VOLUME II. (continued 21)

The last principle I wish to recommend to you as a safeguard against superstition, is: Man is not designed to foreknow the future events of his life! and how could he know, by what means foresee them? if that should be possible, the powers of his understanding, his reason and his knowledge, either must be so much enlarged that he could form the most accurate ides of the great concatenation of all possible events and causes throughout the creation, and then he would not be a mortal, that is a limited being; (this, however, would be a kind of omniscience, which is the sole prerogative of the Godhead) or he must be inspired in a miraculous manner by the Supreme Being, which would infinitely multiply miracles and wonders, and subvert the wise laws of nature. But let us suppose the Godhead should really give it in the power of man to explore his future fate, would he be the happier for it? No, undoubtedly not! a knowledge of that kind rather would prove the greatest bane to the happiness of the individual, and of the human race in general. The villain would grow more daring, and scorn all divine and human laws, if he could foresee that no temporal bad consequences would attend his vile course, and every one that could foreknow the blessings which futurity has in store for him, would anticipate the joys that await him; so that the expected happiness, when realized, would charm him infinitely less than if it had surprised him unawares. Many great geniuses, that through their talents have proved blessings to the world, and, notwithstanding their unremitted exertions to raise a fortune, through their services to human kind, lived and died in poverty, would have relaxed in their zealous endeavours to render themselves useful to the state, if they could have foreseen their fate; the world would have been deprived of the fruits of their diligence, and despair would have utterly destroyed every remnant of comfort which the ignorance of their future fate has left them; while, on the contrary, heaven-born hope gave wings to their genius, and animated them to pursue their career with redoubled alacrity. If the favourite of fortune could foresee that the fickle Goddess never will prove inconstant to him, would this not render him proud and overbearing? would not the firm persuasion that the uninterrupted continuation of his happy situation would entirely exempt him from every application to the kindness and assistance of his fellow creatures, render him neglectful in his endeavours to preserve their good opinion? while, on the contrary, the uncertainty in which he is, with respect to his future fate, makes it his interest to gain the affection of his fellow creatures. If, on the other side, the favourite of fortune could with certainty foresee that a time will inevitably arrive when his present happy situation will be overclouded, his wealth lost, his body racked with excruciating pains, &c. &c. would not this fore knowledge poison the enjoyment of his present happiness, and render him miserable even in the lap of bliss? In short, would not the possibility of exploring future events destroy the felicity of numberless mortals, banish hope, that sweet comforter, and oftentimes, the only remaining friend of the unfortunate, from this sublunary world? Would it not frequently render vice more daring, and break the only staff of suffering virtue? If, therefore, we are persuaded that a good God rules the world, and that the Supreme Being watches with a paternal care over the felicity of mankind, we cannot, we dare not expect, that he ever will suffer man to remove the mysterious veil that hides futurity from mortal sight! Some of my readers will, however, perhaps object that, notwithstanding the many bad consequences which inevitably must arise from a foreknowledge of future events, man would, at the same time, be enabled to avoid at least those misfortunes that can be guarded off by vigilance and prudence. I grant that man would be more capable to take measures against future evils, but experience authorises me to maintain, that but very few would make such a wise use of that knowledge. Did not the holy seers of yore, did not our Saviour foretel the Jews the dire consequences of their perverseness? and yet did they not bid defiance to the judgments of punishing Heaven? Does not every Christian know that vice leads to eternal misery hereafter? and do we not every day behold, notwithstanding the general belief in that awful truth, thousands and thousands disregard the warning voice of Heaven, and pursue the road to eternal destruction with unabated ardour? Is it to be expected that man, who risks his eternal salvation for the gratification of his desires during a short and uncertain life, that man who does not tremble at the certainty of endless misery would be rendered more careful in the choice of his enjoyments, and in the mode of his proceedings through the fore-knowledge of future temporal woe? Let us therefore, never presume, nor even wish to pry into futurity, let us not revolt against the express command of the great Ruler of the Universe: not regard them that have familiar spirits, nor seek after wizards and suspect every one who promises to remove the veil from the hidden face of futurity. Let us look upon those daring mortals as the greatest enemies to human happiness, as rebels against the law of heaven, and as impostors who abuse our credulity, and under the cloak of occult sciences, make us subservient to their private views. Let us not be astonished when we now and then find some of their predictions realized; but always consider that this is owing merely to accident, and that one truth they utter, is overbalanced by numberless lies. Let us act up to the best of our knowledge, fulfil our duties to God and men, confide in the paternal care of Providence, and he that rules the fate of the whole creation, will stand our friend and protector in the time of need.

ON WEALTH.

Among the many advantages of wealth, that of being able to relieve the necessaries and indigencies of others is of the greatest value, and most to be prized. In what class of men shall we place the hard-hearted, ungenerous rich man? Upon examination of human nature, avarice is no part of it; and so we shall be forced to list the covetous man among the monsters of this world.

Let the rich man indulge his appetites, and pursue his expences and superfluities, if he will: and let him enable his family to indulge themselves in the same way, if they are so inclined. But surely, then, he ought to make as many other people easy and comfortable as he can.

I am not, it is certain, obliged to pinch myself to remove other people’s pinchings; but if a ring on my little finger has charms enough in and about it to keep half a score or half a hundred families from starving, can I hesitate a single moment, whether or no I shall part with this useless bauble for that end? If a hundred or five hundred pounds will not make me retrench in any thing, nor interfere with the figure and circumstances of life that are proper for my family now, or when I am dead and gone, what can I do better than give it to some other person or family, who are obliged to live entirely below those circumstances they are born or bred to? How can I better employ it, than in raising the spirits, and rejoicing the heart of some melancholy, depressed poor man? I am mistaken, if the application of a few hundred pounds this way, would not give a truer sensation of joy and pleasure than fifty other things, which are often purchased at a very dear rate.

Be persuaded, then, ye rich and powerful, ye honourable and great, to do honourable things with the superfluity of your wealth.

Search after ingenious persons, root them out of obscurity, and obscurity out of them, and call the long-banished muses back to their antient habitation.

MARCUS.

This article previously appeared on pg. 247 in No. 83. The phrase “half a score or” in the central paragraph is only in the second version.

ANECDOTE.

An Irishman of the name of Scannel, who wished to get rid of his wife, wrote her a melancholy letter by the last mail from the West-Indies, in which he stated, that he died of the yellow fever after three days illness, and recommended her, and children, to the care of Providence and his friends.

REMARKABLE SPEECH OF ADAHOONZOU, KING OF DAHOMY,

AN INTERIOR NATION OF AFRICA,

ON HEARING WHAT WAS PASSING IN ENGLAND RESPECTING THE SLAVE-TRADE.

I admire the reasoning of the white men; but, with all their sense, it does not appear that they have thoroughly studied the nature of the blacks, whose disposition differs as much from that of the whites, as their colour. The same great Being formed both; and since it hath seemed convenient for him to distinguish mankind by opposite complexions, it is a fair conclusion to presume, that there may be as great a disagreement in the qualities of their minds; there is likewise a remarkable difference between the countries which we inhabit. You, Englishmen, for instance, as I have been informed, are surrounded by the ocean, and by this situation seem intended to hold communication with the whole world, which you do, by means of your ships; whilst we Dahomans, being placed on a large continent, and hemmed in amidst a variety of other people, of the same complexion, but speaking different languages, are obliged, by the sharpness of our swords, to defend ourselves from their incursions, and punish the depredations they make on us. Such conduct in them is productive of incessant wars. Your countrymen, therefore, who alledge that we go to war for the purpose of supplying your ships with slaves, are grossly mistaken.

You think you can work a reformation, as you call it, in the manners of the blacks; but you ought to consider the disproportion between the magnitude of the two countries; and then you will soon be convinced of the difficulties that must be surmounted, to change the system of such a vast country as this. We know you are a brave people, and that you might bring over a great many of the blacks to your opinions, by the points of your bayonets; but to effect this, a great many must be put to death, and numerous cruelties must be committed, which we do not find to have been the practice of the whites: besides, that this would militate against the very principle which is professed by those who wish to bring about a reformation.

In the name of my ancestors and myself I aver, that no Dahoman ever embarked in war merely for the sake of procuring wherewithal to purchase your commodities. I, who have not been long master of this country, have, without thinking of the market, killed many thousands, and I shall kill many thousands more. When policy or justice requires that men be put to death, neither silk, nor coral, nor brandy, nor cowries, can be accepted as substitutes for the blood that ought to be spilt for example sake: besides, if white men chuse to remain at home, and no longer visit this country for the same purpose that has usually brought them hither, will black men cease to make war? I answer, by no means; and if there be no ships to receive their captives, what will become of them? I answer, for you, they will be put to death. Perhaps you may be asked, how will the blacks be furnished with guns and powder? I reply by another question, had we not clubs, and bows, and arrows, before we knew white men? Did not you see me make custom—annual ceremony—for Weebaigah, the third King, of Dahomy? And did you not observe, on the day such ceremony was performing, that I carried a bow in my hand, and a quiver filled with arrows on my back? These were the emblems of the times; when, with such weapons, that brave ancestor fought and conquered all his neighbours. God made war for all the world; and every kingdom, large or small, has practised it more or less, though perhaps in a manner unlike, and upon different principles. Did Weebaigah sell slaves? No; his prisoners were all killed to a man. What else could he have done with them? Was he to let them remain in his country, to cut the throats of his subjects? This would have been wretched policy indeed; which, had it been adopted, the Dahoman name would have long ago been extinguished, instead of becoming, as it is at this day, the terror of surrounding nations. What hurts me most is, that some of your people have maliciously represented us in books, which never die; alledging that we sell our wives and children, for the sake of procuring a few kegs of brandy. No! we are shamefully belied, and I hope you will contradict, from my mouth, the scandalous stories that have been propagated; and tell posterity that we have been abused. We do, indeed, sell to the white men a part of our prisoners, and we have a right so to do. Are not all prisoners at the disposal of their captors? and are we to blame, if we send delinquents to a far country? I have been told you do the same. If you want no more slaves from us, why cannot you be ingenuous, and tell the plain truth; saying, that the slaves you have already purchased are sufficient for the country for which you bought them; or that the artists, who used to make fine things, are all dead, without having taught any body to make more? But for a parcel of men, with long heads, to sit down in England, and frame laws for us, and pretend to dictate how we are to live, of whom they know nothing, never having been in a black man’s country during the whole course of their lives, is to me somewhat extraordinary! No doubt they must have been biassed by the report of some one who has had to do with us; who, for want of a due knowledge of the treatment of slaves, found that they died on his hands, and that his money was lost; and seeing others thrive by the traffic, he, envious of their good luck, has vilified both black and white traders.

You have seen me kill many men at the customs; and you have often observed delinquents at Grigwhee, and others of my provinces, tied, and sent up to me. I kill them, but do I ever insist on being paid for them? Some heads I order to be placed at my door, others to be strewed about the market-place, that people may stumble upon them, when they little expect such a sight. This gives a grandeur to my customs, far beyond the display of fine things which I buy; this makes my enemies fear me, and gives me such a name in the Bush*. Besides, if I neglect this indispensable duty, would my ancestors suffer me to live? would they not trouble me day and night, and say, that I sent nobody to serve them? that I was only solicitous about my own name, and forgetful of my ancestors? White men are not acquainted with these circumstances; but I now tell you, that you may hear, and know, and inform your countrymen, why customs are made, and will be made, as long as black men continue to possess their own country: the few that can be spared from this necessary celebration, we sell to the white men; and happy, no doubt, are such, when they find themselves on the path for Grigwhee, to be disposed of to the Europeans—“We shall still drink water†,” say they to themselves; “white men will not kill us; and we may even avoid punishment, by serving our new masters with fidelity.”

Original: 1793 History of Dahomy by Archibald Dalzel

Underlying source: “collected from the communications of” Lionel Abson, governor since 1766 (“Whydah” aka Ouidah).

Background: “Whydah” is also spelled Ouidah. “Adahoonzou” or Adanzu died in 1789 of smallpox.

Notes: The interpolated words “annual ceremony” after “make Custom” are not in the original. The word “Customs” is capitalized throughout. Footnotes are in the original.

The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;

AN INTERESTING SPANISH TALE.

(Continued from page 336.)

‘Alas! Madam,’ answered the goatherd, ‘I wish it were in my power to conduct you to the village of Gadara, behind these rocks: but you will not ask me to return thither, when you are informed that my mistress is this day to be married to my rival. I am going to leave these mountains, never to behold them more; and I carry nothing with me but my flute, a change of dress, which I have in this parcel, and the memory of the happiness which I have lost.’

This short account suggested a new project to Marina.

‘My friend,’ said she to the goatherd ‘you have no money, which you will certainly want, when you have left this country. I have a few ducats, which I will divide with you, if you let me have the dress in your parcel.’

The goatherd accepted the offer. Marina gave him a dozen ducats, and, having learned the road to Gadara, took her leave of the despairing lover, and returned into the grotto to put on her disguise.

She came out habited in a vest of chamois skin, with a shepherd’s wallet hanging by her side, and, on her head, a hat ornamented with ribbands. In this attire she appeared yet more beautiful than when adorned with brocades and jewels. She took the road to the village, and, stopping in the market-place, enquired of the peasants, if they knew of any farmer who wanted a servant.

The inhabitants surround her, and survey the stranger with admiration. The girls express their surprise at the beauty of her flowing ringlets. Her elegant form, her graceful manner, the brilliancy of her eyes, even though dejected, their superior intelligence and mild benignity, astonish and delight all beholders. No one could conceive from whence came this beautiful youth. One imagines him a person of high distinction in disguise; another, a prince in love with some shepherdess; while the schoolmaster, who was at the same time the poet of the village, declared it must be Apollo, sent down, a second time, to keep sheep among mortals!

Marina, who assumed the name of Marcello, was not long in want of a master. She was hired by an aged alcaid, or judge of the village, esteemed one of the worthiest men in the whole province.

This honest countryman soon contracted the warmest friendship for Marina. He scarcely suffered her to tend his flock for a month before he gave her an employment within his house, in which the pretended Marcello behaved with so much propriety and fidelity, that he was equally beloved by his master, and the servants.

Before he had lived here six months, the alcaid, who was more than eighty, left the management of all his affairs to Marcello: he even asked his opinion in all the causes that came before him, and never had any alcaid decided with so much justice as he, from the time he permitted himself to be guided by the advice of Marcello, who was proposed as an example to all the village: his affability, his pleasing manner, and his good sense, gained every heart. ‘See the excellent Marcello,’ cried the mothers to their sons, ‘he is perpetually employed in rendering his old master’s age happy, and never neglects his duty, to run after the shepherdesses!’

Two years passed away in this manner. Marina, whose thoughts were continually employed on her lover, had sent a shepherd, in whom she could confide, to Granada, to procure information concerning Don Alphonso, Alonzo, and Henriquez. The shepherd brought word back, that Alonzo was dead, Henriquez married; and that Alphonso had not been seen or heard of for two years.

Marina now lost all hope of again beholding her lover, and, happy in being able to pass her days in that village, in the bosom of peace and friendship, had resolved to bid an eternal adieu to love, when the old alcaid, her master, fell dangerously ill. Marcello attended his last moments with all the affection of a son, and the good old man behaved to him like a grateful father: he died and left all he possessed to the faithful Marcello. But his will was far from being a consolation to his heir.

The whole village lamented the alcaid, and, after his funeral rites were celebrated, the inhabitants assembled to choose a successor. In Spain certain villages have the right of nominating their own alcaid, whose office it is to decide their differences, and take cognizance of greater crimes by arresting and examining the offenders, and delivering them over to the superior judges, who generally confirm the sentence of those rustic magistrates; for good laws are always perfectly consonant to simple reason.

The assembled villagers unanimously agreed, that no one could be so proper to succeed the late alcaid as the youth whom he seemed to have designed for his successor. The old men, therefore, followed by their sons, came with the usual ceremonies to offer Marina the wand, the ensign of the office. Marina accepted, and sensibly touched by such a proof of esteem and affection from these good people, resolved to consecrate to their happiness a life which she had formerly intended to dedicate to love.

While the new alcaid is engaged with the duties of her office, let us return to the unfortunate Don Alphonso, whom we left galloping towards Portugal, and continually removing farther from the beloved object of his pursuit.

Don Alphonso arrived at Lisbon, without obtaining any intelligence of Marina, and immediately returned, by the same road, to search every place he had before in vain examined; again he returned to Lisbon, but without success.

After six months ineffectual enquiry, being convinced that Marina had never returned to Granada, he imagined she might perhaps be at Seville, where, he knew, she had relations. He immediately hastened to Seville, and there found that Marina’s relations had just embarked for Mexico.

Don Alphonso no longer doubted that his mistress was gone with them, and directly went on board the last ship which remained to sail. He arrived at Mexico, where he found the relations, but alas! no Marina: they had heard nothing of her: he, therefore, returned to Spain. And now the ship is attacked by a violent storm, and cast away on the coast of Granada; he, and a few of the passengers, save themselves by swimming; they land, and make their way to the mountains, to procure assistance, and, by accident or love, are conducted to Gadara.

Don Alphonso and his unfortunate companions, took refuge in the first inn, congratulating each other on the danger they had escaped. While they were discoursing on their adventures, one of the passengers began to quarrel with a soldier, concerning a box, which the passenger asserted belonged to him.

Don Alphonso desirous to put an end to the contention, obliged the passenger to declare what it contained, opening it, at the some time, to discover whether he spoke truth.

How great was his surprise to find in it the jewels of Marina, and, among them the very emerald he had given her. For a moment he stood motionless, examining attentively the casket, and fixing his eyes, sparkling with rage, on the claimant, ‘how came you by these jewels?’ said he, with a terrible voice.

‘What does it signify,’ replied the passenger, haughtily, ‘how I came by them? It is sufficient that they are mine.’

He then endeavoured to snatch the casket from Don Alphonso; but the latter, pushing him back, instantly drew his sword, and exclaiming, ‘Wretch, confess your crime, or you die this moment,’ attacked him with great fury: his antagonist defended himself desperately, but presently received a mortal wound, and fell.

Don Alphonso was immediately surrounded by the people of the house. They take him to prison, and the master of the inn sends his wife to fetch the clergyman of the parish, that he may administer spiritual comfort to the dying man, while he runs himself, to the alcaid to carry the casket and inform him of the whole adventure.

How great was the surprise, the joy, and the anxiety of Marina on perceiving her diamonds, and hearing the behaviour of the noble stranger!

She immediately hastened to the inn: the minister was already there; and the dying man, induced by his exhortations, declared, in presence of the alcaid, that, two years before, as he was one night passing through a street in Granada, a lady had given him that box, through a lattice, desiring him to hold it till she came down, but that he immediately made off with the jewels; for which theft he asked pardon of God, and of the unknown lady he had injured. He immediately expired, and Marina hastened to the prison.

Imagine the palpitations of her heart: she could no longer doubt but she should again see Don Alphonso, but he was apprehensive of being known by him: she therefore pulled her hat over her eyes, wrapped herself up in her cloak, and preceded by her clerk and the gaoler, entered the dungeon.

(To be concluded in our next.)

STORY OF TWO CORDELIERS.

BY MARGARET VALOIS, QUEEN OF FRANCE.

Two cordeliers, arriving late one evening at a little village, were obliged to lodge at a butcher’s, and the chamber where they lay was only separated by a few boards from that where the butcher and his wife slept. Curiosity led the cordeliers to hearken what the man and woman were conversing about. The husband began talking of his domestic concerns, and said, “I must get up, my dear, to-morrow betimes, and give a look at our cordeliers; one of them is, I think, in pretty good order, but we will kill both, and salt them down, which will turn well to our account.”—Although the butcher spoke only of his pigs, which he jocosely called cordeliers, the poor friars were so horribly frightened, that they were ready to expire with fear, and resolved to save themselves by jumping out of the window. The thinnest of the two fell lightly on the ground, and ran as far as the town without waiting for his companion: the other followed his example; but being very fat, fell so heavily, that he broke his leg, and with much difficulty crawled to a little shed which he found not far off, and which proved to be precisely the place where the pigs (his brother cordeliers) usually lay. Early the next morning the butcher got ready his knife, and went straight to the stye:—“Come, come, my cordeliers,” said he, “come out, come out, for to-day I am resolved to eat some of your puddings.” The cordelier cried out for mercy; and the butcher, who concluded that St. Francois had metamorphosed one of his pigs into a friar, on purpose to punish him for having sported with the name of a religious order of men, was overcome with fear; but the matter being soon explained, the good fathers, in gratitude for their hospitable reception, and fortunate release from their fears, very peaceably parted with their host, and very kindly comforted him with their benediction.

LOVE AND FOLLY.

LOVE.

The greatest virtues that men possess are owing to Love. From whence proceeds the balmy band of friendship?—From Love. What felicity would there he in the marriage state without Love? How wretched are those mortals who are incapable of friendship, and who feel no satisfaction in loving or being loved! How morose, how savage, how indelicate, how dull, how cruel would man be, if exempt from social virtues?—And from whence do they all spring, but from Love? I will even go so far as so say, that the polite arts owe their origin to Love. Even the most celebrated poets have exerted their utmost skill on the subject of Love. It sooths, softens, and harmonizes the minds of men, and inspires them with sentiments of tenderness and humanity. It even disposes them to feel for their fellow creatures, and comfort the bosom of affliction. It cannot be denied but men’s glory, honour, profit, and pleasure, all depend upon Love. Love would wish that all men should live in perfect harmony with each other, and that there should be no distinction of persons. Love inspires honour, friendship, charity, humanity, benevolence, modesty, meekness, and chastity.

FOLLY.

From the first moment that man was placed upon earth, he began his life by pursuing the dictates of Folly, since which his successors have continued to follow the example, and have improved by her precepts, beyond what their forefathers could have conceived, or even hoped for. Folly has invented every kind of excellence that is held in estimation by mankind; luxury, magnificence, titles, honors, and riches. Folly occasioned one set of men to rule their fellow creatures, and keep them under subjection. What but folly could have induced men to search into the bowels of the earth for iron, gold, precious stones, and a thousand other useless baubles?—Even commerce herself would be banished if it were not for Folly. How would so many lawyers, judges, fiddlers, players, perfumers, embroiderers, and ten thousand other professions and trades flourish, if it were not from Folly?

ANECDOTE.

An elegant writer has said, “that the period of our courtship is the happiest of our lives.”—If this position be true, it is impossible not to admire the prudence of a couple lately married, who protracted this period of felicity for thirty-four years. That they should at last think it necessary to unite in the bands of wedlock, is a striking proof that all human felicity must sometime or other have an end.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Monday the 13th of February last, at the Prussian capital, His Royal Highness the Hereditary Prince of Hesse-Cassel, to Her Serene Highness Augusta Princess of Prussia.

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. Leonard Meuise, to Miss Dolly Shute, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Provost, Mr. John Hamilton, to Miss Giffy Heden, both of this city.

On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Dr. Alexander Anderson, to Miss Ann Van Vleck, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Charles Henry, to Miss Elizabeth Robinson, both of this city.

On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Israel Post, to Miss Ann Rich, both of Philipsburgh, West-Chester.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Benjamin Taylor, to Miss Mary Barker, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. James Torton, to Miss Anna Barker, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Samuel Low, to Miss Ann Cregier, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. Walter Townsend, of this city, to Miss Jemima White, of Norwalk.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 16th to the 22d inst.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

deg.100 deg.100

April 16 45 44 e.do. ra. h wd.cloudy do.

17 37 49 ne.se. clear lt. wd.do. do.

18 37 38 e.n. rain lt. wd.do. do.

19 37 45 n.s. rain h. wd.snow h. wd.

20 41 50 nw.do. cloudy lt. wd.do. do.

21 43 55 sw.do. cloudy lt. wd.clear do.

22 44 58 s.do. clear calmdo. h. wd.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

VERSES,

ADDRESSED TO MISS A—— B——.

SPLEEN.

A SONNET.

ALWIN and RENA.

Possible source: European Magazine and London Review, vol. 16 (September 1789).

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. 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 New-York Weekly Magazine; OR, MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY.

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, May 3, 1797. [No. 96.

ON IMPRUDENT FRIENDSHIP.

In considering the instability of the ties that bind individuals in unison and communion with each other, I cannot but lament the disgrace which some miscreants have brought upon themselves by wilfully abusing and burying in oblivion the origin of all happiness, and at the same time profess themselves advocates for, and supporters of, the genuine principles of Friendship; under the mask of which, they deceive and render unhappy the honest and unsuspecting part of the community. A few remarks on this important subject may not be unwelcome to the reader.

The words parodox, problem, &c. are never misrepresented; whereas others, such as honour, reputation, friendship, &c. are scarcely ever quoted, unless to be misapplied.

The words friendship and friend, are used, indeed, in such a variety of senses, all different, that it is almost impossible to recognize the genuine features of that old-fashioned thing called Friendship among such a group of unaccountables. A spendthrift, after various attempts to borrow money, complains, with a sigh, that he has not a friend left in the world; and another, who has not quite reached this period, talks, with some pleasure, of meeting a dozen or two of friends to dine at a tavern.—Benjamin Bribewell, Esq. invites his friends to meet at a public hall, and proceed from thence in a body! and Captain Swagger, who has accepted a challenge, requests a brother officer to go out with him as his friend, and see that he be fairly run through the body. A highwayman who quarrels with his accomplices concerning the distribution of the booty, wonders that there should be any bickering among friends. Nor is it very uncommon that two who always own a friendship for each other, after cutting and bruising one another until they can scarcely stand, are separated by their friends—nay, what is more remarkable, they sometimes shake hands, and agree to part friends!

Such are the common ideas of Friendship; and if such is the only Friendship men expect to contract, surely they have little reason to complain if they should be disappointed. After having prostituted the name, how can they expect the substance? After having dreamt only of the sign, how can they expect the thing signified? If we consider how those connexions which are called Friendships are formed, we shall the less wonder that they are unstable with most men: it is sufficient to have been twice or thrice in each others company, they become thereafter friends, and we are not to be surprised, if what is formed so hastily, should be as hastily dissolved. Houses that are thrown up quickly, and while the materials are green and unseasoned, cannot be expected to last long.

There are, on the other hand, some persons who entertain a notion of Friendship so very celestial and romantic, as is not to be expected from the frailty of human nature: They mistake the nature of a friend just as much as those of whom I have been speaking. They expect every thing from a friend, and in this are as much in fault as those who expected any thing. Romantic notions of Friendship are much cherished in novels and sentimental writings, but their tendency is often fatal, and at all times pernicious. A very short intercourse with the world of men, convinces them that they have been reading of ideal beings, and their tempers are apt to be soured; in consequence of which, they entertain worse perceptions of men than they deserve.

There are two kinds of men who are strangers to true Friendship, although they may attain the habit, and appear in outward profession to be sincere; and these are the profane and ignorant, or the immoral. Those who are unsuspecting may anticipate great satisfaction and delight by the outward concessions of the designing friend, but they will sooner or later find, by awful experience, that they have misplaced their sincere regard, and in retaliation for their good offices, receive nothing but impious insults and all the injuries that their depraved friend can inflict.

WORLDLY GREATNESS AND HONOURS,

When enjoyed with temperance and wisdom, both enlarge our utility, and contribute to our comfort. But we should not over-rate them; for, unless we add to them the necessary correctives of piety and virtue, besides corrupting the mind, and engendering internal misery, they lead us among precipices, and betray us into ruin.

For sources, see the end of this file.

THE

WANDERINGS OF THE IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

PREFACE.

After obtruding my late productions on the Public, I retired into the country, where I might have passed fifteen months in endless apathy, had I not felt that idleness, if not the root of all evil, is at least the bane of all good; and that however the spirits may be depressed by misfortune, or the body harrassed by fatigue, the mind, still active, will rather create visions, and pursue phantoms, than subjugate itself to a total oblivion of all the blessings of this life.

Though I had little inclination to be perfectly unemployed, I had as little to busy myself in those works of Fancy and Fiction, which, under the title of Novels, cost much time and great application; and in the composition of which so many of my fair countrywomen eminently excel.

Yet was I determined not to sacrifice the peaceful moments allotted to me in mental slumbers. I considered that I have seen much; that I have reflected more; that my reading had not been inconsiderable; and that I had travelled not without some attention to the men and manners of various countries; that the recollection of some of these objects might not only amuse myself, but prove interesting to people less accustomed to diversity of situation, and, perhaps, less qualified to draw inferences from what they see.

I concluded then, that without wearying myself so as to deprive my mind of the repose it required, and at the same time to keep it’s powers in action, I might devote a part of my time to the recollection and recital of such of my Wanderings as could not be recounted without some topics for amusement, and some hints for instruction.

But though I thus draw from the fountain-head of actual observation, in some cases, and from experience in others, my Reader is not to infer that my writings will be less entertaining than the Wanderings of Fiction. For I need not tell those who are capable of making observation, that almost every life is full of adventure; of strange transitions and wonderful revolutions; and he that adheres to simple facts, and relates what passes before him, need seldom have recourse to fiction for subjects even marvellous, and such as may at once instruct and delight the Reader.

The principal object of a writer, thus circumstanced, is to select with discretion, and to relate with effect. In this I know not how far I may have succeeded, because I am ignorant of the extent of my own powers, and conscious only of my good intentions.

With these sentiments, and impressed with a due sense for the favourable reception of my former productions, I humbly submit to the candour and to the protection of the public my Wanderings of the Imagination.

FIRST WANDERING.

During an excursion last Summer, in the county of Kent, when my finances would not afford me a better conveyance than a stage-coach, I frequently amused myself, (not, as is usual, with the different countenances and characters of it’s passengers) but with those incidents on the road; with which chance not unfrequently furnished me.

As I was admiring the beauty of the hop-grounds, which flourished in rich luxuriance near the side of the ocean, a sailor caught my attention. He no sooner perceived the coach, than he ran eagerly towards it; his countenance was expressive of something between sorrow and gladness. On his right side was a stump, which he emphatically held towards us: his left arm he extended towards the sea, which, as his eye glanced over, appeared to intimate, “This still remains for the service of my country!”

Perhaps the chearful tar had no such idea as that which I hastily formed on seeing him; but his smiling countenance indicated something above the generality of beggars, who, conceiving that their mutilated bodies are insufficient to excite pity, aim at a distortion of features, and a story in which the marvellous bears the strongest part, as better calculated to impose on the genuine feelings of humanity.

The contrasted appearance of this son of Neptune pleased me; but while I was ruminating in his favour, I was neglectful of the more essential mode of serving him; and before I could reach the bottom of my pocket, the coach drove on, and left him to the chance of a more favourable moment in the hearts of succeeding travellers, who might probably be actuated by different feelings than mine to relieve his necessities. I could not, however, help reflecting, that good intentions ought to be speedily performed; and that to neglect opportunities of benevolence, is not conformable to the doctrine and practice of him who made the human heart.

In the county of Kent, and her little Island of Thanet, Nature is gaily, and luxuriantly dressed. The extremes of affluence, or penury, are seldom met with; the lands are fertile, and well cultivated; and the round bodies of the horses bespeak the ease of their employers. Here are various little plants elsewhere unknown; and the botanist would find his labours amply rewarded by strictly scrutinizing the soil of Thanet.

Were I inclined to extend description, I should fully expatiate on the beauties and manners of this pleasant county; which I saw with pleasure, and left with regret; but as I intend this to be rather an irregular journal, than a studied publication, I will bid adieu to it, and all its delights; and in wishing its inhabitants every enjoyment that can arise from industry, and benevolence, proceed to give an account of my

SECOND WANDERING.

I could never account for national prejudice. It is a narrow-minded opinion, inconsistent with reason and humanity: it extends itself to counties, towns, and even villages. The Spaniards are proud—the Italians and Portugueze revengeful—the French barbarous—and England is supposed to be, by Englishmen, the only spot of Europe which unites every virtue, untainted by any vice. Born myself an Englishwoman and the daughter of a Portugueze, I feel a more natural propensity towards this country, the harbour of my birth and education, than towards Portugal; although the laws of England have sufficiently operated against me, to excuse any prejudice I might in common justice form against it. These laws (the boast of Englishmen) have been exercised towards myself with severity, but without justice: they have been strained against a weak woman, and have proved a galling yoke of slavery, when they should have served as a barrier against injustice and oppression; and they have fully convinced me, that in this Christian kingdom, as elsewhere, the hydra of despotism rears her head unabashed, if not swayed by a golden sceptre. Money, and its concomitant, interest, bear all before them. In vain will talents, merit, and even virtue itself, lay claim to protection; these are weak prerogatives when opposed to wealth, no matter by what means acquired. The Nabob, who returns home loaded with the spoils of the East, to obtain which he has waded through the blood of thousands, becomes respected as a worthy member of community, as soon as it is known he is a rich one. But should the same person return to this his native country, poor, friendless, and forlorn;—should he urge in excuse for his poverty the uprightness of his heart, which spurned at the idea of acquiring wealth by cruelty and usurpation, how would he then be received? Where would he find the great man to patronize him? And where, alas! the sympathetic mind to commiserate, and the benevolent hand to alleviate his necessities? In England I fear, he would not; or, if he did, it would be more likely in the compassionate breast of a stranger, than in that of what custom, and custom only, calls an old friend.

From this dangerous, because most abused of epithets, arises principally the source of all our misfortunes. We cling to it with eager hope, and are almost as frequently met by disappointment.

In all our wayward pilgrimage through life, we console ourselves with the certainty of reciprocal esteem and disinterested friendship. Youth and prosperity attach themselves to the specious forms of kindness; but the flattering illusions last no longer than the objects which attracted them; and the once-admired favourite of Fortune, no longer in possession of more than the desire to do good, becomes an alien to the society of which he was once the support and the pride. This, indeed, seems an argument in favour of misanthropy; whereas it only strongly inculcates the necessity of limiting our benevolence and our desires, and submit to the dictates of prudence.

I was particularly led into these reflexions, by a circumstance which lately occured to me. As I was enjoying my meditations in a retired part of St. Jame’s Park, at an hour prescribed there by custom and fashion, a countenance, of which I had a slender recollection, met my eye. The meanness of his attire was no obstacle to my perceiving that he was a gentleman. He walked a few paces before me, and then sitting down on the first bench, pensively leaned his head on his hand, and attentively considered me as I past. I proceeded slowly down the avenue, and took occasion to observe whether he followed me. He kept his place till my return, when he looked sorrowfully in my face, and emphatically shook his head. His meaning was too plain not to be understood: and I answered it by placing myself on the seat near him.

I believe our looks mutually bespoke a wish, mingled with a sort of timid fear, about making the first advance; and in this situation we had probably remained some time longer, had he not as he afterwards told me, seen something in my face that bore testimony to a feeling heart. With a tremulous voice, he asked me if he was mistaken in my name, which he mentioned; and being satisfied that he was right, he added, “No wonder, Madam, that an interval of twenty-two years, and my present appearance, should conceal from your remembrance the person of Capt. S——.”

The expression of his countenance, and the tone in which he uttered these words, were more convincing proofs of his veracity, than I could discover in the imperfect traces of a form I had once beheld. That form, which I once saw the repository of every manly grace, was now palsied and emaciated, and seemed bending towards the earth, as if anxious to embrace its last asylum. So true is the observation of an accurate observer of human life: “He that wanders about the world sees new forms of misery; and if he chances to meet an old friend, meets a face darkened with troubles.”

I assured him, that I did indeed remember Capt. S——; but that surprize and sorrow now damped the joy I should have felt on the renewal of our acquaintance, had I found him in a situation more worthy of him. I intreated him to believe, that however hardly fortune had dealt by him (and that she had dealt hardly I could not doubt), there still existed some few compassionate hearts; and that I was proud to place mine among the number. He gently pressed my hand to his lips; intreated I would name an early day for giving him another meeting in the same place; and telling me he was then going by appointment to see his old friend, and former Colonel, Lord G. he tottered down the avenue, but not till we had agreed on meeting the following morning at twelve; when he promised to acquaint me with the success of his visit, from which he already seemed to derive the most sanguine expectations. My eyes could only follow him for a few minutes, but my heart ceased not to accompany him throughout the day; and while I pondered on the vicissitudes of life, and retracing his former situation, I could not help sorrowfully contrasting it with his present embarrassments.

(To be continued.)

For sources, see the end of this file.

[The Editors of the New-York Weekly Magazine, present their readers, this week, with the first number of the “FARRAGO,” from the inimitable pen of Mr. Dennie, author of “The Lay Preacher,” &c. &c. The pure morality, the elegant and classical style which is pourtrayed in every paragraph, the Editors flatter themselves will be acceptable to the lovers and patrons of Literature. The Farrago originally appeared in “The TABLET,” a literary paper published in Boston, which was universally read and admired throughout the New-England States.]

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. I.

Le Sage, the merry author of Gil Blas, delights to expatiate in praise of a Spanish soup, denominated, in that language, an Olla Podrida, a dish formed by a motley mixture of many ingredients, of which some one can tickle the most fastidious palate.

Essays should resemble this Olio, if their author wish for readers. When a student sits down to a system, he expects the formality and method of the schools, but how frequent would be the yawn, if periodical writings resembled Locke’s Essay on Understanding? Of works intended for amusement, the essence is sprightliness and variety. Without these requisites a reader would rise from the literary repast, and, in Shakespeare’s phrase, pronounce it but lenten entertainment.

When cookery was young, viands the most simple were sought; and, in an ancient bill of fare, acorns and spring water were the first articles. Time has created alteration; and the refinement of modern luxury requires made dishes. Plain food daily grows into disrepute, and, for the substantial sirloin we substitute ragouts and fricacees, replete with spicery. To gratify modern taste, every thing must be high seasoned. This irregular appetite affects the library, as well as the table, and extends to the books, which we read, as well as to the dishes, which we taste. Motley miscellany, in all its Proteus forms, aptly christened by the British booksellers “light, summer reading,” is the favourite amusement of all gentle students. On this occasion, one might declaim against modern degeneracy; might compare the tinsel of Kelly with the gold of Addison; might sigh for solid books and dishes, and invoke Hooker and Bacon to write, and a turnspit of Queen Elizabeth to cook for us. But this species of railing is grown so trite that “’tis a custom more honoured in the breach, than in the observance.” It is better, with a willing adroitness, to comply, with what we cannot change, and to form the “stuff” of our argument, as a tailor cuts a coat, by the rule of fashion.

A literary adventurer, confident of amusing himself, though almost hopeless of amusing others, prepares to scribble in conformity to the preceding sentiment. Though still juvenile, he has, for a period of some duration, been in the habit of marking the hues of “many-colored life.” The morning he gives to books, and the evening to men; and, from every page that he twirls, and from every character which he sees, he endeavours, like his renowned predecessor, the Spectator, to extract amusement or instruction. He is not, however, like him, only an observer in society, but cheerfully converses even with “wayfaring men, though fools,” that he may learn some particulars of life’s journey. With all the restlessness of busy indolence, and with all the volatility of a humming bird, he roams from object to object, as caprice inspires. This is the province of a lounger; he is one of “the privileged orders” in society, and to wander is his vocation.

Thus inquisitive from habit, and thus restless from temper, he fancies, perhaps presumptuously, that he may now become the herald of what he has seen and heard. In giving his lucubrations to the world, he confesses that his nerves thrill with the tremors of timidity. Though he thinks, with Dr. Young, that “fondness of fame, is avarice of air,” yet, in spite of sober belief, juvenile ambition

As he is a volunteer in the literary corps, he hopes that severe discipline will not be exercised. He implores of the critics a dispensation from an observance of the more rigid rules of method, as he never was educated in that “drowsy school.” A lover of the desultory style, his effusions shall keep pace with Sterne’s—in digression and eccentricity, though halting far behind him in wit. Such a writer, the logicians must permit to wander at large,

If he be suffered to remain enfranchised, though abusing his liberty, he may stray from the high road, yet he hopes never to deviate far from the boundaries of common sense; and if, in the wildness of volatility, he sometimes leap the hedge, he will endeavour to catch a butterfly, or crop a flower. All parties in the State, may read the moderate sentiments of a writer, who will neither factiously blow the trumpet of democracy, nor proudly stalk in the aristocratical buskin. All sects in the Church, may cheerily and charitably unite in the perusal of a work, intended to amuse as a speculation, not dogmatize as a creed. Though feminine foibles will be smilingly derided, yet, at the apprehension of malignant satire from the author of the Farrago, not a heart need palpitate, a fan flutter, nor a tea-table shake. If the ladies will “put away those strange gods,” coquetry, futility and artifice, he will, in, the words of Shakespeare’s weaver, so restrain and aggravate his voice, that he will roar at them, like any sucking dove, he will roar, like any nightingale.—In fine, like every other adventurer, he promises plausibly; and though he cannot hope to instruct by golden precept, like Pythagoras, or divert by humour, like Falstaff, yet like Sancho Panza, by his very simplicity he may inform and amuse.

The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;

AN INTERESTING SPANISH TALE.

(Concluded from page 342.)

No sooner had she come to the bottom of the stairs than she perceived Don Alphonso. Her joy almost deprived her of speech; she leaned against the wall, her head sunk on her shoulder, and the tears bedewed her cheeks. She wiped them away, stopped a moment to take breath, and, endeavouring to speak with firmness, approached the prisoner.

‘Stranger,’ said she, disguising her voice, ‘you have killed your companion. What could induce you to commit such a horrid crime?’

‘Alcaid,’ answered Don Alphonso, ‘I have committed no crime; it was an act of justice; but I am desirous to die. Death alone can end the miseries, of which the wretch I have sacrificed was the first cause. Condemn me. I wish not to make a defence. Deliver me from a life which is hateful to me, since I have lost what alone could render it delightful; since I can no longer hope ever to find’——

He was scarce able to conclude, and his voice faintly expressed the name of Marina.

Marina trembled on hearing him pronounce her name. She could scarcely conceal her transports, but was ready to throw herself into the arms of her lover. The presence, however, of so many witnesses restrained her. She, therefore, turned away her eyes, and faintly requested to be left alone with the prisoner. She was obeyed.

Giving a free course to her tears she advanced towards Don Alphonso, and offering him her hand, said to him, in a most affectionate tone, ‘Do you then still love her who lives for you alone?’

At these words, at this voice, Alphonso lifts his head, unable to believe his eyes. ‘Oh Heavens! Is it—is it my Marina! Or is it some angelic being assuming her form? Yes, it is my Marina herself, I can no longer doubt it,’ cried he, clamping her in his arms, and bathing her with his tears. ‘It is my love, my life, and all my woes are ended.’

‘No,’ said Marina, as soon as she could recover speech, ‘you are guilty of bloodshed, and I cannot free you from your fetters; but I will repair to-morrow to the superior judge, will inform him of the secret of my birth, relate to him our misfortunes, and, if he refuses me your liberty, will return and end my days with you in this prison.’

Marcello immediately gave orders for the removal of Alphonso from the dungeon into a less hideous place of security. He took care that he should want for nothing, and returned home to prepare for his journey, the next day, when a most alarming event prevented his departure, and hastened the delivery of Don Alphonso.

Some Algerine galleys, which had for several days pursued the ship on board which Don Alphonso was, had arrived on the coast, some time after the shipwreck; and willing to repay themselves for the trouble they had taken, had determined to land, during the night. Two renegadoes, who knew the country, undertook to conduct the barbarians to the village of Gadara, and fulfilled their promise but too well.

About one in the morning, when labour enjoys repose, and villainy wakes to remorse, the dreadful cry to arms! to arms! was heard.

The Corsairs had landed, and were burning and slaughtering all before them. The darkness of the night, the groans of the dying, and the shrieks of the inhabitants, filled every heart with consternation. The trembling wives caught their husbands in their arms; and the old men sought succour from their sons. In a moment the village was in flames, the light of which discovered the gory scymitars and white turbans of the Moors.

Those barbarians, the flambeau in one hand, and the hatchet in the other, were breaking and burning the doors of the houses; making their way through the smoaking ruins, to seek for victims or for plunder, and returning covered with blood, and loaded with booty.

Here they rush into the chamber, to which two lovers, the bride and bridegroom of the day, had been conducted by their mother. Each on their knees, side by side, was pouring forth thanks to heaven, for having crowned their faithful wishes. An unfeeling wretch, remorseless, seizes the terrified bride; loads her unhappy lover, whom in cruelty he spares, with chains; and snatches before his face, in spite of his distraction, his tears, prayers, and exclamations, that prize which was due to him alone.

There they take the sleeping infant from its cradle. The mother, frantic, defends it, singly, against an host. Nothing can repel, nothing can terrify her. Death she braves and provokes. For her child she supplicates, threatens, and combats; while the tender infant, already seized by these tigers, starts, wakes, stares, with the wild agony of terror, on the grim visage of its murderer, and sinks into convulsive horror and sleep, from which it wakes no more.

Nothing is held sacred by these monsters. They force their way into the temples of the Most High, break the shrines, strip off the gold, and trample the holy relics under foot. Alas! of what avail to the priests is their sacred character? to the aged their grey hairs? to youth its graces, or to infancy its innocence? Slavery, fire, devastation, and death are every where, and compassion is fled.

On the first alarm the Alcaid made all haste to the prison to inform Don Alphonso of the danger. The brave Alphonso demanded a sword for himself and a buckler for the Alcaid. He takes Marina by the hand, and making his way to the market-place, thus accosts the fugitives: ‘My friends, are ye Spaniards, and do ye abandon your wives and children to the fury of the infidels?’

He stops, he rallies them, inspires them with his own valor, and, more than human, (for he is a lover, and a hero) rushes, sabre in hand, on a party of the Moors, whom he instantly disperses. The inhabitants recover their recollection and their courage; enraged, behold their slaughtered friends; and hasten in crowds to join their leader.

Alphonso, without quitting Marina, and ever solicitous to expose his life in her defence, attacks the barbarians at the head of his brave Spaniards, and dealing destruction to all who make resistance, drives the fugitives before him, retakes the plunder and the prisoners, and only quits the pursuit of the enemy to return and extinguish the flames.

The day begin to break, when a body of troops, who had received information of the descent of the infidels, arrived from a neighbouring town. The governor had put himself at their head and found Don Alphonso surrounded by women, children, and old men; who, weeping, kissed his hands, with unfeigned gratitude, for having preserved their husbands, their fathers, or their sons.

The governor, informed of the exploits of Don Alphonso, loaded him with praises and caresses; but Marina, requesting to be heard, declared to the governor in presence of the whole village, her sex; giving, at the same time, a relation of her adventures, the death of the bravo by Don Alphonso, and the circumstances which rendered him excusable.

All the inhabitants, greatly affected with her story, fell at the feet of the governor, intreating pardon for the man to whom they were indebted for their preservation. Their request was granted, and the happy Alphonso, thus restored to his dear Marina, embraced the governor, and blessed the good inhabitants. One of the old men then advanced: ‘Brave stranger,’ said he, ‘you are our deliverer, but you take from us our Alcaid; this loss perhaps outweighs your benefit. Double our blessings; instead of depriving us of our greatest, remain in this village; condescend to become our Alcaid, our master, our friend. Honour us so far, as to permit nothing to abate our love for you. In a great city, the cowardly and the wicked, who maintain the same rank with yourself, will think themselves your equals; while, here, every virtuous inhabitant will look on you as his father; next to the Deity himself, you will receive, from us, the highest honour; and, while life remains, on the anniversary of this day, the fathers of our families will present their children before you, saying, ‘behold the man who preserved the lives of your mothers.’

Alphonso was enchanted while he listened to the old man. ‘Yes,’ cried he, ‘my children, yes, my brethren, I will remain here. My life shall be devoted to Marina and to you. But my wife has considerable possessions in Granada. Our excellent governor will add his interest to ours that we may recover them, and they shall be employed to rebuild the houses which the Infidels have burnt. On this condition alone, will I accept the office of Alcaid; and though I should expend in your service, both my riches and my life, I should still be your debtor; for it is you who have restored to me my Marina!’

Imagine the transports of the villagers while Alphonso spoke. The governor was a person of power, and undertook to arrange every thing to his wish; and, two days afterwards, the marriage was celebrated between Marina and her lover.

Notwithstanding their late misfortunes, nothing could exceed the joy of the inhabitants. The two lovers long lived in unexampled felicity; and made the whole district as virtuous and happy as themselves.

HISTORICAL EXAMPLES OF HUMANITY.

On the day of the battle of Dettingen, a musketeer, named Girardeau, dangerously wounded, was carried near the Duke of Cumberland’s tent. They could find no surgeon, all of them being sufficiently employed elsewhere. They were going to dress the duke, the calf of whose leg had been pierced by a ball: “Begin,” said that generous prince, “with relieving that French officer, he is more wounded than I; he may fail of succour, and I shall not.”

Alphonso V. king of Sicily and Arragon, was besieging the city of Gayette. That place beginning to fail of provisions, the inhabitants were obliged to turn out the women, children, and old men, who were so many useless mouths.—These poor people found themselves reduced to the most direful extremity. If they approached the city, the besieged fired on them; if they advanced towards the enemy’s camp they there met the same danger. In this sad condition, those wretches implored sometimes the compassion of their countrymen, not to suffer them to die with hunger. Alphonso was moved with pity at this spectacle, and forbid his soldiers to use them ill. He then assembled his council, and asked the advice of the principal officers, respecting the manner he ought to act with these unfortunate people. They all gave their opinion that they ought not to receive them, and said, that if they perished by hunger, or by the sword, none could be blamed but the inhabitants, who had driven them out of the city. Alphonso was offended at their hardness of heart: he protested he would rather renounce the taking of Gayette than resolve to let so many wretches die of hunger. He also added, that a victory purchased at that price would be less worthy of a magnanimous king than a barbarian and a tyrant. ‘I am not come,’ said he, ‘to make war on women, children, and feeble old men, but on enemies capable of defending themselves.’ He immediately gave orders that they should receive all those unfortunate people into the camp, and caused provisions, and whatever was necessary, to be distributed amongst them.

A violent tempest, which Alphonso V. king of Arragon, was exposed to at sea, obliged him to put up into an island. Being there in perfect security, he perceived one of his gallies on the point of being swallowed up in the waves, with the equipage and troops that were on board.——The spectacle excited his compassion, and he immediately gave orders that they should go and succour those unhappy people. Hereupon his people terrified at the danger, represented to him, that it was better to let one ship perish, than expose all the rest to the danger of ship-wreck. Alphonso did not listen to this advice: but, without deliberating, embarked on board the admiral’s ship, and immediately departed to give them timely succour; the rest, seeing the king expose himself with so much resolution, were animated by his example, and every one hastened to follow him. The enterprize at length succeeded; but he likewise ran great risk of perishing, it being so very dangerous. The generous Alphonso said, ‘I would have preferred being buried in the sea with all my fleet, rather than have seen those wretches perish full in my view without helping them.’

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CRIMINAL.

(Continued from page 335.)

O moment for reflection! O innocence forever fled!—My children are satisfied, and—I am miserable. O God of nature, hear my cries! I would ask of thee forgiveness, for oh! the deed of yesterday hangs heavy on my soul. What have I done?—I stopped the stranger, and asked his purse: he refused. I clapt the murderous weapon to his breast and demanded it—he hesitated.——In imagination I viewed my family perishing for food. I could not wait—The flint struck—the stranger fell—and—O earth hide me in thy bosom!—Wretch! how do the words escape my lips—I beheld my father.——

When reason had regained its seat, I found myself in company with my children, relieving their wants from out my father’s purse.

My wife questioned me as to the manner of my procuring the unexpected boon. The truth I did not evade; but I related to her every circumstance, except that the murdered person was the author of my being. She shuddered at the tale. “O my husband!” she uttered, “why did you not inform me of your intention? Sooner would I have perished of hunger, than the crime should have been committed.” “Alas!” I returned, “while yet conscious innocence held thine eyelids closed, the deed was perpetrated.

“O my Euphemia! thou knowest not the extent of my villainy! If thou didst, thou wouldest shun my sight, and think me a devil that had assumed the form of man. What crime is worse than——But stop, thy feeble frame cannot now stand the shock.—Summon all thy fortitude; soon will the awful tidings sound dreadful in thine ears.”

L. B.

(To be continued.)

SELECTED OBSERVATIONS of a LATE WORTHY DIVINE.

Adrian, the coadjutor of Ximenes in the government of Castile, was much disturbed at the libels which flew about against them. Ximenes was perfectly easy. “If,” said he, “we take the liberty to act, others will take the liberty to talk and write: when they charge us falsely, we may laugh; when truly, we must mend.”

Dr. Green of St. John’s college, trying to skate, got a terrible fall backwards—“Why, Doctor,” said a friend who was with him, “I thought you had understood the business better.”—“O,” replied the Doctor, “I have the theory perfectly; I want nothing but the practice.”—How many of us, in matters of a much higher and more important nature, come under the Doctor’s predicament!

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday: evening the 29th ult. by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Colonel Deveaux, well known for his military atchievments and social virtues, to Miss Verplank, of Dutches Country.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Edward Prior, to Miss Fanny Fisher, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Benjamin Ferris, to Miss Ann Post, daughter of Mr. Henry Post.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 23d to the 29th ult.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

deg.100 deg.100

April 23 46 48 se.e. rain do.l. wd.

24 44 49 e.do. cloudy rainl. wd.

25 48 60 s.do. rain fog. cle.calm l. w.

26 49 63 sw.do. clear do.calm l. wd.

27 42 56 ne.se. clear do.lt. wd. do.

28 44 61 e.s. clear do.l. wd. h. wd.

29 50 71 e.do. clear do.lt. do.

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

FOR APRIL 1797.

Made in the Cupals of the Museum, by G. Baker, Proprietor.

Mean temperatureof thethermometerat sun-rise (Far. Sc.) 43 6

Do.do. of thedo. at 3 P.M. 53 7

Do.do. for the whole month 48 65

Greatest monthly range between the 5th. and 14th. 47 0

Do.do. in 24 hours, the 5th 28 0

Warmest day the 5th 82 0

Coldest do. the 14th 35 0

12 days it rained, and an uncommon quantity has fallen.

1 do. it snowed, about 6 in. deep, it all disappeared by the following day.

14 do. the wind was at the westward of north and south, at the ob. h.

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

17 do. the do. was light at both observations.

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

13 do. it was clear at do. do.

11 do. it was cloudy at do. do.

3 times it Thundered and Lightened, in considerable abundance.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

AN ACROSTIC.

ON THE REV.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LINES,

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF LISBON.

J. D.

THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Come, lovely Flora, aid me to pourtray

The rising beauties of the vernal day,

The grateful season that fresh life inspires,

Wakes the dull spirits, and resumes their fires;

That bids dead nature gaudy colours wear,

And paints with every hue th’ unfolding year!

As when from sombre shades, and gloomy night,

Joyous we rise, and hail the new born light,

Shake off the chains of lethargy to hear

Harmonious music charm the ravish’d ear,

By sleep refresh’d, by rest again made strong,

Mix in the scene, and join the busy throng;

Thus view Creation’s wide-extended plain,

Where sullen Winter held in dreary reign,

Where frost and snow deform’d each fertile vale,

The driving tempest, and the rattling hail.

Now spring the flowers, now teems the verdant ground,

And the gay landscape brightens all around;

Each plant resumes its native form and dye,

Some ting’d with red, some emulate the sky:

All in their native elegance of dress,

Welcome the Spring, its power benign confess!

The morn how sweet, how fair the rising dawn!

Gay shines the sun athwart the enamell’d lawn,

The new cloath’d earth drinks bibulous his ray,

And Nature glories in his equal sway.

Creation’s hymns ascend the source of light,

Whose golden splendors chase the brumal night;

Whose genial warmth o’erpowers the frigid north,

Pours plenty down, and calls fresh beauties forth.

Deep, deep, I hear each object swell the strain,

Exulting in auspicious Phœbus’ reign;

E’en things inanimate their incense raise,

And what was mute, grows vocal in his praise;

While ancient deities are all forgot,

Sleep in contempt, and unmolested rot.

When Jupiter enrag’d can storm no more,

Nor Neptune roll his billows to the shore;

When Egypt’s dogs no linen-priests surround,

And leeks unhonour’d cloath her fertile ground*;

Wise Persia’s god majestic keeps his sphere†,

Whom rolling worlds with all their tribes revere.

Be calm, ye storms; ye tempests, rage no more,

Nor waste your fury on the rugged shore;

Mild flow, ye waves; ye winds, no longer sweep,

With awful madness, o’er th’ expanded deep,

Nor dare to lift the towering surges high,

Foaming resistless to the lofty sky:

Avaunt, nor cloud the lustre of the day;

A milder reign succeeds, a gentler sway!

Come, beauteous Spring! come, hasten with my train,

Gentle and lovely, to assume thy reign;

The fairest flowers that early Nature yields,

That rise spontaneous in the fertile fields,

Or grace the banks of pure meand’ring rills,

Or love the sunshine on the sloping hills;

With richest gems shall thy bright crown adorn,

Empearl’d with dew-drops from the pointed thorn;

Though eastern monarchs boast their regal state,

On whom unnumber’d slaves obsequious wait,

Though deck’d with all that fills the flaming mine,

How mean their splendor, when compar’d with thine!

For thee again the birds resume their song,

Raise high their notes, and the glad strains prolong;

Their soft descant they teach the neighbouring grove,

And each close shade bears witness to their love.

Nor these alone; through wide Creation’s space,

From the low insect to the human race,

All hail thy influence, bless thy genial power,

Thou best enlivener of each chearful hour!

While aromatic plants perfume the air,

And flowers and shrubs are deck’d supremely fair.

As o’er their heads the balmy zephyrs play,

And gently fan them all the live-long day,

The sons of age feet happier days return,

With joys renew’d and fresh emotions burn;

Shake off the gloom contracted by their years,

As round their temples wave their hoary hairs.

Soon as the bird of morn proclaims the dawn,

And quits, on fluttering wings, the dewy lawn,

Forth rush the swains, regardless of the toil,

To break the glebe, and fertilize the soil;

With chearful hearts their constant labour ply,

Till Sol’s bright beams desert the western sky;

Then homeward bending, taste unbroken rest,

For seldom anguish racks the guiltless breast;

Save where fond love attacks the feeling heart,

And the soft passions generous warmth impart;

Save where the lover, pensive and alone,

Makes woods and caves re-echo to his moan;

And every thought intent on some coy fair,

With bitter wailing fills the ambient air.

Almighty Love! say whence those melting fires,

Those glowing transports, and those soft desires,

That warm the soul; and, every sense refin’d,

That humanize the fierce, obdurate mind?

From Nature all—from Nature’s God they flow,

Who bade the breast with pure emotions glow:

When heaven-born Virtue binds with sacred ties,

And smiling beauty fascinates the eyes,

He, source of all, adorns the laughing day,

And bids the flowers their gaudy tints display;

With vernal gales dispenses life around,

While love and music through each grove resound.

Original: Parnassian sprigs: or, poetical miscellanies, 1777, by William Fordyce Mavor 1758-1837.

Possible source: Scots Magazine 1783, ed. Boswell, has the same footnotes.

Most of the section between “enamell’d lawn” and “Be calm, ye storms!” is missing (6 lines in the original as against 18 in the New-York Weekly).

The section from “sloping hills” to “For thee again” is an imperfect match (7 lines : 6 lines).

NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. 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 New-York Weekly Magazine; OR, MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY.

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, May 10, 1797. [No. 97.

THE AFRICAN’s COMPLAINT.

Phœbus had immersed his flaming forehead in the Western main—smoothly glided the wild zephyrs, gently murmuring amongst the resounding foliage—Cynthia in blushing majesty began faintly to gild with silver tints the distant hills—a thousand glittering gems sparkled through the circumambient hemisphere—Nature seemed smiling to invite to nocturnal contemplation the sons of philosophy:—courted by the enchanting scenes, and enveloped in a pleasing reverie, I walked forth amongst the surrounding shades.——“Happy, ye freeborn sons of Columbia,” exclaimed I, “liberty and plenty bless your domestic retirements; war, devastation, and wide-wasting rapine have fled from your peaceful shores—no murderous assassin, or night prowling incendiary, carries the hidden dagger of slaughter, or dread torch of destruction to disturb your uninterrupted tranquility; no hostile armies to snatch from your tender embrace the son, the husband, the father, or brother—No.” I would have proceeded, but a voice that seemed to pierce through my inmost soul issued from the adjacent shades; despair and anguish vibrated on the fleeting sounds—my soliloquy was broken.—“Farewell every pleasure,” it exclaimed in a voice rendered almost inarticulate by grief. “Adieu, ye native skies! No more shall the unhappy Corymbo rest beneath the spreading arbors of Congo—No more shall the charms of the lovely Yonka give pleasure and delight to a bosom racked with the most excruciating pains; Oh, ye aged parents! what were your feelings, how did your bosoms heave, when your child, your Corymbo, was torn from you by the cruel unfeeling Christian—forced into a floating dungeon more terrible than death itself—bartered as a slave—exposed to contempt and scorn—unjustly marked with the whip of tyranny—his labour unjustly extorted from him—denied the common necessaries of life—trampled on by a monster, whose avaricious heart outvies the adamant, unsusceptible of the tender feelings of lost humanity! Oh! thou invisible being, who sustains the universe! why dost thou suffer thy votaries to perpetrate such barbarity under the sanction of thy venerable name?—Hold. Why do I upbraid heaven? Death will ere long liberate my distracted soul. Oh! how ineffable glows my breast—the delectable view showers some drops of comfort into my tortured mind. Flow swift ye intervening moments! come thou welcome hour! when my spirit shall quit this sinking frame, and wafted on the wings of wind, shall fearless dart across the Atlantic and again embrace those tender, once dear, but now distant companions of my youth.—But why do I linger. My master is now waiting to receive an account of my labour—perhaps the torturing lash.” Here came back, like an inundation, the remembrance of his slavery, which only for a moment fled to give room for a beam of comfort, which soon subsided and left more acute sensations than before. Sobs and inarticulate expressions were all that he could utter, whilst in hasty steps he wandered from my hearing. For some moments I remained stupid, petrified to the spot; still, methought, I heard the sounds of misery echoing amongst the lonely shades. “Ungrateful countrymen,” I exclaimed, “why do ye deny those inestimable blessings, to your fellow men that heaven has so eminently dignified you with? Or, why so callous to tender pity as to lacerate the flesh of the innocent? Oh, ye votaries of christianity! how can ye reconcile your execrable conduct with the precepts of the divine, the exalted and elevated maxims of the great founder of your system.”

MIXED COMPANY.

The mind of each sex has some natural kind of bias, which constitutes a distinction of character, and the happiness of both depends, in a great measure, on the preservation and observance of this distinction. For where would be the superior pleasure and satisfaction resulting from mixed conversation, if this difference was abolished?

If the qualities of both were invariably and exactly the same, no benefit or entertainment would arise from the tedious and insipid uniformity of such an intercourse; whereas considerable are the advantages reaped from a select society of both sexes.

The rough angles and asperities of male manners are imperceptibly filed and gradually worn smooth, by the polishing of female conversation, and the refining of female taste: while the ideas of women acquire strength and solidity by their associating with sensible, intelligent, and judicious men.

THE

WANDERINGS OF THE IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 347.)

Captain S—— had married in early youth the woman of his heart. Her fortune was very small; nor did he possess any other independance than that which arose from his commission. He was allied to many noble families, and had received an education more suitable to his connections than his expectations. His Lady was not in any respect his equal; she was the only child of a poor, but honest, curate in Wales, where she became acquainted with the Captain, at that time an Ensign in a marching regiment, quartered at Glamorgan: he saw, became enamoured, and married her. They lived with economy and comfort about five years, in which time she bore him a son. This event seemed to operate in their favour, as a distant relation of his mother’s, whom he had hitherto known only by name, wrote to him on hearing of it, and in consequence of the good character which had answered his enquiries, he had deposited in the hands of Mess. Cox and Greenwood a sufficient sum of money, to enable him to purchase a company on the first occasion that might offer.

Our young adventurer no sooner received this unexpected letter, than he solicited and obtained leave of absence, and hastened to London, when he immediately waited on the gentlemen above-mentioned; and hearing that the commission was prepared for him, and that the money deposited in their hands exceeded by some hundreds it’s purchase, he resolved on joining his company without delay. Little time was required to settle his affairs: he wrote to Mrs. S——, and to his father, strongly recommending to the latter those dear relatives he committed to his protection; and inclosing bills to nearly the whole amount of the money which remained in his hands, he soon after embarked in the first ship to join the new regiment to which he belonged, and which was at that time stationed in Jamaica.

Imagine not, gentle reader, that Captain S—— thus quitted all he held dear without a pang. His heart was the receptacle of the surest feelings of humanity; and if he avoided taking a long, perhaps a last, farewell, it was order to avoid the too powerful temptation of a change in his resolution. He figured to himself the tears and intreaties of an affectionate wife, the winning smiles of an infant boy: and to their future welfare he gladly sacrificed every selfish idea of present felicity. These reflections accompanied him throughout a long and perilous voyage, which was at last completed without any material occurrence.

It was during his short stay in London that I met with him. The recent kindness of his kinsman had proved a sure passport into the houses of his other relations. He procured from them all not only a general invitation during his stay there, but many flattering letters of recommendation to the principal families and military men whither he was going. His person was uncommonly graceful, and the bright glow of prosperity beaming on his fine open countenance, indicated the native honesty that warmed his heart. I was at that time not more than fifteen; Captain S—— about four-and-twenty. Such an object was well calculated to awaken the feelings of artless sensibility. Young and romantic as I then was, I could imagine no higher delight than that of marrying Captain S——, and following his fate “beyond unknown seas.” Alas! I knew not that he was already the betrothed partner of a more fortunate fair; and when, on his discovering what I found it difficult to conceal, he candidly revealed to me his situation, I could only offer up sighs and tears at his departure, which wore away almost soon after the object which had created them disappeared.

THIRD WANDERING.

The next morning I was punctual to my appointment; but waited above an hour before I perceived Captain S——. At length he came, and made no secret to me of what had detained him. He informed me, that having gone on the preceding day to Lord G————’s he could with difficulty gain admission into the hall; where, after having been for some time insulted by the enquiring looks, and questions, of several impertinent footmen, he seemed likely to remain; not one of them, though assured he waited on his Lordship by his own appointment, appearing willing to stir from their chairs to announce him. He continued there some time; during which he had the mortification to see several of his old acquaintance alight from their carriages, and pass, without deigning to look towards him. He patiently waited the return of these great people, and then repeated his request of a moment’s audience, which was answered by a desire that he would call again the next morning, at the same hour.

He went, and found orders to admit him. Lord G——, with that tone of authority which superior fortune always gives so the supercilious, however polished, and to the ungenerous, however courtly, reproached him in very acrimonious terms with having suddenly thrown up his commission, at a time when promotion was becoming general, and his country particularly demanded his services.

Stung to the heart at a reproof, which while he knew to be severe, he felt to be just, he alledged, in excuse, what to a delicate mind would have been an all-powerful one. His wife—her situation: Lord G—— interrupted him, by telling him that all such feelings should be sacrificed to self-interest. He then rang his bell, called for his carriage, and putting a solitary guinea into the hands of Captain S——, cast reflections on this conduct, that were as galling as unmerited, and wishing him good morning, rid himself of a visitor, whose reduced circumstances were his only mark of inferiority.

I was less surprised than Captain S—— at the conduct of Lord G——; and after making some comments, naturally arising from the transaction, I prevailed on him to accompany me home, and to relate to me his narrative, which he did in the following words.

“I was received in Jamaica with much kindness by my brother officers; and my letters procured me many distinguished attentions from the principal families there. My intercourse with many gay young men, and the life of amusement (not to say dissipation) which I led, might, in a heart less tender than mine, have dispelled the gloom that had hung over me since my departure from England. But I did not find it so; my mind perpetually wandered over the past scenes of domestic delight; and my heart inwardly sighed, as I reflected on the expanse of ocean that divided me far from them. My wife was young, and ignorant of the world; and though the letters which she wrote me were filled with love, and regret, I suffered myself to dread a change in her affections, and gave way to the most dismal forebodings, which, instead of being diminished, were augmented by time.

“A captain in our regiment, whose name was Nesbitt, was on the point of returning on leave of absence to England. The death of his mother had put him in possession of considerable property, and it was necessary that he should settle his affairs. My heart prompted me to make particular overtures of intimacy to Captain Nesbitt, that I might influence him to see, and give me a particular account of my family. At that time too, I had unfortunately lost to him a sum of money at play; which, though not very considerable, was more than I could command, previous to his departure. On my mentioning it to him, he treated it lightly, and assured me he had not at that time any occasion for it. I received from him the most consolatory promises, and we parted with all the reciprocal good wishes that can be supposed to arise from a concluded friendship, and an assurance that I should hear from him frequently on the subject which alone interested my heart.

“Captain Nesbitt was punctual to his word; he wrote me an account of his safe arrival in London, and that he was going to pass five or six weeks with a party of his friends at Swansea, from whence he should make it his first business to wait on Mrs. S——. The next ship brought me a packet from herself, in which she mentioned having seen him, and at a time when a visit from a friend of mine was particularly welcome, as she had just lost her father, and retired to a small farm-house near Glamorgan, till she should hear from me in what manner she should dispose of herself. She solicited my permission to join me in Jamaica, and that I would negociate her voyage with one of the first returning Captains, that he might settle in my name for every suitable accommodation. This was the project I ardently sighed for, but I wished it to come from herself; and the silence I had observed on it during her father’s lifetime, being no longer necessary, I answered her in the effusions of a heart filled with love and gratitude, and gave, as she desired, all proper directions to forward her approaching departure.