VOLUME II. (continued 16)

As Belario advanced towards maturity, he had him educated under his own roof, having resolved that he should not be trained at a public school, lest, by associating with the world, he might imbibe their notions in favour of the female sex. He never suffered him to read any books that had the least allusion to the tender passion, and constantly represented women, whenever they were mentioned, as monsters in human forms, and more to be dreaded than wolves and tigers. In this opinion whenever Belario beheld a female at a distance, he fled from her with the greatest swiftness, fearful that even the air might be contaminated with her breath. Yet he thought that there was something enchanting in woman, which he could not account for; but if he hinted such a thought to his father, Syphax depicted them as Syrens, who allured unwary travellers to approach them for their destruction.

Tutored with these extraordinary notions, Belario had attained his eighteenth year, when Syphax paid the great debt of nature, and left his son in possession of an easy fortune. He began now to relax from the severity of those studies, to which he had been confined. He read novels, Ovid’s Art of love, and many other books, that soon made him suspect his father’s doctrine had been fallacious. Belario had not, however, the fortitude to dare approach a female so nearly, as to enjoy the contemplation of her charms, or the enchanting raptures of her conversation; when one day walking in a pensive mood, in a grove adjacent to his abode, his ears were assailed with such harmoneous accents as involuntarily attracted not only his attention, but, by a secret impulse, led him to the spot where the seeming celestial notes proved to issue.

He had scarce reached the hawthorn of melody, before he perceived the lovely Lucetta singing, accompanied by her guittar. Now, in despight of all his father’s tenets so carefully inculcated, he found the impulse of nature, and the power of music, operate far beyond all the sophistry of Syphax’s reasoning against the lovely sex.

He intuitively approached the beauteous maid, and instantly became a captive to her charms---a votary to love and harmony.

Lucetta at first received him with some reserve; but after a fervent declaration of his passion, which soon became sympathetic, she listened to his addresses; when he revealed to her how much he had been imposed upon by Syphax, who represented the most amiable part of the creation as monsters, more dangerous than serpents and crocodiles, and that in this opinion he had shunned them to this very hour; but that he now flattered himself he should make ample amends in paying his devotions to such an angelic being as the divine Lucetta.

This young lady was the only daughter of a gentleman of property in an adjacent village, whom Belario, with the approbation of Lucetta, waited upon to obtain his consent for their nuptials. Her father received the young man with politeness and hospitality, and told him he should have no objection to the match, if he could obtain his daughter’s consent. Happy in such a reply, he flew to his adored Lucetta, and acquainted her with the glad tidings, which she received with as much transport as he communicated them.

To be brief, in a few days their nuptials were solemnized, and they have now enjoyed the most permanent felicity the connubial state can confer, for upwards of two years, in which time the lovely Lucetta has given to the world two pledges of their mutual fondness, in a delightful boy, and a still more beautiful girl. Here we shall leave them, to enjoy that unsullied happiness which ever attends the purest virtue, and the sincerest love.

REMARK.

The enjoyments or misfortunes of men, are to be computed from their different degrees of feeling. What can they mean who speak of the happiness of the insensible? Can there be a greater absurdity, than to envy the enjoyments of such as want the power to enjoy!

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

I resolved to conceal Harland’s visit, but my father heard of it from his servant. He accused me of having concerted it, I declared my innocence. He vowed if I saw Harland my husband should be acquainted with it. How cruel such harshness. Mr. Mordaunt soon left the castle, he brought me to London; he loved dissipation, and I entered into it, I thought it would banish painful reflections. At the expiration of a year Heaven blest me with a lovely infant. My health was now so delicate, the physicians ordered me to Bristol. Mordaunt accompanied me thither, not indeed out of tenderness, but ostentation; he wished the world to think him perfect, and yet counterfeited a love for me, which in reality existed not, as his heart was too depraved to be long susceptible of a virtuous passion. My father accompanied us. We had a house one mile from Bristol. Each morning I went to the rooms, the remainder of the day was spent in weeping, and praying over my child, in lulling her to sleep, and hushing her feeble cries.

I had just entered the room one morning, and was conversing with a young lady, when turning round, I was startled by the figure of Harland. Struck by his appearance, various emotions rushed upon me, I could scarcely stand, trembling I leaned upon my companion—the alteration of his looks too visibly manifested the disorder of his mind; despair tinged every feature, and the lustre of his eyes was totally extinguished. I hurried from the room---I forgot my resolution---we cannot always command our feelings---the power above makes allowances for human frailty. I would have discontinued going to the rooms, only I feared exciting the prying eyes of suspicion. I again went, beheld him, and returned more unhappy. In the afternoon, walking alone in the garden, I saw a bit of paper thrown over the hedge, I snatched it up, and perceiving Harland’s writing, I started, I hesitated whether to open it---imagination pictured his sufferings---I broke the seal, and perused the following lines:

“Julia, the miserable Harland is on the point of eternally quitting his native kingdom, he flies to remote regions, far distant from an object who has banished peace—will she yet be cruel, or will her nature, once gently kind, comply with the last request of one, whose last sigh will be for her. Oh Julia! to leave this kingdom without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support---I sicken at the idea. Refuse me not, I conjure you, one parting interview, to sooth the solitary hours of my life, I have wandered on bewildered with misfortune, marked for affliction from the earliest dawn---nought but the long dark night can efface them. If you comply, as ah! surely you must, leave a note where you received this, and at any hour or place you shall appoint, I will meet you. Adieu, most loved and most lamented object of my soul.”

I could not refuse his last request---I was not proof against such entreaties, I might be censured, but I could not conquer the tender feelings which compelled me to comply. After supper, I stole to a little shady bower, situated in a shrubbery, and seldom frequented by any but myself. Here Harland waited for me---our meeting it is impossible to describe---he began with gentle upbraidings. Unable to bear the idea of his thinking me faithless, I declared the compulsive power which forced me to the precipice of despair. His feelings at this discovery overcame him---he raved at the cruelty of that parent, who, actuated by motives of avarice and ambition, had sacrificed the happiness of his child for ever---he implored my forgiveness for ever thinking me inconstant---he almost wept at my sufferings---he besought the being above to inspire me with fortitude and resignation to sustain them. The time approached for our separation---it was absolutely necessary on my account. Harland attempted to bid me adieu, but his words were inarticulate, he took my hand and prest it to his palpitating heart, I had endeavoured to summon resolution, his distress conquered me, a last interview, an eternal farewell from the dearest object of my love---the dreadful idea overpowered me, and I sunk fainting on his bosom, he claspt me to it, the emotions of our souls could not be restrained, my pallid cheek was wet with tears of misery, I forgot the world, I only remembered the cruelty of my fate. At that instant Mr. Mordaunt and my father rushed into the bower, their frantic rage, I shuddered at the recollection of. The former flew at Harland from whose arms I had sunk, full of the most direful apprehensions. He attempted to remonstrate, but in vain, the sword was at his breast, the instructive impulse of self-preservation prompted his defence, it was too dreadful to behold. I fainted, and in a happy insensibility was conveyed to my chamber. Returning life made me too soon acquainted with the fatal consequences of the combat, they were both wounded---a shocking tale had spread to my dishonour, it was credited, appearances so much against me, infamy branded till then my unspotted character, my father’s proud soul swelled at the ignominy of his daughter, he considered me as an everlasting disgrace to his family, as having sullied that blood, of whose purity he so often boasted---he rushed to the apartment, where I sat stupified with the horrid events of the night, myself the fatal cause---there, there was the arrow which pierced me to the soul, his whole face was distorted with passion---rage flashed from his eyes, in a voice scarce intelligible, he exclaimed, “wretch, cursed be the day on which you were born, you have branded the illustrious names of your ancestors with infamy; from this hour I renounce and curse you in the bitterness of my soul, and swear in the sight of heaven never more to see you.” For a moment I stood transfixed like a statue---a shriek wild and piercing then broke from me, and I fell senseless on the floor. When a little recovered, I called for my cruel father, I implored him to withdraw his curses, but he was gone---reason could not retain the shocks she had received. A violent fever succeeded---for a month my life was despaired of: the Almighty, however, thought fit to prolong existence. The first use I made of returning sense, was to enquire for my cruel connexions. Sir George and Mr. Mordaunt had both left the house with solemn asseverations of never again beholding me. Harland, dear ill-fated Harland, had paid the last sad debt of nature. My husband had stood his trial, but possessed of interest and wealth, he was soon acquitted; my child he had taken with him, and left orders for me to quit the house on my recovery; also a paper wherein I was informed of the settlement made on me, and the person on whom I was to draw for it. Miss Rivers, my faithful friend, neglected me not in the hour of severe calamity; she had me conveyed to a family in Wales, who had just retired there, and had no objection to receive me as a boarder. Heartbroken, I forsook a world where my dearest hopes were blasted, yet I left it with no impious repinings against my destiny. I confessed myself properly punished, humbled to the dust—I felt the impropriety of having ever placed myself in a suspicious situation; but I was thoroughly penitent for having (though I trusted in a slight degree) deviated from the path of rectitude—Heaven, I fancied, accepted my contrition, by placing me in a family of love, such as I shall now describe.

Captain Harley, after a life of activity in the service of his country, retired to a sweet retreat in South Wales, to enjoy the closing evening of a busy day; his family consisted of a wife, the faithful companion of all his sorrows, and one daughter, who being the only survivor of a numerous offspring, was doubly endeared to them. She was the staff of their age, the doating of their hopes, and they bore her continually on their hearts, to that heaven which they knew would alone protect her from those calamitous strokes they had so often experienced in the course of their lives.

The retreat they had chosen, was by its seclusion, calculated for the narrowness of their income, and by its beauty for the promotion of their pleasure.

He rented but as much land as would supply his household wants, this he delighted in cultivating himself, assisted by an old trusty servant who had been a soldier in his regiment. Conrade was the veteran son of calamity, and his misfortunes strengthened the claim his services had given him upon the affections of his master. During a late contest, a brave and only son had fallen by his side in the field of battle; scarcely could he survive the blow, but consolation effected what fortitude had no power to do. Captain Harley was not only a good soldier but a good christian, and by pointing out the path to heaven, gave poor Conrade full assurance, by faithfully discharging the humble duties of his station, he should obtain a passport to rejoin his brave and beloved son.

Louisa at the period of their retirement was fifteen; her mind and form were opening to perfection, and both promised to contain the fairest loveliness of ingenious innocence, and graceful symmetry.

The lilly and the rose gave their most beautiful tints to her complection; her fine black eyes beamed with the sensibility of her soul, never did she hear the tale of sorrow without emotion.

Harley had little to give, of that little he gave abundantly—not the largeness of the gift but real inclination of the donor, he knew was regarded by the power above. Like the benevolent pastor of Auburn village, to him repaired the needy and the wanderer, and found a ready welcome—often too, the weather beaten soldier in journeying to his native home, to lay his bones among those of his forefathers, turned in hither, and cheared by hospitable fare,

Harley knew what it was to have the unsheltered head exposed to the chill blast and sharp bitings of the wintry frost.

Such was this little family of love, who retired amidst Welch mountains, enjoyed that content and happiness which the votaries of fashion, misled by dissipation, can never experience.

Louisa was my constant companion—like a ministering seraph she hushed the turbulence of anguish, and whispered peace to my perturbed soul.

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTES.

“My father desired me, Sir, to ax you,” said a physical disciple to a certain eminent pharmacopolist, “that I might attend you to all your patients, as you know, Sir, it is the last year of my time”---“You shall, Bob, you shall,” replied the master; “Come, get your hat.” They entered the sick man’s chamber, and the usual circumstances occurred, such as feeling the pulse, et cetera; After assuming an appearance of profound thought, the vender of galenicals told the wife of the sick man, with much gravity, that her husband was in extreme danger, and that she had contributed to his malady by giving him oysters: The woman, in much confusion, at last owned the fact. When they had quitted the house, Bob enquired with much earnestness of his master, how he could possibly know that the patient had eaten oysters. “You foolish boy,” replied the other, “I saw some shells under the bed.” The next time Bob went alone, and returned to his master with a ghastly visage, and told him the patient was dead by eating a horse---“A horse, Bob,” rejoined the esculapian chief, “how do you know that?” “Oh, easy enough, Sir, I looked under the bed, and saw a bridle and saddle!”

A Gentleman of Angiers, who did not trust to his memory, and wrote down all that he was to do; wrote in his pocket-book, “Memorandum, that I must be married when I come to Tours.”

This item previously appeared on pg. 23 in No. 55.

Before the conquest by the Normans, the land in Norfolk was so light and fine, that the farmers usually ploughed it with two rabbits and a case knife.

A GRAMMATICAL EPISTLE

To Miss SALLY SYNTAX.

Madam,

Amongst the numeral propositions towards a matrimonial union with your amiable person, I hope you’ll not decline the interjection of my preliminary pretences. I should not wish to be a mere noun adjective to you in all cases, but I positively declare, that comparatively speaking, I should be superlatively happy to agree with you in the subjunctive mood. I trust you’ll not opiniate me singular, for desiring to have the plural in my family; I shall fabricate no verbal oration, to prove how I long to have our affections in common of two: but I presume, that in case of a conjunction copulative, you’ll use no indicative solicitation to be in the imperative mood, as I am determined to be in the potential active, while you are in the future passive, or in the supine: for it is the optative of my soul to become your relative, by the antecedent of regular conjugation, as this alone can constitute a lawful concord with the feminine gender, and afford us a participle of substantive happiness. Every article possessive or genitive shall become a dative translation to you; nothing shall be accusative against your government; and your sweet nominative without a pronoun or even adverb shall be my vocative, till death the great ablative of all living, by the gradual declention of our corporeal nature, puts a final termination to the present tense, and time, thro’ an infinite progression of ages, may render us preterperfect in the future tense; in the interim, my principal part of speech in its primitive or derivative extension is, to the end, that you may put the most charitable construction on this simple proposition, and that your definitive resolution may be consonant to the wishes of your very indeclinable lover

MICHAEL DE MARIBUS.

ANECDOTES.

On the first night of the representation of the comedy of the Suspicious Husband, Foote sat by a plain, honest, well meaning citizen, whose imagination was strongly impressed by the incidents of the play. At dropping of the curtain, the wit complained to his neighbour of the impropriety of suffering Ranger to go off as he came on, without being reclaimed. “Could not the author,” said he, “throw this youth, in the course of his nocturnal rambles, into some ridiculous scene of distress, which might have reclaimed him? As he now stands, who knows but the rogue, after all the pleasure he has given us, may spend the night in a round house;” “Then,” says the Citizen, “if it happens in my Ward, I’ll release him, for I’m sure he is too honest a fellow to run away from his bail.”

A young woman lately applied to the manager of a Theatre to be engaged as a vocal performer---When required to give an instance of her ability, she began Mr. Incledon’s celebrated ballad of Ma chere amie my charming fair, thus---“March after me, my charming fair;”---The manager bowed, and the lady became scarce.

GRACEFULNESS.

He who seeks to know the origin of Gracefulness, must look for it in his own mind; whatever is graceful there, must be so in expression. It is a quality analogous to the most exquisite tenderness of affliction; that sweet enthusiasm of action which goes hand in hand with beauty; or, if we may be allowed the phrase, it is the soul of beauty, the emphasis of pleasing expression.——Grace is the sublimity of beauty; the modest pride of virtue; the gentle dignity of love. An attitude expressive of the pensive and pleasing melancholy, a sentiment peculiar to the finest souls, is ever most graceful. The loveliest of the graces has on her face a cast of sadness mixed with the sweetest joy.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 31st ult. by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Lucas Elmendorf, Esq. of Esopus, to Miss Ann Waddle, of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 29th ult. to the 4th 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. 29 30 44 e.do. clear, calm,sm. rn. lt. wd.

30 27 3550 nw.w. clear high wind,do. do.

31 2450 30 e.do. cloudy lt. wd.sm. rn. & sn.

Feb. 1 30 30 e.do. cloudy high wind,rain do.

2 37 49 w.do. rain cm.clear high wind.

3 32 44 w.do. clear light wind,do. do.

4 31 40 w.do. clear light wind,do. do.

ON INNOCENCE.

THE SEASONS OF SORROW.

SONNET TO PUBLIC VIRTUE.

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 15, 1797. [No. 85.

PLEASURES OF OLD AGE.

Though, in old age, the circle of pleasure is contracted, yet within its limits many of those enjoyments remain which are most grateful to human nature.

Temperate mirth is not extinguished by advanced years; the mild pleasures of domestic life still cheer the heart. The entertainments of conversation and social intercourse continue unimpaired. The desire of knowledge is not abated by the frailty of the body, and the leisure of old age affords many opportunities for gratifying that desire. The sphere of observation and reflection is so much enlarged by long acquaintance with the world, as to supply, within itself, a wide range of improving thought. Whilst the aged are engaged in such employments as best suit the infirmities of their nature, they are surrounded, perhaps with families, who treat them with attention and respect; they are honoured by their friends; their characters are established, and are placed beyond the reach of clamour and the strife of tongues; and free from distracting cares can calmly attend to their eternal interests.

No age is doomed to total infelicity provided that we attempt not to do violence to nature, by seeking to extort from one age the pleasures of another, and to gather in the winter of life those flowers which were destined to blossom only in its summer or its spring.

WIT.

Wit is the most dangerous talent we can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good nature, otherwise it will create many enemies.

Wit is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy; yet they are seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who possess it become intoxicated, and lose all self-command.

Though it is the most captivating, yet it is the most dreaded of all talents: the most dangerous to those who have it, and the most feared by those who have it not. He who is grown rich without it, in safe and sober dulness, shuns it as a disease, and looks upon poverty as its invaluable concomitant.

The moralist declaims against it as the source of irregularity; and the frugal citizen dreads it more than bankruptcy itself: for he considers it as the parent of extravagance and beggary. The Cynic will ask of what use is it? Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet it is allowed, as an object of innocent amusement, and delightful recreation.

A woman who possesses this quality has received a most dangerous present, perhaps not less so than beauty itself; especially if it be not sheathed in a temper peculiarly inoffensive, chastised by a most correct judgment, and restrained by more prudence than falls to the common lot.

This talent is more likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for there is much more danger that folly should arise from the confederation of what is our own, than of what we borrow. But wit, like learning, is not near so common a thing as is imagined. For flippancy, pertness, and impudence are often mistaken for this brilliant quality; and people often imagine they are witty, only because they are indiscreet, and this makes the name of wit so cheap, while its real existence is so rare.

But those who happily possess this talent, cannot be too abstinent in the use of it. It often makes admirers, but never makes friends; and she, who does not desire friends, has a sordid and insensible soul; but she, who is ambitious of making every man her admirer, has an invincible vanity and a cold heart.

GRATITUDE.

Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The sense of being distinguished by the kindness of another, gladdens the heart, warms it with reciprocal affection, and gives to any profession, which is agreeable in itself, a double relish, from its being the gift of a friend. Favours, though conferred by men, may become burdensome; but nothing of this kind can affect the intercourse of gratitude with heaven. Its favors are wholly disinterested. The Almighty aims at no end but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and who desires to return from them but a devout and thankful heart.

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 251.)

“It was an accident.”

“And a very fortunate one for your Majesty.”

“What do you call fortunate? My family had a lawful claim to the crown of P————l, and I have an additional right to the possession of it because I have torn it from the head of the usurper at the risk of my life. I would, however, have resigned it cheerfully to my grand uncle if his death had not destroyed that plan. You are mistaken if you think the lot of a King to be so enviable. The burden of government lies heavy on my shoulders.”

“O! there are means of alleviating that load.”

“Of which I shall make as little use as possible, for it will be the chief object of my cares, and will afford me the greatest pleasure to render my people happy.”

“Who could doubt it? Yet I think one ought to make the death of the deceased King publicly known.”

“If we could but first convince the people that he has been alive lately. The profound incognito behind which he concealed himself, throws an insurmountable bar in our way. No one would believe us.”

“Upon my honour, I almost disbelieve it myself any longer.”

“You are right; one needs not to believe what one is convinced of, for you have seen him with your own eyes. If fate had suffered him to show himself in public, every one would have acknowledged him to have been the person that he really was, the old lawful King of P————l. Having, however, lived and died in obscurity, the whole matter may remain a secret, and that so much the more because the discovery would be intirely useless. It is therefore my royal pleasure that no mention whatever be made of it. Farewell!” he added after a short pause, “you will always find me your affectionate King.”

‘Thus ended my audience. Do not desire me, my friend, to disclose to you the ideas and sensations which it produced within me. I shall endeavour to obliterate even the recollection of that scene.

‘Alumbrado is very much displeased with the manner in which I have spoken to the King. “Do you imagine,” said he, “that his offended pride ever will forgive you the torments of that self-denial which the patience he has opposed to your galling language has cost him? The sacrifice which he has made to his policy by that painful forbearance, will certainly cost you dear. Henceforward, you must renounce every hope of being promoted; for he will be careful to keep in submission, and at a proper distance, a man of spirit, as you must have appeared to him. This is perhaps the least misfortune that threatens you; your warmth, your ill-timed frankness, may produce consequences of a more serious nature. Alas! why have you not been on your guard? Have I not advised you to appear with humility in his presence?”

‘Alumbrado had certainly the most friendly view in reprimanding me thus: he did not know that every word of his wounded my heart like a two-edged dagger.

‘I have been interrupted by the visit of a Prelate of very high rank. He came to inform my father and myself that the Vice Queen of P—t—l had been imprisoned by the order of the King, because she has had the imprudence to declare that the new King had usurped the throne in a fraudulent manner, and that it was the duty of every inhabitant of P—t—l to acknowledge only the King of Sp—n as his lawful sovereign, because the voluntary oath of allegiance the P—t—se had sworn to the latter, could not be made void by that which the Duke of B- - - a had obtained by artifice and force. “I cannot conceive,” the Prelate added, “what reasonable objection can be alledged against this declaration; but nevertheless, no one dares to affirm it, for fear of sharing the fate of the Vice-Queen.”

‘The Vice-Queen and the Prelate, appear to me to be in the right. However, what can be done? Farewell, my friend, and let it not be long before you favour me with an answer.

‘P.S. This very moment I received an answer to a letter I had wrote to a friend near the place where the hermit lived. He informs me that the old man expired four months since, worn out with age.’

I suspected already from the first letter, but more so from the second, that the Duke was in danger of taking a course from which he could not return too soon. I imagined I had discovered the design which Alumbrado had formed upon him and shuddered at the idea that he might carry his point. Yet my suspicion against Alumbrado was also a mere supposition, which gave me no right to accuse him. After mature consideration I thought, however, it would be best to deliver the Duke, against whom his plan appeared so be chiefly directed, from his clutches, and thus expected to gain two advantages by one stroke: not only to cut the sinews of Alumbrado’s undertaking asunder, but also to guard the Duke against the snare which was laid for him.

With that view I wrote to the latter:

‘Your letters have been very important to me; I must, however, beg you to fetch my answer yourself. Don’t refuse my request, and hasten to the arms of your friend, whose happiness in a place on which nature seems to have lavished all her blessings, would be complete if you were present. Here we will discuss the political concerns which give you so much uneasiness, for I have more than one reason for not doing it by way of letter, and my affairs threaten to detain me here some time longer. The journey will not only improve your health, but it will also ease your mind, which is bent down at present by a gloomy sameness of ideas, and very much wants amusement and diversion. I am convinced that your melancholy will not pursue you to the paradise that blossoms here. And if only your gloominess of mind shall have left you, you will view things that now appear to you in a frightful shape, in a more pleasing light. At the same time you may expect that the commission the King has charged me with, will enable me to explain to you many political objects which I dare not do in writing. Come, my friend, you certainly will not regret your having undertaken this journey, &c. &c. &c.’

My letter produced the desired effect. The Duke returned me a very affectionate answer, and promised, to begin the journey in a fortnight. How joyfully and impatiently did my heart pant for his arrival! but I was disappointed. He did not come, but sent me a letter, which I am going to communicate to the reader.

‘Why am I not yet arrived? Ask Heaven that question, but not me, for I have done every thing in my power to fulfil my promise. In spite of Alumbrado’s remonstrances, I went on board of the ship to convey me to my friend. A favourable breeze that swelled our sails enlivened my hopes of embracing you soon. Evening set in, and the wind and the sky continued to be propitious. The second and the third night stole upon us amid the same favourable auspices.

‘I do not know how it happened, that on the third night the recollection of my sainted Amelia awoke within my mind with additional vivacity. It was not, however, associated with painful, but with bitter-sweet sensations, which frequently afford to feeling minds a more delicious pleasure than joys unmixed. I proceeded insensibly from sensations to the realms of fancy. I looked at the star of love, and imagined I beheld Amelia’s sainted spirit enthroned in its silver lustre. My soul soared above the immense space that separated us, and anticipated the bliss of the celestial spirits. O! why has she so soon been rendered insensible of the limits of her power, which obliged her to return to our sublunary globe?

‘I felt a faintness which invited me to rest, and having bid adieu to the starry firmament and the ocean, I went to my cabin, where the solacing hand of sleep soon closed my eyes.

‘I awoke an hour before the dawn of morn. Finding myself entirely refreshed I left my couch and returned on deck in order to hail the stars once more, before they should be dispelled by the majestic king of day. But what a scene did my gazing eyes behold! The firmament appeared no longer to be over us, but we seemed to ride upon it. I did not know whether I was dreaming or awake, rubbing my eyes repeatedly. In vain, the scene remained unaltered: intense darkness covered the sky, all its stars and galaxies appeared to be on the water.

‘O nature! thy grateful son never will forget the enjoyment which this undescribable spectacle has afforded him! I gazed a long time in silent wonder at the illuminated surface of the ocean, before I could examine the individual beauties of that grand scene. Whithersoever I directed my gazing looks, I beheld fiery streaks. However, all parts were not equally illuminated; some spots emitted quick flashes of light, while others continued some minutes to sparkle. The separated water gushed before us in luminous streams, and the furrow which the vessel drew formed a white bright streak behind us, which was interspersed with sky-blue spots. The multifarious and dazzling light was skipping on the curling waves; the spume which the little bubbles produced on the surface of the water, glittered like silver-coloured snow. I could have plunged in the watery abyss in order to sink down in that heaven.

‘The rising sun put a stop to that enchantment. My fellow travellers began to stir. I hastened to tell them what a scene they had missed. A reverend old man, who was present when I related what I had seen, smiled. “One can see,” said he, “that this is your first voyage; this phenomenon is nothing uncommon in all seasons, and particularly in warmer climes; nevertheless the naturalists still differ in their opinion of its cause, some believing that it proceeds from small luminous insects, and others from an oily substance that separates from rotten animal bodies.—Many pretend this phenomenon to be the forerunner of an impending tempest, but this is false”.

‘The old man may not have been mistaken, yet this time he was refuted by experience. The little clouds which were swimming singly in the sky, united by degrees and overdarkened the sun. A black tempest began to gather in the north. The crew were just going to prepare against the storm, when suddenly a violent gale of wind arose, and hurried the vessel with incredible rapidity over the ruffled surface of the sea. We lost one of our anchors, which fell from the deck with a thundering noise. Some loud peals of thunder gave the signal for the breaking out of the storm. The light of day disappeared, the billows of the swelling sea were rolling one upon another with a roaring noise; the dreadful flashes of lightening seemed to dye the surface of the ocean with blood, and each clap of thunder threatened to shiver the mast to atoms. The foaming of the waves, the rolling of thunder, and the howling of the winds, seemed to announce to that part of the world the return of old chaos.

‘The strong flashes of lightning made us suddenly observe that land was near. How welcome soever such a discovery is in fair weather, yet it was to us the most dreadful incident that could have happened, on account of imminent danger of being wrecked. Our cables seemed not to be able to resist long the fury of the winds and waves which availed the vessel.

‘All these circumstances contributed to recall to my mind the recollection of a similar incident which had robbed me of my Amelia. The wounds of my heart began to bleed afresh, and the melancholy sensations which assailed my mind, deprived me of the power that I, otherwise, should have opposed to the terrors which surrounded me. My heart beat violently against my breast, and nothing but my ambition could have prevented me from joining those who groaned and lamented loudly, wringing their hands and tearing their hair.

(To be continued.)

ON THE GENIUS OF WOMEN.

To the EDITOR*.

Sir,

Certain persons have for some time past been carrying on a dispute relative to the talents of women, and the dispute I perceive has found its way into your miscellany. I believe, Sir, the question might be soon settled to the satisfaction of all parties, if, we were first to agree in what is meant, or should be meant by the word talents. Hitherto, if I understand the controversy, talents have been understood to mean the power or faculty of publishing in prose and verse; and if we limit it to this, we may easily decide, that women are inferior to men, because there have been probably a thousand male authors for one female.

But, Sir, with submission, I would beg leave to suggest, that we narrow human genius and ability very much, when we confine them to the bookseller’s shop. Are there not many very able Statesmen who never write any thing but Treasury-warrants, and receipts for their salaries? Nay, do we not admire the vast genius of some Representatives, whose forte is entirely in speaking, and who, when compelled to draw up an address to their independent constituents, commit errors that would disgrace a school-boy? In short, Sir, if we have no other way of judging of a man’s talents, but by the quantity he publishes, either from the press or from his mouth, are we not giving all the praise to mere saying; and never reflecting that an accumulation of words, without corresponding actions, is to all necessary purposes useless and unprofitable?

This being premised, and, I hope, allowed, we need dispute no longer about the superiority of the male sex. The talents of the fair sex, as to all the great and important events of human life, and all the leading transactions of kingdoms and states have so far transcended what has been attributed to us, that were I to compile a new Universal History, however I might avail myself of the valuable labours contained in the old, I should certainly entitle it, “A history of the Power and Influence of the Female Sex, from the fall of Adam to the present time.” It is the pitiful jealousy and envy of men which has deprived the sex of the honours due to them in history; and likewise some part of the concealment of their influence, arises from the brevity of histories, their authors taking a superficial view of events, and seldom troubling themselves to investigate the secret springs of human action; whereas, if we will only examine into the minute particulars of great events, the secret intrigues of Courts, Kings and Ministers, or even of Republics, we shall always find that the women have had a great share in bringing about political changes, wars, treaties, negociations, &c. although they, for modesty probably, content themselves with acting unseen and unobserved, and the men, proud of the success of the affair, wish to take all the merit to themselves. Now, Sir, let me ask you a plain question: which of the two is likely to deserve most fame, and to confer greater renown on the party, the publishing a poem, or bringing about a Revolution in a state or nation, perhaps with a few words? Which requires greater abilities, to govern a kingdom, or to cajole a bookseller? To tickle the fancy of love-sick boys and girls by a novel, or to confound and stun half the Cabinets of Europe, by a bold stroke of invasion, a massacre, and a partition? To write a ballad about a man and woman who never existed, or to make the existence of thousands of men and women miserable?

But this is not all. It is not enough to appeal to the history of ancient and modern nations, for proofs of the superiority of women over men. This, perhaps, is not much in their favour, for a superiority of evil influence is not the present contest, and would not be very honourable if it were established. No, Sir, if we wish to ascertain the real and meritorious superiority of female talents, we need not consult the voluminous records of history; we need only bring the question home to ourselves. I shall instance but in one respect, the power of persuasion. This I take to be the great test of genius and talents. He who possesses this, possesses every thing; and yet we know that what a man cannot do by whole treatises and volumes, by a well connected chain of argument, and the most convincing calculations, is generally done by a woman with a smile, a glance of the eye, or a very few words. Sir, we may talk as we please of our vast learning, of our voluminous productions, of our many virtues for which we obtain credit in epithets and funeral sermons. But with what painful efforts do we accomplish the least of our good actions! and to do a great good is the business of a long life. What is all our power compared, or, which is more dangerous, put in competition with a TEAR or a FIT?

I repeat it, Sir, let us bring the question home to ourselves. What is it that constitutes the felicity of domestic life? Is it the wealth we have acquired, the house we live in, the equipage that bespeaks our rank, or the servants that bow at our command? No. Sir, to use an expression of Mr. Burke, it is, “the dignified obedience and proud submission” we owe and pay to the female sex. Our hearts confess that they deserve it, and that we cannot help paying it, and cannot, therefore, help acknowledging their superiority. When we refuse to pay it, when our minds are in a state of rebellion against those lawful sovereigns, where is it that we dare to breathe sentiments of a seditious tendency? Is it in their presence? No; a look, a word, awes us into submission; and when we conceive the thoughts of resistance we fly, like cowards, to some secret place, to some neutral ground, to the desart heath of celibacy.

They may be accounted to possess the greatest talents who accomplish the greatest purposes by few means, which, in my mind, establishes the superiority of the fair sex. I am, Sir, your humble servant,

PHILOGYNES.

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

In a ramble one evening with her and her parents through a beautiful valley, our admiration was excited by a cottage extremely small, but exquisitely neat, which lay on the sloping bank of a meandering river, shaded by old luxuriant trees---a bridge composed of planks formed a passage from the vale to the cottage, we crost it in order to have a better opportunity of gratifying our curiosity. We now saw a venerable looking man who had before escaped our notice, sitting in a little sunny glade, we stopt for fear of intruding on his solitude, but perceiving us he instantly approached, and with a pleasing politeness requested we would enter his humble abode. Harley with emotion exclaimed---“Good God! surely that voice is not unknown to me.” “I am certain,” said the stranger, “I have seen you before, though where I cannot immediately recollect.” “If I am not mistaken,” cried Harley, “You are the worthy Hume who was chaplain to the regiment in which I served.” “The same, the same indeed,” replied he, returning his embrace---“the same unfortunate man, whose setting life has been attended with a train of the severest calamities.” The big tear stood trembling on Harley’s cheek---“Friend of my youth,” said he---his voice faultered, but betrayed the sensibility of his feelings. We accompanied Mr. Hume into his cottage, Harley and he appeared delighted with this unexpected interview, both appeared anxious to learn the occurrences which had past, during the long interval of a separation. Harley’s delicacy prevented his enquiring too minutely into those misfortunes Hume hinted at, which he, perceiving with a candour that seemed genuine to his nature, declared he would inform us of those events he had experienced, “a tale,” said he, “adapted for youth---they will find the consequences of illicit passions, and how easily credulity can be imposed on.

“The events of my life are uncommonly calamitous, misfortune has persued me with unremitting vigour, I have lost the sweetest ties of life, I have seen the form of loveliness mouldering away, the shroud of darkness encompassing a mind replete with gentleness and pity, I have beheld the inexorable ruffian rob innocence of its boast and the blossom of beauty withering beneath the blast of affliction. Oh Harley, I have endured all this, and yet I live---live to draw the tear of sympathy by the recital of my fate.”

HISTORY OF HUME.

“The evening was uncommonly serene when I wandered from my cottage to enjoy its balmy sweetness, the distant hum of the busy villagers retiring from their various occupations, just stole upon my ear, and made me reflect on the happiness of our English peasants, and that a life of industry was a life of peace, since it kept the mind employed, and prevented the thoughts from wandering beyond the boundaries of virtue.

“I raised my eyes to the bright firmament where joys eternal are treasured for the righteous—I considered that millions of celestial beings might at that moment be hovering over my head, and joining in responsive hallelujahs before the throne of the Almighty, Milton’s beautiful lines occurred to me—

“I was roused from my meditations by a piteous voice, demanding the aid of charity, I looked at the object, he was a worn out veteran, the remnant of a shabby scarlet coat hung over his feeble limbs, he carried a wallet, no great load indeed, a mouldy crust of bread, too hard for decaying jaws of age. I felt for his misery, I pitied the misfortunes of that man, whose arm had assisted in defending my country from the rapacity of its enemies. He told me a tale of woe, and his cheek was moistened in relating it. Alas! poor old man, cried I, you have not been exempt from the common lot; but cheer up my soldier, the manly heart, while it trusts in heaven, should never be deprest, but the anguish of poverty has weakened courage. Come, cried I, taking him by the arm, we have both been veterans, though in different ways, labour should now cease, age requires a relaxation from toil, we are both swiftly gliding down the vale of years, let us endeavour to make the passage easy, we will retire to my little cottage, its doors have never yet refused admittance to the stranger, seated by the humble fire-side, we will recount our tales of old, and cheer our hearts with a draught of are, administered by the cherub hands of my Patty. We ascended the hill together which led to my lowly mansion, nature had sweetly decked it with the choicest verdure. As I ascended the hill, I wondered at not beholding my Patty; it was her custom, when prevented to attend my rambles, to watch my return, seated on the little green turf beside the door. As I entered I called her, but received no answer, my surprise increased---I seated my humble guest, and went in search of her, I tapt at her chamber door, still all was silent---melancholy presages rushed upon me, I attempted to open the door, weak and trembling my hand fell by my side, and my heart smote against my breast, I recollected myself, and wondered what had excited such fears in me---they now died away like the shadows of the night, I entered the chamber, but my child was not there, a folded paper lay on her little dressing table, I hastily snatched it up and perused it, a deep groan was wrung from me by agonizing pangs, and I fell senseless on the floor, my fall reached the veteran’s ears, he hurried to my assistance, gratitude inspired his poor unfortunate bosom, and he endeavoured to aid me, he recalled me to life, ah! mistaken kindness, the gloomy recesses of the grave were alone fit for me. I started from his arms, I raved aloud upon the name of Patty. Whither art thou gone, my child? I cried. The paper lay before me, I imagined it all a dream, I strained my glimmering sight to read the words of horror it contained:

“Oh my father, I fly from you, incapable of witnessing the shame and sorrow I have drawn upon you, I fly from you, a stranger to peace and bereft of innocence, the wiles of Mordaunt have undone me, I leave you forever!”

“Perfidious villain, to blast my only comfort! With some degree of resignation I could have consigned my child to death, the idea she was gone spotless to the bosom of her creator, would have calmed the sorrows of my soul, but to have her seduced by a monster, her fair form, her virtue for ever blasted, oh! ’twas agony insupportable, she was consigned to me by the wife on whom I doated; my Emily was an angel before she left this world, prepared for the mandate which called her hence, adorned with every charm of beauty and goodness, with her last sigh, she grieved forth the united names of child and husband, the cypress which shaded her grave was oftener watered by my tears, than by the dews of heaven; Patty was the darling of my eye, the blooming resemblance of her departed mother, she was sincere, artless, and unsuspecting as credulity itself, she became acquainted with her seducer, in our neighborhood he was affluent, young and elegant, beneath the mask of friendship and generosity, he concealed a mind deceitful and vicious, he admired the beauty of my child, he gained her affections, and rendered her forgetful of my early precepts, she fled, afraid to see the person whose hopes she had blasted, fled from the arms which would have sheltered her against the contumely of the world.

“I turned to the soldier, I beheld his tears of sympathy; he had seen troops destroyed, individuals fall beneath the ruthless sword of an enemy, but he had never beheld a lovely daughter, tempted from the arms of an idolizing parent. I will go in search of my child, I exclaimed, he offered his withered arm to support me, we descended the hill together. At the bottom I stopt, my emotions were to be compared to those which our first parents felt when driven from the garden of Eden. The cottage on the hill was once the scene of all my bliss with Emily, it was sacred because she resided in it; I have felt an enthusiasm of pleasure in walking through those paths in which she had trod, I wept, oh earth! I cried, where are thy joys, thy comfort? Alas! How fallible, how fleeting all thy blessings! I hurried on, the soldier followed me. We wandered to various cottages, still the answer was repeated, they had not seen such passengers as we described, travelling shortly exhausted our little stock of money, in a few days shelter was refused us, we crept under a hedge, and the rain wet our grey locks. The soldier murmured his regret, it was hard, he said, he had served his country faithfully, yet its ungrateful inhabitants barred their doors against him. Be comforted, my companion, I cried, consider what the Saviour of mankind has said, “the sparrows have their nests and the beasts their dens, but the son of man has not wherewithal to lay his head.” And shall we after so glorious an example, repine at not receiving shelter from a few miserable wretches.”

(To be concluded in our next.)

ESSAY on the Conduct of Men toward the FAIR SEX.

Every generous man should view the sentiments and actions of the fair sex in the most favourable light. I can ascribe the contrary practice to nothing but an unmanly spirit, since, in many cases, those guilty of it cannot vindicate themselves confidently with the laws of delicacy. Nature has made man the protector; and the fair sex require his protection: he who should refuse this, when necessary, would be reproached with cowardice; and much more if he should take advantage of their weakness. But is not he who injures a woman’s character, to be esteemed as great a coward as he who assaults her person? Certainly he is: the former is an insult on the modesty, and the latter upon the natural weakness of the sex.

There is but one way in which we can suppose a lady may vindicate herself from a false imputation, and that is by the tenor of her actions. But then, how liable are actions to be misconstrued! When once a slanderous tongue has given the clue, the world will be too apt to ascribe every thing to a wrong principle; even the candid are sometimes misled, and form suspicions which their honour would otherwise have prevented.

The practice of viewing the female conduct in an unfavourable light, subjects the sex to many disadvantages, which I have observed in the course of my acquaintance.

Flattery is a fashionable snare to entangle female vanity; and I know of no method more successful, when a man is disposed to put an unfavourable construction upon every thing he sees. If it is received with applause, with what satisfaction does the base deceiver congratulate himself upon his success! Hence some ladies, to avoid all such appearances, shew themselves displeased when they are attacked in this way; but alas! they succeed no better than the former; for it is easy enough for the confident fellow to console himself with this reflection, that the vain creature takes the compliment almost before it was intended.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

To Mr. MICHAEL DE MARIBUS,

In answer to his Grammatical Epistle addressed to Miss SALLY SYNTAX.

Sir,

The charitable construction which has been put upon your grammatical epistle, has rendered me declinable to your complex proposition. As your presumptuous address, wholly precludes the necessity of an apology for this abrupt preface; I shall be thereby relieved from an embarrassment, which the delicacy of the subject would have otherwise occasioned. The various contradictions visible in your letter, argue a defect of sincerity. In the first place, you say you would be superlatively happy to agree with me in the subjunctive mood; then you seem disposed, with an assuming air, so throw in a conjunction disjunctive, and disunite us into various moods and tenses. Again you say that you do not wish to be a noun adjective; then, that it is the optative of your soul, to become a relative.—What is a relative pray, but a noun adjective? You say also, that you trust I will not opiniate you singular: if you are not in the singular number, you must necessarily be in the plural. If, then, you have already formed the plural number, by the interjection of a copulative conjunction, connecting you to a noun substantive, you cannot expect, or even wish from me, an accession to your proposition. I candidly declare to you, that a noun substantive in the singular number, is the only part of speech to which I would willingly subjoin a copulative conjunction. Lest you should be disposed to charge me with assuming the prerogative of your own sex, I shall pass over many expressions in your letter, which might properly afford a field for criticism. But let me add, Sir, that as it was an impolite, so was it a very impolitic thing for you to make use of such unwarranted freedom, as to make proposals of so immensely great consequence, to a person, with whom you had so slight an acquaintance. If, previous to the exhibition of your bold letter, you had perfectly learned my disposition, you must have been sensible, that it would be far from being consonant with my feelings to admit of a concord with you, upon conditions so disagreeable as those you offered. Beside, it would have been by no means a bad plan for you, to have been a little conversant with my sister analogy; as she might have been of considerable advantage to you in an attempt of this nature: She might, at least, have supplied you with a rule, by which two noun substantives might have agreed with each other, without transforming either into a noun adjective.

SALLY SYNTAX.

OBSERVATION.

Sensible objects, which were any way connected with an absent or departed friend, impress their idea more forcibly on our minds, than bare reflections can; and then, like the pressure of the moon on the sea, they create a fulness of sorrow or tenderness, which can only be relieved by flowing from our eyes.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. Robert Johnston, to Miss Ann Switzer, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. at West Greenwich, (Con.) by the Rev. Dr. Lewis, the Rev. Platt Buffett, of Stanwich, to Miss Hannah Lewis, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Lewis, of the former place.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. Alexander Cowan, to Miss Margaret Ivers, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Peter Slote, Printer, to Miss Ann Cook, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 5th to the 11th inst.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

deg.100 deg.100

Feb. 5 31 42 s.se. clear, calm,do. light wd.

6 4050 5050 sw.do. rain, lt. wd.thick fog, do.

7 34 36 w.nw. clear, high wind,do. do.

8 26 38 w.do. clear, light wind,do. do.

9 3150 42 s.se. clear, calm,do. high wind

10 44 48 se.do. cloudy, h. wd.much rain.

11 404450 n.nw. cloudy, high wind,do. do.

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

FOR JANUARY 1797.

deg. 100

Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 24 35

Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 32 78

Do. do. for the whole month 28 56

Greatest monthly range between the 9th and 28th 46 0

Do. do. in 24 hours, the 10th, 20 75

Coldest day the 9th, 0 0

Warmest do. the 28th, 46 0

6 days it snowed, and about eight inches and a-half has fallen.

5 do. it rained, and a large quantity has fallen.

18 do. it was clear at sunrise, and 3 P.M. or observation hours.

8 do. it was cloudy at do. do. do. do.

2 do. the wind was high at do. do. do. do.

21 do. the wind was light at do. do. do. do.

26 do. the Mercury was at or below the freezing point, at sunrise.

16 do. the do. do. do. at sunrise and 3 P.M.

20 do. the wind was west of north and south at 7 A.M. & 3 do.

21 do. the do. was east of do. and do. at do. do.

SONNET TO ADVERSITY.

THE VISION:

AN ELEGY.

HUMANITY’s POWER.

ASPIRATION

OVER THE TOMB OF AN AMIABLE FRIEND.

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 22, 1797. [No. 86.

MAN’S DANGER AND SECURITY IN YOUTH.

In that period of life too often characterised by forward presumption and headlong pursuit, self-conceit is the great source of these dangers to which men are exposed; and it is peculiarly unfortunate, that the age which stands most in need of the counsel of the wise, should be the most prone to contemn it. Confident in the opinions which they adopt, and in the measures which they pursue, the bliss which youth aim at, is, in their opinion fully apparent. It is not the danger of mistake, but the failure of success, which they dread. Activity to seize, not sagacity to discern, is the only requisite which they value.

The whole state of nature is now become a scene of delusion to the sensual mind. Hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what flatters most is always farthest from reality. There are voices which sing around us, but whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites us to repose, but to slumber upon it is death. Sobriety should temper unwary ardour; Modesty check rash presumption; Wisdom be the offspring of reflection now, rather than the bitter fruit of experience hereafter.

DECEIT.

That darkness of character, where we can see no heart, those foldings of art, through which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, present an object unamiable in every season of life, but particularly odious in youth. If at an age when the heart is warm, when the emotions are strong, and when nature is expected to shew itself free and open, we can already smile and deceive, what is to be expected, when we shall be longer hackneyed in the ways of men, when interest shall have compleated the obduration of our hearts, and experience shall have improved us in all the arts of guile!

Dissimulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age: its first appearance is the fatal omen of growing depravity and future shame. It degrades parts and learning, obscures the lustre of every accomplishment, and sinks us into contempt with God and man. The path of falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from sincerity, it is not in our power to stop. One artifice unavoidably leads on to another: till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth increases, we are left entangled in our own snare.

Deceit discovers a little mind, which stops at temporary expedients, without rising to comprehensive views of conduct. It betrays a dastardly spirit. It is the resource of one who wants courage to avow his designs, or to rest upon himself. To set out in the world with no other principle than a crafty attention to interest, betokens one who is destined for creeping through the inferior walks of life. He may be fortunate, he cannot be happy; the eye of a good man will weep at his error: he cannot taste the sweets of confidential friendship, and his evening of life will be embittered by universal contempt.

DUTY OF OLD AGE.

A material part of the duty of the aged consists in studying to be useful to the race who are to succeed them. Here opens to them an extensive field, in which they may so employ themselves as considerably to advance the happiness of mankind. To them it belongs to impart to the young the fruit of their long experience; to instruct them in the proper conduct, and to warn them of the various dangers of life; by wise counsel to temper their precipitate ardour, and both by precept and example to form them to piety and virtue.

It never appears with greater dignity, than when tempered with mildness and enlivened with good humour; it then acts as a guide and a patron of youth.

Religion, displayed in such a character, strikes the beholders, as at once amiable and venerable. They revere its power, when they see it adding so much grace to the decays of nature, and shedding so pleasing a lustre over the evening of life. The young wish to tread in the same steps, and to arrive at the close of their days with equal honour.

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 259.)

“I stood on the deck a prey to speechless agony, when suddenly somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Conceive my astonishment when, on turning round, I saw Alumbrado standing behind me. I staggered back as if a midnight spectre had taken hold of me with icy hands. Terror and surprise deprived me of the power of utterance, and suspended every motion of my limbs. He had made the voyage without my knowledge, and found means to keep himself concealed from me; you may therefore imagine, how violently I was affected by the sudden appearance of that man, whom I fancied to be at Lis*on.

“Are you not sorry now, that you have slighted my advice?” Alumbrado said, “it seems you will not see your friend in this world.” Some minutes passed before I was able to reply. “Let us now enjoy in silence the grandest spectacle that nature can afford!” So saying, he looked with tranquillity at the foaming ocean, as if he had been standing on the sheltering shore, far distant from the danger that surrounded us from all sides. His eyes beheld with inconceivable serenity the wild commotion of the waves, which now raised the vessel to the flaming clouds, and now hurled it into the gaping abyss of the boiling sea. The firm tranquillity which Alumbrado’s countenance bespoke, in spite of the furious combat of the elements, the impending destruction of the ship, and the doleful lamentations of the desponding crew, appeared to me to denote more than human courage. I gazed with secret awe at a being that seemed to be delighted with a spectacle, which made every hair of my head rise like bristles.

‘At length the flashes of lightning grew fainter, the roaring of the thunder less violent, and the fury of the winds seemed to be exhausted; but the sea continued to be agitated in so dreadful a manner, that we apprehended the cables would not be able to stand the motion of the ship any longer. In vain did we implore human assistance by the discharge of our guns, the towering waves threatening destruction to the boats that attempted to come to our relief.

“In vain will human force endeavour to wage the unequal contest against all-powerful nature!” I exclaimed when I beheld that desponding sight. Alumbrado turned round. “I will tame the fury of these foaming waves, if you will promise to return to Lis*on!” I gazed at him in speechless astonishment. “I am in earnest,” he resumed, “will you return to Lis*on?” “If I will?” I replied, “If I will? how can you ask me that question? enable me to do it!” Alumbrado left me without returning an answer.

‘A few minutes after he returned. “You will, presently, behold a miracle,” he said, “but I must request you to tell nobody the author of it.”

‘I promised it, and the miracle ensued. The rolling foaming sea grew calm and smooth. We went on shore, and found ourselves not farther than a day’s journey from Lis*on.

‘You see my friend, that a higher power, against which opposition would have been useless, has put a stop to my voyage. I have related the history of it without making any comments, and leave it to your own judgment to form a just opinion of it. As for me, I am convinced that I have at length found the man whom my boding soul has long been in search of.’

This letter astonished me to the highest degree, and, at the same time, augmented my apprehensions very much. In my answer I declared neither for nor against Alumbrado’s supernatural power, because I neither chose to confirm the Duke in his belief in it, nor to risk losing his confidence; for how could I have expected to receive farther intelligence of his connection with Alumbrado, if I had been deprived of the latter? and yet it was of the utmost importance to me to learn every transaction of that designing man.

Notwithstanding this precaution, near a month elapsed without my having received an answer to my letter. I wrote a second time to him, but before his answer could reach me, was ordered by the King to return instantly, and to make an oral report of the issue of my commission. I was, therefore, obliged to depart without being able to wait the arrival of his letter.

I anticipated the pleasure of surprising him by my unexpected arrival, and went to his palace as soon as I arrived at Lis*on. He rather seemed surprised than pleased at the unexpected sight of me, asking with a kind of anxiety, whether I had received his last letter. When I answered in the negative he seemed to grow more easy, but adding, some time after, that it would be sent after me without delay, his brow began again to be overclouded. I was not much pleased with this behaviour, and begged him to relate to me the sequel of Alumbrado’s history, but he desired me to await the arrival of his letter, in which I should find a circumstantial account of it. In vain did I conjure him by the ties of our friendship to gratify my desire, and tried every art of persuasion in order to get the wished for information. He always evaded my questions, and frequently betrayed strong marks of uneasiness. Displeased with this reserve and mysterious behaviour, I took leave with evident coolness.

The two following days elapsed without our seeing each other. I must not forget to mention, that I received, the second day after my arrival, a letter from an unknown hand. When I opened the cover, I found a second sealed letter along with the following lines which were directed to me:

“Tomorrow you will receive a visit of an old acquaintance, to whom you will have the kindness to deliver the inclosed letter. But if he should not have made his appearance on the day after to-morrow, you may open the letter, which will give you farther information.”

I could guess neither the writer of the note, nor who that old acquaintance could be.

The day following I received the Duke’s letter, which had been sent after me. I opened it with impatience, and read the following lines:

“It appears more and more probable to me, my friend, that Alumbrado has raised the tempest that threatened to prove fatal to me, in order to punish me for my disobedience to his advice. For should he, who can subdue the billowing waves, not also be able to agitate them? You may say whatever you choose, a supernatural power must have been concerned in that event, and who is capable to fix its extention, its limits? My father and myself venerate Alumbrado as a worker of miracles ever since that event, although he strives to hide himself behind the pious cloak of humility.

“O! why was Alumbrado not present when that tempest raged which deprived me of my Amelia? He would have saved her, and all the gods of earth would envy me for my felicity. The Irishman has cheated me of every earthly blessing, by not fulfilling his promise.

“Concerning the Irishman, Alumbrado has given me a very extraordinary hint. ‘The Marquis of F*’ said he, ‘is undoubtedly right when he maintains, that God never intrusts an impostor with the power of working miracles. He is however mistaken, if he thinks the speaking phantom, which Hiermanfor made appear at the church-yard, had been nothing else but a natural deception; no one will ever persuade me that it is possible to effect any thing of that kind by natural means. Effected by mere natural means, you will say, and yet no miracle? certainly not; for cannot Hiermanfor have deluded you by the assistance of the father of lies? I will not explain my opinion on that head more at large, yet I think the Irishman is an hypocritical villain, who carries on a wicked trade. One ought to congratulate you, that your good principles deterred him from initiating you in his shocking mysteries. It was not without reason that he accused you of want of self-subsistence and resolution, for a dreadful degree of firmness of soul is required for joining in a contract whereby mortal men bid defiance to the great eternal Ruler of the world. However your better genius watched over you, and although you have been entangled a long time in the bonds of wickedness, yet he has delivered you from those snares before they were tied indissolubly. You ought to be thankful to the mercy of the God of love, and to be on your guard in future. If you should meet with men who perform supernatural works, you may easily find out what sort of people they are; if they deal in lies and imposition, they belong to the kingdom of darkness, but if truth and justice is sacred to them, they are children of light. If you had examined the Irishman after this standard, you would have fled with terror from the apparition of the church-yard, and he would never have succeeded in entangling you in an undertaking which has deprived the King of Spa*n of his lawful crown. The doctrine and the principles of the Irishman ought to have rendered him suspected to you. He endeavoured to point out to you the reason as the only infallible instructor and guide, at the expence of faith, and at the same time strove to confound that very reason by artful and fallacious conclusions, as the Marquis of F* has demonstrated in a masterly manner. The Irishman was very careful not to make you reflect on the limits of reason and the power of men, because a genius like you would easily have concluded how much we are in want of divine illumination and grace; and it was his chief aim to remove the light of religion, because his works required being covered by delusive mists. You will never have seen him frequent the church, nor perform religious rites, will never have heard him pronounce certain sacred names. I know that sort of people, who are so much the more dangerous, the more they are skilled in concealing their real shape behind deceiving masks. The spreading libertinism, and the furious rage of explaining every thing naturally, threatens indeed to suspend the belief in the existence, nay even in the possibility of miracles and sorcery, however they have not ceased notwithstanding that. The opinions of men may alter, but things will remain as they are. The same Omnipotence that in times of old has led the Israelites through the red sea, manifests itself still in our days through signs and miracles, although they are not acknowledged as such by the blind multitude. The same reprobated spirit that spoke formerly through the oracle of Delphos, and by whose assistance Simon the magician performed extraordinary feats, is still active in our present times.

“Is it therefore, improbable that men who by their superior sanctity rise above the generality, and connect themselves more intimately with the Godhead, should resemble the Supreme Being in power, and enjoy an immediate influence of the Ruler of the world? Is it so very incomprehensible that the spirit of darkness should favour those who resemble him in wickedness, and endow their inclination of perpetrating wicked deeds with a physical power of executing their diabolical designs? People of either description will, indeed, always rarely be met with; superstition will mistake as such many who do not belong to that class, yet who can prove that they do not exist at all? I am, certainly, no enemy to reason, however I conceive it to be not less absurd obstinately to reject whatever is miraculous, than to believe it blindly. I esteem eason while it does not overstep the limits to which it is confined, as the Marquis of F* has justly observed, nor attempts to expel faith. There are supernatural things, sacred truths, which the former never can comprehend, being reserved only for the latter. Faith is hailed by noontide light, even where reason finds nothing but midnight darkness. While the latter proceeds slowly, and with uncertain steps, through a mazy labyrinth of conclusions and arguments, the former enjoys a clear immediate sight of truth, and experiences all the strength of its evidence.

(To be continued.)

HAPPINESS.

Happiness is more sought after, and with much greater avidity, than any other blessing with which this terraqueous ball is supposed is be endued. Yet, notwithstanding the eagerness with which it is pursued, none has been less substantially obtained. The reason is obvious. Mankind are dissatisfied with their respective situations in life, and content dwells not in their bosoms: their minds are satiated with what they possess; new objects hardly delight for a moment, ere fresh ones present themselves; and man, unthinking creature as he is, follows the airy phantom, promising himself perfect happiness, can he but attain another wish; but which, when acquired, proves, alas! like the former, the visionary satisfaction of an instant.

Content constitutes continual happiness; for with that sweet companion, the peasant is greater than a prince destitute of the benign blessing. The glittering, gaudy tinsel of a court, is unable to convey that real happiness to man, which the honest rustic feels at the sweet lispings of his innocent babes, and the heartfelt welcome of a faithful wife as they greet his return every evening from a hard day’s toil. Surrounded by this happy group, he sits down, breaks the bread of virtuous industry, blesses Him who gave him strength to earn the scanty meal, and lays down on the pallet of penury in peace, to arise with the morn to labour and to happiness. This life he enjoys, because he aspires to nothing above that sphere in which it has pleased Omnipotence to place him.

How few, even in any state, do we find happy? Alas! the number is by far too few. To the improper pursuit after happiness, can we only attribute the misery of mankind; daily, nay even hourly, do we see dread examples of this serious truth. But where is the eye that has not beheld, the mind that has not felt, or the heart that has not pitied, some object who has, in grasping at the shadow of happiness, lost the substance; whether it has met the observation as a culprit at the bar of a criminal court, a lunatic, a beggar, a deluded female, or a debtor in the dreary mansion of a prison? Where is the tongue but must confess, that they have lost their probity, their reason, their independence, their virtue, or their liberty, in an improper pursuit after happiness? However wrong their ideas might be, that, and that only, was the aim.

It will be asked, and with great propriety, what remedy we should apply for the prevention or cure of such an unremitting disease? We can only recommend content; not merely as the interest, but the duty of mankind. For, if man repines, at whom is it? It is at Him who in mercy infinite made man. There are few, it is presumed, if they consider this serious and important truth, who will not cease to murmur and be discontented; or they must, at least, cease to offend the Almighty, by repeating those words which his beloved Son himself hath taught us, saying, “thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven.”

Of the GENIUS of the ARABS.

Arabia has ever been as celebrated for horses of a gentle, generous spirit, as the Arabs for their skill in training them. That this praise is not undeserved, nothing can more clearly illustrate, I conceive, than the following incident, recounted by an English gentleman, whose credit and repute are well known among his countrymen in Bengal.

Temporarily resident at Bussorah, after a trading voyage to the Gulph of Persia, Mr. T—— went, one afternoon, to pay a visit at the English factory. Whilst the Chief, with several other gentlemen besides himself, were drinking coffee in a balcony, an Arab, gallantly mounted, and his horse superbly caparisoned, galloped into the courtyard: there, for some time, he exercised his steed, displayed perfect address in the manege, curvetting, prancing, volting, wheeling, and caprioling his courser, with inimitable grace, and as much expertness in the easy management of his arms, darting a spear in the air, and recovering it again at full tilt, with other feats, equally dexterous and entertaining.

Unluckily, however, for the poor fellow, in crossing a bank and ditch, leading from the area to an adjacent field, the horse, being fatigued, fell down, and threw his rider headlong in the dust. A stream of blood gushed, at the same time, from the creature’s nostrils, and he lay extended and motionless on the ground. The Arab seemed stunned by the fall; but at length recovering, shook his ears, brushed the dust from his cloaths, replaced his turban, and approached his horse.

But no man nor pencil can express the anguish and affliction conspicuous in the man’s countenance, on beholding the animal lie in that condition. At first he raved and screamed, in a delirium of agony; then bursting into tears, kissed and embraced his horse, bewailing and bemoaning his loss in all the excess of despondency. So animated, indeed, appeared his grief, and so deep his distress, as to inspire a sympathetic affection in the bosoms of all the spectators.

The gentlemen instantly called him up, and learning that the horse had been bred from a colt in his house, and was the only support (as the man served as a monthly Sepahi in the Bashaw’s army) of his father, mother, himself, his wife, and three small children, and that the loss now deprived the whole of subsistence, they humanely raised a handsome contribution for him, immediately among themselves and their dependents, and, giving the man the money, bid him be comforted, and go and buy another horse.

With effusions of the most lively gratitude, yet not unaccompanied by sighs and sobs, the man received the bounty, and once more repaired, dejectedly, towards his horse, in order, as it should seem, to take off the trappings and furniture. But no sooner had the wily Arab repassed the ditch, than, at a word, the horse started up; the master vaulted upon his back, and rode away full speed, laughing aloud at the credulity of his staring and astonished dupes, and at the success of his own contrivance.

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Concluded from our last.)

Be consoled that our hearts are not tainted with evil, and that the consciousness of never committing aught offensive to innocence, hangs like a friendly shade around us, to blunt the pointed arrows of adversity. Fatigue at length overpowered the veteran, and he died under a holly tree. A tributary tear of gratitude fell from me, but I quickly supprest my feelings, and envied him his fate. The minister of the parish was a good man, and had him interred. When the rustics retired who had attended the funeral, I seated myself by the sod which covered the remains of my last friend, how often did I raise my eyes to heaven, and beseech the Supreme to take me to eternal peace. I continued lost in gloomy reveries till night surrounded me, I arose with an intention of proceeding to the next hamlet. As I walked slow and pensive, my ears were struck by a soft voice familiar to them, which came from a flower-woven arbour on the road side. I listened attentively, it was the voice of my child, amazed, doubting my own senses, I crept to the spot. She was singing a little air, which had once been a favourite of mine, there is no describing the melancholy melody with which she sung it; she was often interrupted by sighs, and her hands were raised to wipe away her tears, the beams of the moon shone around us, affording sufficient light to discern every object. She turned around and perceived me, the paleness and agony of my countenance terrified her, “Gracious Heaven!” cried she, “what do I behold?” “A miserable old man,” I exclaimed, “whose heart is broken by ingratitude and grief.” She shrieked, she would have fled, but her limbs aided not her intention, fainting she sunk at my feet, I knelt beside her, I clasped her with a kind of phrenzy to my breast, called upon her to revive, and bless a father who never ceased to regret her loss, she opened her eyes, “Alas! I am unworthy of such tenderness,” “No, my child, mercy is the sweetest attribute of heaven, to err, the weakness of humanity.” Her head fell upon my shoulder, I wept with her, my heart seemed breaking, at that moment comfort seemed fled from both for ever. By degrees I calmed her agitation, “Alas!” said she, “was it in search of such a wretch you came? oh! my father, how could I ever forget thy precepts, or deviate from the path in which you brought me up, but if penitence and remorse can palliate error, mine is lessened, from the moment of error I have been superlatively wretched, and incessantly looked back to regret that peace which can only result from unsullied innocence.” A thousand times the dear unhappy girl knelt at my feet, to implore my forgiveness, I as often assured her she had obtained it.