VOLUME II. (continued 18)

CURIOUS INCIDENT.

It was formerly usual for the Senators of Rome to enter the Senate-house, accompanied by their sons, who had taken the prætexta. When something of superior importance was discussed in the senate, and the farther consideration adjourned to the day following, it was resolved that no one should divulge the subject of their debates till it should be formally decreed. The mother of the young Papirus, who had accompanied his father to the Senate-house, enquired of her son what the senators had been doing. The youth replied, that he had been enjoined silence, and was not at liberty to say. The woman became more anxious to know: the secretness of the thing, and the silence of the youth did but inflame her curiosity; she, therefore, urged him with the more vehement earnestness. The young man, on the importunity of his mother, determined on a humorous and pleasant fallacy: he said it was discussed in the senate which would be most beneficial to the state, for one man to have two wives, or one woman to have two husbands. As soon as she heard this, she was much agitated; and, leaving her house in great trepidation, hastened to tell the other matrons what she had learned. The next day, a troop of matrons went to the Senate house; and, with tears and entreaties, implored that one woman might be suffered to have two husbands, rather than one man to have two wives. The senators, on entering the house, were astonished, and wondered what this intemperate proceeding of the women and their petition could mean. The young Papirus, advancing to the midst of the senate, explained the importunity of his mother, his answer, and the matter as it was. The senate, delighted with the honour and ingenuity of the youth, decreed that, from that time, no youth should be suffered to enter the senate with his father, this Papirus alone accepted. He was afterwards honourably distinguished by the cognomen of Prætextatus, on account of his discretion at such an age.

LIFE OF BONNA, THE SHEPERDESS.

Bonna was the daughter of a shepherd of the Valteline, a fruitful valley at the foot of the Alps, and the grand pass between Italy and Germany. As she was one day guarding her flocks, Peter Brunoro, an illustrious Parmesan general, lost his way near the spot where she attended her innocent companions. Brunoro politely accosted the rural maid, to enquire the road, but was so struck with her beauty, and so pleased with her courteous answer, that he dismounted and entered into conversation with the sheperdess. Bonna was no prude, and she had wit enough to distinguish a gentleman from a rustic; in short, her vivacity, and a certain air of modest assurance, admirably calculated to hit the taste of an officer, had such an effect upon him, that he fell in love with her, and carried her off. From this time, we are to consider her not as the Arcadian sheperdess, but as Brunoro’s mistress.

Finding that she had a bold, masculine spirit, he took great pleasure in dressing her in men’s cloaths; and he had the satisfaction to observe, that she was ambitious to gain a masculine address! Brunoro soon learned her to manage the fleetest courser, and as he was remarkably fond of hunting, she was always of his party, and acquitted herself to the astonishment of all the cavaliers.

A quarrel happening some time after between Francis Sforza, duke of Milan, and Alphonsus, king of Naples; Brunoro quitted the service of the king his master, and went over to the duke of Milan’s party: Bonna, his faithful mistress accompanied him, and signalized herself in the first campaign. The difference between the contending parties being accommodated by the interposition of mediators, Brunoro was received again into the service of Alphonsus, and Bonna was presented to the king as a young Amazon: her talents for war and politics became every day more and more conspicuous; and upon a rupture between the Venetian republic and the duke of Milan, she had the address to negociate at Venice, the command of the Venetian army, with an appointment of 20000 ducates per annum during the war for Brunoro. The general’s heart, at this striking piece of felial affection in his mistress, was now touched with a lively sense of honour for Bonna, he regretted he had ever took advantage of the assenting and unguarded Shepherdess, and, to repair past injuries, and in gratitude for such signal services, married his benefactress: After this event, she placed no bounds either to her conjugal affection, or her love of arms. She accompanied her husband wherever he went: and while the general was engaged upon some other service, she headed a detachment, and took the Castle of Pavanou, near Brescia, from the Milanese, by assault.

The senate of Venice honoured her with distinguished rewards, and placing an unlimited confidence in both husband and wife, sent them to the succour of Negropontus, attacked by the Turks. They defended this island so ably, that during the time that they commanded, the Turks desisted from all further attempts on the place. Bonna died on her return to Venice at a small town of Morea, leaving behind her two children, and an immortal reputation.

Background: This piece is somewhat historical. Bona Lombarda or Lombardi married Pietro Brunoro 1417-1468; she died in Modone.

THE FLOWER-GIRL.

—“Pray, buy a nosegay of a poor orphan!” said a female voice, in a plaintive and melodious tone, as I was passing the corner of the Hay-market. I turned hastily, and beheld a girl of about fourteen; whose drapery, tho’ ragged, was clean, and whose form was such as a painter might have chosen for a youthful Venus. Her neck, without covering, was white as snow; and her features, though not regularly beautiful, were interesting, and set off by a transparent complexion: her eyes, dark and intelligent, were shaded by loose ringlets of a raven black, and poured their sweetly supplicating beams through the silken shade of very long lashes. On one arm hung a basket full of roses, and the other was stretched out towards me with one of the rose-buds. I put my hand into my pocket, and drew out some silver---“Take this, my pretty girl,” said I, putting it into her’s; “and may that God, who is the Father of the fatherless, be the preserver of your existence and your virtue!---Virtuous poverty is no crime.”

I was turning from her, when she suddenly caught my withdrawn hand; and, putting it to her lips, burst into a flood of tears. The action, and the look which accompanied it, touched my soul; it melted to the artless gratitude of this poor Flower-girl, and a drop of sympathy fell from my cheek. “Forgive me, Sir,” said she, recovering from her transport, while a sweet blush diffused itself over her lovely face: “my heart was full of what it could not express---nature impelled me to so free an action. You will pardon the effect it had on me, when I tell you, they were the first kind words I have heard since I lost all that was dear to me on earth——” A sob interrupted her discourse: she stopped, and wept silently; then, raising up her face from the hand on which she had laid it---“O Sir! I have no father! no mother! no relation! Alas! I have no friend in the world!” Choked with her emotions, she was silent for a moment before she could proceed---“My only friend is God! on him I rely; I submit to his will. I only pray that I may support with fortitude, the miseries I am born to experience! To him, kind Sir, this heart shall always pray for you. May that God for ever protect you!” added she, dropping a curtsey full of humility and native grace, as she retired. I returned her benediction, and went on——

“And can I thus leave this poor creature?” said I, as I walked pensively on. “Can I leave her forever, without emotion? What have I done for her, that can entitle me to her prayers? Preserved her a few days from death, but that is all! And shall I quit thee, fair flower, to see thee no more? to be blown down by the rude blast of adversity! to be cropped by some cruel spoiler! to droop thy lovely head beneath the blight of early sorrow!—No! thou hast been reared on some happier bank; thou hast been nurtured by the sweet tears of maternal affection; thou hast once blushed beneath the chearing sun of domestick content, and under it thou shalt bloom again!” I turned, as I spoke: my heart beat with its sweet purpose. I saw the beautiful Flower-girl before me. I approached---caught her hand---the words of triumphant virtue burst from my lips---

“Come, thou lovely, deserted girl! come, and add one more to the happy groupe who call me father! Their home shall be thine: thou shalt share their comforts: thou shalt be taught with them that virtue their father tries to practise!” She stopped me; her eyes flashed with a frantic joy: she flung herself on her knees before me, and burst into a flood of rapturous tears. I raised her in my arms---I hushed her eloquent gratitude, and led her to a home of happiness and piety. She loves my children; she loves their father; and the poor orphan of the Hay-market is now the wife of my son!

De Burghe.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. William W. Galatian, to the amiable Miss Catharine Brower, daughter of Mr. John Brower, all of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Peter Vorhiss to the amiable Mrs. Nancy Smith, widow of Joseph Smith, deceased, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 26th 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

Feb. 26 16 23 nw.w. clr. h. w. Aurora Boralis*.

27 38 47 s.sw. cloudy lt. wd.do. do.

28 34 35 nw.w. cloudy lt. wd.do. do.

March 1 22 35 nw.do. clear lt. wind.do. h. wd.

2 24 37 ne.se. clear lt. wind.cloudy do.

3 33 42 ne.sw. sn at ni. clou.lt. wd. do.

4 3849 50 s.sw. cloudy lt. wd.clear do.

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

FOR FEBRUARY 1797.

deg. 100

Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 32 9

Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 41 2

Do. do. for the whole month 36 55

Greatest monthly range between the 24th and 26th 41 0

Do. do. in 24 hours, the 26th & 27th 22

Warmest day the 24th 57 0

Coldest do. the 26th 16

14 days the Mercury was at or below frost, at sunrise.

4 do. it was at or below frost at sunrise and at 3 P.M.

7 do. it rained, and a large quantity has fallen this month.

1 day it snowed, and 2 inches and a-half has fallen.

17 do. the wind was at the westward of north and south.

11 do. the do. was at the eastward of do. and do.

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

4 do. the do. was high at do. and do.

13 do. it was clear at do. and do.

12 do. it was cloudy at do. and do.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE DEBTOR.

THE FADED ROSE.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF AN AMIABLE YOUNG LADY;

Whose virtues richly merited the eulogium here offered by a friend.

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 15, 1797. [No. 89.

GRATITUDE.

“If aught gives one virtuous man a superiority over another, it is only by as much as he exceeds the other in Gratitude.”

Gratitude, though a single word, contains a volume of expressions: it is the brightest jewel in Virtue’s diadem. It comprehends every social duty, and every celestial virtue, that adorn mankind; it renders them objects of Almighty love, and worthy the admiration of their fellow-creatures. Divested of Gratitude, what are we? Nought but solitary reeds, blown by every breeze, and beat down by every shower, that God, in the plenitude of his mercy, sends to chear the rest of the world.

Gratitude may be said to consist of two orders—to God, and to man.

Gratitude to God is indisputably our first and chief duty. Can we for a moment contemplate the creation of the world, the coming, sufferings, crucifixion, death, resurrection, and ascension of Christ, without acknowledging that Gratitude to God is our first and chief duty? God forbid! There are few, in this world’s sphere, but daily, nay even hourly, experience the goodness of the Almighty. How are we extricated from difficulties? How are we relieved, even when desponding misery rankles in the heart? And how do we enjoy our health, or happiness, but from the excess of that mercy which gently drops from Heaven? Can, then, our lives be better spent than in devoting them to those purposes esteemed worthy in God’s all-seeing eye, and expressive of our gratitude for the blessings we receive?

Of Gratitude to man, much has been, and much still remains to be said. It may be urged that, in our Gratitude to God, every kind of gratitude is contained. This may be granted; and, therefore, to Him should we give the glory. If we are really grateful, we shew it not only to Him, but to those whom he makes the instruments of his goodness.

From the earliest period, we find that centre of every virtue, Gratitude! honoured, revered, and even adored. How many have sacrificed their lives in gratitude for services received from others; and, dying, blessed the cause in which they died! Gratitude to man consists in a grateful remembrance of every favour, however trifling or essential. It is to be hoped that a man, plunged by misfortune into dire distress, confined within the narrow and dreary cell of a prison, surrounded by an infant family, some senseless of the misery they endure, sleeping on a bed of straw, a helpless babe in his arms, pining for it’s mother, who is gone, alas! in vain, to soothe the obdurate heart of a relentless creditor---it is to be hoped, I repeat, that human nature does not produce such a man, who, were he relieved from this horrid situation, by the benevolent hand of smiling Affluence, would ever cease to remember, without the softest emotions of extatic pleasure, the truly generous act: if he could, he should cease to live.

Other instances, equally forcible, might be brought forward; but man who ought not to forget the smallest obligation, or neglect the slightest opportunity of manifesting his gratitude. It matters not, whether our gratitude be called forth into action by pecuniary assistance in the hour of distress, solace in the hour of misfortune, or help in the moment of personal danger. He who relieves another in a pecuniary manner, he who sighs with him in his misfortunes, or he who saves the life of another, is equally entitled to our prayers, our praise, and our gratitude.

PLEASURES OF STUDY.

There is unspeakable pleasure attending the life of a voluntary student. The first time I read an excellent book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend. When I read over a book I have perused before, it resembles the meeting with an old one. We ought to lay hold of every incident in life for improvement, the trifling as well as the important. It is not one diamond alone which gives lustre to another; a common coarse stone is also employed for that purpose. Thus I ought to draw advantage from the insults and contempt I meet with from a worthless fellow.

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 283.)

I hastened to conceal myself in a corner, and slipped out of the church as soon as the sexton had entered it. In going home, I fancied I observed Hiermanfor at a distance, nay he seemed even to advance towards me; however, I fled from him with horror.

“About an hour after my return, I was joined by Alumbrado, who entered my apartment with awful solemnity. His countenance spoke more plainly than his lips. We went to the Marquis who seemed to have awaited our arrival with impatience, and bowed respectfully to Alumbrado.

“You have been watching last night,’ the latter said to us, ‘and dedicated it to devotion. Is your resolution still firm and unalterable?’

“Yes!’ we replied at the same time.

“A long pause ensued. At length Alumbrado began: ‘I too have dedicated the night to devotion, and join in your league.’ Taking us by the hand, ‘I have conversed with God, and received heavenly revelations, which I will communicate to you if you will promise eternal secrecy.’

“We promised it.

“Yes, my friends,’ he resumed, ‘God has chosen you to be ministers of his avenging justice. Your mission is honourable, but awful—awful, and at the same time, blissful. But I must remind you, that it does not befit the instruments of the Eternal to scan his holy degrees, nor to resist. Will you, therefore, promise to obey implicitly?’

“We will.’

“To obey also when the decrees of God shall come in contradiction with your opinions and feelings?’

“The decrees of the Eternal are impenetrable, but ever wise and ever just. We will obey!’

“Then you swear to obey blindly?’

“We swore, and now we learned from Alumbrado our mission, and the whole plan of the secret league. It would be superfluous to give you the particulars of it, because it will be executed, and consequently known to you when you shall read this letter.—Farewell, my friend, for whom I always shall retain a tender affection, although you should become my inveterate enemy. Farewell.”

This letter partly unfolded to me the mystery of the whole event; I could, however, best form a clear idea of the particulars of the conspiracy and the whole design when the culprits were tried. I shall confine myself to a brief sketch of that infernal plot.

Oli*arez the Minister of S——n, not having been able to put a stop to the secret preparations the Duke of B——za had been making for restoring the crown of Port—l to his family, and his three last artful attempts to that effect having miscarried, he sent Alumbrado whom he had already successfully employed on different occasions, to watch the secret motions of that nobleman, and to counteract them effectually. Alumbrado fixed his eyes on a man who was generally respected as well on account of his rank, his birth, and extraordinary merits, as of his great wealth; the Marquis of Villa Re*al, whose secret antipathy against the Duke of B——a, Oli*arez had pointed out to him. With the assistance of this man, he designed to lay the mine which was to blow up the great work of the Duke of B————a. He found the Marquis in a situation of mind that seemed to promise very little success in the prosecution of his political views.

The supposed apparition of Count San*, and the illness which had succeeded it, had changed him from a statesman to a pietistical hermit. However, an intriguing genius like Alumbrado was not discouraged by these unfavourable symptoms; he only changed his measures, and founded on religious fanaticism and superstition a plan, by which he expected to interest the Marquis for his designs. Yet he had, perhaps, imagined this task much easier than it really was, or the progresses the Marquis made were slower than he had expected, in short, the revolution broke out before he had attained his purpose. This unexpected blow did not depress Alumbrado’s spirit. He had, indeed, not been able to dispute the acquisition of the crown of P———l with the Duke of B——a; he formed however, the resolution to deprive him of it.

With this view he returned to S——n to consult with Oli*arez. The latter had really been induced by the dissimulation of the Duke of Cam*na, to believe him serious in his devices against the family of B————a, and this was sufficient to prompt him to agree with Alumbrado that one ought to endeavour to interest the Marquis and his son for the design against the new Sovereign.

That, and how this has been effected, was proved afterwards by the event.

Alumbrado had foreseen that the execution of so dangerous a design would require many co-operating powers, and therefore had taken care to procure in time the requisite assistants. One of his principal associates was the archbishop of Br*ga, Primate of P————l, an acquisition which cost Alumbrado very little trouble, the Prelate meeting him half way. The archbishop had witnessed the successful issue of the revolution with the greatest indignation, because he was entirely devoted to the S---sh court and the Vice Queen to whom he owed his preferment.

On the breaking out of the Revolution, he had already drawn the sword against one of the conspirators in order to avenge his benefactress; her confinement was therefore an additional motive to him for joining the conspirators, by whose assistance he hoped to avenge her wrongs and restore her to liberty. Alumbrado gained through him even the bishop of *arda, Grand Inquisitor of the Empire.

The insinuation that he would not enjoy long his important office under the new government, the King being inclined to abolish the Inquisition, was the chief motive of his having taken a part in the conspiracy.

Both prelates were very sensible how necessary it was that the Marquis and his son should join the conspirators if Alumbrado’s design should succeed, and therefore supported him in his endeavours to ensnare these noblemen, although they dissembled to have not the least connection with that vile deceiver.

Meanwhile the latter endeavoured secretly to encrease the number of the conspirators through the interest of these two prelates, and they succeeded in gaining over to their party Count Arm*mar a cousin to the Primate, a great number of other Port**ese noblemen and the Jews. It has already been mentioned in the letters of the Duke, that the new King rejected their petition of being suffered to live and to trade in the kingdom as external Christians, uncontrolled by the Inquisition. The Primate made them a voluntary offer of that privilege; nay, he even promised secretly, in the name of the King of S---n, that they should have a public synagogue, if they would co-operate in the execution of the plot, which they consented to without hesitation.

The design itself was, indeed, horrid enough. On the 6th of August, 1641, the Jews were to cause a conflagration in the night, not only in the royal palace, but also in different parts of the town, in order to divert the attention of the people. Then the conspirators were to penetrate into the palace under the pretext of extinguishing the fire, and to stab the King; the Queen, however, and the two young Princes, were to be seized by the Duke of Ca*ina, in order to obtain through them the possession of the castle. The Primate with his train was, meanwhile, to parade through the streets, in order to frighten the refractory multitude with the Inquisition, and when the whole plan should have been happily executed, the Marquis of Villa R*al was to be invested with the dignity of Vicegerent.

This was the plan of an undertaking that could be attempted only by fool-hardy and deluded men. Alumbrado, who knew best how hazardous and adventurous it was, was well aware, that, even if their design should be executed in the most successful manner, the capital only would be gained, and every thing lost again if they were not supported by an external power. He found it therefore necessary that a S---sh fleet should be ready to surprise the port as soon as the fire should break out, and a small army of S- - -rds waiting on the frontiers, in order to penetrate in the country on the first intelligence of the successful execution of the undertaking. Oliv*rez was to afford this assistance, and consequently, intelligence must be sent him and every thing preconcerted, which was extremely difficult, the new Sovereign, having issued the strictest orders not to suffer any suspicious letter to pass the frontiers.

Ba*za, of whom I have already made mention in a former page, had, on account of his extensive trade, received an exclusive privilege of carrying on an unmolested correspondence with S---n.

Alumbrado found means to insinuate himself with his important man in such a manner, that he undertook the dangerous task of forwarding the letter which contained that intelligence. However---

The Irishman was returned from his journey. Some expressions which he accidentally overheard and several unusual movements his eagle eye espied, excited his suspicion, in spite of the secrecy of the conspirators and the great precaution they observed in carrying on their plot. He found it, nevertheless, very difficult to come upon the right tack. Although he had succeeded in his attempt of getting admittance to Ba*za’s house in the disguise of a foreign merchant, and gained the confidence of that man by means of some very great money transactions, yet he could not trace out the least thing concerning the secret plot which he suspected to be carrying on, Ba*za being always on his guard, notwithstanding the repeated invectives the Irishman uttered against the new government in order to allure him to take the bait. But when Ba*za received the aforesaid letter in order to send it to S---n, he betrayed so much anxiety that it could not escape the keen-sighted looks of the Irishman. The latter employed every art to dispose the merchant to direct that letter to the Marquis of Aja*onti, a commander of a Spanish fortress on the frontier, and acted his part with so much dexterity, that Ba*za adopted his advice without entertaining the least suspicion, thinking that the letter would certainly be delivered to the Minister when it once had reached the Sp—sh territory.

The Irishman could not indeed, divine the important contents of the letter, and the uneasiness which the merchant betrayed concerning its safe delivery, could also have originated from the great importance of the mercantile papers it might have contained. It was, therefore, a mere act of prudence that he sent instantly a message to his friend Ajam*nti, requesting him to examine that letter carefully if it should come to his hands.

The Marquis receiving the letter opened the first cover, and seeing it directed to the Sp—sh Minister of State, and sealed with the great seal of the Primate of P-----l, his suspicion having been roused by the previous notice he had received from the Irishman, he opened it without hesitation, and thus discovered the imminent danger threatening the life of the King of P——l.

Being a near relation to the Queen and sincerely attached to the King, he sent the letter without delay to his royal kinsman. The King was seized with astonishment and horror when he learned what a dreadful plot was carrying on against himself and the kingdom.

He convoked instantly the Privy Council, and concerted with them the necessary means which were to be taken in order to award the impending blow.

(To be continued.)

REMARK.

There is no virtue, perhaps, that with respect to the advantages arising from it to others, may not be so well supplied by a vice as generosity. Vanity almost alone will often perform all its functions.

REASONS WHY MEN OF GENIUS SELDOM RISE ACCORDING TO THEIR MERIT.

Amid the illusions deceiving mankind, which Hope sighs for, or Pleasure grasps at, none are more fallacious than the dreams of success, which Fancy imprints, from the consciousness of her deserts, on the tablet of imagination. When an author boldly pursues the path of fame, when he strikes out into the mazes of intricate disquisition; however his Genius, prompted by her own powers, might at first promise success, yet from circumstances unknown, he too often fails in his attempt: like the bold adventurer who, searching for the diamond in the bowels of the mine, fell a victim to the blasting vapour of contagion and death.

No one will deny, that merit ought to have it’s reward; and, that every encouragement should be given for advancement in the moral or intellectual world. Habits of virtue would then be acquired from necessity; and ambition, in greatness or goodness, meet with universal admiration and applause: but, before human nature can arrive at such a state of primitive excellence, some of the bad passions must be expelled with rankle in the human heart. A barrier must be raised between envy and admiration; and ingratitude banished, as the pest of moral and intellectual happiness. I might farther analyse, and draw a parallel between the powers of the mind and it’s passions, to shew, that what prompts the one to goodness, stimulates the other to greatness; but it would be unnecessary to mention arguments, or canvass hypotheses, which have already been made the subject of frequent discussion. I shall, therefore, confine myself to the reasons why Genius too often sinks into obscurity, even while her breast expands with benevolence---while virtue and greatness animate her heart.

Ambition, while restrained within certain bounds, is highly commendable; when exceeding those limits, it degenerates, and becomes vicious. I shall, therefore, first point out this delicate barrier, perceptible only by the unprejudiced; to be trodden on by those alone who are innately good, and can bid each “passion move at the command of Virtue.” It is necessary that there should be some incitement to noble actions, to rouze the mind from torpidity, and promote the exertion of her powers. This incentive to greatness is called Ambition; and is equally fought for by the workman who excels in mechanism, the general who leads an army, and the statesman who commands the applause of senates. By a fascinating power, it beguiles mankind; and has but one predominant fault---an unbounded satiety. This gigantic precipice, which hides her head amid the clouds, is only to be climbed by the man of genius; and, when he mounts towards the summit, if he can view the prospect around him without a swimming head, and a dizzy eye, he is truly noble.

In our various gradations through life, if we can view and admire the summit of excellence which we have not reached, or look down with pleasure on that which we have passed, while we enjoy the plaudits of a surrounding world, each of us shall feel the secret praise of our own heart, proud in the consciousness of it’s integrity. Ambition, then, is the guide of Genius; it either raises it to perfection, or hurls it, in an unguarded moment, into obscurity. While, therefore, we can admire abilities greater, or perhaps less than our own, this laudable incentive will elevate and ennoble us; if, on the contrary, we despise or envy these powers, it will soon sink us into shame, and our works into oblivion.

I have made this digression, because a certain kind of ambition—for there are many species belonging to the genus---is the most essential cause why men of letters do not rise so well as they have reason to promise themselves, or even as they deserve.

Modesty is the inseparable attendant on Merit; at least, a certain kind of diffidence is felt by every man of genius, which too often hinders him from intruding himself on public notice. Possessing a mind fraught with the dignity of it’s own powers, he scorns those trammels with which an unfeeling world would too often gall his tender neck, and fetter down his lofty spirit. When, therefore, he explores the depths of science, or with unbounded good-nature skims the surface, for the benefit of mankind; he exults in the hope of that success which he had a right to demand, and looks forward to the promised harvest of the well-earned field. Though he may thus snatch his images, in daring enthusiasm: and, with “a phrenzy-rolling eye,” survey the expanse of nature; yet seldom will a harsh world comprehend---or, comprehending, reward---a dignity of mind, which might do honour to a class of beings higher than ourselves in the scale of existence. Every man who labours for the community, even should he fail, ought to be thanked for the pains he has taken; as every attempt to enforce the practice of those qualities which adorn and dignify the human heart, must necessarily merit applause.

There is certainly one excuse alledged by mankind in general, why they do not reward Genius according to it’s merit; and the reason, I will add, cannot fail, if persisted in, to tear the laurel from the brow of infant worth, and trample it in the dust. They assert, in fact; that authors are the enemies of each other, and will not allow their reciprocal fame to live.

To lay the metaphor aside; men of letters are too seldom men of generosity. It is a harsh expression, and I must beg pardon of the world for using it; but still cannot retract, till they disprove my assertion. Instead of cherishing a young author, or admiring a refined and superior genius; the wits of the age, in the one instance crush, and in the other snarl at and depreciate, his merits.

In a word, if authors would be more generous to each other’s productions---for perfection is not the attribute of humanity---if they would pardon the defects, and at the same time extol the beauties they read, merit would no longer linger in obscurity; the embryo fire of genius would again soon burst on the world, fostered in the bosom of Virtue, and fanned by the breath of Fame!

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

[WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.]

(Concluded from our last)

However I was resolved to observe her conduct as well as lord Ashford’s and act accordingly. I therefore assumed an air of tranquility, and, by my tenderness, seemed to have banished every painful sensation from her bosom; when one day as we were talking on family matters, and wondering we had not heard from lord or lady Somerset for two months past, a servant brought me a letter from an intimate friend who was dying, and begged to see me; I would not have complied with his request, disagreeable as it was to refuse, had not my Almena insisted on my going.

In a fatal hour I complied with her entreaties, and left her with the utmost reluctance. When I came to the house of Mr. Warner, I found he had expired two hours before my arrival; I paid a tribute of tears to the memory of honest George, who had been my college familiar; and as I had no further business, I hastened back to my wife. I entered the house unobserved by any one, having delivered my horse to a servant I met in the yard, and was proceeding to Lady Almena’s dressing room, with all the anxiety of love, when, on hearing the sound of voices I stopped, and clearly distinguished my wife, who pronounced these words: “You cannot imagine what I have suffered in this cruel separation. My heart has felt every painful sensation, you have been exposed to: believe me, my lord, my love for you is as violent as before my marriage.” “My love, my dearest Almena, answered a manly voice, I do believe you, and am convinced nothing can abate your affection for me.” I heard no more, but rushing to my apartment I seized my sword, and determined to end my woe, by plunging the weapon deep in the heart of the villain who had dishonoured me, I burst open the door of the dressing room, and, heart-rending sight! beheld my wife locked up in the arms of Lord Ashford, as I imagined.

Transported by my rage, I sprung towards him, and buried my sword in his body! He groaned and fell! But, oh Heavens! what were my feelings when I beheld the face of Lord Somerset! Though it was almost dark, I plainly perceived the features of my friend as he lay extended on the floor, bathed in his blood. My Almena had fainted on seeing her brother fall, and so stupified was I with horror at the rash action I had committed, that I was incapable of giving the least assistance to either.

My faculties at length forsook me, and I fell senseless; the noise of my fall brought the servants crouding to the apartment, there to behold the most horrible sight that ever shocked the eyes of humanity! When I recovered to a sense of my misery, I found my wife had been carried to her apartment during her fit, and Lord Somerset was seated in an armed chair.

Some of the servants were gone for a surgeon, whilst others were endeavouring to stop the effusion of blood.

He faintly opened his eyes, and casting them on me with a look of infinite sweetness, addressed me in the following manner, in a voice hardly audible: “Whatever, my dear Frederick, was your motive for a conduct so precipitate and rash, be assured I heartily forgive you; and am certain, mistake and fatal misapprehension were the cause of my death!” Here he stopped. The horror and distraction of my thoughts were so great, that, had not my servants prevented, I should have plunged the fatal sword in my own breast! By force they wrested it from me; and I was doomed to bear a wretched existence! I threw myself at the feet of Lord Somerset, and entreated his pardon.

My agonies were so great that before I could inform him of the truth, I was again deprived of my senses. I remember no more, than that after having been a long time confined to my chamber, I recovered to endless remorse!

The excess of my grief threw me into a violent fever which continued a month; during which time my wife and lord Somerset breathed their last! The latter lived only three days after the fatal wound he had received from me. He had a paper drawn up in which he solemnly attested my innocence, and acquitted me of his death. I found he had been acquainted with my jealousy of lord Ashford, by the villain who was hired by that scandal to nobility; the servant who had informed me of his lordship’s visit’s to my wife, was the detested creature of this wretch; and these falsities had been invented merely to disturb our domestic harmony; to which the appearance of his comrade in iniquity the day I had been hunting had greatly added, joined also to his evasive conduct. These particulars lord Somerset had been informed of by a letter from the abandoned fellow, who had left the kingdom, as his vile employer soon after did. But though my grief on the death of my Edward was little short of madness, yet the fate of my unhappy wife, rent my heart-strings! that angelic sufferer, on recovering from her fainting, immediately fell into strong labour; and after continuing in the utmost agony for a whole day and night, expired with her unhappy infant ere she had given it birth.

She left her forgiveness for him who had destroyed her and her brother. I am unable to describe the melancholy situation in which I was involved.

Several times I was tempted to end my miserable being; but some remains of conscience being left, I dared not rush into the presence of my Maker, uncalled for. I was greatly assisted in my resolution of enduring life, by the worthy Mr. Harpur,

The world by his prudent management remained uninformed of my misfortunes; supposing my wife died of a fever in her lying-in, and Lord Somerset of an apoplectic fit. I wrote to lady Somerset the melancholy account of my folly and rashness, and intreated her pardon, as she valued the peace of my soul. But alas! she lived not to grant it me: her sorrow for the loss of her children, joined to her ill state of health soon brought her to the grave! Thus had the violence of my passions destroyed three persons dearer to me than the whole world. Mr. Harpur would have persuaded me to leave Trout-Hall, as the scene of my wretchedness, only aided the poignancy of my sufferings, but all his arguments were vain: I was resolved to dedicate my life to penitence on that mournful spot. I accordingly built a retreat in the park and never after left it except once a year, when I forsook my humble habitation, to spend a few hours in the house where my greatest misery was compleated. I generally distributed a large sum of money to the poor inhabitants of the neighbourhood on that day, and in the evening returned to my cottage. I hope my sincere repentance and sorrow for my crimes may have atoned for them to that power whose blessings I had so infinitely abused. For twenty years I lived uninterrupted by any mortal save the good Mr. Harpur, who sometimes came and spent half an hour at my solitary residence. Here I lived and enjoyed more content than I ever thought could have fallen to my lot, after the miseries of my former life. As my prayers for mercy and pardon, at the throne of Heaven, have been real and sincere, so I trust I shall be forgiven, and whenever it shall please the deity to call me hence, I shall rejoice to obey his summons, hoping I shall have peace in a better world, and my error totally obliterated.

One thing I should have mentioned, which is, that the twenty-fifth year of my retirement, I made Mr. Harpur a present of thirty thousand pounds, and left my estate to a distant branch of my family, the only surviving relations I had. I begged my worthy friend to have my remains deposited in a tomb that should be erected in my convent, as I was used to call my residence. This, I have no doubt he will see performed, and may the melancholy incidents of my life warn them who shall see this manuscript, against the blameable use of reason. Had I suffered mine to have had its proper influence, I had not been plunged in such uncommon distress.

“The History of Mr. Elliot, or The Fatal Mistake” (pg. 277, 284, 293)

Original: “Female Stability, or, the History of Miss Belville, In a Series of Letters”, London 1780 by “The Late Miss Palmer”. The author is apparently not the better-known Charlotte Palmer.

Possible sources include The London magazine, or, Gentleman’s monthly intelligencer (Vol. 50, July 1781, pg 316ff).

Notes: A contemporary review in the London Magazine called the book “instructing and entertaining”. Another contemporary, Frances Hamilton, called it “sentimental, badly structured, pointless”.

NEGLIGENCE

IN EPISTOLARY CORRESPONDENCE.

I have no patience with those who apologize for not writing letters to their friends or acquaintances, by saying they have not time enough. Few people are so much pressed for time, as not to be able to spare half an hour, or an hour, in any day, for a particular avocation; a space quite sufficient for writing a letter. Most of those who make this silly excuse, are frequently, during the day, at a loss for filling more time than would suffice for this purpose. The true reason of the neglect seems, therefore, to be want of inclination rather than of leisure; and he who says—“I have not time for writing,” might in general say, with more honesty—“I am too indolent.”

But here it may be alledged, in favour of this neglect of correspondence, that it is not worth while, merely for the sake of amusement, to write letters; that it is irksome to sit down and be obliged to compose an epistle without possessing any subject of real and necessary business; and that the efforts of invention give to this employment the fastidious nature of a task. These objections, strictly taken, are undeniable: but it is most evident, that whoever makes them, must bind himself never to engage in any correspondence, or write a single letter that is not absolutely and indispensably necessary. And if this principle, which flows from the objections, be allowed, then epistolary correspondence must be left entirely to the concerns of business; and the communications of separated friendship, of love, and all other degrees of social affection, are at an end.

Many people sit down to write a letter as to perform a displeasing imposition, which they anticipate with reluctance, and defer as long as they can with decency. I have no objection to that reluctance, provided they would at first---whether requested to correspond, or spontaneously offering---ingenuously confess, that they consider all correspondence, which is not absolutely necessary, to be unworthy of regard: for by this explicit declaration of their sentiments, they would at once rid themselves, and others, of all trouble and expectation on the subject. The people should acquiesce in preserving correspondence, and then attempt to justify the neglect of it, by reasons which should have been offered before it was entered into, is the matter of complaint.

To such as consider that correspondence by letter is but another sort of personal communication, it will appear strange, that to compose an epistle, should be esteemed by those who possess any of the social affections, as a labour and hardship. Every person, it may be supposed, has some intimacy or acquaintance which he would wish to preserve, and if so small a portion of time might be made subservient to that agreeable purpose, is it not astonishing that so much reluctance should accompany the performance? The most indolent scruple not to confess their absent connections in terms of affection or attachment, but yet cannot induce themselves to accomplish that frequent interchange of sentiment, which constitutes the essence of friendship, and the nature of correspondence.

It should seem that those who acknowledge the existence of their absent attachments, but are yet too supine to preserve regular correspondence with them, are either under the dominion of an habitual and inveterate indolence, or else they do not feel the power of those attachments so strongly as they would have us imagine. For will the person who feels a real and undeniable pleasure in correspondence, excuse himself from it by such frivolous objections? Will the affectionate wife, separated from her faithful husband; will the ardent lover, debarred from the object of his adoration; content themselves for omitting this delightful duty, by alledging that they have not time? If the occupation employed ten times the space, they would contrive to accomplish it. And why is this? Because they take an unfeigned pleasure in the employment.

It will not avail to say that the fervour of passion often induces us to sacrifice more time to one object than is reasonable. It is sufficient to deduce, from these instances, that what we really delight in, we can always find means to perform.

Examine employments in which the warmth of passion is by no means concerned, as many there are which interest not the affections, but which by various people are highly esteemed; and you will find that such people contrive, whatever may be their other avocations, to dedicate sufficient time to those esteemed employments. Every man has a partiality for some occupation or amusement, in which, important as his necessary business may be, he can find time to indulge himself. And thus some persons, indolently inclined, can always contrive to devote a great portion of their time to their favourite goddess, Idleness; however loudly the calls of business, and of affection, may strive to detach them from her influence.

The general falshood, therefore, of this apology for neglect of correspondence---“I have not time,” is evident; being nevertheless true, with the change of one word for another, viz. instead of time, say inclination.

I am apt, however, to believe that this aversion to letter-writing is confirmed, if not induced, by the defect of conversance with literary composition. Since those who have been disused to writing, are observed in general to dislike it; and, on the contrary, persons who have had a learned education, and been early accustomed to epistolary communication, are least averse to it. The defect of practice in composition, must undoubtedly occasion a difficulty of collecting the sentiments, and of properly arranging and expressing them, that may render the employment truly irksome, notwithstanding the utmost warmth of affection. But it should be remembered, that little art is necessary to express the sensations of friendship; and that the simple language of sincerity is universally preferable to the most laboured compositions of ingenuity and elegance.

W——.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE DUEL.

—“Are you satisfied?” cried Edgar, accompanying his words with a dreadful thrust. The sword entered the breast of Richard, and but just escaped his heart. “Are you satisfied?” repeated he, while drawing the weapon from the wound, reaking with the blood of his friend. Richard would have replied, but his speech failed. He groaned; he gasped for breath; he fainted.

The clashing of swords, and the words of Edgar, arroused the venerable inhabitant of the forest. He slipped on his garments, and hastened to the scene of action: With some herbs, of the nature of which he was acquainted, he staunched the bleeding, and Richard again opened his eyes. When the hermit saw he was so far recovered, he returned to his cottage, to prepare a bed, and get other things in readiness for the reception of the wounded person.

The first object that Richard’s returning sight brought to view was Edgar. “Traitor! Villain!” he feebly uttered, “hence from my sight---life is no longer pleasing to me---you have strewed before me bitterness. My sister you have wronged; in an unguarded moment you took the advantage; you triumphed over her virtue: And do you still suppose I can behold you with tranquility? If you do, know that I detest you.”

“For this I will be revenged!” exclaimed the other. “Take that!---and should our spirits meet in other worlds revenge I’ll still pursue!” Here the wretch, triumphing over a fallen enemy, plunged his sword deep into the heart of Richard; and extinguished the spark of life that still remained.

The hermit was returning from his cottage---horror arrested his steps---“he saw the iron enter his soul.”

L. B.

February 14, ’97.

NEW-YORK.

TO CORRESPONDENTS AND PATRONS.

While there is an asylum open for registering instruction and depositing the modern progress of genius and literary productions in so large a metropolis as New York, a foreigner, of sentiment and taste, might with propriety remark, how few advocates step forward to eternize their fame, or support, strengthen and establish the infant state of a publication, wholly devoted to seal instruction of a lasting duration on the hearts of a virtuous and enlighten’d people.

The Editors, sensible of the abilities of many individuals who constitute various useful and honourable associations in this city, cordially solicit them (not thro’ selfish motives, but for the public good) to expand and communicate their instructive discussions; by which means, the world and posterity will partake and be entertained by their beneficent solutions. Some there are, who have already been stimulated by the generous impulse of a heart flowing with sensibility, and a desire to transmit their agreeable meditations: These will ever have the grateful thanks of those who are pleas’d with instruction, and particularly the best wishes of the Editors.

A REBUS is received, and will appear in our next.

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

March 5 5050 54 w.do. cloudy, h. wd.clear, do.

6 22 25 nw.do. clear, h. wd.do do.

7 19 28 nw.sw. clear, h. wd.cloudy sm. sn.

8 37 60 sw.do. cloudy, sm. rn.clear h. wd.

9 25 30 nw.do. clear h. wd.do. do.

10 19 32 nw.do. clear lt wd.do. do.

11 28 33 s.s. sn. lt. wd.do. sn. 6 in. deep.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON A LADY WHO DIED AT BRISTOL WELLS:

BY HER HUSBAND.

LIFE. A POEM.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONG.—By Mrs. G——— C——.

THE FIRE SIDE.

To Miss S—— T———.

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 22, 1797. [No. 90.

ESSAY ON MARRIAGE.

There is nothing which renders a woman more despicable than her thinking it essential to happiness to be married. Besides the gross indelicacy of the sentiment, it is a false one, as thousands of women have experienced.

But a married state, if entered into from proper motives of esteem and affection, is the happiest, makes women the most respectable in the eyes of the world, and the most useful members of society. Care should be taken not to relinquish the ease, and independence of a single life, to become the slave of a fool, or a tyrant’s caprice.

Love is very seldom produced at first sight; at least, in that case, it must have a very unjustifiable foundation. True love is founded on esteem, in a correspondence of tastes and sentiments, and steals on the heart imperceptibly. Therefore, before the affections come to be in the least engaged to any man, women should examine their tempers, their tastes, and their hearts very severely; and settle in their own minds, what are the requisites to their happiness in a married state; and, as it is almost impossible that they should get every thing they wish, they should come to a steady determination what they are to consider as essential, and what may be sacrificed.

Should they have hearts disposed by nature for love and friendship, and possess those feelings which enable them to enter into all the refinements and delicacies of these attachments, matters should be well considered before they give them any indulgence.

Should they have the misfortune to have such tempers, and such sentiments deeply rooted in them; should they have spirit and resolution to resist the solicitations of vanity, the persecution of friends; and can they support the prospect of the many inconveniences attending the state of an old maid, then they may indulge themselves in that kind of sentimental reading and conversation, which is most correspondent to their feelings.

But if it is found on a strict self-examination, that marriage is absolutely essential to their happiness, the secret should be kept inviolable in their own bosoms; but they should shun, as they would do the most fatal poison, all that species of reading and conversation, which warms the imagination, which engages and softens the heart, and raises the taste above the level of common life. If they do otherwise, let them consider the terrible conflict of passions this may afterwards raise in their breasts.

If this refinement once takes deep root in their minds, and they do not mean to obey its dictates, but marry from vulgar and mercenary views, they may never be able to eradicate it entirely, and then it will embitter all their married days. Instead of meeting with sense,—tenderness—delicacy—a lover—a friend—an equal companion in a husband, they may be tried with insipidity and dulness;—shocked with indelicacy;—and mortified by indifference.

To avoid these complicated evils, joined to others which may arise from the opinion of the infelicity thence arising; women who are determined, at all events to marry, should have all their reading and amusements of such a kind, as do not affect the heart nor the imagination, except in the way of wit and humour.

Whatever are a woman’s views in marrying, she should take every possible precaution to prevent being disappointed. If fortune, and the pleasure it brings be her aims, the principal security she can have for this will depend on her marrying a good-natured, generous man; who despises money, and who will let her live where she can best enjoy that pleasure, that pomp, and parade of life for which she married him.

In order to ensure felicity, it is difficult to point out in the married state the most effectual method, nor can we advise whom a woman should marry, but we may with great confidence advise whom she should not marry.

A companion that may entail any hereditary disease on posterity, particularly madness, should be avoided. Such risque is the height of imprudence, and highly criminal.

A woman should not marry a fool; he is the most intractable of all animals; he is led by his passions and caprices, and is incapable of hearing the voice of reason. Besides it may probably too hurt a woman’s vanity to have a husband, for whom she has reason to blush and tremble every time he opens his lips in company.

But she worst circumstance that attends a fool, is his constant jealousy of his wife’s being thought to govern him. This renders it impossible to lead him; and he is continually doing absurd and disagreeable things, for no other reason but to shew he dare do them.

A rake is always a suspicious husband, because he has only known the most worthless of the sex.

Women, who have a sense of religion, should not think of husbands who have none. If husbands have tolerable understandings, though not actuated by religious principles themselves, they will be glad that their wives have religion, for their own sakes, and for the sake of their families.

If they are weak men, they will be continually shocking and teasing them about their principles.

A sudden sally of passion should never be given way to, and dignified with the name of love.---Genuine love is not founded on caprice; it is founded in nature, or honourable views;—on virtue—on similarity of tastes, and sympathy of soul.

In point of fortune, which is necessary to the happiness of both, a competency is requisite. But what that competency may be, can only be determined by their own tastes. If they have enough between them, as will satisfy all demands, it is sufficient.

Marriage will at once dispel the enchantment raised by external beauty; but the virtues and graces that first warmed the heart, that reserve, and delicacy which always left the lover something further to wish, and often made him doubtful of his mistress’s sensibility and attachment, may and ought ever to remain.

The tumult of passion will naturally subside; but it will be succeeded by an endearment that affects the heart in a more equal, more sensible, and more tender manner.

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 291.)

The fifth of August, in the night of which the plot was to be carried into execution, the King sent orders to all the troops that were quartered in the neighbourhood of Lis*on, to march instantly to the capital under the pretext of a review. On the morning of the same day, he delivered himself sealed instructions to his most faithful officers, ordering them not to be opened before noon, when they were to execute the contents with the greatest dispatch.

These precautions being taken, the king ordered the Great Council of State to assemble at one o’clock. The Bishop of Br*ga and the Marquis of Villa Re*l were arrested as soon as they entered the council chamber, and a captain of the life guard seized the Duke of Ca*ina at the same time in the public street. This was the time when all the officers opened their sealed orders, which contained the names of those whom they were to arrest, and of the prison to which they were to conduct them. Every one of the conspirators was confined in a different prison, and some were arrested by more than one officer. All those that had been ordered to execute the king’s command, arrived at the same time at the places of their destination, and performed their mission almost in one moment. The number of the prisoners amounted to forty-seven.

A committee of Grandees was now appointed to try the conspirators. The letters through which the plot had been discovered were not produced of the beginning of the trial, in order not to betray the Marquis of Aja*onti. Baeza being threatened to be put to the rack confessed first, and the rest confirmed his confession after having been put to the torture. The Marquis of Villa Re*l and the Duke of Ca*ina, and the two prelates confessed voluntarily.

Alumbrado endured the first degree of the torture without confessing any thing; however, at the second he began to be more tractable.

Imagining that my readers will be desirous to learn the particulars of the life of this extraordinary man, I will give a short sketch of what I could learn.

He was born at *a*. If the virtues of parents were as inheritable as their rank and fortune, he would not have been a disgrace to a family as noble as it was respectable. Already in his juvenile age he exhibited marks of a penetrating understanding, of an extraordinary docility and acuteness, but nature had thrown away her gifts upon a villain. The great rigour with which his father watched his conduct, had no other effect but that of making him a hypocrite, for he would commit any crime if he could do it unobserved, although he was generally believed to be a pattern of every virtue. In his ninth year he killed a girl by a stone thrown from a sling, and was capable not only of fathering the crime upon one of his play-fellows, but, at the same time of rendering his accusation more plausible by his solemn protestations, and the tears he shed over the corpse. Progress of time changed his conduct not in the least, he rather improved in wickedness, and in the art of concealing his crimes.

Inheriting from his father an immense fortune, he determined to indemnify himself for his former constraint, by the most licentious manner of life, and abandoned himself to all sorts of debauchery, with a fury that ruined both his health and his fortune. The grief at this conduct broke the heart of his mother, at which he was not very sorry, expecting to improve his fortune by a new inheritance. He was, however, disappointed, for his mother, thinking it sinful to support him in his debaucheries, left her wealth to a cloister. Glowing with thirst for revenge, he set it on fire and ran away.

The vengeance of Heaven pursued him, and want soon completed the measure of his wretchedness. Whithersoever he went he was haunted by the unrelenting punishments of the Omnipresent Judge on high, and the greatest distress. At length he obtained leave of a captain, who was just going to sea, to embark on board of his vessel.

Thus he did, indeed, get out of the reach of public justice, but not of the vengeance of Heaven. The ship was captured by Algerine pirates, and he was dragged to captivity.

He abjured his religion and turned Mahometan, in order to ease the yoke of slavery that lay heavy on his shoulders. His great capacities enabled him soon to improve his situation, and during some successful cruizes against his own countrymen, he acquired a considerable fortune, which he increased rapidly through his speculations on land and sea, which he carried on for more than twenty years with astonishing success.

Meanwhile he took every opportunity of injuring the Christians, and Portugal lost through his infernal intrigues her most valuable possessions in Africa.

Yet his good fortune became at last the source of new misfortunes, puffing him up with pride in such a manner, that he aspired to a dignity in the state which a renegado rarely or never obtains. The Dey of Algiers died, and he spared neither expences nor artifices to be constituted his successor; his ambitious views were however frustrated.

His pride was wounded, and he endeavoured to gain his aim by additional bribes, but in vain! Enraged with new disappointment, he conspired against the new Dey; a Dervise, whom he wanted to implicate in his plot, betrayed him, and he had scarcely time to save himself by a sudden flight, leaving all his ill-gotten wealth behind.

On his return to Europe he disguised himself in the garb of a pilgrim, and affected to be a peregrinating penitentiary. Wherever he passed through he pretended to have visited the holy sepulchre, where the infidels had detained him a long while, in captivity, from which he had been delivered, at length, in a miraculous manner. He distributed small pieces of wood, stone and earth, as valuable relics, for which the poor superstitious multitude paid him great sums of money.

Thus he roamed from place to place, and met every where with credulous people, with hospitality and alms. At Aran*uez he got acquainted with the Bishop of P—*, who, at that time, exercised the office of a papal legate at the court of Spa*n. His pharisaical hypocrisy enabled him to ingratiate himself with that worthy prelate, who was so much deceived by him, that he received him into his service.

Alumbrado dispatched the private secretary of his deluded master by a dose of poison, and succeeded him in his place. The unsuspecting prelate was so much pleased with Alumbrado’s abilities and services, that he recommended him to Oliva*ez when he returned to Rome.

The character of the Prime Minister of Spa*n differed materially from that of the Bishop; Alumbrado, however, knew how to accommodate himself to every one. He soon prejudiced his new patron so much in his favour, that he entrusted him with the execution of a political charge of the greatest importance, and Alumbrado acquitted himself so well of his commission, that the Minister promised to reward his services on the first opportunity. Alumbrado improved every opportunity of securing the favour of his master, and endeavoured anxiously to explore his ruling passions.

The keen-sighted dissembler soon found out that the Minister was a great admirer of the occult sciences, and instantly hinted that he had acquired a great knowledge of those sciences on his travels. From that moment the Minister was rather in Alumbrado’s service than the latter in his.

Thus they had lived together in mutual good understanding five years, when the commotions in Portu*al began to alarm the Court of Mad**d. Alumbrado was sent to Lisbon, in order to counteract the machinations of the Duke of Braga*za, but having not been able to effect his purpose, attempted to carry his point by forming a conspiracy, which, if it had succeeded, would have proved fatal to the life of the new King, and plunged the empire into the greatest misery.

Unfortunate young man! who hast been implicated in the most enormous artifices of a monster in that infernal plot; have not all the torments of Hell raged in thy bosom, when the veil which that arch deceiver had thrown over that horrid undertaking was removed, when thy seducer was unmasked before his judges, and thou sawest in whose hands thou hast been, and how the miracles by which thou hadst been ensnared, had been wrought? A fragment which I have copied from the records of the trial, will enable the reader to form an idea of the state of my unhappy friend.

Duke. It is impossible, I say.

Alumbrado. And yet it is exactly as I have told you. It was you who prompted me by your relation of your adventures with the Irishman, to gain you for my purpose by delusive miracles. These were the only means left me by the Marquis of F———, for I could not expect to ensnare you by apparitions of ghosts , after the sensible arguments which he had opposed to your belief in their existence. Your friend’s philosophical caution not to trust a man whom you should have caught once in the act of committing a fraud, obliged me to be on my guard, and I endeavoured to persuade you that I was a saint.

I pronounced the Irishman a sorcerer in order to prejudice you against him, and to exclude him from all further connection with you. Thus I gained more than I ever should have done, if I had pronounced him an impostor, because I had it very much at my heart to inspire you with a blind belief in supernatural events of every kind, and a blind confidence in my miracles.

(To be continued.)

For comparison, here are the final two paragraphs as printed in the Dublin (two-volume) edition, with italics:

Alumbrado. And yet it is exactly as I have told you. It was you who prompted me by your relation of your adventures with the Irishman, to gain you for my purpose by delusive miracles. These were the only means left me by the Marquis of F———, for I could not expect to ensnare you by apparitions of ghosts, after the sensible arguments which he had opposed to your belief in their existence. Your friend’s philosophical caution not to trust a man whom you should have caught once in the act of committing a fraud, obliged me to be on my guard, and I endeavoured to persuade you that I was a saint.

I pronounced the Irishman a sorcerer in order to prejudice you against him, and to exclude him from all further connection with you. Thus I gained more than I ever should have done, if I had pronounced him an impostor, because I had it very much at my heart to inspire you with a blind belief in supernatural events of every kind, and a blind confidence in my miracles.

REFLECTIONS ON WAR.

On the first appearance of this dreadful and destructive calamity, the parties more particularly and personally engaged, are animated with an enthusiastic ardour, to have an opportunity of signalizing themselves in it. It is then that the impetuosity of youth, the fervour, the experience, the sapience, of old age, are called forth in open field, to put in force the discussions of the cabinet, and to engage with real zeal in the cause of their country; it is then that every manly breast feels a warlike impulse thrilling the whole frame! The sound of drums, the roaring of cannon, the clangor of every species of martial music, rise figuratively within us: it is then that we should

While thus engaged, through the medium of honour, under the tremendous banners of Mars; buoyed up by him, we sally forth, and bear down all mortal opposition. We scarcely, in our thoughts, survey the disconsolate many we left behind; who, though concerned, are not engaged, in the murderous contest. Flushed with the hopes of suspended victory, the insignia of triumph hanging doubtful over our heads, whole hosts advancing to dispute with us our martial prowess, we indulge no thoughts about those who lament the loss of a father, a child, a husband, a brother, or a friend.

Stunned with the fatal tidings, which mournfully announce the death of an affectionate father, behold the wretched family, the disconsolate, the helpless relict, of a gallant warrior; who, with the bravery of his arm, supplied the wants of nature to a once happy family: now, robbed of their entire support, they in vain call out to the manes of their Sire; in vain invoke all that was most clear to them, to return from the mouldering dust! But this trying scene is too affecting to demand expression. Let us, then, survey, in return, the condition of those venerable parents who weep the loss of their beloved offspring. A prey to that incessant grief which naturally accompanies those to whom the fatal loss happens, the worthy sire, and the tender matron, lament the eternal exit of their ill-fated son; whom, as they nurtured him in happiness, the tear of genuine affection trickled down the manly cheek, and the sweet smile of maternal fondness pervaded the mother’s enraptured looks. Now, that scene of mutual content is changed for misery, sorrow, and incessant tears. None but parents can conceive their condition; none but parents picture what it is impossible for the tongue or pen to describe. Let us, from this scene, turn to view another equally affecting.

In pourtraying the situation of the disconsolate and mournful widow, we should find, were we to confine our ideas to her alone, an ample field for grief and serious consideration. Living, perhaps, in uninterrupted harmony, friendship, and love, the happy pair, if poor, supplied the wants of nature with an industrious hand; and, if ever persecuted by the hand of mercenary, fickle Fortune, sought in each others bosom an asylum against the storms of Fate: if rich, perhaps a bright example of conjugal affection, the love and happiness of all around, of all connections and dependencies. An adieu, a final adieu! took place between the brilliant pair, previously to his entering the plains of Mars. The calls of Honour are loud; the calls of honour must be obeyed: obeyed they are; and, sacrificed to them, are the best, the bravest of her votaries! Returning, to behold the situation of the widow absorbed in grief, we find beauty in distress. Bereft of every consolation that this life affords, the partner of her joys, the solace of her cares, and the partaker of her fond embraces, she languishes a life of widowhood in misery; lamenting the hour that gave her birth, to linger out a miserable existence in the nursery of Woe. This is one of the many fatal consequences produced by that aweful, that terrific hydra, War.

Now, finally, let us survey the condition of the man, who, in the loss of a real friend, has lost every thing of value in this world. The sharer, as it were, of his bosom; his comforter in this vale of tears; his refuge in adversity; and, in short, all that he esteemed; is gone, in a moment gone, and launched for ever into those boundless realms of beatitude, “from whose bourne no traveller returns.” Is it the loss of an affectionate brother he mourns, and yet laments with mental fortitude? If so, it was friendship indeed! Where two hearts congenial rise, amicably, fraternally, combining each other’s souls. They lived, and lived happy in each other, a most unparalleled example of fraternal amity and love. But, alas! how transitory is this earthly vision, this temporary bliss! How little to be depended on, our situation here! These two, who the rugged paths of life together trod, each other’s souls exchanged, & the sweet balm of friendship tasted, are separated for ever; never, never to meet, till the massy ambrosial gates of those mansions of eternal bliss shall be opened to them, where every vice, and it’s attendant passions, are wrecked to annihilation, and vanish to eternity!

A few more reflections, and I have done. War, tho’ often productive of the most solid advantages, is always attended with the most miserable consequences; and what serves to enrich a few individuals, may reduce many to misery and want, whose former circumstances were none of the most inferior sort. Callous, indeed, must be the heart of that man, and lost to every sense of fellow-feeling, who can behold such scenes, and not be melted at the sight. These are the consequences of war; of that war which, when of long duration, entails wretchedness on the greatest part of the community, and tends to destroy and reduce to general distress, nations once the envy of the world. Well may we, then, in such critical emergencies, pour out our souls to the omniscient Disposer of all things; and, with fervency of heart, exclaim—

Tyrunculus.

ALI AND ORASMIN;

OR, THE EFFECTS OF ENVY.

When Muley Mustapha swayed the Ottoman Empire, lived Ali and Orasmin, sons of two most eminent Lords in the court of Amurath his father; they were born on the same day; had been companions from infancy; contemplated together the stupendous beauties of Nature; scrutinized the complicated labyrinths of Knowledge; cultivated the heroic discipline of War; and courted the irresistible Graces calculated to meliorate the ruggedness of the soldier, and familiarize the pedantic stiffness of the scholar; polish the invaluable precepts of Wisdom, and make even Virtue’s self more divine. It was determined at their births, by the Genii of Excellence, that Ali should surpass Orasmin in beauty of person, strength of body, and vigor of mind; and though the latter apparently possessed all the candour and generosity of the former, he was in reality subtle and selfish; jealous of merit, and impatient of superiority; yet the sacred zone of friendship was mutually exchanged between them, and they were the sole confidents of each other.

A soil so ungrateful as the breast of Orasmin was little propitious to the seeds of amity; especially as increasing maturity confirmed proportionately the unkind bias of nature. In all their emulatory exercises, the wreath of victory was the boon of Ali, who wore it with the most conciliating demeanour; but nothing could reconcile Orasmin to repeated disappointment; continual defeat increased his chagrin; his friendship daily subsided; he had recourse to stratagem for triumph, but the result was ever accumulated mortification; till, at length, envy took possession of his breast, and was by a most important occurrence sublimed into a desire of revenge.

Of Amine, the beautiful and virtuous daughter of the Vizier Omar, they were both enamoured; and both sought her affections, though unknown to each other: but the talisman of Fortune was in the hand of Ali; and, by consent of the vizier, the cadi drew up the contract of union between them. Orasmin attended the celebration of his friends nuptials; but, while he prayed aloud that Alla might shower down innumerable blessings on his head, he cursed him in his heart, and from that moment meditated his destruction. But his resentment he veiled under the garb of extreme solicitude; and while on his lips dwelt the mellifluous accents of disinterested profession, the deadly gall of hatred rankled in his soul. Lo! to the eye, how beautiful appears the serpent of the desart; yet in his mouth is inserted a barbed sting, and under his tongue is collected the dark beverage of death!

Orasmin now stedfast in his hate, waited with the utmost anxiety for a favourable moment to effect his monstrous purposes on his rival, as the tawny lion of Africa watches an opportunity to spring on his prey: but the hopes of the envious were vain; the conduct of Ali put Scandal to shame, and bade defiance to the machinations of Malice.

The pure bliss which the new-married couple enjoyed was in the fullness of time heightened extremely by the birth of a son: but it is written in the ample book of Nature, “That the fairest blossom shall be blighted, and the green leaf shall not last forever;” and, in the unutterable volume of Destiny, that—“The aspect of human happiness is deceitful as the complexion of the sky; and that the exquisite season of enjoyment flees away on the light pinions of impatience.” The son of Amine was stolen from his nurse; and the house of Ali, from being the mansion of supreme felicity, became on a sudden, the dwelling of anguish, and the haunt of despair.

An hundred moons had revolved, and Ali and Amine heard not of their first-born; neither did the all-wise Alla think fit to supply his place by another. At length, Ali was dispatched on an expedition against the enemies of the faithful; and Orasmin had the mortification to serve under him, as second in command. He resolved to thwart him all he could insidiously: and, by a well-concerted stratagem, and most consummate address, made so grand diversion in favour of the foe, that the Musselmen were not only defeated; but, apparently to the whole army, through the imbecility of the commander in chief, who narrowly escaped being made a prisoner.

The sagacious Ali, however, though he little suspected the treachery of Orasmin, knew well where the blame lay; yet rather than his friend should suffer, nobly chose to keep silence, and himself bear the whole weight of the Sultan’s displeasure.

The perfidious Orasmin, internally rejoicing at the effect of his art, with the greatest pleasure received the news, that the generous Ali was banished his sovereigns presence, and had retired to hide his shame far from the royal city. Time, however, and the interest of Omar, once more restored Ali to Mustapha’s favour; he was intrusted, in a full divan, with an embassy to the Christian states; and returned, after having concluded his mission in the most honourable manner. But it should seem that the Genii of Prosperity had resigned his destiny to the Spirits of Malediction; the sublime satisfaction he received from the approving smiles of his royal master, were blasted by the intelligence that Amine, the wife of his bosom, was no more! At his departure, she had retired to a house which he possessed by the sea-shore; and it was her custom every evening to ramble among the rocks, as if to look for his return; from one of these excursions she never returned; and her attendants concluded that she must have been drowned.

Ali was distracted at the information, and flew from society to bury his grief in sympathising solitude. In the mean time, partly through sorrowing for his daughter, and partly through the dilapidations of time, the venerable Omar resigned his seat of mortality; and Orasmin, by mere intrigue, obtained the post of temporary Vizier; as Mustapha had proclaimed, that no one should be confirmed in it, but he who should perform an action worthy of such a reward.

Orasmin, however, through the most refined artifice, had almost induced the Sultan to perpetuate his claim to the viziership; when Nadar Ismoul, with a formidable army, approached, with all the insolence of a rebel, within two days march of the royal capital. The voice of rebellion pierced the recesses of grief; and Ali, rouzed from his desponding lethargy by the imminent danger of his country, hastened to court, and throwing himself at the Sultan’s feet, entreated leave to march against Nadar, and retrieve his former dishonour. Muley readily complied; and Ali took the field with a less, but a much better disciplined army than that of Nadar: victory strode before him; the deluded forces of the traitor threw down their arms, but it was the will of Alla that their leader should escape.

The acclamations of thousands proclaimed the honourable return of Ali; and Orasmin, making a virtue of necessity, was the first to declare him worthy of the viziership. He at first hesitated to accept it, for the memory of Amine had estranged his heart from society; but, reflecting that man was not made for himself, and that he who slights the power of doing good is an enemy to human nature, he received it at the hands of his gracious sovereign with the most zelous and heartfelt professions of gratitude. The torments of Orasmin increased daily; and, though he overserved the most marked attention to his rival outwardly, the dark projects of revenge continually absorbed his mind. An orphan, who from earliest infancy had been under his protection, loved, and was beloved by his daughter: he had long noticed it, but concealed that knowledge. One day, when the lovers were enjoying, as they thought, the blisses of security, he surprized them, and with a stern frown bade Ibrahim follow him. They entered a private apartment; when Orasmin, seating himself, thus addressed the youth, who stood trembling before him—“Ibrahim, when the Angel of Death deprived thee of thy parents, and the Angel of Adversity destroyed the fortunes of thine house, thou was insensible to thy loss. Thy father had been my most intimate friend, and I took thee under my protection. I have been to thee as a father, and thou hast been profuse in professions of gratitude; but it is by deeds alone that we can judge of the sincerity of the heart, and Orasmin now finds it necessary to put thy gratitude to trial.” Then, giving him a letter, bade him read it; which the terrified Ibrahim immediately opening, found to contain these words—

“Ali Mahomet, to his esteemed friend, Nadar Ismoul, greeting, health and happiness. To the tyrant Mustapha, despair and death! The plan of thy defeat was well managed; the credulous Muley is completely deceived, and has made me vizier: he little dreams, that he has put himself into the power of his most implacable enemy. I dispatch this by a trusty messenger; by whom, from time to time, I shall communicate to thee what steps thou art to take. At present, keep still where thou art; and I hope soon to call thee from thy hiding-place, to share with me the empire of the usurping Othmans. Thine in all the ardour of sincerity.

“Ali Mahomet.”

“Among the talents thou possessest,” continued Orasmin, “thou hast that of imitating, beyond the possibility of detection, the most difficult hand-writing; transcribe then, that letter in the characters of Ali our vizier, specimens of which I shall give thee; and if thou succeedest to my wish the hand of my daughter Almeria, whom thou lovest, shall be thine.” The agitation of surprize which possessed the youthful Ibrahim, left him not words to reply: he stammered a few incoherent words; when Orasmin, drawing his scymitar cried—“I am not to be trifled! to the task this moment; or, by the head of Mahomet, thou shalt follow the shade of thy father! But, I again repeat it, if thou pleasest me, Almeria shall be thine to-morrow.”

(To be continued.)

IRONICAL INSTRUCTION TO LOUNGERS.

Such gentlemen as carry small canes, in modish language termed canees, ought to put them in a horizontal position under their right arm taking especial care that the ferule end, which must be carried behind them, be sufficiently dirty. This, with a jirk in the gait, and a frequent whisk, as if to look about them, will prevent that crowd of busy people, who infest the public streets, from pressing too close.

If a short man carry an umbrella, let him lift it no higher, than the eyes of the overgrown monsters, among the passengers of the street. By this expedient, he will prevent their coming so near, as to splash him; at least, if they do, it will be at the hazard of loss of sight.

Such gentlemen, as write their letters in a coffee-house, should endeavour to procure two or three of the newspapers of the day, to put under their paper. This will prevent the table soiling their letter, or their ruffle; as to the impatience of those who wait for news, that is not the business of a gentleman to inquire about.