VOLUME II. (continued 17)

“Though peace and innocence,” said I, “shall no more brighten my cottage, yet pity and repentance shall render it not an unpleasing asylum, but may some signal punishment from heaven, fall upon the author of your wrongs.”

The shocks my Patty had experienced preyed upon her life, unceasing anguish like a worm in the bud, fed on her damask cheek, the glow of health, the fire of imagination, and the animation of youth were fled, and a deep melancholy seized the soul of my child, she in whom my life was wrapt, whom I had nourished with so much tenderness, lay expiring before me, like a blossom immaturely blighted, I attended her in dumb despair. A few moments before she died, she thus spoke, “Alas my father, I have overwhelmed you with sorrow, regret me not, let not those tears fall on my account, in this world all must have been misery, the blackness of despair, I go, blessed by thy forgiveness, and the promise which scripture holds out of penitence meeting mercy, a broken and contrite heart is acceptable.” Her hands were extended, her eyes closed, and she expired. The power who supported me in such trials, pardoned the first delirium of grief, in the days of my felicity I had pictured to myself such scenes of bliss, I looked forward to a prattling progeny, who would be the comfort of my old age.

“How desultory are the schemes of man, he lays plans of permanent felicity, when the whirlwind of affliction arrives, and destroys the towering edifice of creative hope.

“After those occurrences, my mind was too perturbed to allow me to attend to the duties of my function, I surrendered my living, left that part of the country, and retired to this spot, where unknown and unmolested, I may brood over my losses, and where I frequently picture to myself the terminating scene.”

Exquisite were the sensations of grief and horror, which this little tale excited in our breasts; to my feelings was added a painful degree of surprise from the name of Mordaunt, I enquired, though in accents of dread and hesitation, and learned he was the destroyer of Hume’s happiness.

Our visits were frequently repeated to the cottage of the unfortunate old man, to me they were inexpressibly soothing, from kindred grief there was derived a congenial sympathy.

Two years had rolled away since my retirement in Harley’s cottage, when I was called down one morning to a gentleman in the parlour, my heart trembled at the summons, and my tottering limbs could scarcely support me to the spot. A stranger in deep mourning met my view, I gazed attentively on him, and recollected the features of my brother, grief had so altered my form, so worn away all traces of my former self, that he knew me not, till my weak voice pronounced his name.

“Ah my sister,” cried he, “think not your brother could ever forget your gentle worth, could ever think you deserving of censure, or like the world be biassed by misfortune to forget you, a father’s interdiction prevented me ere this, visiting your retreat, that father no longer exists to oppose my intentions, he died convinced of your innocence, and breathing wishes for your felicity. Harland, the penitent Harland is no more, sensible of the injustice he had done you, he acknowledged his cruelty, and has by his death, restored you to fame, to fortune, and to your child.”

I wept as my brother spoke—my heart was opprest by a variety of emotions, and my gloomy soul turned to the untimely grave of Harland—my brother conjectured my feelings—“I see” cried he, “from what a mingled source your tears flow, but ah my sister, in this life happiness must ever receive some alloy.”

His consolations strengthened my reason in combating grief—I reflected that even if Harland lived, to me he must have been lost, since after the unfortunate rencontre between him and my husband, a connection with him would have confirmed an invidious world in every idea they had formed prejudicial to me.

He was soon struck by the charms and innocent simplicity of Louisa, her heart returned his partiality, and I had the happiness of witnessing their union.

Their happiness, the education of my child, and self-exertion, roused me from the lethargy of grief, and diffused a calm over my mind I never hoped to have experienced.

THE SCHOOL OF NATURE.

Nature presents to the imagination an inexhausted fund of rational amusement. To contemplate the inimitable works of creation, is no less instructive than pleasing. Animate as well as inanimate objects afford an abundance of entertaining ideas, equally calculated to raise in the souls of human beings the most unfeigned offerings of wonder, gratitude, and praise. The gaiety of spring, the smiles of summer, the fecundity of autumn, and the dreariness of winter, all combine to celebrate the Author of universal existence. From the most curious and precious earthly substance, down to the simplest blade of herbage, a granery is opened to satisfy the desires of, and impart delight to, rational mortals. But, notwithstanding the innumerable blessings conferred on man from above, if we attentively mark the conduct of the majority of individuals, painful as it may be to our own feelings, or those of every contemplative, virtuous, and sensible person, how few are those to be found, who are truly thankful for the mercies they enjoy? How few, indeed, who acknowledge the goodness of an omnipotent and omniscient Being! They live as if they were indebted to none for their life or their enjoyments. Unthankful and ungenerous man! why art thou so impious as to forget that incumbent gratitude, and that graceful duty, which thou owest to thy heavenly Father? Why trample on every moral obligation? why shun the precepts of pious Wisdom, and the dictates of impartial Conscience? Rouze thyself from the torpor which now envelopes thee, and learn to be thankful for those blessings which thou dost assuredly receive from above; and, in the words of the late pious Mr. Addison, testify thy acknowledgments—

Let not any one think it beneath him, or in the smallest degree derogatory to his character or sphere in life, however learned, opulent, and exalted, he may be, to retire occasionally from the bustle of the world, and to meditate in some calm and undisturbed recess, the perfections of his Maker, and the works of his hands. Believe me, the most refined pleasures are to be derived from such innocent, delightful, and laudable pursuits. The magnificent and wonderful objects of the celestial, and the curiosity and variety of the vegetable world, as well as the formation of all animals, reptiles, insects, and other productions of Nature, have properties which, if accurately viewed, yield inconceivable astonishment to the beholder. When spring, for example, returns with all it’s native beauties, as succeeding the gloomy aspect and forbidding horrors of winter; when it teems with a matchless splendour and magnificence; when its green hues and universal verdure come forth in all their pristine elegance, and enchanting attractions; and the birds warble and attune in sprightly attitudes, their respective notes, even then they are almost always either forgotten or disregarded; even then men neglect to thank the Author of life and happiness, the source of every distributive blessing. What culpable negligence is this, in rational and accountable beings! O that man would attend with docility to these important truths, and frequently reflect on the revolving seasons of the year, and the School of Nature, which would afford him an endless variety of useful and instructive lessons; and, in an iminent degree, furnish a convincing and happy demonstration of the wisdom, power, and goodness, of the Creator.

ANECDOTE.

Charles the Second asking the famous Bishop Stillingfleet, how it came to pass, that although he was informed he always preached without book elsewhere, yet he always read his Sermons before the Court? The Bishop replied, that the awe of so wise an audience, where he saw nothing that was not greatly superior to himself, made him afraid to trust his memory. “But will your majesty (continued Stillingfleet) permit me to ask you a question in my turn?---Why do you read your Speeches, when you can have no such reasons?”---“Why, truly, Doctor, (said the King) your question is a very pertinent one, and so shall be my answer.---I have asked the Parliament so often, and for so much money, that I am afraid to look them in the face.”

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

OBSERVATION.

“Qui capit ille facit.”

“Giving advice unasked,” says Lord Chesterfield, “is a piece of rudeness; it is, in effect, declaring ourselves wiser than these to whom we give it; reproaching them with ignorance and inexperience. It is a freedom that ought not to be taken with any common acquaintance.” Notwithstanding, there are those who assume the place of preceptors, not only to their familiars, but to those with whom they have no particular acquaintance, nor can claim the least pretence to superiority.

There is also another class of people who render themselves insufferably disgusting, by a kind of blind raillery, which they employ against some person present: to whom they offer the most unpardonable insults, without saying any thing in particular that can properly be resented.

An instance of both these characters I met with, not long since, in a gentleman whom I chanced to fall in company with: and as I perceived his observations were altogether levelled at me, I shall not hesitate to offer a few remarks thereon; and, in my turn, propose a word of instruction to those who may be guilty of the like errors. Should they wish to convince any one of his faults, on honourable grounds, let them, without reserve, address the immediate person intended, with freedom and candour: for they may be assured that open reproof is better than covert insults. “Poisoned arrows,” (to use the words of a celebrated author, on another occasion) “and stabs in the dark, are not more repugnant to the laws of Humanity” than “this battery of” indirect sarcasm. Reflections, thus obliquely delivered, though clothed in the “mildest language,” give to persons of discernment and spirit “sensible” offence. Every body knows that the provokingest things are frequently uttered in the ironic style; and it is quite as certain, that the acutest sting often lurks under the softest expressions. The dagger becomes not less keen for being polished.

ETHICUS.

New-York, October 6, 1796.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CHURCH YARD.

A Fragment.

******I walked into the Church-Yard, and placed myself near a grave that had been newly dug, in order to take a view of the different characters that approached.

—The body was deposited in the place appointed. The mourners stood near the clergyman, as he read the service. The father of the departed held a handkerchief in his hand, which he alternately applied to each eye, for the purpose of wiping off the briney tear; for they were abundantly surcharged therewith. His eye was fixed on the coffin; now it reverted to the minister: again it fell to the ground in hopeless sorrow.

The uncle next caught my attention; he also held a handkerchief in his hand.---But for the life of me I could not tell for what, unless it was that fashion demanded it. His sorrow appeared to reside no where but in his dress: and I must say, he was in no wise deficient in that point. I could not perceive that he took the least notice of the ceremony; his attention was more occupied on the things of this world. I imagined he was taking the model of a house that stood near; and it surprised me not a little that he did not take out his pocket-book, in order to note it.

In the countenance of the divine was depicted humility---It was with solemnity he fulfilled his office.

The people were departing; but the sincere mourner was still standing by the grave. The uncle had reached the gate; but suddenly he arrested his steps: he missed his fellow, and returned. He pulled out his handkerchief again, and when he stood along side his brother applied it to his eyes!——

——Shame on the hypocrite!

L. B.

October 14, 1796.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 30th ult. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Choate, to Mrs. Sarah Young, widow of the late Mr. Ebenezer Young, all of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. John Juland, Mr. Christopher Dunn, late of Yorkshire, England, to Mrs. Nancy Ferris, of Throgs Neck.

On Thursday evening the 9th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Goodhue, Mr. Elias Brevoort to Miss Margaret Painter, both of this city.

A few evenings since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. John Doubleday, Printer, to Mrs. Odell, both of this city.

The transcriber is sorry to say that “John Doubleday, printer,” appears to have no connection with the publisher of the same name.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 12th to the 18th 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. 12 31 5325 w.do. clear, calm,do. do.

13 36 38 ne.e. cloudy, lt. wind,rain do.

14 35 36 ne.do. rain, light wind,do. do.

15 27 30 ne.nw. snow, light wdclear do.

16 25 33 nw.do. clear, light wind,do. do.

17 25 39 e.s. cloudy, lt. wddo. h wd.

18 36 41 nw.do. cloudy, lt. wdrain do.

SENSATION AND PERCEPTION.

A THOUGHT.

LAVINIA.

A PASTORAL.

A JEU D’ESPRIT.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, February 29, 1797. [No. 87.

The ART of HAPPINESS.

Almost every object that attracts our notice, has its bright and its dark side. He who habituates himself to look at the displeasing side, will sour his disposition, and, consequently, impair his happiness; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensibly meliorates his temper, and, in consequence of it, improves his own happiness, and the happiness of all about him.

Arachne and Melissa are two friends. They are, both of them, women in years, and alike in birth, fortune, education, and accomplishments. They were originally alike in temper too; but, by different management, are grown the reverse of each other. Arachne has accustomed herself to look on the dark side of every object. If a new poem or play makes its appearance with a thousand brilliances and but one or two blemishes, she slightly skims over the passages that should give her pleasure, and dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you shew her a very excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery which has been neglected, or to a hand or finger which has been left unfinished. Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and elegancy: but, if you take a walk with her in it, she talks to you of nothing but blights and storms, of snails and caterpillars, and how impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves and worm-carts. If you sit down in one of her temples, to enjoy a delightful prospect, she observes to you, that there is too much wood, or too little water; that the day is too sunny, or too gloomy: that it is sultry, or windy; and finishes with a long harangue upon the wretchedness of our climate.—When you return with her to the company, in hopes of a little chearful conversation, she casts a gloom over all, by giving you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy accident that has befallen one of her daughter’s children. Thus she insensibly sinks her own spirits, and the spirits of all around her; and, at last, discovers, she knows not why, that her friends are grave.

Melissa is the reverse of all this. By constantly habituating herself to look only on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual chearfulness in herself, which, by a kind of happy contagion, she communicates to all about her. If any misfortune has befallen her, she considers it might have been worse, and is thankful to Providence for an escape. She rejoices in solitude, as it gives her an opportunity of knowing herself; and in society, because she can communicate the happiness she enjoys. She opposes every man’s virtues to his failings, and can find out something to cherish and applaud in the very worst of her acquaintance. She opens every book with a desire to be entertained or instructed, and therefore seldom misses what she looks for. Walk with her, though it be on a heath or a common, and she will discover numberless beauties, unobserved before, in the hills, the dales, the brooms, brakes, and the variegated flowers of weeds and poppies. She enjoys every change of weather, and of season, as bringing with it something of health or convenience. In conversation, it is a rule with her never to start a subject that leads to any thing gloomy or disagreeable. You therefore never hear her repeating her own grievances, or those of her neighbours or, what is worst of all, their faults or imperfections. If any thing of the latter kind be mentioned in her hearing, she has the address to turn it into entertainment, by changing the most odious railing into a pleasant raillery.

Thus Melissa, like the bee, gathers honey from every weed; while Arachne, like the spider, sucks poison from the fairest flowers. The consequence is, that, of two tempers once very nearly allied, the one is ever sour and dissatisfied, the other always gay and chearful; the one spreads an universal gloom, the other a continual sunshine.

There is nothing more worthy of our attention, than this art of happiness. In conversation, as well as life, happiness, very often depends upon the slightest incidents. The taking notice of the badness of the weather, a North-East wind, approach of winter, or any trifling circumstance of the disagreeable kind, shall infallibly rob a whole company of its good-humour, and fling every member of it into the vapours. If, therefore, we would be happy in ourselves, and are desirous of communicating that happiness to all about us, these minutiæ of conversation ought carefully to be attended to. The brightness of the sky, the lengthening of the day, the increasing verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of good news, or whatever carries with it the most distant glimpse of joy, shall frequently be the parent of a social and happy conversation. Good-manners exact from us this regard to our company. The clown may repine at the sunshine that ripens the harvest, because his turnips are burnt up by it; but the man of refinement will extract pleasure from the thunder-storm to which he is exposed, by remarking on the plenty and refreshment which may be expected from the succeeding shower.

Thus does politeness, as well as good sense, direct us to look at every object on the bright side; and, by thus acting, we cherish and improve both. By this practice it is, that Melissa is become the wisest and best-bred woman living; and, by this practice, may every person arrive at that agreeableness of temper, of which the natural and never-failing fruit is Happiness.

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 267.)

The period is however arrived, when men begin to abandon themselves exclusively to the cold speculations of reason, and this fatal maxim manifests itself but too evidently in the practical life. Rarely any thing is undertaken before it is pondered and weighed most anxiously with a pusillanimous minuteness. And this is one of the chief causes of the present scarcity of great and striking actions. The sacred flame of enthusiasm extinguishes, and every energy of soul dies away along with it. While reason wastes her whole strength in barren speculations, the demands and wants of our heart remain unsatisfied, a kind of insensibility deals upon us, the mind grows pusillanimous, and all noble passions are suffocated. No, no! this is no age in which great geniuses can thrive! Reasoning has produced but very few immortal deeds; faith, however, although it should have been only the faith of man in his natural abilities, has frequently rendered impossible possible.—If so, what miracles will faith in the assistance of an omnipotent being, be able to perform? The first King of Portugal has given us the most glorious proof of the truth of this assertion: he went, as you know from history, with four thousand men against the infidels, and was opposed by five kings with four hundred thousand Moors. Terror and dismay seized his little army at this sight; however the celebrated apparition through which God promised him the victory over his enemies, revived the broken spirit of his troops. And what else but faith in this promise could have made him risk and gain a battle, in which one man had to encounter an hundred?”

“My dear Marquis, I have been interrupted again by the visit of a great prelate, and, with your permission, shall communicate to you the substance of what he has told me. The Jews, he said, have, as you will know, offered to the new Regent, on his accession to the throne, to pay a great sum of money to him, if he would grant them liberty to live and to trade in the country as external Christians, without being persecuted by the Inquisition. It would have been highly advantageous to religion, if this liberty had been granted to the Jews; for although they should have visited the Christian churches at first only for form’s sake, and observed only the external rites of worship, yet many would have been edified, and convinced of the truth of Christianity so irresistibly, that they would have seriously embraced the Christian religion. The Inquisitors themselves have intimated this to the King. However the ————, I do not know how to call him, who cares little for the propagation of faith, has refused to grant this petition of the Jews. The Inquisition has informed the Pope of it; and the holy father, who as yet has refused to acknowledge his royal authority, will now have an additional reason for not confirming the usurped dignity of a free thinker, who injures the interest of the church whenever opportunity offers. I have, however, great reason to suspect that our new King foments these dissensions designedly, for some horrid purpose. Not contented with having alienated the nation from their lawful Sovereign, he also endeavours to obtain an opportunity of alienating them from the chief of the church. O Marquis! O Duke! what gloomy prospects for all those who are resolved to live and to die in the religion of their ancestors.

“Stop,” the Marquis exclaimed, “he shall not dare to carry matters to that point; by heaven, he shall not.” My father had not yet ceased giving vent to his indignation, when the other prelate, whom I mentioned in my last letter, joined us. The two prelates were rejoiced to see each other, and concealed their sentiments so little from each other, that they both avowed their opinions of the new King without the least reserve. ‘I cannot conceive how you,’ said he, who had joined us, turning to my father and me, ‘who are sprung from royal blood, can submit to the humiliation of obeying a usurper, who will do every thing in his power to humble your family as much as possible. Don’t you perceive that he confers the highest dignities on other people, while he, out of a cowardly policy, keeps his nearest relations at a distance, and in profound submission? The King of Spa—n knows your merits, and is capable of rewarding them properly. Who would not rather hold an important office under the greatest Monarch, than live in inactivity and obscurity, under the most insignificant King in Europe? These are the sentiments of many nobles who are still firmly attached to their old lawful Sovereign.’

“Dear Marquis, my heart is deeply afflicted, and strange ideas are crossing my head. What must I do? Alumbrado says nothing, but commit every thing to the paternal care of God.

“To day I received your letter, in which you reproach me for my long silence. I am, however, not sorry that my letter, which I wanted to send eight days ago, has been kept back through negligence, for now I shall be able to conclude it with the relation of a most extraordinary incident.

“I used for some time to visit every evening our favourite spot before the town, which always attracted me very much, partly by its natural charms, and partly by the undisturbed solitude one enjoys there. On the left side, a chain of hills, that form a beautiful group; on the right, a wood, inclosing the extensive plain, and in the middle the prospect of the distant blue mountains. You know what an enchanting effect that spot produces, particularly at sun-set; and thither I took a walk every evening. The way to that charming place is decorated with the ruins of an old chapel, which partly is surrounded with a half decayed wall. Approaching those ruins last evening, I saw Alumbrado step forth with hasty paces. ‘Stop!’ he exclaimed, ‘do you know that you will be a dead man if you proceed a step farther?’ Alumbrado’s unexpected appearance, his intelligence, and the seriousness of his countenance convulsed my nerves. ‘A dead man?’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes!’ said he, ‘did I not foretell you that the King would vent his resentment against you? If you go fifty steps farther, you will bleed under the hands of his banditti. You stare at me,’ he continued. ‘If you wish to be convinced of it, then follow me into the chapel, and let us change cloaths; I shall pursue this path, wrapt in your cloak, and the hired assassins will fall upon me, under the mistaken notion that I am the person whom they have been ordered by the King to assassinate. If you will ascend to the top of this turret, you may witness the whole scene.’ I shuddered with horror, and peremptorily refused to submit to it. ‘You need not to be under the least apprehension for my life,’ he replied. ‘All that I desire of you is to make no noise when you see me fall, but to go quietly home without mentioning to any one what you will have seen. We shall meet again at your house.’ All my objections availed nothing; we exchanged our dress, he saw me to the top of the turret, and left me. I pursued him with anxious looks and beating heart.

“Alumbrado had scarcely reached the skirts of the wood, when I heard the report of a pistol, and saw him drop down, upon which three ruffians darted forth from the bushes, gave him some stabs, and carried him into the wood. I staggered down the narrow staircase by which I had ascended the turret, and went home, thrilled with emotions that surpass all power of description. I sat up till after midnight, but no Alumbrado came; however, at six o’clock he entered my apartment. I cannot describe what I felt on seeing him. He was unhurt, but nevertheless I staggered back at the sight of him. ‘Alumbrado!’ said I, after a pause of dumb astonishment, ‘do I really see you alive after the scene my eyes have witnessed last night?’ ‘Pistols and daggers,’ he replied, ‘cannot hurt the man who is under the immediate protection of God. Come,’ added he, ‘let us go to your father.’

“I related to my parent the incident of the preceding night. He seemed to be petrified. The cruel villainy of the King, and the supernatural power of Alumbrado, appeared to have carried him beyond himself; the thanks which he wanted to offer to the latter for the preservation of my life, and curses against the King, hovered at the same time on his lips; but he could not speak.

“Let us take a walk in the garden,” Alumbrado said. We went; but I shall not repeat the conversation that took place. Yet I do not think that Alumbrado has added fuel to the fire. ‘The Duke of B——a,’ said he, ‘is King and accountable to no other tribunal but that of God. No mortal dare lift up his hand against him without the express command of God or his Vicegerent. I have received no such order, and I think you neither. All that you can do is to be on your guard against the King, and to mention to no one the villainous transaction of last night. Will you promise this? Your own safety requires it.’ We promised it.

“I could not help manifesting my astonishment at Alumbrado’s wonderful preservation. ‘Do you then think,’ said he, ‘that only those who are leagued with the spirit of darkness are proof against fire-arms and swords, and that the children of light do not enjoy that privilege? I will give you a proof of it; send for a gun and balls, here is powder.’ So saying, he produced the powder horn which I had missed some days. ‘You have,’ added he, ‘either lost it or it has been stolen, for I have found it in the hands of the banditti.’ ‘What are you going to do with balls and a gun?’ My father asked with marks of astonishment. ‘That you shall see instantly,’ Alumbrado replied, ‘if you only will send for both.’ I ordered Pietro to fetch my fowling piece and a couple of balls out of my apartment. He returned with them, and Alumbrado whispered in my ear to send him out of the room. Having dismissed the servant, Alumbrado begged me to charge the gun, but previously to examine carefully the powder and the balls. I did as he had desired me, and the gun being charged, Alumbrado said to the Marquis; ‘Now take the gun, my Lord, and fire it at me.’ My father was almost petrified at this request, and having gazed at him a good while, with looks of astonishment, exclaimed: ‘No! I never shall do any thing of that kind!’ ‘Then you too are destitute of faith?’ Alumbrado said, looking up to heaven. ‘O God, how degenerated even the faithful adorers of thy son!’ ‘I have declined it out of no other motive,’ the Marquis replied, ‘but because I will not tempt the omnipotence of God.’ ‘The motive of my request is not temptation, but the glory of God,’ Alumbrado replied. If I fall, then I am a daring provoker of the Almighty, and deserve my fate; but if I remain unhurt, you will have reason to conclude that the power of God has warded off the ball, and know in what light to view me.’ So saying, he uncovered his breast, retreated three steps, and desired my father to fire.

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE.

A French nobleman one day visiting a late famous duke, a favourite little dog bit his lordship’s leg. “Fear nothing, my lord,” said the duke, “my dog never bites.” On which his lordship, knocking down the little animal with a violent blow of his cane, replied in the same tone of voice, “Fear nothing, my lord, I never beat dogs.”

THE PROVERBIALIST.

Home, is a place, either of happiness or misery. In my book of experimental wisdom, I find a number of most excellent remarks, which, if remembered, and reduced to practice, I am confident may be of service to families.

Every person has some failings: Perfection is not to be looked for in the present world. A great attention in husband and wife, to the failings of each other, has a direct tendency to destroy or embitter domestic enjoyments.

The ancients, sensible of this gave good advice, when they said that, “The husband should hot see, and the wife should be blind.” And it is evident, that many things which transpire in a family, had better not be seen—if seen, not remembered, if remembered, yet not spoken of. Again, to render families happy, there must be, “In the husband wisdom, in the wife gentleness.” These are virtues indeed, which, when they meet, cause families to shine with a peculiar lustre. Again, “Those husbands are in heaven whose wives do not chide.” Certainly then, if it is in the power of the wife to put her husband into heaven, since she must be with him, and with him participate in all its joys, she will forever remember this excellent proverb.

A consideration of the unhappy condition of those families, wherein scolding is the principle employment, I should suppose would stimulate every woman to attend to the above remarks. Only hear what the Spaniards say, “Smoke, raining into a house, and a scolding wife, make a man run out of doors.”---The ladies will pardon me, I trust, for introducing this proverb, since it evidently implies, that a scolding wife alone, without rain and smoke, does not render a house so intolerable, but that a man, at least if he has a common share of patience, may possibly live in it.

Again, that house is highly ornamented, and that family has many enjoyments, in which the wife is as attentive to her domestic concerns, as is the husband to his abroad. No person was ever made for idleness, accordingly, it is positively affirmed in my book of wisdom, that “That is the best gown, which goes up and down the house.” If there be any women, who are unable to penetrate into the depth of this proverb, or to comprehend its profound wisdom, I will endeavour to explain it. As there are but a few gentlemen, whose finances are adequate to the supporting of a woman who feels herself above a personal attention to her family concerns, so in general, husbands are well pleased to see their wives suitably active in the house. Husbands in general, love their wives; and it gives them pleasure to see them blooming in health; and they know that the idle drone is always sick, or full of complaints.

Further, sometimes ladies, by doing nothing except eating of the honey, reduce their husbands to poverty, and we read that, “When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window,” and I add, misery comes in at every corner. It is best then to “Carry an even yoke.”

Pough! why am I always so severely berating the women? Every body knows they do not deserve it: And I assure the ladies that I have an affection for them. I am fearful that I have not well considered what I am about. It is well if I do not bring an “Old house about my ears.” From this time forward, on consideration they will pardon me for what I have already said, I solemnly promise that I will be more cautious; and no more proverbs shall come out respecting them, unless they come by accident.

Perhaps I shall make this lecture rather long, but I wish to give some advice to heads of families respecting their children. We read, that “Children are certain cares, but uncertain comforts.” They would, however, oftener be comforts, if they had not, as the ancients say, “Too much of their mothers blessing.” Alas! well it only came out edgwise, therefore I have not broken my promise.

To prove that I had no evil intention, I will bring one proverb greatly in favour of the ladies; “She spins well who breeds her children well;” and as every woman knows that she breeds her children well, so it is proved beyond all doubt, that every woman is a good house wife.

To be serious; set your children good examples. Be more anxious to make them virtuous, than to leave them rich. The Spaniards say, that “The father’s virtue is the best inheritance a son can have;” and if so, surely to make the son himself virtuous is to make him rich indeed. Again, “Leave your son a good reputation, and an employment.” This is good advice, for children trained up without virtue, and without employment, are fit only for the gallows. Again, “It is a bad house which has not an old man in it.” The meaning is, that every man who has a family, should have the soberness, gravity, and virtues of the aged.

Govern your children well, for we read that “He who cockers his child provides for his enemy,” and such a father will soon find the truth of the Spaniards assertion, viz. “The first service a bad child does his father is to make him a fool, and the second is to make him mad.”

Give your children good instructions; fear not a little expence, for “Better unborn than untaught.” And again, “If the brain sows not corn it plants thistles.” And depend on it, that thistles are prickly things to parents, when found in the hands of their children. See that you put good books into their hands; they are apt to get bad ones, and we read, that “An ill book is the work of thieves.” Be careful of what you say, in presence of your children. They catch words, as easily as examples, and tell things abroad, which may make your hearts ache, and every one will believe that, “The child tells nothing but what is heard by the fire side.”

The following proverb I do not like, yet I am fearful it is applicable in some instances, “The son full and tatter’d, the daughter empty and fine.” The son should not be tatter’d, nor the daughter empty. Parental distinctions are odious, and a source of bitterness and of endless contentions in families.

For sources, see the end of the final installment (pg. 293).

THE FATAL MISTAKE; Or, the HISTORY of MR. ELLIOT.

[WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.]

As various conjectures will, most probably, be formed on my retirement from the world by those ignorant of the cause, and the particularity of my life will most likely occasion illiberal and ill-natured observations, I write the history of my misfortunes, ignorant into whose hands it may fall. Let who will become possessed of this manuscript, may it warn them from excess of passion, and especially from that destructive fiend, jealousy.

Born to the enjoyment of a large estate, my birth promised every happiness affluence could bestow: at ten years old my parents both died of a malignant fever: left to the care of a worthy man, I was not sensible of their loss. Mr. Osburn (for that was the name of my guardian) felt for me, as he has often acknowledged, the fondness of parental love. No event worth relating happened till I arrived at the age of fourteen, when a young nobleman came to Winchester, where I was placed; he was the only son of the Earl of Somerset. Distinguished by his rank, but more so by his merit, his sweetness of disposition attracted the love of the whole school, and his generosity demanded their admiration. For some time I was indifferent to all his amiable qualifications, ’till an accident happened which was the foundation of the most affectionate friendship. My master was very severe; I had left school one evening in order to steal apples from a neighbouring orchard, and had just reached the intended scene of action, when I saw Lord Edward Marchmont running towards me. As soon as he came within hearing, he cried out, “My dear Elliot, the doctor has discovered your absence, and threatens, unless he finds you within bounds, to punish you with the utmost severity; if you make haste, we may get round a back way into the play ground, before he comes from hunting over the college, and escape the old dog’s vigilance.” As I knew the doctor’s disposition, I complied with my friend’s proposal, and accordingly we gained the play ground just as our master appeared. Lord Edward pulled a volume of Homer out of his pocket, on which we were both looking when the doctor came softly behind us. Upon seeing our employment he was agreeably surprised, and applauded us for our conduct in terms of the greatest encouragement. This good natured action so effectually engaged my gratitude, that I was miserable if separated from him. We grew so fond of each other, that the whole school took notice of it; our affection increased with our years, and when the time came to leave school, both Lord Edward and myself begged we might be at the same university. Lord Somerset and Mr. Osburn consenting, we were again happy in the society of each other.

When we had been at Oxford about two years, Lord Somerset paid the debt of nature, and as my friend was now possessed of the title and fortune of his ancestors, he left Oxford, and entreated me to do the same. As the university had lost all its pleasures when my friend departed, I wrote my determination to Mr. Osburn of following him; the good man would fain have persuaded me to stay longer, but I was not to be moved: I hastened to London, and according to promise flew to the house of my Edward, who introduced me with the most flattering character to Lady Somerset and his sister; the latter was the loveliest work of nature; joined to a form beautifully perfect, she had an engaging sensibility in her countenance that seldom accompanies beauty. That amiable Almena received me with the sweetest complacency, as the friend of her brother, whom she doated on: the mother of Lord Somerset likewise honoured me with the greatest marks of esteem, and for a length of time, I enjoyed every delight that perfect friendship could bestow, but, alas! I was soon fated to feel a reverse of fortune. My kind and indulgent guardian was taken suddenly ill; he sent for me, and I was obliged to leave Lord Somerset and his amiable family: the necessity of this absence discovered a secret I was willing to hide from myself: it was not the separation from my friend alone, that caused my grief, I found I loved his charming sister; the beautiful Almena haunted my imagination continually: my Edward’s penetration soon discovered the ill hid partiality, and one day taking me into his study, he addressed me as follows: “I am infinitely concerned at the cause of our separation, but I hope we shall soon meet again, by Mr. Osburn’s health being established; why do you appear so very wretched? Ah Frederick! you have not been ingenuous with me; why did you doubt my friendship? Have I ever given you cause to suspect my entire attachment to you? How then could you violate our regard by a doubtful concealment? Your secret had rested within this faithful breast had you desired it.” I would have spoke, but my feelings were too violent for expression. “Compose yourself,” continued he, “I will explain this painful silence; you love my sister; your eyes have fully exposed the feelings of your heart, and I am happy to think our friendship may be closely united by the tye of relations.” This unexpected eclaircissement elated me beyond idea; I eagerly embraced my amiable friend, and acknowledged the truth of his observations; “But, alas! Edward,” continued I, “shall I ever dare avow my love to your charming sister? What can the exalted Lady Almena Marchmont see in the poor Frederick Elliot? Will she not despise me for my presumption, and disdain a man who has nothing but a heart filled with her perfections to offer?” “And as great a share of merit,” interrupted my friend, “as ever fell to the lot of one mortal; fear not, Elliot, my sister has too much understanding to regard a man merely because he has a title, and in every other qualification you may pretend to a princess: Almena indeed has a mind capable of distinguishing your exalted virtues, and if I mistake not feels their full force.” “Flatter me not, my friend; I cannot dare not indulge the pleasing hope.” My noble Edward promised to do every good office in my absence, and I took leave of a family where my chief happiness was centered.

I reached the habitation of Mr. Osburn just time enough to take a last farewell; the violence of his disorder had left him very weak, and death made quick approaches to the excellent heart of this worthy man. I drew near his bed with the tenderest emotions, and taking his cold hand between mine; “My dearest sir, how painfully does this sight affect your Frederick! Ah that I could remove every pang far from you!” I could not restrain my tears: he faintly pressed my hand, and in a voice hardly articulate, he delivered himself as follows: “It pains me, my dear boy, to be obliged to part with you; but it is the decree of heaven, and I submit. I leave you, Frederick, in the possession of a large estate that was your father’s; to which I have added my own: I have no relations who stand in need of wealth, and to none can I give it whom I love like you. Remember it is virtue alone, that renders riches valuable. When you come to this solemn period, to which you must, may no bad action discompose your dying moments; you have an excellent heart and are in no danger of deviating from the narrow road of rectitude, but from the violence of your passions. Be careful to avoid every thing that may lead you into mistake and error. Farewel, my excellent boy; remember the last injunctions of a man who had a real affection for you.”

Articulation was stopped, and I could only express my sorrow by sighs and tears. The clergyman of the parish now came to Mr. Osburn, and I was obliged to leave him. He soon retired, and informed me that his friend was on the verge of eternity. When I entered Mr. Osburn’s chamber, I found him speechless; however by his motions he convinced me he was sensible. I embraced him in the greatest agony of grief; but, alas! he could not return it; he looked at me with expressive marks of affection, and gently breathed his last in my arms. I was for a few hours so totally absorbed in sorrow, that I hardly knew whether I myself existed; but youth and the appearance of my Edward, who, on hearing of my loss, flew to console me, had its usual influence, and I again recalled my thoughts from the grave of my guardian, to the world and society.

When I opened Mr. Osburn’s will, I found he had bequeathed to me the whole of his estate, which amounted to more than two thousand per annum, which joined to my paternal inheritance, made me possessed of eight thousand a year. My gratitude was infinitely excited by his generosity; and except a legacy of five hundred pounds to Mr. Harper, the clergyman I have mentioned, there was no other bequest. I paid the money immediately, and added a thousand pounds, as his family were large. Having settled my affairs, I left the abode of my late guardian, and accompanied Lord Somerset to town. The fair Almena and her amiable mother, received me with the utmost kindness, every thing in the power of these dear friends to dissipate my melancholy was exerted, and though I felt all the gratitude such a conduct excited yet could I not banish from my remembrance the good Mr. Osburn.

I was roused from my lethargy by Lady Almena’s having a declared lover. Lord Ashford was a nobleman of reputed worth, and I believe truly attached to my friend’s sister. Lady Somerset seemed to approve the proposed alliance; my Edward was silent, and Almena appeared unhappy. Thus were we situated when I was determined to lay aside every fearful apprehension, and declare my latent flame. I had soon after an opportunity of revealing the state of my heart to the fair cause of my anxiety. Lady Almena was one day writing in her brother’s study when I entered thinking he was there: she blushed and started; but seeing me about to retire, “Mr. Elliot,” said she, “my brother is from home, but as I have finished the note I was writing. I beg you will remain here ’till Lord Somerset comes back.” I again entered the room, and seated myself by her. She rung for a servant, to whom she delivered the note, and was going to retire, when I took her hand, and intreated her to hear me. She did not know in what manner to proceed. I threw myself at her feet, and in the most respectful terms, declared how much I loved her. She listened with polite attention, and casting her eyes upon the ground, appeared greatly agitated. I was all painful suspense. “Speak, lady Almena, continued I, pronounce my fate; perhaps you despise my too presumptuous passion; perhaps your heart is already engaged; the merits of Lord Ashford have met your approbation, and I am wretched.” “Sorry should I be,” replied the dear charmer, “if the sister of Lord Somerset could willingly make wretched the friend on whom an only brother doats: no, Mr. Elliot, I despise affectation as much as I do coquetry; be assured, sir, Lord Ashford is perfectly indifferent to my heart: ’tis true, my mother espouses his cause, and pleads for him powerfully: but the happiness of her daughter has ever been her chief delight, nor will she insist on a circumstance that would render her miserable.” “Ten thousand thanks, adorable Lady Almena, for this condescension! Pardon my bold aspiring heart: may I not hope my unwearied assiduities may at last make an impression on your gentle nature in my favour?” She told me, she did not, neither should she wish to throw me into despair, but begged leave to retire.

My friend soon after appeared, and seeing the joy that animated my countenance, congratulated me in the most affectionate manner. “Ah, Edward! exclaimed I, the dear Almena has not driven me to despair: she does not love Lord Ashford, and I may yet be happy.”—“And who ever thought she did? Prythee, Frederick, do not encourage that horrid passion, jealousy, but rather crush it in its birth; no mortal but yourself would have imagined my sister had the least regard for Lord Ashford. You may command my interest in your favour with my mother: she is partial to his lordship, on account of a tender regard she entertained for his mother; but the happiness of Almena is a matter of too great importance to be trifled with; and that no man but you could make her happy, I have long discovered.”

(To be continued.)

In the long paragraph beginning “I was roused...”, most quotations begin and end at line breaks:

“Speak, lady Almena, continued I ... ... and I am wretched.” “Sorry should I be,” replied the dear charmer ... ... render her miserable.” “Ten thousand thanks, adorable Lady Almena ...

MISCELLANY.

In no way, can we so certainly captivate mankind, as by appeals to their senses.

Rich banquets, the singing of eunuchs, riding, dancing, pantomime, ballooning, have a thousand more attractions for the vulgar, than all the didactic lessons of reason and understanding; than all the wit and humour of Cervantes, Sterne, and Wolcott. Such a reproach, is familiar to old governments; we fondly anticipate, that our youthful establishments may, by the timely exertions of men of taste and science, for a long time escape it.

The increased fondness for theatric amusements, for frivolity, noise and show, demands the animadversions of the moralist, and of the friends of literary pursuits.

Under our forms of governments, we may have an opportunity to rival the celebrated schools of Greece. Republics are the peculiar soil of liberty, of genius, of talents; for in them, merit is not exclusively attributed to wealth and birth. How important then, to excite the generous emulation of talents. What mean more effectual, than to encourage literary enterprises, stamped with genius and industry.

Where there is so little leisure, but so much general ease and affluence; they, who can instruct and entertain the public, deserve, and will receive its generous patronage.

The cacoethes scribendi, is as strong as the love of money, and we need not apprehend, but America may produce her Poets, Critics, Historians, if an enlightened and liberal community will, sometimes, wet with Peruvian dew, the tender buds of genius, which poverty often attends, and neglect more frequently blasts.

Need I say, that Genius, like Charity, is timid, not obtrusive---hopeth all things, believeth all things,---That it utterly disclaims all consanguinity with that bronz’d dame, Impudence; but is tenderly knit with its fair counterpart, Modesty. It loves retirement and tranquility; seek it therefore in desarts and cottages, where it is too commonly left to bemoan its untoward fate, where it enjoys now and then, but a few rays of hope through the glimmering lattice or gale: go then quickly and place the pillow of ease and content under its desponding head, and save the child of Fear and Fancy from despair.

But I hesitate and doubt---some Vandal will here reply, that Ignorance is happiest; that Genius is a curse. For some moments I almost surrender my enthusiasm for Genius, and agree with the position, that it is so, that all who wish to be arrayed in scarlet and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day, who prefer brisk champagne to the Heliconian beverage, and a fat sirloin to a flimsy sonnet, will deprecate it with the Vandal, and strangle in the cradle every future Homer, Virgil, Livy, and Cæsar.

I will not deny that poets are querimonious: after allowing to excessive sensibility a due share of spleen, much is left to lament of real misfortune.

That they frequently enjoy posthumous fame, and justice done to merit, though late.

But yonder ghosts will testify, that when on earth, the flush of health never glowed in their pallid cheeks, the fire wasted in their eyes, and strength in their bodies, when the friendly tomb, received them from a frowning world.

Homer, by his immortal Iliad; Shakespeare, by his Lear, Macbeth, and Hamlet; have enriched, and in the phrase of the world, aggrandised thousands. We buy a bud of the one, and a fragment of the mulberry-tree of the other, and sit down satisfied, that We have amply discharged our duty and conscience.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening the 12th inst. at Goshen, by the Rev. Nathan Ker, the Rev. John Joline, Pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Florida, to Miss Maria Gale, of that place.

On Monday evening the 13th inst. at Princeton, by the Rev. Dr. S. Smith, Mr. George Kirk, of this city, to Miss Mary Norris, of that place.

On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Jonathan Dennis, to Miss Polly Ketchum, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. John Pease, to Miss Elizabeth Hurtin, daughter of the late Mr. Joshua Hurtin, all of this city.

On Tuesday evening the 21st inst. by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Robert Saunders, of Baltimore, Printer, to Miss Elizabeth Bancker, of this city.

On Thursday evening the 23d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. David Ogden, Merchant, to Miss Sarah Glover, daughter of Mr. John G. Glover, all of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. James Flinn, to Miss Peggy Slidell, both of this city.

On Friday evening the 24th inst. by the Rev. Isaac Lewis, at Horse Neck, state of Connecticut, Mr. Warrin Delancey, of West-Chester, state of New-York, to Miss Sarah Rebecca Lawrence, of said place.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 19th to the 25th 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. 19 31 46 sw.do. frost at ni’t. cl. cm.do. h. w.

20 38 50 sw.do. cloudy lt wdclear do.

21 23 32 ne.s clear light wd.do. do.

22 34 52 e.w. sm. rn. & ha.cl lt. wd. cl.

23 32 42 e.se. clear light wd.do. h. wd.

24 50 57 nw.do. cloudy lt wd.do. h. wd

25 33 35 sw.w. clear light wd.do. h. wd.

THE CHOICE.

ADDRESS TO PITY.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, March 8, 1797. [No. 88.

ARTFUL SENTIMENTAL-LOVER.

The man versed in the wiles of deceit puts on the mask of plausibility and virtue, and, by these means, disarms the object of his attention and apparent love of the usual administration of her prudence, lays her apprehensions asleep, and involves her in misery: misery the more inevitable, because unsuspected. For she who apprehends no danger, will not think it necessary to be always upon her guard; but will rather invite than avoid the ruin which comes under so specious and so fair a form.

One of these sentimental lovers will not scruple very seriously to assure a credulous girl, that her unparalelled merit entitles her to the adoration of the whole world; and that the universal homage of mankind is nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms.

But she should reflect, that he who endeavours to intoxicate her with adulation, intends one day most effectually to humble her. For artful man has always a secret design to pay himself in future for any present sacrifice. If he has address and conduct, and the object of his pursuit much vanity, and some sensibility, he seldom fails of success; for so powerful will be his ascendency over her mind, that she will soon adopt his notions and opinions.

The lover, deeply versed in all the obliquities of fraud, and skilled to wind himself into every avenue of the heart which indiscretion has left unguarded, soon discovers on which side it is most accessible. He avails himself of this weakness by addressing her in a language exactly consonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own weapons, and opposes, if a sentimental girl, rhapsody to sentiment. He professes so sovereign a contempt for the paltry concerns of money, that she thinks it her duty to reward him for so generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully advances of his own unworthiness, is considered by her as a fresh demand, that her gratitude must answer. And she makes it a point of honour to sacrifice to him that fortune which he is too noble to regard.

These professions of humility are the common artifices of the vain, and these protestations of generosity the refuge of the rapacious.

EFFECTS OF HONOURABLE LOVE.

A man of delicacy oft betrays his passion by his too great anxiety to conceal it; especially if he has little hopes of success. True love, in all its stages, seeks concealment, and never expects success. It renders a man not only respectful, but timid, to the highest degree, in his behaviour to the woman he loves.

To conceal the awe he stands in of her, he may sometimes affect pleasantry, but it fits awkwardly on him; and he quickly relapses into seriousness, if not dullness. He magnifies all her real perfections in his imagination, and is either blind to her failings, or converts them into beauties. Like a person conscious of guilt, he is jealous that every eye observes him: and to avoid this he shuns all the little observances of common gallantry.

His heart and his character will be improved in every respect by his attachment. His manners will become more gentle, and his conversation more agreeable; but diffidence and embarrassment will always make him appear to disadvantage in the company of his mistress. If the fascination continues long, it will depress his spirit, and extinguish every vigorous and manly principle of his mind.

LOVE OF JUSTICE.

A sense of justice should be the foundation of all our social qualities. In our most early intercourse with the world, and even in our most youthful amusements, no unfairness should be found. That sacred rule of doing all things to others, according as we wish they would do unto us, should be engraven on our minds. For this end, we should impress ourselves with a deep sense of the original, and natural equality of men.

Whatever advantage of birth or fortune we possess, we ought never to display them with an ostentatious superiority. We should leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the intercourse of more advanced years. In youth it becomes us to act among our companions, as man with man. We should remember how unknown to us are the vicissitudes of the world; and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in future years.

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 275.)

“My father took up the piece, levelling it at him with a trembling and fearful hand. ‘I beg you will not spare me, and insist upon your aiming at my head or heart!’ The Marquis look his aim, but trembled so violently that he was obliged to lay down the gun. Alumbrado desired me to step nearer, and putting my hand to his bare breast, said: ‘Feel whether this heart beats so timmorously as that of your father.’ These words provoked the pride of the Marquis, he ordered me to step aside, levelled his piece and discharged it. A cloud of smoak concealed Alumbrado’s situation for a moment from our eyes. It is impossible to depict the sensations that rushed upon my heart, when I beheld him in his former situation, and heard him exclaim: ‘You have aimed well, my Lord, however, the ball has recoiled from my breast, there it lies on the floor.’ My father sunk on his knees and lifted his hands to heaven as if praying, and I gazed at Alumbrado with silent awe.

“‘Duke!’ said the latter, ‘charge the gun once more.’ The marquis started up, exclaiming: ‘For what purpose?’ ‘I want your son to repeat the deed.’ ‘No, there is no occasion for it;’ my father replied, ‘the omnipotence of the Eternal has been glorified sufficiently.’ ‘Just now,’ Alumbrado returned, ‘you have been of too little faith, and now you are too credulous? Is it impossible that you should have missed your aim? That the ball accidentally has hit another object and recoiled? But although you should be convinced that you have aimed well and hit me, is the Duke so too?’

“In short, I was obliged to charge the piece again, and Alumbrado exposed his uncovered bosom once more.

“I could rely on my gun, and was sure not to miss him, because he was standing only seven paces from me. I pointed at Alumbrado’s head, took my aim well, and fired; however, he stepped forth from the cloud of smoak like a being of a superior order; the ball lay on the floor, and Alumbrado had not received the least hurt.

“He now took a dagger out of his pocket, and plunged it twice in his breast, up to the hilt, extracting it without a wound being seen.

“O my friend, make haste to recant at the feet of this astonishing man the prejudices which you have uttered against him. Blush at your philosophy, whereby you have combated so frequently my propensity to supernatural events. I have always had a presentiment that this irresistible propensity would be gratified one time; yet I was a stranger to the road which led to the object of my most ardent wishes. Alumbrado has pointed it out to me and a new epocha of my life has commenced with that period. How little, and how disgusting and vain does now all the wisdom and all the tinsel splendor of the world appear to me, since I have been made acquainted with that higher good, which is concealed from, and inaccessible to the greatest part of human kind.”

“P.S. On reading my letter over, I find a few passages in it, which would determine me not to send it on account of the great watchfulness with which all letters are examined by order of the King, if I had not been assured that those which are directed to you are exempted from examination.”

Having perused this letter of the Duke of Ca*ina, I did not know whether I should hasten first to him, to his father, or to Alumbrado. I ordered instantly my carriage to be got ready; but when I was going to step out of the house, my valet stopped me pale and panting for breath. ‘My Lord,’ he stammered, ‘Coming——I have’——‘Well, what is the matter?’——‘It is almost incredible,’ he resumed, ‘it is rumoured all over the town’. Here he stopped again. His consternation communicated itself to me, and I exclaimed in a trembling accent, ‘For heaven’s sake! what has happened?’ ‘It is reported that the Marquis of Villa R*al and his son---but don’t be terrified, my Lord!’ ‘What?’ I replied, ‘Are you,’ I could not proceed, my lips being sealed with terror, ‘It is rumoured that the Duke of Ca*ina and his father have been taken up on an accusation of having conspired against the life of the King.’

These words curdled the blood in my veins, and I was ready to drop to the ground; however, despair soon roused me from the stupor that had seized me. I got in my carriage in order to enquire personally into the truth of that dreadful intelligence. Coming in the street I observed a universal commotion, and received, but too soon, a confirmation of my valet’s intelligence; being informed, at the same time, that forty five persons more had been arrested along with the Duke and his father. The multitude were assembled before the royal palace, demanding with a furious clamour, that the traitors should be delivered up to them; the king however thanked them for their zeal, and ordered the constable to disperse the populace.

My astonishment, my agony and consternation, and an indisposition which had been brought on by the violent agitation of my mind, prevented me from recollecting that this was the very day on which I was to expect the friend, of whose intended visit I had been apprised by that letter from an unknown person. The succeeding day I happened to see that letter accidentally on my writing-desk, and the friend to whom I was to deliver it, not having made his appearance at the fixed hour, I made use of the liberty I had received to open it.

Conceive my astonishment when I saw the handwriting of the Duke of Ca*ina. “When you shall read these lines,” he wrote, “the great deed will be performed, and P——l reduced again under the S——sh dominion. Forgive me, for having this time deceived your confidence, and believe me, that nothing but your connection with the new King could have prevented me from communicating the matter to you before our design is carried into execution. For that reason only I have had recourse to art, and wrote this letter which will inform you of the whole transaction, but is to be opened only when it will be impossible to put a stop to our undertaking.

“Not only my father and myself, but also those two prelates whom I have mentioned in my letters, and a great number of noblemen agreed after several conversations to force the usurper to restore the crown of P——l to the King of S——n; yet this design appeared to be so dangerous, that neither the Marquis nor myself would engage in it before we had the consent of Alumbrado. We pressed him, therefore, one evening to grant us his permission and assistance. He hesitated a long while, and at length replied, ‘Well! I will oppose you no longer, but I declare solemnly that I will not afford you the least assistance in your design against the King before I shall be convinced that it is the will of God, which we can learn by no other means but prayer. The spirit of God inspires those that are praying to him with sincerity of heart, and the sentiments which prevail in our soul in that situation are the voice of God. Let us devote this night to prayer, address the Omniscient separately, and to-morrow morning communicate to each other what the Lord shall reveal to us. If you shall continue firm in your resolution after you have performed your devotion, then it is the will of the Eternal, and we will go to work.’

“I had, for a long time, entertained the wish of spending a night in a church, imagining that this would afford me a pleasure of a most singular nature. I resolved, therefore, to execute Alumbrado’s proposal, and, at the same time, to gratify this darling wish of my heart. With that view, I concealed myself one evening in the cathedral. The first idea which forced itself upon my mind, as soon as I was left alone in that sacred place, was that of the immediate presence of the Eternal, and this notion filled me with solemn awe.

“I went to the altar, throwing myself on my face upon the steps of it and adoring the omnipresent God with ardent fervour. I soared beyond the limits of materiality, transported by devotion, and my soul and every sense was hurried along by the torrent of holy enthusiasm. I prayed with filial submission for filial illumination and heavenly aid.

“The clock on the church steeple tolled eleven, when I recovered from my pious trance. The church was covered with awful darkness; the solitary lamps which were burning before the altar, and the images of the saints, produced on the opposite parts of the fabric large masses of light and shade, while they spread only a faint dusk over the other parts of the Gothic building. The presence of the Eternal, the melancholy stillness of night, the extensive circumference of the venerable edifice, made me sensible, with a kind of horror, of my solitary situation. The profound stillness that reigned around was interrupted only now and then by a momentaneous cracking by the clattering of the windows, the whistling of a gust of wind rustling through the softly resounding organ-pipes, and by the chiming of a bell.

“Proceeding further, I was struck with the hollow sound of my footsteps, which reminded me that the marble pavement covered the vault in which the bodies of the deceased fathers of the order were awaiting the morn of resurrection.

“I went through one of the aisles, and stopped in awful contemplation, now at an altar, now at the image of a saint, and now at a tomb. The antique, artless appearance of many images and statues contributed much to increase their awful effect. A chapel, where a whole length picture of Christ on the cross was suspended attracted my attention particularly, because the quickly repeated flirtation of the lamp which was placed before it had made me fancy that the picture was stirring. The singular distribution of light, darkness, and shade prevailing through the whole church, the sudden flaring and dying away of the lamps, produced the most different and surprising effects on the eye, and furnished the imagination with multivarious objects of occupation.

“At length, I entered a great hall, which led to the hindmost porch, and from thence to a church-yard, the iron gate of which was locked. The first look I directed at it made me start back, seized with surprise. I looked once more at it, and beheld again several white figures that appeared and vanished with a rustling noise. I cannot but confess that a chilly tremor seized my limbs and fixed me to the ground. A few minutes after, a monk carrying a lanthorn appeared in the back part of the burying place; and a short reflection unfolded to me the whole mystery. The noise which I had heard proceeded from his steps, and the figures were nothing else but white statues, which appeared and disappeared as he moved the lanthorn in walking. Probably he had been praying in the porch, and was now returning to his cell: I concealed myself in a pew, in order to avoid being seen by him. A weariness which proceeded from the chilly night air and a want of sleep, bade me, at length put a stop to my wanderings. I seated myself in a pew, where I abandoned myself to the wild freaks of my imagination.

“The dawn of day was already peeping through the stained windows, when I awoke from the fanciful dreams of my wondering mind, and the purple rays of the morning sun reflected with radient glory from the image of the holy Virgin, suspended against the wall opposite the window. I was absorbed in the contemplation of this sublime object for some time; however the trance in which this charming sight had thrown me, soon gave room to religious sensations of a more sublime nature; a pious confidence in the heavenly aid of Providence was kindling in my bosom, and I was going to prostrate myself before the blessed Virgin, when the church was thrown open.”

(To be continued.)

THE FATAL MISTAKE; Or, the HISTORY of MR. ELLIOT.

[WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.]

(Continued from our last)

I expressed my obligations to his friendship in the warmest and most grateful terms, and we consulted how the matter should be broke to Lady Somerset; my friend undertook the task.

That very evening, as his sister was engaged out, and I had determined to be absent, I waited in a state of the most anxious expectation for the event of his embassy; and on seeing him enter my room at one o’clock in the morning, I had hardly resolution to inquire his success. “My friend, my brother,” exclaimed he, “I am authorised to call you so by the most amiable of mothers, Almena is your’s, win her, my dear Frederick, and be happy.”

Words were too faint to express my feelings; my Edward shared my emotions, and for a time we lost the remembrance of every thing but friendship. Now each adverse cloud appeared removed, and happiness permanent and delightful dawned on my morning joys. Lady Somerset informed lord Ashford, that her daughter’s heart was engaged: his disappointment betrayed him into the most violent rage, and he left the house threatening to be revenged.

Blessed as I was in Almena’s love, and in the friendship of her amiable brother, I disregarded his threats, and smiled at the apprehensions of my charmer: three weeks after this made me her happy husband; my friend gave away his lovely sister, and shared in our felicity. My wife was every thing that was excellent and good; her love for me was unbounded, and mine was to such a painful excess, that I could not bear a look cast at any other person. To this unhappy jealousy of temper all my subsequent misfortunes were owing.

For twelve months, we enjoyed the most perfect felicity, when Lady Somerset appeared to be declining in her health. Her physicians advised her to go to the south of France: my Almena was desirous of accompanying her beloved parent, but her situation rendered it improper and dangerous. Lord Somerset was determined to attend her, which greatly alleviated my wife’s uneasiness. As London did not agree with lady Almena, and as the season was far advanced, I proposed going to Trout-Hall, for the ensuing hot months: she consented chearfully, as her lying-in was not expected for a considerable time. The separation of my beloved from her mother and brother may be better imagined than described. We immediately went into the country, where I exerted the most unwearied assiduity to amuse and divert her thoughts from dwelling too much on the late melancholy parting. On a visit to a neighbouring family I was amazed to see lord Ashford. He addressed my wife as if nothing had passed between them, and me with the most polite freedom. Some few weeks after, I had been out a little way, and on my return, asked the servant if any body had been there during my absence? “Lord Ashford, Sir, has been an hour with my lady.” I hurried to my wife’s apartment, and opening the door gently, surprized her in tears. “How is this, my love? what has happened to make you uneasy?” “Nothing particular, replied she, I was thinking of my poor mother, you must pity the weakness of your wife, my Frederick.” “My Almena, my dearest love, answered I, clasping her to my bosom, I cannot bear your tears; talk not of weakness, you are all that is amiable and lovely.” She seemed soothed with these words and appeared more chearful; as she did not mention lord Ashford’s having been there, I did not choose to start the subject.

We passed a month in the most perfect tranquility, having heard in that time from my friend, who gave us a pleasing account of lady Somersets health. My Almena’s happiness was excessive at this information, and joy beamed on her lovely countenance; I frequently left her at her own desire, to partake of country amusements, though my inclination would have ever detained me with her; yet to make her easy I complied. She feared a too constant attendance on her would weaken my affection, and make me uneasy at so great a restraint.

One day, I had stayed longer than usual in hunting, and was hastening to meet my wife, when I perceived lord Ashford riding up the avenue: these visits and always in my absence greatly alarmed me. He would have avoided me, but I rode up to him, and after a slight civility, begged to know what had occasioned the honour of my seeing him there? He looked confounded, and making an evasive answer spurred his horse, and rode away with great precipitation. This conduct, so very enigmatical, enraged me infinitely; I was inclined to pursue him, and force him to confess what his business was, but a moment’s thought deterred me from such a conduct. I entered the house, torn by a thousand emotions, and went to my wife, who fled with open arms to receive me. I brutishly turned from her. “Lady Almena, has Lord Ashford been here?” I looked at her very sternly, she hesitated and blushed; “No, my dear; but wherefore this unkindness! Alas, Mr. Elliot, have I offended you?” She burst into tears. Oh, how I cursed my own horrid disposition! I strove to abate her grief by every method in my power: and had she at that moment informed me of her conjectures, what a weight of woe had been spared to my succeeding days! But my misery was not to be avoided. I applied to the servant, who had before informed me lord Ashford had been at my house, who confirmed my suspicions by telling me, my hated rival, as I then madly thought him, had been a considerable time with his lady. I was too much affected by this news to answer the servant; and leaving him in the greatest haste, I determined to return to my wife and tax her with her inconstancy; but the consideration of my Almena’s situation deterred me; as she was drawing near her time I reflected I might be her destroyer.

(To be concluded in our next.)

CURIOSITY.

Of the various passions that are natural to mankind, Curiosity seems to be one of the most active and powerful; which, unless it be engaged in laudable pursuits, and confined within the limits prescribed by Virtue, often becomes a disease pernicious and fatal to the mind, and exhibits human nature in a most pitiable point of view.

Nothing can be conceived more contemptible, and at the same time move dangerous, than a merely enquisitive person: “he is generally a blab,” says the poet; “and ought to be avoided, as we would the spy of an enemy.” Such a one may be compared to the Danaide’s tub, which was incapable of containing what it received: for, whatever comes under his inspection, or is mentioned in his hearing, he is sure to publish; and, when opportunity shall serve, will enlarge and illustrate.

This excessive prying and communicative disposition, has been observed to be particularly prevalent in those who are naturally indolent, and have no useful employment to divert their imagination. The mind, if it be not engaged in the pursuit of useful knowledge, must necessarily be active in the investigation of of trifles, and matters of small moment. Thus, for instance, the indolent man, who affects to be studious, as he is deterred from the attempt to acquire solid learning, by that care and assiduity which are the consequent attendants on laborious study; so he squanders that time, which might be employed to better purposes, in the search after trifles. He contents himself with the knowledge of things, that can contribute nothing to his learning; nor could his ignorance of them diminish aught from it.

But there is a kind of Curiosity, which produces more fatal effects; and which argues, that the disposition of those who are actuated by it, is not only indolent as to commendable enquiries, but that they are also envious and malicious, and enjoy great satisfaction in exposing to public censure the faults and failings of every one around them. We meet with beings of this description, in every place, without exception, who make it their business to pry into the affairs of others. It is a kind of trade with them, wherein one deals more largely than another; and he is esteemed the greatest who can dispose of most scandal. Such persons are finely described in the fable of the Lamiæ; who, we read, were blind at home, but when abroad were remarkably quick-sighted. In like manner, these Curiosi are fully blinded as to their own demerits; while not only the more open and flagrant faults of others, but even the smallest inadvertensy, or mistake, is subject to their strict enquiry and nicest examination. Being always more solicitous to enquire into the failings of their neighbours, than to notice and imitate their good qualities; and hurried on by the strong impulse of this restless passion, they spare no pains in searching to the very bottom of a thing that is but whispered, and enjoy no peace till it becomes public and universally known.

I well remember, when a worthy and respectable family first went to reside at a place that contained a numerous class of these idlers, what a stir it caused among them! Running about from one place to another, various suppositions, and exclamations of surprise, passed between them. “I wonder who this new-come family are!” says one; “and whether they are people of much property?” “No great deal, I should conceive,” replies another; “for they keep a very poor house, and are fashionable in no respect whatever.”—“Aye,” says a third, “I hear that they go to market, not with ready-money, but on trust.”—“I am informed,” says a frigid old maid, with a contemptuous sneer, “that Mr. ——, and his wife, live unhappily together, on account of a familiarity that subsists between him and the chambermaid.”—“Pray, can any one inform me,” says a formal old widow, “whether they observe any regularity in their family? What is their hour of dining? Do they keep late hours? And what is their time of rising?”---“O!” says one of the male gossips, “they are very particular, Madam, I can assure you in regard to those things, and do every thing by rule; and they are the most penurious and miserable wretches on earth, for they always keep the key of the cellar.” Thus, these triflers, to call them no worse, amuse themselves with groundless conjectures, and unjust censure, the absurdity of which needs no remark.

But, notwithstanding every transaction, that comes under their cognizance, is handed about with the worst construction it is capable of receiving, they by no means stop here. Not content with the information themselves are able to collect, they have their private emissaries to communicate intelligence, and give them notice of the domestic affairs of every family in the town, which become the subject of debate the next time they assemble; for they have their meetings, where the conversation never fails to be such as wounds the honour and reputation of some of their neighbours. If any one in company presumes to speak of another with praise and commendation, he is either attended to with careless indifference, or totally disregarded; and considered as one who wishes to violate the laws and rules of the society. On the contrary, should he call in question the chastity of some sage matron, or relate the misfortunes of some frail female; should he make the discord of families, or the animosities of friends, the topick of conversation; they are all attention, and listen to the scandalous report with the highest degree of satisfaction.

One grand incentive to Curiosity, is a fickle and unsteady temper, with a fondness for novelty. When, therefore, the mind in any of it’s sallies borders on frivolity, it ought immediately to be checked, and have its attention directed to some other object less unworthy the consideration of a rational creature. Thus, by bringing this passion under the government of Reason, at the first, we may prevent the unhappy consequences that envy and spleen might otherwise spur it on to effect.

In diseases of the body, by not attending to the first symptoms of a disorder, and stopping it in the beginning, it often happens, that it gains strength through delay; and, in process of time, bids defiance to the powers of medicine. Thus it is with diseases of the mind. Such, and so inveterate is the nature of vice, that unless it be eradicated on its first appearance, and destroyed in its infancy, the contagion soon extends it’s baneful influence over all the faculties of the mind, and enervates the whole intellectual system.

In order to the preservation of health, on the slightest attack of any corporal malady, it is expedient to have immediate recourse to those means which are considered the best adapted to impede it’s progress: and if, to remove infirmities of the body, so much precaution be necessary, surely the mind demands still greater attention. But how frequently do we find this nobler part of man, either very little regarded, or totally neglected! Too often are the innate virtues of the soul extinguished by the insinuations of Vice! its nobler powers enfeebled by the alluring wiles of that fascinating enchantress; and rendered useless, as to the end and design for which they were originally intended; or, what is worse, applied in promoting the advancement of her cause, to our own perpetual disgrace!