VOLUME II. (continued 14)

Alumbrado seemed to be not less displeased with this event than myself. My hope that the Count would entirely destroy, by an ample discovery of the juggling tricks of the Irishman, the Duke’s belief in the supernatural skill of the latter was now utterly destroyed, for he had not unfolded the most important mystery; the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard. Yet I derived some consolation from the papers of Clairval, which were still in the hands of the Duke, and proposed to throw some light on that extraordinary incident. My friend himself seemed to entertain the same hope, and although the papers had been partly consumed by the fire, yet he was not discouraged, and undertook the laborious task of decyphering them. We retired lest we should disturb him.

The next morning Alumbrado came to my palace, informing me that he went to pay a visit to the Duke, but had not been admitted. We concluded from this, that he had not yet finished decyphering of the papers.

The Duke joined us about an hour after with gloomy looks, he gave me some writings and said, “that is all that I could make out; read it and edify yourself.”---

I began to read aloud, “Beloved and trusty---” the Duke interrupted me—“It is a letter to Hiermanfor, written by the Lady of the late Duke of B——a, at a time when he had little hope of ascending the royal throne of P————l.”

“Beloved and trusty! I have read all your letters to our Privy Secretary, along with the note by which you acquaint him with your intention of introducing Miguel to the Hermit. I always read your letters with admiration, yet I cannot but confess that I have great reason to suspect you have it more at heart to be admired, than to gain Miguel over to our party. I should think Miguel could have been secured to us in a safer, easier, and more expeditious manner, and you would have saved yourself a great deal of time and trouble if you had attempted it. Why those superfluous machinations, why those expensive, intricate, artificial, and give me leave to add, those fragile machines which so easily may be destroyed? You could certainly have ensnared Miguel in a more simple and a less precarious manner. Machineries like those which you have made use of are always liable to the danger of being discovered by accident, which may ruin the whole plan.

“You will perhaps reply, that, if he should make such a discovery, it would be of little consequence; that you know this Miguel too well, are too sensible of your superiority, that he cannot do without you, and that you keep him in chains which he will not be able to shake off, though your whole miraculous web should be dissolved in smoke. But, if so, wherefore those needless artifices? What benefit will arise from your miracles and ghosts? The love intrigue with Amelia, and the charm of your eloquence would have been sufficient for gaining Miguel over to our party.

“I may be mistaken, your proceedings are however riddles to me, if I do not suppose that an arrogant activity has prompted you to contrive extraordinary intrigues, and to have recourse to marvellous machineries. People of your genius are wont to do so. You despise the ways of common men, force new roads through insurmountable rocks, entangle your man in numberless magic fetters, with no other view, than to have the pleasure of seeing your prisoner insnare himself deeper and deeper by his attempts to regain his liberty. The simple, artless turn of a play, does not suit a genius like your’s, which delights only in knitting and dissolving intricate knots, and in having recourse to artificial, complicated machines; obstacles and dangers serve only to give additional energy to your activity. Miguel was, perhaps, only an object which was to serve you for trying your skill and art, in order to see how far you could rely on your capacities for more important opportunities.

“But however it be, I am rather bound to thank you for your zeal to serve our cause, than to criticise the choice of the means you have made use of. Accomplish what you have begun, and you may be sure of my favour and active gratitude.”

While I had been reading, the Duke walked up and down the room with hasty strides. He now stopped. “Well, Marquis! well, Alumbrado!” said he, “do I not act a charming part in this letter?”

We remained silent, became we saw that he was violently agitated.

“They treat me as a simpleton, as a blockhead. Is it not true?”

“How you exaggerate it!” said I. “They ascribe to you want of experience, and that is all.”

“O Marquis, don’t you see in what a tone, and with how much contempt the proud woman speaks of me?”

“She is a woman who mistakes you.”

“Heavens and earth! and I should brook her injuries without taking revenge?”

“My Lord!” Alumbrado said, “in what relation have you been to the Dutchess? I cannot see the connection of the whole affair?”

The Duke explained this connection to him, by discovering the share he had had in the revolution.

Alumbrado was all attention during this account, and when it was finished seemed to be absorbed in profound meditation.

“Friend!” said I to the Duke, “there are some more written leaves”————

“It is Hiermanfor’s answer to the letter you have been reading.”

I read the letter aloud.

“It is with no I small astonishment that I find myself called to an account, in the letter which your Grace did me the honour of writing to me, for a point which I sincerely wish never had been mentioned. The remarks you have made on it redound as much to the honour of your Grace’s penetration and sagacity, as they tend to mortify me by betraying me into a confession, which I would have refused to make to any mortal living, except to so noble a challenger.

“My second letter to your Privy Secretary, explaining sufficiently the motives which have prompted me to gain Miguel over to our party by the arts of natural magic, I think I need not add new arguments to those contained in that letter, if your Grace will take the trouble to re-peruse and to ponder them attentively. Besides the reprehension of your Grace is directed less against the means which I have made use of, than against the manner of their application. You ask in your letter, why I have had recourse to such superfluous machinations, to such expensive, intricate, artificial, and fragile machines? Indeed you think too contemptibly of Miguel. His penetration, as well as his great knowledge, raise him far above the common men of his age; his understanding, which has been improved under the tuition of an Antonio de Galvez, is not to be imposed upon so easily as you think. Besides, you will have the goodness to consider that he was not the only person I had to deal with, and that his tutor, who never stirred from his side, was always ready to cut asunder the magical bonds in which I had entangled him, but why do I hesitate any longer to tell you the plain truth? My design was not directed against Miguel alone, but on his tutor too. It was the most ardent wish of my heart to gain this man to our party by my magical arts, and that it was which forced me to have recourse to so many machinations, and such expensive and complicated machines. If my design upon him had been crowned with success, Miguel too would have been an easy and certain conquest.

“If your Grace should ask what has prompted me to form so daring a plan, and what reasons I had to hope for success? I beg you will condescend to ponder the following points: Count Galvez was an insurmountable obstacle in my way to Miguel, which rendered it necessary either to draw him in our interest, or to remove him from his pupil. It will be obvious to you for what reason I resolved to attempt the former, if you will consider how much advantage our affairs would have derived from so valuable a conquest. If we could have made sure of Antonio, we then should also have drawn the court of Rome in our interest by his intercession. Before the present Pope was raised to the papal throne, he and a number of persons of the highest rank were intimately connected with him. We could, therefore, have expected to interest for our cause by his influence a court, which will become our most dangerous enemy, if it should not take our part; and I apprehend this will be the case.”*

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE OF VOLTAIRE.

This extraordinary genius, in his younger life, wrote a very biting satire against a man of considerable influence in France. The injured gentleman, on meeting the poet one day in a narrow lane where it was impossible to escape, gave him a severe drubbing. The enraged author immediately made his complaint to the Regent, who very shrewdly replied---“What would you have me do? justice certainly has been done already,”

OSMIR.

AN ORIGINAL ESSAY.

The predecessors of Osmir were ignoble and obscure. For a race of generations they wept the conflicts of indigence, nor could the toils of application crown their efforts with advantage, nor the utmost frugality secure their labours from distress; the importance of command never owned their authority, and the radiance of splendour never shone on their dwelling. They eat of the bread of industry, they drank the waters of perseverence, they lived unnoticed and undistinguished among the children of poverty, as one atom in the sun-beam is undistinguished from another, and as the ebullitions of a current which float for a moment on its surface and die, even so they disappeared and were remembered no more.

But the tempest of malediction began at length to subside, and the severity of fortune to abate her resentment. Malevolence was wearied with undeserved persecution, and prosperity beheld the cot of wretchedness with an auspicious smile, and determined to lavish upon Osmir what she had withheld from his ancestors. He was addicted to industry, to perseverance and toil; his principles were therefore the surest basis whereon time was to erect the superstructure of gilded affluence. In a few years Osmir contemplated the fruits of his application, which animated his endeavours to advance with more hasty strides in the road of progressive grandeur; riches were accumulated, possessions were established, his habitation surpassed the pomp of oriental magnificence, and the report of his opulence was the talk of every mouth, and wafted through every region on the pinions of fame. In order to subdue the murmurs of repining adversity, and establish a position, which though it was probable was yet untrue, that the bounties of Heaven were bestowed upon deserving virtue alone, he resolved to cover his imperfections with the mantle of devotion, by which more liberty was allowed to the passions which lay lurking in secret within the chambers of his heart. Confirmed in this disposition, he was impartial and correct in his dealings with all men; the venom of slander had no influence on his character; for he trod the paths of moral rectitude with exact scrupulosity. Was propitiation ordained to avert the wrath of omnipotence?—his head was covered with the ashes of Bethulia, and his loins were mortified with the sack-cloth of Ninevah; his piety refused the sustenance which human fragility demands for her functions, and thrice a day he fell prostrate at the shrine of the God of nature. Whenever Osmir walked the streets for the purpose of recreation, he was begirt with attendants who showered gold on the multitude, and whom he exhorted in their liberality to more extensive profusion. The widow and the orphan, the desolate and the indigent, all looked for succour from the bounty of his hand, and all felt the influence of his generous condescension. Not an act that was performed escaped the voice of applause, for if Osmir was liberal, compassionate or just, his merit was instantly registered in the chronicles of fame, who with her trump of seven thunders, blew a blast round the world which was echoed through the universe.

Such was the life of a mortal whom prosperity delighted to elevate; such was his journey through the vales of desolation, uninfested with the thorns of accident or bitterness, and perfumed with the fragrance of the rose-buds fortune scattered in his way. But whilst Osmir thus employed the happy tenor of his days, now feasting on delicacies at the banquet of plenty, now dancing to the song of happiness in the bowers of ease, the iron hand of time laid its pressure on his temples, the frost of old age was expanded through his veins, and the powers of animation hastened quick to decline. It was in vain to bribe with riches the dreaded minister of death; it was in vain to protract a moment the awful period of dissolution. Summoned at the report of sickness his friends assembled in his chamber, where stretched on the bed of sorrows, human nature was to be dignified, and human weakness was to be confirmed by an illustrious portrait of expiring virtue. But how great was the excess of disappointment and surprize, when, instead of the tranquility of hope, and ejaculations of charity, their ears were assaulted with the shrieks of despair, and their eyes were affrighted with terrific wretchedness. Osmir, whose visage was deformed with terrors, as the brow of heaven with a tempest, was long unable to hearken to the remonstrances of his friends; at length, however, collecting the feeble breath, which, like the flame of a midnight taper, sat quivering on his lips, he uttered these last accents with emphatic efforts, whilst every voice was suspended in silence, and every ear was attention.

“Ye, whom vanity has influenced in the operation of good works, and whom earthly approbation has taught to exult in their merit, let the example of dying disquietudes abate the security of your confidence. Like you, I have floated on the ocean of glory, I have felt my senses enraptured with the melody of praise, and suffered my heart to receive plaudits which my conscience condemned. Like you, I was liberal, because to be liberal was to be eminent, and like you also, I estimated the advantages of heaven by terrestial enjoyments. Prosperity shed around me the partial beams of her favour, nor harboured a doubt, nor hesitated to reflect, if the object of her veneration deserved contempt or esteem. Avarice and vain glory were raging passions of my soul, to heat the furnace of these desires was the sole object of my aim; by the one I was rendered odious to the great dispenser of gifts, and by the other detrimental to the sons and daughters of men. This, by the malignity of its turpitude, which withheld what it had received with the rapacious grasp of a vulture, effaced the character of the Deity imprinted by nature in my soul; and the other by a cruelty more inhuman than murder, has awakened passions in the breast of indigence, which had slept for ever undisturbed, and for the mercenary tribute of undeserved approbation has elevated for a moment to magnificence and state, only to plunge with keener anguish into the gulphs of despair, the wretch whose heart had never sickened for the splendours of pomp, and whose days had moved calm in inglorious obscurity. Yet weak-sighted mortals viewed my actions and admired, whilst the piercing eye of the everlasting beheld their motives and abhorred. Happy should I be to amend the past by the present, or to mitigate the fury of the indignation to come. But the scymetar of vengeance hangs suspended in my view, I hear the sentence of malediction which sounds as thunder in my ears, and I feel the last horrors of agonizing despair. Insulting vanities of a faithless world! why was my heart enamoured of the graces of thy deceit? Only to look with pleasure on thy allurements, is to assume the chains of thy bondage; to seek thy gratifications is to follow pain without profit, and to persevere in thy pursuits is reprobation without hope. A few moments space will evince the dreadful truth, for a few moments space and the life of Osmir is no more. Happy shall you be, my friends, whose errors are corrected by my fatal mistake, and whose minds shall be imprinted with this important remembrance, that no action however splendid can secure the favour of the Deity, unless it correspond with good designs, which can alone stamp its value, and that though you mislead the erring judgment of man by fallacious appearances, ’tis impossible to mislead the unerring judgment of God.”

The hand of the omnipotent sealed his lips at these words, and a convulsive agony announced the approach of dissolution; his eyes were averted with horror from the flying javelin of death, and expiring his last groan, he slept the sleep of his fathers in the tomb of Mahaleel.

SELECT REFLECTIONS ON EDUCATION.

A fortune acquired by commerce, when it is discreetly expended in advancing learning, acquires a grace and elegance, which a life devoted to the accumulation of money, for its own sake, can seldom possess.

Few of us are so improved by philosophy, though we study and admire it, as not to feel the influence of interested motives. This insensibly blinds the understanding, and often impels the judgment to decide unjustly, without the guilt of intention.

Not only the taste, but the religion, the virtue, and even the liberties of our country, greatly depend upon that discipline which lays the foundation of improvement in ancient learning. True patriotism and true valour, originate from that enlargement of mind, which the well-regulated study of philosophy, poetry, and history, tends to produce; and if we can recal the ancient discipline we may perhaps recal the generous spirit of ancient virtue. He who is conversant with the best Greek and Roman writers, with a Plato, a Xenophon, and a Cicero, must imbibe, if he be not deficient in the powers of intellect, sentiments no less liberal and enlarged than ingenious and elegant.

A certain enlargement, refinement, and embellishment of the mind, is the best and noblest effect of classical instruction. It is not only desirable, as it qualifies the mind for this or that profession, but as it opens the source of pure pleasures, unknown to the vulgar. Its tendency is to adorn and improve human nature, and to give the ideas a noble elevation.

The possession of an elegant mind is greatly superior to the possession of a fortune, and the enjoyment of a good conscience is far superior to both.

The passions will sometimes ruffle the stream of happiness in every man; but they are least likely to discompose him, who spends his time in letters, and who at the same time studies virtue and innocence, which indeed have a natural connexion with true learning.

He who has caught the spirit of the polite writers of the politest ages and cities, must possess a peculiar degree of polish and comprehension of mind.

The best kind of education is that which endeavours to improve the powers of understanding for their own sake; for the sake of exalting the endowments of human nature, and becoming capable of sublime and refined contemplation. This furnishes a power of finding satisfactory amusement for those hours of solitude, which every man must sometimes know in the busiest walks of life; and it constitutes one of the best supports of old age, as well as the most graceful ornament of manhood. Even in the commercial department it is most desirable; for besides that it gives a grace to the man in the active stage of life, and in the midst of his negociations, it ‘enables him to enjoy his retreat with elegance,’ when his industry has accumulated the object of his endeavours.

If taste, which classical learning immediately tends to produce, have no influence in amending the heart, or in promoting virtuous affections; if it contribute not to render men more humane, and more likely to be disgusted with improper behaviour, as a deformed object, and pleased with rectitude of conduct, as beautiful in itself; if it be merely an ornamental appendage; it must be owned, that life is indeed too short to admit of long attention to mere embellishment. Polite learning, on the contrary, is found to be friendly to all that is amiable and laudible in social intercourse; friendly to morality. It has a secret but powerful influence in softening and meliorating the disposition. True and correct taste directly tends to restrain the extravagancies of passion, by regulating that nurse of passion, a discorded imagination.

To be completely skilled in ancient learning is by no means a work of such insuperable pains. The very progress itself is attended with delight, and resembles a journey through some pleasant country, where every mile we advance new charms arise. It is certainly as easy to be a scholar, as a gamester, or many other characters equally illiberal and low. The same application, the same quantity of habit, will fit us for one as well as for the other. As to those who tell us with an air of seeming wisdom, that it is by men, not books, that we must study to become knowing; repeated experience teaches this to be the common consolation and language of dunces.

The article is a paraphrase of Vicesimus Knox, “Liberal Education”. The phrase ‘enables him to enjoy his retreat with elegance’ is a direct quotation.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CANDIDUS.

No. I.

(Concluded from page 214.)

He that would rise superior to the common level of mankind, exalted in knowledge, useful to himself and to mankind, must keep attention ever on the watch to seize some subject worthy of reflection with a spirit of investigation, which no difficulties can damp; he must suffer no proposition, however obscure and intricate, to escape the grasp of his mind till perseverance hath effected its solution: If any thing more than another occasions man to differ more from man than man from beast, it is this; and I have been often led to doubt, whether it will not alone account for all that difference in mind which is commonly ascribed to superiority in capacity. True indeed it is, that this improvement is not always accompanied with delight. “Those reflections (says Burke) are melancholy enough which carry us beyond the mere surface of things.” The world exhibits too much evil to the mind to permit its reflections to be uniformly pleasant. But as the same author again observes, the same philosophy which causes the grief, will administer the comfort; and would not he or any other, who possesses this most valuable attainment, prefer it, with all its sorrows, to a state of thoughtless inattention? Of all the complaints of studious men, want of memory is the greatest and the most frequent. So universal indeed is the expression of sorrow for deficiency in retentive capacity, that this faculty would seem a gift most sparingly bestowed: the distinguishing characteristic of a few, the happy favorites of nature. But without favour and without respect, nature holds the balance of being with impartial hand, and with very few exceptions, every member of humanity is equal in the scale.

Man was endowed with the seeds of his faculties to be matured by his cultivation and memory; not the least of those faculties is in the least subject to his power. That men, when placed in similar circumstances, will receive through the senses similar impressions, I trust will be universally admitted. It appears to me no less evident, that such impressions may be in all equally lasting. It is not then the want of capacity in any to retain, but the want of exertion in most to imprint, that occasions the former; and Man, not Nature, is deficient in duty. Yet, this charge is not universally incurred; many there are who employ much of their time in endeavouring to improve the faculty of recollection, but in spite of their efforts, they still find ample cause for complaint. If men (generally speaking) are equally fitted both to receive and to retain, the charge must still revert upon themselves, with the aggravation of time mispent in injudicious exertions. The method generally pursued among young men to assist the memory, is to enter into a common place book the most material observations and events in the course of their reading; this, though stamped with the approbation and deriving credit from the recommendation of the philosophic Locke, is not without its imperfections. The practice betrays the student into a prejudicial confidence, trusting to his notes, he neglects to make the first impressions firm and lasting; and in his recurrences to his book he distracts his attention with a vast collection of heterogeneous matter; the different parts of which hold a place in his recollection no longer than he reads them, each being driven out by that which succeeds. “What is twice read (says the judicious author of the Idler,) is commonly better remembered than what is described:” and no little credit is due to this opinion, when delivered by a man, the value and extent of whose literary acquisitions deservedly gained him the appellation of the walking library. As the impression made by one body on another is stronger or weaker in proportion to the time of pressure, so the firmness with which an idea is fixed in the memory, is in proportion to the weight applied by the continuance of thought. Let the reader, before he changes his subjects, revolve with patient attention in his mind the sentiments he would imbibe, or the events he would remember, until he has thoroughly stamped them with all the principles and consequences of the former, and the causes, connections and effects of the latter. Let him in the solitary hour when books are not near, and company do not interrupt by continued reflection, firmly imprint spontaneous associations, and by studious recollection renew and confirm the past. The knowledge so gained will be far more solid and lasting than that for which we depend upon a few uncorrected transcriptions. Conversation has with justice been called the soul of society. Man must, in intercourse with his fellow creatures, exercise and refine those passions and affections with which he is endowed, and of which they are the subjects: and in the worlds of business and of pleasure, the convenience and happiness of each state, depends upon the united endeavours of the whole; so in the world of literature, a mutual communication of ideas increases the stock of individual knowledge. While the student disdains not to converse with men in every rank, let him choose for his intimates the ingenious and the learned. One great impediment in the way of mental improvement, is the neglect of opportunities for study. Carpe diem, is an advice as generally unattended to as its goodness is admitted. The state of the mind is no more than that of the body is uniform and regular. Various as the atmospheric changes, it is now dull, inapprehensive and listless; now flighty and impatient, again in happier hour, fitted to imbibe with avidity, comprehend with clearness, and retain with exactness. How often in this vigorous and active state are its impulses neglected. How often when disgust succeeds enjoyment, when satiated with pleasure, and fatigued with the tumults of society, the mind is disengaged and vacant; with an appetite whetted for the variety of solid entertainment, do we instead of gratifying its propensity, seat ourselves down to indulge idle regret, or to form still more idle schemes of future dissipation. To seize such, and every opportune moment, we should be ever on the watch, they will frequently occur, and if improved will always produce present delight and permanent advantage. To complain of nature when ourselves are in the fault, and to ascribe to deficiency of capacity, what is the result of want of industry, is the common practice of idleness in every condition of life. But in spite of the clamours of men, it will ever remain an axiom in morals, that want of judgment in acting, is the cause of embarrassment and confusion; and cessation from labour, the death of body and mind.

INDUSTRY.

Diligence, and proper improvement of time, are material duties of the young. To no purpose are they endued with the best abilities, if they want activity for exerting them. In youth the habits of industry are most easily acquired.—In youth the incentives to it are the strongest; from ambition and from duty, from emulation and hope, all the prospects which the beginning of life affords.

Industry is not only the instrument of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. He who is a stranger to it may possess, but cannot enjoy; for it is labour only which gives relish to pleasure.—It is the indispensible condition of our possessing a sound mind in a sound body.

We should seek to fill our time with employments which may be reviewed with satisfaction. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honourable occupations of youth. The desire of it discovers a liberal mind, and is connected with many accomplishments, and many virtues. But though our train of life should not lead us to study, the course of education always furnishes proper employments to a well-disposed mind. Whatever we pursue, we should be emulous to excel.

Generous ambition and sensibility to praise, are, especially at the youthful period, among the marks of virtue. We never ought to think that any affluence of fortune, or any elevation of rank, exempts us from the duties of application and industry: industry is the law of our being; it is the demand of nature, of reason, and of God.

SINCERITY.

How often is debility of mind, and even badness of heart, concealed under a splendid exterior! The fairest of the species, and of the sex, often want sincerity; and without it every other qualification is rather a blemish than a virtue or excellence. Sincerity operates in the moral, somewhat like the sun in the natural world; and produces nearly the same effects on the dispositions of the human heart, which he does on inanimate objects. Wherever sincerity prevails, and is felt, all the smiling and benevolent virtues flourish most, disclose their sweetest lustre, and diffuse their richest fragrance.

OBSERVATION.

The possession of knowledge, and an happy talent of communicating knowledge, are qualifications seldom united in the same person; nor is it altogether easy to determine from which of them, separately, a reader would chuse to accept, with preference, a treatise upon any subject. From the one we receive even little information with much satisfaction; while any improvement extracted from the other is obtained with labour, and, perhaps too, even with disgust.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Peters, Captain Thomas Barnard, of Boston, to Miss Louisa Hinckley, of Konny-brook.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Foster, Mr. Peter Utt, to the amiable Miss Amelia Fairley, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 25th ult. to the 7th 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. 25 23 35 w.nw. clear do. lt. wind do.

26 2050 33 n.w. cloudy, do. lt. wind do.

27 26 35 sw.do. clear do.lt. wind do.

28 263275 w.do. clear do.lt. wind do.

29 323675 w.do. clear do.lt. wind do.

30 257536 ne.se. cloudy, lt. wd.snow h. do.

31 364050 sw.w. sn. 2 in. deep. sm. rn. at nt.

cloudy, lt. wd.clear do.

Jan. 1 2733 w.do. clear light winddo. do.

2 2328 nw.w. clear h. winddo. lt. do.

3 2226 nw.do. cloudy lt. wd.snow do.

4 195030 nw.sw. half inch of snow on a level.clear

5 23502850 w.do. lt. wd. cloudyh. do. clear

6 27753925 sw.w. lt. wd. do. h. do.clear lt. do.

7 172250 n.w. cloudy lt. wd.clear do.

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

FOR DECEMBER 1796.

Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 28 6

Mean do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 43 62

Do. do. for the whole month 30 34

Greatest monthly range between the 6th and 24th 35 25

Do. do. in 24 hours, between the 19th and 20th 21 30

Warmest day the 6th 45 75

Coldest do. the 24th 20 50

5 Days it rained, and a considerable quantity has fallen.

4 Do. it snowed, and nearly 6 inches has fallen.

25 Do. the wind was at the observation hours, to the Westward of north and south.

6 Do. the do. was at the observation hours, to do. Eastward of do.

13 Do. it was clear at the observation hours.

10 Do. it was cloudy at the do. do.

21 Do. the Mercury was at or below freezing at sun-rise.

N.B. On the 6th inst. there was a plentifull rain, the first of any consequence, since the 3d of October.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO THE SETTING SUN.

The quoted line “And sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun” is from Shenstone, Elegy 26 (“I sigh in...”).

THE ADIEU—TO A FAVOURITE GROVE.

An Elegy to the Memory of a Friend.

SONNET.—TO THE MOON.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. 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 18, 1797. [No. 81.

HUMANITY.

Gentleness, which belongs to virtue, is to be carefully distinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and the fawning assent of sycophants.—It renounces no just right from fear:---it gives up no important truth from flattery:—it is indeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily requires a manly spirit and a fixed principle in order to give it any real value.

It stands opposed to harshness and severity—to pride and arrogance—to violence and oppression:—it is, properly, that part of the real virtue charity, which makes us unwilling to give pain to any of our brethren.——It corrects whatever is offensive in our manners, and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alleviate the burden of common misery;—Its office is therefore extensive; it is continually in action, when we are engaged in intercourse with men.—It ought to form our address, to regulate our speech, and to diffuse itself over our whole behaviour.

That gentleness which is a characteristic of a good man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart.——In that unaffected civility which springs from a gentle mind, there is a charm infinitely more powerful than in all the studied manners of the most finished courtier.

It is founded on a sense of what we owe to him who made us, and to the common nature of which we all share.—It arises from reflection on our own failings and wants, and from just views of the condition and duty of man.---It is native feeling heightened and improved by principle. It is the heart which easily resents; which feels for every thing that is human; and is backward and slow to inflict the least wound. It is affable in its address, and mild in its demeanour; ever ready to oblige, and be obliged by others; breathing habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, long suffering to enemies.

It exercises authority with moderation;---administers reproof with tenderness; confers favours with care and modesty.---It is unassuming in opinion, and temperate in zeal.---It contends not eagerly about trifles; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame; but prompt to allay dissention and restore peace.---It neither intermeddles unnecessarily with the affairs, nor pries inquisitively into the secrets of others.---It delights above all things to alleviate distress; and, if it cannot dry up the falling tear, to soothe at least the grieving heart.

Where it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome.---It seeks to please rather than shine and dazzle, and conceals with care that superiority, either of talents or of rank, which are oppressive to those who are beneath it.---It is a great avenue to mutual enjoyment: amidst the strife of interfering interests, it tempers the violence of contention, and keeps alive the seeds of harmony.---It softens animosities, renews endearments, and renders the countenance of a man a refreshment to man.---It prepossesses and wins every heart.---It persuades when every other argument fails; often disarms the fierce, and melts the stubborn.

To the man of humanity the world is generally disposed to ascribe every other good quality; of its influence all in some degree partake, therefore all love it.

The man of this character rises in the world without struggle, and flourishes without envy; his misfortunes are universally lamented, and his failings are easily forgiven. The inward tranquility which it promotes is the first requisite of every pleasurable feeling. It is the calm and clear atmosphere, the serenity and sunshine of the mind.

Attacked by great injuries, the man of mild and gentle spirit will feel what human nature feels; and will defend and resent as his duty allows him: but to slight provocations he is happily superior. Inspired with noble sentiments, taught to regard, with an indulgent eye, the frailties of men, the omissions of the careless, the follies of the imprudent, and the levity of the fickle; he retreats into the calmness of his spirit, as into an undisturbed sanctuary, and quietly allows the usual current of life to hold its course.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

FAITH, PIETY, AND ACTIVE VIRTUE.

Life passed under the influence of such dispositions naturally leads to a happy end. It is not enough to say, faith and piety joined with active virtue constitute the requisite preperation for heaven. They in truth begin the enjoyment of heaven. In every state of our existence they form the chief ingredients of felicity.

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 219.)

“What a triumph would it have proved to me, if I had succeeded in my attempt to subdue this man through my magical operations, and to catch in one snare two persons of so great an importance to our cause. The idea of ensnaring the Count by means of miracles and ghosts, was indeed, a very bold one, but not so inconsiderate as it may appear at first sight. Antonio has spent the earlier years of his youth in a monastery at Rome. It was not unknown to me, that experience and meditation have enabled him afterwards to divest himself of the prejudices which there have been instilled in his mind; I was, however, at the same time, well aware that the impressions we receive in our juvenile days, are re-produced with vivacity on certain occasions. I also knew that his philosophy does not deny the existence of spirits, and the hope of futurity which he defended with enthusiasm, renders the human mind but too prone to give credit to the apparitions of spirits, if they have the appearance of reality. Even his propensity to speculation, his fondness of solitude, the interest he took in supersensitive objects, his melancholy temper, prompted me to expect that my artifices would find access to his heart; and if the heart is but interested for something, then the understanding too is generally half gained. However, he who intends to gain it entirely, must take care not to expose his blind side to a keen-sighted and pert genius, and for that reason I was obliged to endeavour to carry the illusion to the highest degree of probability; I was under the necessity of attempting to make it impossible to Count Galvez to penetrate my delusions. This will convince your Grace that my plan, how bold soever it might have been, has not been formed without probability of success. However, when Count Clairval began to cultivate a more intimate connexion with Antonio, I was made sensible that my expectations have been too sanguine.

“He entreated me to give up a design that never could succeed. Prudence commanded me to follow his advice, though it mortified my ambition extremely. No other expedient was now left than to remove Count Galvez from his pupil, because I apprehended that he would ruin my design on Miguel. Your Grace knows how successfully this was executed.

“Perhaps you will ask, whether it would not have been possible to gain Count Galvez for our cause by some other means? I must reply in the negative. Miguel could indeed have been ensnared by other meant, but not more expeditiously; (and every thing depended upon dispatch) but his tutor never. The latter is attached to the King of Sp**n with unshaken loyalty, because he thinks it his duty to be loyal; and a man of fifty years, of so firm and rooted principles, cannot be enticed from what he thinks to be his duty, before it ceases to be duty to him. But what power upon earth could absolve from a duty such a man? Here supernatural powers must interfere and absolve him, beings from another world must appear as bails.

“I can scarcely think that the failure of this plan has originated from a fault of mine, for I have tried every means of exhibiting my miracles and ghosts in a shape of probability. Yet this has entangled me on the other side in a very disagreeable dilemma. Miguel, to whom his tutor has rendered suspected even my most consummate artifices, must be kept steady in the course he once has taken. I shall, perhaps, be necessitated to perform something quite extraordinary in order to fix the mind of this wavering young man who is constantly pressing forwards. Thus I think to have given a satisfactory answer to the question why I have introduced so expensive, complicated and artificial machines.

“If your Grace should ask why I have kept my design on Miguel’s tutor so secret, then I must tell you, that I concealed it so carefully because I intended to surprise the confederates unexpectedly by my valuable acquisition, if I should have succeeded; and if not to spare myself the mortification of having it said that I had undertaken a task to which my powers were not equal. I hope your Grace will reward my frank and plain confession by burying it in eternal secrecy.”

I returned the letter to the Duke, and a long silence ensued. He broke it first.

“My friend, you know my adventures with this Irishman, what do you think of him?”

“How can you ask that question after all the discoveries we have already made?”

“I wish to have it answered by you.”

“I think,” said I in a pathetic accent, “that Irishman must be a supernatural being.”

“Ridicule me as long as you please—I cannot but confess that he is, nevertheless, incomprehensible to me.”

“My dear Duke, I know what I am to think of the Irishman, but I scarcely know what to think of you.”

“You disapprove of my connection with that man.”

“Very much.”

“Tell me your sentiments without reserve; I know you have had a strong desire for some time to come to an explanation with me.”

“You have been ill, and I wish to spare you.”

“I don’t want your forbearance. Speak.”

“At another time, my friend, at another time.”

“No delay. Alumbrado is no stranger to my history, and consequently may hear your observation on it.”

“If you insist upon if, then I must tell you that I am extremely vexed at the idea that the fellow, who dared to sport with your understanding has enjoyed the triumph of guiding you in leading-strings whithersoever he chose. I am glad that you have rendered his magical labours so toilsome; I am rejoiced at the resistance which you have opposed to his attacks; but it grieves me that he has conquered you so dishonestly and artfully. I cannot but confess that the artifice to which your penetration yielded, has been enormous; however, I am angry with you because the man whom you really had discovered to be a cheat, succeeded a second time in gaining your confidence.”

“Do you then imagine that the Irishman has imposed on me in the latter period of our connection as well as in the beginning of it?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“That this occult science consists merely in juggling tricks?”

“In natural arts of all kind.”

“By what natural means could he have affected the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard?”

“I cannot tell; however, we should probably have learned it from the Count if he had not been suffered to escape.”

“I am glad you remind me of the Count. Why did he refuse so obstinately to explain that incident in spite of my prayers and menaces, declaring solemnly that it had been effected by supernatural means, although he has candidly discovered the rest of the delusions of the Irishman. What benefit could he expect from deceiving me any longer, the revolution being established, and consequently his end attained?”

“Has he not confessed that he is in the service of the Irishman? Can you know what orders he has received from his employer? Was not the veil of mystery which the Count has thrown over that incident, the only remaining mean of supporting the authority of his lord and master? Who knows what he would have confessed if you had shown a firm resolution to enforce your menaces?”

“I confess I acted very weakly and rashly, in suffering him to escape so soon.”

“At bottom it matters very little. What confidence could you have reposed in the confession of a man, who on a former occasion has imposed on you in so shameless and daring a manner? And what will you say if I prove to you that he has belied you the last time too?”

“You astonish me.”

“Don’t you recollect that he pretended the note through which Amelia has been absolved from her vow by her late Lord, to have been the effect of Hiermanfor’s supernatural power?”

“Not only the Count, Hiermanfor too has made me believe it.”

“Both of them has told you a barefaced lie.”

“Friend, how will you be able to make good your charge?”

“By proving that pretended miracle to be a juggling trick.”

“You have raised my expectation to the highest pitch.”

“I have learned that trick of a juggler, and I am sure that which the Irishman has made use of is the same. He gave Amelia a blank slip of paper, and directed her to write the question on the upper part of it. Here you must regard three points; first of all, that he himself gave the paper, to Amelia; secondly, that he desired the question to be written on the upper part of it; and thirdly, that he dictated the question to her; he then put the paper on the table, fumigated the apartment with an incense of his own composition, and requested the Countess to look at the paper in the morning. It was very natural that the answer to the question was seen beneath it, having been previously written with sympathetic ink the preceding evening, but first rendered visible in the night by the fumigation. Very likely it had been written by the Count, who could imitate the hand-writing of his brother.”

The Duke gazed at me along while, seized with dumb astonishment. At length he clapped his hands joyfully, exclaiming, “O! my friend, what a light have you cast upon that dark mysterious affair.”

“A light,” my reply was, “that will assist you to see clearly how dishonestly the Irishman and the Count have dealt with you to the last. They endeavoured to persuade you that you had been deceived at first, merely for the sake of probation, and that you had been paid with sterling truth after Paleski’s discovery. Poor deceived man; you have always been beset with lies and delusions; the sole point in which they differed from each other, consisting merely in the superior art which the latter impositions were contrived with.”

“Then you believe that the apparition at the church-yard has also been a deception, like the incident with the miraculous note.”

“Yes, I have every reason to think so. When I have once caught a person in the act of committing a fraud, I then have the greatest right to suppose that he has repeatedly imposed upon me; and when I am convinced that he has frequently deceived me, I then have the greatest reason to conclude that he has cheated me the last time also.”

“Then you think a real apparition of a ghost to be impossible.”

“Why do you ask that question? All that we have to decide at present, is, whether the Irishman or any man living can effect such an apparition.”

“You want to evade my question.”

“Indeed not!”

“Then tell me, do you think apparitions of ghosts to be possible?”

“Tell me, does not this question imply, that, are men capable of seeing ghosts?”

“Certainly.”

“That I deny.”

“You think that no man living has that capacity.”

“And not without reason. We can see only those objects which throw an image on the retina of the eye, and consequently only expanded things; a spirit has no expansion, and therefore cannot be seen by us.”

“You cut it very short.”

“My argument is valid.”

(To be continued.)

For sources, see the end of this file.

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[BY HERSELF.]

I shall not regret tracing the sorrows which marked the morning of my life. If I can inspire suffering virtue with confidence in heaven, and a gentle hope that when chastened in the school of adversity, the hand of happiness will amply recompense those who have patiently sustained its rough discipline.

At the tender age of sixteen I was deprived of a mother, whose loss I had every reason to deplore, as her precepts instilled into my inexperienced heart wisdom, and her example taught me to persevere in the path of virtue; though crossed with sorrows and perplexed with difficulties, she was prepared for that hour which so unexpectedly arrived, and launched her spotless into eternity. My father, Sir George Blandford, ah! how different from her in every respect, nobly descended, and possessed of an affluent fortune, he thought himself superior to the world; his soul was filled with pride, and he looked down with haughtiness on the rest of mankind. He had a son five years older than me; gentle, generous, and like his departed mother, susceptible of every soft impression; he was abroad at her death, which happened in London, and from which place Sir George determined immediately to bring me to his seat in the country. With melancholy hearts, we commenced our journey, the second day crossing a little stream, we found ourselves in imminent danger, owing to a violent fall of rain, which had rendered the current so rapid, the horses vainly struggled against it—in a few moments we should inevitably have perished, but for the interposition of a young man, who standing on the opposite bank, perceived our situation, and with wonderful presence of mind rushed into the water and assisted the men in bringing the carriage to shore. I had fainted from terror, a small cottage stood at a little distance to which they conveyed me, after a few remedies I revived. My apprehensions being over, I had an opportunity of contemplating the figure of my generous deliverer, whose resolution excited my warmest gratitude. He was just at that period of life when youth loses itself in manhood; his person strikingly elegant, his face expressive of the greatest sensibility, and his fine eyes beaming with a soft melancholy which seemed to announce him the son of sorrow. My father thanked him with as much warmth as he could assume, but a nobler gratitude rose in my soul, for from that hour I loved. With pain I heard the carriage announced, and entered it, I durst not talk of him, the rigidity of Sir George’s disposition, prevented me.

The estate to which we were going I had never been at, but its castle was held in wonderful estimation by my father. He confirmed it as an honourable memorial of the antiquity of his ancestors. At our arrival I was struck with horror; the ravages of all-conquering time were in several places displayed; a dark wood surrounded it, impenetrable to the chearing rays of the resplendant luminary; thro’ vistas cut amidst the thick boughs of old oaks, a cataract was espied foaming with impetuous fury down the side of a stupenduous mountain, from which a muddy stream took its course in hoarse murmurings through the wood. What an habitation for a mind already depressed, it filled mine with gloomy sadness, which I durst not manifest, for to dislike my father’s favourite mansion would have incurred his severest displeasure. A fortnight after my arrival, I obtained with difficulty, permission to spend some time with a young lady whom I had known from my infancy, and loved with the tenderest affection. We spent our days delightfully; happy in each other’s society, they glided insensibly away. Riding early one morning with her, my horse, alarmed by the shouting of some thoughtless boys going to school, notwithstanding all my efforts, flew off at a rate that terrified me with the idea of every moment being dashed off.

From those fears I was relieved by a man springing from behind a hedge, who catching the bridle, stopt my rapid career—but what were my emotions on perceiving he was the generous deliverer who had before saved me? More overcome by my sensations than fright, I sunk half fainting in his arms, he appeared equally affected. “Great Heaven!” cried he, “what transport! twice to have saved this precious life!” My friend here arrived—she congratulated me on my escape---our horses were given to the servants; she asked the charming stranger to accompany us to her house. I would have prest him to accept her invitation, but shame withheld my faultering accents. My conversation now wholly ran on this adventure. Miss Rivers, (the name of my friend) frequently rallied me upon it; I would blush, perhaps be silent, but quickly again begin the pleasing topic. A mandate now arrived from Sir George for me to return home. I obeyed, though with pain. As usual he received me with haughty coldness.---At night, my maid whom I had left at home, began to relate the occurrences which happened during my absence, and at length ended her narrative by saying the old gardener was discharged, and a new one hired in his place, the sweetest prettiest fellow she ever beheld. Indeed he was a little melancholy, but certainly it was owing to his situation which he appeared not designed for. I laughed and said I fancied he had made a conquest of her, she foolishly tittered, as if the idea was very pleasant. The next morning, as was my usual custom, I rose early and entered the garden. I directed my steps to a little walk shaded by poplars. At a distance I discerned a man busily employed, whom I conjectured to be the new accomplished gardener. As I approached nearer I perceived him start, and with precipitation hurry from the spot in his eagerness to avoid me. His foot stumbled and he fell. I was just beginning an involuntary exclamation of are you hurt? when raising his head, I perceived my preserver. Amazement seized me, I had not power to move, the deepest confusion tinged his cheek, he could not raise his eyes, he attempted to speak, but his tremulous voice was unintelligible. I could not stir till the appearance of my father roused me; I started and hurried from the spot.

(To be continued.)

AN ESSAY

ON PITY AND BENEVOLENCE.

Pity has been generally considered as the passion of gentle, benevolent, and virtuous minds; although it is acknowledged to produce only such a participation of the calamity of others, as upon the whole is pleasing to ourselves.

As a tender participation of foreign distress, it has been urged to prove, that man is endowed with social affections, which, however forcible, are wholly disinterested: and as a pleasing sensation, it has been deemed an example of unmixed selfishness and malignity. It has been resolved into that power of imagination by which we apply the misfortunes of others to ourselves: we have been said to pity, no longer than we fancy ourselves to suffer; and to be pleased, only by reflecting that our sufferings are not real; thus indulging a dream of distress from which we can awake whenever we please, to exult in our security, and enjoy the comparison of the fiction with truth.

Pity is generally understood to be that passion, which is excited by the sufferings of persons with whom we have no tender connection, and with whose welfare the stronger passions have not united our felicity; for no man would call the anguish of a mother, whose infant was torn from her breast and left to be devoured in a desart, by the name of pity; although the sentiments of a stranger, who should drop a silent tear at the relation, which yet might the next hour be forgotten, could not otherwise be justly denominated.

If pity, therefore, is absorbed in another passion, when our love of those that suffer is strong; pity is rather an evidence of the weakness than the strength of that general philanthropy for which some have so eagerly contended, with which they have flattered the pride and veiled the vices of mankind, and which they have affirmed to be alone sufficient to recommend them to the favour of Heaven, to atone for the indulgence of every appetite, and the neglect of every duty.

If human benevolence was absolutely pure and social, it would not be necessary to relate the ravages of a pestilence or a famine with minute and discriminating circumstances to rouse our sensibility: we should certainly deplore irremediable calamity, and participate temporary distress, without any mixture of delight. That deceitful sorrow, in which pleasure is so well known to be predominant, that invention has been busied for ages in contriving tales of fictitious sufferings for no other end than to excite it, would be changed into honest commiseration in which pain would be unmixed, and which, therefore, we should wish to lose.

Soon after the fatal battle of Fontenoy, a young gentleman, who came over with the officer that brought the express, being expected at the house of a friend, a numerous company of gentlemen and ladies were assembled to hear an account of the action from an eye-witness.

The gentleman, as every man is flattered by commanding attention, was easily prevailed upon to gratify the company, as soon as they were seated, and the first ceremonies past. He described the march of many thousands of their countrymen into the field, where batteries had been concealed on each side, which in a moment strewed the ground with mangled limbs and carcasses that almost floated in blood, and obstructed the path of those who followed to the slaughter. He related, how often the decreasing multitude returned to the cannon; how suddenly they were rallied, and how suddenly broken; he repeated the list of officers who had fallen undistinguished in the carnage, men whose eminence rendered their names universally known, their influence extensive, and their attachments numerous; and he hinted the fatal effects which this defeat might produce to the nation, by turning the success of the war against us. But the company, however amused by the relation, appeared not to be affected by the event: they were still attentive to every trifling punctilio of ceremony, usual among well bred persons; they bowed with a graceful simper to a lady who sneezed, mutually presented each other with snuff, shook their heads and changed their posture at proper intervals, asked some questions which tended to produce a more minute detail of such circumstances of horror as had been lightly touched, and having at last remarked that the Roman patriot regretted the brave could die but once, the conversation soon became general, and a motion was made to divide into parties at whist. But just as they were about to comply, the gentleman again engaged their attention. I forgot (said he) to relate one particular; which, however, deserves to be remembered. The captain of a company, whose name I cannot now recollect, had, just before his corps was ordered to embark, married a young lady to whom he had been long tenderly attached, and who, contrary to the advice of friends, and the expostulations, persuasion and entreaty of her husband, insisted to go abroad with him, and share his fortune at all events. If he should be wounded, she said, that she might hasten his recovery, and alleviate his pain, by such attendance as strangers cannot be hired to pay; if he should be taken prisoner, she might, perhaps, be permitted to shorten the tedious hours of captivity, which solitude would protract; and if he should die, that it would be better for her to know it with certainty and speed, than to wait at a distance in anxiety and suspense, tormented by doubtful and contradictory reports, and at last believing it possible, that if she had been present, her assiduity and tenderness might have preserved his life. The captain, though he was not convinced by her reasoning, was yet overcome by the importunate eloquence of her love: he consented to her request, and they embarked together.

The head quarters of the duke of Cumberland were at Brussoel, from whence they removed the evening before the battle to Monbray, a village within musket shot of the enemy’s lines, where the captain who commanded in the left wing, was encamped.

Their parting in the morning was short. She looked after him, till he could no longer be distinguished from others; and as soon as the firing began she went back pale and trembling, and sat down expecting the event in an agony of impatience, anxiety and terror. She soon learned from stragglers and fugitives, that the slaughter was dreadful, and the victory hopeless. She did not, however, yet despair; she hoped that the captain might return among the few that should remain: But soon after the retreat, this hope was cut off, and she was informed that he fell in the first charge, and was left among the dead. She was restrained by those about her, from rushing in the phrenzy of desperation to the field of battle, of which the enemy was still possessed; but the tumult of her mind having abated, and her grief become more calm during the night, she ordered a servant to attend her at break of day; and as leave had been given to bury the dead, she went herself to seek the remains of her husband, that she might honour them with the last rites, and pour the tears of conjugal affection upon his grave. They wandered about among the dying and the dead, gazing on every distorted countenance, and looked round with irresolution and amazement on a scene, which those who stripped had left tenfold more a sight of horror than those who had slain. From this sight she was at last turning with confusion and despair, but was stopped by the cries of a favourite spaniel, who had followed her without being perceived. He was standing at some distance in the field; and the moment she saw him, she conceived the strongest assurance that he had found his master. She hasted instantly to the place without regarding any other object; and stooping over the corps by which he stood, she found it so disfigured with wounds and besmeared with blood, that the features were not to be known: But, as she was weeping in the anguish of suspence, she discovered hanging on the wrist the remains of a ruffle, round which there was a slight border of her own work. Thus suddenly to have discovered, and in such dreadful circumstances, that which she had sought, quite overwhelmed her, and she sunk down on the body. By the assistance of the servant, she was recovered to sensibility, but not to reason; she was seized at once with convulsions and madness; and a few hours after she was carried back to the village she expired.

Those who had heard the fate of whole battalions without pity, and the loss of a battle, by which their country would probably suffer irreparable damage, without concern, listened to a tale of private distress with uninterrupted attention. All regard to each other was for a while suspended; tears by degrees overflowed every eye, and every bosom became susceptible of pity: But the whole circle paused with evident regret, when the narrative was at an end: and would have been glad that such another could have been told, to continue their entertainment.—Such was the benevolence of pity! But a lady who had taken the opportunity of a very slight acquaintance to satisfy her curiosity, was touched with much deeper distress; and fainting in the struggle to conceal the emotions of her mind, fell back in her chair. An accident which was not sooner discovered, because every eye had been fixed upon the speaker, and all attention monopolized by the story. Every one, however, was ready to afford her assistance; and it was soon discovered, that she was mother to the lady whose distress had afforded so much virtuous pleasure to the company. It was not possible to tell her another story, which would revive the same sensations; and if it had, the world could not have bribed her to have heard it. Her affection to the sufferer was too strong to permit her, on this occasion, to enjoy the luxury of pity, and applaud her benevolence for sensations which shewed its defects. It would, indeed, be happy for us, if we were to exist only in this state of imperfection, that a greater share of sensibility is not allowed us; but if the mole, in the kindness of unerring Wisdom, is permitted scarce to distinguish light from darkness, the mole should not surely, be praised for the perspicuity of its sight.

Let us distinguish that malignity, which others confound with benevolence, and applaud as virtue, let the imperfection of nature, which is adapted to this imperfect state, teach us humility; and fix our dependence upon Him, who has promised to “create in us a new heart and a right spirit,” and to receive us to that place, where our love of others, however ardent, can only increase our felicity; because, in that place, there will be no object, but such as perfect benevolence can contemplate with delight.

REMARKABLE OCCURRENCE.

Mr. Cecil, assuming the name of Jones, some years since, purchased a small piece of land, and built on it a neat house on the edge of a common in Wiltshire. Here he long resided, unknowing, and almost unknown, by the neighbourhood. Various conjectures were formed respecting this solitary and singular stranger; at length a clergyman took some notice of him, and occasionally inviting him to his house, he found him possessed of intelligence and manners, which evidently indicated his origin to have been in the higher stations of life. Returning one day from a visit at this clergyman’s, he passed the house of a farmer, at the door of which was the daughter employed at the washing-tub. He looked at the girl a moment, and thus accosted her.—“My girl, would you like to be married?” “Sir!” exclaimed the girl.---“I asked you, young woman, whether you would wish to be married; because, if you would, I will marry you,” “Lord, Sir! these are strange questions from a man I never saw in my life before.” “Very likely,” replied Mr. Jones; “but, however, I am serious, and will leave you till ten o’clock to-morrow to consider of it; I will then call on you again, and if I have your and your father’s consent, we will be married the following day.”

He kept his appointment, and meeting with the father, he thus addressed him: “Sir, I have seen your daughter; I should like her for a wife; and I am come to ask your consent.” “This proposal,” answered the old man, “is very extraordinary from a perfect stranger: Pray, sir, who are you? and what are you?” “Sir,” replied Mr. J. “you have a right to ask these questions: my name is Jones; the new house on the edge of the common is mine, and if it be necessary, I can purchase your house and farm, and half the neighbourhood.”

Another hour’s conversation, brought all parties into one mind, and the friendly clergyman aforementioned united the happy pair. Three or four years they lived in this retirement, and were blessed with two children. Mr. J. employed great part of his time in improving his wife’s mind, but never disclosing his own origin. At length, upon taking a journey of pleasure with her, while remarking the beauties of the country, he noticed and named the different gentlemen’s seats as they passed; and coming to a very magnificent one, “This, my dear,” said he, “is Burleigh house, the seat of the earl of Exeter, and, if you please, we will go in and ask leave to look at it: it is an elegant house, and probably will amuse you.”

The nobleman who possessed this mansion was lately dead. He once had a nephew, who, in the gaities of his youth, had incurred some debts, on account of which he had retired from fashionable life on about 200l. per annum, and had not been heard of for some years. This nephew was the identical Mr. Jones, the hero of our story, who now took possession of the house, title, and estate, and is the present earl of Exeter!

A PLEASING REVERIE.

Conducted by Contemplation, I found myself in the fertile regions of Imagination; Genius and Education had dispersed those mists which are the offspring of Prejudice. My soul, seized with the fire of Enthusiasm, took her flight to scenes which mortals have not yet dared to explore. I penetrated the inmost recesses of the temple of that Virtue, by the exercise of whose attributes mortals are almost elevated to the mighty inhabitants of heaven. At the porch of this edifice stood blooming Temperance, and meek Religion with uplifted eye. At the feet of Temperance laid grovelling Austerity, accompanied with the meagre crowd of penitential Fasts. Cloathed in black, at the feet of Religion, appeared Superstition, with her attendants, Folly, Enthusiasm, and Hypocrisy. In vain they endeavoured to enter the temple of Virtue; Temperance and Religion united, stood the shock of their numberless hosts! Having passed the porch, my divine guide left me to the care of Liberality of Mind: “You heed not my advice; follow her dictates and they will assuredly conduct thee to Virtue.” As we proceeded, Liberality of Mind made me acquainted with the names of these moral virtues by whose aid the throne of the goddess is ascended. “He who perpetually points to the divine throne, is Philosophy. He unfolds the various secrets of nature, which are hid from the ignorant. Before him is Contemplation; and behind him, Imagination, who has given birth to so many hypotheses. See Fortitude, with her eye of fire, disdaining every allurement the earth affords: after whom follows Resignation to the will of Providence; and here, behold——” I now saw Virtue enthroned; with Benevolence one side, and on the other that celestial power who teaches men to controul their mortal passions. Virtue’s glory did not blaze forth; her fire was that which burnt continually the same equal flame; unlike the glare of vice, which greatly blazes forth for the moment, but soon leaves us in eternal darkness!

SATIRE.

General satyrists are usually tinctured with a degree of misanthropy; they dislike the species for the faults of individuals, and they attribute to the whole, what is due only to a small portion of mankind. This talent of prying into the infirmities of human nature, is frequently useful to the public; it is always inconvenient to the possessor; it corrects the vanity, the affectation, and the vices of other men, but it breeds conceit, pride, obstinacy and peevishness in the mind of the owner. Though it maybe founded on good sense, it destroys the best fruits of that invaluable blessing---self-happiness. One cannot declaim against the world without dreading some retribution; the satirist in the full career of triumph, trembles at the thoughts of being hated by those he pretends to despise, and he commonly meets with that contempt which he so liberally bestows.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Tuesday the 27th ult. at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Hart, Mr. Pheneas Sills, of Cow-Harbour, to Mrs. Rebecca White, of Crab-Meadow.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Charles Cornell, of Long Island, to Miss Sally Buxton, of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Nesbit, Mr. Henry Dawson, jun. of Brooklyn (L.I.) to Miss Mariah Hicks, daughter of Mr. Jacob Hicks of that place.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 8th to the 14th inst.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

deg.100 deg.100

Jan. 8 350 15 n.ne. clear,light wind.

9 0 16 n.do. clear high wd.clear lt. wd.

10 350 2425 nw.sw. frost, clear lt. wd.clear do.

11 23 36 e.se. cloudy lt. wd.much rain.

12 3250 38 w.do. clear lt. wind,clear h. wd.

13 31 4050 nw.w. clear lt. wd.do. do.

14 30 3325 sw.ne. cloudy lt. wd.much rain,

A CHARM FOR ENNUI.

A MATRIMONIAL BALLAD.

ELEGY.

VERSES

TO A YOUNG LADY, ON THE DEATH OF A COMPANION.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. 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 25, 1797. [No. 82.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ESSAYIST. No. II.

To review the transactions of former days, the many sportive hours which have long been past, and to recall the pleasures of innocence and virtue, is both pleasing and instructive; pleasing, because it delights the heart with joys it once participated, and of which, while animated with the prospect, tho’ only the delusive paintings of imagination, it seems even now to partake; instructive, because it presents our progress in happiness and virtue, or the mournful reverse our deviation from innocence and rectitude. But it is particularly pleasing to look back on the scenes of youth and childhood; we review those seasons of life with the greatest partiality and delight. ’Twas then health and beauty bloomed upon the cheek, and every object was decked with the charms of fascination. ’Twas then the heart ignorant of vice and unacquainted with sorrow or misfortune, enjoyed every pleasure without alloy. There are likewise other parts of life which occupy the moment of reflection: the learned dwell with rapture on the hours spent in the acquirement of knowledge and instruction, the ambitious on their gradual progression to wealth and fame, and the brave on the many dangers and hardships they have undergone in the field of battle. Reflection is especially the attendant of age, it assists to enliven the many vacant hours which are common at this period. The aged almost feel their strength renewed in recounting their former seats of activity, and their hearts are animated by the virtuous deeds they have performed.

Happy then is he who having spent his days in the practice of every public and social virtue, reviews the past actions of his life with chearfulness and content: the pleasures of reflection shall chear the listless moments of decrepitude and age, and shall convey peace and comfort to his bosom in those moments when present enjoyments have lost their relish. Tho’ he no more can perceive the splendour of the sun, and the various beauties of creation: tho’ incapable of hearing the most harmonious music, and of enjoying the choicest delicacies; still shall the power of his mind survive the general ruin, and reflection chear him in the evening of his days.

A. D.

Jan. 15, 1797.

FELICITY EQUALLY DISTRIBUTED.

Among the different conditions and ranks of men, the balance of happiness is preserved in a great measure equal; and the high and low, the rich and the poor, approach in point of real enjoyment much nearer to each other than is commonly imagined. Providence never intended that any state here should either be completely happy, or entirely miserable.

If the feelings of pleasure are more numerous and more lively, in the higher departments of life, such also are those of pain. If greatness flatters our vanity, it multiplies our dangers.—If opulence increases our gratifications, it increases in the same proportion our desires and demands.—If the poor are confined to a more narrow circle, yet within that circle lie most of those natural satisfactions, which, after all the refinements of art, are found to be the most genuine and true. For the happiness of every man depends more upon the state of his own mind than upon any one external circumstance; nay, more than upon all external things put together.

Inordinate passions are the great disturbers of life; and unless we possess a good conscience, and a well governed mind, discontent will blast every enjoyment, and the highest prosperity will only prove disgusted misery. This conclusion then would be fixed in the mind: The destruction of virtue is the destruction of peace. In no station---in no period are we secure from the dangers which spring from our passions. Every age, and every station they beset, from youth to grey hairs, and from the peasant to the prince.

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 227.)

“Yet you have demonstrated nothing else but that we cannot see pure spirits; we may, nevertheless, be capable of seeing spirits in bodily clothing.”

“This I grant without the least hesitation, for daily experience proves it. We see men, of course we see spirits in bodily clothing.”

“You fancy to escape me by this turn; but you are mistaken. You allow that we can see spirits if clothed in a bodily covering.”

“What we see is always nothing but the bodily covering; but we must conclude by other marks and circumstances, whether it be inhabited by a spirit. Besides, there is in the whole dominion of our sensible knowledge not one being that answers our idea of a spirit; this idea has been produced merely by reasoning, and therefore a spirit never can become an object of our perception.”

“Very strange!” the Duke replied, shaking his head; “the Irishman has said much the same, and nevertheless, he hit upon an expedient of proving to me the possibility of apparitions.”

“I have read that argument; it is taken from the dialectic. This circumstance alone ought to have made you suspect it. Or are you such a novice in that science that you should not know how pliable it is to accommodate itself to all opinions? Those philosophers who fancy all the beings of the whole creation to be spirits, as well as those who deny the existence of God, draw their arguments from that source. Is there any absurdity that could not be fitted to that baseless philosophy?”

“You are carrying matters too far. The Irishman did indeed propound several positions, which by their evidence enforce their claim to truth.”

“That I do not deny. A great deal of philosophical penetration is however required, if one shall be able to discern the truth and falsehood, which its assertion imply in a strange and m One feels indeed, frequently, the falsehood of sophistical subtilities without being able to refute them.”

“I should be glad to know what you have to object against the doctrine of the Irishman concerning the possibility of apparitions?”

“In order to do this, it will be necessary previously to abstract his doctrine.

“When a spirit, the Irishman says, operates on mine, then he is present to me. If I were a mere rational being, I then should be satisfied with imagining the presence of the spirit, without myself; but since I am a sensible being, by virtue of my nature, my imagination forms a corporeal idea of the object which my understanding thinks; that is, it forms an image of it. The presence of a spirit, therefore, puts my inferior intellectual powers in motion by means of the superior ones; I do not only imagine it merely without myself, but I perceive, at the same time, a shape answerable to it; I not only collect the ideas which he produces in my mind, but, at the same time, shape them in words. In short, I see the spirit and hear him speak.—Do you think, my friend, that I have comprehended the doctrine of the Irishman?”

“Perfectly!”

“The shape in which I see the spirit is, consequently, no real substance, but only the product of my sensitive power of perception, of my imagination.”

“Very right.”

“Consequently, the seeing of a spirit is, indeed, founded on a spiritual influx, which, however, is formed and shaped at pleasure by our imagination; therefore, on every apparition of spirits truth would be intermixed with illusion, and the notions which have been instilled in our mind by our education, and all the prejudices we have imbibed in our infancy, would act an important part on every occasion of that kind?”

“I perceive what you are aiming at.”

“Then tell me, what would the gift of seeing spirits and ghosts benefit us, since the spiritual effect could not but be interwoven so closely with the phantoms of our imagination, that it would be impossible to discern reality from the gross illusions which it is surrounded with?”

The Duke was absorbed in silent meditation, and I continued:---

“Don’t you see that superstition thus would be at full liberty to exercise its sway over us, because we would be led to believe that even the most absurd delusions of our imagination could possibly be founded on a spiritual influx?”

The Duke continued to be silent, and I resumed.—

“And don’t you see that it would be impossible to discern a ghost-seer from a lunatic?”

The Duke started up: “How, from a lunatic?”

“Undoubtedly. The characteristic of lunacy consists in mistaking mere objects of the imagination for real substances, existing without ourselves, the original cause of which is a convulsion of the vessels of our brain, which are put out of their equilibrium. This suspension of the equilibrium can arise either from weakness of nerves, or from too strong a pressure of the blood towards the head, and mere phantoms of our imagination then appear to us, even while awake, to be real objects without ourselves. Although such an image should be but faint at first, yet the consternation at such an apparition, so contrary to the natural order of things, would soon excite the attention, and impart to the phantom a vivacity that would not suffer the deluded person to doubt its reality. It is therefore very natural; for the visionary fancies he sees and hears very plainly, what no person besides him perceives, or imagines he sees such phantoms appear and disappear suddenly, when they are gamboling only before one sense that of sight, without being perceived through another sense; for example, that of feeling, and therefore appear to be penetrable. The distemper of the visionary does not affect the understanding immediately, but only the senses; in consequence of which the unhappy wretch cannot remove the delusion by arguments of reason, because the real or supposed perception through the senses, always antecedes the judgment of the understanding, and possesses an immediate evidence which surpasses all reflection. For which reason I can blame no person who treats the ghost-seers as candidates for the lunatic hospital, instead of looking upon them as people belonging, partly, to another world.”

“Marquis, Marquis!” the Duke said, smiling, “you use the ghost-seers very ill. I should leave them entirely at your mercy, if the Irishman had not promised to communicate to me a criterion by which one can discern real apparitions from vain phantoms of the imagination.”

“It is a pity he has only promised it, it being probable that this promise will not be performed with greater punctuality than the rest of his engagements.”

“The event will prove how much you wrong him.”

“But what would you say, if I could prove that he can communicate to you no criterion of that nature?”

“If you could do this---”

“Nothing is easier. The criterion whereby a real apparition of a ghost could be discerned from an illusion, must be either external or internal: that is, you must be able to ascertain the presence of a ghost, either by means of your senses, or by conclusions deduced from the impression your mind receives. Don’t you think so?”

“It would be much safer if these two criterions co-existed.”

“It would be sufficient if only one of these two criterions were possible. However, you shall soon be convinced that neither can be proved. Whatever you perceive, or suppose you perceive by means of your senses, in case of an apparition, is either a real material object, whereby perhaps an impostor, perhaps nature, who is so inexhaustable in her effects, or an accidental meeting of uncommon incidents surprises you; or it is an object that exists no where but in your heated imagination; what you perceive through your senses never can be the spirit himself, because spirits are incorporeal beings, and therefore neither can be seen, heard, nor felt; it is, consequently, evident that no external criterion of the reality of an apparition can exist.”