VOLUME II. (continued 10)

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

INTERESTING HISTORY OF THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

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

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

(Continued from page 142.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But for him!”

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

“Was my daughter in that tower?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

CONJUGAL AFFECTION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

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

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

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONNET.

EXTRACTED FROM A NOVEL IN MANUSCRIPT.

THE EVE OF HYMEN.

TO A VIOLET.

THE SNOW-DROP AND PRIMROSE.

AN APPEAL.

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

UTILE DULCI.

The New-York Weekly Magazine; OR, MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY.

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, November 16, 1796. [No. 72.

ON CONVERSATION.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 147.)

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

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

“But my old friend------”

“Will soon press you again to his bosom.”

“And Amelia?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The charms of novelty, my dear father.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What have you there?” he asked me.

“The picture of the Dowager Countess of Clairval.”

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

“She was married to his brother.”

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

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

“Then the Countess must be extremely handsome.”

“She is an angel.”

“The face is more interesting than handsome.”

“Handsome and interesting to a high degree.”

“You are in love with her.”

“My father—”

“I should be very sorry at it.”

“For what reason?” I asked, thunderstruck.

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

“I don’t like her at all.”

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

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

“The Countess of Clairval? Never!”

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

MAXIM.

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REMARKS ON MUSIC.

(Continued from page 140.)

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

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

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

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

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

A. O.

(To be continued.)

ON CONTENTMENT.

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

TASTE.

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

INTERESTING HISTORY OF THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

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

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

(Continued from page 150.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

THE FIERY ORDEAL;

A JUDICIAL ANECDOTE.

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

POWER.

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

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

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

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

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

ANECDOTE OF DR. GOLDSMITH.

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

FUGITIVE TRIFLES.

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

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 30th ult. to the 12th inst.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

6, A.M. 3, P.M. 6.3. 6.3.

deg.100 deg.100

Oct. 30 46 57 w.do. clear light wind.do. do.

31 44 54 w.sw. cloudy lt. winddo. do.

Nov. 1 37 45 n.do. clear high winddo. lt. wd.

2 35 49 nw.w. clear light wind.do. do.

3 41 52 sw.w. clear high wind,do. lt. wd.

4 43 44 w.do. cloudy lt. wind,clear do.

5 47 5350 w.nw. cloudy high wd.cr. lt. wd.

6 4550 4625 sw.nw. clear lt. wd.do. high wind.

7 32 44 nw.do. clear high wd.do. lt. wind.

8 38 5025 sw.do. clear lt. wd.cloudy do.

9 46 48 sw.do. cloudy lt. wd.do. do.

10 4375 5650 sw.e. cloudy lt. wd.do. do.

11 4875 53 e.do. cloudy lt. wd.do. do.

12 4350 52 n.do. cloudy lt. wd.clear lt. wd.

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

For October 1796.

deg. 100

Mean temperature of the thermometer at Sunrise: 49 18

Mean do. do. 3 P.M. 58 5

Do. do. for the whole month 53 61

Greatest monthly range between the 25th & 28th 40

Do. do. in 24 hours, the 25th 24

Warmest day the 25th 77

The coldest do. the 28th 37

2 Days it has rained, and but a small quantity.

11 days it was clear at the observation hours.

11 do. it was cloudy at the same do.

18 do. the wind was light, at do. do.

2 do. the wind was high do. do.

18 Days the wind was to the westward of North and South.

18 Do. the wind was to the Eastward of do. do.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

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

THE BELLE’S INVOCATION TO WINTER.

THE COMPLAINT.

ADDRESS TO A FAVOURITE CANARY BIRD.

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

UTILE DULCI.

The New-York Weekly Magazine; OR, MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY.

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, November 23, 1796. [No. 73.

ON LAUGHING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EXTRAVAGANCE AND AVARICE.

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

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

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 155.)

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

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

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

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

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

“Name it!”

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

“And the second---”

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

“Don’t name it!”

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

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

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

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

“He is abroad.”

“I am curious to get acquainted with him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Marquis consented to my request.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

COMPASSION---AN ANECDOTE.

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

REMARK.

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

EXTRAORDINARY INSTANCES OF GRATITUDE.

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

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

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

ANECDOTE of the Celebrated JOHN de WITT.

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

ON IMAGINATION.

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

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

REMARK.

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

INTERESTING HISTORY OF THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

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

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

(Continued from page 158.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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