I fruitlessly implore!)
Already land thee on that hateful shore;
The haughty fair I see, with smiles approve
The pow’rful influence of her captive love;
I see thee adulate her treach’rous charms,
And boast my suff’rings, cruel, in her arms;
And when enfeebling transports long controul,
To languid indolence resigns thy soul;
She comes in all her secret arts array’d,
Augments her charms by grief’s deceitful aid;
Affects the tenderness of pensive thought,
A mind with doubt and apprehension fraught;
And with her treach’rous sighs and feign’d distress,
Revives the passion lost in calm success;
’Tis thus, that mingling caprices and tears,
Her form still new, still unimpair’d appears;
Thou court’st the error that obscures thy mind,
And think’st thou’rt happy, when thou art but blind.
What strange excess of folly could delight,
When a base triumph dignified thy flight?
A Roman chief assuming Bacchus’ name,
Thro’ Alexandria, publishes his shame;
In these low arts can I that hero view,
Who once in Rome far different triumphs knew.
Ah! fruitless pains, requited with disdain,
The charms of Egypt all thy soul detain;
In her gay garden, of umbrageous grove,
The Field of War and Fame no more can move.
On flowers reclining in luxurious state,
Rest Cæsar’s friend, the avenger of his fate;
While to Octavia sunk in hapless grief,
No spouse, no titles, yield a kind relief:
Rome views my hapless fate with pitying eye,
Fain from her sight, from all mankind I’d fly:
Despair consumes me--and with calm delight,
Thy hate forbids thy palace to my flight.
To all Marcellus’ tears and mine proclaim,
Even to Augustus mingled grief and shame;
That infant feels my tears, with fond desire
To sooth my sorrows, prattles of his sire;
Thy cruel mandates all have seen obey’d,
A trophy to thy guilty flame I’m made;
In our misfortunes dost thou pleasure find,
Can grief and joy at once possess thy mind;
But if thy worthless heart more outrage give,
I ought to warn thee, long thou wilt not live:
I speak as wife, I speak as Roman too,
Rome daily loses her respect for you;
The child, she says, that own’d my fost’ring care,
Thus with a foreigner his life to share,
And give the sun to see amidst our arms
A stranger Queen display her haughty charms;
Our veteran’s to her dastard courts confin’d,
Our standards wave, to love-devices join’d;
Shall these dishonours vile be calmly borne,
Till all the universe regards with scorn;
No: when a Roman proves unworthy breath,
Abridge his shame, or give him instant death.
The people warm, the senate join applause,
Thy crime due vengeance even to Syria draws;
Augustus’ rage, the just intent pursues,
T’ avenge a sister, and a rival lose.
Ah! yet regard the impending danger near,
Hear glory’s call, that glory once so dear;
Return to crown Octavia’s constant love,
No fierce reproaches thou from her shalt prove;
Though beauty’s transient charms no more you see,
Those charms, lamented husband, fled with thee;
The kindness of the wanderer I deplore,
Will to this form each banish’d grace restore:
Could I whom only I desire, retain,
Even Cleopatra’s eyes I’d wish to gain.
Thou sigh’st, I triumph----thy relenting soul
For glory form’d, and virtue’s blest controul,
Wilt for Marcellus take a father’s part,
For him sole solace of his mother’s heart.
----What do I say--when you, perhaps, even now
In Cleopatra’s arms my ruin vow;
Would to the gods! ah! would the Fates decree
That barbarous fair the lot ordain’d for me;
O may she fall betray’d, and as she dies,
View joy exulting in her lover’s eyes;
On her who poison’d all my bliss of life,
A cruel death avenge an injur’d wife.
So perish all who boast such dangerous arms,
Whom Nature ornaments with guilty charms;
To banish faith, conceal a vicious heart,
Or elevate caprice and fraud to art,
The despicable beauties, whose controul,
Destroys the seeds of honour in the soul;
Who glorying o’er illustrious slaves to reign,
Contrive each day to swell the inglorious train;
The blaze of beauty wrap in viewless gloom,
And dress with flow’rs their passage to the tomb.
Forgive this transport; yes, the keenest dart
Should pierce, had I the pow’r, that barb’rous heart.
For thee, dear Anthony, live ever blest,
No hostile vows from me thy peace molest.
May Rome behold thee, is my warmest pray’r,
Augustus’ rank and the world’s empire share:
While I descending to the realms beneath,
Not even the pang of one remorse bequeath.
NEW-YORK June 26, 1796.
[[Sources:
The French original _may_ be Nicolas Renouard, “Epitre (or Lettre)
d’Octavie a Marc-Antoine”.]]
* * * * *
FRAGMENT.
Pow’r, wealth, and beauty are a short-liv’d trust;
’Tis virtue only blossoms in the dust.
NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every
Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and
Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are
taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9,
Maiden-Lane._
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
_UTILE DULCI._
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, July 20, 1796.+ [+No. 55.+
[[For sources, see the end of the e-text.]]
_+Remarks+ on the +Wonderful Construction+ of the EYE._
The eye infinitely surpasses all the works of the industry of man. Its
formation is the most astonishing thing the human understanding has been
able to acquire a perfect knowledge of. The most skilful artist could
imagine no machine of that kind which would not be much inferior to what
we observe in the eye. Whatever sagacity or industry he might have, he
could execute nothing which would not have the imperfections necessarily
belonging to all the works of man. We cannot, it is true, perceive
clearly the whole art of divine wisdom in the formation of this fine
organ; but the little we do know is sufficient to convince us of the
infinite wisdom, goodness, and power of our Creator. The most essential
point is for us to make use of this knowledge, weak as it is, to magnify
the name of the Most High.
In the first place, the disposition of the external parts of the eye is
admirable. With what intrenchment, what defence, the Creator has
provided our eyes! They are placed in the head at a certain depth, and
surrounded with hard and solid bones, that they may not easily be hurt.
The eye-brows contribute also very much to the safety and preservation
of this organ. Those hairs which form an arch over the eyes, prevent
drops of sweat, dust, or such things, falling from the forehead into
them. The eye-lids are another security; and also, by closing in our
sleep, they prevent the light from disturbing our rest. The eye-lashes
still add to the perfection of the eyes. They save us from a too strong
light, which might offend us; and they guard us from the smallest dust,
which might otherwise hurt the sight. The internal make of the eye is
still more admirable. The whole eye is composed of coats, of humours, of
muscles, and veins. The tunica, or exterior membrane, which is called
_cornea_, is transparent, and so hard, that it can resist the roughest
shocks. Behind that there is another within, which they call _uvea_, and
which is circular and coloured. In the middle of it there is an opening,
which is called the _pupil_, and which appears black. Behind this
opening is the _crystal_, which is perfectly transparent, of a
lenticular figure, and composed of several little flakes very thin, and
arranged one over another. Underneath the crystal there is a moist and
transparent substance, which they call the _glassy humour_, because it
resembles melted glass. The cavity, or the hinder chamber, between the
cornea and the crystal, contains a moist humour, and liquid as water,
for that reason called the _watery humour_. It can recruit itself when
it has run out from a wound of the cornea. Six muscles, admirably well
placed, move the eye on all sides, raise it, lower it, turn it to the
right or left, obliquely, or round about, as occasion requires. What is
most admirable is the _retina_, a membrane which lines the inside bottom
of the eye. It is nothing but a web of little fibres extremely fine,
fastened to a nerve or sinew, which comes from the brain, and is called
the _optic nerve_. It is in the retina, that the vision is formed,
because the objects paint themselves at the bottom of the eye on that
tunica: and, though the images of exterior objects are painted upside
down on the retina, they are still seen in their true position. Now, in
order to form an idea of the extreme minuteness of this picture, we need
only consider, that the space of half a mile, that is to say, of more
than eleven hundred yards, when it is represented in the bottom of the
eye, makes but the tenth part of an inch.
I return thee thanks, O Lord God, for having formed my eye in so
wonderful a manner. My soul acknowledges thy infinite power, goodness,
and wisdom. Hitherto I had not considered my eyes as I should have done,
that is, as a master-piece of thy hands, and as a demonstrative proof,
that even the most minute parts of my body are not the work of chance,
and that thou hast formed them for most useful purposes.---_Surely I am
a faint image and likeness of THYSELF._
* * * * *
MAXIM.
The same energy of mind which urges to the noblest heights of
benevolence, and assists towards the sublimest attainments of genius,
may also, if not properly directed, hurry us on to the wildest
extravagances of passion, and betray into impetuosity and folly.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.
_Translated from the French._
(Continued from page 11.)
God of mercies! cried I, into what a frightful abyss have my passions
plunged me. Had I subdued jealousy, had I overcome my natural
impetuosity, my idleness and inclination for play, I should have enjoyed
a considerable fortune; should not have borne the inward and dreadful
reproach of effecting the death of a worthy young man, nor of being the
primary cause of the sacrifice which his unhappy mistress will make
to-morrow; I should have been the delight of a benefactor, an Uncle, who
at present justly thinks me ungrateful and incorrigible; and should not
cowardly, at five-and-twenty, have renounced the duty of serving my King
and country. Far from being an object of contempt and public censure,
I should have been universally beloved, and, in possession of the
gentlest, most charming, and most virtuous of women, should have had the
most faithful and amiable of friends, and moreover should have been a
father! Wretch, of what inestimable treasures had thou deprived thyself!
Now thou mayest wander, for ever, lonely and desolate over the peopled
earth! So saying, I cast my despairing eyes around, terrified as it were
at my own comfortless and solitary situation.
Buried in these reflections, my attention was rouzed by the sound of
hasty footsteps upon the stairs. My door suddenly opened, a man appeared
and ran towards me; I rose instinctively, advanced, and in an instant
found myself in the arms of Sinclair!
While he pressed me to his bosom I could not restrain my tears; his
flowed plentifully. A thousand contending emotions were struggling in my
heart; but excessive confusion and shame were most prevalent, and kept
me silent.
I was at the farther part of Poitou, my friend, said Sinclair, and knew
not till lately, how necessary the consolations of friendship were
become; besides, I wanted six months for my own affairs, that I might
afterward devote myself to you. I am just come from Fontainbleau, have
obtained leave of absence, and you may now dispose of me as you please.
Oh Sinclair! cried I, unworthy the title of your friend, I no longer
deserve, no more can enjoy the precious consolations which friendship so
pure thus generously offers: I am past help, past hope.
Not so, said he, again embracing me; I know thy heart, thy native
sensibility and noble mind: had I nothing but compassion to offer,
certain I could not comfort, I should have wept for and assisted thee in
secret; but thou wouldst not have seen me here. No; friendship inspires
and brings me hither, with a happy assurance I shall soften thy anguish.
Sinclair’s discourse not only awakened the most lively gratitude, but
raised me in my own esteem. In giving me back his friendship, he gave me
hopes of myself. I immediately opened my whole heart to him, and found a
satisfaction of which I had long been deprived, that of speaking without
disguise of all my faults, and all my sorrows. The melancholy tale was
often interrupted by my tears; and Sinclair, after hearing me with as
much attention as tenderness, raised his eyes to heaven and gave a deep
sigh.
Of what use, said he, are wit, sensibility of soul, or virtuous
dispositions, without those solid, those invariable principles which
education or experience alone can give! He who has never profited by the
lessons of others, can never grow wise but at his own expence, and is
only to be taught by his errors and misfortunes.
Sinclair then conjured me to leave Paris for a time, and travel; adding
that he would go with me, and pressed me to depart without delay for
Italy. I give myself up entirely to your guidance, said I; dispose of a
wretch who without your aid must sink beneath his load of misery.
Profiting accordingly by the temper in which he found me, he made me
give my word to set off in two days. The evening before my departure,
I wished once more to revisit the place where I had first beheld my
Julia. It was in the gardens of the Palais-Royal; but, ashamed of
appearing in public, I waited till it was dark. There was music there
that evening, and a great concourse of people; so hiding myself in the
most obscure part of the great alley, I sat down behind a large tree.
I had not sat long, before two men came and placed themselves on the
other tide of the tree. I instantly knew one of them, by the sound of
his voice, to be Dainval, a young coxcomb, without wit, breeding, or
principles; joining to ridiculous affectation of perpetual irony,
a pretension to think philosophically; laughing at every thing; deciding
with self-sufficiency; at once pedantic and superficial; speaking with
contempt of the best men and the most virtuous actions; and believing
himself profound by calumniating goodness.
Such was Dainval, a man whom I had believed my friend till the moment of
my ruin, and whose pernicious example and advice I had too often
followed. I was going to rise and remove, when the sound of my own name
awakened my curiosity, and I heard the following dialogue began by
Dainval:
“Oh yes, it is very certain he sets off to-morrow morning with Sinclair
for Italy.”
“How! is he reconciled to Sinclair?”
“The best friends on earth! Generosity on one side, repentance on the
other; mutual tenderness, tears, and tortures; prayers, pardons, and
pacifications. The scene was truly pathetic.”
“So there is not a word of truth in all the late town talk?”
“What, of their being rivals? Why should you think so?”
“Why, how is it possible that Sinclair should be so interested about a
man he had betrayed?”
“Ha! ha!----I do not pique myself much for finding reasons for other
men’s actions, though I do a little for the faculty of seeing things as
they are. Sinclair, still fond of Julia, would reconcile her to her
husband, in order to get her out of a convent again. The thing is
evident enough.”
“But wherefore then go to Italy?”
“To give the town time to forget the history of the picture and the
pocket book.”
“And yet there are many people who pretend the pocket-book was
Belinda’s.”
“A fable invented at leisure! The fact is, poor La Paliniere knew well
enough, previous to that discovery, how matters went, and had told what
he knew above a year before to whoever would listen.”
“Is he amiable, pray? What sort of a man is he?”
“Who? La Paliniere!--------A poor creature! talents excessively
confined; half stupid; no imagination; no resource; no character. At his
first coming into life he threw himself in my way, and I took him under
my tuition; but I soon saw it was labour in vain; could never make any
figure; a head ill turned; Gothic notions; trifling views; scarce common
sense; a Prodigal that gaped with confusion at the sight of a Creditor:
a Gamester, that prided himself on generosity and greatness of soul with
a dice-box in his hand; any man’s dupe; ruining himself without
enjoyment, and without eclat.”
“Have you seen him since his clash?”
“No; but I have burnt all our accounts; he’ll never hear of them more.”
“Did he owe you many play-debts?”
“Numberless. I have destroyed his notes; not that I brag of such things,
nor should I mention this to any body else, ’Tis a thing of course you
know with a man of spirit; though I would not have you speak of it.”
I could contain myself no longer at this last falsehood. Liar! cried I,
behold me ready to pay all I owe you; retire from this place, and I hope
to acquit myself.
“Faith, said Dainval, with a forced smile, I did not expect you just
now, I must confess. As to your cut-throat proposal, it is natural
enough for you; you have nothing to lose, but I must take another year
to complete my ruin: therefore, when you return from Italy, or
thereabouts, why we shall fight on equal terms.”
So saying, he ran off without waiting for a reply, and left me with too
much contempt for his cowardice to think of pursuit.
This then is the man, said I to myself, whom I once thought amiable, by
whose councils I have been often guided! What a depth of depravity! What
a vile and corrupted heart! Oh how hideous is vice when seen without a
veil! It never reduces but when concealed; and having ever a greater
proportion of impudence than of artifice, it soon or late will break the
brittle mask with which its true face is covered.
This last adventure furnished me with more than one subject for
reflection; it taught me how carefully those who prize their reputation,
ought to avoid making themselves the topic of public conversation, in
which the sarcasms of scandal are always most prevalent. The malicious
add and invent, and the foolish and the idle hear and repeat; truth is
obscured, and the deceived public condemn without appeal.
(_To be concluded in our next._)
* * * * *
* * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *
ON THE THREE CORNERED HAT.
Among the many things invented by man for his use, none perhaps is more
ridiculous than the _three cornered hat_ at present used by some
persons. That it affords but an inconsiderable shelter for the head, is
a truth scarcely to be denied; and that the face of him who wears it
remains exposed to the piercing rays of the sun, is equally true. If our
ancestors deemed it a conveniency to wear the hats in question,
experience teaches us at the present day, their great inutility: And
shall we then willingly smile on those customs which (tho’ formerly
practised) proves at present highly injurious? No; Let us consult our
own feelings, and not the habits of former times.---Common sense points
out their inconsistency, and reason mocks the stupidity of him who madly
submits to be ruled by custom, that tyrant of the human mind, to whose
government three-fourths of this creation foolishly subscribe their
assent. Again, the weight which is comprised in a hat of that size, is a
sufficient argument for their abolition. Wherein then can the utility of
such an unwieldy machine consist? Is not the round hat more becoming?
And does it not finally prove to the head by far the best covering? The
contrary cannot be urged unless through prejudice or selfishness. That
it looks respectable and sacred, may be urged in favour of it; to this I
reply, that if to be _impudent_, constitutes either of those characters,
the _three cornered hat_ has the great good fortune to be superior to
the other. It may be further advanced in its favour, that by letting
down its brims it will answer the purpose of an _umbrella_ in a hot
summer’s day: true that for size it may, but where is the person that
would not rather make use of the real than the fictitious machine? Why
was the pains taken for the invention of an umbrella, if the hat could
be made to answer the same views? Was it not because the hat attracting
the rays of the sun, was found to be injurious to the eyes, and
therefore recourse was had to a machine which proved not only a shelter
from the sun, but to the eyes far more beneficial. To conclude, nothing
but a false pride, and a desire to be _conspicuous_, could ever induce a
person thus inconsistently to use that which will finally prove his
folly.
TYRUNCULUS.
NEW-YORK _July 7, 1796_.
* * * * *
A SPEAKING STATUE.
Laugingen, a city of Germany, is famous for the birth of Albert the
Great, who made a statue, with such admirable clockwork, that it could
walk, move its tongue, and speak distinctly.
It one day happened that Thomas d’Aquinas, disciple of Albert, having
entered the chamber where this statue was left alone, the statue
advanced towards him, and spoke to him before he was aware. Thomas was
so frighted at this, that he struck it several times, and broke to
pieces this admirable work, which had cost Albert thirty years labour.
* * * * *
* * * *
_To the +Editor+ of the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
SIR,
The inclosed Account I transmit to you for publication, at the
particular request of a friend, who is well acquainted with the
circumstances that gave rise to it.--It is drawn up by a female
hand, and she here relates respecting Mr. Y-------- what she knew
of him herself, and what she had heard of him in her father’s
family, where he had been an occasional visitant; as I have no
reason to believe that this transaction has ever appeared in print,
you will be pleased to give it a place among your original
compositions.
ANNA.
NEW-YORK _May 17, 1796_.
* * *
[[For sources, see the end of the second installment.]]
AN ACCOUNT
OF A MURDER COMMITTED BY MR. J---- Y----, UPON HIS FAMILY,
IN DECEMBER, A.D. 1781.
The unfortunate subject of my present essay, belonged to one of the most
respectable families in this state; he resided a few miles from
Tomhanick, and though he was not in the most affluent circumstances, he
maintained his family (which consisted of a wife and four children,)
very comfortably.--From the natural gentleness of his disposition, his
industry, sobriety, probity and kindness, his neighbours universally
esteemed him, and until the fatal night when he perpetrated the cruel
act, none saw cause of blame in him.
In the afternoon preceding that night, as it was Sunday and there was no
church near, several of his neighbours with their wives came to his
house for the purpose of reading the scripture and singing psalms; he
received them cordially, and when they were going to return home in the
evening, he pressed his sister and her husband, who came with the
others, to stay longer; at his very earnest solicitation they remained
until near nine o’clock, during which time his conversation was grave as
usual, but interesting and affectionate: to his wife, of whom he was
very fond, he made use of more than commonly endearing expressions, and
caressed his little ones alternately:--he spoke much of his domestic
felicity, and informed his sister, that to render his wife more happy,
he intended to take her to New-Hampshire the next day; “I have
just been refitting my sleigh,” said he, “and we will set off by
day-break.”--After singing another hymn, Mr. and Mrs. J--s--n departed.
“They had no sooner left us (said he upon his examination) than taking
my wife upon my lap, I opened the Bible to read to her---my two boys
were in bed---one five years old, the other seven;---my daughter
Rebecca, about eleven, was sitting by the fire, and my infant aged about
six months, was slumbering at her mother’s bosom.---Instantly a new
light shone into the room, and upon looking up I beheld two Spirits, one
at my right hand and the other at my left;---he at the left bade me
destroy all my _idols_, and begin by casting the Bible into the
fire;---the other Spirit dissuaded me, but I obeyed the first, and threw
the book into the flames. My wife immediately snatched it out, and was
going to expostulate, when I threw it in again and held her fast until
it was entirely consumed:---then filled with the determination to
persevere, I flew out of the house, and seizing an axe which lay by the
door, with a few strokes demolished my sleigh, and running to the stable
killed one of my horses---the other I struck, but with one spring he got
clear of the stable.---My spirits now were high, and I hasted to the
house to inform my wife of what I had done. She appeared terrified, and
begged me to sit down; but the good angel whom I had obeyed stood by me
and bade me go on, “You have more idols, (said he) look at your wife and
children.” I hesitated not a moment, but rushed to the bed where my boys
lay, and catching the eldest in my arms, I threw him with such violence
against the wall, that he expired without a groan!---his brother was
still asleep---I took him by the feet, and dashed his skull in pieces
against the fire-place!---Then looking round, and perceiving that my
wife and daughters were fled, I left the dead where they lay, and went
in pursuit of the living, taking up the axe again.---A slight snow had
fallen that evening, and by its light I descried my wife running towards
her father’s (who lived about half a mile off) encumbered with her babe;
I ran after her, calling upon her to return, but she shrieked and fled
faster, I therefore doubled my pace, and when I was within thirty yards
of her, threw the axe at her, which hit her upon the hip!---the moment
that she felt the blow she dropped the child, which I directly caught
up, and threw against the log-fence---I did not hear it cry---I only
heard the lamentations of my wife, of whom I had now lost sight; but the
blood gushed so copiously from her wound that it formed a distinct path
along the snow. We were now within sight of her father’s house, but from
what cause I cannot tell, she took an opposite course, and after running
across an open field several times, she again stopped at her own door;
I now came up with her---my heart bled to see her distress, and all my
_natural feelings_ began to revive; I forgot my duty, so powerfully did
her moanings and pleadings affect me, “Come then, my love (said I) we
have one child left, let us be thankful for that--what is done is
right--we must not repine, come let me embrace you---let me know that
you do indeed love me.” She encircled me in her trembling arms, and
pressed her quivering lips to my cheek.---A voice behind me, said, “This
is also an idol!”---I broke from her instantly, and wrenching a stake
from the garden fence, with one stroke levelled her to the earth! and
lest she should only be stunned, and might, perhaps, recover again,
I repeated my blows, till I could not distinguish one feature of her
face!!! I now went to look after my last sublunary treasure, but after
calling several times without receiving any answer, I returned to the
house again; and in the way back picked up the babe and laid it on my
wife’s bosom.---I then stood musing a minute---during which interval I
thought I heard the suppressed sobbings of some one near the barn,
I approached it in silence, and beheld my daughter Rebecca endeavouring
to conceal herself among the hay-stacks.---”
(_To be concluded in our next._)
* * * * *
* * * *
THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION.
_OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.
_Translated from the German of Tschink._
(Continued from page 14.)
“Alas! Paleski,” I exclaimed, after a long pause, “how dreadfully have
you opened my eyes!”
“Compose yourself, my Lord, I am sensible that my time is very precious,
and I have to reveal to you a great deal more. The Count acted the part
of the ghost, which he could do with sanguine hopes of success, as he
resembles his deceased brother in a striking manner. He covered his body
with a doe skin, which as well as his face, was painted of a corpse-like
colour. A spunge filled with a red mixture was concealed betwixt his
body and the doe skin, which had five inscissures. As soon as the clock
struck twelve, and the lights were extinguished, the moveable cone was
drawn down into the lower apartment, the Count got through the aperture
by means of a ladder, and the cone snapped again in its former place, as
soon as the ladder was removed. The shroud in which the Count was
wrapped had been rubbed with a spirit that diffused a corpse-like smell
through the apartment. Whenever the Count gave a signal, a flash of
lightning illuminated the apartment, and you saw the pretended ghost,
who addressed the Countess in a solemn, serious manner. The red colour
penetrated through the inscissures of the doe skin as often as the Count
pressed the spunge.----Having finished his part, he stepped back upon
the moveable cone, and sunk down into the lower apartment.”
“Unheard of fraud!” I exclaimed, “so simple, and yet so
impenetrable--But, Paleski, can you explain how the lightning and
thunder, which was so extremely natural, was effected?”
“Both were produced by two men in the apartment over your head. One
shook a large round copper plate which the _Unknown_ had found in the
secret chamber, and caused the thundering noise by its vibrations. The
other was standing at a window, and produced the lightning by directing
the light of a magic lanthorn in such a manner that it was received by a
large mirror which was suspended opposite to the window of the apartment
where the ghost appeared, in such a manner that it reflected the light
into the room, and illuminated the ghost, who stood in a straight line
with the window. The trembling motion in which the mirror was put, gave
the illumination the appearance of flashes of lightning, which
disappeared as often as the shutter of the lanthorn was let down.”
“But how did it happen that I did not observe the mirror when I looked
out of the window?”
“It was fastened to the branches of an opposite tree, while you were at
supper; however the darkness of the night, the distance of the tree, and
the black cloth with which it had been covered till twelve o’clock, had
rendered it invisible. Your servant, from whom we carefully concealed
our proceedings, had been removed to a distant apartment, where he was
amused by a game at cards till midnight had set in.”
“But why did the _Unknown_ not endeavour to gain him over to his party?”
“We had really been charged by him to attempt it, however he displayed
so much fidelity and unshaken attachment to you, that we found it
prudent to drop the attempt.”
The confirmation of the good opinion which I always had entertained of
Pietro’s fidelity, gave me so much the more pleasure, because I saw
myself so dreadfully mistaken in my opinion of the Count and the
_Unknown_.
“I do not know,” Paleski continued, “whether the success of the whole
design is to be ascribed to the Count or the _Unknown_, the former of
whom had taken upon himself the execution, and the latter the regulation
and direction of the plot. All of us were enraptured at the successful
execution of that undertaking; however consternation soon stepped in the
room of joy, when we perceived the fatal effect which that juggling
farce produced on the health of the Countess, and we should certainly
have betrayed the whole cheat, if the immense presents which the
_Unknown_ distributed, and his solemn declaration that he would restore
the health of the Countess had not silenced us.”
“Was the illness of Amelia really so dangerous as I have been told by my
servant?”
“The accounts we gave him were very much exaggerated by the direction of
the _Unknown_, who persuaded us, that if you had a sincere love for our
lady, it would increase with the danger of losing her. When we asked him
on your departure, for what reason he did not oppose it, if he really
designed to promote your and her ladyship’s happiness: he replied, ‘Your
notions of love are very erroneous, if you cannot see my drift. The
spark which glimmers in their bosoms, must be blown up into a blazing
flame, by obstacles and difficulties; a forcible separation of two
loving hearts, unites them more firmly.’---Even the fictitious account
which I gave you of the death of the Countess was written by the desire
of the _Unknown_; for he pretended to try the strength of your love, by
observing the effect which it would produce upon your heart. The
intelligence which I gave you of the pretended miraculous restoration of
the Countess was forged, with the design to obliterate the impression of
the former, and to give you at the same time a high notion of the power
of the _Unknown_.”
“But, certainly, you did not write that letter by his direction?”
“Yes, my Lord, I did.”
“And your recantation in the wood near ****n?---”
“Was a new cheat.”
I gazed at him with astonishment.
“You will recollect, my Lord, that I told you the _Unknown_, had given
up all hope of seducing your servant; and yet he stood in need of a man
who enjoyed your confidence, in order to be informed by him of all your
actions, wishes and sentiments, and to govern you at his pleasure by his
assistance, without your perceiving it. The Count offered to attempt to
get acquainted with you. In order to deceive the keen-sightedness of
your tutor, who was a principal obstacle to the execution of his
designs, he pretended to join with him in his hatred against the
_Unknown_, whom he declared to be an impostor, and thus made your
governor believe that he was an unprejudiced honest man. For that very
reason he persisted in his declaration, accepted your challenge, and
produced the letter by which Amelia had informed him of the particulars
of her recovery, and proved my letter to be a forgery. He even accused
the _Unknown_ of acting in concert with me, with the view to remove the
most distant suspicion of being connected with either of us. The Count
would certainly not have hazarded to push matters so far, if he had not
foreseen that a scene like that which I acted in the wood near
****n would retrieve every thing, and clear the _Unknown_ of the
suspicion of having acted in concert with me. The event has proved that
he had not been mistaken, and now he thought it seasonable to change the
scene. Till then the Count had appeared to counteract him, though he had
rendered him the most important services; but now, thinking to have
gained a firm footing in your confidence, he began to declare openly for
the _Unknown_. He could easily foresee what a seducing effect this
seeming change of opinion would have upon you. For it was natural you
should conceive the idea, that the unfavourable prejudice which the
Count had manifested against the _Unknown_, had been conquered by the
reality and greatness of his miracles; and supposing this, you could not
but think to have an additional motive for yielding without reserve to
the sublime notion of the power of the _Unknown_, which you till then
frequently had entertained reluctantly. However the Count could not
change his tone before the _Unknown_ appeared justified, as well in his
as in your opinion, if he would not expose himself to the danger of
exciting your suspicion, and for that reason the farce in the wood near
***n was acted.”
“I comprehend you!” said I, grinding my teeth with anger. “But what of
the farce?”
“It was partly of my, and partly of the Count’s invention. I had kept
myself concealed in the wood of ****n, some days previous to that farce,
and carefully consulted with the Count, what I should do and say in your
presence. We fixed on purpose on an evening on which we had just reason
to expect a thunder storm, in order to give the whole scene more
solemnity. We chose an unfrequented, solitary spot of the wood, for the
scene of action, where I disguised myself in the ruins of an old house,
and awaited your arrival without being observed. I painted my face with
a light yellow, and my feet with a red colour, and rushed from my ambush
with loud screams, as soon as I saw you at a distance.”
“You dropped senseless to the ground, and behaved like a maniac; what
view had you by doing so?”
“I only wanted to strengthen the impression of my tale.”
“You pretended to see the _Unknown_; was he really not far off, or did
you only deceive me?”
“It was mere deception, for he was then many miles distant from ****n.”
“But what you told me of the hermit was true? or was it also a
preconcerted tale?”
He was prevented from returning an answer by a sudden fainting fit,
which probably was the consequence of his having talked too much. I rang
the bell for the nurse and retired with the intention of hearing the
next morning the continuation of Paleski’s confession. A nameless
sensation thrilled my whole frame when I went home. I wished and dreaded
to find the Count at our hotel, being enraptured at the idea of treating
the unmasked impostor with that humiliating contempt which he so well
deserved; but shuddering at the thirst for revenge which I felt in my
bosom, and that animated me to take a satisfaction against which my good
genius warned me. However, to my and his fortune, he was not at home. He
had, as Pietro told me, taken some papers out of his trunk, during my
absence and left the house suddenly. The evening and the night passed
without his being returned, and he was not come back in the morning when
I went to the hospital.
I entered Paleski’s apartment, burning with impatience to hear his
farther discoveries. But alas! he was on the brink of eternity, and died
a few minutes after my arrival.
I would have given worlds if I could have prolonged the life of this man
only for a few hours. His relation had thrown a light only over a part
of my mysterious history, and a far greater part was still surrounded
with impenetrable darkness. I have never been so sensible how much more
painful half satisfied curiosity is, than utter ignorance or the most
dreadful certainty. How much did I now repent that I had not
interrogated Paleski the day before, on the fate of my tutor, Amelia’s
sentiments for me and her abode. The _Unknown_ had indeed given me very
flattering hopes, with regard to these dear people; however, what
reliance could I have on the promises of an impostor? Entirely left to
myself, I was obliged to leave it to some fortunate accident, or to his
generosity, whether I ever should have the happiness of meeting them
again? Frail hope! and yet it was my only support in my friendless,
distressing situation, the only prop on which I could lean. Being in a
world to which I was almost an utter stranger, without a friend or
guide, surrounded with the invisible snares of two impostors, threatened
by an uncertain and gloomy futurity, I readily gave myself up to the
sweet ideas of possibility, in order to console myself for the
melancholy reality.
Two days were now elapsed, and the Count was not yet returned, which
confirmed my apprehensions that he had fled. A look at his trunk
suggested a thought to me which I could not shake off; the consequence
was that I opened it with a master-key, with an intention to search
whether I could not find some papers, which would throw a light upon
several dark parts of my history.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
* * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
OBSERVATION.
Being pretty much of a rambler, I occasionally fall into a variety of
company; and as I am something of a moralist, I frequently make
reflections on what I see.
In one of my late excursions, I happened in company with a young lady,
lately from Wales; whom I found to be a very social person. She
entertained me with an account of many circumstances relating to her own
country; and withal expressed her disappointment with regard to the
ideas she had entertained of the Americans. “I have,” said she, “always
heard them represented as the most humane, free, and agreeable people in
the world; but on the contrary, find them quite the reverse: for since I
came to this continent, I have not received a single visit from a young
lady of my neighbourhood, or had the least attention paid me.”
I expressed no small disapprobation and surprise at this account: but at
the same time was in no wise at a loss to discover the cause. I found
her so very tenacious of the manners and customs of Wales, that she
could not by any means persuade herself to recede from them; though very
different from those of New-York. This is an error that most Europeans
fall into. They are so possessed of the notion, that the inhabitants of
America are an ignorant simple race of mortals, that they come over with
a view of being received as instructors, and implicitly adhered to in
all their peculiarities. But this hypothesis being far from true, they
frequently give disgust by their magisterial deportment; and while they
persist in these ideas render themselves ridiculous.
The foregoing observations led me to a more general reflection on the
amazing force of tradition, and the narrow contracted principle of
_bigotry_: by which nothing, methought so justly represented, as a
hungry man, sitting down to a sumptuous table, richly replenished with a
variety of excellent dishes; who having tasted of one, and finding it
agreeable, could not be persuaded there was another good one before him.
ETHICUS.
NEW-YORK _July 16, 1796_.
* * * * *
WONDERFUL ACCOUNT OF A MAN-FISH.
Alexander, of Alexandria, and above fifty other historians, have written
an account of a man named Collas, whom they call the Fish Collas; this
man had accustomed himself from his infancy to the frequenting of the
sea, till at last he became an inhabitant thereof; and dwelt there with
such obstinate delight, that he would not be persuaded from it; so that
at length he became viscous and waterish, and continued in the sea the
greatest part of his life; being sometimes hidden betwixt two waves like
a fish, so that he could not be seen for five or six hours together, and
would seldom come out in less than eight or ten days; but when he saw a
ship he would sometimes go aboard, and live with the mariners for some
time; and when tired he would throw himself overboard into the sea and
be gone. He said that when he was on shore, he used to be troubled with
a pain in his stomach, which he had not when in the water.
* * * * *
* * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
ON POLITENESS.
Politeness is requisite to keep up the relish of life, and procure us
that affection and esteem which every man who has a sense of it must
desire. The established maxims of politeness are little less than
good-nature, polished and beautified by art; they teach a person to
behave with deference towards every body, in all the common incidents of
society; and particularly so whenever a person’s situation may naturally
beget any disagreeable peculiarity in him. Thus, old men know their
infirmities, and naturally dread contempt from the young; hence, well
educated youths redouble the instances of respect towards their elders.
Strangers and foreigners appear to be without protection; hence, in all
polite companies, they receive the first marks of civility.
* * * * *
MOORISH GRATITUDE.
M. Chenier, in the present state of Morocco, relates, that as the late
Emperor was once passing the river Beth on horseback, at a place where
it falls into the Seboo, he was in imminent danger of being drowned,
when one of the negroes plunged into the stream, and saved his life, at
the risque of his own. Having preserved his royal master, the slave
shewed marks of exultation at his good fortune. But Sede Mahomet drawing
his sabre, with one blow almost severed his head from his body:
exclaiming “Here is an infidel, to suppose that God stood in need of his
assistance to save a Shariff’s life.”--The same magnanimous despot being
once slightly reproached by a French Consul for not performing a promise
made him, answered, “Takest thou me for an infidel, that I must be the
slave of my word--Know that it is in my power to say and unsay whatever
and whenever I please.”
* * * * *
THE FORGETFUL MAN.
A Gentleman in Angiers, who did not trust to his memory, and wrote down
all he was to do, wrote in his pocket book----“Memorandum, that I must
be married when I come to Tours.”
* * * * *
_NEW-YORK._
MARRIED,
On Friday evening last by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. GEORGE GAINES, to
Miss ELIZABETH TAYLOR, both of this city.
* * * * *
EPITAPH,
On A Violent Scold.
* * *
Beneath this stone, a lump of clay,
Lies ARABELLA YOUNG,
Who on the twenty-fourth of May,
BEGAN TO HOLD HER TONGUE.
* * * * *
* * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *
SIR,
The following juvenile performances, were circulated in manuscript,
during the late revolution, when the British Forces held possession
of this city, in consequence of the improper resort to the walk in
front of Trinity Church; if you think them worthy of being
preserved in your amusing repository, they are at your service.
A.
THE MALL.
This is the scene of gay resort,
Here vice and folly hold their court,
Here all the martial band parade,
To vanquish--some unguarded maid:
Here ambles many a dauntless chief,
Who can, O great beyond belief!
Who can, as sage historians say,
Defeat--whole bottles in array.
Heavens! shall a servile dastard train
The mansions of our dead prophane,
A herd of undistinguished things,
That shrink beneath the frown of kings!
Sons of the brave and virtuous band,
Who led fair freedom to this land,
Say, shall a lawless race presume
To violate the sacred tomb,
And calmly you the insult bear?
Even wildest rage were virtue here.
Shades of our sires, indignant rise,
Oh! arm, to vengeance arm the skies,
Oh! rise, for no degenerate son
Bids impious blood the guilt atone;
By thunder from th’ etherial plains,
Avenge your own dishonour’d manes;
Bid guardian light’nings flash around,
And vindicate the hallowed ground.
MATILDA.
* * * * *
THE RECANTATION.
Had I the muse of satire’s warmest rage,
To brand the vices of an impious age,
To snatch the villain from his happiest lot,
In calm oblivion to remain forgot,
Give modest merit to a nobler fate,
And doom the guilty to eternal hate:
How vain, how foolish, in these blameless times,
Th’ unmeaning raving of satiric rhymes!
Auspicious muses grant your happier art,
With panegyric warm each grateful heart!
And foremost let the lank Pomposo stand,
To crush dissentions in a rising land,
And scatter thousands,--what tho’ envy say
He gave his thousands in the eye of day,
He gains his just reward, applauses by’t,
Nor in a scanty bushel hides his light.
Tell how the fair are now so wond’rous kind,
Their love is boundless, free and unconfin’d,
To all their soft approving glances fly,
To all that are unknown to poverty.
Next sing the trim well-powder’d warriors course,
Recount the gorgeous trappings of his horse;
How the broad umbrage intercepts Sol’s rays,
To shade his beauties from too fierce a blaze:
Far from the field, he, foe to rest, can dare
The direr dangers of intemp’rate fare,
While day nor night his ardent labour close,
And the full cellar interdicts repose:
O’er hallowed ground no daring footsteps tread,
But sacred hold the mansions of the dead;
Its shades prophan’d no ruin’d temple mourns,
Nor ghosts bewail their violated urns.
Thus, while to praise my city numbers roll,
And soft applauses sooth each raptured soul;
How will my name to distant ages shine,
And fame, though not unfashion’d truth, be mine,
How will full bloom my opening honours crown,
And give my deathless name to high renown.
MATILDA.
* * * * *
TO MATILDA.
Matilda, stop thy course of virtuous rage,
And spare from satire this unthankful age.
The world, while fashion dictates moral law,
While gold repairs where nature feels a flaw,
While nobler passions sink as time decays,
And love forgets its fears, and fame is praise,
The world unmov’d, will hear thy eloquence,
The diction flatter, but reject the sense.
R****.
New-York, 1779.
* * * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
ELEGY,
Addressed to a Young Lady on Transcribing for Her a Poem
on the Death of Two Unfortunate Lovers.
If o’er the lover’s melancholy bier
Unbidden sorrow from thine eyes should flow,
Check not the tender sympathising tear,
Nor blush to soften at another’s woe.
Indulge the tender luxury of grief,
Melt at those pangs which nipp’d their springing bloom,
And (soon as flattering hope deny’d relief,)
Consign’d them early victims to the tomb.
The heart insensible to woe like this,
Demands no caution to secure its case,
Alike depriv’d of every social bliss,
No wit can warm it, and no beauty please.
Yet while the soft emotion is admir’d,
Thro’ which thy virtues with mild radiance shine,
Forgive the pain thy danger has inspir’d.
The sigh----lest Emma’s fate should e’er be thine!
Ah! let it teach thee--nor be too secure----
That love, tho’ virtuous, may thy praise destroy,
That death’s dire dart may fix thy ruin sure,
And blast for ever all thy hopes of joy.
While this reflection dwells upon thy mind,
The wish truth dictates, sure thou wilt approve,
Long may thy heart its bliss in freedom find,
And dread the soft delusive pow’r of love.
ELEGIOGRAPHUS.
New-York, June 24, 1796.
NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every
Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and
Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are
taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9,
Maiden-Lane._
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
_UTILE DULCI._
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, July 27, 1796.+ [+No. 56.+
[[For sources, see the end of the e-text.]]
_+View+ of the STARRY HEAVENS._
The sky at night presents us a sight of wonders, which must raise the
astonishment of every attentive observer of nature. But from whence
comes it, that so few consider the firmament with attention? I am
willing to believe, that in general it proceeds from ignorance; for it
is impossible to be convinced of the greatness of the works of God,
without feeling a rapture almost heavenly. O how I wish to make you
share this divine pleasure! Raise your thoughts for this purpose towards
the sky: It will be enough to name to you the immense bodies which are
strewed in that space, to fill you with astonishment at the greatness of
the artificer. It is in the center of our system that the throne of the
sun is established. The body is more than a million of times larger than
the earth. It is one hundred millions of miles distant from it, and
notwithstanding this prodigious distance, it has a most sensible effect
upon our sphere. Round the sun move twenty-one globular bodies, seven of
which are called planets, the other fourteen, moons or satellites; they
are opake, and receive from the sun light, heat, and perhaps also their
interior motion. Georgium Sidus, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Earth,
Venus, and Mercury, are the names of the seven principal planets. Of
these seven, Mercury is nearest the sun, and for that reason is mostly
invisible to the astronomer. As he is near nineteen times smaller than
our earth, he contributes but little to adorn the sky. Venus follows
him, and is sometimes called the morning, and sometimes the evening
star. It is one of the brightest of the heavenly bodies, whether it
precedes the sun-rise, or succeeds the setting sun. It is near as large
again as our earth, and is about sixty-eight millions of miles distant
from the sun. After Venus comes our earth, round which the moon moves,
as a secondary planet. Mars, which is the fourth planet, is seven times
smaller than our globe; and its distance from the sun is one hundred and
forty-four millions of miles. Jupiter, with his belt, is always
distinguished by his splendor in the starry sky: it seems in size to
surpass all the fixed stars; it is almost as bright as Venus in all her
glory, except that the light of it is less brilliant than the morning
star. How small our earth is in comparison with Jupiter! There would not
be less than eight thousand globes like ours, necessary to form one
equal in size to that of Jupiter. Saturn, whose distance from the sun is
upwards of nine hundred millions of miles, was thought the remotest
planet until the late discovery of the Georgium Sidus, whose distance is
eighteen thousand millions of miles, and its magnitude eighty-nine times
greater than our earth. In the mean time, the sun, with all the planets
which accompany it, is a very small part of the immense fabric of the
universe. Each star, which from hence appears to us no larger than a
brilliant set in a ring, is in reality an immense body which equals the
sun both in size and splendor.
(_To be concluded in our next._)
* * * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *
KNOWLEDGE.
The life of man is lengthened by his pursuits of knowledge, as that of a
fool by his passions. The time of the one is long, because he does not
know how to spend it; but the other distinguishes every moment of it
with useful and amusing thoughts; the one wishes it always elapsed, and
the other enjoys it always.
How the view of past life, appears different to the man who is grown old
in knowledge, from that who is grown old in ignorance; the latter is
like the owner of a barren country, that sees nothing, but some hills
and plains naked; the other beholds an agreeable landscape, and can
scarce cast his eyes on a single spot of his land that is not covered
with some beautiful plants.
* * * * *
CURIOUS ETYMOLOGY.
When the French first settled on the banks of St. Lawrence, they were
stinted by the intendant, Monsieur Picard, to a can of spruce beer a
day. The people thought this measure very scant, and every moment
articulated, “Can-a-day!” It would be ungenerous in any reader to desire
a more rational derivation of the word Canada.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
Exemplified in the History of M. De La Paliniere.
_Translated from the French._
(Concluded from page 18.)
In the midst of these thoughts, there was one more afflicting than all
the rest; I was arrived at that height of misery, that my greatest
misfortune was not that of being for ever separated from Julia; no,
I had another more insupportable. The most virtuous and innocent of
women, the ornament and glory of her sex, groaned beneath the
opprobrious burthen of the world’s contempt, and I alone was the cause
of this cruel injustice; the remembrance of this distracted me, and made
me almost insensible to the consolations of friendship. Yes, said I to
Sinclair, I could suffer singly for my errors, and support my punishment
perhaps with fortitude. Time I know destroys passion and regret, but it
never can enfeeble the remorse of a feeling heart born to the practice
of virtue. The day may come, when Julia will no longer live in my
imagination with all those seductive charms I now continually behold;
but she will ever remain there the innocent sacrifice of folly and
distraction, and the remembrance of that will be the torment of my life.
In effect, neither the tender cares of Sinclair, nor the dissipation of
a long voyage, could weaken my chagrin. When we returned to Paris,
Sinclair was obliged to leave me and rejoin his regiment, and I
departed, almost immediately, for Holland; where, six months after,
Sinclair came to me. He suggested an idea of my undertaking some kind of
commerce, and lent me money necessary to make a beginning.
Fortune seconded this next project, and I foresaw the possibility of
regaining the happiness I had lost: the desire of laying the fruits of
my travels at the feet of my Julia, gave me as much industry as
perseverance; I vanquished my natural indolence, and the tiresome
disgust with which this new species of employment at first inspired me,
and read and reflected during the time that business did not call my
attention.
Study soon ceased to appear painful: I acquired a passionate love for
reading; my mind was insensibly enlightened, my ideas enlarged, and my
heart became calm. Industry, reading, and thinking, recovered me, by
degrees, from the soporiferous draught of indolence; religion likewise
gave fortitude to reason, elevated my soul, and released me from the
tyrannical empire of passion.
This revolution in my temper and sentiments did not at all change my
projects. ’Tis true, I had no longer that excessive and silly passion
for Julia which had made us both so unhappy. I loved with less violence,
with less self-interest, but with more certainty. Passion is always
blind, selfish, and seeking its own satisfaction: friendship is founded
upon esteem, owes all its power to virtue, is more affectionate, and the
more affectionate it is, the more it is equitable and generous.
I passed five years in Holland, during which time I was constantly
fortunate in the business in which I was engaged; and at length, by
extreme œconomy and unwearied assiduity, entirely re-established my
fortune. I then thought of nothing but of once more visiting my own
country. I imagined, with the most tender delight, the happiness I was
going to regain, when falling at the feet of Julia, I might say to her,
“I return worthy of you; I return to consecrate my life to your
happiness.”
Thus occupied by the most delightful of ideas, I departed from Holland,
far, alas! from suspecting the blow I was about to receive.
I had written to Sinclair, desiring him to inform Julia of my journey,
and received an answer at Brussels; by which I learned Julia had had a
fever, but at the same time the letter assured she had not been
dangerously ill, and was almost recovered. The explanations which
accompanied that letter prevented all uneasiness, and I continued my
route with no other fear than that of seeing Julia more surprized than
affected at my resolutions and return.
I drew nearer and nearer to Paris, and at last, when within twenty
leagues, I met Sinclair, who stopped my carriage, and descended from his
own: I opened my door, and flew to embrace him; but as soon as my eyes
met his, I shuddered: astonishment and terror rendered me speechless!
Sinclair opened his arms to me, but his face was bathed in tears!
I durst not ask the reason, and he had not the power to tell me.
I expected the worst, and from that moment faithless fleeting joys
forever forsook my heart!
Sinclair dragged me towards my carriage without speaking a single word,
and the postillions instantly quitted the road to Paris. “Whither are
you taking me?” cried I distractedly; “tell me: I will know.”
Ah, unhappy man!
Go on! continue! strike me to the heart!
Sinclair answered not, but wept and embraced me. Tell me, continued I,
what is my fate? Is it her hatred, or her loss, thou wouldst announce?
Sinclair’s lips opened to answer, and my heart sunk within me; I wanted
the courage to hear him pronounce my sentence; “Oh, my friend!” added I,
“my life this moment is in thy hands.”
The supplicating tone with which I spoke these words, sufficiently
expressed my feelings. Sinclair looked at me with compassion in his
eyes. “I can be silent,” said he, “but dare not deceive:” he stopt;
I asked no more; and the rest of the road we both kept a profound
silence, which was only interrupted by my sobs and sighs.
Sinclair conducted me to a country-house, where I at length received a
confirmation of my misery: alas! all was lost: Julia existed no more;
her death not only deprived me of all felicity, but took from me the
means of repairing my faults, of expiating my past errors, except by
regret, repentance, and by daily pouring out my silent griefs before an
elegant Mausoleum, which the generous friendship of Sinclair had kindly
caused to be erected to her memory in the neighbourhood of his
country-house.
The remainder of my history has nothing interesting; consoled by time
and religion, I consecrated the rest of my career to friendship, study,
and the offices of humanity; I obtained my uncle’s pardon, and the care
of making him happy became my greatest delight; and I fulfilled, without
effort, and in their whole extent, those sacred duties which nature and
gratitude required.
Though my uncle was far advanced in years, heaven still permitted him to
remain with me ten years, after which I had the misfortune to lose him:
I purchased his estate, and retired thither for the rest of my days.
Sinclair promised to come and see me once a-year, and though fifteen are
now past since that event, we have never been eighteen months without
seeing each other.
Sinclair, at present in his fifty-eighth year, has run a career the most
brilliant and the most fortunate: a happy husband, a happy father,
a successful warrior, covered with glory, loaded with fortune’s favours,
he enjoys a felicity and fate the more transcendant, in that they only
could be procured by virtue united to genius.
As for me, I, in my obscure mediocrity, might yet find happiness, were
it not for the mournful, the bitter remembrance of the evils which
others have suffered through the errors of my youth.
[[Sources:
Original: _Les veillées du château_, 1785, by Stéphanie Félicité,
comtesse de Genlis, 1746-1830.
English Translation: _Tales of the castle; or, Stories of instruction
and delight_, trans. Thomas Holcroft, 1745-1809. This selection is
pages 203-270 in Volume 1 (of 5), in the 1793 (4th) edition.
The serial began in no. 45 of the New-York Weekly; the first 8 of its
12 installments are in Volume I.
Link: http://www.archive.org/details/talesofcastleors01genluoft]]
* * * * *
EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF A SPANISH NOBLEMAN.
_From the Chevalier De Rabilier’s remarkable
Events of the present Century._
Francis Anthony De Sandoval, duke of Medina Celi, and of St. Lucar, in
the province of Andalusia, was not only a grandee of the first class,
but exceedingly beloved in the country where he usually resided, on
account of his great benevolence and affability to all ranks of people
who approached him. Having a prodigious estate in lands, besides the
duties and customs of the port of St. Lucar, near Seville, which were
conferred on his family by Roderick the last monarch of the Gothic race,
he kept a sort of vice royal court, to which the nobility, gentry, and
merchants, around his wide domain, were always welcomed with the
grandeur of a prince, the hospitality of a burgher, and the smiles of a
friend. Young, rich, powerful, and revered by thousands, who considered
him as the pride of their country, and an honour to the whole nation,
nothing seemed wanting to complete the felicity of this worthy nobleman,
but an alliance suitable to his elevated rank and more distinguished
virtues. Many were the overtures on that head, from the most illustrious
families in every part of Spain; but his grace, who was of a domestic
turn, and averse from the vanities of high life, declined entering into
any engagement which might subject him to the impertinence, folly, and
etiquette, to which the major part of the fashionable world seem to
abound, either as servile imitators, or involuntary slaves. He loved
magnificence, but abhorred ceremony as much as the amusements wherein
persons of fortune usually lose the best part of their time. Hunting he
considered as a manly exercise, calculated to brace the nerves, and give
circulation to the blood, therefore to be taken occasionally as physic,
not followed as a trade. It may be asked by some fantastic man of
pleasure of the court, or jolly squire of the country, how then could a
person of his quality spend his leisure hours? Why, in reading, walking,
entertaining his numerous friends at home, and returning the necessary
visits abroad, in various innocent parties on land and water, in keeping
up his gardens and improvements, in examining his vast houshold
accounts, inspecting the state of his vassals and farmers, hearing and
redressing their grievances, portioning the marriageable daughters of
his poor tenantry, and presiding at those nuptials, where he is
considered in the threefold light of father, benefactor, and guardian;
as the ministering angel of comfort, and deputed commissioner of a
bountiful Providence, to dispense his gracious mercies amongst the sons
and daughters of affliction. If to these healthful avocations and
duties, so worthy elevated rank and rich possessions, we add the public
and private attendance on religious worship, frequent self-examination,
and the distribution of super-abundant wealth, to modest indigence and
clamorous distress, as a small tribute for the distinguished blessings,
which rightly enjoyed, will confer the purest happiness here, and a
crown of glory in the regions of everlasting day hereafter, little or no
time can be spared for frivolous amusements or sinful pursuits. Think of
this, ye extravagant and debauched men of quality without peace, morals,
or good faith, whose hours are sacrificed to folly, whose minds are the
sport of delusion, whose bodies are the sinks of disease, and whose
fortunes are hastening to the hands of the extortioner who sooner or
later, will consume all you possess! Let the example of the duke of
Medina point out the true man of sense, honour and distinction; act like
him and be happy!
Whilst this model of real nobility was thus blessed, and blessing all
around, chance led him to the house of a tradesman in Seville, whose
only son was that very day to be married to an amiable girl of that
city. The condescension with which his grace always accepted an offer of
contributing to the pleasure of his friends and neighbours, rendered
much solicitation needless, and he determined to stand bridesman on the
occasion. The guests were a company of genteel citizens, who with their
wives and daughters, made a very tolerable appearance, and the duke
seemed delighted with manners not viciously refined, where elegance,
unsullied by pride or affectation, and beauty, unassisted by art, shone
out in native meridian lustre. But, with what joy did he behold a plain,
modest maiden, daughter to a linen-draper, named Anthony de Valdez, who
came with her mother to the wedding! He gazed, he admired, he loved,
this picture of rural innocence, with as much elegance and sensibility
as suited his ideas of a perfect form, joined to an amiable and virtuous
mind. After some acquaintance and private enquiries, which terminated to
the advantage of the young lady and her family, the duke demanded the
fair Elvira de Valdez in marriage, and was received with equal joy and
astonishment by the honest couple, who shed tears of gratitude for the
happiness offered their beloved child by the richest and most
illustrious lord in the whole monarchy of Spain. Miss Elvira expressed
no reluctance, but what proceeded from her own demerit and total
inequality; but this was soon got over, and the happy day fixed for the
Sunday following.
(_To be concluded in our next._)
* * * * *
* * * *
AN ACCOUNT
OF A MURDER COMMITTED BY MR. J---- Y----, UPON HIS FAMILY,
IN DECEMBER, A. D. 1781.
(_Concluded from page 20._)
At the noise of my feet upon the dry corn stalks---she turned hastily
round and seeing me exclaimed, “O father, my dear father, spare me, let
me live--let me live,--I will be a comfort to you and my mother--spare
me to take care of my little sister Diana--do--do let me live.”--She was
my darling child, and her fearful cries pierced me to the soul---the
tears of _natural pity_ fell as plentifully down my cheeks, as those of
terror did down her’s, and methought that to destroy _all_ my idols, was
a hard task---I again relapsed at the voice of complaining; and taking
her by the hand, led her to where her mother lay; then thinking that if
I intended to retain her, I must make some other severe sacrifice,
I bade her sing and dance---She complied, terribly situated as she
was,---but I was not asking in the line of my duty--I was convinced of
my error, and catching up a hatchet that stuck in a log, with one well
aimed stroke cleft her forehead in twain---she fell---and no sign of
retaining life appeared.
I then sat down on the threshold, to consider what I had
best do---“I shall be called a murderer (said I) I shall be
seized--imprisoned--executed, and for what?--for destroying my
idols---for obeying the mandate of my father---no, I will put all the
dead in the house together, and after setting fire to it, run to my
sister’s and say the Indians have done it---“I was preparing to drag my
wife in, when the idea struck me that I was going to tell a _horrible
lie_;” and how will that accord with my profession? (asked I.) No, let
me speak the truth, and declare the good motive for my actions, be the
consequences what they may.”
His sister, who was the principal evidence against him, stated---that
she had scarce got home, when a message came to Mr. J----n, her husband,
informing him that his mother was ill and wished to see him; he
accordingly set off immediately, and she not expecting him home again
till the next day, went to bed---there being no other person in the
house. About four in the morning she heard her brother Y------ call her,
she started up and bade him come in. “I will not (returned he) for I
have committed the unpardonable sin---I have burnt the Bible.” She knew
not what to think, but rising hastily opened the door which was only
latched, and caught hold of his hand: let me go, Nelly (said he) my
hands are wet with blood---the blood of my Elizabeth and her
children.---She saw the blood dripping from his fingers, and her’s
chilled in the veins, yet with a fortitude unparalleled she begged him
to enter, which--as he did, he attempted to sieze a case knife, that by
the light of a bright pine-knot fire, he perceived lying on the
dresser---she prevented him, however, and tearing a trammel from the
chimney, bound him with it to the bed post---fastening his hands behind
him---She then quitted the house in order to go to his, which as she
approached she heard the voice of loud lamentation, the hope that it was
some one of the family who had escaped the effects of her brother’s
frenzy, subdued the fears natural to such a situation and time, she
quickened her steps, and when she came to the place where Mrs. Y----
lay, she perceived that the moans came from Mrs. Y----’s aged father,
who expecting that his daughter would set out upon her journey by day
break, had come at that early hour to bid her farewel.
They alarmed their nearest neighbours immediately, who proceeded to Mrs.
J----n’s, and there found Mr. Y---- in the situation she had left him;
they took him from hence to Tomhanick, where he remained near two
days---during which time Mr. W--tz--l (a pious old Lutheran, who
occasionally acted as preacher) attended upon him, exhorting him to pray
and repent; but he received the admonitions with contempt, and several
times with ridicule, refusing to confess his error or _join_ in
prayer---I say _join_ in prayer, for he would not kneel when the rest
did, but when they arose he would prostrate himself and address his
“father,” frequently saying “my father, thou knowest that it was in
obedience to thy commands, and for thy glory that I have done this
deed.” Mrs. Bl--------r, at whose house he then was, bade some one ask
him who his father was?--he made no reply---but pushing away the person
who stood between her and himself, darted at her a look of such
indignation as thrilled horror to her heart---his speech was connected,
and he told his tale without variation; he expressed much sorrow for the
loss of his dear family, but consoled himself with the idea of having
performed his duty--he was taken to ALBANY and there confined as a
lunatic in the goal, from which he escaped twice, once by the assistance
of Aqua Fortis, with which he opened the front door.
I went in 1782 with a little girl, by whom Mr. Bl-----r had sent him
some fruit; he was then confined in dungeon, and had several chains
on---he appeared to be much affected at her remembrance of him, and put
up a pious ejaculation for her and her family---since then I have
received no accounts respecting him.
The cause for his wonderfully cruel proceedings is beyond the conception
of human beings---the deed so unpremeditated, so unprovoked, that we do
not hesitate to pronounce it the effect of insanity---yet upon the other
hand, when we reflect on the equanimity of his temper, and the
comfortable situation in which he was, and no visible circumstance
operating to render him frantic, we are apt to conclude, that he was
under a strong delusion of Satan. But what avail our conjectures,
perhaps it is best that some things are concealed from us, and the only
use we can now make of our knowledge of this affair, is to be humble
under a scene of human frailty to renew our petition, “Lead us not into
temptation.”
May 27, 1796.
[[Sources:
This is believed to be the original publication of the narrative.
The author may be Margaretta Faugères, daughter of Ann Eliza Bleecker
(“Mrs. Bl----er”)
Notes: Tomhanick is now spelled Tomhannock.]]
* * * * *
BEAUTIFUL ALLEGORY.
Happiness and virtue are twins, which can never be divided; they are
born and flourish, or sicken and die together.---They are joint
offsprings of good-sense and innocence, and while they continue under
the guidance of such parents, they are invulnerable to injury, and
incapable of decay.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION.
_OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.
_Translated from the German of Tschink._
(Continued from page 22.)
I found indeed a number of letters, however, they were written in
cyphers. Now I comprehended why the Count had asked repeatedly whether I
could read cyphers? Having made it a rule, in regard to this point,
always to deny the question, he had probably left these writings on the
supposition that I should not be able to read them, and saved only those
which were written in common characters. However, the Count had deceived
himself this time, for I am pretty well skilled in the art of
decyphering. I took one of the papers which were marked 1. 2. 3. &c. &c.
however, I perceived on the first attempt, that my art would encounter a
hard trial. Yet this did not deter, but rather animated me to exert all
my skill to find the key to these papers, while my servant was occupied
with taking an exact copy of the rest.
I had already been working above twenty-four hours without seeing my
labour crowned with success, when my servant, whom I had sent to the
post, returned with a letter. Conceive my astonishment, when I found it
was from the Count.
“Whatever Paleski may have discovered to your Grace with respect to me,
yet I am assured that he cannot have said any thing for which my
conscience condemns me, though I should not be able to defend it before
an ecclesiastical, or a civil court of justice. I have deceived you;
however, I have done it for a great and noble purpose, and by order of a
powerful being, whose authority I and you acknowledge. I should despise
myself, if mean, or self-interested views, could have prompted me to do
what I have done. To stimulate you to take an active part in the
delivery of your country, was the sole reason for which you have been
imposed upon. Although Paleski should not have disclosed the secret to
you, yet you would not have remained in the dark much longer, because it
was the plan of the _Unknown_ to remove the veil from your eyes, and to
introduce you into a new world, for which you was to be prepared by the
delusions which you have experienced. Man is led to truth by error,
according to an eternal law of nature. It was necessary that you should
be made acquainted with delusions, that your look might be sharpened for
future knowledge; it was necessary you should experience the highest
degree of delusion, that you might acquire the prerogative of discerning
fraud from reality, and of never suffering yourself to be imposed upon
again. Then, and not sooner, the time would have arrived, when the
_Unknown_ would have shown himself to you in his real shape, and
embraced you not only as a preserver of your country, but also as a
member of that sacred society of wise men, who are admitted behind the
curtain of nature, whither no eye of common short-sighted men can
penetrate. A power and a happiness of which you can form no adequate
notion, would have been your reward. Your tutor already enjoys that
reward, and if you had been keen-sighted enough to penetrate, without
assistance, the mist of delusions with which you have been encompassed,
you would have been admitted some time since to the sanctuary where that
reward awaits you. More I dare not say at present; however, I would
advise you not to postpone your journey, and neither to betray me or the
U_nknown_. If you slight my advice, then you must ascribe to yourself
all the bad consequences which may arise from it, and you never will
meet again in this world your tutor or Amelia. I conjure you not to
mistake this for a new delusion. If you, on the other side, are inclined
to profit by this advice, you will continue your journey with all
possible expedition, and not think it finished before you shall be
arrived at Ma***d, the capital of Sp***n, you will meet the _Unknown_,
Amelia and your tutor, on the road. At *ubea you will stop at the inn
which bears the sign of the golden mirror, where you are to receive an
important visit. You will have the goodness to send my trunk to the
post-house, where one of my people will call for it. I remain, with that
respect and love with which I always have been,
“Your Grace’s, &c. &c.”
I must confess, I never should have expected _such_ a letter. I fancied
it would be couched in terms of repentance and submission, and when I
opened it, found it to be a letter of a man of good conscience, who took
it upon himself to advise and to warn me. What he told me of a hidden
sanctuary to which the _Unknown_ had designed to introduce me after I
should have completed my time of probation, was an utter riddle to me,
but what he told me about my tutor was still more so. At first I fancied
this to be nothing but a varnish, by which he would conceal his
deceptions, and an artifice to ensnare me a second time; however the
idea that the matter _might_ be as he had stated it, made me uneasy, and
his menaces with respect to the bad consequences of my discontinuing
my journey, frightened me. The bare possibility of the execution
of his threats, was sufficient to determine me to continue my
journey.---Pietro, my faithful servant, endeavoured indeed to persuade
me to drop my design assailing me with tears and prayers; however,
nothing could change my resolution. I would have encountered any danger
and difficulty in order to meet Amelia and my tutor again, and departed
with the first dawn of day. I left the Count’s trunk at the post-house
at **zin. At ***jelo, I was, at length, so fortunate as to find a key to
the cyphers which I had despaired to unfold. I had already tried all
languages which I was master of, and succeeded at length with the Latin.
How amply did I think my trouble rewarded, when I found the papers to be
copies of letters which the _Unknown_ had wrote on my account to Pinto
Ribeiro, privy counsellor of the Duke of Br**za. Here follows the
translation:
“Your Excellency knows how carefully we endeavoured to conceal the place
of our secret meetings from the intrusion of prying strangers, by
spreading the report that it was haunted. However, this did not deter a
young nobleman who is on his travels, from entering last night the
castle, in company of his tutor, with the intention of forming an
acquaintance with the ghosts. No sooner had we been informed of their
being arrived at the castle, when Georgio de M**** offered to chastise
them for their inquisitiveness, fixing twelve o’clock at night for the
execution of his design. He disguised himself as the most dreadful
spectre which ever has appeared at midnight. Concluding from the
undertaking of the two strangers that they were men of spirit and
resolution, he put on a coat of mail, and covered his face with a mask
made of bull-skins, in order to be proof against swords and pistols;
a precaution which, as the event proved, was not superfluous. Thus
accoutred, he approached at twelve o’clock the apartment of the
strangers with a tremendous noise. Their door was bolted from within as
he had apprehended; however, all the locks and bolts in the castle being
constructed in such a manner that they can be opened from without,
Georgio found it not difficult to push their door open. I remained at
the threshold in order to wait the event. Georgio no sooner had entered
the room with a design to chastise the young man who was sitting near
the window, at a table on which two candles were burning, than his tutor
started up, aiming a blow at him from behind which would have done his
business at once, if Georgio had not been protected by his coat of mail.
The pretended spectre threw the old gentleman so violently on the ground
that he was unable to move a limb. This sight entirely disconcerted the
young man, who was on the point of firing a pistol at his frightful
visitor, rushed on him with a thundering voice, extinguished the
candles, and beating him in such a manner as if he was going to beat him
to atoms. Georgio’s dress being anointed with a salve composed of
phosphorus, he appeared in the dark, to be all on fire. The dreadful
impression which this sight produced on the mind of the young man was
increased by the howling, groaning, and the tremendous noise which some
of our company raised in the apartment over his head; he seemed to be
senseless. As soon as Georgio perceived his helpless state, he lighted
the candles with phosphorus, and left the apartment which he carefully
bolted and locked.
“An hour after this scene had been acted, Georgio returned to the
apartment, partly with the intention of seeing what effect the incident
had produced on the strangers, and partly with a view to deter them from
paying a second visit to the castle, and renewed the former scene. Both
of them were again stretched senseless on their beds. As soon as Georgio
had done with the young nobleman, he left the room without kindling the
taper, for fear of being watched by the young spark, if he should
recover his recollection a little too soon. He was not mistaken. But who
would have thought that the young man would be so daring to pursue the
spectre on his return through the dark passage? Georgio, who did not
entertain the most distant idea of such an attempt, neither looked back,
nor shut the trap-door thro’ which he had jumped down into the
subterraneous vault, upon a heap of hay and straw. He had not advanced
four steps, when the report of a pistol re-echoed through the
subterraneous fabric. Some of our company who were at hand, hastened to
the spot from whence the report of the pistol had proceeded, wrapt in
black cloaks, and provided with torches and swords. They found the young
man lying upon the straw upon which he had fallen in the dark through
the trap-door. He was instantly seized and conducted to the
assembly-room, where the conspirators, who had previously masked their
faces, were sitting around a long table. Hearing that he was to pay with
his life for his rashness, he drew his sword, but was soon disarmed and
confined in an adjoining chamber.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
CURSORY THOUGHTS ON THE FICKLE GODDESS,
SHEWING WITH WHAT INJUSTICE SHE GENERALLY DISPENSES HER FAVOURS.
It has long been the complaint of the experienced, that no human
foresight, no prudence, can at all times ensure prosperity, and avert
ill fortune. Something still arises to baffle the counsels of the wise,
and to counteract the intentions of the good. The Roman satirist has
indeed asserted, that fortune is a deity of our own creation, and that
he, who submits to the guidance of prudence, needs not the interposition
of any supernatural power; but experience proves the assertion to be
rather the effusion of rigid and affected philosophy, than the cool
suggestion of well-informed reason.
The observation of a sacred moralist, that the race is not to the swift,
nor the battle to the strong, is more agreeable to truth, and has been
confirmed by the repeated testimony of some thousand years. Wisdom is
often found guilty of folly, and ingenuity of error.
As merit cannot always ensure success, even in the exertion of its
peculiar excellence, so it is by no means certain of obtaining a good
reception in the world: for history and experience furnish many examples
to prove, that wealth and power are not the necessary consequences of
wisdom and virtue. To be wise and virtuous, may be learned from an
Epictetus, to be fortunate from others.
It might indeed be supposed, that strength of intellects, accuracy of
judgment, and extensive erudition, would either secure to themselves
good fortune, or would, at least, be rewarded by the world; but it is an
incontestable truth, that poets and philosophers, of every age and every
nation, have been as much distinguished by their indigence, as their
ingenuity. Poverty and poetry are almost synonymous, while the unerring
experience of mankind has reduced it to a proverb, that fools have
fortune.
The insufficiency of merit, and of honest endeavours, to the acquisition
of fame and fortune, has given occasion to the discontented to repine,
and censure the economy of human affairs: but they who are conversant in
the investigation of final causes, easily perceive, that such a
dispensation tends to perfect virtue, by the exercise of patience.
* * * * *
_MORAL AXIOM._
Those who reprove with passion for every trifle, in a little time will
not be regarded when they reprove with reason.
* * * * *
* * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
ACTIVITY CONDUCIVE TO HAPPINESS.
The final cause of the many obstacles which we meet with, and the
numerous difficulties in which this journey of life involves us, will
readily appear to a confederate mind, as an excellent contrivance of
Providence to stimulate us to exertion. Without this order of things,
many faculties would lay dormant, the ends of our being would be
frustrated, and this world be no longer a scene of trial. Man is
naturally inclined to indulge himself in ease and inactivity, and were
it not for certain motives, would always remain in a state of rest: But
the fluctuating nature of all human affairs constantly counteracts this
propensity to accommodate ourselves to every situation, and urges
forward on the road in pursuit of something we call happiness, or
hastens our flight from some evil. The long-expected hour of happiness
is perhaps at length arrived, and deluded man sits down to enjoy life,
and hopes at last to find innocent and tranquil pleasures. The storms of
adversity arise and obscure the delightful prospect; his attention is
excited, and some unforeseen emergency demands the exertion of his
talents, and proves that man is made for action.
* * * * *
Account of a WONDERFUL DELIVERANCE at SEA near fifty years ago.
A Dutch seaman being condemned to death, his punishment was changed, and
he was ordered to be left at St. Helen’s Island. This unhappy person
representing to himself the horror of that solitude, fell upon a
resolution to attempt the strangest action that ever was heard of. There
had that day been interred in the same island an officer of the ship:
the seaman took up the body out of the coffin; and having made a rudder
of the upper board, ventured himself to sea in the coffin. It happened
fortunately for him to be so great a calm that the ship lay immoveable
within a league and a half of the island; when his companions seeing so
strange a boat float upon the waters, imagined they saw a spectre, and
at last were not a little startled at the resolution of the man, who
durst hazard himself upon that element in three boards slightly nailed
together, though he had no confidence to find or to be received by those
who lately sentenced him to death. Accordingly it was put to the
question, whether he should be received or not; some would have the
sentence put into execution, but at last mercy prevailed, and he was
taken aboard, and came afterwards to Holland; where he lived in the town
of Horn, and related to many how miraculously God had delivered him.
* * * * *
OBSERVATION.
A youth is generally laughed at by his youthful companions where they
see him pursue the paths of virtue and piety with alacrity and zeal; but
let him not be discouraged; if God be on his side, who can be against
him?
* * * * *
* * * *
_NEW-YORK._
* * *
MARRIED.
On Tuesday, the 28th ult. by the Rev. Thomas L. Moore, of Hempstead, Mr.
MINNE SCHENK, of Cow Neck, to Miss PHEBE TOFFEY, daughter of Mr. Daniel
Toffey, of Herricks, (L. I.)
On Thursday evening the 14th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. CORNELIUS
DAY, to Mrs. ANN HAMELLER, both of this city.
* * * * *
_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 10th to the 23d inst._
_Days of the Month._
_Thermometor observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
_Prevailing winds._
_OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._
deg. deg. deg. 8. 1. 6. 8. 1. 6.
100 100 100
JULY 10 73 78 50 74 NW. SW S. clear do. do.
11 73 25 78 77 50 S. do. do. cloudy do. do. rn. at n.
12 80 75 87 50 78 S. SW. W. cr. cy. do. thun. & light
13 76 72 50 74 25 SW do SW rain do. do.
14 72 74 75 72 SW do NW rain do. do. thun. & lit
15 72 76 50 72 N se sw cy. rn. cy. thun. & lit.
16 74 50 82 50 76 75 W do SW cloudy clear do.
17 74 25 80 50 79 SW do. do clear do. do.
18 72 79 73 W. SW W. clear. do. thun. & light
19 70 75 78 79 W. do do. thun. in the nt. cy. do cr
20 70 50 66 63 NE. do. N. cloudy rain do.
21 74 50 77 50 77 N. do. SW. cloudy clear do.
22 75 80 73 NE. do se clear do. do.
23 69 74 69 Ne do. e cloudy clear do.
* * * * *
+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+
* * *
TO ELIZA.
Come, my Eliza, grace the sylvan scene,
Ah! fly, and leave the careful seats of woe;
No sorrows here intrude, all calm, serene,
Our happy hours in sweet contentment flow;
Bring guileless pleasures each succeeding day,
Then clap their joyous wings, and quickly haste away.
O’er neighbouring fields, unlike our smiling plain,
Fell tyranny his iron rod extends:
There furious war and devastation reign,
And pity bids us weep our slaughter’d friends
Yet cannot sympathy our peace molest,
We grow by sad comparison more blest.
O come, the time prophetic bards foretold,
When tyranny, and war shall be no more;
When circling years, restore the age of gold,
And every sorrow, want, and pain are o’er;
When heaven-born love, and peace shall reign again,
To bless an unambitious gentle race of men.
MATILDA.
Cedar Grove, 1776.
* * * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
EJACULATION
+Over the grave of my wife.+
And does this little space contain
The person of my wife?
Who, when alive, no house could hold,
Her _tongue! ! !_----Ah! what is _life_?
THEODORE.
New-York, July 24, 1796.
* * * * *
* * * *
TO AMANDA.
From me, dear maid, one faithful verse receive,
The last sad offering that a wretch can give;
Warm from that heart, decreed by heaven to prove,
The sad experience of too great a love.
When first, Amanda, with your friendship blest,
Your form too lovely, all my soul possest;
Tho’ sweet the hours, how swift the minutes flew,
While pleas’d I sat and fondly gaz’d on you.
Ah! how I listen’d when your silence broke,
And kiss’d the air which trembled as you spoke;
Did you not, dearest, see my fond distress,
Beyond all power of language to express?
Did not my soul betray the young disease,
The soften’d look, the tender wish to please?
To sooth your cares, when all in vain I strove,
Did not each action speak increase of love?
’Tis done! but ah, how wretched must I be,
That lovely bosom heaves no sigh for me;
For me, that heart with no warm passion glows,
Nor my Amanda one soft word bestows:
But could she see the anguish of my heart,
And view the tumults that her charms impart;
Could she but read the sorrows of my mind,
She sure would pity, for she must be kind.
Ah! what avails, dear maid, to souls like mine,
That gen’rous friendship is your sweet design?
The pleasing thought with rapture I pursue,
It must be lovely, for it comes from you.
But oh! how vain is friendship to repress
The soul-felt pang of exquisite distress.
How small the balm, by friendship you impart,
To the sharp tortures of th’ impassion’d heart.
What tender wish, for you alone to live,
Could once each dear deluding moment give?
When every look, bewitching as ’twas fair,
Seiz’d all my heart, and play’d the tyrant there.
How did those eyes with soften’d lustre shine,
Thought unexpress’d, and sympathy divine?
While still the hope within my bosom grew;
Vain hope!----to live for happiness and you.
Some swain more blest has taught thy breast to glow,
But who can soothe the wretched Arouet’s woe?
Ah! think not absence can afford a cure,
To the sharp woes, the sorrows I endure:
Amanda, no! ’twill but augment distress
To such a height no mortal can express.
My soul, distracted, still is fix’d on you;
Was ever heart so wretched and so true!
Oh! say, shall selfish love my bosom fire?
Shall you reluctant meet my fond desire?
If that dear heart has vow’d eternal truth,
To some blest swain, some more engaging youth;
Forgive the thought, dear angel of my breast,
I must be wretched; O! may you be blest.
Yes, may the youth to whom you prove more kind,
Know the rich treasures of that lovely mind:
May he be fond, and may no cloud o’ercast
The virtuous passion, born to ever last.
But though his love in every act may shine,
Yet know, sweet maid, it cannot be like mine:
Your image never can from me depart;
Fixt in my soul, and written on my heart.
* * * * *
* * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
THE WISH.
Where’s my Olivia, tell me where?
Oh! could she all my pleasures share;
Oh! could she---- No-- That thought restrain,
She must not, shall not share my pain.
How oft with her I’ve rang’d the fields,
Pleas’d with the blessings friendship yields;
Contented then, no more desir’d,
And only sung what it inspir’d.
Soon may she come, and with her bring
That peace which taught me first to sing,
That calm contentment which attends
The gentle intercourse of friends.
’Till then in vain I seek relief,
And sooth, with ev’ry art, my grief;
Friendship alone can grief destroy,
And tune the soul again to joy.
Can bid each flatt’ring hope be still,
To reason’s power subdue the will;
Each feeling of the heart improve,
And guard it from the darts of love.
HENRICUS.
New-York, _July 22, 1796_.
* * * * *
_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._
* * *
To a Gentleman who Obliged Me to Read Aloud,
and Made Me Promise to Write Some Verses.
THE THREAT.
Strephon, as yet you have your way,
No contradictions tease you;
Submissive to despotic sway,
I’ve read, I’ve wrote to please you.
Howe’er this empire to secure,
You less should seem to know it,
Your pow’r, believe me, won’t endure,
If thus you strive to shew it.
If conscious triumph you’d enjoy,
You must not still perplex me;
Nor all your wit and sense employ,
On themes, _you know_, will vex me.
The woman’s pride may rouze at last,
It can’t be _always_ neuter,
I freely can forgive the past,
But do not tempt the future.
PHYLLIS.
New-York, _July 22, 1796_.
NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every
Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and
Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are
taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9,
Maiden-Lane._
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
_UTILE DULCI._
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, August 3, 1796.+ [+No. 57.+
[[For sources, see the end of the e-text.]]
_+View+ of the STARRY HEAVENS._
(_Concluded from page 25._)
Each star, then, is not only a world, but also the center of a planetary
system. It is in this light we must consider the stars, which shine over
our heads in a winter night. They are distinguished from the planets by
their brilliancy, and because they never change their place in the sky.
According to their apparent size, they are divided into six classes,
which comprehend altogether about three thousand stars. But though they
have endeavoured to fix the exact number of them, it is certain they are
innumerable. The very number of stars sowed here and there, and which
the most piercing eye can with difficulty perceive, prove that it would
be in vain to attempt to reckon them. Telescopes indeed have opened to
us new points in the creation, since by their assistance millions of
stars are discovered. But it would be a very senseless pride in man to
try to fix the limits or the universe, by those of his telescope. If we
reflect on the distance between the fixed stars and our earth, we shall
have new cause to admire the greatness of the creation. Our senses alone
make us already know that the stars must be farther from us than the
planets. Their apparent littleness only proceeds from their distance
from the earth. And in reality, this distance cannot be measured: since
a cannon-ball, supposing it always to preserve the same degree of
swiftness, would scarce, at the end of six hundred thousand years, reach
the star nearest to our earth. What then must the stars be? Their
prodigious distance and their brightness tell us,---they are suns which
reflect as far as us, not a borrowed light, but their own light; suns,
which the Creator has sowed by millions in the immeasurable space; and
each of which is accompanied by several terrestrial globes, which it is
designed to illuminate.
In the mean time, all these observations, however surprising they are,
lead us, at the utmost, but to the first limits of the creation. If we
could transport ourselves above the moon; if we could reach the highest
star over our heads, we should discover new skies, new suns, new stars,
new systems of worlds, and perhaps still more magnificent. Even there,
however, the dominions of our great Creator would not end; and we should
find, with the greatest surprize, that we had only arrived at the
frontiers of the worldly space. But the little we do know of his works,
is sufficient to make us admire the infinite wisdom, power, and goodness
of our adorable Creator. Let us stop here, then, and reflect, how great
must be that Being who has created those immense globes! who has
regulated their course, and whose right hand directs and supports them!
And what is the clod of earth we inhabit, with the magnificent scene it
presents us, in comparison of the beauty of the firmament? If this earth
was annihilated, its absence would be no more observed than that of a
grain of sand from the sea-shore. What are provinces and kingdoms in
comparison of those worlds? Nothing but atoms which play in the air, and
are seen in the sun-beams. And what am I, when I
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