VOLUME II. (continued 2)

Seized with astonishment at Paleski’s narration, and impatient to hear its continuation, I had not interrupted him once; but now I could not refrain any longer from speaking. “Then Amelia is really innocent?” I exclaimed, “and was not privy to the artifices of the Unknown?”

“Not in the least!” Paleski replied, “as I wish to be saved! The Countess is innocent; she has been deceived as well as your Lordship, and probably her faith in the supernatural power of the Unknown, is still as firm as it was then.”

This declaration lessened my anger at having been deceived in so villainous a manner, I begged Paleski to continue his account.

“Does your Lordship recollect all the particulars of the apparition scene?”

“Yes! I do.”

“Well, then I will explain it to you. On the day previous to the magical farce, the Unknown told me that he had gained over to our party the brother-in-law of the Countess, who had arrived lately, in order to surprise Amelia unexpected, and promised to act the part of the ghost—”

“Impossible!” I exclaimed, “you must be mistaken. At least you are not speaking of Count Clairville?”

“Yes the very same person who is at present your travelling companion.”

A chilly tremor thrilled through my whole frame; my mind measured with a look of horror the time past and present. I beheld myself in the power of two men, one of whom had imposed upon my heart by means of the mask of sincere friendship, and the other upon my understanding, by displaying a shew of pretended supernatural powers, and both of whom were leagued to work upon my credulity, and to make me run into the greatest dangers.

(To be continued.)

A PRODIGY.

The well-known Mr. George, son to the French governor of St. Domingo, realised all the accomplishments attributed by Boyle and others, particularly the adventurer, to the admirable Crichton of the Scotch. He was so superior at the sword, that there was an edict of the parliament of Paris to make his engagement in any duel actual death. He was the first dancer in the world. He played upon seven different instruments of music beyond the most artists. He spoke twenty-six languages, and could maintain public theses in each. He walked round the various circles of human science like the master of each: and strange to be mentioned to whitemen, he was a Mulatto, and the son of an African mother.

GREATNESS.

Greatness conveys so fugitive an idea, that there is no holding it long enough to make a definition: it is like a sun-beam reflected from water, playing upon the walls of an apartment: it gives a momentary splendor to the spot where it falls, and flies away to another and another, but to which it belongs we cannot determine, so as to say it deserves distinction.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REFLECTIONS.

Occasioned by the very sudden death of Miss Mary Blackbourn, who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796.

Twenty years are now complete since America burst the shackles of despotism—pleasures sat smiling on every cheek upon the review of our glorious revolution.—Every freeman’s heart seemed inspired with enthusiastic ardour to imitate those brave veterans, who forsook the dear ties of family connection to defend their country’s rights, who sacrificed their lives in the glorious cause of liberty. The return of the day was commemorated with heartfelt joy; and amongst a number who were to celebrate the birth of Independence, was one (a female) who had promised herself the pleasure of joining with them. But, alas! how fleeting is the happiness we fondly picture to ourselves. At one moment we appear to have arrived at the very summit of earthly bliss, and at the next we are plunged by cruel fate into the lowest abyss of misery.

O! ye who are sporting in the joys of youth, who are figuring to yourselves the many happy days you, no doubt, expect to see for years to come! who have never taken into consideration that solemn truth that you are born but to die; that your life is like a vapour; that the present hour you can scarcely call your own—it is you I now call upon to read this with attention, to consider that like yourselves Maria was in the full bloom of youth, health, and beauty—yes, she was in possession of all these, but one hour before her dissolution, and bid fair to live as long as you—Sudden was her departure; in the space of a few minutes how changed the scene!—She whose conversation just before, was wont to inspire every hearer with emulation, lay stretched before our eyes a senseless corpse.—Reflect, kind reader! O seriously reflect on your visionary state of happiness! you are formed of the same materials! it is the same air your breath!----yes! and a similar narrow cell you must also inhabit, and that perhaps shortly too!---It is impossible for you to say that you expect length of days, because you are in full possession of health, as the very next moment may prove how deceitful your expectations were.

O shade of departed innocence, where is it thou dost now inhabit?----art thou one of those that surround the dazzling throne of Nature’s God, and employed in adoring the great I AM? It was surely for some wise purpose that Jehovah snatched thee from us. Perhaps he saw the evils to which thou wouldst have been exposed by a longer stay, and therefore thought it expedient to translate thee to a better world.

O death! O thou cruel leveller of man! O thou fell tyrant of our race! O thou king of terrors! why couldst thou not for once have deviated from thy accustomed mode of procedure? Why couldst thou not have passed this fair flower and attacked the couch of feeble age? Methinks thy haggard cheek was never bathed with the tear of pity, or here certainly thou wouldst have relented.

O thou great Supreme! O Lord of life and glory, teach us to be resigned to our loss! may we never murmur at the dispensations of thy Providence, but may we learn in every trial to be content---and when death shall summon us hence may it be to never-fading worlds.

MELPOMENUS.

New-York, July 8, 1796.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

On JEALOUSY.

Of all the passions which disturb the human mind, there is none more pernicious in its quality, or more dreadful in its consequences, than that of jealousy: it is looked upon, indeed, as the most certain proof of a strong and violent affection; yet it is such a proof as no one would wish to experience, since the beloved object is the greatest sufferer of the parties, by having to partake with his own, under conscious innocence, a large share in the unmerited sufferings of others.

MARS.

New-York, July 8, 1796.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Captain Timothy Dorgan, to Miss Sally Jones, both of this city.

The 11th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Edward Blackford, merchant, of this city, to the agreeable Miss Hannah Murray, daughter of James Murray, late of this city, but now of Newark.

On Monday last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Samuel Curiea, to Miss Sally Bowen, both of Providence.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The answer of Orlando to Melpomenus, has been received, but as we deem the subject uninteresting, and as personal animosity, seemed to predominate over that coolness which should be observed in discussion, we think it better to drop the subject——The Three Cornered Hat, by Tyrunculus, is received and shall be attended to.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 3d to the 9th inst.

Days of the Month. Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M. Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg.100 deg.100 deg.100 8.1.6. 8.1.6.

July 3 72 74 72 SW.S.do. clearcloudydo.

4 72 80 78 ES.S.do. cloudycleardo.

5 72 81 7950 S.do.do. foggycleardo.

6 8050 8750 79 S.SW.do. clear.do.do

7 7675 8475 83 SWNWSW cleardo.do.

8 80 88 79 W.do.S cleardo.cloudy

9 76 85 80 N.W.NW. cleardo.do.

LINES

Occasioned by the Death of Miss Mary Blackbourn, who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796.

The quoted line “Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew” is from Falconer, The Shipwreck, 1762.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTHONY. From the French.

“An Epistle from Octavia to Anthony” (p. 8, 16):

The French original may be Nicolas Renouard, “Epitre (or Lettre) d’Octavie a Marc-Antoine”.

FRAGMENT.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, July 20, 1796. [No. 55.

Remarks on the wonderful Construction of the EYE.

The eye infinitely surpasses all the works of the industry of man. Its formation is the most astonishing thing the human understanding has been able to acquire a perfect knowledge of. The most skilful artist could imagine no machine of that kind which would not be much inferior to what we observe in the eye. Whatever sagacity or industry he might have, he could execute nothing which would not have the imperfections necessarily belonging to all the works of man. We cannot, it is true, perceive clearly the whole art of divine wisdom in the formation of this fine organ; but the little we do know is sufficient to convince us of the infinite wisdom, goodness, and power of our Creator. The most essential point is for us to make use of this knowledge, weak as it is, to magnify the name of the Most High.

In the first place, the disposition of the external parts of the eye is admirable. With what intrenchment, what defence, the Creator has provided our eyes! They are placed in the head at a certain depth, and surrounded with hard and solid bones, that they may not easily be hurt. The eye-brows contribute also very much to the safety and preservation of this organ. Those hairs which form an arch over the eyes, prevent drops of sweat, dust, or such things, falling from the forehead into them. The eye-lids are another security; and also, by closing in our sleep, they prevent the light from disturbing our rest. The eye-lashes still add to the perfection of the eyes. They save us from a too strong light, which might offend us; and they guard us from the smallest dust, which might otherwise hurt the sight. The internal make of the eye is still more admirable. The whole eye is composed of coats, of humours, of muscles, and veins. The tunica, or exterior membrane, which is called cornea, is transparent, and so hard, that it can resist the roughest shocks. Behind that there is another within, which they call uvea, and which is circular and coloured. In the middle of it there is an opening, which is called the pupil, and which appears black. Behind this opening is the crystal, which is perfectly transparent, of a lenticular figure, and composed of several little flakes very thin, and arranged one over another. Underneath the crystal there is a moist and transparent substance, which they call the glassy humour, because it resembles melted glass. The cavity, or the hinder chamber, between the cornea and the crystal, contains a moist humour, and liquid as water, for that reason called the watery humour. It can recruit itself when it has run out from a wound of the cornea. Six muscles, admirably well placed, move the eye on all sides, raise it, lower it, turn it to the right or left, obliquely, or round about, as occasion requires. What is most admirable is the retina, a membrane which lines the inside bottom of the eye. It is nothing but a web of little fibres extremely fine, fastened to a nerve or sinew, which comes from the brain, and is called the optic nerve. It is in the retina, that the vision is formed, because the objects paint themselves at the bottom of the eye on that tunica: and, though the images of exterior objects are painted upside down on the retina, they are still seen in their true position. Now, in order to form an idea of the extreme minuteness of this picture, we need only consider, that the space of half a mile, that is to say, of more than eleven hundred yards, when it is represented in the bottom of the eye, makes but the tenth part of an inch.

I return thee thanks, O Lord God, for having formed my eye in so wonderful a manner. My soul acknowledges thy infinite power, goodness, and wisdom. Hitherto I had not considered my eyes as I should have done, that is, as a master-piece of thy hands, and as a demonstrative proof, that even the most minute parts of my body are not the work of chance, and that thou hast formed them for most useful purposes.---Surely I am a faint image and likeness of THYSELF.

For sources, see the end of this file.

MAXIM.

The same energy of mind which urges to the noblest heights of benevolence, and assists towards the sublimest attainments of genius, may also, if not properly directed, hurry us on to the wildest extravagances of passion, and betray into impetuosity and folly.

THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS, EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF M. DE LA PALINIERE.

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 11.)

God of mercies! cried I, into what a frightful abyss have my passions plunged me. Had I subdued jealousy, had I overcome my natural impetuosity, my idleness and inclination for play, I should have enjoyed a considerable fortune; should not have borne the inward and dreadful reproach of effecting the death of a worthy young man, nor of being the primary cause of the sacrifice which his unhappy mistress will make to-morrow; I should have been the delight of a benefactor, an Uncle, who at present justly thinks me ungrateful and incorrigible; and should not cowardly, at five-and-twenty, have renounced the duty of serving my King and country. Far from being an object of contempt and public censure, I should have been universally beloved, and, in possession of the gentlest, most charming, and most virtuous of women, should have had the most faithful and amiable of friends, and moreover should have been a father! Wretch, of what inestimable treasures had thou deprived thyself! Now thou mayest wander, for ever, lonely and desolate over the peopled earth! So saying, I cast my despairing eyes around, terrified as it were at my own comfortless and solitary situation.

Buried in these reflections, my attention was rouzed by the sound of hasty footsteps upon the stairs. My door suddenly opened, a man appeared and ran towards me; I rose instinctively, advanced, and in an instant found myself in the arms of Sinclair!

While he pressed me to his bosom I could not restrain my tears; his flowed plentifully. A thousand contending emotions were struggling in my heart; but excessive confusion and shame were most prevalent, and kept me silent.

I was at the farther part of Poitou, my friend, said Sinclair, and knew not till lately, how necessary the consolations of friendship were become; besides, I wanted six months for my own affairs, that I might afterward devote myself to you. I am just come from Fontainbleau, have obtained leave of absence, and you may now dispose of me as you please.

Oh Sinclair! cried I, unworthy the title of your friend, I no longer deserve, no more can enjoy the precious consolations which friendship so pure thus generously offers: I am past help, past hope.

Not so, said he, again embracing me; I know thy heart, thy native sensibility and noble mind: had I nothing but compassion to offer, certain I could not comfort, I should have wept for and assisted thee in secret; but thou wouldst not have seen me here. No; friendship inspires and brings me hither, with a happy assurance I shall soften thy anguish.

Sinclair’s discourse not only awakened the most lively gratitude, but raised me in my own esteem. In giving me back his friendship, he gave me hopes of myself. I immediately opened my whole heart to him, and found a satisfaction of which I had long been deprived, that of speaking without disguise of all my faults, and all my sorrows. The melancholy tale was often interrupted by my tears; and Sinclair, after hearing me with as much attention as tenderness, raised his eyes to heaven and gave a deep sigh.

Of what use, said he, are wit, sensibility of soul, or virtuous dispositions, without those solid, those invariable principles which education or experience alone can give! He who has never profited by the lessons of others, can never grow wise but at his own expence, and is only to be taught by his errors and misfortunes.

Sinclair then conjured me to leave Paris for a time, and travel; adding that he would go with me, and pressed me to depart without delay for Italy. I give myself up entirely to your guidance, said I; dispose of a wretch who without your aid must sink beneath his load of misery. Profiting accordingly by the temper in which he found me, he made me give my word to set off in two days. The evening before my departure, I wished once more to revisit the place where I had first beheld my Julia. It was in the gardens of the Palais-Royal; but, ashamed of appearing in public, I waited till it was dark. There was music there that evening, and a great concourse of people; so hiding myself in the most obscure part of the great alley, I sat down behind a large tree.

I had not sat long, before two men came and placed themselves on the other tide of the tree. I instantly knew one of them, by the sound of his voice, to be Dainval, a young coxcomb, without wit, breeding, or principles; joining to ridiculous affectation of perpetual irony, a pretension to think philosophically; laughing at every thing; deciding with self-sufficiency; at once pedantic and superficial; speaking with contempt of the best men and the most virtuous actions; and believing himself profound by calumniating goodness.

Such was Dainval, a man whom I had believed my friend till the moment of my ruin, and whose pernicious example and advice I had too often followed. I was going to rise and remove, when the sound of my own name awakened my curiosity, and I heard the following dialogue began by Dainval:

“Oh yes, it is very certain he sets off to-morrow morning with Sinclair for Italy.”

“How! is he reconciled to Sinclair?”

“The best friends on earth! Generosity on one side, repentance on the other; mutual tenderness, tears, and tortures; prayers, pardons, and pacifications. The scene was truly pathetic.”

“So there is not a word of truth in all the late town talk?”

“What, of their being rivals? Why should you think so?”

“Why, how is it possible that Sinclair should be so interested about a man he had betrayed?”

“Ha! ha!——I do not pique myself much for finding reasons for other men’s actions, though I do a little for the faculty of seeing things as they are. Sinclair, still fond of Julia, would reconcile her to her husband, in order to get her out of a convent again. The thing is evident enough.”

“But wherefore then go to Italy?”

“To give the town time to forget the history of the picture and the pocket book.”

“And yet there are many people who pretend the pocket-book was Belinda’s.”

“A fable invented at leisure! The fact is, poor La Paliniere knew well enough, previous to that discovery, how matters went, and had told what he knew above a year before to whoever would listen.”

“Is he amiable, pray? What sort of a man is he?”

“Who? La Paliniere!————A poor creature! talents excessively confined; half stupid; no imagination; no resource; no character. At his first coming into life he threw himself in my way, and I took him under my tuition; but I soon saw it was labour in vain; could never make any figure; a head ill turned; Gothic notions; trifling views; scarce common sense; a Prodigal that gaped with confusion at the sight of a Creditor: a Gamester, that prided himself on generosity and greatness of soul with a dice-box in his hand; any man’s dupe; ruining himself without enjoyment, and without eclat.”

“Have you seen him since his clash?”

“No; but I have burnt all our accounts; he’ll never hear of them more.”

“Did he owe you many play-debts?”

“Numberless. I have destroyed his notes; not that I brag of such things, nor should I mention this to any body else, ’Tis a thing of course you know with a man of spirit; though I would not have you speak of it.”

I could contain myself no longer at this last falsehood. Liar! cried I, behold me ready to pay all I owe you; retire from this place, and I hope to acquit myself.

“Faith, said Dainval, with a forced smile, I did not expect you just now, I must confess. As to your cut-throat proposal, it is natural enough for you; you have nothing to lose, but I must take another year to complete my ruin: therefore, when you return from Italy, or thereabouts, why we shall fight on equal terms.”

So saying, he ran off without waiting for a reply, and left me with too much contempt for his cowardice to think of pursuit.

This then is the man, said I to myself, whom I once thought amiable, by whose councils I have been often guided! What a depth of depravity! What a vile and corrupted heart! Oh how hideous is vice when seen without a veil! It never reduces but when concealed; and having ever a greater proportion of impudence than of artifice, it soon or late will break the brittle mask with which its true face is covered.

This last adventure furnished me with more than one subject for reflection; it taught me how carefully those who prize their reputation, ought to avoid making themselves the topic of public conversation, in which the sarcasms of scandal are always most prevalent. The malicious add and invent, and the foolish and the idle hear and repeat; truth is obscured, and the deceived public condemn without appeal.

(To be concluded in our next.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON THE THREE CORNERED HAT.

Among the many things invented by man for his use, none perhaps is more ridiculous than the three cornered hat at present used by some persons. That it affords but an inconsiderable shelter for the head, is a truth scarcely to be denied; and that the face of him who wears it remains exposed to the piercing rays of the sun, is equally true. If our ancestors deemed it a conveniency to wear the hats in question, experience teaches us at the present day, their great inutility: And shall we then willingly smile on those customs which (tho’ formerly practised) proves at present highly injurious? No; Let us consult our own feelings, and not the habits of former times.---Common sense points out their inconsistency, and reason mocks the stupidity of him who madly submits to be ruled by custom, that tyrant of the human mind, to whose government three-fourths of this creation foolishly subscribe their assent. Again, the weight which is comprised in a hat of that size, is a sufficient argument for their abolition. Wherein then can the utility of such an unwieldy machine consist? Is not the round hat more becoming? And does it not finally prove to the head by far the best covering? The contrary cannot be urged unless through prejudice or selfishness. That it looks respectable and sacred, may be urged in favour of it; to this I reply, that if to be impudent, constitutes either of those characters, the three cornered hat has the great good fortune to be superior to the other. It may be further advanced in its favour, that by letting down its brims it will answer the purpose of an umbrella in a hot summer’s day: true that for size it may, but where is the person that would not rather make use of the real than the fictitious machine? Why was the pains taken for the invention of an umbrella, if the hat could be made to answer the same views? Was it not because the hat attracting the rays of the sun, was found to be injurious to the eyes, and therefore recourse was had to a machine which proved not only a shelter from the sun, but to the eyes far more beneficial. To conclude, nothing but a false pride, and a desire to be conspicuous, could ever induce a person thus inconsistently to use that which will finally prove his folly.

TYRUNCULUS.

New-York, July 7, 1796.

A SPEAKING STATUE.

Laugingen, a city of Germany, is famous for the birth of Albert the Great, who made a statue, with such admirable clockwork, that it could walk, move its tongue, and speak distinctly.

It one day happened that Thomas d’Aquinas, disciple of Albert, having entered the chamber where this statue was left alone, the statue advanced towards him, and spoke to him before he was aware. Thomas was so frighted at this, that he struck it several times, and broke to pieces this admirable work, which had cost Albert thirty years labour.

For sources, see the end of the second installment (pg. 28).

To the Editor of the New-York Weekly Magazine.

Sir,

The inclosed Account I transmit to you for publication, at the particular request of a friend, who is well acquainted with the circumstances that gave rise to it.—It is drawn up by a female hand, and she here relates respecting Mr. Y———— what she knew of him herself, and what she had heard of him in her father’s family, where he had been an occasional visitant; as I have no reason to believe that this transaction has ever appeared in print, you will be pleased to give it a place among your original compositions.

ANNA.

New-York, May 17, 1796.

AN ACCOUNT OF A MURDER COMMITTED BY MR. J—— Y——, UPON HIS FAMILY, IN DECEMBER, A.D. 1781.

The unfortunate subject of my present essay, belonged to one of the most respectable families in this state; he resided a few miles from Tomhanick, and though he was not in the most affluent circumstances, he maintained his family (which consisted of a wife and four children,) very comfortably.—From the natural gentleness of his disposition, his industry, sobriety, probity and kindness, his neighbours universally esteemed him, and until the fatal night when he perpetrated the cruel act, none saw cause of blame in him.

In the afternoon preceding that night, as it was Sunday and there was no church near, several of his neighbours with their wives came to his house for the purpose of reading the scripture and singing psalms; he received them cordially, and when they were going to return home in the evening, he pressed his sister and her husband, who came with the others, to stay longer; at his very earnest solicitation they remained until near nine o’clock, during which time his conversation was grave as usual, but interesting and affectionate: to his wife, of whom he was very fond, he made use of more than commonly endearing expressions, and caressed his little ones alternately:—he spoke much of his domestic felicity, and informed his sister, that to render his wife more happy, he intended to take her to New-Hampshire the next day; “I have just been refitting my sleigh,” said he, “and we will set off by day-break.”—After singing another hymn, Mr. and Mrs. J—s—n departed.

“They had no sooner left us (said he upon his examination) than taking my wife upon my lap, I opened the Bible to read to her---my two boys were in bed---one five years old, the other seven;---my daughter Rebecca, about eleven, was sitting by the fire, and my infant aged about six months, was slumbering at her mother’s bosom.---Instantly a new light shone into the room, and upon looking up I beheld two Spirits, one at my right hand and the other at my left;---he at the left bade me destroy all my idols, and begin by casting the Bible into the fire;---the other Spirit dissuaded me, but I obeyed the first, and threw the book into the flames. My wife immediately snatched it out, and was going to expostulate, when I threw it in again and held her fast until it was entirely consumed:---then filled with the determination to persevere, I flew out of the house, and seizing an axe which lay by the door, with a few strokes demolished my sleigh, and running to the stable killed one of my horses---the other I struck, but with one spring he got clear of the stable.---My spirits now were high, and I hasted to the house to inform my wife of what I had done. She appeared terrified, and begged me to sit down; but the good angel whom I had obeyed stood by me and bade me go on, “You have more idols, (said he) look at your wife and children.” I hesitated not a moment, but rushed to the bed where my boys lay, and catching the eldest in my arms, I threw him with such violence against the wall, that he expired without a groan!---his brother was still asleep---I took him by the feet, and dashed his skull in pieces against the fire-place!---Then looking round, and perceiving that my wife and daughters were fled, I left the dead where they lay, and went in pursuit of the living, taking up the axe again.---A slight snow had fallen that evening, and by its light I descried my wife running towards her father’s (who lived about half a mile off) encumbered with her babe; I ran after her, calling upon her to return, but she shrieked and fled faster, I therefore doubled my pace, and when I was within thirty yards of her, threw the axe at her, which hit her upon the hip!---the moment that she felt the blow she dropped the child, which I directly caught up, and threw against the log-fence---I did not hear it cry---I only heard the lamentations of my wife, of whom I had now lost sight; but the blood gushed so copiously from her wound that it formed a distinct path along the snow. We were now within sight of her father’s house, but from what cause I cannot tell, she took an opposite course, and after running across an open field several times, she again stopped at her own door; I now came up with her---my heart bled to see her distress, and all my natural feelings began to revive; I forgot my duty, so powerfully did her moanings and pleadings affect me, “Come then, my love (said I) we have one child left, let us be thankful for that--what is done is right--we must not repine, come let me embrace you---let me know that you do indeed love me.” She encircled me in her trembling arms, and pressed her quivering lips to my cheek.---A voice behind me, said, “This is also an idol!”---I broke from her instantly, and wrenching a stake from the garden fence, with one stroke levelled her to the earth! and lest she should only be stunned, and might, perhaps, recover again, I repeated my blows, till I could not distinguish one feature of her face!!! I now went to look after my last sublunary treasure, but after calling several times without receiving any answer, I returned to the house again; and in the way back picked up the babe and laid it on my wife’s bosom.---I then stood musing a minute---during which interval I thought I heard the suppressed sobbings of some one near the barn, I approached it in silence, and beheld my daughter Rebecca endeavouring to conceal herself among the hay-stacks.---”

(To be concluded in our next.)

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 14.)

“Alas! Paleski,” I exclaimed, after a long pause, “how dreadfully have you opened my eyes!”

“Compose yourself, my Lord, I am sensible that my time is very precious, and I have to reveal to you a great deal more. The Count acted the part of the ghost, which he could do with sanguine hopes of success, as he resembles his deceased brother in a striking manner. He covered his body with a doe skin, which as well as his face, was painted of a corpse-like colour. A spunge filled with a red mixture was concealed betwixt his body and the doe skin, which had five inscissures. As soon as the clock struck twelve, and the lights were extinguished, the moveable cone was drawn down into the lower apartment, the Count got through the aperture by means of a ladder, and the cone snapped again in its former place, as soon as the ladder was removed. The shroud in which the Count was wrapped had been rubbed with a spirit that diffused a corpse-like smell through the apartment. Whenever the Count gave a signal, a flash of lightning illuminated the apartment, and you saw the pretended ghost, who addressed the Countess in a solemn, serious manner. The red colour penetrated through the inscissures of the doe skin as often as the Count pressed the spunge.——Having finished his part, he stepped back upon the moveable cone, and sunk down into the lower apartment.”

“Unheard of fraud!” I exclaimed, “so simple, and yet so impenetrable—But, Paleski, can you explain how the lightning and thunder, which was so extremely natural, was effected?”

“Both were produced by two men in the apartment over your head. One shook a large round copper plate which the Unknown had found in the secret chamber, and caused the thundering noise by its vibrations. The other was standing at a window, and produced the lightning by directing the light of a magic lanthorn in such a manner that it was received by a large mirror which was suspended opposite to the window of the apartment where the ghost appeared, in such a manner that it reflected the light into the room, and illuminated the ghost, who stood in a straight line with the window. The trembling motion in which the mirror was put, gave the illumination the appearance of flashes of lightning, which disappeared as often as the shutter of the lanthorn was let down.”

“But how did it happen that I did not observe the mirror when I looked out of the window?”

“It was fastened to the branches of an opposite tree, while you were at supper; however the darkness of the night, the distance of the tree, and the black cloth with which it had been covered till twelve o’clock, had rendered it invisible. Your servant, from whom we carefully concealed our proceedings, had been removed to a distant apartment, where he was amused by a game at cards till midnight had set in.”

“But why did the Unknown not endeavour to gain him over to his party?”

“We had really been charged by him to attempt it, however he displayed so much fidelity and unshaken attachment to you, that we found it prudent to drop the attempt.”

The confirmation of the good opinion which I always had entertained of Pietro’s fidelity, gave me so much the more pleasure, because I saw myself so dreadfully mistaken in my opinion of the Count and the Unknown.

“I do not know,” Paleski continued, “whether the success of the whole design is to be ascribed to the Count or the Unknown, the former of whom had taken upon himself the execution, and the latter the regulation and direction of the plot. All of us were enraptured at the successful execution of that undertaking; however consternation soon stepped in the room of joy, when we perceived the fatal effect which that juggling farce produced on the health of the Countess, and we should certainly have betrayed the whole cheat, if the immense presents which the Unknown distributed, and his solemn declaration that he would restore the health of the Countess had not silenced us.”

“Was the illness of Amelia really so dangerous as I have been told by my servant?”

“The accounts we gave him were very much exaggerated by the direction of the Unknown, who persuaded us, that if you had a sincere love for our lady, it would increase with the danger of losing her. When we asked him on your departure, for what reason he did not oppose it, if he really designed to promote your and her ladyship’s happiness: he replied, ‘Your notions of love are very erroneous, if you cannot see my drift. The spark which glimmers in their bosoms, must be blown up into a blazing flame, by obstacles and difficulties; a forcible separation of two loving hearts, unites them more firmly.’---Even the fictitious account which I gave you of the death of the Countess was written by the desire of the Unknown; for he pretended to try the strength of your love, by observing the effect which it would produce upon your heart. The intelligence which I gave you of the pretended miraculous restoration of the Countess was forged, with the design to obliterate the impression of the former, and to give you at the same time a high notion of the power of the Unknown.”

“But, certainly, you did not write that letter by his direction?”

“Yes, my Lord, I did.”

“And your recantation in the wood near ****n?---”

“Was a new cheat.”

I gazed at him with astonishment.

“You will recollect, my Lord, that I told you the Unknown, had given up all hope of seducing your servant; and yet he stood in need of a man who enjoyed your confidence, in order to be informed by him of all your actions, wishes and sentiments, and to govern you at his pleasure by his assistance, without your perceiving it. The Count offered to attempt to get acquainted with you. In order to deceive the keen-sightedness of your tutor, who was a principal obstacle to the execution of his designs, he pretended to join with him in his hatred against the Unknown, whom he declared to be an impostor, and thus made your governor believe that he was an unprejudiced honest man. For that very reason he persisted in his declaration, accepted your challenge, and produced the letter by which Amelia had informed him of the particulars of her recovery, and proved my letter to be a forgery. He even accused the Unknown of acting in concert with me, with the view to remove the most distant suspicion of being connected with either of us. The Count would certainly not have hazarded to push matters so far, if he had not foreseen that a scene like that which I acted in the wood near ****n would retrieve every thing, and clear the Unknown of the suspicion of having acted in concert with me. The event has proved that he had not been mistaken, and now he thought it seasonable to change the scene. Till then the Count had appeared to counteract him, though he had rendered him the most important services; but now, thinking to have gained a firm footing in your confidence, he began to declare openly for the Unknown. He could easily foresee what a seducing effect this seeming change of opinion would have upon you. For it was natural you should conceive the idea, that the unfavourable prejudice which the Count had manifested against the Unknown, had been conquered by the reality and greatness of his miracles; and supposing this, you could not but think to have an additional motive for yielding without reserve to the sublime notion of the power of the Unknown, which you till then frequently had entertained reluctantly. However the Count could not change his tone before the Unknown appeared justified, as well in his as in your opinion, if he would not expose himself to the danger of exciting your suspicion, and for that reason the farce in the wood near ***n was acted.”

“I comprehend you!” said I, grinding my teeth with anger. “But what of the farce?”

“It was partly of my, and partly of the Count’s invention. I had kept myself concealed in the wood of ****n, some days previous to that farce, and carefully consulted with the Count, what I should do and say in your presence. We fixed on purpose on an evening on which we had just reason to expect a thunder storm, in order to give the whole scene more solemnity. We chose an unfrequented, solitary spot of the wood, for the scene of action, where I disguised myself in the ruins of an old house, and awaited your arrival without being observed. I painted my face with a light yellow, and my feet with a red colour, and rushed from my ambush with loud screams, as soon as I saw you at a distance.”

“You dropped senseless to the ground, and behaved like a maniac; what view had you by doing so?”

“I only wanted to strengthen the impression of my tale.”

“You pretended to see the Unknown; was he really not far off, or did you only deceive me?”

“It was mere deception, for he was then many miles distant from ****n.”

“But what you told me of the hermit was true? or was it also a preconcerted tale?”

He was prevented from returning an answer by a sudden fainting fit, which probably was the consequence of his having talked too much. I rang the bell for the nurse and retired with the intention of hearing the next morning the continuation of Paleski’s confession. A nameless sensation thrilled my whole frame when I went home. I wished and dreaded to find the Count at our hotel, being enraptured at the idea of treating the unmasked impostor with that humiliating contempt which he so well deserved; but shuddering at the thirst for revenge which I felt in my bosom, and that animated me to take a satisfaction against which my good genius warned me. However, to my and his fortune, he was not at home. He had, as Pietro told me, taken some papers out of his trunk, during my absence and left the house suddenly. The evening and the night passed without his being returned, and he was not come back in the morning when I went to the hospital.

I entered Paleski’s apartment, burning with impatience to hear his farther discoveries. But alas! he was on the brink of eternity, and died a few minutes after my arrival.

I would have given worlds if I could have prolonged the life of this man only for a few hours. His relation had thrown a light only over a part of my mysterious history, and a far greater part was still surrounded with impenetrable darkness. I have never been so sensible how much more painful half satisfied curiosity is, than utter ignorance or the most dreadful certainty. How much did I now repent that I had not interrogated Paleski the day before, on the fate of my tutor, Amelia’s sentiments for me and her abode. The Unknown had indeed given me very flattering hopes, with regard to these dear people; however, what reliance could I have on the promises of an impostor? Entirely left to myself, I was obliged to leave it to some fortunate accident, or to his generosity, whether I ever should have the happiness of meeting them again? Frail hope! and yet it was my only support in my friendless, distressing situation, the only prop on which I could lean. Being in a world to which I was almost an utter stranger, without a friend or guide, surrounded with the invisible snares of two impostors, threatened by an uncertain and gloomy futurity, I readily gave myself up to the sweet ideas of possibility, in order to console myself for the melancholy reality.

Two days were now elapsed, and the Count was not yet returned, which confirmed my apprehensions that he had fled. A look at his trunk suggested a thought to me which I could not shake off; the consequence was that I opened it with a master-key, with an intention to search whether I could not find some papers, which would throw a light upon several dark parts of my history.

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

OBSERVATION.

Being pretty much of a rambler, I occasionally fall into a variety of company; and as I am something of a moralist, I frequently make reflections on what I see.

In one of my late excursions, I happened in company with a young lady, lately from Wales; whom I found to be a very social person. She entertained me with an account of many circumstances relating to her own country; and withal expressed her disappointment with regard to the ideas she had entertained of the Americans. “I have,” said she, “always heard them represented as the most humane, free, and agreeable people in the world; but on the contrary, find them quite the reverse: for since I came to this continent, I have not received a single visit from a young lady of my neighbourhood, or had the least attention paid me.” I expressed no small disapprobation and surprise at this account: but at the same time was in no wise at a loss to discover the cause. I found her so very tenacious of the manners and customs of Wales, that she could not by any means persuade herself to recede from them; though very different from those of New-York. This is an error that most Europeans fall into. They are so possessed of the notion, that the inhabitants of America are an ignorant simple race of mortals, that they come over with a view of being received as instructors, and implicitly adhered to in all their peculiarities. But this hypothesis being far from true, they frequently give disgust by their magisterial deportment; and while they persist in these ideas render themselves ridiculous.

The foregoing observations led me to a more general reflection on the amazing force of tradition, and the narrow contracted principle of bigotry: by which nothing, methought so justly represented, as a hungry man, sitting down to a sumptuous table, richly replenished with a variety of excellent dishes; who having tasted of one, and finding it agreeable, could not be persuaded there was another good one before him.

ETHICUS.

New-York, July 16, 1796.

WONDERFUL ACCOUNT OF A MAN-FISH.

Alexander, of Alexandria, and above fifty other historians, have written an account of a man named Collas, whom they call the Fish Collas; this man had accustomed himself from his infancy to the frequenting of the sea, till at last he became an inhabitant thereof; and dwelt there with such obstinate delight, that he would not be persuaded from it; so that at length he became viscous and waterish, and continued in the sea the greatest part of his life; being sometimes hidden betwixt two waves like a fish, so that he could not be seen for five or six hours together, and would seldom come out in less than eight or ten days; but when he saw a ship he would sometimes go aboard, and live with the mariners for some time; and when tired he would throw himself overboard into the sea and be gone. He said that when he was on shore, he used to be troubled with a pain in his stomach, which he had not when in the water.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON POLITENESS.

Politeness is requisite to keep up the relish of life, and procure us that affection and esteem which every man who has a sense of it must desire. The established maxims of politeness are little less than good-nature, polished and beautified by art; they teach a person to behave with deference towards every body, in all the common incidents of society; and particularly so whenever a person’s situation may naturally beget any disagreeable peculiarity in him. Thus, old men know their infirmities, and naturally dread contempt from the young; hence, well educated youths redouble the instances of respect towards their elders. Strangers and foreigners appear to be without protection; hence, in all polite companies, they receive the first marks of civility.

MOORISH GRATITUDE.

M. Chenier, in the present state of Morocco, relates, that as the late Emperor was once passing the river Beth on horseback, at a place where it falls into the Seboo, he was in imminent danger of being drowned, when one of the negroes plunged into the stream, and saved his life, at the risque of his own. Having preserved his royal master, the slave shewed marks of exultation at his good fortune. But Sede Mahomet drawing his sabre, with one blow almost severed his head from his body: exclaiming “Here is an infidel, to suppose that God stood in need of his assistance to save a Shariff’s life.”—The same magnanimous despot being once slightly reproached by a French Consul for not performing a promise made him, answered, “Takest thou me for an infidel, that I must be the slave of my word—Know that it is in my power to say and unsay whatever and whenever I please.”

THE FORGETFUL MAN.

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

This item is repeated on pg. 254 in No. 84.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Friday evening last by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. George Gaines, to Miss Elizabeth Taylor, both of this city.

EPITAPH,

ON A VIOLENT SCOLD.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SIR,

The following juvenile performances, were circulated in manuscript, during the late revolution, when the British Forces held possession of this city, in consequence of the improper resort to the walk in front of Trinity Church; if you think them worthy of being preserved in your amusing repository, they are at your service.

A.

THE MALL.

THE RECANTATION.

TO MATILDA.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ELEGY,

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY ON TRANSCRIBING FOR HER A POEM ON THE DEATH OF TWO UNFORTUNATE LOVERS.

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, July 27, 1796. [No. 56.

View of the STARRY HEAVENS.

The sky at night presents us a sight of wonders, which must raise the astonishment of every attentive observer of nature. But from whence comes it, that so few consider the firmament with attention? I am willing to believe, that in general it proceeds from ignorance; for it is impossible to be convinced of the greatness of the works of God, without feeling a rapture almost heavenly. O how I wish to make you share this divine pleasure! Raise your thoughts for this purpose towards the sky: It will be enough to name to you the immense bodies which are strewed in that space, to fill you with astonishment at the greatness of the artificer. It is in the center of our system that the throne of the sun is established. The body is more than a million of times larger than the earth. It is one hundred millions of miles distant from it, and notwithstanding this prodigious distance, it has a most sensible effect upon our sphere. Round the sun move twenty-one globular bodies, seven of which are called planets, the other fourteen, moons or satellites; they are opake, and receive from the sun light, heat, and perhaps also their interior motion. Georgium Sidus, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Earth, Venus, and Mercury, are the names of the seven principal planets. Of these seven, Mercury is nearest the sun, and for that reason is mostly invisible to the astronomer. As he is near nineteen times smaller than our earth, he contributes but little to adorn the sky. Venus follows him, and is sometimes called the morning, and sometimes the evening star. It is one of the brightest of the heavenly bodies, whether it precedes the sun-rise, or succeeds the setting sun. It is near as large again as our earth, and is about sixty-eight millions of miles distant from the sun. After Venus comes our earth, round which the moon moves, as a secondary planet. Mars, which is the fourth planet, is seven times smaller than our globe; and its distance from the sun is one hundred and forty-four millions of miles. Jupiter, with his belt, is always distinguished by his splendor in the starry sky: it seems in size to surpass all the fixed stars; it is almost as bright as Venus in all her glory, except that the light of it is less brilliant than the morning star. How small our earth is in comparison with Jupiter! There would not be less than eight thousand globes like ours, necessary to form one equal in size to that of Jupiter. Saturn, whose distance from the sun is upwards of nine hundred millions of miles, was thought the remotest planet until the late discovery of the Georgium Sidus, whose distance is eighteen thousand millions of miles, and its magnitude eighty-nine times greater than our earth. In the mean time, the sun, with all the planets which accompany it, is a very small part of the immense fabric of the universe. Each star, which from hence appears to us no larger than a brilliant set in a ring, is in reality an immense body which equals the sun both in size and splendor.

(To be concluded in our next.)

For sources, see the end of this file.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

KNOWLEDGE.

The life of man is lengthened by his pursuits of knowledge, as that of a fool by his passions. The time of the one is long, because he does not know how to spend it; but the other distinguishes every moment of it with useful and amusing thoughts; the one wishes it always elapsed, and the other enjoys it always.

How the view of past life, appears different to the man who is grown old in knowledge, from that who is grown old in ignorance; the latter is like the owner of a barren country, that sees nothing, but some hills and plains naked; the other beholds an agreeable landscape, and can scarce cast his eyes on a single spot of his land that is not covered with some beautiful plants.

CURIOUS ETYMOLOGY.

When the French first settled on the banks of St. Lawrence, they were stinted by the intendant, Monsieur Picard, to a can of spruce beer a day. The people thought this measure very scant, and every moment articulated, “Can-a-day!” It would be ungenerous in any reader to desire a more rational derivation of the word Canada.

THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS, EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF M. DE LA PALINIERE.

Translated from the French.

(Concluded from page 18.)

In the midst of these thoughts, there was one more afflicting than all the rest; I was arrived at that height of misery, that my greatest misfortune was not that of being for ever separated from Julia; no, I had another more insupportable. The most virtuous and innocent of women, the ornament and glory of her sex, groaned beneath the opprobrious burthen of the world’s contempt, and I alone was the cause of this cruel injustice; the remembrance of this distracted me, and made me almost insensible to the consolations of friendship. Yes, said I to Sinclair, I could suffer singly for my errors, and support my punishment perhaps with fortitude. Time I know destroys passion and regret, but it never can enfeeble the remorse of a feeling heart born to the practice of virtue. The day may come, when Julia will no longer live in my imagination with all those seductive charms I now continually behold; but she will ever remain there the innocent sacrifice of folly and distraction, and the remembrance of that will be the torment of my life.

In effect, neither the tender cares of Sinclair, nor the dissipation of a long voyage, could weaken my chagrin. When we returned to Paris, Sinclair was obliged to leave me and rejoin his regiment, and I departed, almost immediately, for Holland; where, six months after, Sinclair came to me. He suggested an idea of my undertaking some kind of commerce, and lent me money necessary to make a beginning.

Fortune seconded this next project, and I foresaw the possibility of regaining the happiness I had lost: the desire of laying the fruits of my travels at the feet of my Julia, gave me as much industry as perseverance; I vanquished my natural indolence, and the tiresome disgust with which this new species of employment at first inspired me, and read and reflected during the time that business did not call my attention.

Study soon ceased to appear painful: I acquired a passionate love for reading; my mind was insensibly enlightened, my ideas enlarged, and my heart became calm. Industry, reading, and thinking, recovered me, by degrees, from the soporiferous draught of indolence; religion likewise gave fortitude to reason, elevated my soul, and released me from the tyrannical empire of passion.

This revolution in my temper and sentiments did not at all change my projects. ’Tis true, I had no longer that excessive and silly passion for Julia which had made us both so unhappy. I loved with less violence, with less self-interest, but with more certainty. Passion is always blind, selfish, and seeking its own satisfaction: friendship is founded upon esteem, owes all its power to virtue, is more affectionate, and the more affectionate it is, the more it is equitable and generous.

I passed five years in Holland, during which time I was constantly fortunate in the business in which I was engaged; and at length, by extreme œconomy and unwearied assiduity, entirely re-established my fortune. I then thought of nothing but of once more visiting my own country. I imagined, with the most tender delight, the happiness I was going to regain, when falling at the feet of Julia, I might say to her, “I return worthy of you; I return to consecrate my life to your happiness.”

Thus occupied by the most delightful of ideas, I departed from Holland, far, alas! from suspecting the blow I was about to receive.

I had written to Sinclair, desiring him to inform Julia of my journey, and received an answer at Brussels; by which I learned Julia had had a fever, but at the same time the letter assured she had not been dangerously ill, and was almost recovered. The explanations which accompanied that letter prevented all uneasiness, and I continued my route with no other fear than that of seeing Julia more surprized than affected at my resolutions and return.

I drew nearer and nearer to Paris, and at last, when within twenty leagues, I met Sinclair, who stopped my carriage, and descended from his own: I opened my door, and flew to embrace him; but as soon as my eyes met his, I shuddered: astonishment and terror rendered me speechless! Sinclair opened his arms to me, but his face was bathed in tears! I durst not ask the reason, and he had not the power to tell me. I expected the worst, and from that moment faithless fleeting joys forever forsook my heart!

Sinclair dragged me towards my carriage without speaking a single word, and the postillions instantly quitted the road to Paris. “Whither are you taking me?” cried I distractedly; “tell me: I will know.”

Ah, unhappy man!

Go on! continue! strike me to the heart!

Sinclair answered not, but wept and embraced me. Tell me, continued I, what is my fate? Is it her hatred, or her loss, thou wouldst announce?

Sinclair’s lips opened to answer, and my heart sunk within me; I wanted the courage to hear him pronounce my sentence; “Oh, my friend!” added I, “my life this moment is in thy hands.”

The supplicating tone with which I spoke these words, sufficiently expressed my feelings. Sinclair looked at me with compassion in his eyes. “I can be silent,” said he, “but dare not deceive:” he stopt; I asked no more; and the rest of the road we both kept a profound silence, which was only interrupted by my sobs and sighs.

Sinclair conducted me to a country-house, where I at length received a confirmation of my misery: alas! all was lost: Julia existed no more; her death not only deprived me of all felicity, but took from me the means of repairing my faults, of expiating my past errors, except by regret, repentance, and by daily pouring out my silent griefs before an elegant Mausoleum, which the generous friendship of Sinclair had kindly caused to be erected to her memory in the neighbourhood of his country-house.

The remainder of my history has nothing interesting; consoled by time and religion, I consecrated the rest of my career to friendship, study, and the offices of humanity; I obtained my uncle’s pardon, and the care of making him happy became my greatest delight; and I fulfilled, without effort, and in their whole extent, those sacred duties which nature and gratitude required.

Though my uncle was far advanced in years, heaven still permitted him to remain with me ten years, after which I had the misfortune to lose him: I purchased his estate, and retired thither for the rest of my days.

Sinclair promised to come and see me once a-year, and though fifteen are now past since that event, we have never been eighteen months without seeing each other.

Sinclair, at present in his fifty-eighth year, has run a career the most brilliant and the most fortunate: a happy husband, a happy father, a successful warrior, covered with glory, loaded with fortune’s favours, he enjoys a felicity and fate the more transcendant, in that they only could be procured by virtue united to genius.

As for me, I, in my obscure mediocrity, might yet find happiness, were it not for the mournful, the bitter remembrance of the evils which others have suffered through the errors of my youth.

EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF A SPANISH NOBLEMAN.

From the Chevalier De Rabilier’s remarkable Events of the present Century.

Francis Anthony De Sandoval, duke of Medina Celi, and of St. Lucar, in the province of Andalusia, was not only a grandee of the first class, but exceedingly beloved in the country where he usually resided, on account of his great benevolence and affability to all ranks of people who approached him. Having a prodigious estate in lands, besides the duties and customs of the port of St. Lucar, near Seville, which were conferred on his family by Roderick the last monarch of the Gothic race, he kept a sort of vice royal court, to which the nobility, gentry, and merchants, around his wide domain, were always welcomed with the grandeur of a prince, the hospitality of a burgher, and the smiles of a friend. Young, rich, powerful, and revered by thousands, who considered him as the pride of their country, and an honour to the whole nation, nothing seemed wanting to complete the felicity of this worthy nobleman, but an alliance suitable to his elevated rank and more distinguished virtues. Many were the overtures on that head, from the most illustrious families in every part of Spain; but his grace, who was of a domestic turn, and averse from the vanities of high life, declined entering into any engagement which might subject him to the impertinence, folly, and etiquette, to which the major part of the fashionable world seem to abound, either as servile imitators, or involuntary slaves. He loved magnificence, but abhorred ceremony as much as the amusements wherein persons of fortune usually lose the best part of their time. Hunting he considered as a manly exercise, calculated to brace the nerves, and give circulation to the blood, therefore to be taken occasionally as physic, not followed as a trade. It may be asked by some fantastic man of pleasure of the court, or jolly squire of the country, how then could a person of his quality spend his leisure hours? Why, in reading, walking, entertaining his numerous friends at home, and returning the necessary visits abroad, in various innocent parties on land and water, in keeping up his gardens and improvements, in examining his vast houshold accounts, inspecting the state of his vassals and farmers, hearing and redressing their grievances, portioning the marriageable daughters of his poor tenantry, and presiding at those nuptials, where he is considered in the threefold light of father, benefactor, and guardian; as the ministering angel of comfort, and deputed commissioner of a bountiful Providence, to dispense his gracious mercies amongst the sons and daughters of affliction. If to these healthful avocations and duties, so worthy elevated rank and rich possessions, we add the public and private attendance on religious worship, frequent self-examination, and the distribution of super-abundant wealth, to modest indigence and clamorous distress, as a small tribute for the distinguished blessings, which rightly enjoyed, will confer the purest happiness here, and a crown of glory in the regions of everlasting day hereafter, little or no time can be spared for frivolous amusements or sinful pursuits. Think of this, ye extravagant and debauched men of quality without peace, morals, or good faith, whose hours are sacrificed to folly, whose minds are the sport of delusion, whose bodies are the sinks of disease, and whose fortunes are hastening to the hands of the extortioner who sooner or later, will consume all you possess! Let the example of the duke of Medina point out the true man of sense, honour and distinction; act like him and be happy!

Whilst this model of real nobility was thus blessed, and blessing all around, chance led him to the house of a tradesman in Seville, whose only son was that very day to be married to an amiable girl of that city. The condescension with which his grace always accepted an offer of contributing to the pleasure of his friends and neighbours, rendered much solicitation needless, and he determined to stand bridesman on the occasion. The guests were a company of genteel citizens, who with their wives and daughters, made a very tolerable appearance, and the duke seemed delighted with manners not viciously refined, where elegance, unsullied by pride or affectation, and beauty, unassisted by art, shone out in native meridian lustre. But, with what joy did he behold a plain, modest maiden, daughter to a linen-draper, named Anthony de Valdez, who came with her mother to the wedding! He gazed, he admired, he loved, this picture of rural innocence, with as much elegance and sensibility as suited his ideas of a perfect form, joined to an amiable and virtuous mind. After some acquaintance and private enquiries, which terminated to the advantage of the young lady and her family, the duke demanded the fair Elvira de Valdez in marriage, and was received with equal joy and astonishment by the honest couple, who shed tears of gratitude for the happiness offered their beloved child by the richest and most illustrious lord in the whole monarchy of Spain. Miss Elvira expressed no reluctance, but what proceeded from her own demerit and total inequality; but this was soon got over, and the happy day fixed for the Sunday following.

(To be concluded in our next.)

AN ACCOUNT OF A MURDER COMMITTED BY MR. J—— Y——, UPON HIS FAMILY, IN DECEMBER, A.D. 1781.

(Concluded from page 20.)

At the noise of my feet upon the dry corn stalks---she turned hastily round and seeing me exclaimed, “O father, my dear father, spare me, let me live--let me live,--I will be a comfort to you and my mother--spare me to take care of my little sister Diana--do--do let me live.”--She was my darling child, and her fearful cries pierced me to the soul---the tears of natural pity fell as plentifully down my cheeks, as those of terror did down her’s, and methought that to destroy all my idols, was a hard task---I again relapsed at the voice of complaining; and taking her by the hand, led her to where her mother lay; then thinking that if I intended to retain her, I must make some other severe sacrifice, I bade her sing and dance---She complied, terribly situated as she was,---but I was not asking in the line of my duty—I was convinced of my error, and catching up a hatchet that stuck in a log, with one well aimed stroke cleft her forehead in twain---she fell---and no sign of retaining life appeared.

I then sat down on the threshold, to consider what I had best do---“I shall be called a murderer (said I) I shall be seized—imprisoned—executed, and for what?—for destroying my idols---for obeying the mandate of my father---no, I will put all the dead in the house together, and after setting fire to it, run to my sister’s and say the Indians have done it---“I was preparing to drag my wife in, when the idea struck me that I was going to tell a horrible lie;” and how will that accord with my profession? (asked I.) No, let me speak the truth, and declare the good motive for my actions, be the consequences what they may.”

His sister, who was the principal evidence against him, stated---that she had scarce got home, when a message came to Mr. J——n, her husband, informing him that his mother was ill and wished to see him; he accordingly set off immediately, and she not expecting him home again till the next day, went to bed---there being no other person in the house. About four in the morning she heard her brother Y——— call her, she started up and bade him come in. “I will not (returned he) for I have committed the unpardonable sin---I have burnt the Bible.” She knew not what to think, but rising hastily opened the door which was only latched, and caught hold of his hand: let me go, Nelly (said he) my hands are wet with blood---the blood of my Elizabeth and her children.---She saw the blood dripping from his fingers, and her’s chilled in the veins, yet with a fortitude unparalleled she begged him to enter, which—as he did, he attempted to sieze a case knife, that by the light of a bright pine-knot fire, he perceived lying on the dresser---she prevented him, however, and tearing a trammel from the chimney, bound him with it to the bed post---fastening his hands behind him---She then quitted the house in order to go to his, which as she approached she heard the voice of loud lamentation, the hope that it was some one of the family who had escaped the effects of her brother’s frenzy, subdued the fears natural to such a situation and time, she quickened her steps, and when she came to the place where Mrs. Y—— lay, she perceived that the moans came from Mrs. Y----’s aged father, who expecting that his daughter would set out upon her journey by day break, had come at that early hour to bid her farewel.

They alarmed their nearest neighbours immediately, who proceeded to Mrs. J——n’s, and there found Mr. Y---- in the situation she had left him; they took him from hence to Tomhanick, where he remained near two days---during which time Mr. W--tz--l (a pious old Lutheran, who occasionally acted as preacher) attended upon him, exhorting him to pray and repent; but he received the admonitions with contempt, and several times with ridicule, refusing to confess his error or join in prayer---I say join in prayer, for he would not kneel when the rest did, but when they arose he would prostrate himself and address his “father,” frequently saying “my father, thou knowest that it was in obedience to thy commands, and for thy glory that I have done this deed.” Mrs. Bl————r, at whose house he then was, bade some one ask him who his father was?—he made no reply---but pushing away the person who stood between her and himself, darted at her a look of such indignation as thrilled horror to her heart---his speech was connected, and he told his tale without variation; he expressed much sorrow for the loss of his dear family, but consoled himself with the idea of having performed his duty—he was taken to Albany and there confined as a lunatic in the goal, from which he escaped twice, once by the assistance of Aqua Fortis, with which he opened the front door.

I went in 1782 with a little girl, by whom Mr. Bl-----r had sent him some fruit; he was then confined in dungeon, and had several chains on---he appeared to be much affected at her remembrance of him, and put up a pious ejaculation for her and her family---since then I have received no accounts respecting him.

The cause for his wonderfully cruel proceedings is beyond the conception of human beings---the deed so unpremeditated, so unprovoked, that we do not hesitate to pronounce it the effect of insanity---yet upon the other hand, when we reflect on the equanimity of his temper, and the comfortable situation in which he was, and no visible circumstance operating to render him frantic, we are apt to conclude, that he was under a strong delusion of Satan. But what avail our conjectures, perhaps it is best that some things are concealed from us, and the only use we can now make of our knowledge of this affair, is to be humble under a scene of human frailty to renew our petition, “Lead us not into temptation.”

May 27, 1796.

“Account of a Murder ...” (pg. 20, 28).

Original: This is believed to be the original publication of the narrative. The author may be Margaretta Faugères, daughter of Ann Eliza Bleecker (“Mrs. Bl——er”)

Notes: Tomhanick is now spelled Tomhannock.

BEAUTIFUL ALLEGORY.

Happiness and virtue are twins, which can never be divided; they are born and flourish, or sicken and die together.---They are joint offsprings of good-sense and innocence, and while they continue under the guidance of such parents, they are invulnerable to injury, and incapable of decay.

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 22.)

I Found indeed a number of letters, however, they were written in cyphers. Now I comprehended why the Count had asked repeatedly whether I could read cyphers? Having made it a rule, in regard to this point, always to deny the question, he had probably left these writings on the supposition that I should not be able to read them, and saved only those which were written in common characters. However, the Count had deceived himself this time, for I am pretty well skilled in the art of decyphering. I took one of the papers which were marked 1. 2. 3. &c. &c. however, I perceived on the first attempt, that my art would encounter a hard trial. Yet this did not deter, but rather animated me to exert all my skill to find the key to these papers, while my servant was occupied with taking an exact copy of the rest.

I had already been working above twenty-four hours without seeing my labour crowned with success, when my servant, whom I had sent to the post, returned with a letter. Conceive my astonishment, when I found it was from the Count.

“Whatever Paleski may have discovered to your Grace with respect to me, yet I am assured that he cannot have said any thing for which my conscience condemns me, though I should not be able to defend it before an ecclesiastical, or a civil court of justice. I have deceived you; however, I have done it for a great and noble purpose, and by order of a powerful being, whose authority I and you acknowledge. I should despise myself, if mean, or self-interested views, could have prompted me to do what I have done. To stimulate you to take an active part in the delivery of your country, was the sole reason for which you have been imposed upon. Although Paleski should not have disclosed the secret to you, yet you would not have remained in the dark much longer, because it was the plan of the Unknown to remove the veil from your eyes, and to introduce you into a new world, for which you was to be prepared by the delusions which you have experienced. Man is led to truth by error, according to an eternal law of nature. It was necessary that you should be made acquainted with delusions, that your look might be sharpened for future knowledge; it was necessary you should experience the highest degree of delusion, that you might acquire the prerogative of discerning fraud from reality, and of never suffering yourself to be imposed upon again. Then, and not sooner, the time would have arrived, when the Unknown would have shown himself to you in his real shape, and embraced you not only as a preserver of your country, but also as a member of that sacred society of wise men, who are admitted behind the curtain of nature, whither no eye of common short-sighted men can penetrate. A power and a happiness of which you can form no adequate notion, would have been your reward. Your tutor already enjoys that reward, and if you had been keen-sighted enough to penetrate, without assistance, the mist of delusions with which you have been encompassed, you would have been admitted some time since to the sanctuary where that reward awaits you. More I dare not say at present; however, I would advise you not to postpone your journey, and neither to betray me or the Unknown. If you slight my advice, then you must ascribe to yourself all the bad consequences which may arise from it, and you never will meet again in this world your tutor or Amelia. I conjure you not to mistake this for a new delusion. If you, on the other side, are inclined to profit by this advice, you will continue your journey with all possible expedition, and not think it finished before you shall be arrived at Ma***d, the capital of Sp***n, you will meet the Unknown, Amelia and your tutor, on the road. At *ubea you will stop at the inn which bears the sign of the golden mirror, where you are to receive an important visit. You will have the goodness to send my trunk to the post-house, where one of my people will call for it. I remain, with that respect and love with which I always have been,

“Your Grace’s, &c. &c.”

I must confess, I never should have expected such a letter. I fancied it would be couched in terms of repentance and submission, and when I opened it, found it to be a letter of a man of good conscience, who took it upon himself to advise and to warn me. What he told me of a hidden sanctuary to which the Unknown had designed to introduce me after I should have completed my time of probation, was an utter riddle to me, but what he told me about my tutor was still more so. At first I fancied this to be nothing but a varnish, by which he would conceal his deceptions, and an artifice to ensnare me a second time; however the idea that the matter might be as he had stated it, made me uneasy, and his menaces with respect to the bad consequences of my discontinuing my journey, frightened me. The bare possibility of the execution of his threats, was sufficient to determine me to continue my journey.---Pietro, my faithful servant, endeavoured indeed to persuade me to drop my design assailing me with tears and prayers; however, nothing could change my resolution. I would have encountered any danger and difficulty in order to meet Amelia and my tutor again, and departed with the first dawn of day. I left the Count’s trunk at the post-house at **zin. At ***jelo, I was, at length, so fortunate as to find a key to the cyphers which I had despaired to unfold. I had already tried all languages which I was master of, and succeeded at length with the Latin. How amply did I think my trouble rewarded, when I found the papers to be copies of letters which the Unknown had wrote on my account to Pinto Ribeiro, privy counsellor of the Duke of Br**za. Here follows the translation:

“Your Excellency knows how carefully we endeavoured to conceal the place of our secret meetings from the intrusion of prying strangers, by spreading the report that it was haunted. However, this did not deter a young nobleman who is on his travels, from entering last night the castle, in company of his tutor, with the intention of forming an acquaintance with the ghosts. No sooner had we been informed of their being arrived at the castle, when Georgio de M**** offered to chastise them for their inquisitiveness, fixing twelve o’clock at night for the execution of his design. He disguised himself as the most dreadful spectre which ever has appeared at midnight. Concluding from the undertaking of the two strangers that they were men of spirit and resolution, he put on a coat of mail, and covered his face with a mask made of bull-skins, in order to be proof against swords and pistols; a precaution which, as the event proved, was not superfluous. Thus accoutred, he approached at twelve o’clock the apartment of the strangers with a tremendous noise. Their door was bolted from within as he had apprehended; however, all the locks and bolts in the castle being constructed in such a manner that they can be opened from without, Georgio found it not difficult to push their door open. I remained at the threshold in order to wait the event. Georgio no sooner had entered the room with a design to chastise the young man who was sitting near the window, at a table on which two candles were burning, than his tutor started up, aiming a blow at him from behind which would have done his business at once, if Georgio had not been protected by his coat of mail. The pretended spectre threw the old gentleman so violently on the ground that he was unable to move a limb. This sight entirely disconcerted the young man, who was on the point of firing a pistol at his frightful visitor, rushed on him with a thundering voice, extinguished the candles, and beating him in such a manner as if he was going to beat him to atoms. Georgio’s dress being anointed with a salve composed of phosphorus, he appeared in the dark, to be all on fire. The dreadful impression which this sight produced on the mind of the young man was increased by the howling, groaning, and the tremendous noise which some of our company raised in the apartment over his head; he seemed to be senseless. As soon as Georgio perceived his helpless state, he lighted the candles with phosphorus, and left the apartment which he carefully bolted and locked.