VOLUME II. (continued 11)

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

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

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

“Pulaski, I am ready.”

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

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

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

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

“No: but he must be forced to do so.”

“Forced!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(To be continued.)

HUMANITY.

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

INSTANCE OF BENEVOLENCE.

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

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

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

RETROSPECTION.

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

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 13th to the 19th inst.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

deg.100 deg.100

Nov. 13 3650 50 nesw. clear cloudy,lt. wind calm.

14 47 50 nw.s. cloudy do.light wind do.

15 48 5275 s.sw. foggy do.lt wd. do. sm. rn.

16 43 43 nw.n. clear do.high wind ditto.

17 2650 40 ne.e. clear cloudy,light wind do.

18 4650 5050 sws. cloudy cr.do. lt wd. sm. rn.

19 40 5675 s.do. foggy clear,light wind do.

SONNET TO MARIA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE POOR MAN’S ADDRESS TO WINTER.

ODE TO BACCHUS.

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

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, November 30, 1796. [No. 74.

THE GOOD HUSBAND.

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

THE GOOD WIFE.

The good wife is one, who, ever mindful of the solemn contract which she has entered into, is strictly and conscientiously virtuous, constant, and faithful to her husband; chaste, pure, and unblemished in every thought, word, and deed; she is humble and modest, from reason and conviction; submissive from choice, and obedient from inclination; what she acquires by love and tenderness, she preserves by prudence and discretion; she makes it her business to serve, and her pleasure to oblige her husband; as conscious that every thing which promotes his happiness, must in the end contribute to her own: her tenderness relieves his cares, her affection softens his distress, her good humour and complacency lessen and subdue his affliction; she openeth her mouth, as Solomon says, “with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness; she looketh well to the ways of her husband, and eateth not the bread of idleness: her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her.” Lastly, as a good and pious Christian, she looks up with an eye of gratitude to the great dispenser and disposer of all things, to the husband of the widow, and father of the fatherless, intreating his divine favour and assistance in this and every other moral and religious duty; well satisfied, that if she duly and punctually discharges her several offices and relations in this life, she shall be blessed and rewarded for it in another.

ANECDOTE OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

After Sir Philip Sidney was wounded near the walls of Zetphen, the horse he rode upon being rather furiously choleric than bravely proud, forced him to forsake the field, but not his back, as the noblest and fittest bier to carry a martial commander to his grave. In this sad progress, passing along by the rest of the army, where his uncle, Robert, earl of Leicester, the general, was, and being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently brought him. But, as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along, who had been wounded at the same time, ghastly casting up his eyes at the bottle: sir Philip perceiving this, took it from his head, before drinking, and delivered it to the poor man, with these words: “Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.”

This generous behaviour of the gallant knight ought not to pass without a penegyric. All his deeds of bravery, his politeness, his learning, his courtly accomplishments, do not reflect so much honour upon him, as this one disinterested and truly heroic action. It discovered so tender and benevolent a nature: a mind so fortified against pain; a heart so overflowing with generous sentiments to relieve, in opposition to the violent call of his own necessities, a poor man languishing in the same distress, before himself, that none can read it without the highest admiration. Bravery is often constitutional: fame may be the motive to seats of arms; a statesman and a courtier may act from interest; but a sacrifice so generous as this, can be made by none but those who are good as well as great; who are noble minded, and gloriously compassionate, like Sidney.

SELF-LOVE.

Nothing is so capable of diminishing self-love as the observation, that we disapprove at one time what we approve at another.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 163.)

His resentment against the new King remained however rankling in his heart; he did homage to the Sovereign with visible satisfaction, and, as I suspect, not without secret reservation, while I swore to him the oath of allegiance, in hopes that I should soon renew it to the lawful King, who was still concealed. My country now was delivered from the Span—sh yoke, but my heart remained in the thraldom of love. The fetters which it was chained with were, indeed, nothing but garlands, but nevertheless stronger than bonds of adamant; how was it therefore to be expected, that I should have been inclined and capable to obey my father, who wanted me to break them? This bondage was so sweet to me, and my sharing it with an adored woman, rendered it dearer to me than the most unbounded liberty; it was my sole and most ardent wish to tie the bonds by which we were united still faster. But alas! my father desired me not to mention a syllable of a union with Amelia, and without his sanction I durst not expect her consent! The Marquis of Ferei*a exhausted in vain all his eloquence in order to melt the flinty heart of my inexorable parent. In that wretched situation I sent several times for Alumbrado’s assistance, yet I always shrunk back at the idea of owing any obligation to that man. His first visit confirmed the remarks of the Marquis, and all the civilities he lavished upon me, served only to strengthen my antipathy against him. My soul was as gloomy as my exterior situation. The view of my heaven was overdarkened by clouds which grew darker and darker. Only one star was glimmering through the blackness of that dismal night; one single star to which I could direct my weeping eyes. I was confident that the Irishman could be no stranger to my comfortless situation, and would aid me by his power, imagining that he now had the best opportunity of rewarding my reliance in him, and would undoubtedly conduct me over insurmountable obstacles to the promised land of happiness. Meanwhile the time when my father expected my declaration for the Princess of L*** was approaching with gigantic strides, and the Irishman did not appear. Anxiety struggled with my hope. I enquired every where for my protector, but I enquired in vain, and my anxiety increased to black despair.

* * * * * * * * *

CONTINUATION

By the Marquis of Ferei*a.

Here a great deal is wanting in the memoirs of the Duke of Cami*a, which I cannot leave unsupplied, otherwise an important part of his history will be lost, and the rest remain obscure. To fill up this empty space, will be the last duty of friendship I shall be able to perform for that unhappy man. I shall, therefore, continue his mournful tale, till I can connect again the thread of my narration to the remaining papers of the Duke.

The grief assailing the heart of my unhappy friend soon depicted itself so strongly in his countenance, that I began to tremble for his health. Alas! my apprehension was but too soon realized, his sufferings being increased, by an information he received from the brother of the new King, to a degree which entirely overcame his enfeebled spirits.

“My dearest friend,” the Prince wrote to him, “I have not discontinued, since your departure, the inquiries after your tutor, which I began when you were here. However, I should undoubtedly have continued them with the greatest prudence and activity, without coming any nearer to the mark, if the very man whom I had been endeavouring to find out had not spared me that fruitless talk.

“Yes, my friend, your tutor has personally surprised me in a most pleasing manner. But, O! my friend, moderate your joy when reading these lines. The meeting with that dear man was like airy vision, which appears and vanishes again after a few moments. Your tutor came, and went to those realms from whence no mortal can return.

“Five days are now elapsed, since he astonished me, one morning, by his unexpected visit. I soon observed with surprise, that he returned the manifestations of my joy with much restraint, while his inquisitive looks were doubtfully directed at me. His relation soon unfolded this mystery.

“Will you believe it, my friend, that in that very night, when we expected him in vain with so much impatience and anxiety, he had been taken up secretly, carried off, and imprisoned? He was on his way to my house, when he met a carriage which he mistook for mine. In this opinion he was confirmed, when the coachman stopt the horses, and a servant in my livery opened the coach door for him. Two unknown gentlemen, who were sitting in the carriage, begged him to get in, pretending to have been sent by me to fetch him. He joined them without hesitation, and when the coachman drove out of the town gate, instead of taking the road to my house, he was told that one more guest was to be fetched. This pretended guest made his appearance in the suburbs, and as soon as he had got in the carriage, pointed a dagger at the heart of your tutor, while his two associates seized and tied his hands. All this was effected before Count Galvez could gain time for resistance, which would have been equally dangerous and fruitless. He was told that if he would submit silently to his fate, no injury should be offered him, but that he would be stabbed without mercy if he should cry for assistance; at the same time he was blind-folded, and after about half an hour’s ride the carriage stopped, when your tutor was taken out of it, and conducted over several flights of steps, through long passages, in a room where he was shut up, and left alone.

“When Count Galvez removed the bandage from his eyes, he found himself in a spacious apartment, lighted with lamps; two smaller rooms were on each side, but none of them had windows. Some time after his arrival, two masked men brought him victuals and drink, which afterwards was repeated every noon and evening. He was in want of nothing, liberty excepted. He could not leave his apartments, which were bolted on the outside, and having not been able to persuade his masked attendants to answer to his questions, he could not learn where he was imprisoned. The frequent chiming of bells, the singing of hymns, which seemed to be very near him, and several other circumstances, made him, however, suppose that he was confined in a cloister.

“It is remarkable, that during his confinement, he was obliged to sit to a sculptor, who executed his statue so masterly, that it resembled him in the most striking manner. The artist too was masked and nothing could persuade him to tell for what purpose the statue was designed.

“At length the wished for hour of enlargement arrived. The prisoner was called up between one and two o’clock in the morning, and ordered to prepare for his departure. He was blindfolded and conducted to the street, where he was placed in a coach, and threatened with instant death if he should dare to utter a syllable. After half an hour’s ride he was taken out of the coach, upon which, his conductors drove away at a furious rate. As soon as he perceived that he was alone, he removed the bandage from his eyes, and found himself in a lonely part of the suburbs, and with the first dawn of day called at my house.

“As soon as Count Galvez had finished his extraordinary tale, I summoned my servants, in order to clear myself from a suspicion which afflicted me severely, and examined them rigorously in his presence. It was, however, proved that my horses and carriages, as well as my servants, had been at home at the hour when the Count was carried off, which rendered it very probable that the Unknown must have imitated my equipage and livery, in order to ensnare the Count with greater ease.

“Your tutor enquired much, and with great affection after you: I told him as much as I knew, but he was not satisfied with it. The following morning he departed for Lisb*n, in hopes of meeting you there, after a long and painful separation. I rode on horseback by his carriage in order to accompany him a few miles; the impatient desire of seeing you soon made your tutor urge the postillion to press his horses onward; the fellow was offended at the incessant solicitations of the Count, and drove slower, which vexed our friend to such a degree, that he exhorted the postillion rather warmly to proceed faster, adding some menaces. The postillion being provoked by your tutor’s threats, whipped his horses furiously, without taking proper notice of the neighbourhood of the precipice, which you will recollect; the animals grew wild, and the carriage was precipitated into the abyss. The Count scarcely breathed, when he received assistance, and the postillion was dashed to pieces against the rocks.

“I ordered instantly all possible care to be taken of our friend; however, a violent vomiting of blood, the consequence of a contusion on his breast, put an end to his life the subsequent day. A few minutes before his death, he wrote the following note, but was soon interrupted by a fainting fit.

“‘Ere while we were separated by men, but now we are going to be disunited by God. I do not murmur; yet I should have been happy to see you once more. On the brink of eternity I am expanding my hands, blessing thee, excellent young man! Weep not at my death; we shall meet again in yon blissful mansions, where all good men shall be reunited for ever. Honour my memory by keeping firm to my principles, which from my soul, flowed over in your mind.’”

Two mortal wounds like those which the ill-fated love affair, and the death of Count Galvez inflicted on the heart of my friend, confined him to a sick bed. Now happened what I had dreaded, without my having been able to prevent it. Alumbrado, who was returned from his journey, intruded on my friend, and soon traced out the safest road to his heart. My friend was weak enough to communicate to him the situation in which he was with regard to Amelia; and Alumbrado hesitated not a moment to procure him the consent of his father. The power exercised by that man over the Marquis was so great, that the latter suffered himself to be persuaded to write to the Countess, and to invite her in the most honourable and flattering manner, to render his son happy by giving him her hand.

(To be continued.)

ON HYPOCRISY.

Mr. Addison somewhere observes, that hypocrisy at the fashionable end of the town, is very different from hypocrisy in the city. The fashionable hypocrite endeavours to appear more vicious than he really is; the other kind of hypocrite more virtuous. The former is afraid of every thing that has a shew of religion in it, and would be thought engaged in any criminal gallantries and amours, of which he is not guilty. The latter assumes a face of sanctity, and covers a multitude of vices, under a seemingly religious deportment. There is a third sort of hypocrites, who not only deceive the world, but very often impose upon themselves. These different kinds of hypocrisy cannot be too much detested. The first is a flagrant depravity of mind, which induces a man to prefer the appearance of vice to virtue, and despicable to an amiable character. The second disgraces and abuses virtue by assuming her resemblance; the last, though not more criminal, is more dangerous than either of the former, as it is accompanied with mental blindness, and self deception.

NATURE.

Nature only is lovely, and nothing unnatural can ever be amiable. The genuine expressions of truth and nature are happily calculated to impress the heart with pleasure.

VIRTUE REWARDED:

A PASTORAL TALE:

[From the German of Gesner.]

Glicera was beautiful and poor. Scarce had she numbered sixteen springs, when she lost the mother who had brought her up. Reduced to servitude, she kept the flocks of Lamon, who cultivated the lands of a rich citizen of Mitylene.

One day, her eyes flowing with tears, she went to visit her mother’s solitary tomb. She poured upon her grave a cup of pure water, and suspended crowns of flowers to the branches of the bushes she had planted round it. Seated beneath the mournful shade, and drying up her tears, she said, ‘O thou most tender of mothers, how dear to my heart is the remembrance of thy virtues! If ever I forget the instructions thou gavest me, with such a tranquil smile, in that fatal moment, when inclining thy head upon my bosom, I saw thee expire; if ever I forget them! may the propitious Gods forsake me, and may thy sacred shade forever fly me! It is thou that hast just preserved my innocence. I come to tell thy manes all. Wretch that I am! Is there any one on earth to whom I dare open my heart?

‘Nicias, the Lord of this country, came hither to enjoy the pleasures of the autumn. He saw me; he regarded me with a soft and gracious air. He praised my flocks, and the care I took of them: he often told me that I was genteel, and made me presents. Gods! how was I deceived! but in the country who mistrusts? I said to myself, how kind our master is! may the Gods reward him! all my vows shall be for him; ’tis all that I can do; but I will forever do it. The rich are happy, and favoured by the immortals. When bountiful, like Nicias, they deserve to be happy. This to myself I said, and let him take my hand, and press it in his. The other day I blushed, and dared not look up, when he put a gold ring upon my finger. See, he said, what is engraved on this stone? A winged child, who smiles like thee; and ’tis he that must make thee happy. As he spoke these words, he stroaked my cheeks, that were redder than the fire. He loves me; he has the tenderness of a father for me; how have I deserved so much kindness from a Lord, and so rich and powerful? O, my mother, that was all thy poor child thought. Heavens! how was I deceived! this morning he found me in the orchard; he chuck’d me familiarly under the chin. Come, he said, bring me some new-blown flowers to the myrtle bower, that I may there enjoy their sweet perfumes. With haste I chose the finest flowers; and, full of joy, I ran to the bower. Thou art, he said, more nimble than the Zephyrs, and more beautiful than the Goddess of flowers. Then, immortal Gods! I yet tremble at the thought; then he catch’d me in his arms, and pressed me to his bosom, and all that love can promise, all that is soft and seducing, flow’d from his lips. I wept; I trembled. Unable to resist such arts, I had been forever lost. No, thou wou’dst no longer have had a child, if thy remembrance had not watch’d over my heart. Ah! if thy worthy mother had even seen thee suffer such disgraceful caresses! that thought alone gave me power to force myself from the arms of the seducer and fly.

‘Now I come; O with what comfort is it that I still dare! I come to weep over thy grave. Alas! poor and unfortunate as I am, why did I lose thee when so young. I droop like a flower, deprived of the support that sustain’d its feeble stalk. This cup of pure water I pour to the honour of thy manes. Accept this garland! receive my tears! may they penetrate even to thy ashes! Hear, O my mother, hear; ’tis to thy dear remains, that repose beneath those flowers, which my eyes have so often bedewed: ’tis to thy sacred shade I here renew the vows of my heart. Virtue, innocence, and the fear of the Gods, shall make the happiness of my days. Therefore poverty shall never disturb the serenity of my mind. May I do nothing that thou wou’dst not have approv’d with a smile of tenderness, and I shall surely be, as thou wast, belov’d of Gods and men: For I shall be gentle, modest, and industrious, O my mother, by living thus, I hope to die like thee, with smiles and tears of joy.’

Glicera, on quitting the place, felt all the powerful charms of virtue. The gentle warmth that was diffused over her mind, sparkled in her eyes, still wet with tears. She was beautiful as those days of spring, when the sun shines through a transient shower.

With a mind quite tranquil, she was hastening back to her labour, when Nicias ran to meet her. ‘O Glicera!’ he said, and tears flowed down his cheeks, ‘I have heard thee at thy mother’s tomb. Fear nothing, virtuous maid! I thank the immortal Gods! I thank that virtue, which hath preserved me from the crime of seducing thy innocence. Forgive me, chaste Glicera! forgive, nor dread in me a fresh offence. My virtue triumphs through thine. Be wise, be virtuous, and be ever happy. That meadow surrounded with trees, near to thy mother’s tomb, and half the flock thou keepest, are thine.

‘May a man of equal virtue complete the happiness of thy days! weep not, virtuous maid! but accept the present I offer thee with a sincere heart, and suffer me from henceforth to watch over thy happiness. If thou refusest me, a remorse for offending thy virtue will be the torment of all my days. Forget, O vouchsafe to forget my crime, and I will revere thee as a propitious power that hath defended me against myself.’

Original: Daphne, prose, by Salomon Gessner 1730-1788.

Translations: Aminta, prose, in Gessner’s works, 1802 (different translation than the one given here);

prose, “Nicias and Glicera”;

verse, “Daphne, or the Orphan”.

THE MISER AND PRODIGAL.

The hoarding miser torments himself, and the spendthrift punishes the innocent. The hoarder heaps up for others; and the prodigal scatters what others had heaped. The hoarder thinks so much of the time to come, as to forget the present; the squanderer has his thoughts so much taken up with the present, as to forget the future. The first lives as if he were never to die, and the last as if he had but a day to enjoy. Both are unprofitable members of society; the one occasioning a stoppage in the circulation, and the other an hæmorrhage. The hoarding miser is like a fog that infests the air; the prodigal resembles an outrageous storm that overturns all in its way. The hoarding miser is a ridiculous creature, and the prodigal a noxious animal.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

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

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

(Continued from page 166.)

Pulaski pressed me, but in vain, for I was unable to consent. As soon as Lodoiska knew that I should depart alone, and perceived that we were resolved not to inform her whither, she shed torrents of tears, and strove to detain me. I began to hesitate.

Lovzinski, cries my father-in-law at this critical moment, Lovzinski, depart! Wife, children, relations, all ought to be sacrificed, when it is necessary for the salvation of your country.

I instantly mount my horse, and make such haste, that I arrive by the middle of next day at Czenstachow. I here found forty brave men waiting for me, and determined for the most hazardous enterprise.

“Gentlemen,” said I to them, “we are now met on purpose to carry a king out of the midst of his own capital. Those capable of attempting such a bold enterprise, are alone capable of effecting it: either success or death awaits on us!”

After this short harangue we prepare to depart. Kaluvski, forewarned of our design, had already procured twelve waggons, loaded with hay and straw, each of which was drawn by four good horses.

We instantly disguise ourselves as peasants; we hide our clothes, our sabres, our pistols, and the saddles of our horses, in the hay with which our waggons were partly filled; we agree upon certain signs, and I give them a watch-word, to be used according to circumstances.—Twelve of the conspirators, commanded by Kaluvski, enter into Warsaw, accompanied by as many waggons, which they themselves conduct. I divide the rest of my little troop into several brigades, on purpose to avert suspicion: each is ordered to march at some distance from the other, and to gain the capital by different gates.

We depart, and on Saturday the 2d of November, 1771, arrive at Warsaw, and lodge together at a convent belonging to the Dominicans.

On the next day, which was Sunday, and which will for ever form a memorable epoch in the annals of Poland, one of my people of the name of Stravinski, being covered with rags, places himself near the collegiate church, and soon after proceeds demanding charity even at the gates of the royal palace, where he observes every thing that passed. Several of the conspirators walked up and down the six narrow streets, in the neighbourhood of the great square, where Kaluvski and myself were posted. We remain in ambuscade during the whole day, and part of the afternoon.

At six o’clock at night the king leaves the palace; he is followed, and is seen to enter the hotel of his uncle, the grand chancellor of Lithuania.

All our followers receive notice of this event, and assemble instantly: they throw off their miserable clothes, saddle their horses, and prepare their arms, in the large square belonging to the convent, where their movements are entirely concealed. They then sally forth, one after the other, under favour of the night. Too well known in Warsaw to hazard appearing there, without disguising my self, I still wear my peasant’s dress, and I mount an excellent horse, caparisoned, however, after the common manner.

I then point out my followers the different posts in the suburbs, which I had assigned them before our departure from the convent, and they were dispersed in such a manner, that all the avenues to the palace of the grand chancellor were carefully and strictly guarded.

Between nine and ten o’clock at night, the king comes forth on purpose to return home; and we remark, with joy, that his attendants were far from being numerous.

The carriage was preceded by two men, who carried flambeaux, some officers of his suit, two gentlemen and an esquire followed. I know not what was the name of the grandee in the coach along with the king. There were two pages, one to each door, two haydukes running by the side of the equipage, and three footmen, in the royal livery behind.

The king proceeds slowly: part of my people assemble at some distance; twelve of the most determined spring forward: I put myself at their head, and we advance at a good pace.

As there was a Russian garrison at that very moment in Warsaw, we affect to speak the language of those foreigners, so that our petty troop might be mistaken for one of their patroles.

We overtake the carriage at about a hundred and fifty paces from the grand chancellor’s palace, and exactly between those of the bishop of Cracow and of the late grand general of Poland.

All of a sudden we pass the heads of the foremost horses, so that those who preceded, found themselves separated from those who surrounded the royal equipage.

I instantly give the signal agreed upon. Kaluvski gallops up, with the remainder of the conspirators: I present a pistol to the postillion, who instantly stops; the coachman is fired upon, and precipitated beneath the wheels. Of the two haydukes who endeavoured to defend their prince, one drops, pierced with two balls; the other is overturned by means of a backhanded stroke from a sabre, which he receives on the head; the steed belonging to the esquire falls down covered with wounds; one of the pages is dismounted, and his horse taken; pistol-balls fly about in all directions—in short, the attack was so hot, and the fire so violent, that I trembled for the king’s life.

He himself, however, preserving the utmost coolness in the midst of the danger, had now descended from his carriage, and was striving to regain his uncle’s palace on foot. Kaluvski arrests and seizes him by the hair; seven or eight of the conspirators surround, disarm, overpower him, and, pressing him between their horses, make off at a full gallop towards the end of the street.

During this moment, I confess that I thought Pulaski had basely deceived me; that the death of the monarch was resolved upon, and that a plot had been formed to assassinate him.

All of a sudden I form my resolves; I clap spurs to my horse, overtake the little band, cry out to them to stop, and threaten to kill the first person who should dare to disobey me.

That God who is the protector of good kings, watched over the safety of M. de P***! Kaluvski and his followers stop at the sound of my well-known voice. We mount the king on horseback, make off at full speed, and regain the ditch that surrounded the city, which the monarch is constrained to leap, in company with us.

At that moment a panic terror takes possession of my troop; at fifty paces distant from the ramparts, there were no more than seven who surrounded the person of the king.

The night was dark and rainy, and it was necessary to dismount every instant, on purpose to sound the morass with which we were surrounded.

The horse on which the monarch rode fell twice, and broke his leg at the second fall: during these violent movements, his majesty lost his pelisse, and the shoe belonging to his left foot.

“If you wish that I should follow you,” says he to us, you must furnish me with another horse and a pair of boots.

We remount him once more, and, on purpose to gain the road by which Pulaski had promised me to advance, we resolve to pass through a village called Burakow; but the king exclaims, “Do not go that way; there are Russians there!”

I immediately change our route; but in proportion as we advance through the wood of Beliany, our number continues to diminish. In a short time, I perceive nobody around me but Kaluvski and Stravinski: a few minutes after, we are challenged by a Russian sentinel on horseback, at whose voice we instantly stop, greatly alarmed for our safety.

“Let us kill him!” cries the ferocious Kaluvski, pointing to the king. I instantly avow to him, without disguise, the horror which such a proposition inspired me with. “Very well, you may then take upon you the task of conducting him,” adds this cruel hearted man, who immediately after precipitates himself into the woods. Stravinski follows him, and I alone remain with the king.

“Lovzinski,” says he, addressing himself to me, as soon as they were out of sight; “it is you, I can no longer doubt it; it is you, for I will remember your voice!” I utter not a single word in reply. He then mildly adds, “It is certainly you Lovzinski! Who would have thought this ten years ago?”

We find ourselves at that moment near to the convent of Beliany, distant no more than a single league from Warsaw.

“Lovzinski,” continues the king, “permit me to enter this convent, and save yourself.”

“You must follow me,” was my only answer.

“It is in vain,” rejoins the monarch, “that you are disguised; it is in vain that you endeavour to assume a feigned voice: I know you well, I am fully assured that you are Lovzinski: ah, who would have said so ten years since? You would then have lost your life, on condition of preserving that of your friend.”

His majesty now ceases to speak; we advance some time, in profound silence, which he again breaking, exclaims. “I am overcome with fatigue—if you wish to carry me alive, permit me to repose myself for a single moment.”

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE OF CÆSARE ARETHUSI.

Cæsare Arethusi, was invited by the duke of Ferrara, to visit his court, and received there with extraordinary respect. That prince sat to him for his portrait, admired the performance highly, gave him evident proofs not only of his favour, but of his friendship and esteem; and having, at last, concluded that his generous treatment must inevitably have secured his gratitude (if not his affection) he freely acquainted him with his real inducement for inviting him to Ferrara. Confiding in the integrity of the painter, he told him there was a lady in the city whose portrait he wished to possess; but that it was to be procured in a manner so secret, as neither to be suspected by the lady herself, nor any of her friends. He promised an immense reward to Arethusi, if he was successful and retentive; he threatened him with the utmost severity of his resentment, if ever he suffered the secret to transpire.

The artist watched a proper opportunity to sketch the likeness of the lady, unnoticed by any; and having shewn it to the duke, he seemed exceedingly struck with the resemblance, as well as the graceful air of the figure, and ordered Arethusi to paint a portrait from that sketch, as delicately as he possibly could, but, above all things, recommended it to him, to keep it from every eye except his own.

When the picture was finished, the painter himself beheld it with admiration, and thought it would be injurious to his fame to conceal from the world, a performance which he accounted perfect; and through an excess of pride and vanity shewed it privately to several of his friends, who could not avoid commending the work, while they detested the folly and ingratitude of the artist.

The secret thus divulged, circulated expeditiously; it soon reached the ears of the lady, and her family, who were exceedingly irritated; and the duke appeared so highly enraged at the treachery of Arethusi, that he was almost provoked to put him to death; but he only banished him for ever from his dominions.

ADVICE.

When you come or find yourself coming full bat, it is called, against another person, you endeavour to get out of the way. Let an old man advise you not to do so. Stand still. He will endeavour to get out of your way, and, by your standing still, he will effect it. If you both endeavour to get by at the same time, as there are but two sides, it is an even wager you run against each other.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON THE ORIGIN OF LOVE.

Helvetius, who has scrutinised the effects of first impressions, with an acuteness which few of our moral philosophers can boast, led me, the other day, to consider on his theory, the origin of those refined and delicate sensations, which, in the mutual attachment of the sexes, give birth to the choicest blessings of humanity. According to his way of reasoning, I should suppose our ideas of beauty, and those expressions of the countenance which captivate the heart, should be ascribed to the earliest impressions on the mind. Every one’s experience will suggest to him the proof of this assertion. The first impression I can recollect when my eyes opened upon this world, was the sight of a beautiful mother, who hung over me with looks of the most fervent love. A face like hers, to me therefore, naturally became the most agreeable object in nature: And it must be to some secret analogy of feature that I owe that delirium of love, which I have since experienced from the charms of a mistress, whose countenance bore all those striking expressions of tenderness which characterised hers.

So much for the definition.---I cannot but add, how truly deplorable it is, that a passion which constitutes almost the only honourable trait in human nature, should now be every where trampled upon by avarice. For my part, altho’ I have suffered more from the fancied than ever I shall probably again from the real preference of a wealthy rival, yet, I trust I shall not witness, as our country advances, the same instances of legal prostitution as I have done in some other parts of the world. With us it is still more unpardonable; as the means of bettering our fortunes are so much more easy or certain. If there are those who are so far insensible to the refinements of sentiment as to give a preference to those enjoyments which are to be purchased, let them recollect, that by renouncing an union of the same taste and disposition, they abandon the only hope they can confidently entertain of nuptial constancy and domestic sunshine. If any one objects to me, that I may frequently be mistaken in this result of sincere love, I should still exclaim

Yours, &c.

PETRARCH.

POLITICS.

“Politics,” says the elegant and ingenious Mr. Grenville, in his Maxims, “are the food of sense exposed to the hunger of folly.” And indeed they seem to be devoured with so voracious an appetite, that no good assimilation or chylification of them takes place in the body politic in consequence of it. The appetite is great, the digestion imperfect.

ANECDOTE.

No object can be more pleasing to a virtuous mind, than to behold a well-directed benevolence, productive of a grateful and happy heart; while the smiling scenes of cultivation and society succeed to the solitary wastes of savage nature. Mr. Wood, a free merchant of Decca, coming thence to Calcutta, where the Ganges flows thro’ vast tracks of uncultivated and marshy woods, which render the navigation peculiarly difficult and dangerous, happened to fall in with a poor native wood-cutter. In the course of conversation, the latter said, that if he had but fifty rupees (5l.) he could make a comfortable settlement. The fifty rupees Mr. Wood lent him. When this worthy man, after staying some time at Calcutta, returned to Decca, he saw the pleasing effects of his bounty in an advanced settlement, on a small eminence newly cleared from standing trees. Unsolicited, he lent the wood-cutter fifty rupees more. The next voyage, Mr. Wood was delighted to behold the rapid progress of the settlement, and astonished to meet the wood-cutter offering to pay half the small, but generous loan. Mr. Wood refused to receive it at that time, and lent him 100 rupees more. About eighteen months after the commencement of the settlement, he had the inexpressible satisfaction of seeing his industrious wood-cutter at the head of five populous villages, and a spacious tract of fine land under cultivation, drained and cleared of swamps and woods. The woodcutter now repaid the principal he had borrowed, and tendered the interest, while tears of gratitude and humble affection stole down his venerable, his happy and expressive countenance. But how inexpressible the feelings of the benevolent merchant! Let those plunderers, who return with the wealth of nations sinking under their cruelty and oppression, while they wanton in all the luxuries of life---let them still

To sensations like his they must ever be strangers. An enjoyment so exquisite, so pure, so permanent, not all the riches of the East can purchase.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday the 12th inst. at Schenectady, by the Rev. Dr. Smith, Mr. Jeremiah Van Rensselaer, son of Gen. Robert Van Rensselaer, of Claverack, to Miss Sibella A. Kane, daughter of Mr. John Kane of that place.

On Thursday evening the 17th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, George Simpson, Esq. to Miss Mary Penn, both of this city.

On Sunday evening the 20th inst. Mr. Thomas Mahan, to Miss Hannah Curtis, both of this place.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

The reader will easily recollect the addresses to Winter published in our two last numbers. The following forms

ANOTHER WINTRY PROSPECT.

The quoted words “her ample page” are from Gray’s Elegy.

THE SEASON OF DELIGHT,

A SONG.

RECITATIVE.

AIR.

SONNET

TO HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

TO MARIA.

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

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, December 7, 1796. [No. 75.

Extraordinary Intrepidity of the Jomsburgians.

History informs us, that Harold, surnamed Blaatand, or Blue Tooth, (a king of Denmark, who reigned in the middle of the tenth century) had founded on the coast of Pomerania, which he had subdued, a city named Julin or Jomsburg; where he sent a colony of young Danes, and bestowed the government on a celebrated warrior named Palnatoko. This new Lycurgus had made of that city a second Sparta, and every thing was directed to this single end, to form complete soldiers. The author who has left us the history of this colony, assures us, that “it was forbidden them so much as to mention the name of fear, even in the most imminent dangers.” No citizen of Jomsburg was to yield to any number, however great, but to fight intrepidly without flying, even from a very superior force. The sight of present and inevitable death would have been no excuse with them for making any the least complaint, or for shewing the slightest apprehension. And this legislator really appears to have eradicated from the minds of most of the youths bred up under him, all traces of that sentiment so natural and so universal, which makes men think on their destruction with horror. Nothing can shew this better than a single fact in their history, which deserves to have place here for its singularity. Some of them having made an irruption into the territories of a powerful Norwegian lord, named Haquin, were overcome in spite of the obstinacy of their resistance; and the most distinguished among them being made prisoners, were, according to the custom of those times, condemned to death. The news of this, far from afflicting them, was, on the contrary, received with joy. The first who was led to punishment was content to say, without changing countenance, “why should not the same happen to me as did to my father? he died, and so must I.” A warrior named Thorchill, who was to cut off the head of the second, having asked him what he felt at the sight of death, he answered, “that he remembered too well the laws of Jomsburg to utter any words that denoted fear.” The third, in reply to the same question, said, “he rejoiced to die in glory, and that he preferred such a death to an infamous life like that of Thorchill’s.” The fourth made an answer much longer and more extraordinary. “I suffer with a good heart; and the present hour is to me very agreeable. I only beg of you,” added he, addressing himself to Thorchill, “to be very quick in cutting off my head; for it is a question often debated by us at Jomsburg, whether one retains any sense after being beheaded. I will therefore grasp this knife in my hand; if, after my head is cut off, I strike it towards you, it will shew I have not lost all sense; if I let it drop, it will be a proof to the contrary. Make haste, therefore, and decide the dispute.” ‘Thorchill, adds the historian, cut off his head in the most expeditious manner, but the knife, as might be expected, dropped from his hand.’ The fifth shewed the same tranquility, and died rallying and jeering his enemies. The sixth begged of Thorchill that he might not be led to punishment like a sheep; “strike the blow in my face,” said he, “I will sit still without shrinking; and take notice whether I once wink my eyes or betray one sign of fear in my countenance. For we inhabitants of Jomsburg are used to exercise ourselves in trials of this sort, so as to meet the stroke of death without once moving.” He kept his promise before all the spectators, and received the blow without the least sign of fear, or so much as winking his eyes. The seventh, says the historian, was a very beautiful young man, in the flower of his age. His long fair hair, as fine as silk, floated in curls and ringlets on his shoulders. Thorchill asked him what he thought of death? “I receive it willingly,” said he, “since I have fulfilled the greatest duty of life, and have seen all those put to death whom I would not survive. I only beg of you one favour, not to let my hair be touched by a slave, or stained with my blood.”

Notes:

The place name is generally spelled Jomsborg (Denmark). This account is probably not historical.

The “powerful Norwegian lord, named Haquin” is the historical Haakon Jarl.

COMMUNION WITH OUR OWN HEARTS.

If we could but learn to commune with our own hearts, and know what noble company we can make them, we should little regard the elegance and the splendors of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude still may be improved, when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 171.)

The Duke wrote only the following few lines:

“My dearest love! I address myself to you on the brink of the grave; your hand can save or hurl me down; my doom rests with you. O! come, angelic woman, and lead me from the gate of death to a paradisiacal life; come and reward my love, which alone supports my breaking heart.”

P.S. “Vasconcel*os has bled under the avenging sword of the redeemers of my country.”

The answer of the Countess was to the following purport:

“O! that this letter could fly on the pinions of love, in order to carry instantly to my friend health and joy. Yes, your request is granted. Receive, my dearest Duke, to whom my HEART has yielded, receive my HAND too, and the vow of eternal fidelity. My uncle having recovered his health, nothing shall detain me from embarking in the first vessel which shall sail for Port***l. The idea that your best wishes, the blessing of your father and my uncle, and the guardian genius of love, will conduct me on my voyage, will assist me to conquer my fear of the sea. I should never have done writing if this letter did not require expedition, and my friend, who arrived here the day before yesterday, insisted upon adding a few words to those of

“Your

“Amelia Clairval.”

“Give me leave, my Lord, to add only my sincerest congratulations, and to ask your Grace, whether you do not acknowledge now as a soothsayer

“Your humble and obedient servant,

Anna de Delier.”

The Duke had begun to mend rapidly ever since the Marquis consented to his union with Amelia; the letter of the Countess restored his health entirely. No mortal could be more happy and cheerful than the Duke of Cami*a. It was natural that Alumbrado, who, as the author of his happiness, had no small claim to his gratitude, should acquire in his eyes a value, which entirely dispelled the antipathy he at first had conceived against him. I soon was made sensible of that change, when I took one time the opportunity of dropping a few words concerning Alumbrado. “I cannot conceive,” the Duke replied warmly, “why you are so much prejudiced against that man; it is true his physiognomy does not speak much in his recommendation; it is, however, very unphilosophical to condemn a person merely on account of his features.” “Say whatever you will,” I replied, “an undescribable repelling sensation, which certainly does not deceive me—” “You have conceived an antipathy against him,” the Duke interrupted me, “and that cannot be refuted by arguments; however, I will remind you of a fact, which here will be in its proper place. Socrates, whose physiognomy, as you will recollect, was very much to his disadvantage, happened once to be in a company of friends, when a philosopher, who pretended to be a physiognomist, took the word; he was requested to delineate the character of Socrates, who was a stranger to him. The philosopher named several vices which he pretended to read plainly in his face. A general laughter was the effect of his judgment; however, Socrates remained serious, and declared that he really had felt a natural propensity to those vices, but had got the better of it by unremitted assiduity. The application of this instance, I leave to your own good sense.”

“How?” I exclaimed with surprise, “you compare Alumbrado with Socrates, an absurd ascetic with a reverend sage, hypocrisy with virtue?” This enormous infatuation vexed me to such a degree, that I could not help giving vent to my just resentment. However, I perceived soon that my words did not make the least impression on my misguided friend. Being therefore obliged to desist from my endeavours to change the opinion of the Duke, I strove with additional assiduity to cut off his connection with Alumbrado, at least till he should be united to Amelia, expecting that this angel would soon drive away that demon of darkness. I proposed to the Duke a journey to **ina, for the benefit of his health, and offered to accompany him. He consented to it without difficulty, expecting to beguile by exercise and diversions, the time which, from his impatience of seeing Amelia arrive, appeared to him to creep on with snail-like slowness. My aim would however have been attained without this expedient, Alumbrado leaving Li*bon unexpectedly; yet we set out on our proposed journey.

We had not been seven days at **ina when the Duke was already impatient to leave that place. However improbable it was Amelia could arrive so soon, yet this idea left him no rest. We returned on the eighth day, and travelled day and night.

It was five o’clock in the morning, when we alighted at his palace. Scarcely had we entered his apartment when his Secretary brought a letter which he said had been left by a pilot at a late hour last night. The Duke reddened and grew pale alternately, while he opened it.---“She is arrived, she is arrived!” he exclaimed, and the letter dropped out of his hand trembling with rapture. “She is arrived!” he repeated, taking it up and re-perusing the gladful lines. The emotions of his mind were so violent, that he was obliged to sit down. “Amelia is arrived!” he exclaimed again, rising and straining me to his bosom. The letter was couched in the following words:

“Has not your heart told you, my dearest Duke that I am near you? I should already have pressed you to my panting heart, if the Captain had suffered me to go in the boat which will set the pilot on shore. But he has opposed my design, on account of the swelling sea and the great distance. If Heaven favours us you will see me to-morrow.

Your

Amelia.”

“Well, my friend,” said the Duke, when I returned the paper to him, “has my presentiment deceived me? have not I done well to urge our return?—But why do we tarry here? (he added) let us fly to the harbour!”

The horses were instantly saddled, and we mounted them in our travelling dress. We rode in full speed, and each of us indulged silently his sentiments.—The sky was gloomy, and the universal stillness, not interrupted by the least breeze of air, seemed to presage no good. At length we fancied, with astonishment, we heard the distant rolling of thunder; however we soon perceived that it was the echo caused by the report of guns. The distant firing of cannon, and the forerunners of a rising tempest, thrilled my heart with chilling anxiety, for I apprehended the ship must be in great danger. Soon after the firing ceased, but this calm was more dreadful to me than the report of the cannon. We spurred our horses, without uttering a word, for neither of us dared to confess his apprehensions. Being at length arrived at the sea shore---Heavens! what a scene of horror did we behold! the surge was dreadful, the cliffs and the strand were covered with a white spume. The rays of the sun could not penetrate the fog which overspread the surface of the sea. We could, therefore, not discover the island where the ship was lying at anchor, it appearing to us in the shape of a black cloud, which seemed to be a mile distant from the shore. The veil which concealed the danger of the ship from our eyes only served to augment our anxiety.

A troop of mariners and soldiers under the command of Men*os, were arrived with us at the shore. The drums beat, and a general volley was fired. A flash of lightning darted instantly over the sea, and immediately after it the report of a gun was heard. We all hastened to the side where we had perceived the signal, and observed, through the fog, the body and the main-yard of a large ship. We were so near that we could hear the whistling and the acclamations of the sailors, in spite of the roaring of the mountainous billows. The ship’s crew fired a gun every three minutes, as soon as they perceived that assistance was near.

I admired my friend’s firmness of mind with which he, at a sight that ought to have rendered him almost distracted, shewed the greatest zeal to save the crew, ordering a large fire to be lighted on the cliffs, and boards, cables, empty casks and provisions to be kept in readiness.

An impending hurricane seemed to be lurking in the air. The middle of the clouds was of a horrid blackness, and their edges were of a copper colour. The leaves of the trees were moving, and yet not a breath of air was felt. The cries of the sea fowls, who were resorting to the island for protection, resounded through the air.

At length we heard suddenly a dreadful roaring, as if foaming torrents were rushing down from the summit of a lofty mountain, and every one exclaimed, this is the hurricane! In the same moment a violent whirlwind removed the foggy veil which had concealed the island from our eyes. We had now a clear view of the ship; her whole deck was covered with people, her colours were hoisted, her fore-part was secured by four anchors, and her stern by one. Her stem opposed the billowing waves which came roaring from the sea, and was raised so high above the surface of the water, that one could see her whole keel, while the stern was almost entirely buried in the foaming billows. The dangerous situation of the vessel rendered it impossible for her to put out to sea, or to run on store.

The howling of the wind, and the roaring of the waves, which were swelling higher every moment, was dreadful. The whole channel between the island and the shore was a mass of white thick froth, cut through by black and hollow waves. The appearance of the horizon prognosticated a long lasting storm. Some waves of a dreadful shape separated from the main every now and then, and darted with the velocity of lightning across the channel, while others remained immoveable like enormous rocks. Not one blue spot could be descried in the firmament; a pale faint glimmer enlightened heaven, earth and sea.

(To be continued.)

INSTANCE OF UNCOMMON FRIENDSHIP.

Two Jewish soldiers, in the time of Vespasian, had made many campaigns together; and a participation of dangers, at length, bred an union of hearts. They were remarked throughout the whole army, as the two friendly brothers; they felt and fought for each other.—Their friendship might have continued, without interruption, till death, had not the good fortune of the one alarmed the pride of the other, which was in his promotion to be a centurion under the famous John, who headed a particular party of the Jewish male-contents.

From this moment their former love was converted into the most inveterate enmity. They attached themselves to opposite factions, and sought each other’s lives in the conflict of adverse party. In this manner they continued for more than two years, vowing mutual revenge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit of aversion. At length, however, that party of the Jews, to which the mean soldier belonged, joining with the Romans, it became victorious, and drove John, with all his adherents, into the temple. History has given us more than one picture of the dreadful conflagration of that superb edifice. The Roman soldiers were gathered round it; the whole temple was in flames, and thousands were seen amidst them, within its sacred circuit. It was in this situation of things, that the now-successful soldier saw his former friend upon the battlements of the highest tower, looking round with horror, and just ready to be consumed with flames. All his former tenderness now returned; he saw the man of his bosom just going to perish; and, unable to withstand the impulse, he ran spreading his arms, and crying out to his friend, to leap down from the top, and find safety with him. The Centurion from above heard and obeyed; and, casting himself from the top of the tower, into his fellow-soldier’s arms, both fell a sacrifice on the spot; one being crushed to death by the weight of his companion, and the other dashed to pieces by the greatness of his fall.

HISTORY OF THE BEARD.

The respect which has been shewn to the Beard in all parts of the civilized, and in some parts of the uncivilized world, is well known to the slightest erudition; nay, a certain prejudice in its favour still exists, even in countries where the razor has long been omnipotent. This impression seems to arise very naturally from the habit of associating with it those ideas of experience and wisdom of which it is the emblem. It cannot wait upon the follies of youth; its bushy and descending honours are not known to grace the countenance of early life; and tho’ it may be said, in some degree, to grow with our growth, and strengthen with our strength, it continues to flourish in our decline, and attains its most honourable form and beauty when the knees tremble, the voice grows shrill, and the pate is bare.

When the bold and almost blasphemous pencil of the enthusiastic painter has aimed at representing the Creator of the world upon the canvass, a flowing beard has ever been one of the characteristic and essential marks of the Supreme Divinity. The Pagan Jupiter, and the graver inhabitants of Olympus, would not be known without this majestic ornament. Philosophy, till our smock faced days, has considered it as the appropriate symbol of its profession. Judaic Superstition, Egyptian Wisdom, Attic Elegance, and Roman Virtue, has been its fond protectors. To make it an object of dissention, and alternately to consider it as a sign of orthodoxy or the standard of heresy, was reserved for the fantastical zeal of the Christian Church.

In more modern times, not only provincial and national, but general Councils have been convened, Synods have been summoned, ecclesiastical Congregations and cloistered Chapters of every denomination have been assembled, to consider, at different periods, the character of this venerable grown of the human visage. Infinite disputes have been, of course, engendered, sometimes with respect to its form, at other times with regard to its existence. Religion interested herself in one age, in contending for that pointed form to which Nature conducts it: at a succeeding period, anathemas have been denounced against those who refused to give it a rounder shape; and to those, other denunciations have followed, which changed it to the square or the scollop. But, while religious caprice; for religion, sorry am I to say it, seems to be troubled with caprices---quarrelled about form and shape, the disputes were confined within the pale of the European Church: but, when the beard lessened into whiskers, and the scythe of ecclesiastical discipline threatened to mow down every hair from off the face, the East sounded the alarm, and the churches of Asia and Africa took up the cause, and supported, with all the violence of argument and remonstrance, those honours of the chin that they still preserve, and to which the existing inhabitants of those climates offer up a perpetual incense.

In the history of the Gallic Church, the scenes of religious comedy still live in description. For example:—a bearded Bishop appears at the door of a Cathedral in all the pomp of Prelacy, and demands installation to the diocese to which he is appointed. He is there met by a troop of beardless Canons, and refused admittance, unless he will employ the golden scissors they present to him, to cut that flowing ornament from his face, which they would think a disgrace to their own, as well as to the religion they profess. This same history, also, is not barren of examples, where the sturdy prelate has turned indignant from the disgraceful proposal, and sought the enforcing aid of sovereign power, which has not always been able, without much difficulty, to compel the reluctant chapter to acknowledge a bearded Diocesan. Others, unwilling to risk or delay the power and wealth of an episcopal throne for the sake of a cumbrous bush of hair, have, by the ready sacrifice of their beards, been installed amid acclamations and hosannas, as disgraceful as they were undeserved. It may appear still more ridiculous, but it is no less true, that some of these bishops have compounded the matter with their refractory clergy, in giving up the greater part of the beard, but retaining the growth of the upper lip in the form of whiskers. The idea of a bishop ‘en moustaches’ must trouble the spirit of a modern christian; but such there have been, who, in the act of sacrificing to the God of Peace, have exhibited the fierce terrific aspect of a German Pioneer.

At length, the persecuted Beard, which has been the object of such faithful veneration, finds in Europe, if we except part of Turkey, its only asylum in the Capuchin Cloister; unless we add the casual protection which is given to it by the fanatical Jew, or mendicant Hermit.

The following beautiful character is extracted from Mrs. D’Arblay’s new work, entitled Camilla, or a Picture of Youth; Publishing by the Editor on wove paper.

The form and the mind of Lavinia were in the most perfect harmony. Her polished complexion was fair, clear, and transparent; her features were of the extremest delicacy, her eyes of the softest blue, and her smile displayed internal serenity. The unruffled sweetness of her disposition bore the same character of modest excellence. Joy, hope, and prosperity, sickness, sorrow, and disappointment, assailed alike in vain the uniform gentleness of her temper: yet though thus exempt from all natural turbulence, either of pleasure or of pain, the meekness of her composition degenerated not into insensibility; it was open to all the feminine feelings of pity, of sympathy, and of tenderness.

REFLECTION ON THE EARTH.

The Earth, gentle and indulgent, ever subservient to the wants of man, spreads his walks with flowers, and his table with plenty; returns with interest every good committed to her care; and, though she produces the poison, she still supplies the antidote; though constantly teazed more to furnish the luxuries of man than his necessities, yet, even to the last, she continues her kind indulgence, and, when life is over, she piously covers his remains in her bosom.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

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

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

(Continued from page 174.)

I assist him to descend from his horse; he sits down upon the grass, and making me sit down by his side, he takes one of my hands and presses it between his own:

“Lovzinski, you whom I have so much loved, you who know better than any one the purity of my intentions, how comes it about that you have taken up arms against me? Ungrateful Lovzinski! shall I never find you but amongst my most bitter enemies? Do you return but on purpose to sacrifice me?”

He then, in the most affecting language, recapitulates the pleasures of our early youth; our more intimate connection at an age approaching to manhood, the tender friendship which we had sworn to each other, and the regard which he had ever treated me with since that period. He spoke to me of the honours with which he would have loaded me during his reign, if I had been ambitious to merit them: he reproached me more particularly respecting the unworthy enterprise of which I appeared to be the leader, but of which, he said, he was well assured that I was no more than the instrument.

He threw all the horror of the plot upon Pulaski, representing to me, at the same time, that the author of such an attempt was not the sole culpable person; that I could not charge myself with its execution without committing a crime; and that this odious complaisance, so highly treasonable in a subject, was infinitely more in a friend. He concluded by pressing me to restore him to his liberty: “Fly,” said he to me; “and be assured, if I encounter any of the Russians patroles, I shall tell them that you have pursued an opposite road from that which you have taken.”

The king continued to press me with the most earnest entreaties: his natural eloquence, augmented by the danger of his situation, carried persuasion to my heart, and awakened the most tender sentiments there.

I confess that I staggered; I balanced the circumstances for some time in my own mind, but Pulaski at length triumphed.

I thought that I still heard the fierce republican reproaching me with my pusillanimity. The love of one’s country has perhaps its fanaticism and its superstitions: but if I was then culpable, I am still so; I am more than ever persuaded that in obliging the king to remount his horse again, I performed an action that reflected honour on my patriotism.

“Is it thus,” says he to me, in a melancholy accent, “that you reject the prayer addressed to you by a friend? that you refuse the pardon offered to you by your king? Well then, let us begone. I deliver myself up to my unhappy fate, or rather, I abandon you to yours.”

We now re-commence our journey once more; but the entreaties of the monarch, his arguments, his reproaches, his very menaces, the struggles which I felt within myself, affected me in such a manner, that I no longer could discern my way. Wandering up and down the country, I kept no one certain road: after half an hour’s fatigue we found ourselves at Marimont, and I was greatly alarmed at seeing us thus return towards Warsaw, instead of leaving it at a distance.

At about a quarter of a league beyond this, we unfortunately fell in with a party of Russians. The king immediately discovers himself to the commanding officer, and then instantly adds. “In the course of the preceding afternoon, I happened to bewilder myself during the chace; this good peasant, whom you see here, insisted on my partaking a frugal repast in his cottage; but as I thought that I perceived some of the soldiers of Pulaski roaming in the neighbourhood, I was desirous of returning to Warsaw immediately, and you will oblige me much by instantly accompanying me thither.

“As to you, my friend,” continues he, turning at the same time towards me, “I am not at all sorry that you have given yourself this useless trouble, for I am as much pleased at returning to my capital attended by these gentlemen (pointing at the same time to the escort), as in accompanying you any farther. However, it would be improper that I should leave you without any recompence; what are you desirous of? Speak—I will grant you any favour which you may demand of me!”

It will be easy to conceive hew much I was alarmed, for I was still doubtful of the king’s intentions. I endeavoured therefore to discover the true meaning of his equivocal discourse, which must be either full of a bitter irony, or a magnanimous address. M de P*** left me for some time in this cruel uncertainty: “I behold you greatly embarrassed,” continues he at length, with a gracious air; “you know not what to choose! Come then, my friend, embrace me: there is indeed more honour than profit in embracing a king (adds he with a smile); however, it must be allowed, that, in my place, many monarchs would not be at this moment so generous as myself!” On uttering these words, he instantly departs, leaving me penetrated with gratitude, and confounded with so much true greatness.

However the danger which the king had so generously relieved me from, began every moment to assail me again. It was more than probable that a great number of couriers expedited from Warsaw, had spread about on all sides the astonishing news of the king’s having been carried off. Already, without doubt, the ravishers were warmly pursued. My remarkable dress might betray me in my flight, and if I once more fell into the hands of any of the Russians, better informed of the circumstance, all the efforts of the king would not be able to save me. Supposing Pulaski had obtained all the success which he expected, he must still be at a great distance; a journey of ten more leagues at least regained for me to perform, and my horse was entirely spent with fatigue: I endeavoured however to spur him on, but he had not got five hundred paces before he fell under me.

A cavalier, well mounted, happened to pass along the road by the side of me, at this very moment; he perceived the poor animal tumble down, and, thinking to amuse himself at the expence of an unfortunate peasant, he began to banter me about my situation. Piqued at this buffoonery, I resolved to punish him for his raillery, and secure my own flight at one and the same time: I, therefore, instantly present one of my pistols to his breast, and obliged him to surrender his own horse to me; nay, I acknowledge to you, that, forced by the peculiarity of my situation, I despoiled him even of his cloak, which being very large, hid all my rags beneath it, which otherwise might have discovered me. I then cast my purse full of gold at the feet of the astonished traveller, and sprang forward as fast as my new horse could carry me.

Luckily for me, he was fresh and vigorous.---I dart forward twelve leagues, with all the swiftness of an arrow: at length I think I hear the firing of cannon, and I instantly conjecture that my father-in law was at hand, and was employed in fighting the Russians.

I was not deceived---I arrive on the field of battle at the very moment when one of our regiments had given way. I instantly discover myself to the fugitives, and having rallied them beneath a neighbouring hill, I attack the enemies in flank, while Pulaski charges them in front with the remainder of his troops. Our manœuvres were so well concerted, and so admirably executed, that the Russians were entirely routed, after experiencing a terrible carnage.

Pulaski deigned to attribute to me the honour of their defeat: “Ah!” cries he, embracing me, after hearing the particulars of my expedition---“ah! if your forty followers had but equalled you in courage, the king would have been at this very moment in my camp! But the Deity does not will it. I am grateful, however, that you have been preserved to us; and I return you thanks for the important service which you have rendered me: but for you, Kaluvski would have assassinated the monarch, and my name would have been covered with an eternal opprobrium!

“I might have been able,” added he, “to have advanced two miles farther; but I rather chose to take possession of this respectable post, on account of the security of my camp. Yesterday, in the course of my march, I surprised, and cut in pieces, a party of Russians; this morning I beat two more of their detachments; but another considerable corps having collected the remainder of the vanquished, took advantage of the night, on purpose to attack me. My soldiers, fatigued with the toil of a long march, and three succeeding engagements, began to fly; but victory returned to my camp at your approach. Let us entrench ourselves here; we will wait for the Russian army, and fight while we yet have a drop of blood remaining!”

(To be continued.)

MILITARY ANECDOTE.

Gonsalvo, who was lieutenant-general to the celebrated Spanish general, the marquis of Spinola, and governor of Milan, in 1624, intending to take possession of a little walled village in the Palatine, called Ogershiem, dispatched an officer, at the head of some troops upon that errand. On the first alarm, nine tenths of the inhabitants removed to Manheim, leaving behind them about twenty insignificant people, and a poor shepherd, who, beside being a brave fellow, was a man of humour. The shepherd in good time fastened the gates, let down the drawbridge, and made a wonderful shew of resistance. A trumpeter summoned the village in form, upon which the few inhabitants that remained made their escape through a postern-gate, and left only the shepherd, and the shepherdess, big with child. This unaccountable peasant, in a style of the representative of a garrison, gave audience, from the walls, to the military herald, and made his terms of capitulation, inch by inch, stipulating, at the same time, for the preservation of the state, and the free exercise of the protestant religion. Imagine, therefore, what must be the surprise of the Spaniards, when they entered the village, and found him and his wife only in it! Yet the droll peasant preserved the muscles of his countenance inflexible; and, some weeks afterward, when his wife lay in, he desired the great Gonsalvo to be godfather; which honour the pompous Spaniard, for the jest’s sake, could not decline, but on the contrary, sent her some very handsome presents. This account, the historian (Mr. Spanheim, Hist. de l’ Elect. Palet.) says, might appear a little romantic to posterity, if the notoriety of it had not been a circumstance indisputable at the time it happened.