VOLUME II. (continued 19)

If a Coffee-room be crowded, endeavour to fix yourself at the corner of a table, in such a manner, that you prevent any one passing you to get seated on any other part of the bench; or, if that cannot conveniently be done, put one, or both of your legs, at full length upon the seat, lean back, whistle, or pick your teeth. This will show your consequence.

If you walk the streets, always wear boots and spurs, especially in the summer months, when the ways are clean. I say spurs, because it is three to one, but they catch the apron or petticoat of some woman, who is passing you; if she be young and handsome, you may make a low bow, and ask her pardon, in a degagee way, which may give birth to an agreeable connexion. Observe the same rule, when you go to the play-house; besides, if your boots be sufficiently dirty, you prevent people incommoding you, by crowding a box seat.

Whenever you call a hackney coach, order the driver to stop his horses, as near as possible to the foot-way. This will naturally occasion a number of people to stop, and give you an opportunity, of showing your person or a new coat, made in the ton.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

HOPE.

Hope may be considered as a mental stimulus: It is to the mind what the blood it to the body: If the circulation of the latter is arrested, the powers of life collapse; if Hope deserts us, despair commences her gloomy reign, and blackens every prospect. Few are free from the intrusions of this unwelcome visitor when assaulted by the calamities of life, when the gay visions of imagination vanish from their sight, and when the anguish of remorse preys upon the soul. Since each earthly dependance must fail, how miserable is he whose only objects of Hope are confined to the present world, and how often must his heart flag for want of this necessary stimulus. Hence appears the glorious advantage of that man, whose Hope, grounded on a faith in divine Revelation, extends through eternity. This is the prerogative of the Christian, and from hence he draws a never-failing supply in whatever state he is destin’d to appear.

Viator.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SLAVERY.

Gloomy night had began her reign, and dread silence prevailed in and about the habitations that were situated on the banks of the Niger*; and nought was there to interrupt the gloom, save man, savage-civilized man; who, conscious that the deed he perpetrates is unfit for the sun to be witness of, makes choice of this solemn hour, when the sad victims to his avarice are fast locked in the arms of sleep and innocence, to accomplish his nefarious designs.

On such an hour as hath my pen pourtrayed, forth rushed from a bark that bore proud Albion’s flag, several, who had long been the acknowledged possessors of what are called “hearts of oak”—(perhaps the title never suited more exactly). The base commander had taken the advantage of unguarded innocence, and to accumulate wealth, purloined his fellow man. The “Free Briton” was converted into a Slave ship, and became a prison for Afric’s ill-fated sons.

Near to the shore the vessel lay, until its honourable master had seen stowed in its hold, far from Aurora’s soul-reviving beams, sufficient of those beings that were formed in the exact image of his Creator, to complete his cargo, spread his canvass to the gentle breeze. The ship, as if partaking in some degree of the spirit of its commander, proudly mounted the white top’d billows, and exulting in the numbers she was conducting to their destined port to partake of the bitter draught of slavery, flew before the wind.

Hitherto the winds had been propitious, and nought had intervened to disturb the pleasure of the crew. Half the distance had the vessel measured; and so certain were they of soon beholding the Island of Barbadoes, that they could have sworn they would have reached it ere a week had finished. But righteous Heaven, who, alas! is the only protector of inoffending mortals, grieved to see a portion of its creatures thus abused, sent to the eyes of the eager crew, a ship, that bore engines (not of torture, although navigated by infidels) of war. On her stern majestically waved Britannia’s flag. Lured by the bait, the eager crew hastened to greet their brethren. Already was the Captain situated in a place conspicuous, in order to deliver the accustomed salutation; when oh! a death-blow was given to all their expectations---they beheld an Algerine corsair. Too late to retreat they were soon taken possession of, and themselves made prisoners.

L. B.

March 17, 1797.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

At Cherry-hill, by the Rev. Nicholas Van Vranken, Captain Solomon Van Rensselaer, to Miss Harriot Van Rensselaer, second daughter of Philip Van Rensselaer, Esq.

On Saturday evening the 18th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Abeel, Captain Joseph Marschalk, to Miss Mary Youle, both of this city.

On Friday evening the 24th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. John Devay, of Albany, to Miss Mary Warren, late of England.

On Tuesday evening the 28th ult. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Thomas S. Townsend, Merchant, to Miss Peggy Nostrand, both of this city.

A few weeks since, at Boston, Grenville Temple, Esq. son of Sir John Temple, Bart. to Mrs. Russell, widow of the late Thomas Russell, Esq. of that city.

On Wednesday the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, Mr. Robert Gibbons, to Miss Hannah Higgins, of Elizabeth-Town.

On Thursday evening the 2d inst. by the Rev. Mr. Abeel, Mr. John Holloway, to Miss Catharine Stanton, both of this city.

On Thursday evening sen’ight, by the Rev. Mr. Holmes, Mr. John Coats, to Miss Wilhelmina Patterson, both of this city.

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

March 12 28 36 s.do. cloudy, lt. wd.clear, calm

13 36 43 cloudy, calm,do. do.

14 45 62 s.do. foggy, lt wd.do. do.

15 36 44 ne.do. rain, lt wd.do. do.

16 33 36 e.ne. rain, lt wd.do. do.

17 38 48 e.do. rain, lt wd.very thick fog.

18 48 68 sw.w. clr. lt wd.thunder shower.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

A REBUS.

ON SEEING A LADY AT AN OPPOSITE WINDOW.

For sources, see the end of the final installment (pg. 320).

AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.

By James De-La-Cour.

ANACREONTIC.

Found in an old Drawer in the Repositories of a Person deceased.

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 29, 1797. [No. 91.

TRUE GENUINE SENTIMENT.

True genuine sentiment may be so connected with the virtue of action, as to bestow on it its brightest lustre, and its most captivating graces. And enthusiasm under these circumstances is so far from being disagreeable, that a portion is indispensibly necessary in an engaging woman; but it must be of the heart, not of the senses.—It must grow up with the feeling mind, and be cherished by a virtuous education, not compounded of irregular passions and artificially refined by books of unnatural fiction, and improbable adventure.

But this dangerous merit cannot be too rigidly watched, as it is very apt to lead those who possess it into inconveniencies from which less interesting characters are happily exempt.

Strong sensibility may carry a very amiable temper into the most alarming extremes.---The taste of those so actuated are passions. They love and hate with all their hearts, and scarcely suffer themselves to feel a reasonable preference, before it strengthens into a violent attachment.

When an innocent girl of this open, trusting, tender heart, happens to meet with one of her own sex and age, whose address and manners are engaging, she is instantly seized with an ardent desire to commence a friendship with her. She feels the most lively impatience at the restraint of company and the decorums of ceremony.—She longs to be alone with her—longs to assure her of the warmth of her tenderness, and generally ascribes to the fair stranger all the good qualities she feels in her own heart, or rather all those which she has met with in her reading, dispersed in a variety of heroines.—She is persuaded that her new friend unites them all in herself, because the carries in her prepossessing countenance the promise of them all.

If hints of her defects are given, she mistakes the voice of discretion. At first she listens to them with a generous impatience, and afterwards with a cold and silent disdain, and despises them as the effect of prejudice, misrepresentation, or ignorance.

Yet this trusting confidence, this honest indiscretion, is, at this early period of life, as amiable as it is natural; and will, if wisely cultivated, produce at its proper season, fruits infinitely more valuable than all the guarded circumspection of premature, and therefore artificial prudence. Nay, if the younger part of the sex are sometimes deceived in the choice of a friend, they enjoy even then an higher degree of satisfaction than if they never trusted—For to be always clad in the burthensome armour of suspicion is more painful and inconvenient, than to run the hazard of suffering, now and then, a transient injury.

These observations chiefly respect the inexperienced; for it is a certainty that women are capable of as faithful and as durable friendship as any of the other sex. They can enter not only into all the enthusiastic tenderness, but into all the solid fidelity of attachment.

RIDICULE.

The fatal fondness for indulging a spirit of ridicule, and the injurious and irreparable consequences which sometimes attend the too severe reply, can never be condemned with more asperity than it deserves. Not to offend is the first step towards pleasing. To give pain is as much an offence against humanity as against good-breeding; and surely it is as well to abstain from an action because it is sinful, as because it is impolite.

A man of sense and breeding will sometimes join in the laugh, which has been raised at his expence by an ill natured repartee; but if it was very cutting, and one of those shocking sorts of truths, which, as they scarcely can be pardoned even in private, ought never to be uttered in public, he does not laugh because he wishes to conceal how much he is hurt; and will remember it, as a treat of malice, when the whole company should have forgotten it as a stroke of ridicule.

Even women are so far from being privileged by their sex to say unhandsome or cruel things, that it is this very circumstance which renders them intolerable. When the arrow is lodged in the heart, it is no relief to him who is wounded to reflect, that the hand which shot it was a fair one.

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 299.)

It gave me great pleasure to have found out a mean through which I could influence you and the Marquis at once, and guide both of you to one mark. I feared, however, the Marquis of F———— would discover my artifices, and for that reason recommended him to the King by a third person, for the transaction of affairs which removed him far enough from us.

Duke. Infernal villainy! execrable wretch!——But no, your deeds contradict your profession. No, Alumbrado, human art cannot produce miracles like yours. Did not nature herself obey you?

Alumbrado. Your imagination only obeyed me. The idea of the miraculous had been instilled in your mind already, and I had nothing else to do but to strengthen it, in order to get possession of the confidence which Hiermanfor had enjoyed. I thought it, however, prudent to use a different method. He founded his supernatural power on the occult sciences, and I on religious mysteries.

I did not find it more difficult to lead you from the delusions of speculative philosophy, to those of implicit faith, than to give you proofs of my miraculous power. A little dexterity, a little success on my part, and a judicious accommodation to circumstances, delivered you and the Marquis into my power. I gained my purpose, and this was the only miracle in the whole affair.

Duke. However, the effects which you produced, are still so very mysterious to me.—

Alumbrado. And yet every thing was done in a very natural manner.

Duke. How could you know the accident that happened at the Inn at *li*, in the very moment when it took place.

Alumbrado. Because I had preconcerted it with some of my emissaries at *li*. You now will comprehend how I could know the day and the hour, and how that incident could agree so exactly with my prediction.

Duke. What end did you mean to gain by that deception?

Alumbrado. The throwing down of the picture by an invisible hand, was to give you a hint that a higher power had decreed the dethronement of the King.

Duke. However, the appeasing of the tempestuous sea could be no delusion, nor an accident. Through what extraordinary means did you effect it?

Alumbrado. Mere precaution enabled me to effect it. Experience had taught me that oil possesses the extraordinary quality of restoring the equilibrium of the water, if violently agitated, and of smoothing the swelling waves. For that reason I have been used never to make a voyage without carrying some casks of oil with me; and I had taken the same precaution when I went on board of the vessel in which you had taken your passage. Having left you, I ordered my people to beat off the hoops of the casks and throw them overboard. The oil instantly spread over the surface of the water and calmed the agitated waves.*

Duke. [After a pause] It was your intention to persuade me to return to Lis*n, and you have gained your aim by that expedient; but what would you have done if no tempest had afforded you an opportunity of deceiving me by a pretended miracle?

Alumbrado. I should have watched another opportunity, and devised other artifices; for it was with that view that I accompanied you on your voyage without your knowledge.

Duke. By what means did you preserve your life, under the hands of the royal banditti?

Alumbrado. The whole scene you beheld from the top of the turret was pre-concerted by me. The fellows who attacked me, neither had been sent by the King, nor were they banditti, but had been previously instructed by me how to act; their pistols were charged only with powder, and their poniards did not wound me. This will explain to you the whole miracle.

Duke. Not sent by the King, did you say. He then had no design against my life?

Alumbrado. No, the King never had the least idea of such a deed.

Duke. Villainous! villainous! to deceive me thus!—And with what view did you devise that horrid fraud?

Alumbrado. I wanted to inflame your father’s mind with resentment against the King. Nay, I will tell you more. It was my work that the King treated you with so much coldness, and neglected to raise your family: for I had represented you and your father to him, by one of my agents, as persons who beheld his new dignity with envious eyes. Through these mutual exasperations, I gained the advantage of increasing your personal antipathy against the King, and of turning it, at length, into hatred that had all the appearance of just resentment.

Duke. Ah! I now begin to penetrate the whole atrocity of your artful wiles. Then it was you who has excited the King against me and my family, and formed the plots against his life?

Alumbrado. What would it avail me to deny the charge?

Duke. And yet it seemed as if you had not been concerned in the conspiracy. The design against the King had already been determined, and still you withheld your consent and assistance.

Alumbrado. And not without reason. I would not expose myself. The grand Inquisitor and the Primate took care to gain you to our purpose without your suspecting it, while I was directing the plot behind the curtain; I should have destroyed my own work if I had stepped forth too soon. My seeming backwardness spurred you on, and screened me from suspicion. However, after I had performed the last fictitious miracle, I thought myself sufficiently secured against all suspicion, and calculated that it would be reasonable to command you in the name of God to take an active part in the conspiracy.

Duke. After the last fictitious miracle? Do you mean that incident by which you showed yourself proof against ball and dagger?

Alumbrado. I do. The miracle will appear very natural to you when I tell you that I had filled the powder-horn, which I had conveyed secretly from your apartment, with a powder of my own invention, which could not carry the ball farther than five steps. Having placed myself seven steps distant from the gun, I was far enough out of harm’s way. I requested to be fired at twice, in order to empty the powder-horn of its contents, a precaution that prevented you from discovering, afterwards, the real nature of the powder. The dagger with which I stabbed myself, had also been previously made for that purpose, and could do me no harm. The blade of it, which was not much pointed, snapped back into the hollow handle on the smallest resistance, which made you believe that it had penetrated my breast. A spring which forced it again into its former situation, rendered it entirely impossible for you to discover the fraud.

Duke. What views had you in making me believe that you was invulnerable?

Alumbrado. Was it not to be expected that you would repose the utmost reliance on the assistance of a man who should appear to you proof against balls and daggers?

However, I have, as yet, explained to you only the particular views I had in performing fictitious miracles, and now will tell you that every one of them tended to effect a general end, which was nothing less than to persuade you and the Marquis to believe that God was working and speaking through me. Our plot was so hazardous, the circumstances so unfavourable, and success so improbable, that we had reason to apprehend you would shrink back from your resolution, when you should have pondered more maturely the danger which it was attended with. For this reason I thought it most prudent to appear to you to be an organ of the godhead, because it was to be expected that you would fear no danger whatever, if you should be persuaded that our design was the work of God, and supported by his omnipotent power; for with God nothing is impossible. In order to corroborate you in that belief, I advised you to have recourse to prayer.——

Duke. Daring wretch! how could you run that risk?

Alumbrado. Why not? you had already taken your resolution before you implored God to signify his will to you. The execution of our plan had been, some time since, the principle idea that prevailed in your mind, and forced itself upon you on every occasion, and, of course, in your prayers too; it was, therefore, very natural that in the latter case, you should mistake for a decree of God, what, in reality, was nothing else but the voice of your provoked passions. I entertained not the least apprehension that devotion would produce more pious sentiments in your mind, because the sophistry of your passions, and the two prelates had already persuaded you that our design was just; I rather expected that the fervour of your prayer, particularly at night, would increase the fermentation of your blood, and animate you with additional courage to execute our plan.

Duke. Infernal spirit! but no! thou art worse than Satan! for he respects the temples and altars, but thou hast laid thy snares even in those sacred places. Prayers and faith, these sacred treasures of man become in thy hand tools of seduction; and thou dost not tremble at the idea of being accountable to the all-seeing Judge for thy villainous deeds?—What wouldst thou have done, daring wretch! if a ray of divine illumination had dispelled my errors?

Alumbrado. I was not afraid of that. You could expect no such illumination from above, because your own reason would have pointed out to you the illegality of your design, if you had consulted your own good sense rather than your passions. God does not work miracles while we can be instructed by natural means.

Duke. But suppose he had, for how canst thou prescribe limits to the wisdom of God, suppose he had, nevertheless, condescended to open mine eyes through his holy spirit?

Alumbrado. (carelessly.) I then should have had recourse to a natural expedient—which I intended to adopt in case of emergency. You will recollect that you missed a sheet of your treatise on the Manicheean system; it was I who purloined it. If you had shrunk back from your engagement, I would have threatened you with all the terrors of the Inquisition; the sheet was written by you and the grand Inquisitor my friend; consequently now no other choice was left you, than either to make good your engagement or to experience all the horrors of that tribunal.

Duke, shuddering with horror. Lead me back to my dungeon, lest the aspect of this monster should poison me intirely.

The day after the trial, the son of the gaoler brought me a letter, which, to my utter astonishment, was from the Duke, and contained the following lines†: * * * * * * * *

(To be continued.)

A PENEGYRIC UPON IMPUDENCE.

Orators and men of wit have frequently amused themselves with maintaining paradoxes. Thus, Erasmus has written a penegyric upon folly: Montaigne has said fine things upon ignorance, which he somewhere calls “the softest pillow a man can lay his head upon:” and Cardan, in his Encomium Neronis, has, I suppose, defended every vice and every folly. It is astonishing to me, that no one has yet done justice to impudence; which has so many advantages, and for which so much may be said. Did it never strike you, what simple, naked, uncompounded impudence will do? what strange and astonishing effects it will produce? Aye, and without birth, without property, without principle, without even artifice and address, without indeed any single quality, but “the front of three-fold brass.”

Object not folly, vice, or villainy however black: these are puny things: from a visage truly bronzed and seared, from features muscularly fixed and hardened, issues forth a broad overpowering glare, by which all these are as totally hid, as the spots of the sun by the lustre of his beams. Were this not so, how is it, that impudence shall make impressions to advantage; shall procure admission to the highest personages, and no questions asked; shall suffice (in short) to make a man’s fortune, where no modest merit could even render itself visible? I ask no more to insure success, than that there be but enough of it: without success a man is ruined and undone there being no mean. Should one ravage half the globe, and destroy a million of his fellow-creatures, yet, if at length he arrive at empire, as Cæsar did, he shall be admired while living as an hero, and adored perhaps almost as a god when dead: though, were the very same person, like Cataline, to fail in the attempt, he would be hanged as a scoundrel robber, and his name devoted to infamy or oblivion.

But to proceed. Pray, what do you think the elder Pliny suggests, when he affirms it to be “the prerogative of the Art of Healing, that any man, who professes himself a physician, is instantly received as such?” He certainly suggests, that such sort of professors in his days, like itinerant and advertising phisicians, had a more than ordinary portion of that bold, self-important and confident look and manner, which, with a very little heightening, may justly be called impudence. And what but this could enable a little paltry physician, of no name or character, to gain so mighty an ascendency over such a spirit, as that of Lewis XI. of France? Read the account in Philip de Comines; and then blame me, if you can, for thinking so highly of this accomplishment.—True it is, Lewis was afraid of death even to horror, and so as not to bare the sound of the word; and I grant, that on this same fear the empire of physic, is in a great measure founded.

Pope Gregory VII. who governed the church from 1073 to 1085, is celebrated for having carried ecclesiastical dominion to the height: for he was the first who maintained and established, that popes, by excommunication, may depose kings from their states, and loose subjects from their allegiance. And how did he effect this? Not by genius or eloquence; not by a knowledge of canon law, and the constitutions of the holy see; no, nor by the arts of policy and grimaces of his religion (with all which others had been endowed as well as he) but by a most insolent, daring, usurping spirit. He seized the papal chair by force, as it were threw the church into confusion to gratify his ambition; made kings his slaves, and bishops his creatures; and established in his own person a tyranny over things both spiritual and temporal.---But my admiration of impudence transports me too far: I will say no more upon it.

Possible sources include: Sylva: or, The wood: being a collection of anecdotes, dissertations, characters, apophthegms, original letters, bons mots, and other little things, 1786 “by a society of the learned”.

To the Editors of the Weekly Magazine.

Gentlemen,

I have observed in your Magazine, a number of very striking and just Etymologies---I am induced therefore, to present you with the following; hoping, from its authenticity, it will be thought worthy of a place.

Etymology.

The term that was formerly used to express the union of two fond souls was, “Marriage and given in Marriage;” but in course of time, the encitements to this union were changed: instead of Love, Money was the stimulus; of course, a new term must be invented to express it:---So that instead of saying, on such a day a Marriage took place between such a Lady and such a Gentleman---It was said, there’s a Matter-of-Money: and hence, by a slight alteration, the modern phrase of Matrimony.

L.

ANECDOTES.

A country Blacksmith coming into a farmer’s yard with a hammer in his hand, was suddenly surprised by a severe bite from a snarling dog, which so irritated him, that he immediately retaliated upon his enemy with his heavy weapon, with the sharp end of which, he killed him on the spot. “You might,” said the person that owned the animal, “have struck him with the other end of the hammer.” “That I would,” answered the other, “If he had only bit me with the other end of his teeth.”

An ingenious politician, meeting with a gentleman of his acquaintance, immediately began to harrangue upon his favourite theme, and positively affirmed, that, “after the late events in France, the actual government of that country will not be acknowledged by any power in Europe, except America.”

The author of an old book called the Theatre of the World, supposes, that if a person who died of love were to be opened and anatomized, we should find all his entrails gone, his heart burnt up, his liver smoaked and dried, and all the dependencies of the brain spoiled: and he believes, that the poor soul (as he calls the lover) was scorched, and, as it were roasted upon a fire, with the vehement, ardent, and excessive heat that it endured, since first the fury of love surprised him.

ALI AND ORASMIN;

OR, THE EFFECTS OF ENVY.

(Concluded from our last.)

Flattered by the hopes of possessing Almeria, but more through fear at the threats of Orasmin, Ibrahim sat down, without a thought of the consequences which might ensue to imitate the treasonous scroll. The monster who compelled him to the action, was delighted with his performance: and calling for sherbet, he drank, telling Ibrahim to pledge him; then, bidding him good night with a sarcastical smile, and securing the door when he went, left him in a most painful reverie.

Repairing to the walls of the seraglio, he entered by a private passage, through which the Emperor always passed when wont to survey the royal city in disguise; and which, by having been vizier, he was well acquainted with: and having, while in office, procured false keys to the various doors, he easily found admission to the secret audience-chamber, where none but the vizier can enter, on pain of death, without permission of the Sultan; and there leaving the letter, he returned to his house, exulting in the hope that Mustapha would discover it, when he retired there alone, as was his custom every night, to inspect such dispatches as the vizier in the day prepared for his approbation: trusting the success of his plan on the extreme credulity and impetuosity of that monarch, which hurried him into actions that provided him the most severe repentance for his moments of reflection.

The event justified his most sanguine expectations; and, before the first watch of the night was passed, a hasty messenger summoned him to a secret audience in the palace. The sultan presented him with the letter; he read it, and appeared petrified with astonishment; compared the writing with some of Ali’s he had purposely brought with him, to satisfy himself of it’s identity; then, bemoaning the defalcation of his friend, in accents of the most artfully counterfeited grief, and after an apparent struggle between duty and friendship—“Glory,” said he, “to God and his prophet! Long life to the Commander of the Faithful! and destruction to his enemies! The profound duty every Mussulman owes to the vicegerent of Alla, obliges me to dispense with the scruples of an ill-placed friendship; and declare, that the conduct of Ali has long appeared to me as involved in the veil of mystery; the plausible manner in which he has ever demeaned himself, I have discovered, beyond a doubt, has been only a bait for popularity; too ardent a love for which is a certain criterion of unwarrantable ambition.

“I once had the mortification to witness the shameful defeat of the Ottoman arms, under his command: I had then many reasons to suspect treachery; but the implicit confidence I, with the empire at large, put in him, made me discredit my own senses; and it was the same infatuation which induced me to be the foremost in declaring him the most eligible for the viziership, when returned from meeting the rebel Ismoul.

“Yet, when I reflect, in sober reason, on the nature of that action, and behold the insurgents, though greatly superior in force, throwing down their arms almost without the shadow of resistence, and their leader suffered to escape, it impresses me as a strong confirmation of the authenticity of his treason.” “Thou art right, Orasmin!” interrupted the enraged Mustapha: “convey him instantly to a dungeon; and to-morrow’s sun shall behold inflicted on him the reward of his treachery!”—“Will it please the gracious emblem of Alla,” replied Orasmin, “to listen a moment longer, without anger, to his slave; while he offers, as Alla himself can witness, the counsel only dictated by that unshaken attachment ever evinced by his house to the renowned family of the Othmans!”—“Speak on, and fear not,” returned Mustapha. Orasmin proceeded—“Thou knowest well, O glory of thy race! that Ali is the idol of the deluded multitude; and, should they behold him going forth to execution, what desperate steps may not their blind attachment induce them to take for his preservation? And a commotion once begun, as we know not how far the treason has spread, may encourage hundreds of accomplices in the guilt to come forward; and, led by Nadar who doubtless is at hand, induce the populace to join the compact of treason, release Ali, and shake perhaps even the foundation of the Ottoman throne? Let policy, then, bid Justice strike this night; so, the root of the confederacy being cut away, the branches shall necessarily wither; and when to-morrow’s sun shall expose the traitor’s head, branded with his crime, to the trembling people, thy subjects shall be more firmly fixed in their obedience—taught by the awful lesson, that the most exalted enemies of Mustapha are the fated victims of destruction!” He ceased.

“By Mahomet, I swear,” rejoins the Sultan, “thy reasons are just! See him instantly dispatched! Be this,” presenting his ring, “thy warrant. Begone!”

Orasmin wanted not urging: he seized Ali; but appeared not before him, till he beheld him extended on the floor of a loathsome dungeon, secured by the pondrous manacles of injustice. On entering, having ordered the guard to withdraw—“Mahomet!” said he, “is it my noble friend Ali I am commissioned to guard? Can any wretch have accused thee of a crime meriting such dishonour! thou, whose name scandal had not even dared to prophane? Alas! my friend! where will Oppression finish his career!”---“I know not, my dear Orasmin!” replied the injured Ali, half raising himself, “my crime, nor mine accuser: innocence, however, is my support; and, while thou art my gaoler, I shall find pleasure even in a prison!”---“Generous, noble Ali,” rejoind the brute, “what is it I do not feel for thee! Yet it were unkind to keep thee in suspence. Know, then, that the abandoned wretch, who was the occasion of the foul disgrace thou endurest, is no other than thy dear, thy beloved friend, Orasmin!”---“Orasmin! Orasmin!” with an accent of doubting horror, inquired the victim. “Yes!” returned the fiend, “thy Orasmin!” Ali sunk down senseless. On his recovering, Orasmin continued, “From the hour that early youth submitted me to the scourgings of a pedagogue, thou hast been my rival, and the name of Orasmin has shrunk before that of All. Thinkest thou, that I could have a spirit, and bear it? No! the childish weaknesses of friendship I soon got rid of; and, from the moment thou deprived me of all hope of possessing the sorceress Amine, I determined on a revenge—not a common revenge, that was always at hand—I waited, with all the patience of deliberate malignance, for a revenge worthy my hatred, and I have obtained it! I have accused thee of treason; and, behold, this ring is my warrant for thy private murder! Murder! I say; for—O it delights my soul to pronounce it—thou art innocent!”

“And must I die innocent?” exclaimed the devoted Ali. “Yet thy will, O Alla! be done. What more have I to wish for on earth? I have lost my friend, my wife, and my child!”—“Friend,” interrupted Orasmin, “thou never hadst! Thy wife and child——But, hold! I came to torment, not to satisfy thee!”—“Oh! Orasmin, what a conflict hast thou raised in my bosom! My wife and child! knowest thou any thing of them?” Orasmin smiled contemptuously. “Speak, only say if thou knowest aught of them!”---“I will say nothing,” replied he; “uncertainty will increase thy pangs. Prepare for death!---Slaves!” The door of the dungeon burst open, and presented to their view Mustapha, Ibrahim, and Amine! “Secure that fiend!” cried the Sultan; and instantly Orasmin was loaded with chains. Ali and Amine were lying senseless in each other’s arms; Orasmin assumed a desperate sullenness; the Sultan and Ibrahim surveyed the whole in silence. “Alla! Alla! Alla!” repeated the reviving Ali; “thou art merciful! thou art merciful!”

“My dear lord,” interrupted Amine, “dreary have been the hours since we parted! O hear my justification! While walking by the seaside, a band of men, masked, beset me; and, forcing me on a horse, carried me, blind-folded, I knew not where; for when suffered to remove the bandage, I was alone, in a mean, gloomy apartment, the door of which was secured. There have I remained, in vain lamenting my fate; ignorant of my oppressor; and seeing no one, except a slave, who put my food through a lattice daily, but never spoke; till this night I heard the voice of Orasmin in a tone of threatening.

“I listened; and discovered, that he was compelling that generous youth, Ibrahim, to write a treasonous letter in characters like yours. When I found Orasmin was gone, I entreated the youth to liberate me: instantly he opened a door into my apartment, so artfully contrived, that I had never before observed it. I told him who I was, and begged him again to deliver me. He was shocked; confirmed what I had over-heard, and promised to protect me.

“He discovered, with indignation, that he himself was also a prisoner. After a long deliberation, and many fruitless attempts to force the door, at the peril of our lives, we escaped by a window into the garden. Here we had fresh difficulties to encounter, and the fourth watch passed before we were quite at liberty.

“We soon learned that you was imprisoned. Flying to the palace, our gracious Sultan admitted us to an audience, when we convinced him of the villainy of thy false friend.” “And, behold me,” interrupted the Sultan, “ready to do thee justice, Ali; and inflict on that wretch the punishment which he had prepared for thee! for, by Alla’s self I swear, this night is his last!” “My fate is just!” said Orasmin, in a tone of penitence. “But, before I die, let me make what reparation is in my power to the man I have injured.

“Behold, Ali, in Ibrahim, I restore thee thy long-lost son!” Extreme was the astonishment of all; and the rapture of Ali and Amine induced them to kneel for a pardon for the culprit. “Ask not pardon,” said Orasmin, “which must soon be repented! I stole thy child solely for the purposes of revenge; though fortune never, till now, gave me an opportunity of making use of him equal to my wishes; and, to make him the source of his father’s death, was a stroke worthy the noblest policy of vengeance. Thou hast escaped me; but, to give him thus kindly, were an inequality of soul, poor indeed! No I have pangs for thee yet in store, the thought of which makes the contemplation of death and tortures pleasant to me.

“I only revealed him to thee, to make thee feel the curses of lasting separation. The mother once disdained the offer I made of my hand; it was my intention, therefore, to have kept her ignorant of her persecutor, languishing till grief and despair removed her from my reach; but the boy had answered the end I designed him for: I wanted him no more; and, at liberty, he might have betrayed me. For security, I gave him poison in sherbet; and thought, even had he got free, so strong it was, that it would have worked faster than his conscience!”

“The vengeance be on thine own head!” cried Ibrahim; “for it was thyself who drank the poison. I saw thee drop something in the draught intended for me; and unseen by thee, changed the cups.”

“I feel it! I feel it!” exclaimed the frantic Orasmin. “Curse on thee, Mahomet! thou hast frustrated all!” “Hence with him!” said Mustapha. And then led Amine and Ibrahim out of the prison. By permission of the Sultan, Ibrahim was united to Almeria; and the participation of her husband’s honours, who was restored to his viziership, amply recompenced Amine for all her sorrows.

An exemplary instance of gratitude towards Alla and the Sultan---towards the latter, by faithful counsel, and steady attachment to his interest; and, towards the former, by an uniform course of piety, and a conscientious dispensation of justice and benevolence to his fellow subjects. Ali lived long beloved, and happy. As it is written in the sacred tablets of truth---“The righteous shall dwell in the tents of gladness, and the merciful in the gardens of peace: while the wicked shall be covered with shame; and the envious man shall be consumed in the fire which he kindleth for his neighbour.”

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON INDUSTRY.

The absurd indulgence with which parents anticipate every wish of their children often paves the way for their destruction, and entirely unfits them for returning that affectionate care which is due to the authors of their being. How many instances do we see of the ill effects of such misplaced kindness. By supplying children with all the superfluities of life, we at once weaken the springs of exertion, and induce a habit of indolence fatal to future improvement; for why should they exert themselves to procure that which is ready at their call? Virtuous habits and habits of industry are nearly the same; and since these only are productive of happiness, it is of the utmost importance to teach the youthful mind that enjoyment and self-satisfaction must be purchased by labour.---Happy is the man, who, in early life, has been taught by experience the blessed effects of honest industry, and the inestimable value of time. Multiply time by industry, and what is the result?—Peace of mind; the innocent enjoyment of life, and every thing that can exalt human nature.

By Industry, I must not be understood to mean the incessant drudging pursuit after sorded gain:---I have likewise reference to mental industry; the improvement of that intellectual part of our existence which elevates our view above this narrow scene of things, and teaches us to soar to heaven.

Viator.

MILITARY ANECDOTE

A new formed corps of Volunteers were one day exercising in a park, where a Bull was kept, and where he had been accustomed to enjoy unresisted sovereignty. Whether displeased with the aukwardness of their manœuvres, offended at their intrusion on the scene of his pleasure, or regarding their martial music as a challenge of defiance on his own territory, the Lordly Animal advanced with a menacing air; and notwithstanding some attempts at resistance, charged the line, broke through the ranks, and after having completely routed and dispersed the enemy, remained undisputed master of the field!

LEVITIES.

Literary men, and the advantages of learning, being the subject of conversation when Johnson was present, he enforced and closed the observations in the following celebrated sentence of Lactantius---“Eruditio inter prospera ornamentum, inter adversa refugium.”

Professor Richardson’s observation, that men judge of objects according to their peculiar habits, and that a beautiful lawn, which excites pastoral ideas in the poet’s mind, suggests the value of the land to the miser, is exemplified by the following:

An old Epicure, walking one fine morning, in the meadows on the banks of a river, exclaimed with rapture at the sight of a lamb that was frisking about “pretty innocent creature, how deliciously thou wouldst eat with carrots or cauliflowers.”

Sir John Salter, who died in 1605, and was a generous benefactor to the worshipful company of Salters, ordered, in his last will and testament, the beadles and servants of the company, to go to the church of St. Magnus, the first week of every October, and knock upon his grave stone, with sticks and staves three times each person, and say, “How do you do brother Salter? I hope you are well.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening the 5th inst. at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Schenk, Mr. Ketchum Terry, Merchant, of this city, to Miss Polly Snedeker, daughter of John Snedecker, Esq. of that place.

On Saturday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, William L. Rose, Esq. Attorney at Law, to Miss Charlotte C. Smith, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 15th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Woodhill, John Wells, Esq. of this city, to Miss Eliza Lawrence, daughter of Mr. Thomas Lawrence, of Newtown, Long-Island.

On Friday evening the 17th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Rattoon, Henry C. Williamson, to Miss Mary Daniel, both of this city.

On Saturday evening the 18th inst. at Jamaica (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Faitoute, Mr. James Van Duyne, of Fresh-Meadow, to Mrs. Deborah Allen, of that place.

On Tuesday evening the 21st inst. by the Rev. Mr. Banks, Mr. James Angus, to Miss Margaret Walker, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Pexcel Fowler, to Miss Jean Day, both of this city.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

We acknowledge the receipt of the “Extract from a Letter to Miss ****:” Likewise a “Solution to the Rebus,” which appeared in our last;—both of which were received too late for a place this week; they however, shall appear in our next. We anticipate great improvement from the excellent observations and productions of “Viator;” and acknowledge our obligations to him, and all others whose merit displays such intrinsic worth.

The Editors.

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

March 19 41 46 w.do. clear lt. wd.cloudy h. wd.

20 30 44 nw.do. clear lt. wd.do. do.

21 30 51 w.s. clear lt. wd.do. do.

22 42 45 se.e. clear h. wd.do. do.

23 39 56 nw.do. clear lt. wd.do. do.

24 42 46 se.do. clear h. wd.rain do.

25 47 52 w.nw. ra. th. & li’t. at ni. cle. h. w.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

PRAYER OF MR. WYNKOOP.

Late of Kingston (Esopus) during the Loss of his Sight.

ELMINA; Or the Flower that never Fades.

AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.

By James De-La-Cour.

(Continued.)

LOVE, HONOUR, AND TRUTH.

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.

The design of the masthead changed slightly with this issue. The printer’s information (end of last page) is also new.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, April 5, 1797. [No. 92.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

EXTRACT from a LETTER to Miss ****.

—Since we both fancy ourselves unhappy, permit me, in this place, to make a few serious reflections on the extreme mutableness and instability of all terrestrial felicity; and the long duration and permanency of misfortune and disappointment. Those halcyon days I oft remember, when I enjoyed the pleasure of your society. Then, indeed, I tasted for a moment, something like unmixed happiness: not a wave of sorrow rolled across my breast; nor was corroding care an inmate of my bosom. The loveliness of the season, in union with the serenity of the atmosphere, conspired to increase my tranquility, and to render every thing delightful. When we sailed gently down the harbour, the clear cerulean of the sky added a softer beauty to the adjacent landscapes, and rendered the prospect enchanting. When we strayed over the flowery fields, or penetrated the leafy grove, the flocks grazing the green herbage, the zephyrs rustling through the trees, and the birds warbling on the branches, exhibited a resemblance of the pristine happiness of ancient Eden. And when listlessly wandering on the rocky beach, the idle murmuring of the waves upon the sandy shore, the confused gabbling of the sea fowl, and the distant view of the “full spread vessel majestically advancing over the white capp’d billows,” tended to sooth the sorrows of humanity, and lull the mind to quietude. The day ended, and still evening drew on. Then did nature appear in silent magnificence; while the silver rays of the full orbed moon shed a majesty on each surrounding object. The lofty summit of the cloud-topt mountain appeared in solemn grandeur; the dusky forest reflected a yellow radiance; and the rolling wonders of the skies glittered over our heads: while the awful stillness that reigned, interrupted only by the lonely strains of the whip-poor-will,

These were beatific seasons of bliss—golden moments indeed, while they lasted, but, alas! where are they fled? They have vanished like the fading glories of the west, when the illustrious monarch of day resigns our hemisphere to the sable goddess of darkness. Or like the gay delusions of a morning dream, which only tantalize the mind with the prospect of unsubstantial happiness, and render the real evils of life more intolerable. A true, but melancholy picture of unhappy man. Joy, for a moment, expands his countenance with smiles; but it is suddenly overclouded with a gloom of sadness, and misery and woe become his inseparable companions. Youth and beauty just open into bloom; and then are succeeded by the solicitudes of manhood, and the dull unjoyous season of old age. Humiliating reflections are these to the sorrowing child of humanity: yet, where virtue has a residence in the heart, she quickly calms the throbbing breast, and allays the gathering storm of affliction. ’Tis virtue alone that can enable the soul to bear up cheerfully against the calamities of life, and give her a joyful assurance of happiness in a future state. Virtue will command respect among men, adorn the wrinkles of age with dignity, and crown the hoary head with respect. It will shine forth in the evening of life, like the refulgent glories of a setting sun, and glow with increasing splendor in never-ending worlds.

This invaluable jewel, I admit not the least doubt, dear madam, but you possess; and it is the great object of my pursuit. Then let life’s tempestuous ocean roar, and fortune inauspiciously frown upon us; we shall surely outride the stormy gale, and ere long make the blessed port of an happy immortality.

PROSPERITY.

A single disappointment is sufficient to embitter all the pleasures of worldly prosperity. Though it might be expected, one in possession of high power and station should disregard slight injuries. But prosperity debilitates instead of strengthening the mind.—Its common effect is, to create an extreme sensibility to the slightest wound.---It foments impatient desires; and raises expectations which no success can satisfy.---It fosters a false delicacy, which sickens in the midst of indulgence; by repeated gratification, it blunts the feelings of men to what is pleasing; and leaves them unhappily acute to whatever is uneasy.

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 307.)

Grief, horror, pity, hope, and despair assailed my heart alternately, after I had read this letter. I moistened it with burning tears. When this violent agitation of my mind began to abate so much that I could reflect again, I considered what could be done for the preservation of this hapless man, and regardless of my indisposition, hastened to the archbishop of Lis*on, who always had been very partial to the Duke, and was much respected by the Queen. I entreated this worthy prelate to intercede with the latter for my hapless friend. “Alas!” he replied, “I have attempted it already without success.” “How, my Lord?” her reply was, “how can you intercede for a traitor who has meditated our destruction and the ruin of our kingdom. All that you can expect is, that I shall forget what you have asked.”

This account of the archbishop rent my heart; however, I entertained still some hope that the King, whose generous disposition I knew, would not prove callous against my tears and prayers. I went without delay to the palace, and was admitted. I supplicated him on my knees, to grant his royal mercy to the unfortunate deluded young man, and exerted every power of eloquence to excite his pity. “Rise, Marquis,” the King replied, “there is no occasion for your intercession; I have determined already to pardon the Duke and the rest of the conspirators; yet their fate does not depend on myself alone, but also from the decision of the Council of State.” With that resolution I was dismissed.

The following day, the gaoler brought me a second letter from the Duke, which I shall transcribe literally:

“My Dearest Friend,

“I am allowed to converse with you once more. The 200 dobras have gained the gaoler, and the promise of a like sum has prompted him to engage to deliver this letter to you. I must inform you of an important incident, that happened last night, within the walls of my dungeon. The door of my prison was suddenly flung open, and Hiermanfor entered. Although I have great reason to be angry with him, yet he appeared to me an angel of light, in comparison with Alumbrado. The sight of him roused my heart from its state of despondency; however, my former gloominess of mind soon returned, when after a long and solemn silence, he exclaimed: “must we meet again in this place?”

“I could return no answer; the consciousness of my guilt lay heavy on my mind, and the looks of the Irishman confounded me. Without being affected by my perplexity, he resumed, after a short silence: “you was a noble, deserving young man when I left you, and now I find you a rebel.” I do not know whether it was the accent in which he pronounced these words, or the truth they implied, that made my blood ferment on a sudden—in short, I exclaimed: “if you had fulfilled your promise as an honest man, I should then perhaps not have been in this situation.” The Irishman seemed to be affected vehemently. “By heaven! my Lord!” he exclaimed, “it was no fault of mine, a journey, and business of great importance, prevented me from seeing you sooner. But I do not comprehend you sufficiently, will you be so kind as to explain the meaning of your words?”

“I will, as soon as you shall have given me an explanation of an incident which you have promised to clear up.”

“What incident do you mean?” the Irishman said.

“The apparition of Antonio, at the church-yard. Was it a natural contrivance of your invention?”

“It was.”

“Merciful God!”

“What is the matter with you?”

“Don’t ask me, the explanation—the explanation—”

“The apparition was effected by means of a convex mirror; the vision which you wanted to embrace, was nothing else but the image of a statue of your tutor, which was reflected on the spot where it appeared by a mirror placed before that statue.”

“But how did it happen that the mirror escaped my observation?”

“You will recollect that the vision appeared not far from the chapel, behind the wall of which the mirror was placed in such a manner that it could not be perceived by you.”

“And Antonio’s statue?”

“You would have observed it if the sight of the apparition had not engrossed your whole attention; however, its having been painted white like the rest of the statues in the church-yard, probably would have induced you to mistake it for the statue of some saint or other, and thus it would not have attracted your attention.”

“But how could the apparition disappear and re-appear at my desire?”

“That was not difficult. One of my people, who directed the mirror through one of the church windows, removed it when the vision disappeared, and replaced it again in its proper situation when you desired the phantom to appear once more.”

“But if I had discovered the artifice?—”

“Don’t you believe that I had taken the necessary precaution? Even if you had seen the mirror, yet you would not have discovered its effect. I was, however, pretty sure that you would not enter into an examination, being well aware that you would have no inclination of doing it, because I had desired you to make every investigation you should wish, and thus prompted you to believe that I apprehended no discovery.”

“However, the phantom spoke, how could that be?”

“Not the phantom, but Count Clairval, who was in the gallery of the chapel, spoke through a speaking trumpet. The direction of the trumpet, and the striking resemblance the phantom bore to your tutor, induced you to attribute the words which he pronounced to the vision.”

“Hiermanfor,” said I after a pause, “then your last miracle too was a delusion?”

“You have my confession.”

“And nevertheless you assured me so solemnly that it was the work of super-natural power!”

“I did so; but I intended to recant after the end which I had in view should have been attained. Unforeseen incidents prevented me from doing it sooner.”

“Why did not Count Clairval recant in your name, when I entreated him so solemnly and so pressing to confess the fraud?”

“He had received no orders to that purpose.”

“You promised me, one time, to initiate me in a new philosophy, and to introduce me to an happiness that is concealed from other mortals.”

“Then I promised you what I am not able to perform. Without circumlocution, I imposed upon you!”

“And you have the courage to tell me this to my face?”

“I have spoken the truth, and hope you will forgive me. Yes, I have deceived you, and the success of the revolution depended chiefly upon that innocent fraud. I deceived you because—forgive me my frankness—because you would be deceived.”

“Your morality agrees pretty well with your policy.”

“I am astonished,” the Irishman replied with a contemptuous smile, “that you presume to call my morality in question; the clangor of these fetters contrasts very much with your moral speeches.”

“Scarcely able to retain my rising indignation, I replied, “But if I could prove that this innocent fraud, as you please to call it, has been the chief cause of my crime, of these fetters, and of my impending execution!”

“Heaven forbid it!” the Irishman exclaimed, seized with terror.

“You have excited by your delusions my propensity to miraculous events. The explanation of your deceptions did not at all destroy the dangerous effect they produced on my mind, because I never was able to recover entirely from the erroneous opinion that the apparition of the church-yard had been the effect of supernatural power. An infernal impostor took advantage of the situation of my mind, and incited me through new delusions to engage in the undertaking that has been the cause of these fetters. Are you now sensible of the injury I have suffered through you?”

“The Irishman grew pale, and seemed deprived of the power of utterance. At once he recovered from his sudden terror, and started up. “Whither are you going?” I exclaimed. “To the King!” he replied. “What business have you with the King?” I enquired. “I am going to implore him to spare your life, and to set you at liberty. Forgive me, unfortunate young man! (he added) forgive me! I will exert every power of persuasion for the preservation of your life.” So saying, he left me, and I have not seen him since. I must patiently await the effect of his application. Farewell! my friend, farewell! I am not afraid of leaving this world, for Amelia is dead, Antonio is no more, and alas! my father too will be condemned to die. However, the idea of dying branded with ignominy, thrills me with terror and desponding agony. Gracious Heaven, ward off this dreadful blow, if it be possible!”

Hesitating between hope and fear, I awaited the day which was to decide the fate of my hapless friend. It arrived.

My melancholy tale draws nearer towards its conclusion! why does my hand tremble thus? why do these tears start from my eyes? what means this dreadful agony that almost breaks my heart? Alas! thy doom is fixed, ill-fated victim of delusion!

The judges who were to decide the fate of the conspirators met, and decreed that the Marquis of Villa Re*l and the Duke of Ca*ina, should be beheaded as rebels against the King, whose authority they had acknowledged with the rest of the states of the empire, and the other conspirators hanged and quartered. The punishment of the Primate and the Grand Inquisitor was left to the decision of the King.

(To be concluded in our next.)

ANECDOTES.

A wild young fellow was going abroad: His mother took him up into her closet, telling him she had a precious treasure to deposit in his hands, and after many grave admonitions produced the Bible, handsomely bound in two volumes; and, to crown all, advised him to consult and search the scriptures. Little did the youth know how precious the volumes were; but you shall hear. On his return from sea, the old lady one day took him aside, and hoped he had remembered the last injunction she had given him: “Yes, he could very honestly say he had taken care of the Bible.” To prove his respect and obedience, he runs up stairs to his own room, and returns instantly, with the two volumes safe and sound.

The good lady pulls off one cover: “Rather too clean, my dear.” “O madam, I took great care of them: the second volume is equally fair.” She shakes her head; intimating her suspicions that they had not been read so often as she wished: Then opens the first volume, and, lo! a ten pound bank note is found: the second volume displays a second note, and of twice the value. She was confounded; and so was her son: And I know no man, of my acquaintance, who more sincerely regrets that he did not search the scriptures.

A man having hurt his forehead, was advised to rub it with brandy. Some days after being asked if he had done so? answered, “I have tried several times, but can never get the glass higher than my mouth.”

From an English Magazine.

ORIGIN OF THE SPENCER.

BEING A SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF THE BOTTLE-CONJUROR.

On my arrival in town for the season, my eyes every where in the streets encountered a phenomenon which I could not account for: namely, men walking in great coats, the TAILS of which were CUT OFF close to the body!—The first person I met in this garb being rather of a mean appearance otherwise, I set it down to the account of convenience, and recollected the proverb of, half a loaf being better than no bread. But when I saw numbers of gentlemen decorated with this ABRIDGMENT of a coat, many of whom to my personal knowledge, could afford a whole coat, once a week if they chose, I was totally at a loss to account for the grotesque appearance they made. Surely, thought I, this cannot be voluntary.

On consulting, however, a friend, who always resides in the metropolis and is a close observer of modes and manners, he solved all my doubts.

“That absurd dress, which does not surprise you more than any other stranger, is a wonderful proof of the obsequious servility of those who would be thought in the fashion. Lord C. Spencer, from whom the dress takes its name, bet with some friends that he would support a fashion, the most useless and ridiculous that could be conceived; and that it should, within a given time, be universally adopted. The bet being laid he produced a pattern of this fashion, which excited so much laughter, that his opponents were pretty confident he would lose his bet. Lord C.’s opinion of mankind, was, however, better founded. The fashion soon became general, and, to complete the humbug, the wearers of this half coat have found out a thousand conveniencies and advantages in it, such as saving of cloth, impossibility of being draggled, easier put on, &c. not one of which the author ever thought of. Such is the origin of the Spencers! I need not remind you that the bottle-conjuror affair was likewise a wager, to see what lengths credulity would lead the public, and the present fashion is no bad Second Part to that memorable take in.”

Are these things so, Mr. Editor? Are we really such fools as to adopt a dress, the chief merit of which is its being ridiculous, and injurious to trade? All I shall say is, Quis vult decipi decipitur!

Your’s,

OLD SKIRTS.

A DIGRESSION.

Many of those authors, who have largely contributed to the amusement and instruction of readers, have considered episodes of digressions, a very essential part of their labours. These writers seem apprehensive lest the greedy reader should be surfeited with a repletion of highly seasoned wit; and therefore occasionally serve up a course of more homely fare. This practice, when the main subject of the work is interesting and the writer sprightly, I always disapprove; but, if the subject and writer are dull, I am constantly impatient for digressions. The true style of digressing however has not frequently been attained. Sterne attempted it with some success; but his marble page, his crooked lines, and his seven castles are dull system, are dry method, compared with the narrative of our modern peasantry. Having some skill in stenography, I have been able to preserve one of those diverting stories, which was not long since related in my hearing, and which, for the improvement of speakers, as well as writers, I now carefully transcribe.

“On the seventh day of last October, I will not however be positive it was the seventh; it might possibly, for aught I know, be the eighth. It could not be later than the eight nor earlier than the seventh. The month if I mistake not, came in of a Saturday, and it must have been very near the close of the first week; but the particular day is not material. So, be that as it may, it is of no consequence; but, I am pretty certain it was the seventh. I would not undertake for to go for to swear to it; because I may possibly be mistaken; and, as I said before, it is not material. If it was necessary, I should not be much afraid to swear it was either the seventh or eighth. Indeed, the more I think on it, the more I am convinced, in my own mind, that it was the seventh. But, though I should not wish to swear to it, unless it was necessary, I am as well persuaded of it, in my own mind, as I am of any thing, that I do not know for certain. Well, as I was saying, on the seventh of October last, for I am very sure it must be the seventh, one of my neighbours; I call him a neighbour, though, it is true, he does not live very near to me; perhaps seventy-five or eighty rods distance. I do not know but it may be more. I very often travel it, and possibly it appears to me shorter than it really is. Indeed, I have not been used to have near neighbours. Before he came, the nearest was at least half a mile from me; and, when this one came, I told my wife, it seemed but a step to his house. But that is neither here nor there. We are but new yet, and cannot expect to have very near neighbours; but I had rather be as I be than have a hundred such people for neighbours as I have sometimes been acquainted with. But that is neither here nor there. But as I was saying, one of my neighbours came to my house. I had as lief tell who it was as not. The matter I am certain will be known. It was Noah Douglass. I was sitting before the fire. Before it? I can’t say I was exactly before it. Perhaps I was a little nearer one side than the other. But that is neither here nor there. When he came in, I asked him to sit down, not thinking nor mistrusting the least thing in the world. I had no more suspicion of any difficulty with him than the farthest person upon earth. There had always been a good correspond between us. He had always been sociable with me, and I with him. We never had any quarrelling pro nor con. We had had a good deal of deal together; but we were always very authentic, and settled peaceably and quietly. But he had not been in the house long, before I could see there was something that laboured. Well, it was not longer than I have been telling the story, before he began. Says Douglass, says he, don’t you think, says he, you have used me like a rascal, says he. Why, Mr. Douglass, says I, if I was as stout a man as you—And what if you was, says he.”

From this last reply of Douglass, I am persuaded he must be a lineal descendant of the celebrated Gawin Douglass, a very ancient English author, frequently quoted by some of our modern grammarians, and considered as the true standard of the colloquial and familiar style.

THE MEDDLER.

MIRANDA.

A MORAL TALE.

Such were the plaintive accents that smote my ear, as I wandered, musing, by the banks of the Mersey. The words had something in them which arrested my attention; but the melancholy cadence with which they were sighed forth, elicited the sympathetic tear of sorrow. I could not discover from whom the ditty proceeded; I advanced, therefore, cautiously, to the place whence the sounds issued, that I might view the distressed mourner, who had already so powerfully engaged my commiseration.

She sat on the cold ground, under a shade of willows; distress spoke in her countenance; the fountain of her tears appeared exhausted; and her grief, unable to overflow and vent itself at her eyes, convulsed her throbbing breast. Her form contained every thing that elegance and beauty can combine; her features were regular, and expressive; her eyes large and black, but sorrow had robbed them of their vivid flashes; and her dress was the remains of gentility.

I stood awhile in silent admiration; and was so enwrapt in the contemplation of the fair distressed, that I had not hitherto noticed a little dog, which she had in her lap, and viewed with all the tender languishment of love. I was about to address her, when she again began to sing—

Here an involuntary sneeze, on my part, caused the unhappy maid, to espy me, and break off her strains of woe.

She arose, and clasped her little care in her arms, tenderly but deliciously exclaiming—“They shall not hurt thee, my Henry! these murderers shall not come near thee! Rest on thy Miranda’s bosom, and forget thy fears in her love!”

I approached nearer. She looked at me with earnestness; and saw the big drop rolling down my cheeks, and my whole frame almost motionless with grief. The delirium which she had just experienced immediately left her: she advanced near me—“And do you pity me and my love?”

“Thou lovely fair one,” said I, “though I am unacquainted with thy miseries, and the source from whence they flow; yet, let my tears witness my heart felt commiseration.”

“Is there, then, one soul left,” said she, “that feels for poor Miranda; that feels for her father, and her lover?”

Here she sighed, and cast a tender look on her little companion. A paleness overshadowed her cheeks, her lips quivered, and she seemed about to relapse into her former delirium; when I diverted her attention, by turning it to the beauty of the landscape, and the serpentine windings of the river.

I offered my arm; which she accepted with that unsuspicious modesty, that a heart pure and conscious of it’s innocence inspires. “Where do you live Miranda?” said I. She started at hearing her name from a stranger, having forgot that she had mentioned it; but, quickly recollecting herself—“At the foot of yon farthest hill, you see several clumps of trees around an humble cottage; at present,” replied she, sighing, “I live, or rather die, there!” I desired leave, to see her home: she thanked me for my kindness, and consented.

“Miranda,” said a grief-worn personage, whom, at our entrance into the cot, I perceived laid on a poor but cleanly couch—“Miranda, you shall not add to my heap of miseries by staying in the fields so late; I am alarmed, at such times, for your safety.”

At the sound of the voice, and at the appearance of the old lady, I felt a tumultuous palpitation of the heart, and a more deeply sympathizing sorrow, than I could account for. She had not discovered me before: she now perceived me motionless at the sight of this little mansion of sorrow. She alledged, in excuse for her inattention to me, her solicitude for her daughter. A youth of about twelve years old raised her up from the couch; a girl some years older sat languidly at her feet. A little wood composed their fire, which was at present their only light: it’s inconstant glimmerings served only to exaggerate sights of woe.

Such were my presentments on this occasion, that I involuntarily conceived there must exist some unknown connection of destiny or consanguinity between myself and the sufferers. I therefore desired with eagerness, to be made acquainted with their history.

On turning from Miranda, to whom I made this request, I beheld the mother’s eyes fastened on me: a glistening tear impearled them: she shook her head, as if disappointed, and poured forth a rending sigh. Again my heart throbbed within my breast; but I recollected the desire I had expressed to Miranda, whom I perceived now composed, and ready to satisfy my curiosity.

“The zeal, Sir, with which you appear to interest yourself in our afflictions, entitles your request to attention. By complying, however, I shall again pourtray in lively colours, to my own and my wretched parent’s sight, those miseries which have by time acquired a mellower tint. Hard is the fate of the inferior order of clergymen! How many are the difficulties that surround them! The labourer, who by his toil is able to support his family, enjoys comparatively the happiness of a prince. The scanty pittance allowed them by the church, will oft times scarcely procure food for themselves and their family. You will join with us, no doubt, in lamenting, that in England, in this most happy and heaven-favoured isle, there should exist so intolerable and just a ground of complaint. Nay, even policy, one might imagine, would direct them to abolish such a neglect of Christ’s ministers: for, as no government can flourish, so it cannot long stand, without religion for its basis. The common people chiefly respect externals, and fancy themselves at liberty to deride the thread-bare coat, how great and how many virtues soever its wearer may possess. When the expounders of religion fall into disesteem, religion itself does not long escape; till, at length, all laws, divine and human, are totally neglected and despised. But, whither am I carried on? Excuse my wandering, Sir: such considerations ever arise, when I reflect on our condition.”

“The justness of your remarks, Miss,” said I, “precludes the necessity of an apology.”

“You, no doubt,” continued she, “conjecture, from what I have said, that my father was a clergyman; your conjecture, Sir, is right. That good man is one of the best and most neglected of the clerical profession. He was thirty years curate of the neighbouring village; where his name was ever heard with raptures, so long as he retained the capacity of supplying their wants. But—O this ungrateful world!—when he was no longer able to assist them, they thought themselves freed from former obligations, and at liberty to laugh him to scorn, and insult his misery!”

The old lady sighed; a tear started into her eye; she looked towards Heaven, and was again calm.

“The widow, to whom he was a husband; the orphan, who had found in him the tenderness of a father; were the first to aggravate his sorrows, by that blackest of all vices, ingratitude. One only poor widow exhibited a grateful heart——But again I wander! His yearly income was forty pounds, allowed him for doing the whole duty of the church, by a rector whose laziness procured near two thousand. With this small income we lived in happy frugality, many years: but the good man’s heart overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and this scanty pittance, though sufficient for our expences, and for small beneficences, was very inadequate to the demands of wretchedness. He borrowed, therefore, a sum of money, from a tradesman, to liberate from prison one who craved his assistance. About this time, the son of the rector returned from the university; a youth—Good Heavens!—a youth whose form, whose mind, whose heart, were——”

[To be continued.]

Mrs. RADCLIFFE.

This lady’s novels have a bewitching interest. The power of painting the terrible and the mysterious is hers, in an eminent degree, but her sketches of landscape, though always indicating a skilful painter, are too numerous and minute. They may be called the miniature pictures of nature. Whether in the vales of Arno, or among the craggs of the Appennines, unsatisfied with general description, she chooses to note every spire of grass, and every shrub of the rocks. In the labyrinthian scenes of her castles and her forests, the attentive critic may discern a degree of finesse and stage trick, which, often repeated, offends, rather than surprises. When curiosity pants to discover the secrets of a desolate chamber, or a ruinated abbey, some, perhaps many, impediments may be judiciously thrown in Fancy’s way. But the rusty and bloody key, the glimpse of fancied apparitions, the perplexed path and the impracticable stair case, occur so often in Mrs. Radcliffe’s midnight rambles, that they soon lose their power of deception. But let pruning criticism lop what it may, the laurels of this lady cannot be injured. Her style pure, harmonious and forcible, might be a model, even to masculine writers. In the exhibition of the nicer, and less obvious shades of character, she has caught the strength and the spirit of Tacitus and Shakespeare. The family of La Lue is an enchanting group, not less agreeable from its resemblance to the La Roche of Mackenzie; and the fierceness of Montoni, and the fears of Emily St. Aubert, are admirably contrasted.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REFLECTIONS.

Step aside, vain mortal!—cast thine eyes on this emaciated figure, and then reflect on thy transitory life. Look yet closer—See! the smile is no longer seated here. In how short a time has this change happened! A few hours since and he sported in the sunshine of health: his gaiety was equal to thine. He had measured full twenty years; and many more appeared in readiness to swell the lump.

Dost thou shrink back?—Nay, start not! ’tis thine own picture thou art viewing!—Ere long and thou wilt be likened unto this odious mass. Perhaps thou mayest not again behold that bright luminary which constitutes the day.

Ah! ’twas but yesterday that this now inanimate substance was in the full exercise of every living faculty!—He had laid down a plan for future life, but lived not to put it in practice. While he was figuring to himself the many days of uninterrupted pleasure that seemed within his grasp, the dread summons arrived; and scarcely was the awful packet opened, before the victim was made sure.

L. B.

March 25, 1797.

DUTY OF PARENTS TO THEIR CHILDREN.

By all the nameless sensations of tenderness, which ye whom heaven hath blessed with children feel towards them, be entreated, then, to make their improvement in piety and virtue their chief concern. That you should provide as far as you are able for their comfortable support and happy settlement in life, is undoubtedly your duty. Nor is it less your duty to afford them every opportunity in your power for improving their understandings, and laying up stores of useful and ornamental knowledge in their minds. But, let it never be forgotten, that the principal part of education, is the education of the heart. Endeavour by every method in your power, to inspire them with a reverence for the Supreme Being, with gratitude for his innumerable mercies; with a sence of honour and love of virtue; with sentiments of generosity and compassion towards their fellow creatures; with regard to truth; and with a consciousness of the dignity and excellence of their rational nature. On this foundation assist them in raising the superstructure of a manly, virtuous and useful character. In a word, imitate the example of the pious patriarch; and so command your children and houshold after you, “that they may keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment.”

PITY.

When I hear one say to his neighbour in adversity, “I am sorry for your misfortunes,” it sounds very much, in my ear like, “bring me my slippers.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 22d ult. at Fish-Kill, by the Rev. Mr. Van Vankin, Mr. Jacob P. Roome, of this city, to Miss Nelly Hoogland, of that place.

On Sunday evening sen’ight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Isaac Seymour, to Miss Sally Wilson, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Milledolar, Mr. James P. Allen, to Miss Mary Gordon, daughter of Charles Gordon, Esq. of Middle-town, New-Jersey.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 26th ult. to the 1st 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 26 32 40 e.s. clear l. wd.do. do.

27 47 55 s.nw. P. rai. h. w.clr. l. do.

28 34 37 nw.do. cloudy lt. wd.clr. l w.

29 30 45 calm. clear calm.do. do.

30 34 43 e.se. clear l. w.cloudy do.

31 40 43 se.s. cloudy l. w.s. r. h. w.

April 1 43 49 nw.do. cloudy l. w.clear do.

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

FOR MARCH 1797.

Mean temperatureof thethermometerat sun-rise 34 50

Do.do. of thedo. at 3 P. M. 43 85

Do.do. of thedo.the whole month 39 75

Greatest monthly range between the 7th. and 18th. 43 0

Do.do. in 24 hours, between the 8th and 9th. 35 0

Warmest day the 18th. 62 0

Coldest do. the 7th. 19 0

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

4 do. the do. was at or below do. and at 3. P.M.

9 do. it has rained, and a very large quantity has fallen.

3 do. it snowed, and about eight inches has fallen.

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

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

14 do. the do. was light at sunrise, and at 3 P.M.

7 do. the do. was high at do. and at do.

20 do. it was clear at do. and at do.

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

2 do. Thunders and Lightnings, one of which was heavy.

A number of remarkable heavy winds has occured this month.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SOLUTION TO THE REBUS.

THE AMERICAN SOLDIER.

A PICTURE FROM THE LIFE.

AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.

By James De-La-Cour.

(Continued.)