VOLUME II. (continued 13)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LINES ON THE LATE SCOTCH POET.

To a Gentleman who attempted drawing the Picture of a beautiful Young Lady:

MORAL VERSES, ADDRESSED TO YOUTH.

AN EPIGRAM.

[By Dr. Byrom.]

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

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, December 28, 1796. [No. 78.

Lamentations Of Panthea Over The Body Of Abradates.*

Be the garland of hope withered by the sigh of disappointment; be the lute of gladness no more responsive to the fingers of melody. What hast thou to do with dreams of rapture, with scenes of visionary transport, with the whispers of fancy that mock the ear of attention? Thou hast nothing to do with them. O ill-fated Panthea! thy peace, thy loves, thy joys are at an end: the howl of calamity has chased thy slumbers of happiness, and doomed sorrow and solitude to be thy hapless handmaids. How terrific is the brow of anguish to the eye of complaisance! to the children of festivity how convulsive is the cup of astonishment! My heart is as the heart of a babe that weeps bitterly; I have all the weakness of childhood, and all the sorrows of age. As the patient whose malady scoffs at physic, I am hopeless without a cure, I am disconsolate as the ghost of midnight among the tombs of my forefathers. Why, O thou nurse of my infancy, didst thou reserve me to such a date? why was I ever lulled upon the lap of tenderness? Would that ere the dawning irradiations of reason I had died, in the morning of existence thy Panthea had died; thou hadst wept over her urn with less mortal anguish. But cease, O thou nurse of my infancy, for the fault was not thine: thy imagination was enraptured with the fictions of fondness, and painted fairer prospects for thy much-loved Panthea: thy love reared around her the pavilions of ease, plucked the thorns of adversity from the garden of pleasure, and perfumed her paths with the incense of roses. It was not thine to descend to the recesses of thought, and chase honour from its abode as the assassin of peace. It was thy charm, O inhuman honour! that made captive my discretion, and seduced me from the waters of consolation to the precipices of despair. Why did I soar after thee on the wings of ambition, and spurn at contentment for deriding thy deceit? My fancy thought thee fairer than a studded diadem; more splendid than the gold in the waves of Pactolus. Thou art fair, I said, and beautiful beyond the visions of rapture; and the youth who holds my heart I will endeavour to possess thee. I will enlarge upon thy glories that his soul may catch thy fire; I will urge him to the plains of conquest; but, lo! he bleeds beneath the spear.—Ye virgin daughters of Bactria, you have seen the youth of my love: my love was foremost among the candidates for honour, he was a hero without pre-eminence. His heart never fainted at the clang of war; when the oriflamb of battle was erected in his view, he stood strong as the gate of Susa, and immoveable as its battlements. In the conflict he was dreadful as a host sheathed in terrors; rough and terrible as a wave conflicting with the spirit of the blast. No force dared oppose the burning flames of his wrath; he curbed the fury of the sons of thunder in their midnight career, and waved the faulchion of conquest over the heads of potentates. But when the Poeans of victory have dismissed him from the plain, ye virgin daughters of Bactria, you have seen him hasten to my arms, all placid as the smile of virginity in the morning of youth; meek and gentle as a bride conducting to the bowers of her bridegroom. When shall he exult at the voice of fame above the shield of his might, and bear the wreath of glory from his warring compeers? Alas! can the tear of evening resuscitate the broken primrose of the vale, or shall the poplar once fallen grace the banks of Zenderhoud; his shield of might is defenceless, his wreath of glory is decayed, and the trumpet of fame has no music for his ear. Fool that I was, why did I urge him to the fight? why did I arm his fortitude against unequal slaughter! The burden of calamity presses heavy on my soul---my spirit faints within me---I die, I die!---Is there no kind consoler of another’s anguish, in the tenderness of sympathy, to speak peace to my grief?---Thou weepest in the bitterness of affliction, O thou, whose hand dried the tear in the eye of infancy; but that infancy in vain matured by youth, waits the offices of age---soon thy charity shall accomplish what thy tenderness has begun, when the breast that now heaves shall throb no more, and the breath that now murmers shall be silent forever!

HAPPINESS.

There are happy days, but no happy lives; this would be an enchanting dream, without once wakening to sorrow.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 195.)

Alumbrado had spoken the truth; the Duke found the Count in his apartment. The latter was at first incapable of uttering a word, but having recovered from his astonishment, he declined in a faltering accent to accept the invitation of my friend. But when he heard the Duke talk of the guard, and saw that he was a prisoner, he submitted to his fate. The Duke ordered his trunk to be carried to his coach, and then drove with him to his palace.

Apprehending that the Count would be reserved in the presence of a third person, he had previously requested me to retire with Alumbrado to a closet, where we could hear and see them without being observed. The introduction to their discourse had already been finished in the carriage, consequently we heard only the continuation. As soon as they had entered the room, the Duke desired the Count to give him the key of his trunk, which was delivered to him without hesitation. While he was opening the trunk and searching for papers which he could not find, the Count took his letter-case out of his pocket and threw it in the chimney fire.

Although the Duke hastened to save it, yet a great part of it had already been consumed by the flames. The rest he locked up in his writing desk.

“Why have you done this?” he said to the Count with rising anger.

“Because I do not like to have my secrets wrested from me by force.”

The Duke took several turns in his apartment in order to recover his equanimity, and then rung the bell. “Wine,” he called to the servant, who brought it immediately and retired.

“Count,” said the Duke in a mild accent, “the wine possesses the virtue of rendering people communicative and sincere. Let us drink.”

“You shall draw my secrets from me neither by force nor artifice. I shall at least have the merit of confessing voluntarily, what I can, and dare confess.”

“Very well. However, wine possesses also the virtue of dispelling animosity and perplexity. Come, let us drink.”

The Count consented to it.

“First of all,” said the Duke, after they had been seated, “tell me where is Hiermanfor? He promised to pay me a visit as soon as Por***al should be delivered from the Spa**sh yoke, but has not been as good as his word.”

“He could not. Affairs of the greatest importance have called him to Brasil, where he very probably is at present.”

“Do you think that he will fulfil his promise after his return”?

“Undoubtedly! but why do you wish for his visit”?

“He has promised to initiate me in the mysteries of an occult philosophy. You are perhaps capable of supplying his place.”

“No, my Lord.”

“But you will be able to afford me some information with respect to those illusions by which I have been put to the test?”

“Yes!” the Count replied, after a pause.

“I only desire you to explain to me the more intricate and most important deceptions, for the rest I hope to unfold without your assistance.”

“Most of them you have already discovered by the papers which you have ta--- found in my trunk.”

“How do you know that?” The Duke asked with astonishment.

“I know it from Hiermanfor.”

“And by whom has he been informed of it?”

“By your Grace.”

“By me? I do not recollect to have discovered to him any thing.”

“Not directly; however, you have betrayed yourself.”

“On what occasion?”

“When he paid you a visit at **ubia. Do you not recollect to have asked him whether he had discovered to Amelia that your real father had not been the murderer of her Lord? This you could not have known if you had not seen my papers.”

“It is true”, the Duke replied after a short silence, “however, those papers did not extend farther than to the time when Hiermanfor was taken up in your and my tutor’s presence. I was then going to descend into the subterraneous vaults of a ruinous building, in order to take a brilliant pin out of the hair of a sleeping virgin.”

“I know it; but you would have found neither the sleeping virgin nor any of those things which Hiermanfor told you you would meet with.”

“Is it possible; should he have risked a fraud in which I so easily could have found him out?”

“He knew before-hand that you would not get to the bottom of the staircase, for it was settled previously that I should appear in time with the officers of the police, and recall your Grace by firing a pistol.”

“Indeed!” said the Duke with astonishment, “now I recollect another very strange incident. I should perhaps not have descended without your interference, for I was seized with an uncommon anxiety, which increased every step I proceeded. I cannot conceive what was the reason of it; however it seemed as if an invisible power pushed me back.”

“This I will explain to you. Don’t you recollect that a thick smoke ascended from the abyss? A stupifying incense which possessed the power of straitening the breast, and creating anxiety, was burning at the bottom of the stair-case.”

“I cannot but confess,” the Duke said, after a short pause, “that the execution was not less cautious than the plan has been artful. I had indeed been impelled, at that time, to believe Hiermanfor was not only possessed of the knowledge of subterraneous treasures, but also of the power and the inclination of affording me a share of them, and that it had been merely my fault to have returned empty handed. His cursory account of the wonderful things I should meet with in the abyss had contributed to set my imagination at work, and I was more desirous to see those miraculous things, than to get possession of the jewels.”

“Your Grace resented it very much that I had interrupted that adventure by the seizure of Hiermanfor.”

“Indeed I did, but what view had you in doing it?”

“It was of great consequence to me, to prove myself to you and your tutor, in an incontestible manner, an implacable enemy of Hiermanfor. How could I have effected it better than by seizing him? the magistrate was an intimate friend of mine, and the whole farce pre-concerted with him.”

“Then the Irishman has not been taken up seriously?”

“The officers of the police had been ordered to set him at liberty as soon as he should be out of your sight.”

“Now I can comprehend why you so obstinately opposed me when I intreated my tutor to make an attempt at delivering Hiermanfor.----But what would you have done, if I had persisted in my resolution of taking that step?”

“Then you should certainly not have done it alone; I would have accompanied you to the magistrate, who undoubtedly would have found means of consoling you with respect to Hiermanfor’s fate. It seemed, nevertheless, not to be advisable to suffer you to remain any longer in the neighbourhood of the theatre where that scene had been performed. You might have peeped behind the curtain without our knowledge, and your tutor could have made secret enquiries. An accident might easily have betrayed to you that the process against Hiermanfor was a fiction; in short, we could not have acted with safety and liberty while you should have been near the scene of action, and for that reason the magistrate was suborned to endeavour to persuade you to a speedy flight, in which he succeeded to our greatest satisfaction.”

“Now it is evident how Hiermanfor could shew so much tranquility and unconcern when he was taken up, how he could promise to see me at **n, and make good his promise.”

“The latter was indeed an easy matter; however he wanted to render his re-appearance interesting by concomitant extraordinary circumstances. A lamentable incident procured him the means of effecting his purpose. You will recollect the execution of Franciska, the too late discovery of her innocence, and the nocturnal funeral to which I invited you.---Hiermanfor could not have re-appeared to you on a more remarkable opportunity. At that period, when your soul was thrilled with gloomy melancholy and chilling sensations, the sight of a man whom you supposed to languish in a dungeon, or perhaps to have finished already his career on the stake, could not but make the deepest impression on you. You know that he omitted nothing that promised to enforce that impression.”

“But how could he then already know that I had been raised to the ducal dignity?”

“He had received early intelligence of it by a letter from a friend, who was intimate with the secretary of your father.”

“Let us drop the discourse on the scene of that night, it is accompanied with too horrid and painful ideas. Let us repair to the retired cell of the royal hermit, where no inferior miracles are crowding upon us. First of all, tell me whether you really think him to be the old banished King?”

“I do, indeed, not only because Hiermanfor has told me so, but also because his whole form resembles in a most striking manner, the picture of the real King.”

“But when do you think he will ascend the throne of Port**al?”

“I suppose, very soon!”

“Do you, indeed? I can see, as yet, no preparations for it. They even do not talk of the old King; every one believes him to be dead; I think it would be time to spread the news of his being still alive.”

“I must confess that I have neither heard nor seen any thing of him since we left him in his cell. I hope Hiermanfor’s return will be the period of his taking possession of the throne. Perhaps he intends to introduce him in triumph in Port**al.”

“It seems, at least, that they are very intimately connected. Do you recollect how Hiermanfor appeared at night, in a manner equally mysterious and surprizing, when he was summoned by the royal Hermit?”

“O! as for that juggling trick---”

The Duke started from his chair. “A juggling trick---this too should have been a juggling trick?”

“How can you be surprized at this discovery?”

“The incident was indeed wonderful enough for giving reason to think it supernatural.”

“You are right. That artifice could not but produce an astonishing effect on an uninformed spectator. The Hermit pronounces some unintelligible words while he kisses the picture three times; the lamp is extinguished and lighted again, as if it were by an invisible hand; a sudden noise is heard, and a flame flashes over the picture. All this is very surprising. However, if one knows that the altar, on which the picture is placed, conceals a machine, that the Hermit’s finger touches a secret spring, and this puts the wheels of the machine in motion, that the wick in the lamp is connected with it, and pulled down and up again through the tube in which it is fixed; if one knows how Hiermanfor entered the cell, then the whole incident will be divested of its supernatural appearance.”

“But this very appearance of Hiermanfor is entirely mysterious to me.”

(To be continued.)

THE STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS.

TAKEN FROM A BYZANTINE HISTORIAN.

Athens, long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learning, which avaricious governors had monopolized.

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow students together; the one, the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum; the other, the most eloquent speaker in the academic grove. Mutual admiration soon begot friendship. Their fortunes were nearly equal, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world; for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome.

In this state of harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length of entering into the busy world; and, as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed; the previous ceremonies were performed; and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom.

Alcander’s exultation in his own happiness, or being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce Hypatia to his fellow-student; which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friendship and love. But this was an interview fatal to the future peace of both; for Septimius no sooner saw her, but he was smitten with an involuntary passion; and, though he used every effort to suppress desires at once so imprudent and unjust, the emotions of his mind in a short time became so strong, that they brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incurable.

During this illness, Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the physicians, by these means, soon discovered that the cause of their patient’s disorder was love; and Alcander being apprised of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover.

It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander on this occasion; it is enough to say, that the Athenians were at that time arrived at such refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess. In short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance, and this unlooked for change of fortune wrought as unexpected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents which he was so eminently possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city judge, or prætor.

In the mean time, Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a prosecution was also commenced against him, by the relations of Hypatia, for having basely given up his bride, as was suggested, for money. His innocence of the crime laid to his charge, and even his eloquence in his own defence, were not able to withstand the influence of a powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. However, being unable to raise so large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions were confiscated, he himself was stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed as a slave in the market-place, and sold to the highest bidder.

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, was carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master, and his success in hunting was all that was allowed him so supply his precarious subsistence. Every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his unsheltered distress. After some years of bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered; he embraced it with ardour; so that, travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last arrived in Rome. The same day on which Alcander arrived, Septimius sat administering justice in the forum, whither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and publicly acknowledged, by his former friend. Here he stood the whole day amongst the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but he was so much altered by a long succession of hardships, that he continued unnoticed among the rest; and, in the evening, when he was going up to the prætor’s chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; for night coming on, he now found himself under the necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and in rags, as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much wretchedness; and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger: in short, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, and despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in sleep; and found, on his flinty couch, more ease than beds of down can supply to the guilty.

As he continued here, about midnight, two robbers came to make this their retreat; but, happening to disagree about the division of their plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was found next morning, dead, at the mouth of the vault. This naturally inducing a further enquiry, an alarm was spread; the cave was examined, and Alcander being found, was immediately apprehended, and accused of robbery and murder. The circumstances against him were strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falsehood, and cruelty; he was determined to make no defence; and thus, lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. As the proofs were positive against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when the attention of the multitude was soon divided by another object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was apprehended selling his plunder, and, struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Alcander’s innocence therefore appeared, but the sullen rashness of his conduct remained a wonder to the surrounding multitude; but their astonishment was still further increased, when they saw their judge start from his tribunal to embrace the supposed criminal. Septimius recollected his friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and of joy. Need the sequel be related? Alcander was acquitted; shared the friendship and honours of the principal citizens of Rome; lived afterwards in happiness and ease; and left it to be engraved on his tomb, That no circumstances are so desperate, which Providence may not relieve.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

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

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

(Continued from page 198.)

Had the horse, which I had left with them at my departure, afforded them sufficient sustenance ever since? Had not hunger, cruel hunger, obliged them to fly from their retreat? Were they still concealed in those frightful deserts? If they were not there, where should I be able to find them? Where, without them, should I drag out my miserable existence?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But could I believe that Pulaski had abandoned his son-in-law? that Lodoiska had consented to separate herself from her husband? No---undoubtedly not. They were still confined within the circle of this frightful solitude; and if I abandoned them, they must die with famine and cold!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

These desperate reflections at length determined my conduct, and I no longer examined whether or not, in removing at a distance from my waggon, I was in danger of never finding it again. To carry some provisions to my father-in-law and wife, to succour Pulaski and Lodoiska---these were now the only sentiments that occupied my mind.

I accordingly seize my fowling-piece, take some powder and shot, and load one of my horses with necessaries: I pierce into the woods much farther than during the former evening; I again hollow with all my strength; I again make frequent discharges with my gun. The most melancholy silence reigned all around me.

I now find myself in a part of the forest where the trees were so extremely thick, that there was no longer any passage for my horse: I, therefore, tie him to a tree, and my despair getting the better of every other consideration, I still continue to advance with my gun, and part of my provisions. I had now wandered about for two hours more, my inquietude forcing me every moment to redouble my pace, when at length I perceive human footsteps imprinted on the snow.

Hope gives me new strength, and I therefore instantly follow the traces which were still fresh. Soon after I discover Pulaski almost naked, emaciated with hunger, and so changed as scarce to be known even by me!

He makes all the efforts in his power to drag his limbs towards me, and to reply to my enquiries. The moment that I had rejoined him, he seizes, with avidity, on the victuals that I present to him, and devours them in an instant. I then demand of him where Lodoiska is.

“Alas!” says he, “you will see her there!” The tone of voice in which he pronounced these words made me tremble. I run to, I arrive at, the cavern, but too well prepared for the melancholy spectacle that awaited me. Lodoiska, wrapped up in her own clothes, and covered with those of her father, was extended upon a bed of half rotten leaves!

She raises, with some difficulty, her weary head, and refusing the aliments which I now offer her, addresses me as follows:---“I am not hungry! The death of my children; the loss of Dorliska; our journeys, so long, so laborious, so difficult; your dangers, which seemed to increase daily---these have killed me! I was unable to resist fatigue and sorrow. My friend, I am dying---I heard thy voice, and my soul was stopped in its flight. We shall meet again! Lodoiska ought to die in the arms of a husband whom she adores!---Assist my father! May he live! Live both of you---console yourselves, and forget me! . . . . . . . . . . . ---Search every where for my dear . . . . . . . . . . .”

She was unable to pronounce the name of her daughter, and instantly expired! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Her father digs a grave for her at a little distance from the cavern; and I behold the earth enclose all that I loved in this world! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

What a trying moment! Pulaski alone prevented me from becoming the victim of despair: he forces me to survive Lodoiska! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Pulaski, whose courage never abandoned him, and whose strength was by this time restored, obliges me to occupy myself jointly with him, in the business of procuring our subsistence.

By following along the snow the prints of my footsteps, we arrive at length at the place where I had left my waggon, which we immediately unload, and burn soon after, on purpose to withhold from our enemies the most distant suspicion of the place of our retreat.

By the aid of our horses, for which we procure a passage, by making a circuitous journey, instead of attempting to bring them straight to the place of our retreat, we were at length able to transport those provisions and moveables to our cavern, which it was so necessary for us to procure, and to husband, if we resolved to remain much longer in this solitude. We soon after killed our horses, which we were unable to supply with food. We lived upon their flesh, which the rigour of the season preserved for a considerable time; it corrupted, however, at length; and our fire-arms being unable to procure us any other than a scanty supply of game, we were obliged to have recourse to our provisions; which at the end of three months, were entirely consumed.

Some gold, and the greater part of Lodoiska’s diamonds still remained. Should I make a second voyage to Pultava? Or should we both run the hazard of such an undertaking, and quit our retreat in company? We had already suffered so much, and so cruelly in this forest, that we resolved to embrace the latter resolution.

We accordingly sally forth; we pass the Sem near Rylks; we purchase a boat there, and, disguising ourselves in the dress of fishermen, we descend that river, and enter the Desna.

Our boat was visited at Czernicove, but misery had so disfigured Pulaski, that it was impossible any longer to recognize him. We then enter the Dnieper; we cross from Kiof* to Krylow. There we were obliged to receive into our boat, and carry to the other side, several Russian soldiers who were on their march to join a small army employed against Pugatchew.

At Zoporiskaia we heard of the capture of Bender and Oczakow, the conquest of the Crimea, the defeat and subsequent death of the Vizir Oglou.

Pulaski, reduced to a state of desperation, was anxious to traverse the vast deserts that separated him from Pugatchew, on purpose to join himself to that enemy of the Russians; but the excess of our fatigues obliged us to remain at Zaporiskaia.

The peace, which was soon after concluded between Russia and the Porte, at length afforded us the means of entering Turkey.

On foot, and still disguised, we crossed the Boudziac, part of Moldavia and Wallachia, and after a thousand unforeseen and unexpected difficulties and fatigues, we at length arrive at Adrianople.

Having remained for some time at this place, on purpose to repair our exhausted forces, we prepare to depart: but we are arrested, and being carried before the Cadi, are accused of having sold several diamonds in the course of our journey, which we had apparently stolen. The miserable clothes with which we were covered, had given rise to this suspicion.

Pulaski discovers himself to the mussulman judge, and he sends us immediately to Constantinople.

We are admitted shortly after to an audience of the grand signior. He orders apartments to be prepared for us, and assigns us a liberal pension upon his treasury.

I then write to my sisters, and to Boleslas: we learn, by their answers, that all the property of Pulaski had been confiscated, that he was degraded from his rank, and condemned to lose his head.

My father-in-law is in the utmost consternation on receiving this intelligence: he is filled with indignation at being accused as a regicide: he writes home in his own justification.

Constantly animated, and devoured as it were with the love of his country, continually influenced by the mortal hatred which he had sworn against its enemies, he never ceased, during the four whole years that we remained in Turkey, to endeavour, by his intrigues, to oblige the Porte to declare war against Russia.

In 1774, amidst a transport of rage, he receives intelligence of the triple invasion,† which bereaved the republic of one third of its possessions.

It was in the spring of 1776, that the patriots of America, fearful of the tyranny of an island which once boasted of its own liberties, resolved to redeem their violated rights by force of arms. My country hath lost her freedom, says Pulaski to me one day: but, ah, let us still fight for that of a new people!

We pass into Spain, we embark on board a vessel bound for the Havannah, from whence we repair to Philadelphia. The congress instantly presents us with commissions, and employs us in the army of General Washington.

(To be concluded in our next.)

EXTRAORDINARY RECOMPENCE ACCORDED TO MERIT.

From a London News-paper of the 17th of last October, the following paragraph is extracted:

“We cannot refuse ourselves the happiness of recording a striking instance of her Majesty’s munificence. When Madame D’Arblay, ci-devant Miss Burney, presented Camilla to her Royal Mistress—the Queen sent her one thousand pounds!”

When it is considered that previous to the publication of a work, it always undergoes the investigation of the person to whom it is dedicated, it must be obvious that from the extraordinary merits of this performance alone, the Queen could be induced to make so liberal a display of approbation. Indeed, when the style, language, and general object of the work is considered, no one will envy the writer the just meed deservedly due to so inimitable a piece of composition. In this work, the astonishing variety of characters, admirably supported, discover a genius in the writer rarely to be met with. The reader is by turns moved to tears, paled by apprehension, joyful at fortunate events, or merry by the most ludicrous representations. Every passion is wrought upon, every feeling is aroused to the most exquisite sensations. Vice and wickedness do not alone undergo the lash of her pen, folly, levity, thoughtlessness, inattention, and a numerous train of what are generally termed venial improprieties are represented in their true and baneful colours. The ills arising from these errors are often fatal; here youth, in a picture drawn in the most masterly manner, are taught to avoid those quicksands, on which the best constructed hearts have been too often wrecked.

⁂ This very interesting work is now publishing by subscription, at the office of J. Bull, No. 115, Cherry-Street.

SOCIETY.

Every day’s experience must convince the man of observation, that our happiness depends upon the cultivation of our social duties, upon the nurture of humanity and benevolence; that our crimes often proceed from the want of domestic harmony, and that the flagitious deeds which glare upon us with so horrid an aspect, are generally the consequences of a deviation from the still small voice of duty and of love. He, who has been accustomed to despise the feelings of the son, the husband, and the friend, will not often be found proof again all the allurements of interest and of vice. He, who (unless driven by hunger and despair) lifts up his daring arm to arrest the property or the life of his fellow-creature, never felt those soft sensations which arise from the consciousness of being beloved; for let no man be called wretched who has this in reserve, let no man be called poor who has a friend to consult.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. Philip Gorrall, late of Dublin, to the very agreeable Miss Eliza Shreeve, daughter of the Rev. Thomas Shreeve, late of this city.

On the 27th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, the Rev. Abel Roe, of Woodbridge, N.J. to Mrs. Barrett, relict of Nathaniel Barrett, Esq. of Boston, late American Consul, at Rouen, in France.

On Wednesday evening, the 14th inst. at Aurora, in the county of Onondaga, Glen Cuyler, Esq. Attorney at Law, to Miss Mary F. Ledyard, daughter of Benjamin Ledyard, Esq. Clerk of that County.

A few weeks since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Alexander P. Waldron, to Miss Hannah Robertson, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 11th to the 24th inst.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

deg.100 deg.100

Dec. 11 2975 35 w.do. clear do.high wind do.

12 31 3850 w.do. cloudy clear,lt. wind do.

13 3050 3950 w.e. clear cloudy,lt. wind do.

14 36 3850 n.w. cloudy sm. rn.lt. wd. do.

15 3525 39 w.sw. clear do.lt. wind do.

16 33 3950 w.se. clear cloudy,lt. wd. h. wd.

17 3525 40 nw.n. sm. rn. at ni.cr. do. h. wd.

18 36 40 ne.do. rain do.high wind do.

19 3675 4350 ne.nw. rain clear,high wind do.

20 2225 27 nw.do. clear do.high wind do.

21 25 31 nw.w. cloudy do.light wind do.

22 21 22 w.nw. snow cloudy,lt. wd. h. wd.

23 11 1575 w.do. clear do.high wind do.

24 1050 1675 w.do. cr. very sm. sn.h. wd. do.

SONNET.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONG.

ON LOSING A FRIEND.

SONNET.

The Bachelor’s Soliloquy. In imitation of a celebrated Speech.

EPITAPH.

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

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, January 4, 1797. [No. 79.

THE NETTLE AND THE ROSE:

AN ESSAY.

We may consider human life as a garden, in which Roses and Nettles are promiscuously scattered, and in which we as often feel the sting of the wounding Nettle, as we enjoy the fragrance of the blooming Rose. Those bowers of delight, entwined with the woodbine and jessamine, under whose friendly umbrage we seek shelter from the noon-day sun, sometimes are the abode of snakes, adders, and other venomous creatures, which wound us in those unguarded scenes of delight. As the year has its seasons, and winter and summer are constantly in pursuit of each other, so changeable likewise is the condition of mortals; and as the elements are frequently disturbed by storms, hurricanes, and tempests, so is the mind of man frequently ruffled and discomposed, till the sunshine of reason and philosophy bursts forth and dispels the gloom. Murmering brooks, purling streams, and sequestered groves, whatever the fictions of a poetical imagination may have advanced, are not always the seat of unmingled pleasure, nor the abode of uninterrupted happiness.

The hapless Florio pined away some months on the delightful banks of the Severn: he complained of the cruelty of the lovely Annabella, and told his fond tale to the waters of that impetuous stream, which hurried along regardless of his plaints. He gathered the lilies of the field: but the lilies were not so fair as his Annabella, nor the fragrance of the blushing rose so sweet as her breath; the lambs were not so innocent, nor the sound of the tabour on the green half so melodious as her voice. Time, however, has joined Florio and Annabella in the fetters of wedlock, and the plaints of the swain are now changed. The delusion of the enchantment is now vanished, and what he but lately considered as the only object worthy of his sublunary pursuit, he now contemplates with coolness, indifference, and disgust: enjoyment has metamorphosed the Rose into a Nettle.

Ernestus, contrary to his inclination, was compelled by his parents to marry the amiable Clara, whose sense, tenderness, and virtues, soon fixed the heart of the roving Ernestus; and what at first gave him pain and disgust, by degrees became familiar, pleasing, and delightful: the Nettle was here changed to the Rose.

The wandering libertine, who pursues the Rose thro’ the unlawful paths of love, who tramples under foot every tender plant that comes within his reach, and who roves from flower to flower, like the bee, only to rob it of its sweets, will at last lose his way, and, when benighted, be compelled to repose on the restless bed of wounding Nettles.

The blooming Rose is an utter stranger to the wilds of ambition, where gloomy clouds perpetually obscure the beams of the joyful sun, where the gentle zephyrs never waft thro’ the groves, but discordant blasts are perpetually howling, and where the climate produces only Thorns and Nettles.

The Rose reaches its highest perfection in the garden of industry, where the soil is neither too luxuriant, nor too much impoverished. Temperance fans it with the gentlest zephyrs, and health and contentment sport around it. Here the Nettle no sooner makes its appearance, than the watchful eye of prudence espies it, and, though it may not be possible totally to eradicate it, it is never suffered to reach to any height of perfection.

Since then human life is but a garden, in which weeds and flowers promiscuously shoot up and thrive, let us do what we can to encourage the culture of the Rose, and guard against the spreading Nettle. However barren may be the soil that falls to our lot, yet a careful and assiduous culture will contribute not a little to make the garden, at least, pleasing and cheerful.

DISINTERESTED ACTION.

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by justice, is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The expences of society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other helps to chearfulness, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our superfluities; but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous disposition of our circumstances.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 203.)

“And yet it has been affected in a very simple manner. A moveable board, which could be pushed to and fro without the least noise, was concealed among those of which the cell was composed. Hiermanfor stole through that hidden avenue as soon as he saw from without, through a small hole, the lamp extinguished. He could enter without the least danger of detection, because you have turned your back towards him, and fixed your attention entirely on the altar.”

“Then every thing had been previously prepared and pre-concerted with the King?”

“Certainly!”

“And the whole conduct of the King has been regulated by Hiermanfor?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“The incident,” the Duke replied, after a pause, “now ceases, indeed, to appear miraculous to me; however, the behaviour of the king seems to me so much the more mysterious. How is it possible that this reverend old man could consent to deceive me in so degrading a manner?”

“It was no easy task to perswade him to it. However, after Hiermanfor had exhorted his eloquence in vain, he declared at length proudly, that no other choice was left him, than either leaving his crown forever in the possession of an usurper, or to consent to that innocent artifice. The King thought he was bound to choose the latter, for the benefit of the empire and his private happiness.”

A long silence on both sides. At length the Duke resumed: “Hiermanfor showed me the ghost of my tutor at the church-yard; by what means has that been effected?”

“Your Grace will allow me to leave this question unanswered!”

“For what reason?” the Duke asked with seeming coolness.

“Because my answer would explain nothing to you.”

“Why do you think so? the explanations which you have given me, as yet, have been very satisfactory to me.”

“They concerned only things which you were able to comprehend.”

“Indeed! you pay me a very bad compliment!”

“My Lord, do not misunderstand me, you have been telling me a little while ago, that you have not yet been initiated by Hiermanfor in the last mysteries of his philosophy!”

“I did, but what follows thence?”

“That you are still in want of the knowledge which will be requisite, if you are to be capable of comprehending the appearance of your tutor.”

“Don’t pretend to persuade me that this apparition has been effected by supernatural means.”

“I will persuade you to nothing, I only tell you what I know.”

“And I tell you only what I do not believe. All the other incidents should have been effected by delusive arts, and Antonio’s appearance only be excepted?”

“The appearance of Antonio was no deception.”

“You will never make me believe it.”

“I cannot blame you for it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have forfeited the right of deserving credit.”

The Duke was silent, viewing the Count attentively. The latter resumed: “Besides, it is very indifferent to me what you think of the matter. Hiermanfor may set you right.”

“How far are you connected with Hiermanfor?”

“Very much like you. He has made himself my master, and I am subservient to him.”

“Do you serve him with reluctance?”

“With devotion.”

“Then you will know to whom you are devoted?”

“I don’t know much more of him than your Grace.”

“Even that little which you know of him would be remarkable to me, if authentic.”

“I should tire your patience if I were to repeat to you all the improbable stories which are related of him. There are, however, very few credible accounts of him.”

“I protest I should see glad to know them.”

“Even the true family name of Hiermanfor is not known to me. He is said to have been born in Ireland, of plebeian parents. A near relation who professed astrology, had observed the stars on his birth, and prophesied great things of him. The same man persuaded his parents to give him a learned education, which they afterwards repented so much the less, when they perceived the astonishing progress in learning which he made. When he had attained the years of adolescence, his relation instructed him in mathematics and astronomy. The fame of Hiermanfor’s great learning procured him the place of governor in a noble family. The eldest daughter fell in love with him, and the language of her eyes soon betrayed to him the impression he had made on her heart. She was a blooming beauty, who had attracted by her uncommon charms, and rejected many woers of high rank. It had been reserved for Hiermanfor to kindle in her heart the first spark of love, and yet he appeared insensible of his good fortune. But he was not. He entertained a high sense of the preference given to him: honesty and prudence commanded him, however, to conceal his sentiments for a person who was so far superior to him in point of rank. Yet youthful age is not always capable of maintaining the rigorous dictates of reason against the seducing voice of the passions, and thus Hiermanfor betrayed, in an unguarded moment, the secret of his heart, which was received with rapture by the young lady, and carefully concealed in her bosom. But from that moment he resolved to endeavour to rise to a situation which would permit him to woo the hand of his mistress without blushing. This bold idea had no sooner taken place in the soul of the resolute youth, than he began to delineate a plan for the execution of it. Hiermanfor thought the naval service would be the shortest way of attaining a splendid fortune, and instantly navigation became the chief object of his study. He found very soon an opportunity of putting his acquired knowledge in practice, which he chiefly owed to the support of the family in which he had been tutor. The proofs of uncommon skill which he gave in naval matters, soon raised him to the rank of a captain, when his mistress died. Hiermanfor resigned his place in the navy, and was received as lay brother in the order of the Carmelites. Having performed his vow he was sent to Rome, where he got acquainted with a priest of the same order, whose name was Father Gabriel, and who was famed for his great skill in physic and natural knowledge. Instructed by that learned man, he improved rapidly, and acquired at the same time great knowledge in natural magic, in which his relation had already instructed him.

“A genius like his could not, however, confine himself for a length of time to cloistered retirement and a speculative life. His superiors sent a mission to the Indies, and Hiermanfor got leave to make that journey with the missionaries. There he is said to have acquired among the Bramins the knowledge of the occult sciences, in the mysteries of which he has promised to initiate your Grace. I do not know what prompted him to leave the order afterwards. His superiors parting with him reluctantly, rendered it very difficult for him to procure dispensation from his vows. At length he got leave to retire, under the condition never to be inimical to the order.---This is all that I know of his life.”

“Then every thing the Magistrate and the hermit have related of him is a fictition?” the Duke enquired after a short silence.

“Not at all!” the Count replied, “almost all those accounts are founded on facts, though they have been embellished by fictitious episodes. The surprising feats of Hiermanfor, of which you have been informed, were however effected merely by means of natural magic.”

“For instance, the delivery of the old King from the castle of St. Lukar---how has it been effected?”

“It certainly has been performed by Hiermanfor’s accuteness, though not through him alone.”

“And the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard---”

“Has been effected by his supernatural power.”

“Count! by all that is dear to you, by Hiermanfor’s friendship, by our reconciliation, what is your real opinion of that apparition?”

“That it was affected by his supernatural power!”

The Duke rose and pressed the Count’s hand. “Have you any secret wish which I could satisfy? speak freely, and I will satisfy it, cost it what it will, only make a frank and candid confession.”

“I have confessed every thing already.”

“If you, perhaps, hesitate to discover your real sentiments here, you may fix some other place, and I pledge my honour, that no man living shall be made acquainted with your secret.”

“My dear Duke! I have indeed told you what I think.”

“Count, I conjure you, by every thing sacred, by the horrors of eternity!” here the Duke encircled him with his arms, “by Amelia’s spirit, tell we what do you think of that apparition?”

“I believe that apparition to have been effected by Hiermanfor’s supernatural power,” replied the Count after a short silence.

The Duke stepped a few paces back, and having viewed him some time with a stern look, said, “You are my prisoner, do you know that I can send you to the dungeon?”

“I am in your power.”

“Where you will not be entreated to speak the truth?”

“Even on the rack I shall not contradict what I have said.”

“Come,” said the Duke, after he had walked up and down the room in silent meditation; “Come, I will give you some time for consideration.”---So saying, he led the Count into another room where he locked him up.

“What shall I do with that fellow?” he said to me when he returned to us, “believe what he has said and set him at liberty; or mistrust and retain him?”

“Retain him,” my reply was: “if he sees that you are in earnest, he certainly will confess.”

(To be continued.)

DIGNITY OF MAN.

Strength and majesty belong to the man; grace and softness are the peculiar embellishments of the other sex. In both, every part of their form declares their sovereignity over other creatures. Man supports his body erect; his attitude is that of command; and his face, which is turned towards the heavens, displays the dignity of his station. The image of his soul is painted in his vissage; and the excellence of his nature penetrates through the material form in which it is inclosed. His majestic port, his sedate and resolute step, announce the nobleness of his rank. He touches the earth only with his extremity, and beholds it as if at a disdainful distance. His arms are not given him, as to other creatures, for pillars of support; nor does he lose, by rendering them callous against the ground, that delicacy of touch which furnishes him with so many of his enjoyments.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

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

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

(Continued from page 206, and concluded.)

Pulaski, consumed with a black melancholy, exposes his life like a man to whom life had become insupportable, is always to be found at the most dangerous posts, and, towards the end of the fourth campaign, is mortally wounded by my side. Being carried to his tent, I instantly repair thither to console him.

“I find that my end approaches,” says he, addressing himself to me. “Ah! it is but too true, that I shall never see my native country again!

“Cruel, fantastical destiny! Pulaski falls a martyr to American liberty, and the Poles still continue slaves! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . My friend, my death would be indeed horrible, if a ray of hope did not remain to cheer me! Ah! I hope I do not deceive myself——No, I am not mistaken,” adds he in a firmer accent.

“A consoling Deity discloses in my last thoughts a futurity, a happier futurity which approaches!

“I behold one of the first nations in the world awakening from a long and deep slumber, and re-demanding of its proud oppressors its violated honours, and its ancient rights; its sacred, imprescriptible rights, the rights of humanity.

“I behold in an immense capital, long dishonoured by every species of servility, a crowd of soldiers discovering themselves to be citizens, and millions of citizens becoming soldiers.

“Beneath their redoubled blows, the Bastille shall be overturned; the signal is already given from one extremity of the empire to another;---the reign of tyrants is no more!

“A neighbouring people, sometimes an enemy, but always generous, always worthy of deciding upon great actions, shall applaud those unexpected efforts, crowned with such a speedy success!

“Ah, may a reciprocal esteem commence and strengthen between these two nations an unalterable friendship! May that horrible science of trick, imposture, and treason, which courts denominate politics, hold out no obstacle to prevent this fraternal re-union!

“Noble rivals, in talents and philosophy, Frenchmen! Englishmen! suspend at length, and suspend for ever, those bloody discords, the fury of which has but too often extended over the two hemispheres;---no longer decide between you the empire of the universe, but by the force of your example, and the ascendancy of your genius. Instead of the cruel advantage of affrighting and subduing the nations around you, dispute between yourselves the more solid glory of enlightening their ignorance, and breaking their chains.

“Approach,” adds Pulaski, “behold at a little distance from, and in the midst of the carnage that surrounds us, among such a crowd of famous warriors, a warrior celebrated even in the midst of them, by his masculine courage, his early talents, and his virtues truly republican. He is the heir of a name long illustrious; but he had no occasion for the glory of his ancestors, to render himself celebrated.

“It is young Fayette, already an honour to France, and a scourge to tyrants: but he has scarce begun his immortal labours!

“Envy his fate, Lovzinski; endeavour to imitate his virtues, and follow as near as possible the steps of so great a man. He, the worthy pupil of a Washington, shall soon be the Washington of his own country. It is almost at the same time, my friend, it is at that memorable epoch of the regeneration of nations, that the eternal justice shall also present to our fellow-citizens, the days of vengeance and of liberty.

“Then Lovzinski, in whatever place thou mayest be, let thy hate re-kindle! Again combat gloriously on the side of Poland.

“Let the remembrance of our injuries, and of our successes, call forth thy courage! May thy sword, so many times empurpled with the blood of our enemies, be still turned against those oppressors. May they tremble while thinking on thy exploits! May they tremble in recalling the name of Pulaski!

“They have ravished from us our property; they have assassinated thy wife; they have robbed thee of thy daughter; they have dishonoured my memory!

“The barbarians! They have dismembered our provinces! Lovzinski, these are injuries which you ought never to forget.

“When our persecutors are those also of our country, vengeance becomes at once sacred and indispensible.

“You owe to the Russians an eternal hatred! You owe to Poland the last drop of your blood!”

Saying this he expires.*

Death, in snatching him from me, bereaved me of my last consolation.

I fought for the United States of America, until the happy peace which ensured their independence. M. de C***, who had served along with me, and who was attached to the corps commanded by the Marquis de la Fayette--- M. de C*** gave me letters of recommendation, to his friends in Paris, and this capital I have chosen for my retreat in the meridian of life, from the bustle of politics, and the clangor of arms.

Having informed my sisters, of the place of my residence, they collected the small remains of my fortune, formerly immense, and hastened to solace me after the distressing scenes I had unfortunately witnessed.

* * * * * *

The affecting history of the Baron Lovzinski, which he relates to a friend, breaks off, without giving any account of Dorliska, his darling daughter, whom the Russians carried off, in one of their engagements with Pulaski. It appears, from more recent accounts, given by an acquaintance of the Baron’s, that she fell into the hands of Count Gorlitz, a German Nobleman, who placed her in a suitable seminary, where she acquired every necessary accomplishment, and was by accident restored to her father, and united to a branch of a very distinguished family.

The candid acknowledgment of an Old Batchelor.

I am that insulated being called an Old Batchelor. A creature wearisome to myself and beloved by no one, I have spent the noon of my days in a single state, from the dread of incurring the expences incident to a married life with a woman who had nothing, and now surely do I repent that I had not generosity enough to overlook this consideration in favour of a charming girl that I truly loved, and who wanted nothing but fortune to recommend her. I was formerly clerk to her father, then a mechanic of great respectability, but some years after greatly reduced by the unfortunate turn of affairs in his business, incidents to many. When he failed, I was settled in the world, and might have saved his amiable girl from many a year of fatigue and distress into which their poverty immersed them. But with sang froid, for which I now detest myself, I then stood aloof, tore my thoughts from the sweet Eliza, and driving forward into the heart of the city, determined to lose myself in the recesses of counting-houses, and the accumulation of money. Thus avoiding all the plagues and expences of a family, for which I deemed the society of an elegant and affectionate woman by no means an equivalent. Alas! I now see how I miscalculated; how much such a partnership would have been for my advantage in the long run. I now put the mutual participation of pleasure and pain, the endearments of our children, that flattering interest which Eliza would have taken in me (for whom by the way nobody now cares a straw,) I put all these on the credit side of the ledger, and find in the opposite page, only such a portion of expences as I have actually brought upon myself, by being drawn in to give tavern dinners, and a thousand other extravagancies that young men know not how to avoid. You will easily see, when a just account is made out, what I have gained, or rather what I have lost. Instead of the bright hearth and smiling faces of my family, instead of sitting down in the midst of beings who owe life to me, and portioning out their little meal with the delicious sensations of a father, I take my solitary chop at a coffee-house and afterwards saunter to the theatre, where venal beauty spreads her net and I am caught! Alas! here is no mind, here is no modesty to make sentiment interesting. After having seen a public entertainment with Eliza, with what delight might we have passed the remainder of the evening. Her taste and sensibility would have made us live the hours over again with additional pleasure. Her bosom would have been my harbour in the storms of life, and there I should have found resources from ennui in the calm season of prosperity. In the day of sickness her voice could have whispered comfort, and in my dying hour the pure invocations of my children might have availed me at the throne of grace. What a sad reckoner have I been, I am now as grey as a badger, and have not a single relative in the world. I have long retired from business, but my fortune brings me no enjoyment, my dog leads nearly as rational a life: I eat and drink and sleep alternately as he does, for I now fear to become the prey of some indigent dame, who would overlook my grey hairs and infirmities in consideration of coming in for a third of my wealth, and therefore avoid much commerce with the sex, from which, though I might once have derived happiness, I can now only expect trick, or at best ridicule. But what can a man do who has let avarice run away with him in his youth, when all the social affections should have been at their out-posts to prevent it? All that remains for such a man (after the example of a culprit going to execution) is to warn the multitude how they fall into this error. To assure them that the good which is not participated is not half enjoyed, and that those who abandon a young woman from motives like mine, as they do not deserve happiness so they never will obtain it. And moreover, if you print this, pause to add, that an equal mixture of love and prudence forms the only, and most delicious conserve they will have the faculty of relishing all their life long. Either, taken separately, is prejudicial; one being too austere, and the other too sweet. They must be blended to render them happily effective, and if any persons have skill enough to make up the composition after my recipe, I shall not have bemoaned myself, nor you have inserted this in vain.

STEPHEN SORROWFUL.

REMARKS.

Custom regulates our ideas of shame. In China, the emperor orders the bastinado to be given to a minister or a mandarin; and afterward these persons continue in their employments, without thinking themselves dishonoured or degraded. They are like scholars who return to their places after having been whipped.

The idea of virtue is become so effaced, that scarcely do we hear the name of it pronounced. The usual expression now is, an honest man, which contains but negative qualities; or sometimes qualities are mentioned, as bravery, fidelity, &c. but a collective word which expresses them all is seldom made use of.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CANDIDUS.

No. I.

In an age when supernatural influence was universally acknowledged, in a country where temples innumerable rose to the fancied deities of every department of nature and of art; where even the different and opposite combinations of accident and exertion were reverenced as the decrees of a being divine and irresistable; convinced no less perhaps by self experience than observation on others, discarding the prejudices of his nation and his times, an historian published to the world and to posterity, the opinion: “Fabrum esse suæ quemque fortunæ.” Whatever then might have been the case, it would now perhaps be impossible to extend universally this proposition, and denying at once the influence of accident and chance, to prove the power of man to accomplish his wishes in every circumstance of situation and in every sphere of action. The partiality of favours and the crash of unforeseen misfortune too often expose neglected merit and ruined industry, as warning monitors in the road to honour and to riches. While sudden unlooked for prosperity not unfrequently demonstrates the best grounded fears of men unjustified by events. But, however incompetent may be our power at all times to acquire and confirm extraneous and adventitious greatness, or however limited and erroneous our views of distant consequences in the common affairs of life, as it respects the endowments of mind, it may with no little propriety be averred, Fabrum else suæ quemque fortunæ. By the great philosophers of nature, Newton and Buffon, genius was defined only a superior degree of patience and perseverence, and at the present day the advocates of this doctrine are not inconsiderable either in numbers or in talents. True indeed it is, that they incur no disgrace by entering the lists with many of their opponents. On the subject of genius three distinct opinions appear to be entertained. By some it is held to be an innate superiority of aptitude to knowledge, independent of the labours of its possessor and unsubjected to the influence of circumstance or situation. Others rejecting altogether the idea of original difference in capacity, ascribe it to the co-operation of accident and tuition confirming after years of infancy a greater or less degree of comprehension. A third set denying at once innate distinction and the agency of chance, give all the credit to assiduity and allow to the mind no other wealth than the requisitions of its industry. Of these opinions the first has long been upon the decline, and the sentiments of the generality of speculative men, are now divided between the second and the last. But on which ever side of this question we enlist our conviction, we shall find an investigation, that so much is owing to their own exertions as to afford to the present demonstration sufficient for a moral proposition. Pity that a truth so grateful to the friend of humanity, so encouraging to the aspiring mind, should be so seldom and so feebly inculcated. Ardent in pursuit, sanguine in expectation, with this impression what obstacles would obstruct what difficulties dishearten the youthful devotee of science. On the improvement of mind much has been written to enlarge its stores and strengthen its capacity, many and different methods have been recommended; but if want of attention to rules of acknowledged necessity can warrant a repetition, a few hints on this subject will need no excuse. In nothing probably are the generality of men more deceived than in the opinion they form of the mental progress of different individuals. To the lifeless soul whose diseased eyes bespeak his labours over the midnight lamp—who, secluded from society in the solitude of a study, loses his vivacity beneath a ponderous load of immethodized undigested matter; duped by specious appearance they give without examination the palm of learning. But in the hour of exigence, when the intellectual host is summoned to the field; when profit to ourselves and benefit to mankind stand the criterions of useful acquisitions, then will it uniformly be proved that reading well is infinitely better than reading much. In many who have formed a taste for reading, that taste so productive of benefit and delight; curiosity active and aspiring, still urging on even to flights beyond its sketch, hurries attention over the field of view. The different objects are but transiently inspected, and a mass of faint and indistinct impressions are mixed in the brain, of which each in succession makes the last less clear. With far less rapidity must he travel who would explore with advantage the land of knowledge. Selecting from the multitude of objects those most worthy of examination, he should with persevering care investigate their principles and structure and leave them not till satisfied he possesses all the information they can give. To read as we ought, we must read with attention and with thought. Many there are who read with attention, but few with thought. Simply to comprehend the meaning and keep in mind the connection of an author’s arguments is not sufficient, we must see and feel their force. Never to take upon trust the sentiments of another, to examine with minuteness his principles and his deductions, and to be assured of the justness of the former and the accuracy of the latter, before he adopts them as his own, should be the constant practice of him who would read with real and permanent utility. In order to this, it is necessary to form in youth a habit of deep severe persevering thought. To form this habit is at first indeed difficult, nay painful. Inclined to ease, the mind especially in early life, averts from the labour of reflection; but when confirmed, it finds in it a never ending treasure: every surrounding object affords it employment; the man who possesses it discovers in the worlds of sentiment, of manners, of science and of art, sources of continual unbounded improvement. An eminent instance of this was the celebrated Gibbon, “I have been led by a novel (says that elegant historian) into a deep and instructive train of thinking.”

(To be concluded in our next.)

Notes: “an historian published to the world and to posterity”: Sallust, quoting Appius.

ANECDOTE.

When Guido and Domenichino had each of them painted a picture in the church of Saint Andrew, Annibal Carrache, their master, was pressed to declare, or give his opinion, which of his two pupils had excelled. The picture of Guido represented St. Andrew on his knees before the cross; that of Domenichino represented the flagellation of the same Apostle. Both of them in their different kinds were capital pieces, and were painted in fresco, opposite each other, to eternize, as it were, their rivalship and contention. ‘Guido,’ said Carrache, ‘has performed as a master, and Domenichino as a scholar. But,’ added he, ‘the work of the scholar is more valuable than that of the master.’ In truth, one may perceive faults in the picture of Domenichino that Guido has avoided; but then there are noble strokes, not to be found in that of his rival. It was easy to discern a genius that promised to produce beauties, to which the sweet, the gentle, and the graceful Guido would never aspire.

NEW-YORK.

The Subscribers and Public in general are respectfully informed, that John Bull, late Editor and Publisher of this Magazine, has disposed of the establishment to Mr. Thomas Burling, Jun. from the 1st day of January, 1797. In committing this publication to other hands J. Bull feels assured, that the talents which are in future to be employed in conducting it, are such as cannot fail to afford the fullest satisfaction to its patrons, and must ensure an accession of that celebrity which it has hitherto enjoyed.

At the moment of relinquishing so arduous a task, the grateful recollection of the steady support and kindnesses of my numerous friends in this undertaking, demand the warmest thanks. To those who have favoured me with the productions of their pens, I beg leave to recommend my successor; and to entreat for him a continuance of that friendship, the remembrance of which can never be effaced from my mind.

In order fully to close the Accounts to this period, I must intreat, that the bills for the small arrearages due to the 1st of January, 1797, may be punctually honoured—each distinct sum is but trifling, while the aggregate amounts to some hundred pounds; an exact compliance will add to the obligations already heaped on

The Public’s obliged,

Humble Servant,

JOHN BULL.

P.S. Printing as usual executed by me at the Office No. 115, Cherry-street. I have now in the press, publishing by subscription, CAMILLA; or a Picture of Youth: by the author of Evelina and Cecilia.

TO THE PUBLIC, AND PATRONS

OF

The New-York Weekly Magazine.

In becoming the Editor of so valuable a publication as The New-York Weekly Magazine, I cannot but feel sensations of gratitude to its generous patronizers for the liberal encouragement it has heretofore been favoured with; without which, there would not have been so great a stimulus to my undertaking this arduous task.

Sensibly feeling the duty that is incumbent on me in conducting this Repository of Literary and Useful Knowledge, all the attention and assiduous circumspection which is requisite to make it useful, entertaining and edifying to every capacity, may be relied on by a generous public.

It would be useless for me to enlarge upon the merits of a work which has so long received the approbation of an enlightened people.—Certain it is, that every attentive and candid reader will confess, or at least acknowledge the utility of this production, as the vehicle of refined ideas and engaging principles; contributing to disseminate and establish the most virtuous sentiments, while it stimulates to noble and generous actions.

I humbly solicit the literary abilities of those kind Correspondents who have hitherto come forward in support of this publication; and, shall always gratefully acknowledge the productions of the candid and sentimental writer.

Relying on the liberal support of my friends and a generous public, in prosecuting this my undertaking to their general satisfaction and entertainment,

I am, with profound respect,

Their Obedient, Humble Servant,

THOMAS BURLING, Jun.

New-York, Jan. 2, 1797.

MARRIED,

On Thursday the 22d ult. by the Rev. Mr. Miller, Mr. Thomas Loutette, to Miss Catharine M‘Kenzie, both of this city.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The new Editor thankfully acknowledges the pieces of CLARA and A. D. He is sorry they arrived too late for this publication, in the next, however, they shall have a place.

WINTER; AN ODE.

DESPAIR.

ODE TO CONTEMPLATION.

Epigram on a false mistress.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, No. 115, Cherry-street—where Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received—And at No. 33, Oliver-Street.

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, January 11, 1797. [No. 80.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ESSAY.

No. I.

In man there is a natural love of change and variety: the mind is wearied by continual succession of similar objects, those pleasures which at first were capable of inspiring emotions of delight; which once filled the heart with rapture and enthusiasm; as they become familiar, fade by degrees, they lose their brilliancy, the charm of novelty is gone, and soon they please no more. The sublimer works of nature, which have roused the attention of the traveller, excite not similar sensations in the bosoms of those who have been long acquainted with their beauties: the lofty mountain “with its robe of mist,” the stupenduous cliff that overlooks the torrent, and the loud sounding waters of the tremendous cataract, neither strike them with veneration nor with awe. Their eyes wander with languor and indifference, over those scenes in which nature has been most lavish of its beauties. The mind is attracted by diversity, we follow with avidity any object which appears fascinating and pleasing, until some fresh pursuit which fancy has furnished with superior charms captivates the imagination. This love of variety is predominant in the breast of every individual, it alike exists in the lowly cottage and the splendid palace, in the circles of business and in the vortex of pleasure, in the obscure paths of folly and ignorance, and in the exalted walks of literature and science: and although those objects which at a distance appeared dazling and beautiful, may lose their brightness on a nearer approach, still the acquirements which have cost us much labor and pain, have something in them peculiarly grateful. Man has ever been considered as a fickle and inconstant being, rarely content with his present situation, but continually looking out for brighter and fairer prospects. This restlessness of the human mind has been considered by some rigid moralists, as a source of trouble and vexation to those who are under its influence, but it is also a source of our greatest enjoyments: cold must be that heart, which is insensible to all the charms of variety, and but little calculated to partake of present joys, or to anticipate the more sublime and exalted pleasures which are hid behind the impenetrable veil of futurity.

A. D.

December 31, 1796.

The reference to “the lofty mountain ‘with its robe of mist’,” may be from an article on Ossian in the New-York Magazine, Vol. 5, 1791.

JUSTICE.

Justice may be defined that virtue which impels us to give to every person what is his due. In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes, or society should expect. Our duty to our Maker, to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all the rest have their origin in it.

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generosity, for instance, are not in their own nature virtues: and, if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to justice, which impels and directs them. Without such a moderator, candour might become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion.

DEATH of a PHILOSOPHER.

Let others bestrew the hearses of the great with panegyric. When a philosopher dies, I consider myself as losing a patron, an instructor, and a friend; I consider the world as losing one who might serve to console her amidst the desolations of war and ambition. Nature every day produces in abundance men capable of filling all the requisite duties of authority; but she is a niggard in the birth of an exalted mind, scarcely producing in a century a single genius to bless and enlighten a degenerate age. Prodigal in the production of kings, governors, mandarines, chams, and courtiers, she seems to have forgotten, for more than three thousand years, the manner in which she once formed the brain of a Confucius; and well it is she has forgotten, when a bad world gave him so very bad a reception.

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

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 211.)

Alumbrado was of the same opinion, our advice was however neglected, for the next morning when I went to see the Duke, I found the Count had already been liberated. The matter happened in the following manner:

The Duke had paid him one more visit at night, in order to get some explanation of Amelia’s history, asking the Count whether his account of Amelia’s adventures had been strictly true, or intermixed with fiction? The Count confessed frankly that he had not been very conscientious in his relation, but had added to his picture many fictitious strokes; nay, that he had disfigured even the principal incidents by interpolation, in order to encrease by his adventrous tale, the Duke’s propensity to wonderful incidents, and thus to render Amelia more interesting to him. The Duke asked him how he could have risked a fraud which the first meeting with the Countess could have laid open to him. “I was well aware,” the Count replied, “that you as well as Amelia would be prompted by the tender harmony which made your hearts beat in unison, to avoid speaking of incidents which would have introduced Amelia’s late Lord and her love for him.” The Duke asked him whether the Irishman had not acted in concert with Lady Delier? “Only as far as he made use of her to direct the love that had taken place between your Grace and Amelia,” the Count answered; “the conditions and reflections under which the Baroness was to assist in forwarding your mutual union are unknown to me.” The Count being asked, whether that wonderful note by which Amelia had been released from her vow of eternal fidelity to her deceased Lord, had been a contrivance of Hiermanfor’s natural skill, or the effect of supernatural power; the Count replied, the latter had been the case. The Duke had been affected so much by the repeated mention of his Amelia, that he began to melt in tears. The Count thought this state of mind very propitious for regaining his liberty, and obtained it without difficulty. What could the Duke have refused in that situation to Amelia’s brother-in-law?