VOLUME II. (continued 22)

“Nothing but witnessing her safe arrival, could convey such transport to my mind, as seeing the ship get under weigh, that bore my letter, and was charged with the commission to bring her once more to my arms. I watched the wind and weather with anxiety, and in idea followed the vessel to her destined port. I passed the intervening time in fondly anticipating the arrival of the welcome stranger, and in preparing every thing for her reception.

“I had particularly attached myself to a Black, of the name of Scipio. He was the servant of a gentleman whom I visited, who bought him in his infancy, and treated him more as a favoured inmate, than a slave. Scipio was possessed of a noble mind, and a heart susceptible of affection, and gratitude. He loved his master, and lamented the destiny of those of his countrymen who were less fortunate than himself. Often would he wonder why they were so; comparing their labours with his own, and acknowledging their superiority. I frequently observed him to follow me at a distance in those hours when, oppressed by thought, I sought the plantain’s friendly shade, and shunned the converse of mankind; and oft would sorrow overspread his sable countenance while he watched me, as if fearful of my destruction.

“I was one day ruminating on my situation, anticipating the pleasure, yet at the same time dreading the frustration of all my hopes, when Scipio ran eagerly towards me, and announced the approach of a ship from England. I climbed the highest point, as if to bring her nearer to me. It was too soon for me to expect my wife; all I could hope was a letter from her, and to that I looked with eager joy, as from the shore I espied the gaily painted vessel, gliding gently over the smooth surface of the deep, as the welcome harbinger of peace. With a palpitating heart I hailed her, as she majestically came towards us, but the flattering dream soon vanished, as I heard her pronounced to be from Bristol.

“The keen edge of expectation was quickly blunted by the stroke of disappointment; yet was the selfish idea soon restrained by the surrounding multitude, as I observed the busy countenances near me, and reflected that the disappointment of my hopes might be the completion of theirs. I was inwardly vexed that I had suffered myself, like a child, to be hurried away by my passions, the ardour of which had proved so constantly fatal to my peace.

“In a few weeks, several ships from different ports arrived, but none that brought tidings to me. The only account I heard from England, in which I could be interested, was a letter received by Lord G—— from Captain Nesbitt, inclosing the resignation of his commission, for reasons which he did not assign.”

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE.

An Hon. Member of the Senate, some years past, inquired of a brother Statesman, if they had made a House? No, sir, says he, there are but nine; we want one to make a quorum. Aye, (replies the other) I knew you could do nothing till I arrived. Very true, retorts the wit, a cypher completes the ten.

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. II.

“ONE OF THOSE CLOSE STUDENTS, WHO READ PLAYS FOR THEIR IMPROVEMENT IN LAW.”

TATLER.

Every grave author, who apothegmatizes for the advancement of learning, vehemently insists on the propriety of superadding application to genius. Much has been written to invigorate the lassitude of indolence, to expose the inefficacy of desultory studies, to lash the absurdity of procrastination, and to journalize the wanderings of the mind. But, deaf to the warning voice, there still exists a class of students respectable for talents and taste, who, whenever fickleness waves her wand, fly mercurially from a stated task, glance on many subjects, and improve none. Their judgment, pronouncing sentence against themselves, acknowledges the utility of fixation of thought, and marks, with mathematical precision, the point on which attention should rest; but their wayward imagination is eternally making curves. These literary, like other hypochondriacs, have their lucid intervals; and, at times, are fully apprized of the flitting nature of their application. They write many a penitential annotation upon the chapter of their conduct, and frame many a goodly plan to be executed—to-morrow. The paroxysm soon returns; and every shackle, which sturdy resolution has imposed, their ingenious indolence will undo.

It is unpleasant to see those, whom nature and fortune have conspired to befriend, unqualified to gain the eminence of distinction, by a habit of turning out of the path. With this censurable volatility are commonly united, brilliant talents, a feeling heart, and a social temper. If their possessors would even occasionally adopt and practice those plodding precepts, which dissipation prompts them to deride, they would discharge with applause every honorable duty of business and of life. But, instead of turning the meanders of fancy into a regular channel, they are perpetually roaming, in quest of pleasure. They employ morning moments, not over learned tomes, but at ladies’ toilets. After a night of revelry, amid the votaries of wine and loo, they will tell you of Charles Fox, who, like a man of spunk, at brothels and at Brookes’s, wenches, gambles, and drinks all night, and, like a man of genius, harrangues in the house all day. They talk of their privileges, and swear by the tails of the comets, which are the greatest ramblers in the universe, that they will be eccentric. The, style of their legislation is, “be it enacted, by Fancy and her favourites, that whenever Genius chooses to cut capers, they be, and hereby are, allowable.”

As I have a cordial aversion to the abstract modes of speculation, and choose, with Dr. Johnson, to embody opinions, I proceed to illustrate by two examples; one from the annals of literature, and one from real life.

The poet Shenstone was an officer of distinguished rank, in the regiment of careless bards. Every reader of his works will acknowledge that they bear “the image and superscription” of genius. But, still, he was an indolent, uneconomical, volatile character, who, lolling in the bowers of the Leasowes, wrote pastorals and the school-mistress, when, by a more vigorous exertion of his talents, he might perhaps have eloquently charmed the coifed sergeants of Westminster-Hall, or dictated new maxims of polity to an applauding House of Commons. At the very moment he was wasting his time and his patrimony, in the erection of rural altars to Pan and the Dryads, he wrote “Economy,” a poem, in which he chaunts the praise of the cittish virtues, and gravely advises his friends to devote at least a rainy day to worldly prudence. In this production are some thoughts suggested, one may venture to affirm, by Shenstone’s experience, pertinent to the subject of this essay. The tolerating reader will pardon their insertion. Travellers over a dusty desart rejoice at the sight of verdure; and, disgusted by the insipidity of a meagre Farrago, its readers may exult to view a quotation.

Who, but the acquaintance of genius and its inconsistencies could suppose that one, who knew so well the road to fame, should linger at “caravansaries of rest” by the way? That he, who advises “to collect the dissipated mind, to shorten the train of wild ideas and to indulge no expence, but what is legitimated by economy,” should be desultory in his application and prodigal of his estate?

I had collected thus much of my weekly oblation to the public, when, instead of proceeding, as in duty bound, I forgot my own sermon, and—sauntered away. Indolence, deriding my efforts, snatched my pen, overturned my ink-stand, and bade me go and “clip the wings of time” with a friend. I obeyed, and visited Meander. He is a juvenile neighbour of mine, placed by his friends with a view to the profession of the law, in the office of an eminent advocate. The character of Meander is so various, that it almost precludes delineation. Were Sterne summoned to describe him, the eccentric wit would quote his Tristram Shandy, and affirm that Meander was a mercurial sublimated creature; heteroclite in all his declensions. He has so much of the wildness of the fifth Henry in his composition, that were I not versed in his pedigree, I should suppose he descended in a right line from that prince. His ambitious projects, like the birds of Milton, tower up to Heaven’s gate, and he starts as many schemes as a visionary projector. So entirely devoted is he to the cultivation of the Belles Lettres, that his graver moments, instead of being dedicated to Blackstone and Buller, are given to Shakespeare and Sterne. He reads plays, when he should be filling writs; and, the other day, attempting to draw a deed, instead of “know all men by these presents,” he scribbled a simile from Spenser. Notwithstanding his enthusiastic fondness for the study of polite literature, even from that, he frequently flies off in a tangent; and the charms of the ladies and of loo, full often cause him to forget that there is a poet or novelist in our language. The ignis fatuus of his fervid imagination is continually dancing before him, and leads him many a fantastic, weary step “over hog and through briar.” Nothing can be more sanguine than his plans of study and of steadiness; and nothing more languid than their execution. When I entered his lodgings, a domestic informed me that Meander was still in bed, having sate up all night, with a tavern party of friends. The servant continuing his narration, added, “that his master talked much of one Churchill, and at the hour of retiring, suddenly exclaimed,

I smiled at these traits of my friend’s character, and, as I well knew that his slender frame was exhausted by the labors of the night, plying the pasteboard play, vociferating drunken anthems and swallowing bumpers, in rapid succession, I therefore suffered him to remain undisturbed. Unwilling, however, to lose that amusement, which was the object of my visit, I consoled myself for the absence of my friend, by surveying his apartment, the furniture of which would give one an idea of Meander’s character, without a personal acquaintance. On a small table, lay several of his favourite authors, in all the confusion of carelessness. Among others I noted Shakespeare, Congreve’s comedies, letters of the younger Lyttleton, Mrs. Behn’s novels, Fielding’s Tom Jones, and a mountain of pamphlets, composed of magazines and plays. In the pigeon holes of a desk, I saw a number of loose bits of paper. These puzzled me sadly. I thought, at first, they contained arcana of importance; and compared them to the Sybilline leaves of antiquity. But, I must own that I was a little chagrined, when I discovered that they were only that species of gambling composition, which I should call loo assignats, but which, in plainer phrase, are denominated due bills. On a low window seat, in a dark corner, lay a most ponderous folio, over which a diligent spider had woven a web of such size and intricacy, that the insect must of necessity have been months in spinning it. Curiosity prompted me to brush away this cobweb covering, and examine the book it concealed. The reader may easily imagine the state of my risibles, when I found the volume entitled “An abridgement of the Law, by Matthew Bacon.” A drawer left partly open, revealed to view a bundle of manuscripts, among which, I found a diary kept by my friend, some parts of which so completely illustrated his character, that I proposed, with a few transcripts from it, to terminate this essay. But, the narrowness of my limits forbids, and the journal of Meander, the annals of volatility must be postponed. They shall form the subject of our next lucubration.

THE GENEROUS RIVAL.

I have always been of opinion, that those harmless delusions which have a tendency to promote happiness, ought, in some measure to be cherished. The airy visions of creative Fancy serve to divert the mind from grief, and render less poignant the bitter stings of misfortune. Hope was given to man, to enable him to struggle with adversity; and, without her chearing smile, the most trifling distress would cut his thread of life. It was this fascinating deity that eased the love-lorn Edwin’s fears; her gentle whispers soothed each froward care, and extended his view to scenes of fancied bliss—to that happy moment when propitious Fortune should present him with the hand of Laura. Pleasing delusion! delightful thought! that made the moment of separation less painful, that soothed the rugged front of peril, and softened the rude aspect of terrific war.

Edwin was the son of a merchant of some repute in the metropolis; at the commencement of the present war, he received an appointment in the army, and was soon after sent with his regiment to the continent.

Laura was the daughter of a banker of considerable eminence, a member of the British senate, and possessed of a very extensive fortune. The attachment that subsisted between these young people was unknown to Laura’s father, the proud, imperious Mr. Dalby, who expected to marry her to some person of distinction; or, at least, with one who was equal in point of wealth to himself. For this purpose, he invited the most wealthy part of the senate, peers and commoners, to his splendid mansion at the west end of the town; having totally deserted that which had for many generations been the residence of his ancestors, in the east.

Miss Dalby possessed in an eminent degree, the beauties of the mind, as well as those of the person; which, exclusive of her fortune, were sufficiently attractive to a man of sense and discernment. Many of these visitors became candidates for her election: most of them, however, were rejected by her father, to whom she was enjoined to report the name and rank of each person who addressed her on the score of love. Some, the most wealthy, she was instructed to flatter with hopes of being the happy man; reserving her affections for him whom the venal parent should select to be her husband. It was some time before Dalby could fix his choice, which long hung suspended between an earl and a viscount, of nearly equal fortune: at length the appearance of a ducal coronet banished from his mind both the one and the other; and he vainly flattered himself, in future, to address his daughter by the high sounding title of—Your Grace.

The young Duke Delancy, led by curiosity to behold the lady who was thus exposed to sale—for, it seems, the intention of Dalby was generally known—became enamoured of her person; and, on conversing with her, found her every thing he could wish. He instantly made proposals to Mr. Dalby; which, it is almost needless to say, were as instantly accepted. His grace, knowing that the consent of the daughter would avail him but little, without possessing that of the father, had not discovered to Laura the partiality he entertained for her; but having, as he imagined, secured the main chance, made a formal declaration of his love.

Laura listened with profound attention to the impassioned assurances of affection of the noble duke; and when he paused, in expectation of receiving a confirmation of his hopes, she raised her blushing eyes, wet with the tears of anguish, from the ground; and, thanking him for the honour he intended her, candidly acknowledged the pre-engagement she was under to the absent Edwin.

Charmed with her candour; and interested by her artless tale, he determined to resign his pretensions, and support the cause of the young soldier.

Laura had preserved a regular correspondence with her lover; and he was, therefore, but too well informed of the desperate situation of his suit. He longed to fly to the arms of his mistress, but scorned to desert his post. At length, fortune gave him an opportunity of realizing his wishes, at a moment when he least expected it. The Republican army suddenly attacked, in great force, the allied troops: an obstinate battle ensued, in which Edwin particularly distinguished himself; the enemy were completely routed; and the young soldier, for the courage he displayed in the action, was sent to England with the gladsome tidings of victory. Having delivered the dispatches with which he had been charged, he hastened to the house of Mr. Dalby; and, gaining admittance, ran up stairs in the drawing room, where he discovered his noble rival with the mistress of his heart. His sudden and unexpected appearance threw the lovely Laura into some disorder; and it was with much difficulty she retained spirits sufficient to meet her lover’s fond embrace.

At this critical moment, Mr. Dalby entered the room; having from his study seen an officer cross the hall; and ascend the staircase. The words—“My dear, dear Laura! and do I once more behold thee in my arms?” from the enraptured Edwin, caught the ears of the astonished Dalby, who stood fixed and motionless, mute, and almost discrediting the organs both of sight and hearing.

“Had I known, Sir,” said his grace, who beheld with as much delight the agitation of Dalby, as the happiness of the youthful pair, “that the affections of your daughter had been placed on another object, I should not have offered the smallest violence to her inclination.”

“My Lord—my Lord!” stammered out the enraged parent, “she is under no such engagement as you suppose.” Then stepping up to Edwin—“And, pray, who the devil are you, Sir? Some fortune-hunter, I suppose! But you have missed your mark, young man: be pleased, therefore, to leave my house; and, if ever you venture here again, I shall find means————”

“My dear father!” said Laura, interrupting him, “you surely forget yourself! The gentleman, whom you thus rudely threaten, is our neighbour’s son, Mr. Langley, the West-India merchant, in Lombard-street.”

“Mr. Langley’s son!”

“Yes, Sir,” returned Edwin; “and though not blessed with equal fortune with yourself, I have yet sufficient to support the rank of a gentleman. I love your daughter; I long have loved her; and she has taught me to believe that she returns my affection. I ask no fortune; give me my Laura, and dispose of your wealth in whatever manner you please!”

“Very romantic, faith!—And pray, fellow, do you know who you speak so freely to?”

“O, very well, Sir!”

“That I am George Dalby, Esq. a member of the House of Commons?” Edwin bowed. “And that I have an estate free and unincumbered—look you, Sir, free and unincumbered—that netts 10,000l. a year?”

“To none of these acquisitions am I a stranger, Sir,” returned Edwin.

“And you, Laura, will you so far disgrace yourself and me, to throw yourself away on a dry-salter’s son?—A fortune-hunter!—A beggar!”

“A what, Sir?” interrupted Edwin, with much warmth. “But I forget myself—you are my Laura’s father!”

“Sir,” said Laura, “I confess that I entertain a partiality for Edwin. I know his worth; and will renounce all titles, rank and distinction, wealth and pleasure, to live the partner of his life!”

“Then, by Heaven! as I know my worth. I will renounce you for ever! and, therefore, hence with your paramour!—you shall nevermore enter my doors!”

“Be it so,” said the Duke; “mine are open to receive them! My house, my home, my fortune, all are theirs; they shall use them at their pleasure; they shall live in ease, in competence, and enjoy the pleasures of their loves: while mad ambition, insatiate avarice, and increasing pride, shall torture you with never-ceasing pangs, and embitter every future moment of your life!”

The disappointed, mercenary parent, flew, with bitter imprecations, from his tormentors: the lovers retired with their noble patron; and, after having spent several days in a fruitless attempt to gain the consent of Dalby, were united in the holy bands of wedlock. Edwin has since, from his professional merit, and the interest of his grace, attained a distinguished rank in the army; and the dislike of Mr. Dalby to his daughter’s choice has decreased, in proportion as he has risen to distinction. Several interviews have taken place, through the medium of their noble friend, and it is believed that time will root from the mind of Mr. Dalby every unfavourable impression the want of fortune in his son-in-law occasioned; and that Edwin and Laura will, at last, become the heirs of his immense property.

The union of this amiable pair has been blessed with two fine boys; and this increase of family has enlarged their happiness: they still continue to receive the notice of his grace, whom they consider as the author of their felicity, and invariably distinguished him by the appellation of The Generous Rival.

Possible sources:

Caledonian Bee, 1795 “A Select Collection, of Interesting Extracts from Modern Publications”, story labeled “By Mr. Bacon”;

Interesting anecdotes, memoirs, allegories, essays, and poetical ..., “by Mr. Addison” Volume 5, 1797 (originally 1794), sometimes misattributed to Joseph Addison (1672-1719)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE PRISON.

(A continuation of the CRIMINAL, from page 351.)

Within the gloomy walls of a prison, far excluded from the glance of man, was immured, him that once had basked in the sunshine of prosperity, him that had been the darling pride of a doating father, and him, reader, that was the next heir to a peerage. But he had woefully broken through the laws of his country; Despair, that haggard fiend, had sent him, like the beast of prey, to obtain assistance unlawfully; and wholly guided by her dictates, he had unknowingly murdered his parent.———

——Spare your anathemas, ye advocates for monarchy, ye who think sanguinary laws are as necessary as the glittering baubles of a crown; who imagine the life of the offender is requisite to expiate his crime—and consider whether solitary imprisonment is not far more just. Common humanity would urge you to reply in the affirmative. Then throw aside the tyranny of custom, and for once let your bosoms swell with philanthropy.

Him, who is the subject of this tale, lived in an age when no breast was actuated by these considerations, when man paid the most implicit obedience to the gilded trappings of royalty, when no such thing as civil or religious liberty existed.

No ray of light found entrance into his dismal cell: the wisdom of the contriver had situated it many yards beneath the surface of the earth. In one corner there had originally been placed a bundle of straw, which had served the purpose of a bed to many whom fate had singled out to pay with their lives the forfeit of their crimes; but nought now remained save here and there a scattering one. On his legs were bound enormous shackles, under the weight of which a Sampson would have groaned: nor were his hands exempt from the galling fetters—and as for his body, it was nearly cased in iron.—Unhappy victim of despotic cruelty!—

In this dungeon, until he had the “inestimable privilege of a trial by jury,” he was doomed to receive an earnest of what he was to expect. With a soul undaunted he patiently bore it all. Now and then his wife and helpless children would call for a tear of pity, which was all he could bestow. He would reflect on the crime he had committed; and discovered to what lengths misery would lead a man—to the commission of what in his cooler moments he would spurn from him with horror.

L. B.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening the 20th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Francis M‘Dole, of Brunswick, (N.J.) to Miss Diana Deas, of Princeton.

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. John Williams, to Miss Susan Bowden, both of this city.

On Sunday se’nnight, at Oyster Bay, (L.I.) by Stephen Frost, Esquire, Mr. John Merritt, formerly of Limerick, Ireland, to Miss Elizabeth Hawxhurst, daughter to Mr. Joseph Hawxhurst, of that place.

On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Rogers, Mr. James Concklin, to Mrs. Jane Stratton, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Uzal Ogden, Mr. Charles Gobert, Merchant, of this city, to Miss Charlotte Ogden, eldest daughter of Mr. Lewis Ogden.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Archibald M‘Williams, Grocer, late of the Albany Pier, to the amiable Miss Nancy Gooldsmith, a native of the Isle of Man.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Editors acknowledge the receipt of “Zulindus;” which shall appear in our next. We court the favors of those Correspondents who have heretofore expanded their hearts, expressive, by a love for supporting and promoting the assiduous endeavors of the proprietors of this useful and entertaining vehicle; and we rest in hope, that the warm rays of Aurora will have such an happy effect upon the intellectual mind, that we may witness, not only the fertile verdure of reviving nature, but the growing state of Literature, and the happy profusions of the Muse.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 30th ult. to the 6th 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 30 52 59 e.ne. cly. lt. wd.do. do. ra.

May 1 56 70 s.do. cloudy calmcl. lt. wd.

2 51 58 e.do. cloudy h. wd.ra. l. w.

3 42 47 nw.se. cloudy lt. w.do. do.

4 50 68 sw.nw. cloudy lt wd.clr do.

5 50 51 se.do. clr. calmcly. h. wd. ra.

6 51 68 nw.sw. clear lt. wd.do. do.

NEW MAY.

A PASTORAL.

LOVE.

LIFE.

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 17, 1797. [No. 98.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

It has often been made a question on my mind, Whether the multiplicity of books in circulation are an advantage or disadvantage to the morals of youth?—That every book ought to be investigated, and that with an impartial eye before we condemn it, is a fact incontestible. None but the prejudiced, the weak and the ignorant, will ever attempt to persuade youth from the pursuit of wisdom. A man possessed of the least spark of knowledge, would blush to advise others from the investigation of truth. That book has never yet been printed, which, when examined by the eye of reason and candor, did not contain something by which we may be profited. Yet, how numerous are they who will discard the writings of an author, merely because they have heard it was an improper book. How forcible is such reasonings! What will be the opinion of the rational part of the creation concerning such persons, if they argue with such inconsistency? Will they not justly conclude that a weak head, and unprincipled heart, guides their opinion? And while they continue thus to argue, they ought to reflect, if capable of reflection, that by condemning them without investigating one single principle whereby they may substantiate their charge, they expose themselves to censure and contempt. Thus we behold books too often branded with detestation, and consigned to oblivion, by those pests of society. For such they truly are, in my opinion, who have the audacity to persuade youth from a search after knowledge. Consider, O youth, that while you are obeying the dictates of these all-knowing men, you are sacrificing your own opinion at the shrine of ignorance. It is ignorance, united with impudence and conceit, that prompts them to trespass on your judgment. If they were duly to consider from what source their knowledge arises—if they would give themselves more time to reflect, and that with candor, they would find that all their profound search and erudition is nothing more than a “sounding brass or tinkling symbol.” And that as long as they suffer themselves to be led by the wrong principles which some of our ancestors imbibed, they will be considered as a mere BLANK in society.

I will readily admit, that there are books which, by a constant application to them, will corrupt and lead astray the minds of youth, whose principles are not fully established. Yet, are they to be prohibited from a perusal of those books? No!—But guard them well against the danger, and then let them examine such authors with attention and candor. Let their youthful minds bestow on them their just sentence. By being thus accustomed to judge for themselves, they will be able with clearness and precision to detect impostors, if any of that description should attempt to impose on their understandings. That they will have to combat with such characters at some period of their lives, is beyond a doubt, then being unprepared to answer them, will they not expose THEIR folly in obeying the dictates of men who were guided by self-conceited, superstitious, and bigotted principles. They are self-conceited, because THEIR knowledge is deemed by them to be superior to the rest of mankind; superstitious, because they worship as their gods a select number of books by which their rule of life is formed, and from which they dare not deviate, least they should by transgression seal their ruin; bigotted, because they are callous to the voice of reason, and determined to adhere to their own principles, however unfounded.—Such are the men to whose care the instruction of youth has been too often committed; and who, instead of expanding and cultivating their juvenile minds with useful knowledge, by a thorough investigation of every book, have bred them up in superstitious ignorance, preparing them for the reception of every vice, which finally proves their ruin.

ZULINDUS.

May 5, 1797

This article is listed in the Index under the name of the author, Zulindus.

AFFABILITY.

In order to render ourselves amiable in society, we should correct every appearance of harshness in our behaviour. That courtesy should distinguish our demeanor, which springs, not so much from studied politeness, as from a mild and gentle heart. We should follow the customs of the world in matters indifferent; but stop when they become sinful. Our manners ought to be simple and natural, and of course they will be engaging. Affectation is certain deformity—By forming themselves on fantastic models, and vying with one mother in every reigning folly, the young begin with being ridiculous, and end in being vicious and immoral.

THE

WANDERINGS OF THE IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 355.)

“The last expected vessels now arrived, and Scipio one morning, hastily entering my room, with a joyful countenance put a packet into my hands. It was from England, but the hand-writing, and seal, were unknown to me. I found it to be from a female distant relation of my wife’s who assured me that she wrote it at her desire, as she had not courage to expatiate on a subject, that she knew would be so contrary to my wishes. She proceeded to inform me, that the health of Mrs. S—— was very seriously affected; owing, in great measure, to the depression of her mind since my departure; that my little boy was recovering from the small-pox; and that these considerations rendered it impossible for her, with safety either to herself, or the child, to undertake the long voyage she had projected. She said she had found it necessary to remove to London, for the benefit of better advice than could be obtained in the country; and she mentioned a temporary lodging she had taken in the neighbourhood of Islington, till she should hear farther from me how to dispose of herself. Mrs. S—— added a few lines, by way of postscript, as a confirmation of the above, and desired I would write to her under cover to her relation, in whose neighbourhood she resided.

“I read—I paused over the letter; and every time my wild ideas hurried me beyond myself. At one moment, I believed her affections were estranged from me; that she no longer wished our re-union, but that indifference had taken place of that affection which it was the study of my life to cherish and improve. At another, I reproved myself for the ungrateful, the illiberal idea; and to that thought a still more poignant one succeeded. The knowledge I had of her tender mind next convinced me, that her condition was worse than it was described so me. I fancied her sinking under a load of grief, and on the point of death, while I, her friend, her natural protector, was far from her; and to this reflection Reason herself gave way. “Ah,” thought I, “how fatal has been my desertion of her; and what recompence could promotion, or wealth itself bestow on me, if purchased by the loss of a wife so tenderly beloved? She is at this moment suffering under the accumulated horrors of indigence and slighted affection; and shall I, on whom she has every claim of love and duty, suffer her to believe that the scorching sun of this unhealthy climate has had power to dry up in my heart the pure stream of unadulterated affection? Shall I contemplate her misery, and allow her to endure it? Ah, no! let me rather return to her as I am, unpatronized and unexpected;—share with her the scanty pittance acquired by honest integrity, and trust for the rest to that Providence, which will never forsake the pure in heart!”

“Full of these ideas, which were hardly formed before they were unalterably fixed, I waited on lord G—— and told him that letters I had just received demanded my quick return to England. I solicited him to accept my dismission. The perturbation of my mind was visible on my countenance. He looked attentively at me, expostulated on the folly of my conduct; but was soon convinced that advice and expostulation were equally thrown away on a man who sought no interest but his affections, and consulted no monitor but his heart. Finding at length that I was deaf to his remonstrances, he settled matters in due form; and wishing me a pleasant voyage politely, yet coolly, bade me adieu. I returned to my lodgings, which but a few days since I had taken delight in adorning for the reception of my Isabella. How sad, how solitary every object now appeared! The sight of numberless little ornaments, peculiar to the country, and which I had selected as from their novelty the most pleasing to her, now lost every charm, and to the affectionate, the grateful Scipio, I bequeathed them. I went, accompanied by him, to the house frequented by the English Captains, and soon settled an agreement with one of them. As I spoke to him, I observed the honest tear of sensibility steal down the polished cheek of the noble Ethiopian, which he wiped off with his hand, as if to upbraid it with divulging the secret of his heart. A few loose dollars remained in my possession, after I had settled my different accounts: I gave them to Scipio; but he disdainfully rejected them, and told me I robbed him of more than my money could purchase, when I robbed him of his friend! These were the sentiments of an untutored negro; a soul unpractised in the wiles of art. Alas, poor Scipio! Though many a year has revolved, since we parted: though many a moon has risen to renew the almost extinguished lamp of nature, since I witnessed in thee that purity of heart which nought but Heaven can bestow, still are thy virtues present to my mind, and still shall remembrance, sickening at the past, reflect on thee, with prayers for thy transition to those mansions, where innocence like thine can alone meet with its reward!”

The clocks from the neighbouring churches struck three; and vain were my solicitations to my unhappy friend, he could not be prevailed on to share my solitary meal: he abruptly left me, with a promise that he would continue his narrative of the following day.

CONTINUATION

OF THE

HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S——.

“In a short time I embarked for England. The weather for some time favoured us; at length the winds, as if conscious they were wafting me to misery, often swelled the reluctantly yielding waves, and hurried us back from our progression. In those hours when sorrow and vexation clouded the brows of the labouring mariners, impatient to reach their native shore, a heavy indifference to our destiny clung round my heart; a presentment of I knew not what blasted each rising hope; and I pondered on the easy transition from human woe, as I surveyed the fathomless gulph below me. Often did I rejoice, while the rough swell lifted us on high, that my Isabella was not exposed to those many dangers of the deep, which we feel but during the time we experience them. Among my few books, was Falconer’s immortal poem of “The Shipwreck.” I knew the superstition commonly attendant on sea-faring people, and I carefully concealed it from their observation. Often in the dead of night, when all were sleeping round me as if insensible to fear, I stole from my cabin, impressed by a far different impulse, and shared the midnight watch, while its appointed guardian sunk into the arms of happy, but forbidden rest.

At length we quietly reclined on the peaceful bosom of the venerable Thames. There, where no fears of faithless seas assailed us, my torpid mind roused itself into action, and awakening every restless faculty of my soul, suspended me between despair and hope. I eagerly jumped into the first boat that came near to us, and leaving every thing belonging to me on board. I took a post-chaise from Gravesend, where I landed, and ordering the driver to set me down at the direction I gave him to Islington, soon reached the abode of my new female correspondent. This person had seen me but once, and would then have scarcely recollected me, had not the wildness of my manner in enquiring for Mrs. S—— informed her who I was. She surveyed me with surprize and as I thought, embarrassment. I requested she would immediately conduct me to my wife’s lodgings, which she at first seemingly consented to; and then, as if recollecting herself, observed, that my sudden appearance might perhaps be too powerful for her newly-recovered health, and proposed my waiting there till she went herself and apprized her of it. I impatiently brooked this delay, yet submitted to it in consideration to my Isabella. She told me it was not more than ten minutes walk from her house; yet I passed near two hours alone in anxious expectation. It was at this time the latter end of September; and it was past eight in the evening when I had reached the house. The night was dark and gloomy; and as I stood immoveable at the little gate which bounded the small garden allotted to the habitation, I fancied that every hollow murmur of the wind responsively echoed to my heart, and sigh’d forth, “Isabella.” At length they came together; the sound of her voice still vibrates in my ear, as she faintly pronounced “Is it you?” The darkness of night prevented me from seeing her: I clasped her in my arms, and rushed with her into the house. I placed her on a chair, and by the light of the candle observed her features. Her person was much altered. She was become thin, and her countenance was overspread with a lived paleness. She burst into tears as she exclaimed, “Ah, Frederick, why, why did you leave me?” I intreated her to be composed under the certainty that we were met to part no more. I enquired for my boy, who was now in his eighth year. She told me he was placed at a boarding-school, but avoided making any farther mention of him. It grew late, and a small supper was set before us, after which I proposed our going home to her lodgings. To my unspeakable astonishment, she requested that I would not accompany her; and gave for reason that the people where she lodged, not knowing she expected me, might be alarmed at the appearance of a stranger being with her in the night-time. I however insisted, and she consented. Her house was indeed but a few paces from the one we had just quitted. Its first appearance struck me. It was fitted up in a style of expensive elegance; and on the side-board, on which was displayed a quantity of plate, were two salvers, engraved large enough to be perceived without very accurate observation, with the initials of her maiden name. I looked at her with speechless horror, as I stood transfixed to the spot. The powers of utterance were denied me, I gasped for breath. A loud rapping at the street door awakened my recollection, and Captain Nesbitt entered the room. He was in a state of inebriety, and the sight of me staggered him. “S———,” said he, as he impudently advanced to take my hand, “I have taken damn’d good care of your wife in your absence;” and then turning to his guilty partner, continued, “Isabella, hav’nt I?” At these words, affection, resentment, all seemed at the moment to die within my breast; I recollected only that I was in the presence of a woman—(and oh, Heaven, WHAT a woman)—I hastily turned to Captain Nesbitt, and enquired where on the following morning I could speak with him. He appointed the Bedford-arms, Covent-Garden, at two o’clock. I looked at Isabella, who did not attempt to speak, but seemed anxious only about her infamous lover.

“I hurried out of the house, scarcely knowing whither I went, and my steps almost involuntarily conducted me to the one we had left not an hour before. The little gate was locked, and I repeatedly, and in vain, called for admittance. At length an unknown female voice answered me from an upper window, and somewhat rudely requested my retreat. On my expostulating, and begging only three minutes conversation with the person I had supped with, she answered me that she was not to be disturbed; and that if I persisted in alarming the neighbourhood, she should put me in charge of the watch. With these words she shut the window, and I walked wherever chance directed me. I came to the door of a tavern, which stood half open, seeming to invite the weary traveller. Here I fixed my abode for the night; nor was it long before my excessive fatigue of mind and body threw me into a state of wished-for insensibility.”

[To be continued.]

ANECDOTE.

An Irish officer of dragoons, on the continent, on hearing that his mother had been married since he quitted Ireland, exclaimed—“By St. Patrick, there is that mother of mine married again, I hope she wont have a son older than me, for if she has I shall be cut out of my estate!”

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. III.

Men of tenacious memory, who retain information a week old, may recollect, in my last number, a portrait of Meander.—

Agreeably to a promissory note, given in a preceding essay, I now publish, from the diary of this fantastic wight, a selection, which, if judiciously improved, may sober giddy genius, may fix the volatile, and stimulate even Loungers.

MEANDER’s JOURNAL.

April 8, Monday.——Having lately quaffed plenteous draughts, of the dream of dissipation, I determine to bridle my fancy, to practice self-denial, to live soberly, and to study with ardor. That I may with ease discharge the various duties of the day, I propose, that “Strutting Chanticleer” and myself, should unroost at the same hour. With this resolve, I couple a determination, to study law with plodding diligence, and to make my profession, and a course of history, my capital objects.

Memorandum. Belles lettres must be considered a subaltern pursuit. If I rise at the dawn, and study jurisprudence till noon, I shall have the satisfaction to reflect, that I have discharged my legal duty for the day. This course, duly persisted in, will probably make me something more than a Tyro, in the language of the law. If I pour over my folios with the diligence I propose, I shall acquire, in Blackstone’s phrase, such a legal apprehension, that the obscurities, which at present confound me, will vanish, and my journey through the wilderness of law, will, paradventure become delectable.

Tuesday.—Overslept myself, did not rise till nine. Dressed, and went out, intending to go to the office; but, as the morning was uncommonly beautiful, I recollected an aphorism of Dr. Cheyne’s, that exercise should form part of a student’s religion. Accordingly, I rambled through the woods for two hours. The magic of rural scenes diverted Fancy, whom, on my return to the office, I wished to retire, that her elder sister, Judgment, might have an opportunity to hold a conference with the sage Blackstone: but, the sportive slut remained, dancing about, and I found my spirits so agitated, that, to calm them I took up a volume of plays, and read two acts in Centlivre’s Busy Body.

Afternoon, 2 o’clock.—Took up a folio, and began to read a British statute; meanwhile, I received a billet, importing that a couple of my college cronies were at a neighbouring inn, who wished me to make one of a select party. I complied. The sacrifices to Mercury and Bacchus, wore away the night, and it was day before I retired to the land of drowsy head, as Thompson quaintly expresses it.

Wednesday.—Rose at ten; sauntered to the office and gaped over my book. Low spirits and a dull morning, had raised such a fog around my brain, that I could hardly discern a sentiment. Opened a “dissertation on memory,” read till my own failed. I then threw away my book, and threw myself on the bed; I can’t tell how long I remained there, but, somebody shaking me by the shoulder, I opened my eyes and saw—the maid, who came to inform me it was 8 o’clock in the evening, and that coffee was ready.

Thursday.—Went out at seven, with a determination to attend to business; thought I might venture to call at a friend’s house; on my entrance saw a brace of beauties, whose smiles were so animating that they detained me, “charmed by witchery of eyes,” till noon. I returned to my lodgings, and finding my spirits too sublimated for serious study, I beguiled the remainder of the afternoon, by writing a sonnet to Laura.

Evening.—Lounged to my bookshelf, with an intent to open Blackstone, but made a mistake, and took down a volume of Hume’s History of England. Attention became quite engrossed by his narrative of the reign of Henry I. A versatile, brilliant genius, who blended in one bright assemblage, ambition, prudence, eloquence and enterprize; who received and merited, what I think, the most glorious of all titles, that of Beauclerc, or, the polite scholar. The formidable folios, which stood before me, seemed frowningly to ask, why I did not link to my ambition, that prudence, which formed part of Henry’s fame? The remorseful blush of a moment, tinged my cheek, and I boldly grasped a reporter; but, straightway recollecting, that I had recently supped, and that, after a full meal, application was pernicious to health, I adjourned the cause Prudence versus Meander, till morning.

Friday.—Rose at the dawn, which is the first time I have complied with my resolution, of unroosting with the cock. “Projecting many things, but accomplishing none,” is the motto to my coat of arms. Began my studies, nothing with nice care, the curious distinction in law, between general and special Tail; at length, I grew weary of my task, and thought with Shakespeare’s Horatio, that ’twere considering too curiously, to consider thus. Began to chat with my companions; we are, when indolent, ever advocates for relaxation; but, whether an attorney’s office is the place, where idling should be tolerated, is a question, which I do not wish to determine in the negative. Finished my morning studies with “Hafen Shawkenbergius’s tenth decad.”

Afternoon.—Did nothing very busily till four. Seized with a lethargic yawn, which lasted till seven, when a dish of coffee restored animation, and on the entrance of a friend, fell into general conversation; made a transition to the scenes of our boyish days, and till midnight, employed memory in conjuring up to view, the shades of our departed joys.

Saturday.—Slept but little, last night. My imagination was so busy in castle building, that she would not repose. Dreamed that Lord Coke threw his “Institute” at me. Rose at nine, looked abroad; and the atmosphere being dusky, and my spirits absent on furlough, felt unqualified for reading. For several days there has been a succession of gloomy skies. The best writers affirm that such weather is unfriendly to menial labour. The poet says

Took up a magazine, which I carefully skimmed but obtained no cream. Cracked, in the Dean of St. Patrick’s phrase, a rotten nut, which cost me a tooth and repaid me with nothing but a worm.—Breakfasted; reflected on the occurrences of the week. In the drama of my life, procrastination, and indolence, are the principal actors. My resolutions flag, and my studies languish. I must strive to check the irregular sallies of fancy. I never shall be useful to others, till I have a better command of myself. Surely one, abiding in the bowers of ease, may improve, if industry be not wanting. Alfred could read and write, eight hours every day, though he fought fifty six pitched battles, and rescued a kingdom; and Chatterton, the ill-fated boyish bard, composed, though cramped by penury, poems of more invention than many a work which has been kept nine years and published at a period of the ripest maturity. When I fly from business, let ambition, therefore, think on, and practice these things. I determine, next week, to effect an entire revolution in my conduct, to form a new plan of study, and to adhere to it with pertinacity. As this week is on the eve of expiration, it would be superfluous to sit down to serious business. I therefore amused myself, by dipping into Akenside’s “Pleasures of Imagination;” read till five, visited a friend, and conversed with him till midnight; conversation turned on propriety of conduct, for which I was a strenuous advocate—* * * * * * *

Here the journal of Meander was abruptly closed. I was curious to learn in what manner he employed his week of reformation. On the ensuing Monday he grew weary of his books; instead of mounting Pegasus, and visiting Parnassus, he actually strode a hack-horse of mere mortal mould, and, in quest of diversion, commenced a journey. He was accompanied, not by the muses, but by a party of jocund revellers; and prior to my friend’s departure, the last words he was heard so say, or rather roar, were the burden of a well known anacreontic “dull thinking will make a man crazy.”

The character and journal of Meander scarcely need a commentary. There shall be none. I was not born in Holland, and only Dutchmen, are qualified to write notes. But I will make an apostrophe.

Ye tribe of Mercurealists! in the name of prudence, avoid eccentricity; expand not your fluttering pinions; trudge the foot-way path of life; dethrone Fancy and crown Common Sense. Let each one seek and fulfil his daily task, “one to his farm and another to his merchandize.”

ANECDOTES.

A worthy Clergyman belonging to a parish in New-England, had the misfortune to have a son of a flighty and wild disposition: altho’ many were the pious admonitions of the virtuous father to bring his son’s remissness into subordination with his own, he had to lament that his injunctions and assiduous endeavours were fruitless, and far from being productive of the desired end.—His son’s heart was so averse to solemnity, that he could not contain himself at the time of worship, and he was often so overstocked with frivolity and his mischievous humor, that his father often noticed it, while preaching, with much regret—and concluded upon harsher means than he had before used to bring his son to better subjection.—The next sabbath he confined him to his house, and proceeded to church with the rest of his family, consisting of his wife, two daughters, and his old negro Tone:—the service being nearly half performed, and the pastor speaking with much fervency to his crouded audience, his voice was all at once drowned by a sudden and tremendous burst of laughter, from all parts of the church, which confounded him.—This laughter was occasioned by the sudden entrance of his favorite old dog, who always placed himself next the pulpit door, in full view of the audience; he now appeared decorated in an old gown and wig powdered and tied on with much taste, which occasioned such loud peals of laughter, that he with difficulty obtained an explanation in ten or fifteen minutes. Old Tone, who seemed to be more in a state of reserve than any other, cried out from the gallery in great earnestness—“Massa, Massa! ony you look at our Tray, den you se what ma-ke dem laff!”—The parson opening the pulpit door, the old dog immediately ascended to him, and was so profuse with his caresses, that the pastor could scarcely dismiss his congregation.

Christina, the Swedish Queen, never wore a night-cap, but always wrapped her head in a napkin. In order to amuse her during her sleepless nights, after having been indisposed the preceding days, she ordered music to be performed near her bed, the curtain of which was entirely closed.

Transported at length with the pleasure she received from a particular passage in the music, she hastily put her head out of bed, and exclaimed. “How well he sings!” The poor Italian singers, who are in general not remarkable for bravery, were so much frightened by her voice, and the sudden appearance of such an extraordinary figure, that they became at once dumb and stupified, and the music immediately ceased.

COLLINS’s MONUMENT.

A Monument of most exquisite workmanship has been lately erected at Chichester, by public subscription, to the memory of the poet Collins, who was a native of that city, and died in a house adjoining to the Cloisters. He is finely represented, as just recovering from a wild fit of phrenzy, to which he was unhappily subject, and in a calm and reclining posture seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the divine consolations of the Gospel; while his lyre, and one of the first of his poems, lie neglected on the ground. Above are two beautiful figures of Love and Pity, entwined in each other’s arms. The whole is executed by the ingenious Mr. Flaxman, lately returned from Rome. The following elegant epitaph is written by Mr. Hayley—

The HISTORY of ANTIOCHUS and STRATONICE.

Antiochus, a Prince of great hopes, fell passionately in love with the young Queen Stratonice who was his mother-in-law, and had bore a son to the old King Seleuchus his father. The Prince finding it impossible to extinguish his passion, fell sick, and refused all manner of nourishment, being determined to put an end to that life which was become insupportable.

Erasistratus, the physician, soon found that love was his distemper; and observing the alteration in his pulse and countenance, whensoever Stratonice made him a visit, was soon satisfied that he was dying for his young mother-in-law. Knowing the old King’s tenderness for his son, when he one morning inquired of his health, he told him, that the Prince’s distemper was love; but that it was incurable, because it was impossible for him to possess the person whom he loved. The King, surprised at this account, desired to know how his son’s passion could be incurable? Why, sir, replied Erasistratus because he is in love with the person I am married to.

The old King immediately conjured him, by all his past favours, to save the life of his son and successor. Sir, said Erasistratus, would your majesty but fancy yourself in my place, you would see the unreasonableness of what you desire. Heaven is my witness, said Seleuchus, I could resign even my Stratonice to save my Antiochus. At this the tears began to run down his cheeks, which when the physician saw, taking him by the hand, sir, says he, if these are your real sentiments, the prince’s life is out of danger; it is Stratonice for whom he dies. Seleuchus immediately gave orders for solemnizing the marriage; and the young Queen to shew her obedience, very generously exchanged the father for the son.

DESCRIPTION OF A WONDERFUL CAVERN IN UPPER HUNGARY.

Near Strelitz, an inconsiderable village in Upper Hungary, is a most wonderful cavern, in the middle of a large mountain. The aperture which fronts the south, is eighteen fathoms high, and eight broad; and consequently wide enough to receive the south wind, which generally blows here with great violence. Its subterraneous passages consist entirely of solid rock, stretching away farther south than has yet been discovered. As far as it is practicable to go to, the height is found to be fifty fathoms, and the breadth twenty-six. But the most unaccountable singularity in the cavern is, that in the heart of winter, the air is warm on the inside; and when the heat of the sun without is scarce supportable, is freezing cold within. When the snows melt in the spring, the inside of the cave, where the surface is exposed to the south sun, it emits a pellucid water, which congeals immediately as it drops, by the extreme cold, the icicles are of the bigness of a large cask; and, spreading into ramifications, form very odd figures: the very water that drops from the icicles on the ground, which is sandy, freezes in an instant. It is observable also, that the greater the heat is without, the more intense is the cold within; and in the dog-days, all parts are covered with ice. In autumn, when the nights grow cold, and the diurnal heats abate, the ice in the cave begins to dissolve, insomuch, that by winter no more ice is to be seen, the cavern then becomes perfectly dry and of a mild warmth. At this time it is surprising to see the swarms of flies and gnats, also bats and owls, and even of hares and foxes, that make this place their winter retreat, till in the beginning of spring, it again grows too cold for them.

Original: A New System of Geography (volume 2 of 6: Hungary, Turkey, Spain etc.) by A. F. Busching, pg. 62-63 under Szélitze.

Translation: Murdoch 1762.

Possible Sources: Town and Country Magazine, 1769. Weekly Miscellany, March 31, 1777.

Notes: The site is in modern Slovakia, 5 miles west of “Caschaw” (Ger. Kaschaw) or “Cassovia” (Kassa, Košice).

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening the 7th instant, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. Samuel Thompson, to Miss Mary Winkfield, both of this city.

On Monday evening the 8th instant, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Lieutenant Robert Long, of his Britannic Majesty’s 17th regiment, to the amiable Miss Jane Byron, lately from Ireland.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Livingston, the Rev. John B. Johnson, of Albany, to Miss Betsey Lufton, of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Mr. William Huthwaite, to Miss Eliza Ryder, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 7th to the 13th inst.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

deg.100 deg.100

May 7 55 59 w.do. clear calmdo. h. wd. ra.

8 42 57 w.do. clear h. wd.do. do.

9 44 55 nw.do. clear lt. wd.cly. h. do.

10 50 70 s.sw. cloudy lt. w.clear do.

11 55 75 sw.s. clear h. wd.do. lt. do.

12 55 64 se.e. cloudy lt. w.do. do. ra.

13 56 69 w.sw. clear lt. wd.do. do.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE TOMB OF GENERAL WAYNE.

HERE LIES Beneath this noble tent Fitting for nobler enterprize; With nothing less than Heaven content: Waiting (while ordered out again) Till trumpets bid him rise, To join the armies of the skies. IMMORTAL GENERAL WAYNE, Tho’ here At winter quarters, His warlike corps remain, Tho’ Death, that monarch grim, A prisoner made of him, His gallant enterprising soul Is on parole, Viewing each heav’nly plain, Where he Must shortly be With Indian Chiefs in Unity, His next Campaign.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CHOICE.

On a Gentleman who expended his Fortune in Horse-Racing.

ELEGY ON A GREY SQUIRREL,

BARBAROUSLY MURDERED BY A CAT, JUNE 17th, 1783.

Longum, formose, vale, vale.—Virgil.

A very palatable RECEIPT, to soften the hardest FEMALE HEART.

ON A HASTY MARRIAGE.

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 Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, May 24, 1797. [No. 99.

ON LITERARY PURSUITS.

In every duty, in every science in which we would wish to arrive at perfection, we should propose for the object of our pursuit some certain station even beyond our abilities; some imaginary excellence, which may amuse and seem to animate our enquiry. In deviating from others in following an unbeaten road, though we perhaps may never arrive at the wished-for object, yet it is possible we may meet several discoveries by the way; and the certainty of small advantages, even while we travel with security, is not so amusing as the hopes of great rewards by which the adventurer is inspired.

This enterprising spirit is, however, by no means the character of the present age; every person who should now have received opinions, who should attempt to be more than a commentator upon philosophers, or an imitator in polite learning, might be regarded as a chimerical projector. Hundreds would be ready not only to point out his errors, but to load him with reproach. Our probable opinions are now regarded as certainties; the difficulties hitherto undiscovered, as utterly inscrutable; and the writers of the last age inimitable, and therefore the properest models for imitation.

One might be almost induced to deplore the philosophic spirit of the age, which, in proportion as it enlightens the mind, increases its timidity, and represses the vigour of every undertaking. Men are more content with being prudently in the right, which, though not the way to make new acquisitions, it must be owned, is the best method of securing what we have. Yet this is certain, that the writer who never deviates, who never hazards a new thought, or a new expression, though his friends may compliment him upon his sagacity, though Criticism lifts her feeble voice in his praise, will seldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The way to acquire lasting esteem, is not by the fewness of a writer’s faults, but the greatness of his beauties, and our noblest works are generally most replete with both.

An author, who would be sublime, often runs his thoughts into burlesque; yet I can readily pardon his mistaking sometimes for once succeeding. True genius walks along a line, and, perhaps, our greatest pleasure is in seeing it often near falling, without being ever actually down.

Every science has its hitherto undiscovered mysteries, after which men should travel undiscouraged by the failure of former adventurers. Every new attempt serves, perhaps, to facilitate its future invention. We may not find the philosopher’s stone, but we shall, probably, hit upon new inventions in pursuing it. We shall, perhaps, never be able to discover the longitude, yet, perhaps, we may arrive at new truths in the investigation.

Were any of these sagacious minds among us, (and surely no nation, no period could ever compare with us in this particular,) were any of these minds, I say, who now sit down contented with exploring the intricacies of another’s system, bravely to shake off admiration, and undazzled with the splendor of another’s fame, to chalk out a path to renown for themselves, and boldly to cultivate untried experiments, what might not be the result of their enquiries, should the same study that has made them wise, make them enterprizing also? What could not such qualities, united, produce?

Projectors in a state are generally rewarded above their merit; projectors in the republic of letters, never. If they are wrong, every dunce thinks himself entitled to laugh at their disappointment; if they are right, men of superior talents think their honour engaged to oppose, as every new discovery is a tacit diminution of their own pre-eminence.

To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends, and our all must be ventured: by aiming only at mediocrity, we run no risque, and we do little when prudence and greatness are ever persuading us to contrary pursuits. The one instructs us to be content with our station, and to find happiness in setting bounds to every wish. The other impels us to superiority, and calls nothing felicity but rapture. The one directs us to follow mankind, and to act and think with the rest of the world; the other drives us from the croud, and exposes us as a mark to all the shafts of envy or ignorance.

The rewards of mediocrity are immediately paid; those attending excellence generally paid in reversion. In a word, the little mind which loves itself, will write and think with the vulgar, but the great mind will be bravely eccentric, and scorn the beaten road, from universal benevolence.

THE

WANDERINGS OF THE IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 363.)

CONCLUSION

OF THE

HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S——.

“Various are the stages of human woe; and long is the catalogue of mental miseries!—A load of grief, so new, so unexpected, burst with the early dawn on my distracted senses, and awakened them to everlasting wretchedness.

“The next morning I went to the Bedford, and enquired for Captain Nesbitt. The waiter told me he was not there, but asked my name, and said he had a letter for me. I opened it, and read as follows.

“SIR,

“As our meeting might be attended with disagreeable consequences to both, you must not be surprized at my declining it. I have but executed the commission with which you intrusted me, and at which you seem highly offended. As I am going to leave town immediately, I must beg leave to postpone till my return any thing you must have to communicate; and remain,

“Sir,

“Your humble servant,

“James Nesbitt.”

“I pocketed the infamous scrawl, as I shuddered at the depravity of human nature. My wife, (why cannot I blot out the dear, the sacred appellation?) was still wound about my heart, nor could I attempt to slacken, without breaking its every string. Worthless, yet still beloved woman, was it for this that I crossed the seas? for this that I submitted to an odious stigma cast upon my conduct, degrading even in idea to the character of an officer, and a gentleman?—for this that I renounced every hope of future advancement?—Cruel, cruel Isabella! Better could I behold thee dead; for what can life be to those who have broken every tie of duty, every claim to the purest affections that can ennoble the intellectual being?

“In a fit of frenzy, I flew to her lodgings. A fond, foolish hope to reclaim her, and a wish to see my still innocent child, led me beyond the bounds of prudence. She had quitted the house, and the people could not, or would not, inform me whither she was gone. I found by them, that they knew her only by the name of her seducer; and that my boy, whom they called by the same name, had accompanied his mother. My next enquiry was at the house of her relation; she had also left town, as they said, for some months.

“I returned to the Bedford-Arms, and hastily scrawled an incoherent letter, which I left in charge of the waiter there: he unwillingly took it, under pretence that Captain Nesbitt seldom came to their house, and it was uncertain when he might see him again. It ran as follows.

“SIR,

“If your heart is not callous to every feeling of social humanity, let me implore you to pity as a man, the distresses to which you have reduced me. You are young, but let me hope you are not a determined villain. A time may perhaps arrive, when you will feel, like me, WHAT IT IS to be a Husband, and a Father!—The opinion of the World is of little import to those, who, blessed with conscious rectitude, can defy its malice.

“Restore my wife—restore my child—I will receive her once more, as the first, best gift of Heaven; and her errors shall be blotted from the tablets of my memory. Let me conjure you, Sir, to be the friend of this unhappy woman; point out to her the path, of duly; and if you have any real affection for her, make the sacrifice of it to her honour, and future peace. As you deal by her, may Heaven, in justice, deal by you!

“I take this method of addressing you, in preference to that which a man of the World might think more consistent with my situation, under the present circumstances; but I feel, while I am writing it, that I am no coward, and that were human miseries to be extinguished only in blood, the last drop of mine should be spilt to save her from perdition.

“Your answer I shall most anxiously wait for at the Gloucester Coffee-house, Piccadilly, from the hour of twelve, every morning, till I receive it.

“I am, Sir,

“Your’s, &c.

“Frederick S———.”

“I waited two days at the Coffee-house without hearing from him. I impatiently counted every minute, and anticipated the transition from deep despondency to transcendant joy. I called for coffee, read, or seemed to read, the papers of the day; and my heart beat at the shadow of every object I saw approaching towards the house.

“It was near one on the third morning before I heard any tidings interesting to myself. A waiter then came forward, with a smile, and told me that a Gentleman enquired for me. Half breathless, I desired him to be admitted; my trembling limbs could scarcely support me as he entered, and I begged him to be seated. I asked him if he came from Captain Nesbitt? He answered in the affirmative, and I attempted to close the door; but he desired to admit his friend; and then informed me that he was the bearer of a writ against me, in the name of Captain James Nesbitt, to whom I stood indebted for the sum of two hundred pounds, for money lent me by him in the West-Indies.

“I knew full well that a gambling debt was not by law recoverable; but my heart recoiled at the idea of contesting it, and I determined immediately to extricate myself, however inconvenient. My stock of money was reduced to four hundred and seventy pounds. I paid out of it the debt and costs, which were no small augmentation. I hired a retired lodging, and resolved to wait as patiently as I could, the result of an event which had robbed me of every terrestrial joy. Here I lived many months, with sober, well-disposed people, but gained no intelligence of those for whose sake alone I still continued to drag on the load of heavy existence.

“I was one morning surprized by the entrance of an attorney, who produced me two bills; the one for a hundred and twenty pounds, which debt, he said, had been contracted by Mrs. S——— for board and lodging; the other, for twenty-five guineas for one quarter’s schooling and masters for my boy.

“I candidly declared to him my situation, and my inability to satisfy these demands; the consequence of which was an immediate arrest; and I was hurried from my peaceful chamber to the loathsome place appropriated in Newgate for debtors. Here I pined in misery and want. The course language of my fellow-prisoners, whose hearts seemed hardened in proportion to their necessities, offended, and disgusted me. I soon after heard that Lord G—— was arrived in England. I wrote to him, and he sent a servant to me with momentary relief. Obligation was new to me. Insensibly, and actuated more by despair than choice, I joined my companions; and the sight of a few guineas rejoicing them, I proposed our sharing them together. The sum was not sufficient to relieve me materially; and as the die of misery was cast, I endeavoured to dissipate its calamity: I drank—I laughed—I joined in their vulgar jokes, and for a while forgot myself. With the morning, rejected reason returned, but vanished as my companions of the time approached me.

“I passed near two years in this state of mental horror, when I was unexpectedly relieved from it by the commiserating heart of the then Sheriff, Mr. P. L—— M——. To that Gentleman it is not necessary to be personally known. His urbanity, his feelings do so much honour to human Nature, that she is compelled to acknowledge him her master-piece. In him the poor find a protector; the oppressed, a friend. That Gentleman saw, heard my story, and pitied me. His heart and purse were equally opened; and he seemed to satisfy the one, while he bountifully took from the other. I endeavoured to evince my gratitude; but the manly tear glistened in his eye, and I buried it in my heart. I returned to the house where I had lodged, forlorn and desolate, and took possession of the garret over my former apartment.

“I had not been there many days, before the Gentleman above-mentioned condescended to visit me. He was attended by his lawyer, who had been, by his directions, with Mrs. S——. He found her, surrounded by affluence; the new, but acknowledged favourite of the French Duke de ——. She was regardless of my situation, insensible to my misery; yet he prevailed on her, partly by intreaty, and partly by threats, in my name, of appropriating her property, to sign an instrument, which he had prepared, and which was a mutual release from all pecuniary matters between us. Nor did the generosity of my noble friend stop here: he hastily slipped into my hand a twenty-five pound note, and hurried down stairs, as if fearful to receive the bare acknowledgment of obligations which can never, never be repaid!

“Fortune seemed at this time anxious to make me amends for the many injuries with which she had lately overwhelmed me. The relation, to whom I had stood indebted for my commission, and who had left unanswered all the letters I had written to him, now sent for me. He received me with coldness, bordering on displeasure; and I briefly related to him my whole story. Ah, what a world of light did this meeting cast over my bewildered mind!—He was a very old man, who had been confined some years to his house by various bodily infirmities; and to such, the plausible appearance of youth and beauty in distress, is peculiarly interesting. I found he had received frequent visits from Mrs. S———, and had materially assisted her. Her attentions secured to her his friendship; and she had art enough to persuade him, that my conduct in the West-Indies had been such as to-forfeit every claim to his protection. She assured him, that my commission had been sold to discharge various gambling debts contracted there. This cruel, this unprecedented injury, soon, however, retorted on herself; and as “foul deeds WILL rise,” I was indebted to her for the vindication of my own character, and the total overthrow of that of my unnatural accuser.

“My uncle (for by that name I shall henceforth distinguish him) had found an uncommon affection for my child, who frequently accompanied his mother in her visits to him. He had been well tutored by her how to answer any questions that might be put to him; yet where there was no suspicion, there could be little danger. Mrs. S—— had constantly assured the old gentleman that she boarded at the house of the relation where I had first seen her. He found himself one day very ill, and was desirous of the company of his little favourite. His housekeeper, whom many years service, and the solitude of her master’s life, had placed on a footing that fell little short of being mistress of his house, was the person whom he dispatched for the child: she was nearly as old and infirm as her master; and as her walks had for several years extended no farther than to and from the adjacent chapel every Sunday morning, she could have wished to evade his proposal of shaking her ancient bones in a hackney-coach, and would gladly have had the commission devolve on the foot-boy, who, with herself, composed the whole of his household establishment. But her master, though a very good man, was a very peremptory one, and she dared not risk his displeasure by a refusal. Mrs. Wilmot accordingly equipped herself in her Sunday gown and cloak, and desiring the coachman to drive very gently over the stones, she sallied forth in quest of the little Frederick; for whom she also, after the example of her master, felt more than an usual affection.”

(To be continued.)

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. IV.

Among the high privileges, which we digressive writers enjoy, may be reckoned that which Don Quixote gave his horse, to choose a path and pursue it at pleasure. In another point there is an affinity between us and that errant steed, so renowned in the volumes of Cervantic chivalry. When we begin an excursion, the Lord only knows how it will be prosecuted, or where it will end. Whim and caprice being commonly our guides, and those personages never keeping in their almanack a list of stages, we are sometimes most sadly benighted. As this is my day for similitudes, I stop not here; having so modestly compared myself and other ramblers to a quadruped, I will descend still lower into “the valley of humiliation,” and liken them to an insect, which is a spider. Though their stock is confessedly small, they have the art of drawing out a most lengthy texture. Thus an essayist, conscious of the scantiness of his stores, handles a topic as a farmer’s wife manages her annual pound of bohea, in such a manner as to make it last.

When I began my second speculation with some general remarks on the utility of an alliance between application and genius, I little thought that I should quit my sober task, and commence character painter. When Fancy handed me a pencil, and bade me sketch the likeness of Meander, I had no design to ransack his room, or transcribe his diary; and lastly, when the journal was published, I tremblingly thought I had said too much, and dreaded lest my readers should complain that they were surfeited by the Farrago. But they who are even tinged with the metaphysical doctrine of ideas flowing in a train, will not be confounded, though they see another speculation rising from the last, when I narrate the following incident. A friend who had attentively gazed at the portrait of Meander, saw me the day after its exhibition. So, Mr. Delineator, cries he, must you become a dauber in caricature? One so fond of the zigzag walk in life as you, is hardly entitled to ridicule deviation in another. I blushed; and the suffusion, like Corporal Trim’s bow, spoke as plainly as a blush could speak, “my man of remark, you are perfectly sage in your opinion.” This trivial circumstance led me to reflect, first on my own inconsistency, and next on that of others. By exposing the rambles of genius I virtually made proclamation for dissipation to depart, but she taxed me with issuing contradictory orders, and pertinently asked how she could go into exile, when I insisted on her keeping me company? I then looked on my neighbours. Their characters were similar to mine, and they wore not the uniform of regularity more than myself. Celia, who murders reputations, as “butcher felleth ox” pronounced, t’other day at a tea-table, a most bitter invective against scandal, though five minutes before she had invented a tale of calumny against her friend. Vafer censorially cautions a young gallant to beware an indulgence of the licentious passion, but forgets, while reading his lecture, that he once was amorous, that he solicited the virgin and the wife, and that, unsatisfied with the ordinary mysteries of intrigue, he elaborately refined on the system of seduction. Vinoso, whose face is as red-lettered as the court calendar, and who makes his Virginia fence at nine in the morning, applauds a very heavy excise on distilled spirits, and zealously damns every drunkard in the nation. Bobbin the haberdasher, who in vending a row of pins, defrauds the heedless customer of four, and who, when furnishing the village lass, with a set of apron-strings, pilfers from her a portion of the tape, exclaims against a vinter for adulterating his liquors, and wittily wonders, that he can adopt the Christian scheme so far, as to baptize even his wine. Messalina, whole chastity is valiant as a holiday Captain because no enemy is at hand, and who produced a lovely pair of twins six months before marriage, frowns at the forwardness of young flirts; and a decayed maiden, “far gone in her wane, Sir,” who has been but twenty these ten years, and who has more wrinkles in her forehead, than dimples on her chin, even she scoffs the vestal sisterhood, and turns up her note at the staleness of antiquated virginity.

In literature, as well as in life, we may recongnize this propensity. Authors are noted for inconsistence. Instances might be selected from almost every writer in our language. Pope, in conjunction with Arbuthnot and Swift, composed a satirical treatise, the design of which was, to lash his poetical brethren for attempting to soar, when their wings only served them to sink. Yet Pope, after some fine panegyrical verses upon Lord Mansfield, fell from a noble height of poetry to the very bottom of the bathos, by concluding his eulogy with the following feeble lines,

Surely this was as risible a couplet of anticlimax, as the distich the bard ridicules, by merely quoting it,

In the works of Swift, who omits no opportunity of damning dullness, may be found some compositions where the disappointed reader, instead of being dazzled with the gleam of fancy, sorrowing sees nothing but the vapid insipidity of a poet laureat’s ode, and eagerly inquires if it be upon record, that Swift ever studied the sing song of Cibber. Knox, a modern and, as he in his wisdom thinketh, a classic writer, censures, in one of his essays, the bombastic style; yet, were his own effusions arraigned in the court of criticism, they would, without any peradventure, be found guilty of turgidity. This pragmatical critic, who heated by high-church zeal, gives Gibbon to the Devil, and his writings to Lethe, presumptuously condemns that elegant historian for super-abundance of epithet, though a reader of Knox would suppose that the favourite page of this pedagogue’s grammar was that which contained the declension and variation of adjectives. Dr. Beattie, in the warmth of his wishes to promote social benevolent affections, almost hates the man, who practices not philanthropy. Rocked in the cradle of the kirk, and implicitly believing all that the nurse and priest had taught him, this presbyterian zealot declaims in terms so acrimonious against the sceptics of the age, that one is led to think his “milk of human kindness,” had became sour by the means he employed to preserve it.