VOLUME II. (continued 15)

“This, I think, cannot be disputed.”

“But there exists perhaps an internal criterion. In order to decide this question, let us consider what passes in the human mind when a ghost appears. First of all, a lively idea of the presence of a ghost takes place, and sensations of terror, astonishment and awe arise---however, this idea and these sensations may be nothing else but the consequence of an uncommon, though natural external impression of a feverish fancy, and consequently never can be indubitable proofs of the presence of spirits. But perhaps the presence of spirits is ascertained by the co-existence of certain extraordinary notions, sensations, and cognitions! This too cannot be, for we must be convinced that they could not arise in our soul in a natural manner, if we shall be able to ascertain their having been produced by the influence of a spirit. In that case it would be requisite we should know the whole store of our clear and obscure ideas, all their reciprocal relations, and all possible compositions which our imagination can form of them, a knowledge that is reserved only for the omniscient Ruler of the world. If we happen sometimes, in our dreams, to have the most wonderful visions, to reason in the most sensible manner, to discover new truths, and to predict incidents which afterwards really happen; why should not the same faculty of the soul which produces such uncommon effects in our dreams, surprise us sometimes with similar operations while we are awake, when it is agitated in a violent manner? In short, my friend, there exists neither an internal nor an external criterion whereby we could ascertain the reality of an apparition.”

“O how insufficient is human reason!” the Duke groaned, “how ambiguous the faculty through which we fancy we resemble the Godhead, and that guides us much unsafer than instinct directs brutes. But a short time since I thought it to be consonant with reason to believe in apparitions of ghosts, and now I am convinced of the contrary. Your arguments have pulled down what those of the Irishman have constructed, and thus I am constantly driven from one belief to the opposite one. Where shall I find, at length, a fixed point to rest upon? O! how happy is he, who undisturbed by the restless instinct of thinking, and of investigating the nature of things, rests in the lap of faith!”

(To be continued.)

REASON.

O Reason; Heaven-born Reason; image of Supreme Intelligence which created the world, never will I forsake thy altars; but to continue faithful to thee, will disdain alike the hatred of some, the ingratitude of others, and the injustice of all. Reason, whose empire is so congenial and so pleasing to souls of feeling, and hearts of true elevation: Reason, celestial Reason, our guide and support in the labyrinth of life; alas! whither wilt thou fly in this season of discord and maddening fury? The oppressors will have nothing to say to thee, and thou art rejected by the oppressed. Come then, since the world abandons thee, to inhabit the retreat of the sage; dwell there protected by his vigilance, and honoured by the expressive silence of his worship. One day thou wilt appear again attired in all thy glory, while imposition and deceit shall vanish into nothing. At that period perhaps I shall be no more; yet permit the shade of thy departed advocate to rest in full assurance of thy pre-eminence and glorious reign:---The hope, the pleasing anticipation of the happiness that will then be diffused through the world, affords me consolations of the most soothing and satisfactory nature.

For sources, see the end of the second installment (pg. 244).

The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,

A STORY, FOUNDED ON FACTS.

If the heart hitherto satisfied and happy in the long-preserved ideas of rectitude and honour, rational enjoyment, and the sweets of domestic felicity, should now, strongly tempted by the fatal fascinations of vice, be meditating a departure from virtue, and this relation prove the means of preserving its owner from error and delusion, the wishes of the writer will be accomplished: or if those already engaged in pursuits that, however brilliant and alluring to the giddy votaries of false enjoyment, must eventually terminate in confusion, and the loss of every thing that ought to be held dear, become, from this story convinced of the necessity of an altered conduct, well repaid, indeed, will be the recorder of scenes, which, for the sake of society at large, he hopes will be found less and less frequent in the present age of true refinement and unaffected sensibility.

Mr. Alton, once amply possessed of the gifts of fortune, and surrounded with every earthly blessing, suddenly left his weeping lady, then pregnant, and an infant son, and fled from the pursuit of justice.

He had violated the laws of religion, honour and his country, by seducing from her duty the wife of his friend; a duel was the consequence, and the injured husband lost his life in the fatal rencounter.

Immediate flight was Mr. Alton’s only resource; therefore, regardless of every feeling but such as arose for his own safety, he precipitately left his native country, completely wretched, and loaded with all the horrors of guilt and dismay.

A short time after his arrival in Italy, his means of support failed; extravagance and dissipation had ruined his fortunes, and he must soon have fled from importunate creditors, had not this still more dreadful cause forced him from his wretched family.

As he had acquired the art of becoming fortunate at play, his talents that way were now brought forward, and an uncommon run of success soon enabled him to shine forth again in a foreign country with the same splendour he once displayed in his own.

Again engaged in frivolous pursuits of expence and pleasure, his light and worthless heart soon dismissed every trace of remorse for the distress and anguish he had occasioned in the family of his murdered friend, and the utter ruin brought on his deserted wife and children.

Possessing every art of genteel address, an elegant person, assisted with all the powers of soft persuasion, he soon (under the name of Freeman, not daring to use his real one) won upon the heart of a young lady of exalted birth, whom he privately married.

Her friends at first forbade them their presence, but the young and beautiful Italian being a much-loved and only child, they soon yielded to excuses and professions which he too well knew how to frame, and at length received them to favour and protection.

Many years passed on without a returning thought of former connections he had heard long since, by private means, that his first lady had fallen a victim to a broken heart, leaving the care of a son and daughter to her afflicted father, who had little remaining to support them, the necessities of the unprincipled and unfeeling Alton having almost drained his once ample fortune.

And here it is necessary to inform the reader, that the poor old gentleman did not long survive the loss of his child. But heaven raised up a friend to her offspring: this friend, who delighted in acts of mercy, adopted the two innocents, as his own, making over to them his estate and his name.

A young gentleman of the name of Easton, often visited at Mr. Freeman’s, whose house was always open to people of fashion; and though their years did not correspond, yet the former still carried an appearance of youth and gaiety, assisted by an uncommon share of health, and a heart feelingly alive to every call of pleasure.

Alike dissolute in manners and inclination, an intimacy soon commenced between them. The present Mrs. Freeman, who, before her marriage, experienced every indulgence and attention from parents who adored her, had too early an occasion to lament her misplaced love, and unhappy choice.

Never, but in the hours of inebriation, did she experience any thing like attention and kindness from the man who owed every thing to her. Then, indeed, he would utter rhapsodies of affection, alike destitute of sincerity as of reason.

And now, their only child (a beautiful young lady who had just attained her 13th year, the only companion of her pensive mother, to whom she was indeed a real comfort, dutiful affection and endearing sensibility having lightened many a painful day) was visited by a fever, which robbed her afflicted parent of her sole remaining blessing. This calamity deeply affected them both. The impression made on Mrs. Freeman brought on a decline, which proved fatal—bereft of every earthly happiness, she looked up to that heaven she had been long preparing for, and in a short time obtained dismission from a world, from which she had been weaned by trouble, and the unkind neglect of a husband she had loved but too well.

Mr. Freeman put on the outward “trappings and the suits of woe”—but wanted “that within,” which goes beyond every external appearance.

Pomp and parade, indeed, attended her remains to the silent tomb; but these were not accompanied with the husband’s tear. The monument was raised on which his sorrows were recorded, but, cold and senseless as the marble which received that record, his heart was a stranger to those feelings that dignify the husband, the father, and the man.

(To be concluded in our next.)

The following two articles are shown as printed, with occasional == (double line) for — (dash).

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

The first instant I could retire, I retreated to my chamber, my mind embarrassed with the cruelest sensations: grief and astonishment at his mean situation. I wished, yet durst not go to the garden; unconscious of art, I feared I might betray unguardedly the too fond sentiments of my soul. The next day my maid brought me a beautious bouquet; she said the gardener had culled it from the choicest of his flowers---a sigh heaved my bosom at this present---I dismist her---a paper was rolled round, a presentiment struck me it might contain something interesting==I hastily tore it from the flowers, and read the following lines:

“Will the loveliest of her sex pardon the presumption of an unfortunate man, the early victim of calamity?==will she deign to peruse a relation of those woes which have reduced him to the disgraceful station he now fills==an irresistible impulse prompts this request; if ’tis granted, write a line and drop it in the garden==in expectation of such a favour, I will keep in sight, and then by the first opportunity transmit my narrative to you.”

Tears gushed from me on perusing this note, heavens! what anguish rent my breast at my inability to succour him. Without the smallest hesitation, I complied with his request, and instantly wrote the note he desired. The next day, concealed in a basket of fruit which he sent me, I found the ardently desired paquet, containing the history of his life.

“Prompted by an inclination not to be supprest, I sit down to relate a tale full of woe to her, whose gentle heart will yield the soft tribute of sensibility.

“Early in life fortune loured on my parents, and their misfortunes are, I fear, entailed upon their wretched offspring. My father’s name was Harland, he was descended from a noble family, whose possessions tho’ large, could keep no pace with unbounded prodigality; the fortune was so dissipated, that but a residue remained sufficient to purchase him a commission. Courage glowed in his breast and he distinguished himself by many a gallant action in a tedious war which England undertook against France. At the expiration of it he married a woman, rich only in rectitude and beauty, and retired from a profession which had but ill rewarded his activity. For some time they struggled against adversity---the fell adversary at length overcame. Two children of whom I was the eldest, aggravated the horrors of their condition; he could scarcely support them, as his half-pay afforded but a few of even the necessaries of life. In this situation he was discovered by a friend, possessed of affluence, who was single; as he had always exprest an aversion to matrimony, he inherited pride enough however to wish his name might be continued. Actuated by this wish, he made a proposal to my parents which they gladly embraced---it was adopting me for his heir. I was then five years old, he shortly brought me to his estate for he had only made an occasional visit to the shire where my father resided; his understanding was rather weak, his chief foible a credulous susceptibility to flattery; he treated me however, with tenderness, and I was considered by every one as his future heir. At a proper age, he sent me to Oxford to complete my studies; I made a proficiency there that pleased him, and he declared I should be indulged in chusing a profession. Every vacation I spent with him. In one, ere I was an hour arrived, he mentioned with peculiar pleasure an acquisition his neighbourhood had lately received from a most agreeable family settling in it. Mr. and Mrs. Wilford with their two sons, he affirmed, I should like; but he was mistaken, a servility ran thro’ the family highly disgusting to a liberal mind; I found them all replete with flattery and meanness. A domestic who had ever evinced the strongest partiality for me, cautioned me against them; he said he was acquainted with their arts, and bid me beware, as they were almost continually with his master, wheedling and indulging his favourite foible. Unskilled in the treachery of man, I neglected this caution, I judged of them by myself, I imagined them all as free from guile. Fatal experience however, that school of wisdom, undeceived me. I thought also it was impossible any person could be so perfidious, as after promising protection, to withdraw it without cause. Mr. T—— convinced me such perfidy existed. By the next vacation my studies were completed, and I returned full of pleasing expectations, that my adopted father would now indulge me in chusing a profession, which of all others I admired—a military life, for like Douglas, I longed to follow to the field some warlike lord.

“Mr. T——’s reception surprized me, it was cold and reserved; whenever his eyes met mine, a guilty confusion covered his face. Base, worthless man! no wonder. Two days after my arrival, he sent for me to his library, for some moments he was silent, then in hesitating accents began a long preamble of his generosity to my father, in so long supporting me, and giving me an education suitable to the first man in the kingdom, of which he supposed I must be sensible; an assenting bow was my only reply: and he continued: his relations, he said, began with justice to murmer, at the intention he had conceived of bequeathing me his fortune, to whom no tie connected him, that he had discarded the idle idea of adopting me, and added, my education was such as to inspire me with hopes of a speedy establishment; to forward which, he would give two hundred pounds, and on every occasion I might depend upon his friendly interest. He stopt; amazement harrowed my soul, and indignation tied my tongue. But on repeating his words, and offering me the money, I dashed it from his hand, and in a phrenzy of fury rushed from the house. I guessed full well the authors of my misery, the vile Wilfords, who, in my absence, by the most servile arts, ingratiated themselves with Mr. T——. He abandoned me for their sons. Hours I continued walking about his demesne almost unconscious of my being; the insult I had received, the disappointment of all my hopes was too much for a naturally impetuous temper. When reason a little calmed my passion, I resolved immediately to repair to my parents. I had not seen them since my infancy, though my wishes to behold them were great. Mr. T—— always prevented my gratifying them, as they lived at an extreme distance from him. Nothing will intimidate a youthful mind when bent on executing a favourite project; on foot, therefore, without consideration, I began my journey; no pleasing thoughts soothed my breast or beguiled the tedious way. The third day I conjectured I must be pretty near their habitation; filial piety sprung in my breast and quickened my steps at the idea; a pleasing calm diffused itself over my soul in anticipating the rapture of the paternal embrace---a dusky hue was beginning to steal along the expanse, and sober evening had taken ‘her wonted station in the middle air.’

“A Church-yard lay on one side of the road, and the only separation between them was a slight broom hedge. I thought I heard the plaintive voice of woe. I looked and discerned a venerable man, whose figure must have moved even the sullen apathy of the stoic. He was seated on a new-made grave—his grey locks displayed his age, and he appeared bending beneath the pressure of misfortune—his eyes were now watering the grave, now cast up to heaven, with a settled look of despair. I could not pass him unnoticed—I entered this mournful receptacle of death—too much absorbed, he had not heeded me, till a sigh burst from my oppressed heart. Without starting, he raised his head, and cried, who seeks this dreary spot?—One, I replied, pierced by adversity, who is hastening to a parent’s bosom, where his wounds may receive the balm of consolation. Struck by your distress, I could not pass you, a secret impulse rose in my soul, I wished to hear your woes. Alas! young man, he answered, my woes are of the severest kind. I indulged hope, I listened to its idle prattle, I thought to have spent the remnant of my days in peace—but the shafts of affliction were let loose against me—they pierced this aged breast---it once had courage, resolution---I now can boast of none---grief has subdued it---yesterday’s sun beheld the darling of my age consigned to the earth---the worm will soon begin to feast upon the beautious cheek I have so often kist with all the idolizing warmth of a parent; but she is happy, an angel---his voice faultered---Nature demands those tears from me as her just tribute---the virtues of my child too—he could not proceed, a sob stifled his words---after an interval, he continued. I have a wife, she is dying, blest release from misery, yet frail fortitude would not enable me to see her depart. She raved for her child---I wept---she called for food---I shuddered---I had none---I crawled from the house to this grave---it has been watered with my tears. Unhappy man! ill-fated Harland————Harland! repeated I with emotion---Great God! pardon me, had you a son?---Yes, the hopes of his happiness mitigates my despair. A friend adopted him, and promised to shelter his youthful head from the misery I feel. Since the five first years of his life I have not beheld him. Now, cried I, catching him in my arms, you behold him ---blasted his ardent expectations, returned a beggar to you. For a moment he was silent, then raising his hands to heaven, exclaimed, thy will be done, Almighty Father! this is the final stroke. How fallacious are the promises of men. Well does the holy book of infinite wisdom advise---Put not your trust in princes or the children of men.

“Come, my child, my poor deceived son, let us hasten to your mother, perhaps she lives, you may receive her blessing. But why should I minutely dwell on this melancholy subject? No, amiable Miss Blandford, I will not pain your generously susceptible heart. In a fortnight I paid the last mournful tribute to both my parents. Half insensible of existence, I continued till a happy destiny conducted me to the spot where so providentially I assisted in saving you---again I was the instrument of preserving a life so infinitely precious. Oh, Miss Blandford! at your sight sensations unknown before rose in my breast! Pardon my presumption. My mind open to each soft impression---such a form, such sweetness, no wonder. The keenest distress reduced me to my present situation. I had no friends to whom I could apply for assistance. In my tranquil days I had taken pleasure in cultivating small spots of ground, and rearing

In this situation I mix not with the other domestics---that indeed I could not bear. Fortune in degrading my rank has left my spirit unsubdued. Pardon me, Madam, for having engrossed so much of your time. I could not resist the wish of acquainting you with the occurrences that have reduced me to this station. Farewell, most amiable of women, may smiling peace ever hover round you, prays

E. H.”

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTES OF THE LATE EMPEROR OF GERMANY.

The Emperor being at supper at Paris, with Count de Vergennes, the French minister, and discoursing of French affairs, he advised the Count to announce a national bankruptcy, in order to clear France of all her debts: to this he was answered---“Should such an event take place, your Majesty’s own subjects in Brabant would lose more than eighty millions.” “Do not let that deter you (answered Joseph,) give me half that sum, and you shall have my assent.”

At the time of the affair with the Dutch concerning the Schelt, which terminated so shamefully for Joseph, talking with his head gardner, the gardner asked permission to write to Haarlem for a few slips of flowers, which he wanted. The Emperor started from his seat; his eyes flashing fire==“No, said he, you shall not write. Within six weeks I will fetch them myself from Haarlem, at the head of my army.” Within that time the affair was finished with disgrace. So positive was he of success, and so sure always to fail.

The next few pieces are shown as printed, with italic capital I used consistently.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ORIGINAL OBSERVATION.

Though some giddy girls are silly enough to delight in panegyric, unrestrained compliments, yet all women of sense do heartily despise the wanton effusions of an indiscreet and excessive complaisance.---And whoever is much in the world will find, that most ladies are more apt to regard the man of plain sense and unaffected behaviour, who speak as they think, and appear just what they are, than the most specious, insinuating hypocrite, or the most noisy pretender.

E.

At the request of a Correspondent, we give the following LETTER a place:---It is extracted from a London periodical publication---and, notwithstanding the errors in the orthography and diction of it, the author had the pleasure of making a conquest.

My dear charmin Cratur,

If your brite eies have had the same efet upon others, they have been after havin upon me, you must already, like Samson, have slain your Tousands, though not with the same sort of weepor. For I had no sooner beheld you tother nite at Rennela, than your two little percers darted their poysen quite thro my hart, and killed me on the spot. So that I immediately determined to find you out, that I may he revenged of you. So havin done so, as sed before, I now write to tell you my situashon; and to begg that you woud have compashon on a lover that lies bleedin at your fete.

If you have not the hart of a she tygres, you will admit me to your presance, most adorable cratur, that I may have the plashure of dyin in your beloved site. And if you shall be after bein so kind as to relent of your crewelty, and rais your expirin lover, I will lay my fortun and my honers in the same place where I laid myself, and raise you in your turn to be Lady O’——l. For I vow by the great Shant Patrick, that I love you better than ever I loved any women except yourself.

And I further vow by the holy shrine of Shant Patrick aforesed, that I will not outliv the fatal anser you send me. But as you are as far above all your sex in buty, as the glorius sun is above the palfaced moon and the little twinklin stars, I dout not but you exced them as much in goodness. Therfore I will not dispare, but hope that you will send me word by your confidante, at what hower I shall have the plashure of waitin upon you, to receve from your own pretty mouth my destinny. Till when, I remane, most enchantin and angelic cratur,

Your’s whether livin or dyin,

Sir Rouke O’——l, Barrownite.

P.S. Pray let me kno when I shall call for an anser, as I do not chuse to send any boddy else but myself.

ANECDOTE.

When Peter the Great visited Paris, he was conducted to the Sorbonne, where they shewed him the famous mausoleum of Cardinal Richelieu. He asked whose statue it was, and they told him: the view of this grand object threw him into an enthusiastic rapture, which he always felt on the like occasion, so that he immediately ran to embrace the statue, saying, “Oh! that thou wert but still living; I would give thee one half my empire to govern the other.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Roberts, Mr. Peter Cutler, to Miss Esther Jacobs, both of this city.

Same evening, at Hempsted, by the Rev. Mr. Moore, Mr. Van Wyck, of Flushing, (L.I.) to Miss Thorne, daughter of Capt. Thorne, of that place.

On Thursday evening the 12th inst. Mr. John Roe, merchant, of this city, to Miss Susannah R. Stevens, of Perth-Amboy, (N.J.)

On Sunday the 15th inst. at East-Chester, by the Rev. Mr. Bartow, Capt. David Cargill, of this city, to Miss Mary Shute, daughter of Mr. Thomas Shute of that place.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 15th to the 21st 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. 15 3375 41 nw.w. clear light wd.clear do.

16 32 41 sw.nw. snow cr. lt. wd.clear do.

17 26 31 nw.do. clear high wd.clear h. wd.

18 2350 32 se.s. sn. lt. wd.sn. 3 in. deep.

19 27 28 nw.n. clear lt. wd.clear lt. wd.

20 1850 28 ne.do. cloudy lt. wd.cloudy do.

21 24 28 ne.do. sn. 4 in. deep, light wind.

ELEGIAC SONNET.

To the Editor,

The following STANZA’S were recently written by that celebrated Genius and Traveller Governor Henry Ellis, on seeing an infirm old Man treated by a young rabble with indecent mockery in the Street at Pisa in Italy—a country where every inanimate vestage of antiquity is viewed with so much veneration.

AN ELEGY.

[by the same.]

ODE TO REFLECTION.

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, February 1, 1797. [No. 83.

THE PIEDMONTESE SHARPER.

In the year 1695, a Piedmontese, who stiled himself Count Caraffa, came to Vienna, and privately waited on the prime minister, pretending he was sent by the duke of Savoy on a very important affair, which they two were to negotiate without the privity of the French court. At the same time he produced his credentials, in which the duke’s seal and signature were very exactly imitated. He met with a very favourable reception, and, without affecting any privacy, took upon him the title of envoy extraordinary from the court of Savoy. He had several conferences with the imperial council, and made so great a figure in the most distinguished assemblies, that once at a private concert at court, the captain of the guard, denying him admittance, he demanded satisfaction in his master’s name, and the officer was obliged to ask his pardon. His first care was to ingratiate himself with the jesuits, who at that time bore a great sway at court; and in order to this, he went to visit their church, which remained unfinished, they pretended from the low circumstances of the society, he asked them how much money would complete it. An estimate to the amount of two thousand louis-d’ors being laid before him, Caraffa assured them of his constant attachment to their order; that he had gladly embraced such a public opportunity of shewing his esteem for them, and that they might immediately proceed to finishing their church. In consequence of his promise, he sent that very day the two thousand louis-d’ors, at which sum the charge had been computed.

He was very sensible this was a part he could not act long without being detected; and that this piece of generosity might not be at his own expence, he invited a great number of ladies of the first rank to supper and a ball. Every one of the guests had promised to be there; but he complained to them all of the ill returns made to his civilities, adding, that he had been often disappointed, as the ladies made no scruple of breaking their word on such occasions, and, in a jocular way, insisted on a pledge from every lady for their appearance at the time appointed. One gave him a ring, another a pearl necklace, a third a pair of earings, a fourth a gold watch, and several such trinkets, to the amount of twelve thousand dollars. On the evening appointed not one of the guests were missing; but it may easily be conceived, what a damp it struck upon the whole assembly, when it was at last found that the gay Piedmontese was a sharper, and had disappeared. Nor had the jesuits any great reason to applaud themselves on the success of their dissimulation; for a few days before his departure, the pretended count, putting on an air of deep concern, placed himself in the way of the emperor’s confessor, who inquiring into the cause of his apparent melancholy, he intrusted him with the important secret, that he was short of money at a juncture when eight thousand louis-d’ors were immediately wanted for his master’s affairs, to be distributed at the imperial court. The jesuits, to whom he had given a recent instance of his liberality by so large a donation, immediately furnished him with the sum he wanted; and with this acquisition, and the ladies pledges, he thought he had carried his jests far enough, and very prudently withdrew from Vienna.

ALMANZOR, THE ARABIAN.

The great Almanzor, as he is called, to distinguish him from some other Arabian princes of his name, was king of Cordova, in Spain. He was no less famous for his wisdom than for his courage; he wrote a book of maxims, from which these that follow are taken.

“If hungry beggars are whipt through the streets, beggars in fine cloaths have a right to their proportion of notice, and should be sent to the gallies.

“Pride is as true a beggar, very often, as poverty can be, but a good deal more saucy.

“A prince who resolves to do no good, unless he can do every thing, teaches his people to see that they are slaves, and they have a right to do whatever they have a mind to.

“Power and liberty are like heat and moisture; when they are well mixed, every thing prospers; when they are single, they ever do mischief.

“I believe the least useful part of the people have the most credit with the prince. Men will conclude therefore, that to get every thing, it is necessary to be good for nothing.”

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 235.)

I had not yet recovered from my astonishment at the speech of the Duke, when Alumbrado asked me, after a short pause:

“Then you think it absurd to believe in the possibility of apparitions?”

“A belief that has no firm foundation is absurd.”

“You then think every apparition, however it be shaped—”

“Is delusion, the source of which arises either from external natural causes, or flows from our bewildered imagination, or from both at once.”

“One question more!” the Duke said, “What do you think of the occult wisdom which Hiermanfor is said to have learnt from the Bramins?”

“That it consists in a profound knowledge of physic and natural history.”

“And the supernatural power he is boasting of—?”

“Is nothing but a skilful application of that knowledge!”

The Duke remained silent for some time, and then resumed:

“You think it impossible for mortals to acquire a supernatural power?”

I smiled.

“It seems you deny also the possibility of miracles?” Alumbrado said with a dreadful look, which he however soon sweetened again.

“I am convinced of the possibility of miracles,” I replied, “because it is self-evident that God, who is the author of the laws of nature, can alter and suspend them; but this only the Creator can do; man, consequently, is not capable of working miracles.”

“But men can become instruments in the hand of God,” Alumbrado continued, “whereby Providence performs miracles!”

“Undoubtedly, but no wretches like the Irishman. The eternal source of truth and holiness can never employ, as an immediate instrument, an impostor who deals in lies and artifice.”

“Where will you find a mortal without fault?” the Duke said, “indeed you are too much prejudiced against the Irishman. He did not deceive me out of malice or selfishness, but only for the sake of a just and noble purpose.”

“Actions that are in themselves immoral, like imposition and lies, never can be rendered moral by the justness of their end, and an organ of the Godhead never can employ means of so culpable a nature. But, my friend, if you really are persuaded the furtherance of the revolution to have been a noble and just action, why has the Irishman been obliged to exert all his arts to prevail on you to assist in the execution of that undertaking?”

The Duke cast his eyes to the ground, and Alumbrado left us. Miguel seemed to be penetrated with shame and confusion, and continued for some time to keep his eyes rivetted to the ground without uttering a word.

I took him affectionately by the hand: “It was not my intention to tell you my opinion of your adventures with the Irishman in Alumbrado’s presence; you have forced me to do it, and I could not help telling my mind freely.”

“I thank you for it.”

“Your obstinacy and my frankness may prove fatal to me.”

“How so?”

“It will perhaps cost me my life and liberty.”

“I do not comprehend you.”

“I have declared myself against the belief in apparitions, and Alumbrado is perhaps at present on the road to the inquisition, in order to inform against me.”

“Have you not yet conquered your prejudices against him? Don’t be uneasy, and cease judging unjustly of a man against whom you have no reason of complaint, except a countenance you do not like.”

“You did not observe the fiend-like look he darted at me. O my friend, whatever may befall me, I will submit willingly to it, if I have succeeded in recalling you from your errors!”

“I thank you for your love, but I apprehend very much I am one of those unhappy men of whom you have been saying, that no arguments of reason can remove their delusion. I am sensible that my sensations has an immediate evidence, which overpowers every persuasion of the understanding---this I am sensible of, as often as I recall to my mind the apparition at the church-yard.”

“You view me with looks of pity,” the Duke continued, after a short pause, “I divine your thoughts. However, if you had seen what I have witnessed---”

“Then I should have been astonished at the artful delusion, and the dexterity of the Irishman.”

“And at the same time would not have been able to conceive, as well as myself, how it could have been performed in a natural manner.”

“I grant it; but I never conclude that any thing has been performed by supernatural means, because I cannot comprehend how it could have been effected in a natural manner. These was a time when you fancied the apparition in Amelia’s apartment to have been effected by supernatural means, and yet it was not so. Who would have the childish arrogance to fancy his intellectual faculties to be the scale of the powers of nature, and his knowledge the limit of human art? However, the apparition of the church-yard has some defects, which its author could not efface in spite of his dexterity, and which easily would have dispelled the delusion before the eyes of a cool observer. The Irishman could not give to the phantom the accent of Antonio’s voice, how skilfully soever he imitated his features. That the apparition did not move his eyes and lips, nor any limb, is also a suspicious circumstance, that proves the limits of the artificer’s skill. But what renders the reality of the apparition most suspicious is, undoubtedly, your friend’s ignorance of what his pretended spirit (consequently his proper self) told you at the church-yard; for if he had known any thing of it, he would not have concealed it from the Prince of Braganza, in whose arms he died, much less from you, in his farewell letter. Finally, if you consider what your tutor has told the Prince about his statue, which has been cut in wood during his imprisonment, you will find it very probable that the Irishman has made use of it in some manner or other for effecting that delusion.”

The Duke stared at me like a person suddenly roused from a profound sleep.—“Marquis!” he said, at length, “you have opened my eyes; but my unwont looks are unable to penetrate another fact I cannot expel from my memory.”

“Again, an apparition—?”

“Which, however, did not happen to me, but to my father.”

“You mean the apparition of Count San*?”

“The very same.”

“Your father has related to me all the particulars of it; I have reflected upon it, and imagine I am capable of explaining it in a natural manner. Your father received, two days before the ghost appeared to him, a letter, by which he was informed that the Count was dangerously ill, and that his life was despaired of on account of his advanced age. This intelligence affected him violently, and the idea of the impending dissolution of his dearest friend, prevailed in his mind from that moment. The melancholy of your father seemed to encrease hourly, reduced him in the day to the state of a dreaming person, and disturbed his rest at night. As often us he awoke in the second night, he fancied he heard somebody groan, yet the groaning person was undoubtedly nobody but himself, and the cause of his groans originated from the pressure of the blood against the breast. This pressure awakened him once more, early in the morning, with some violence; he fell again asleep a few minutes after, and it was very natural that the object of the dream that stole upon him should be no other but Count San*. Your father mistook that dream for a real apparition, and nothing is more pardonable than this self-deceit. The only circumstance that renders this incident remarkable, is, that the Count really expired in that very hour. However, I ask you whether it be so very strange, if our imagination, which deceives us so many thousand times by its delusions, should at length coincide once accidentally with the truth?”

“One rather ought to wonder,” the Duke replied, “that this is so rarely the case.”

“Here you have two instances of apparitions,” I resumed, “which agree in their being delusions, only with that difference, that one of them which happened at the church-yard originated from external causes, and the other from the imagination of your father. We are not always so fortunate as to be able to explain apparitions in so natural a manner; our incapacity and ignorance gives us, however, no right to think that they are supernatural.”

“You think then that the belief in apparitions and the influence of spirits originates merely from ignorance?”

“Certainly; when man was yet in his unpolished state, and ignorant of the laws of nature and of thinking, the uncivilized mortals could not but observe many external phenomena which they could not explain, their stock of experimental knowledge not being equal to that task. Necessitated by the law of reason to search for the cause of every effect, they substituted unknown causes, when unable to find out any that were known to them, and mistook these powers for spirits, because they were invisible to them, though they perceived their effects.”

“I do not deny, my friend, that the original source of the belief in apparitions, and the influence of spirits, has taken its rise from an evidently false conclusion. It has however been frequently the fate of truth, that its discovery was founded on erroneous premises; consequently the manner in which an idea is generated cannot render its internal truth suspected, provided it be supported by other valid arguments.”

“Your remark is very just and true, yet it cannot be applied to the present case, for I have already proved that we possess neither an external nor an internal criterion by which we could discern the influence and apparition of those invisible beings, and that we consequently have no sufficient reason to believe in their existence. This too I will not contest. You have, however, proved only the impossibility of finding out a criterion by which we could discern the real influence of spirits, but not the impossibility of that influence itself. It may yet be supposed that these beings can produce apparitions without, and effects within ourselves, and that we are connected with them in an effectual and secret manner. While this internal impossibility is not proved, it will not be absurd to imagine that men who mortify their sensuality, who are entirely absorbed in meditation, and fix their looks merely on super-terrestial things, may be favoured more frequently with the influence of spiritual beings, and a more intimate connection with them.”

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE OF MR. FERGUSON.

The following story Mr. Ferguson used frequently to repeat: He had finished the picture of a handsome young lady, whose numerous friends, though they commended the piece, found each some small faults, they thought might be corrected, which would render the likeness complete. Mr. Ferguson, when informed of it, desired they all might meet him at a certain hour, and being properly placed, with his pallet and brushes in his hand, the picture before him, and the lady sitting in a just light, he begged to be favoured with the opinions and objections of the company present, one by one; he acquiesced with them all, and put himself in a posture to remedy the defects, pointed out. When he had gone through the whole he turned the picture towards them, and every one pronounced it so finished a piece, and so perfect a likeness, that it could not be improved. He then requested them to examine both the pencils and canvass, which had been all along perfectly dry, and left them to draw their own conclusions.

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

As I mean to banish prolixity from my narrative, I shall not mention the emotions this tale excited when next we met. I could not help lamenting my utter inability to aid his distress. A glow of grateful feelings brightened his countenance. He caught my hand. Angelic sweetness, he cried---your face, how true an index of your mind. In short, both strangers to dissimulation, we soon perceived a passion, ardent, sincere, and reciprocal. We loved with all the romantic enthusiasm of youth, forgetting the insuperable barriers between us. We indulged our tenderness till it grew too great to be subdued. Sitting together one afternoon, planning future days of bliss, my hand locked in his, my soul beaming from my eyes, we suddenly heard a rustling among some trees behind us, and my father instantly rushed out, rage flashing from every glance. Frantic, he tore me from Harland, and bid him begone, as he durst not answer for what he might be tempted to do. Harland hesitated. I saw passion kindling in his eyes. Terrified at the consequences which might ensue, I had just power to articulate, obey him, oh obey him. My father loaded me with every violent invective rage could suggest. To exculpate myself from the meanness he accused me of, I divulged Harland’s history, but he believed it not. He said it was a vile, artful tale, calculated to deceive my unsuspecting youth, and lead me into a connection which he would eternally have cursed me for. Good heaven! how my soul shuddered at these words. For three days I gave myself up to immoderate grief; the fourth, walking in an avenue cut through the wood, I saw a little boy playing before me, I heeded him not, till I perceived him drop a piece of paper, give me a significant sign, and run off. I flew forward hastily, snatched it up, and retired to a chamber, where I read the following lines from my unfortunate Harland:

“Oh, my Julia! what a cruel separation! Thus torn from thee, it fills me with anguish—my only comfort thy society, deprived of that too---merciless fortune! I am incoherent---I hardly know what I write. Julia, to quit this spot, without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support. Meet me if possible I beseech you at night, in the wood. One parting interview---to meet perhaps; I can’t go on---Oh Julia! grant my last request.”

I determined to comply, but could not without my maid’s assistance. I entrusted her, and she promised to assist me. When the family were retired to rest, she conducted me down stairs, and opening a little door which led into the wood, said she would there watch my return.

Harland was impatiently waiting for me; at my approach he sprung forward, oh my Julia, he cried, what goodness, what condescension, but you are all complying sweetness. He regretted his separation; lamented his want of fortune; now bid me for ever forget him; then assured me, without the chearing idea of my love, life would be unsupportable. I wept, assured him it was unalterable, that only with existence it would cease. The moment arrived to separate. He sunk upon his knees, besought eternal blessings on my head, tenderly embraced me, while his voice was stifled with the emotions of his soul, and tore himself away. I tottered home, and leaning on my maid, retired to my chamber, where I past the remainder of the night in tears, and all the pangs of hopeless love. Shortly after this, a gentleman arrived at the castle who was son to a deceased friend of my father’s, his birth and fortune noble, but his manners tainted with arrogance and ill-nature. He conceived a partiality for me. Just powers, what has it not caused me! Sir George still dreading the unfortunate Harland, encouraged it. He was also really desirous of having me advantageously married. He compelled me to listen to Mordaunt; and in short, not to dwell longer on this painful subject, notwithstanding my prayers, my tears, my declaration of passion for another, I was forced the altar. The horror of that moment I can’t express; the image of Harland was continually before me; my broken vows; his sufferings; his love; they almost bereft me of reason. Three days after the fatal ceremony, sitting alone in my dressing-room, as the gentlemen were out, I heard a carriage drive hastily to the door. I imagined it was some obtrusive visitors who came to pay their unwelcome compliments, when in an instant the door was thrown open, and Harland entered, the smile of anticipating pleasure on his face. He attempted to clasp me in his arms, but shrinking from them, I endeavoured to fly from the room; he caught my hand and forcibly withheld me; he looked amazed at my agitation. Speak to me, my adored Julia, he cried, Oh why this distress?---heaven has at length removed my sufferings---Mr. T. has at last done justice to me. I am come to claim your hand. Sir George cannot deny me now. What bliss! what happiness in store for us. I could hear no more; I broke from him, and in agony of soul rending misery, wrung my hands together. We are ruined, exclaimed I, for ever wretched. Oh Harland! forgive me. I am miserable, compulsive power has undone me. I am, oh detest me not, already married. I might have gone on for ever---his senses seemed annihilated, a deadly paleness overspread his face; I was terrified; I flew to him; I attempted to take his hand; my touch revived him. He started from me; base faithless woman; his lips quivered, and in a phrenzy of disappointed passion he rushed out of the house. He left me on the verge of distraction, but when a little composed, I revolved my conduct: I considered it improper; I was now married; those tender sensations for another man were criminal; my virtue was strong, I determined to exert it; the lessons of my beloved mother recurred to me. She often said, affliction was the purifier of our passions, it refined the soul, and lifted to that infinite Almighty power in whose hands the balm was held for healing the wounds received on this spot.

(To be continued.)

The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,

A STORY, FOUNDED ON FACTS.

(Continued from our last.)

As the family of his late consort were rich and powerful Mr. Freeman checked his libertine pursuits for a time; but the strength of habit soon overcame the dictates of prudence, and again he listened to the powerful calls of vice and dissipation.

A few months after Mrs. Freeman’s death he informed his friend Easton that he would introduce him to a young creature, lovely as imagination could form. He owned that the connection between them, being only that of sentiment, became rather troublesome; that she had denied him the most distant favour, and, in tears, regretted her ever giving way to a hopeless passion which had driven her from home, and subjected her to dangers of every kind.

“I first saw,” he continued, “this foolish girl at the neighbouring convent---Her beauty charmed me; I gained her attention, and held many conversations at the grate, in the course of which she informed me that, disappointed in a love affair, and to avoid a forced marriage, she had fled from her guardian, and sought refuge in the convent.

“I need not tell you, Easton, how love-sick girls are wrought upon. I found more sensibility than prudence—her sorrows subsided as I artfully dropped an answering tear, accompanied with a well-feigned emotion. I used every means which is common with us fellows of intrigue, and at length gained her consent to suffer me to procure her enlargement, on my promise of protection and friendship.

“Her remove from the convent was, with some difficulty and no small degree of danger, effected; when, expecting my reward and urging her to be kind, she wept, said I had deceived her, and thus addressed me:——‘Cease, Sir, to alarm, with professions of love, a poor young creature that knows not where to fly. Ask me for my friendship and esteem, and honour me with your’s, and I shall be as happy as my fortunes will permit. I wished to cast myself on your protection, from a confidence in your honour—I have done it—betray not then, oh! betray not the trust reposed in you. If you take a violent and cruel advantage of my situation, short will be your pleasure—but lasting your pain. You will at once lose all the respect I now bear you, and render me completely wretched: it is too true I am in your power, but do not, oh! do not abuse that power, by plunging a wretch, already almost lost, into infamy and perdition.’

“I give you her own words, Easton, for you will find her romantic in the extreme, with all the airs of dignity and virtue about her. I endeavoured all I could to comfort and compose her spirits, and offered to write home to her guardian; but to this she would not consent, as in such a case her name would be exposed. ‘If,’ said she, ‘imputed guilt is to be my portion, let me, with life, lament the effects of my imprudent flight—but there are, whom, my folly might disgrace, should an unfeeling world cast a stigma upon me—know me, therefore, only as—the wretched Julia!’

“Upon this I left her, fool enough to be somewhat affected, and what she means to do I cannot tell; I had procured her an apartment in a private part of the city, with a servant to attend her; but not finding in me the father she expected, I have a strong idea that she means to play me the slip and steal away without my knowledge, which would prove a disappointment to both of us.

“For, Easton, as you are a fine fellow, and withal somewhat younger than myself, as I cannot succeed, I think you might venture a trial upon your own account.”

“A friendly proposal,” exclaimed Easton, “convey me to her, and what love, gallantry, and fine speeches can effect, depend on.”

The agreement made, they proceeded to pay a visit to the unfortunate young lady.

The servant having given in Mr. Freeman’s name, they were conducted to her apartment. But oh! heaven! what horror seized the heart of Easton on beholding—his sister! He had left her during his travels, which had detained him two years, under the protection of her guardian, a man of sordid ideas, little principle, and still less humanity---but who had cunning sufficient to carry the appearance of every good quality, and, by the deepest dissimulation, had prevailed on the worthy Mr. Easton, the gentleman who had given these unhappy children his name and fortune, in his last moments to submit to him the management of the estate bequeathed them till the youth became of age, and his sister was disposed of in marriage.

How he had performed the will of his dying friend, respecting the young lady, the reader has, in part, been made acquainted with---it remains only to say, that, by his forbidding the addresses of Mr. Harcourt, a young soldier, whose heart was as honourable as his profession, and who sincerely loved her, and encouraging the hopes of a wretch, worn out with infirmities and a diseased mind, he forced the unhappy Julia to determine on flight. Her Harcourt had been called to the field, where, by protecting his country at the hazard of his life, it was not then in his power to defend her he held dearer than his own existence.

For a time, overcome with mutual astonishment, they both remained silent! At length Easton, relieved by tears, embracing the sister of his heart, exclaiming, “And have bad principles and bad men brought me to the brink of such perdition? But Heaven is just, and at the same moment converts my erring heart, and restores me to an almost-lost sister, whom my future care and affection shall protect from every snare of deep-laid villany.”

Then turning to the confounded and abashed Freeman, he uttered, “As for you, be warned by this interposition of Providence in favour of your undeserving friend.--- Your years and your principles do not correspond. I had a father, gay and volatile like yourself, whose wretched story I have heard, but whose guilt has divided his children and him—perhaps---forever! Mournful, no doubt, has been his existence, and, if no more, miserable his end.---But wherever he may wander, if yet alive, oh! my sister! would not you rejoice with me in comforting his suffering heart, and in return receive the blessings of our nameless and interdicted parent?”

Hearing, with trembling limbs, this passionate address, Mr. Freeman exclaims, “Who, who was your father?”

“Oh!” returned Easton, “he has lost his name in his crimes, which drove him from his family and country---an outlawed murderer!”

For the first time, powerful conviction rushed on the heart of Freeman! “Oh!” he exclaimed, “be more explicit, surely my children are now before me---nor fear nor fate shall longer hide my name---’Tis Alton! the miserable Alton, now casts his wretched load of existence before you.”————They both ran towards him, and owning an interposing providence with tears of joy and gratitude, raised their long-lost parent! who at once reclaimed, at once thankful to mysterious Heaven, embraced his children!

It only remains to inform the reader, that the father, with his son and daughter, took shipping for England. An honourable peace soon brought home to love and fortune the generous Harcourt, who was at length united to his faithful Julia.

The old guardian had paid the debt of nature, and, struck with a check of conscience, he not only left the whole estate of the late Mr. Easton, unimpaired, to the brother and sister, but added thereto a large portion of his own. Application was made to an earthly throne for mercy to the repentant father; it was extended towards him, and being now a sincere penitent, it is to be wished and hoped that he may experience the same mercy from a still higher power.

“The School for Libertines” (pg. 236, 244)

Original: “A School for Libertines. A Story, Founded on Facts” by Thomas Bellamy.

Sources include “The general magazine and impartial review ...” (Vol. 1, July 1787); “Walker’s Hibernian Magazine” (Sept. 1787, 483ff., appearing immediately after “Alphonso and Marina)”; The New-York Magazine, 1795, pg. 688ff.

Link: http://books.google.com/books?id=T7oRAAAAYAAJ

THE TEMPLE OF HOPE,

A VISION.

Reading one summer’s eve in a grove, by which ran a most beautiful translucent rivulet, I was, by its murmurs, mingled with the sighs of Zephyr, lulled into an agreeable slumber. Somnus had no sooner laid me on his couch of poppies, than I thought myself transported to a dreary waste, where Nature sits on her heath-blossom’d throne, dispensing the seeds of furze, broom, brambles, and thistles around her.

The sight of this barren scene would have awakened me with dismay, had not my sight been immediately charmed, and my mind astonished with the rising of a most superb Temple. Multitudes were repairing thither. Misery sat on their wan cheek---but I was pleased to see, at the same time, expectation glisten in their eye. Around the Temple spontaneously rose, in their most perfect, fragrant, and variegated bloom, the most beautiful parterres. Amidst the flowering shrubs and ever-greens, were playing charming infants of both sexes, whose talk was as melodious as the vesper of the nightingale, and as gay as the matin of the lark. Their countenances were as blithe and as beauteous as Flora, blushing with the kiss of Spring. I was informed, that they were the children of Arts, Sciences, Peace, Plenty, and Pleasure. Rills murmured through the walks. Fountains scattered over the beds of perennial blossoms, their pearls of liquid crystal, and Zephyrs, with Æolian harps, caused every leaf to dance to their delightful harmony.

The style of the Temple itself united every order of architecture to denote that it was free to the access and devotion of every country. The Gothic, Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite were there displayed. The walls were supported by a foundation, that, I learned, was dug from the sand-pit of Expectation and the quarry of Enterprise. The walls themselves were formed of one entire crystal, taken from the mountain of promise. I presume the goddess chose them to be formed of this material, to denote that her various devotees might here be delighted with the most charming prospects which the magic of fancy could create for their allurement and entertainment. It had no roof, that nothing might impede their incessant view of the etherial throne of Providence. Instead of pillars, the portico was supported with anchors, which had been formerly the salvation of thousands sailing in the bark of human misery, from being shipwrecked against the rocks of despair. In varied festoons, hung around every apartment, cables in the style of the most exquisite and elegant fancy. They were likewise, wreathed with flowers of various sorts, which appeared to be always changing, but never losing their bloom.

The innumerable persons of all ages, ranks, and descriptions, which were going to this Fane, having gained admittance, the Temple rose most majestically to the regions of bliss. Every votary knelt around the shrine, and sung hallelujahs whilst it ascended.

I followed it with admiration, satisfaction, and astonishment, until it disappeared; and the chorusses of the happy mortals, thus transported, left my listening sense to taste in silence that ecstasy in which so delightful a scene of human enjoyment had enwrapped my sensibility.

I awoke, and was sorry to find the happiness of so many of my fellow creatures, was only the delusive prospect of a vision.

EXTRACT.

Nature gives us talents, it is education that applies them right or wrong. Nature bestows propensities and affections, which may be directed to good, either public or private. It is culture that improves or prevents them.

ON WEALTH.

Among the many advantages of wealth, that of being able to relieve the necessaries and indigencies of others is of the greatest value, and most to be prized. In what class of men shall we place the hard-hearted, ungenerous rich man? Upon examination of human nature, avarice is no part of it; and so we shall be forced to list the covetous man among the monsters of this world.

Let the rich man indulge his appetites, and pursue his expences and superfluities, if he will; and let him enable his family to indulge themselves in the same way, if they are so inclined. But surely, then, he ought to make as many other people easy and comfortable as he can.

I am not, it is certain, obliged to pinch myself to remove other peoples pinchings; but if a ring on my little finger has charms enough in and about it to keep half a hundred families from starving, can I hesitate a single moment, whether or no I shall part with this useless bauble for that end? If a hundred or five hundred pounds will not make me retrench in any thing, nor interfere with the figure and circumstances of life that are proper for my family now, or when I am dead and gone, what can I do better than give it to some other person or family, who are obliged to live entirely below those circumstances they are born or bred to? How can I better employ it, than in raising the spirits, and rejoicing the heart of some melancholy, depressed poor man? I am mistaken, if the application of a few hundred pounds this way, would not give a truer sensation of joy and pleasure than fifty other things, which are often purchased at a very dear rate.

Be persuaded, then, ye rich and powerful, ye honourable and great, to do honourable things with the superfluity of your wealth.

Search after ingenious persons, root them out of obscurity, and obscurity out of them, and call the long-banished muses back to their antient habitation.

This article will be repeated on pg. 339 in No. 95.

TRUE MEEKNESS.

Meekness, like most other virtues, has certain limits, which it no sooner exceeds than it becomes criminal. She who hears innocence maligned without vindicating it---falsehood asserted without contradicting it,—or religion profaned without resenting it, is not gentle, but wicked.

Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active and passive; if it will not enable us to subdue our own passions and resentments, as well as qualify us to bear patiently the passions and resentments of others. If it were only for mere human reasons, it would turn to a profitable account to be patient; nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like the spirit of forbearance; the return of rage for rage cannot be so effectually provoking.

True gentleness, like an impenetrable armour, repels the most pointed shafts of malice: they cannot pierce through this invulnerable shield, but either fall hurtless to the ground, or return to wound the hand that shot them.

A meek spirit will not look out of itself for happiness, because it finds a constant banquet at home; yet, by a sort of divine alchemy, it will convert all external events to its own profit; and be able to deduce some good, even from the most unpromising; it will extract comfort and satisfaction, from the most barren circumstances; “it will suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock.”

Meekness may be called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels every obstruction, and smooths every difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their progress. Honours and dignities are transient;---beauty and riches frail and fugacious;---but this amiable virtue, is permanent. And surely the truly wise would wish to have some one possession, which they might call their own in the severest exigencies. This can only be accomplished by acquiring and maintaining that calm and absolute self-possession, which, as the world had no hand in giving, so it cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power, take away.

Source: Hannah More, Essays Principally Designed for Young Ladies (1777)

This article is excerpted from “True and False Meekness”. “Compassion” (pg. 401 in No. 103) is from “Thoughts on Conversation” in the same book.

NEW-YORK.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Editor thankfully acknowledges the receipt of the third excellent Essay of A. D.

The Acrostic of V. E. displays some merit, but the author cannot, with propriety, expect its insertion without some correction: The effusions of the Muse will ever find a hearty welcome attending their reception, when indiscriminately adapted for instruction, or not too pointedly addressed with extatic strains to an individual.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 22d to the 28th 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. 22 23 29 ne.nw. snow light wd.snow

23 2750 37 sw.do. cloudy do.clear lt. wd.

24 26 41 w.do. clear light winddo. do.

25 20 27 nw.se. clear high winddo. lt. wd.

26 28 42 s.do. cloudy lt. wd.clear do.

27 36 4550 sw.do. clear lt. wind,do. do.

28 39 46 sw.do. clear lt. wd.cloudy do.

FRIENDSHIP.

TO A LADY,

On her too great Affectation of Ornament.

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

ODE TO HAPPINESS.

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, February 8, 1797. [No. 84.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ESSAYIST. No. III.

In man there appears to be a natural affection for his fellow creatures, this as a general remark is evident, when the whole bulk of mankind is considered; but if we descend to particulars and examine how his affection exists, with regard to individuals, how often do we find him defective. Some under the smiling aspect of friendship conceal the envenomed sting of hatred, while others openly declare their enmity. But philanthropy extends its kindness to all whether friend or foe. It encircles in the arms of love, alike the rich and poor—the bondman and the free. Anger, revenge, and all the rougher passions which divest the mind of its serenity, and immerse it in gloom and despondence, as if driven by supernatural power, fly at its approach. It delights to assist the distressed and infuse hope and comfort into the heart almost broken by misfortune. The soul that is warmed by the genial sparks of philanthropy and benevolence, looks with pleasure on his companions, feels himself interested in all their transactions, and participates in their prosperity. The persecuted are ever sure to find in him a protector, and the wretched a friend. He exposes himself to the breath of contagion, that he may bring assistance to those who are sinking under the accumulated load of poverty and disease. He explores the gloomy dungeon and softens the bonds of the captive: his whole life presents a series of benevolent and worthy actions. Such is the philanthropist; justly admired by the world at large, and sincerely beloved by the small circle of his friends.

And such was Howard---the benevolent, the philanthropic Howard—more worthy of our admiration and more deserving of our envy, while imbibing the deadly vapours of the lazaretto, or exposing his constitution to the chill damps of the subterranean dungeon, than pompous royalty clothed with the ensigns of power and encircled with all the splendors of a court.

A. D.

January 26.

ON AMBITION.

The best of all good things, says M. Retz, is repose. All the pleasures which nature can bestow, become insipid to him who is agitated by ambition, who is tormented by vanity, or torn by envy. You shall see a man on whom fortune has been prodigal of her choicest favours, to whom nature has given a sound and vigorous body; who is beloved by his wife and his children, whom he cherishes; whose presence spreads pleasure and joy in his family, where he is only an apparition; who, if he lived on his own domains, would enjoy the pleasure of doing good to a set of vassals, but he there makes his appearance only three or four times in a year; and is then scarcely seen till he is gone again. This man does not feel the value of health; he does not enjoy his fortune. His life which might flow on in that kind of animated leisure, which results from the exercise of acts of beneficence, is consumed in agitation and in fear. Independent by his riches, he devotes himself to servitude, and is tormented by chagrin. His sleep, which ought to be pleasing, is troubled by envy and disquietude. He writes, he cringes, he solicits, he tears himself from pleasures, and gives himself up to occupations that are not suited to his taste; he in a measure refuses to live during forty years of his life, in order that he may obtain employment, dignities, marks of distinction, which, when he obtains them, he cannot enjoy.

TRUE VIRTUE AND HONOUR.

Men possessed of these, value not themselves upon any regard to inferior obligations, and yet violate that which is the most sacred and ancient of all---religion.

They should consider such violation as a severe reproach in the most enlightened state of human nature; and under the purest dispensation of religion, it appears to have extinguished the sense of gratitude to Heaven, and to slight all acknowledgment of the great and true God. Such conduct implies either an entire want, or a wilful suppression of some of the best and most generous affections belonging to human nature.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 243.)

“I will not pretend to say that this class of men qualify themselves for ghost-seers by the mortifications you have been mentioning; it is however certain, that they are in a fair way of becoming fanatics and madmen. At the same time, I think it very imprudent to sacrifice every earthly pleasure, to neglect the duties we owe to human society, on account of the possibility of a matter, the reality of which is founded on no arguments whatever. It is no absolute impossibility that I should one time be made a Mandarin of China, yet the bare possibility of it will certainly not induce me to trouble my head with the study of the Chinese state-politics in order to qualify myself for that dignity. Moreover, it is not only possible, nay, it is probable that the moon is inhabited by rational beings, I shall nevertheless certainly not be anxious to give any offence to the man in the moon by my actions. But to be serious, my friend, the point of your question is not, whether it be possible spirits should have an influence on us and external objects, but whether we really do possess a certain and decisive criterion whereby we can ascertain the reality of that influence; and I think I have sufficiently proved that we possess none. Nay I even maintain, that if something should not only be possible, but also really exist, yet its existence is no concern of mine, while I cannot ascertain its existence by a sufficient ground, while it does not manifest its existence to my knowledge by certain and indubitable criterions.”

“But your objection,” I resumed after a short silence, “may be pursued still further. You maintain that I could not prove the internal impossibility of the influence of spirits on human beings, and thus far you are right; but I have an equal right to maintain that you also cannot prove their real possibility; for in that case it would be requisite to know not only what a spirit is according to our idea, but also what it is in itself; and that only the Author of spirits can know. We know our own soul only by its effects, and no mortal can explain the essential nature of this first cause of all our ideas and actions. For that very reason it ever will be concealed from us whether it is related at all to spirits here below, and what the nature of that relation is? Here, my friend, are the limits of human reason, beyond which we cannot proceed without falling in with the empty space of sophistical phantoms. While you shall remain within the lawful boundaries, you never will have reason to complain of the insufficiency of human reason, as you have done just now. It is criminal arrogance to overleap the sacred limits, to which Providence has confined it; for the eternal wisdom of God is equally entitled to our regard by what it has denied, as by what it has granted us. Descend, therefore, my friend, descend from the empty space to which the Irishman had seduced you, to the firm ground of experience and common sense! Happy is he who looks upon this ground as a post allotted to him, which we can never transgress without being punished, and which implies every thing that can afford us satisfaction while we keep firm to what is useful.”

About six weeks after this conversation, I happened one night to sup with the Marquis in the company of his son and Alumbrado. Our discourse on the new government was growing very warm, when the clock in the room struck ten. Alumbrado suddenly grew deadly wan, and seemed to be struck dumb; his eyes stared at one spot, and he resembled a lifeless statue. We looked at each other with astonishment; the old Marquis was the first who called to him, but received no answer, and started up seized with terror. The Duke and myself followed his example; our endeavours to restore Alumbrado to recollection were, however, fruitless; he remained in profound stupefaction. Not knowing what had happened to him, we were going to send for a physician, when he rose from his chair like a person to whom nothing uncommon has happened, and told us with the greatest unconcern, “This very moment a strange accident has happened 300 miles from hence. At *li*, at the Sun Tavern, the picture of the new king which was hung up in the dining room, give occasion to a discourse concerning him. One of the guests said a great deal to his praise, manifesting, at the same time, a strong apprehension that the King of S————n might not submit so quietly to the loss of the crown of P————l, and perhaps, reclaim it by force of arms. Another guest declared this to be a vain idea, maintaining that the new King was as firmly fixed on his throne as his picture opposite him on the wall: but no sooner had he pronounced these words, when the picture suddenly fell to the ground with a tremendous noise.”

Here Alumbrado stopped. While we were standing around him in dumb astonishment, he eyed us with the firm look of a person who has related an incident of which he has been an eye witness. Astonishment and horror seized me, and I did not know what to say. The Duke recovered first from his surprise, asking him by what means he had got that intelligence. “I must beg you,” Alumbrado replied in a low accent, “to suppress a question to which I can give no satisfactory answer. However,” he added with emphasis, “you may rely on the truth of my intelligence.”

He had not deceived us. On the sixth day after this extraordinary incident, letters from *li* arrived confirming the same event, and nine days after, it was reported in the foreign newspapers. It really happened on the same evening, and the same night when Alumbrado had informed us of it.

Being unexpectedly honoured by the new King with a commission that obliged me to leave the kingdom of P——l, soon after this extraordinary incident had happened, I was not at leisure to investigate the source of Alumbrado’s prophecy; nor could I learn the Duke’s opinion of it; my deluded friend beginning to grow very close and reserved in my presence. It grieved me to be obliged to leave him in Alumbrado’s power, under such critical circumstances, I could however, not delay my departure. The Duke tore himself from my embraces with weeping eyes, and promised to write frequently to me.

A week after my arrival at the place of my destination, I received a letter from my friend, which I am going to transcribe faithfully.

“I have had to-day a most important conversation with Alumbrado. The principal subject of it was the old concealed King of P————l, for whose restoration I had interested myself. ‘Can you seriously believe---’ Alumbrado said, ‘that the person with whom you have conversed at the Hermitage, has really been the old King of P————l? It seems you did not even suspect that the introduction of the old man was a juggling farce, which was acted with a view similar to those of the other delusions of the Irishman? Although we should suppose that the King had not been killed in the field of battle, and that he himself had been the identical person who was confined at the castle of St. Lukar, which however, has not been proved, yet the whole affair would still bear a very suspicious aspect. Not to mention the great improbability of his escape from a well-guarded Castle, where he was kept in close confinement, and of his having attained an age of 108 years notwithstanding the hardships he suffered in the field of battle, and in his prison. I only beg you to consider who it was that introduced him to you as King of P————l? Was not the Irishman that person? At the same time, give me leave to recal to your recollection, that Count Clairval has confessed that the pretended King acted in concert with that impostor, and then tell me sincerely, what ground you have to believe such an improbability on the testimony of two cheats? Perhaps you will appeal to his great resemblance to the late King? But have not three persons before him pleaded similar marks as proofs of the identity of their person, and nevertheless been unmasked as impostors? My good Duke, on mature consideration it seems that the Irishman relied very much on your youth and the absence of your tutor, when he imposed upon you by that juggling trick.’

“Ah! what ideas do you recall to my memory! I exclaimed, that letter from the Queen and the answer of the Irishman.”

“Very right! Alumbrado interrupted me, these letters sufficiently prove that you was considered as a young man who promised to be a fit instrument for executing their design. And it is no longer a secret what that design was, and in whose head it has been hatched out. The proud Duchess of B——za had a longing for the crown of P————l, and it was she who persuaded the Duke to form a plan of seizing it. Your assistance, my dear Duke, was wanted for attaining that aim, but the conspirators foresaw at the same time, that you would refuse it, your antipathy against your illustrious relation being no secret to them. For that reason they pretended that the Duke of B——a had no other view but to replace the old King on the throne of his ancestors. It was necessary you should be made to believe that he was still alive and in safety; for that purpose the hermit was brought on the stage, and acted his part with no common skill.”

“Damned complot!” I exclaimed, with rising indignation. “Compose yourself my Lord,” Alumbrado resumed, “your anger will now avail you very little. Take care not to manifest your indignation too loudly, lest the new King might forget that you are his relation, and have assisted him to ascend the throne. You can do nothing else at present, but to submit humbly to his authority; and I advise you at the same time not to neglect paying due regard to the Queen, for she rules the King and the empire. Do not expect that the present King will yield the sceptre he has usurped to any man living. If you don’t believe me, you may inquire of him after the old King, and he will tell you, that he has resigned the government to him, because he feels himself unequal to the arduous task of ruling a large kingdom, on account of his advanced age, or perhaps that he is dead.”

“My dear Marquis, what do you think of this? I fear Alumbrado is not mistaken, and I am in a state of mind that would render it imprudent for me to appear at court; but as soon as the tempest that ruffles my mind shall be subdued, I will pay a visit to the new King in order to come to the bottom of the truth.

“P.S. You will be so kind to continue to direct your letters to Li*bon, for neither I nor my father shall leave the town this summer.”

Before I could return an answer to this letter, I received a second, the contents of which were as follow:

“Will you believe, my friend, that I desired three times to have an audience, before my royal cousin condescended to admit me to his presence? This utter want of regard and gratitude, re-kindled my indignation, in such a manner, that I entered the royal apartment in a way that was not very consonant with the court etiquette. The King, however, received me very courteously, pretending to be extremely sorry that the accumulated affairs of state had not allowed him to receive my visit sooner, declaring at the same time that he was very glad to see me. ‘I am come, I replied, in order to tell you that I am surprised that the old King has not yet made his appearance, and released you from the heavy burden of state business.’

“Don’t you know that he is dead?”

‘The emotions that I felt at these words are beyond all description; and my astonishment, the paleness that overspread my face, and my silence must have betrayed them to the King.’

“At what are you astonished thus? not at the death of an old man of a hundred and eight years?”

“No,” I replied after a pause, “but I am surprised that he died at so seasonable a period.”

“Will you explain yourself more distinctly?”

“I think it is a very strange accident that the royal hermit should have entered the kingdom of heaven, and left your Majesty the terrestial crown, just when he was to show himself to the people as their lawful King.”

(To be continued.)

The Power of Music; or, the History of Belario and Lucetta.

Belario was a youth who had been bred up under his father’s eye, according to the most rigid morals. Old Syphax had, in the early part of his life, been a great dupe to the fair sex; he had fancied himself a beau garcon, and imagined he had a right to captivate every female he thought proper to address. In this opinion he was greatly mistaken, and meeting with a variety of coquettes and jilts, he found himself often deceived by his own artifice, and after having squandered considerable sums upon them, discovered he was only laughed at for his vanity and folly. He, however, pursued the career of a general lover for upwards of a dozen years; in the course of which time he had much injured his fortune, in dangling after beauties who despised him, and substituting in their place professed harlots. At length he closed the circle of his amours in marrying, out of mere spight, his own cook-maid, by whom he had Belario.—His consort, though she had approved herself an excellent cook, turned out a dreadful wife. She no sooner attained the summit of her ambition, which she had long aimed at, and which she obtained by the most servile flattery, and the greatest humility imaginable, than she threw off the independant, and soon convinced Syphax, she knew the difference between a servile state and that of a mistress. In a word, she was the modern Zantippe, and probably Socrates never led half so wretched a life, as did poor Syphax, after the connubial knot was tied. He now took an aversion to the whole sex, swore eternal enmity to them, and made a solemn vow, after separating from his wife, soon after the expiration of the honey moon, never to associate or speak to a woman in the course of his future life. Upon the birth of his son he immediately sent for him, and would never let him know who was his mother.