VOLUME II. (continued 23)

Juvenal, the ancient satyrist, in one of his virulent attacks on the reigning Roman follies, avers that the most profligate of the senate were invariably strenuous advocates for a revival and execution of the obsolete rigid laws against debauchery. The indignant poet declares that if such glaring inconsistencies continue, none could be astonished should Clodius commence railer against libertines, and Cataline be first to impeach a conspirator. Were a name-sake of this bard to arise, I should tremble for the sect of modern inconsistents. He might brandish the lance of satire against such characters with more justice, though perhaps with less dexterity, than his classic predecessor. The field of foibles and follies is so fully ripe, that some one should put in the sickle. In this field appears, and will again appear, a labourer, who though aukward, may be useful, and who will be “worthy of his hire,” if he cut up nothing but tares.

A LETTER OF EXPOSTULATION TO A LADY ON HER MARRIAGE.

Your passion, my dear Mrs. ***, was to be rich, you married a man you despised, and whose intrinsic worth is centured in his wealth: which gave charms even to deformity, transformed Hymen into Mammon, and the god of love into a satyr. Content yourself then with wealth, enjoy it, cultivate your taste for those advantages it can produce; and let these console you for the loss of every thing you have sacrificed for it. Have recourse to the principles of your determination: you had other offers: you have therefore examined, compared, chosen, and regretted. Be firm to this decision of your own judgment, and do not act inconsistently, by repining that you do not possess what you did not purchase. If the vices, if the follies of your husband, should become every day more and more intolerable to you, it will be in vain to regret the tranquility, the peace, the tender affection, endearing attention, or confidential intercourse, which might have distinguished your days, had you been united to a man of merit. In the height of your despair, you exclaim! “Was it for this, my amiable mother nurtured me with such care, and cultivated in me, every idea replete with honour, enlivened by sentiment, and corrected with tenderness? Alas! these embellishments do now but add to my misery, in rendering me more sensible of the wretchedness of my state. The man I am chained to, is so far from possessing sensibility or taste, that he is dead to every impression of merit; and modesty, which might have endeared me to a man of delicacy, renders me hateful to this libertine; who by the indecency of his discourse, is continually offending against the sensations of a virtuous mind. While I regret the loss of intellectual enjoyment, my regret is strengthened by the direful effects of its privation on him. Mutual esteem is as necessary in a married state, as mutual affection; neither of which I enjoy. What is pomp, equipage, or splendor, compared with such seraphic sensations dwelling in the human heart? Will the blaze of diamonds atone for the deficiency of this passion? Will the gold of Ophir, melted into one mass, weigh against the raptures of uniting hearts, warmed with sentiment and truth?”

As this man’s character was known before you married him, can you have now any just reason of complaint, especially as you have not even the excuse of partiality to plead for his person? Recollect your own sordid selfish views; prevailing passion has been gratified, and you will pardon me, for questioning whether you would relinquish the advantages of your wealth, to be restored again to your liberty. Miss Aikin favours us with the following passage from one of Lucian’s dialogues. “Jupiter complains to Cupid, that though he had so many intrigues, he was never sincerely beloved: in order to be beloved, says Cupid, you must lay aside your ægis and your thunderbolts; you must curl and perfume your hair, place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume a winning obsequious deportment.” “But replied Jupiter, I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity.” “Then, returns Cupid, leave off desiring to be loved.” He wanted to be Jupiter and Adonis at the same time: as you to be rich and happy. What right had you to expect that a miracle was to be performed in your favour? You knew well that the wretch to whom you have allied yourself, forsook humanity, and every genial feeling of an upright and honest heart, in the acquisition of that fortune, which you wished to possess, and have obtained, and which has since pampered the vices which disgust you. If he enumerates the spoils of his victories in ——, are they not covered with the blood of the vanquished? Did he give peace and happiness to the conquered? Did he accept the gifts of their princes, to use them for the comfort of those whose fathers, sons, or husbands, were massacred? Did he use his power to gain security and freedom to the regions of oppression and slavery? Did he endear the American name by examples of generosity? Did he return with the consciousness of his duty discharged to his country, and humanity to his fellow-creatures? If he was deficient in all this, what manner of right had you to expect tenderness and affection from him? You might with the same propriety look for the sensitive plant in a bed of nettles, and then complain you are stung by them. But you need not be upbraided for the folly of your election, since your own experience is but too severe a monitor. Debasement is the child of pride. All that remains for you now, is to render yourself as easy as possible; it is your duty to soothe the melancholy disposition your husband will be in (when alone) from a recollection of his crimes. Perhaps, by using your influence judiciously, you may yet have it in your power to humanize his passions, and refine his pleasures: but your good sense will tell you that there is so much pride interwoven in the heart of man, that his obstinacy will never condescend to receive any more than a hint from a wife. A husband is more likely to be praised into virtue, than rallied out of vice; and the most essential point in the art of leading others, is to conceal from them that they are led at all. If he reforms, and thinks the world gives him the credit of it, in a short time he will believe it proceeded from his own will and inclinations, which will insure his constancy in it. Every method is laudable on your part, to reclaim your husband, except an affectation of fondness for him: this would be a profanation of love: and a woman capable of such abject deceit, I should look upon as capable of the most determined baseness. If his crimes have hardened him, it will be in vain for you to attempt his reformation: but while you lament his depravity, you are left at liberty to spend your own time as you think proper. The gratifications of society, and the secrecy of solitude, are now equally in your power; please yourself and be content. If gaiety and dissipation are your pursuits, it cannot be denied that they are slight counterpoises for domestic felicity: but as the latter is entirely out of your reach, you should endeavour to make yourself easy. It is your own judgment alone that must lead you to obtaining that tranquility, which you may possibly find in the exulting joy of succouring virtue in distress, merit in indigence and obscurity; in wiping tears from the eyes of affliction, and in making the widow’s heart leap for joy. The serene complacency which springs in a good mind, on the exertion of benevolent principles, cannot be described; like the peace of God, it passeth knowledge. The poet says,

Thus you may evince the reality of your feelings, whilst it is in vain for others in less affluent circumstances to manifest their benevolence as they wish. Thus also, may you turn your husband’s (ill-acquired) perishable goods of fortune, into real blessings.

Wealth not only gilds the present moments as they pass; but like the sun, constantly supplies those rays which cherish all on whom they fall, and constitute an uninterrupted series of felicity in the bosom of that person from whom they proceed: whilst, on the contrary, the weight of poverty not only distresses a person for the present, but may perhaps prevent him from emerging into happiness, and others from participating of that benevolence, which warrants the means of exemplifying its sincerity. What must the poor man suffer, when the eye of friendship becomes inverted by his misfortunes in the world, and where he looks in vain around him for the benevolence of sympathy, and the consolations of human attachment!

I am, &c.

E. C.

LEVITIES.

At a late celebration of the marriages of two gentlemen, the company being large, respectable, and persons of considerable influence, a motion was made, and unanimously voted, That all Bachelors of the age of thirty, and upwards, should annually make an entertainment for the gentlemen of the place, unless prevented by intermediate marriage. What is very singular, a considerable part of the company were gentlemen of that description, who were unanimous in the resolution.

The next day a respectable company of ladies visited the two brides, and it is said, such of them as were unmarried were highly pleased with the resolution of the preceding day.

EPITAPH ON Mr. SCRIP.

Here lies Timothy Scrip, late of ’Change Alley, Cornhill, Stockbroker. During the course of a long life he was diligent, industrious, and indefatigable in the exercise of his profession. He died in the seventieth year of his age, and died well, having left behind him a fortune of sixty thousand pounds sterling. It is however much to be regretted, that, stocks being shut at the time of his death, he was not able to make a transfer, or carry any part of it to his account in the other world. It was remarked of him, that he was always more solicitous to get the turn of the day to himself, than to do a good turn to his neighbour; and that though he frequently made bargains for time, he did not choose to risk any thing for eternity. He never gave money to the poor, though offered a very high premium, thinking it safer to make ten per cent. in the English funds, than ten thousand in those of a foreign country. For these reasons, though he was always esteemed a good man at Jonathan’s, it is much to be dreaded, that, at the general settling day, he will find himself on the wrong side, and be forced to waddle, a lame duck, out of Elysium.

FROM THE LATIN.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE SENTENCE.

[A continuation of the Criminal, from page 359.]

The sun, as usual, had bedecked the east with his golden beams, and the major part of mankind were pleased with the prospect. But the hero of this piece had enjoyed none of its enlivening rays, since he had been exiled from the world, until this morning: The gratings of the locks, and opening of the doors which secured the entrance into his cell, roused him to reflect that perhaps this was the day on which his fate was to be decided: his conjectures were right; he was to be tried this day by the laws of his country.

The attendants on the court had now penetrated into the place of his confinement, and the smith was set to work in loosening his fetters. Owing to the length of time, and their not being sufficiently large, the skin adhered thereto; and on their being knocked off, it accompanied them. Indeed, if there had been present one disinterested person, he would have inferred that a barbarous punishment, formerly practiced by eastern monarchs, had found entrance into a civilized country.

Being now freed from the galling irons, the culprit, safely guarded by the officers of justice, was in a few minutes conducted before her impartial seat.

In due time, and in the usual form, did the stern dispenser of justice commence the solemn interrogatory of “Guilty, or not Guilty?” As the prisoner had duly weighed in his own breast the answer he was to make, in an audible voice he replied in the negative.

——Say not, misjudging mortal, that this unfortunate being was to blame in what he uttered, for truth dropped from his lips. True, indeed, his hand, guided by desperation, had done the deed. Despair, that haggard fiend, actuated every feeling; reason had deserted his breast—The man was entirely annihilated. At this juncture his hand had perpetrated what his heart would have abhorred to have thought on.—Call this not sophistry, ye, who hold to the mild precepts of christianity; consider it well, and then let unbiased reason have its full scope.

The council for the prosecution set forth in its blackest colours the dreadful nature of the crime of murder; and concluded with assuring the jury, that unless they brought the prisoner in guilty, they would act contrary to every law, human and divine.

——The prisoner had no one to speak for him——

The learned Judge proceeded to give his opinion, in which it can truly be said he acted not the impartial part.

* * * * * * * * * *

A verdict was returned, agreeable to the wish of the court, which being done, sentence was passed in usual form, not forgetting, at the close, to entreat the compassion of the Deity. It seemed to breathe forth pity, but it was only the semblance; and the same Judge had pronounced it before this, times out of number.

L. B.

THOUGHTS AND MAXIMS.

The height of happiness, beyond all doubt, is to enjoy in the same person the delights of love, and the pleasures of friendship; and to find in that same person an affectionate wife and a faithful friend; no other felicity comparable to this, can the present life afford: But—let us say no more.

Love is a blind emotion, which does not always suppose merit in its object; yet it is far more flattering to a handsome woman, to be beloved by a man of merit, than to be adored by a fool.

Many women wish to appear lively because they thank it gives them an air of youth and wit; but, vivacity, which is not the result of these, only places folly in a more distinguished point of view.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Sunday morning the 7th inst. at Staten-Island, by the Rev. Mr. Birkby, Mr. Henry Frome, to Miss Nancy Byvanck, both of that place.

Same time, by the Rev. Mr. Birkby, Mr. Abraham Merril, to Miss Polly Lake, both of that place.

On Thursday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Miller, Peter Hawes, Esq. to Miss Nancy Post, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. Thomas Whitfield, to Miss Effe Van Aulen, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Elam Williams, to Miss Catharine Bogert, both of this city.

On Sunday last, at Jamaica. (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. Tyson, of this city, to Miss Letty Rappelye, of Cow-Neck.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Mason, Mr. Charles Miller, to Miss Ann Patterson, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 14th to the 20th 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 14 46 55 nw.sw. clear lt. wd.cly. do.

15 47 59 s.do. clear calmdo. h. wd.

16 50 57 n.se. cloudy lt. wd.do. do.

17 48 62 nw.s. clear l. wd.do. do.

18 53 67 s.do. rain lt. w.do. do. th. lg.

19 51 65 n.s. clear lt. wd.do. do.

20 51 55 e.se. rain lt. wd.do. do. ra.

AN EVENING MEDITATION.

BY MISS CARTER.

Original: “Thoughts on Midnight” (1739) by Elizabeth Carter 1717-1806.

Possible source: “A Night Piece” by “Miss Carter”, #97 in Elegant Extracts, or, useful and entertaining pieces of poetry, selected for the Improvement of Young Persons, 1796 and earlier, ed. Vicesimus Knox.

ON MRS. MONTAGU.

BY A LADY.

ODE to SPRING.

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 31, 1797. [No. 100.

INTENT OF RELIGION.

If there be any principle fully ascertained by religion, it is, that this life was intended for a state of trial and improvement to man. His preparation for a better world required a gradual purification, carried on by steps of progressive discipline. The situation here assigned him was such as to answer this design, by calling forth all his active powers, by giving full scope to his moral dispositions, and bringing to light his whole character. Hence it became proper, that difficulty and temptation should arise in the course of his duty; ample rewards were promised to virtue; but these rewards were left, as yet, in obscurity and distant prospect.

The impressions of sense were so balanced against immortality, as to allow a conflict between faith and sense,—between conscience and desire,—between present pleasure and future good. In this conflict the souls of good men are tried, improved and strengthened:—in this field their honours are reaped;—here are formed the capital virtues of fortitude, temperance, and self-denial;—moderation in prosperity, patience in adversity, submission to the will of God, charity and forgiveness to men amidst the various competitions of worldly interest.

HOPE.

Hope to the soul, when distracted by the confusions of the world, is as an anchor to a ship in a dark night, on an unknown coast, and amidst a boisterous ocean. In danger it gives security;—amidst general fluctuation it affords one fixed point of rest. It is the most eminent of all the advantages which religion confers. It is the universal comforter;—it is the spring of all human activity.

Upon futurity, men are constantly suspended; animated by the prospect of some distant good, they toil and suffer through the whole course of life; and it is not so much what they are at present, as what they hope to be in some after time, that enlivens their motions, fixes their attention, and stimulates industry.

Was this hope entertained with that full persuasion which Christian faith demands, it would in truth totally annihilate all human miseries; it would banish discontent, extinguish grief, and suspend the very feeling of pain.

HUMILITY IN COMPANY.

Of all the qualifications for conversation, humility, if not the most brilliant, is the safest, the most amiable, and the most feminine. The affectation of introducing subjects with which others are unacquainted, and of displaying talents superior to the rest of the company, is as dangerous as it is foolish.

There are many who never can forgive another for being more agreeable and more accomplished than themselves, and who can pardon any offence rather than an eclipsing merit. The fable of the nightingale should be ever had in remembrance, as it conveys a most useful lesson replete with valuable instructions. Had the silly warbler conquered his vanity, and resisted the temptation of shewing a fine voice, he might have escaped the talons of the hawk. The melody of his singing was the cause of his destruction; his merit brought him into danger, and his vanity cost him his life.

MAN’S DANGER AND SECURITY IN YOUTH.

In that period of life too often characterized by forward presumption and headlong pursuit, self-conceit is the great source of those dangers to which men are exposed; and it is peculiarly unfortunate, that the age which stands most in need of the counsel of the wise, should be the most prone to contemn it. Confident in the opinions which they adopt, and in the measures which they pursue, the bliss which youth aim at is, in their opinion, fully apparent. It is not the danger of mistake, but the failure of success, which they dread. Activity to seize, not sagacity to discern, is the only requisite which they value.

The whole state of nature is now become a scene of delusion to the sensual mind. Hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what flatters most is always farthest from reality. There are voices which sing around us, but whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites us to repose, but to slumber upon it is death. Sobriety should temper unwary ardour; Modesty check rash presumption; Wisdom be the offspring of reflection now, rather than the bitter fruit of experience hereafter.

THE

WANDERINGS OF THE IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 371.)

CONCLUSION

OF THE

HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S——.

She arrived at the house of Mrs. Moore, and on enquiring for Mrs. S——, was answered by a coarse, vulgar-looking woman, that “she know’d no such person; but that she was a stranger, and her mistress was out.” Mrs. Wilmot was not to be so easily repulsed after her morning’s fatigue; and on her mentioning the child, the woman added, “Oh, to be sure, she meant the grand lady that had supped there the night before, after she had been to the play; for that she had lighted her home, and would tell the coachman where she lived.”

Thus directed, they proceeded near half a mile farther; from whence Mrs. Wilmot would have been probably sent back as much in the dark, had not the sudden appearance of Mrs. S—— at an upper window caught her eye, and there was no possibility of denying herself. Mrs. Wilmot ordered the coachman, without much ceremony, to open the door, but knocked repeatedly at that of the house before she was let in. She was at length shewn into a sumptuous parlour where every thing bespoke luxury, and Mrs. S—— came to her. Her visible confusion, and the style of her dress so different to that in which Mrs. Wilmot had been accustomed to behold her, would have soon convinced a person of less penetration than that worthy woman, of the deception practised on her master.

“Without making any comments, she delivered her message, and earnestly intimated that the little boy might return with her; to which Mrs. S—— most reluctantly assented. They were soon seated in the coach, and Mrs. Wilmot thought it her duty to forbear interrogating the child; but confined herself to her own pious reflections on that gentle pity which she thought it necessary for every human being to bestow on the lost young creature, from whom she had just parted. She wished it had not been reserved for her to make the discovery of unquestionable guilt; and while she contemplated the sweet features of the lovely boy, she inwardly ejaculated a prayer to his Creator, that his young mind might remain uncontaminated by bad example; for she could not suppose that at such early years he could be an adept in the school of deception; or that a mother, though lost in her own person, could train up her child in the paths that led to infamy and corruption. Alas, his little heart was already less pure than her own; and he was an able practitioner in the art of dissembling.

“Mrs. Wilmot’s silence lasted no longer than till her return home; when immediately requesting a few minutes private audience with her master in his study, she, with many apologies, entered into a full explanation of what she had seen, and what she conjectured.

“When dinner was over, my uncle questioned Frederick; and was astonished at the hardened resolution with which he at first equivocated. On finding, however, that his secret had transpired, and his interrogator was resolved, the weakness of a mind not yet sufficiently strong to be consummate in hypocrisy, betrayed him, and he revealed all he knew.

Shocked at the idea of suffering the child to return to his imprudent mother, yet not possessing in himself sufficient authority to detain him, there was but one expedient, and that was to send for me. He drew from him a promise not to mention to his mother a word of what had passed; and promising to him if he did not, such presents as were most desirable at his age, he sent him home; and it was the day following on which, at his own request, I waited on him.

Our conversation was such as might be expected, and I had the happiness to see myself restored to a relation, whom I had hitherto scarcely known. He invited me to reside at his house; and in a few days his attorney waited on Mrs. S—— with a formal requisition, in my behalf, for the restoration of my son. She complied by force, but had the littleness to take from him all his wearing apparel, save that in which he sullenly appeared before us. My emotions on seeing him cannot be described. He received my caresses with disgust; and seemed to consider us both more as his tyrants than his protectors. For several weeks we tried what effect kindness, little presents, and the partaking of different amusements, would have on his mind. None of these succeeded; his temper was vindictive, stubborn, morose, and even revengeful. He never spoke of his mother, and we as carefully avoided her name in his presence. We fitted up without his knowledge a small room in the house for his use, and stored it with such books as might amuse his fancy, and instruct his mind. No act of kindness made any impression on him. Often did the unmanly tear roll silently down my cheek, as I traced the distant, but well-finished resemblance of his lovely mother. He frequently observed me as my heart yearned to embrace him, but his ungracious looks repelled the too tender emotion. My uncle at length told me of his determination to send him to school, and hinted at the same time his intentions in his favour. We soon after placed him at an academy ten miles from town, and had the pleasure to receive very satisfactory accounts of his conduct and improvements. We seldom visited, or sent for him, but at the time of the general holidays; as from that mistaken indulgence arises so frequently a love of pleasure and idleness, and a disgust to all which should be materially attended to. He wrote, at my express desire, to his mother, to inform her of his new situation, and of the orders which had been given to prevent any interruption of his studies; but this caution proved needless, as she neither answered his letter, nor took any farther notice of him.

I passed about two years in this state of negative happiness, when death suddenly robbed me of my valuable relation; a misfortune the more grievous, as it was wholly unexpected. The physician who occasionally attended him had not perceived any alarming symptoms; and a few mornings after his last visit, Mrs. Wilmot found him dead in his bed. He was a man of sound morals, but great eccentricity. He had been so long estranged from the world, and those few who had any claim of relationship, that ’tis probable he would have left his possessions for the use of public charities, had not Mrs. S———, without intending to serve me, so materially effected it.

As it was not unusual for my uncle to pass several days together in his own apartment, during which I seldom or ever saw him, I had no idea till Mrs. Wilmot suggested to me her opinion that a new will had been lately made. Mr. Term, the lawyer, whom he had employed to bring my son to us, and in whom he had always appeared to place much confidence, had been latterly more frequent than usual in his visits; and Mrs. Wilmot was afterwards justified in her opinion that her master had been guided by him in the regulation of his affairs. I sent immediately for that gentleman, and we proceeded into the gloomy chamber of death, where we had no difficulty to find the object of our search. He opened and read it to us. We found that he had left the bulk of his fortune to my son; an annuity of two hundred pounds to myself; and to Mrs. Wilmot, his houshold furniture, plate, and other articles, besides fifty pounds a year for her life. Mr. Term was his sole executor; and I had no cause to be displeased with the choice. He appointed that gentleman and myself the joint guardians of Frederick. Mrs. S——— was not mentioned, but some trifling sums were bequeathed to different people.

“We found on investigation, that after discharging these incumbrances, my son’s property would not exceed from seven to eight thousand pounds. When the funeral was over, I took lodgings in the neighbourhood; and my son, whom I had sent for on that occasion, returned to his school. I had not been there many days, before I received a letter from Doctor C——, his worthy preceptor, informing me that Frederick had suddenly disappeared; and that in so secret a manner, that none of the boys, whom he had severally questioned, could give the least intimation of his design. I immediately waited on Mr. Term, and invested him with full power over him, desiring him to act for me as well as himself.

“We had no doubt of his mother’s being privy to his flight; but though she did not deny having any knowledge of him, it was impossible to prevail on her to reveal what she had done with him. We gave up the pursuit; and, though I could not be happy, I endeavoured to be composed.

“I knew that my re-union with my wife was now beyond the reach of possibility. Dear, and undeserving as she was, I could only pity, and lament her. I knew too that she must be inevitably wretched; for though I was well assured she had a settlement nearly double to my income, yet I was equally so that no provision, however splendid, could compensate for the loss of every social virtue, and the self-accusation of perfidy, and ingratitude.

“In a few months, she sent me an insulting letter; telling me, that as she knew her son’s fortune to be out of the reach of his guardians, she could be under no apprehensions for his future welfare; but that of his present conduct she should take charge; which, if we objected to, would oblige her to continue silent respecting his residence. We soon, however, without any difficulty, found out that he was at a respectable military academy; and as we could not suggest any reasonable motives for withdrawing him, unless it was to prevent him from seeing his mother, which we knew would drive them both to extremities, we were silent on the subject; and, at length, answered the different bills that were necessarily contracted for his support and education.

“My son is now in his twenty-fifth year, and has been nearly nine in a regiment of foot, at this time in Ireland. For my present poverty, I can only alledge, that dangerous rock on which all my peace has been wrecked, a too large portion of natural affection. His unbounded extravagance has reduced me to distress; and I have taken up, at different times, to assist him, sums so inadequate to my circumstances, that some years must pass before I can enjoy anew that comfortable independance, which was forfeited almost as soon as acquired!

“Of Mrs. S—— I know nothing. Time has blunted the sharp edge of grief; but the wound has penetrated my heart, and that will never know a cure.

“My son knows I can do no more for him, and leaves me to my fate. Thus is every balsamic drop that is mixed in the full cup of human woe, converted into deadly poison; the more fatal to me, as they issue from the fount that flowed pure and unadulterated from the hands of its Creator.

“Thus, Madam, have you patiently attended to the undisguised story of a poor, unfortunate old man, worn out by sorrow more than by years; a man, who has been a friend, though an unsuccessful one, to human nature, but who is now become a burden to himself, and to the World.”

I pitied him—I wept with him:—But it is reserved to the High Power alone whom he worships, to administer consolation.

Should the eyes of youth, and levity, be cast over the preceding history, may they be moistened by the tear of Sensibility! And may the heart of every child that is callous to the distresses of a parent, recoil with horror at the unnatural crime; and, by returning to his duty, fulfil the great Commandment of Heaven!

(To be continued.)

OBSERVATION.

Flattery is often the guide to destruction.—It is the first rudiment which man attends to with success, and the first lesson he repeats to gain our affections; too often, my fair friends, you give ear to it, and suffer your hearts to be enslaved for encomiums which your mirror tell you are false.

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. V.

It would scarcely inform my readers to assure them, that, when I was at College, my mathematical tutor shook his head, and dubbed me a stupid fellow. Whatever stress might be laid on the multiplication and pence tables by the sedate shop-keepers of State-street and Cornhill, it always appeared to me that a scholar could attain the object of his mission to the university, without any assistance from the four first rules. Hence, I was more ashamed to be surprised solving a sum in Pike, than a reputed virgin would be to have the unchaste poems of Rochester plucked from her pillow. I contented myself with studying the ways of men and the works of Roman and English wits, without gaping with a foolish face of wonder, when told of the “Square of the Hypothenuse,” and the miracles that compound interest would perform in a term of years. Geometrical progression was not half so delightful to me as vehicular progression in a crazy Charlestown-car. That portion of arithmetic among merchants called fellowship, or company, I left to them to ascertain their shares of a cargo of sugar and molasses by; while the rules of good fellowship I made familiar both to my conception and practice. In fine, those of my prudent friends who observed the lankness of my purse, long before the expiration of a College term, merrily remarked, that REDUCTION was the only part of arithmetic in which I made a figure.

This avowed neglect of a darling study, so offended the lovers of straight lines, that every moment they could steal from their diagrams they employed in prognosticating my future fortune. They would sketch on the paper covers of Euclid perspective views of my dilapidated estate; and by rhombus, rhomboid, and trapezium, barbarous terms, such as are “a misery to hear,” they would conjure away my goods and chattles. Those, who descending from the heights of abstraction, condescended to become mere mortals again, and to converse upon sublunary topics, were continually quoting and applying to me that elegant adage “of bringing one’s noble to a nine-pence,” &c. In vain I endeavoured to defend my practice, and to apologize for my disbelief in Euclid’s infallibility. In vain I suggested, that many of the brightest geniuses successfully clambered up the rugged steeps of Fame, without employing the nine digits, as pioneers, to smooth the way: that Shakespeare, with whom, as Cicero observes of Plato, I would rather err, than think right with all the philosophers, was not only a novice in the doctrine of “nought and carry one,” but frankly indulges a laugh of contempt at computation:—that in Othello, when Iago informs his Venitian dupe of Cassio’s unjust preferment to a lieutenancy, and is asked “what is he?” the contemptuous response is “forsooth a great arithmetician!” That in Love’s Labour Lost, a pert page demands of Armado “how many is one thrice told?” the solemn knight replies “I am ill at reckoning, it fits the spirit of a tapster:” that Lord Lyttleton the elder, a man of business, emphasizing the phrase, honoured by his prince with a place in the exchequer and in the department of finance, could not, as we are assured by his son, count twenty pounds in different British coins; that the Dean of St. Patrick’s, whose sterling sense and humour has pleased and informed men more than all the works of all the mathematicians, employed eight hours in a day in reading historians and poets, and composing the Tale of a Tub, and was refused by the university of Dublin, a degree, because he lampooned Locke and derided the ærial speculations of a mathematician. All these shining examples, like Haman’s prosperity, “availed me nothing,” and the sticklers for science told me that I could not give directions to a carpenter without understanding—how shall I write so unpoetical a word—without understanding parallelograms.

Having thus far, in jocular phrase, discussed this grave subject, I now seriously declare, it is not my wish to abrogate any branches of this recondite science. I am not possessed with such a Quixotish spirit of innovation, as to desire all concerned forthwith to make proclamation for mathematics and cousin german arithmetic to depart; but good-naturedly to deride that mode of education, which neglecting, or partially studying, eloquence, poetry, history, the classics, and the world, devotes long and exclusive attention to things abstracted and foreign from men’s business and bosoms. That great and universal scholar, Dr. Johnson, whose authority is of no trivial weight, decisively pronounces that this science and the knowledge which it requires and includes, is not the great and frequent business of life. It is of rare emergence. We are perpetually moralists, but we are geometricians only by chance. One may live long with a man and not discern his skill in hydrostatics, or astronomy, but his moral and prudential character immediately appears. The rigid Knox, who is a strenuous advocate for the severest school discipline, confesses, that a man may be very liberally educated, without much skill in this branch of learning. I remember reading, not many years since, a preface of Dr. Cheyne’s to one of his medical tracts, wherein, after describing his devotion to triangles, &c. he pathetically deplores his waste of time, and adds, “that in these exquisitely bewitching speculations, gentlemen of liberal leisure may riot; but for men of general learning, business, and the world, they are too empty and ærial.” My readers will perhaps yawn at these multiplied citations; but this is a science, supported so much by authority and opinion, that I must oppose it with equal arms.

We are magisterially told that this study, of all others, most closely fixes the attention. An argument shallow, untrue, and easily vanquished. Any object that engrosses the mind, will induce a habit of attention. Now I can warrantably assert, that a description from Virgil, a scene from Shakespeare, Robertson’s narrative of the decollation of Mary, or any striking passage from authors of polite literature, will accomplish this purpose. Why should the demonstrations of Euclid arrogate this honour to themselves? Have they an exclusive privilege of enchanting the mind, or are they invested with a talismanic charm by which attention is at once conjured into mathematical circles? Addison wondered how rational beings could for hours play with painted bits of paper; but he was manifestly a novice in whist, a game which, regularly played, is an unremitting exercise of two of the noblest intellectual powers, memory and judgment. The acute Hume, when jaded with metaphysical research, invigorated his powers with a cheerful RUBBER. From a fashionable amusement he derived that benefit which the worshippers of Euclid would confine to their God. In fine, a mere mathematician, without being a more cogent reasoner, is less learned, less eloquent, and less courtly than the Beauclercs, whose superficial talents he contemns. He is a solemn, absent, unaccommodating mortal. Better therefore to imitate Cardinal de Retz and Chesterfield; better to study the useful and the pleasant, than to dream away life over the symbols and negative quantities of algebra.

I proposed to animadvert next on the influence that arithmetical minutiæ gradually obtained over the heart. I was about adventuring to censure even the great Dr. Franklin, for insisting too much upon the mint, annise, and cummin of computation. I wished to brand avarice, and to deny the doctrine of “uttermost farthings.” But I recollected that every penurious parent, who prescribes as a horn-book lesson to his son, that “scoundrel maxim” a penny saved is a penny got, would cry—shame! The world, quoth prudence, will not bear it; ’tis a penny getting, pound hoarding world—I yielded; and shelter myself in my garret against that mob of misers and worldlings I see gathering to hoot me.

REFLECTIONS ON SCANDAL.

There is not a greater enemy to the peace of individuals, and society at large, than Scandal; although it is much to be regretted, that, there is no frailty to which most people are so subject. Scandal is the offspring of Envy; and the only weapon of little minds against superior abilities. But notwithstanding Scandal affects, more or less, every member of the community, it reigns with more distinguished power over some parts of society than others. On enquiry, it will appear that the female character sustains the most injury from this bane to human happiness. In the country, too, this species of Scandal is more prevalent than in the metropolis. The reason is obvious; in a country place, the number of inhabitants are so small, that each is frequently more acquainted with the character of his neighbour than his own. Every action is examined with the most critical severity; and often the best of characters lose the esteem of their acquaintance from the malignant aspersions of Ignorance and Envy. It is impossible for a lady to be seen walking with a gentleman, in such a place, without the immediate conclusion that they are lovers: it is even not uncommonly added, if their acquaintance should have lasted any length of time, that Miss Such-a-one appears to be in fair way. After a report of this nature has once spread, I have seen a company of females thrown into the greatest consternation, by the entrance of a lady who was the unfortunate subject of Slander. How busy is the silent whisper, on these occasions! It runs with amazing rapidity, from ear to ear, accompanied by nods and winks; with a—“You know who”—“So they say”—“Well, I could never have thought it!” and a variety of such phrases, which every one must at some time have heard.

Scandal is of a quality peculiarly distressing. Against the open shafts of violence, every one may defend himself; but, from Slander, and secret Calumny, the most deserving must suffer.

The only method to prevent this pest to society, is for every one to shut their ears against the officious tales of Scandal and Envy; since experience proves, that if people in general were not too much inclined to listen, when any account is brought of the faults and failings of others, the tongue of Scandal would no longer find the mean satisfaction it now enjoys.

The mischiefs that accrue to mankind, from Calumny and Slander, are innumerable. How many families have their peace destroyed by evil reports! By such means, the seeds of enmity are too often engendered between the dearest connections in life.

It has already been observed, that Scandal is the only weapon of little minds against superior worth and abilities. The truth of this remark ought to be a sufficient preventative; for, I believe, no one would wish to incur the merited appellation of a little and envious mind. Females, in particular, should divest themselves of this spirit, which produces so many evils among the fair-sex; for, let it be remembered, that an envious mind, and slanderous tongue, never inhabit the face of beauty, and the form of elegance!—If there must still remain, in the breasts of some, a slanderous spirit, and a delight to fabricate scandalous reports; if most people will also retain a propensity to hear whatever comes from such a source; let us act with some degree of impartiality: before we credit, as undoubted truth, tales injurious so the reputation of another; we ought, at least, to examine whether what we hear does not wear the most flagrant marks of falsehood. Thus we may often be enabled to discover fiction from truth, and be satisfied that the person accused is entirely innocent: and it is the province of great minds, to vindicate the characters of those who are absent, when unjustly aspersed by the tongue of Scandal.

CHARACTER OF LORD MOUNT-GARTH.

Of the following extraordinary character, though not given as historical fact, there is said to have actually been a prototype lately, if not at present, resident in one of the wildest parts of the county of Suffolk.

Lord Mount-Garth had retired from the world twenty years ago, not only within his own park, but, except on very rare occasions, within his own palace and garden; which, together, occupied a space of nearly a square mile, and were surrounded by a wall fifteen feet high; against which he would amuse himself for hours in playing at hand-ball; sometimes alone, and at others accompanied by a female favourite, the only person he would suffer to come near him, or could ever bear to see, though at a distance, except one man, the son of his father’s gardener, who had been brought up with him at home from his infancy, and was exactly of the same age, being born in the same night and hour. This man had not, any more than his lordship, been without the precincts of the park, and very seldom beyond those of the garden, for the space of thirty years. As they went into this state of voluntary confinement, which is a kind of internal exile, at the age of twenty, they are now, of course, in the fiftieth year of their age. John, for that was the name of the man, had been educated along with his lordship in his father’s family, by a private tutor; and had acquired a competent knowledge, not only of ancient and modern languages, history, and Belles Lettres, but a general idea of the principles and progressive improvement in the arts and sciences. John acted in the capacity of valet de chambre, confidant, and companion; dined at the same table with his lordship, went to bed at the same hour, and slept to the same hour precisely, and almost to the same minute rose in the morning. He was dressed precisely in the same kind of cloaths, even to the sameness of shoe-buckles and sleeve-buttons. If my lord felt himself not very well, and judged it proper to take any medicine, John must take the same medicine also. “John” he would say, “I think we sat up rather too late last night: I think we should not be the worse for an emetic.”—“I think we should be much the better for it, my lord.”—“John, I am afraid we have rather exceeded in our refreshments for some days past: I think we should be none the worse for some cathartics.”—“I think we should be much the better for them, my lord.”—“John, I think we feel somewhat of a vertigo this morning: I think we should be not the worse for a little sal volatile.”—“I think we should be much the better for it, my lord.”—“Have we not felt a somewhat of relaxation of nerves for same days, John?”—“I protest, my lord, on recollection, I think we have.”—“What should you think of a dip in the cold-bath?”—“I think, my lord, it would do us both a great deal of good.”

This singular character, sunk in indolence and sensuality, of all things dreaded cold: but as for snow, he could not endure the sight of it. In winter, he generally lay in bed till ten or eleven o’clock: about that time he would pull his bell, call for John, and ask him what kind of a day it was. “It is a very fine day, my lord; the sun shines out brightly, and the atmosphere is unsullied by a cloud.”—“Why, then, John, I think we should be the better for a race in the garden.” For it was their custom to have frequent races, at the end of which both parties were within a few feet of each other. “John, how looks the weather this morning?”—“Most hideously, my lord! The sky lowers; the feathered creation retreat to their roosts; the cats incessantly curry their hides; and flakes of snow, driving before the wind, announce the coming storm.”—“John, shut the doors and windows; light up a rouzing fire; let candles be brought; let the pastry and cold tongues be laid on the table; and, since it is a bad day, let us make a good night.”

Many efforts were made by the college acquaintance of his lordship to see him; for, with all his singularities, he was an amiable and benevolent man, as well as an excellent scholar; and attached, as by a singular charm, all his acquaintance to his person. They would put up their horses at an adjoining village, and send letters to his lordship, fraught with recollections of former intimacy. His lordship never failed to return answers replete with equal kindness; recollecting former scenes and circumstances, with expressions of the most pleasing emotions, but always declining any personal interview.

As the inn nearest his lordship’s park was but a very wretched one—for in this sequestered spot there was no encouragement for a good one—he took care always to send, on the arrival of strangers, the best provisions of all kinds, unknown to his friends, with orders to the landlord to make some trifling charge, lest he should offend their delicacy, by affording them entertainment when he refused them his company. His lordship’s friend was a good sort of woman: she amused herself, now and then, by giving suppers to the servants and the farmers daughters in the neighbourhood, the nearest house being five miles from the Castle. He had land stewards on his different estates; all business with whom, as with every other mortal, was transacted through the medium of John, or the housekeeper. If he had occasion to go from one quarter of the castle or garden to another, orders were previously sent to all the servants to keep out of the way; for, if he had catched any of them looking at him, he would have immediately dismissed them from his service. He had an excellent library, in which he passed a great part of his time, but into which no publication of any kind had been admitted since the year of his retirement, or sequestration from the world; being that, as already mentioned, on which he left the university, having then succeeded to the estate by the death of his father. No newspapers! no magazines! no reviews! no political pamphlets! no annual registers! No, nor any conversation concerning any political or other event that had happened in Britain, or any other part of the world, from the hour of his seclusion. He turned himself about, and cast his eyes backward, and fixed them wholly on former times. Although, he confessed, that he had often been tempted to enquire what could be the causes of the sudden and enormous accumulation of taxes.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE CRIMINAL.

[Concluded from page 375.]

A LAUNCH INTO ETERNITY.

—First marched forth those that guarded the law from violation; then followed the culprit bound in a cart, attended by a clergyman, who was using his pious endeavours to smooth the passage into another world. They reached the tree. The ladder was placed, and after a few minutes spent in the solemn duties of religion, he ascended it. With the consciousness of a heart in which every virtue glowed, and with a fortitude which the virtuous only possess, he calmly surveyed the surrounding multitude, and signified his wish to be heard: they eagerly lent their attention, while he painted to them the cause of his disgrace, and the misery of his family which had led him to the act. He said he could not endure the idea of seeing them perish before his eyes; and when their distress was at its highest pitch, and when he could get no help from those who would have befriended him with all they were worth when he needed it not, he had sallied forth on the highway, determined to alleviate their distresses—but his intentions were not to shed blood—driven to desperation by experiencing a refusal, (when on his knees he solicited the boon) he had done the deed.——

The people were all attention, and when he ended, their streaming eyes spoke the sentiments of their hearts.

The moments were precious. The cord was fastened to the wood, and after a few moments spent in devotion, the curtain of life dropped.

Scarcely was the solemn scene closed, when a murmur was heard among the croud, and shortly after a female rushed to the spot. It was his wife. Heavens! what a shock for her delicate frame! She had but just recovered from an illness she had fallen into when they had dragged her husband from her arms. She saw him now when life sat quivering at his lips, and then in unison their spirits ascended to that bright world of bliss.

* * * * * * * * * * *

——What substantial benefit, what real advantage do ye derive from dooming to death one that has perpetrated the dreadful crime of murder? Does his death restore to life the person murdered? Does it allay the grief of the distressed family?——No!——What then is it that makes you give your tacit consent to a measure which is hostile to every principle of equity—derogatory to every principle of humanity? Is it because this severe law was first given in thunderings, from Mount Sinai, to a people, who while beholding with their eyes the glory of the Deity, yet worshipped the work of their own hands? Throw aside prejudice, and that fellest tyranny, custom, until then you will never view things in their proper sphere.

Would not solitary imprisonment in a lonely cell, far excluded from every pitying eye, for a term of years, be more just? He might be compelled to labor, and his earnings go to maintain the family which through his means has lost its support. Thus they who have suffered by his misconduct might reap some advantage: whereas, by taking his life they must be left to pine in want and wretchedness. If after continuing in this state for some years, it be discovered that a thorough change is wrought, and the offender has become a reasonable creature, then let him be discharged—the debt is fully paid. But should he after this again imbrue his hands in the blood of his fellow men, then let rigorous imprisonment for life be the penalty—he is no longer fit to associate with human beings.

L. B.

New-York, April 4, 1797.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

By the Rev. Mr. King, Mr. John M‘Carthy, of Johnstown, to Miss Eliza Ker, daughter of the Rev. Nathan Ker, of Goshen, Ulster County.

By the Rev. Mr. O’Brien, Mr. Casimir Delavigne, merchant, of this city, to Miss Emilia Guibert, late of Port-au-Prince.

On Tuesday, se’nnight, at Bedford, on Long-Island, by the Rev. Dr. Livingston, John I. Johnson, Esq. to Miss Hannah Loudon, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Samuel Provoost, Mr. Alexander S. Miller, to Miss Mary Rogers, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 21st to the 27th 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 21 57 70 se.do. foggy clearcalm lt. wd.

22 60 72 nw.w. clear do.lt. wd.

23 56 65 se.do. clear do.calm h. wd.

24 54 66 e.do. cly. clearcalm lt. wd.

25 54 69 e.do. cly. lt. w.clear do. ra.

26 55 71 n.s. clear lt. wd.do. do.

27 55 62 e.se. clear lt. wd.cly. h. wd.

STANZAS TO HOPE.

ON SEEING A MISER AT A CONCERT.

THE CLOWN AND THE LAWYER.

SOCIAL EVENINGS.

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, JUNE 7, 1797. [No. 101.

[A late writer in the London Monthly Magazine, in expatiating on the unreasonable disposition of the fair sex, brings forward, as a proof of the authenticity of his remarks, the following Letter of Lady Compton to her husband, which is now preserved in the British Museum, as a curiosity.]

“MY SWEET LIFE,

“Now I have declared to you my mind for the settling of your state, I supposed that it were best for me to bethink and consider within myself, what allowance were meetest for me: for considering what care I ever had of your estate, and how respectfully I dealt with those which both by the laws of God, of nature, and civil policy, wit, religion, government, and honesty, you, my dear, is bound to; I pray and beseech you to grant to me, your most kind and loving wife, the sum of 2600l. quarterly to be paid. Also I would, besides that allowance, have 600l. quarterly to be paid, for the performance of charitable works: and those things I WOULD NOT, neither WILL BE, accountable for. Also I WILL HAVE three horses for my own saddle, that none shall dare to lend or borrow: none lend but I, none borrow but you. Also I would have two gentlewomen, lest one should be sick, or have some other let. Also, believe it, it is an undecent thing for a gentlewoman to stand mumping alone, when God hath blessed their lord and lady with a great estate. Also, when I ride a-hunting, or a hawking, or travel from one house to another, I will have them attending; so, for either of those said women, I MUST AND WILL HAVE for either of them a horse. Also I will have six or eight gentlemen; and I will have my two coaches, one lined with velvet to myself, with four very fair horses; and a coach for my women, lined with cloth, and laced with gold; the other with scarlet, and laced with silver, with four good horses. Also I will have two coachmen, one for my own coach, the other for my women. Also at any time when I travel, I will be allowed not only carroches, and spare horses for me and my women, but I will have such carriages as shall be fitting for all, orderly, not pestering my things with my women’s; nor their’s with either chambermaid’s; nor their’s with wash-maids. Also for laundresses, when I travel, I will have them sent away before with the carriages, to see all safe. And the chambermaids I will have go before, that the chamber may be ready, sweet, and clean. Also for that it is undecent to crowd up myself with my gentleman usher in my coach, I will have him to have a convenient horse to attend me, either in city or country. And I must have two footmen. And my desire is, that you defray all the charges for me. And for myself, besides my yearly allowance, I would have twenty gowns of apparel, six of them excellent good ones, eight of them for the country, and six other of them very excellent good ones. Also I would have to put in my purse 2000l. and 200l. and so you to PAY MY DEBTS. Also I would have 6000l. to buy me jewels, and 4000l. to buy me a pearl chain. Now, seeing I have been, and am, so REASONABLE unto you, I pray you do find my children apparel, and schooling, and all my servants, men and women, their wages. Also, I will have all my houses furnished, and my lodging chambers to be suited with all such furniture as is fit; as beds, stools, chairs, suitable cushions, carpets, silver warming-pans, cupboards of plate, fair hangings, and such like. So for my drawing chamber in all houses, I will have them delicately furnished, both with hangings, couch, canopy, glass, carpet, chairs, cushions, and all things thereunto belonging. Also my desire is, that you would PAY YOUR DEBTS, build up Ashby-house, and purchase lands, and lend no money, as you love God, to the Lord-Chamberlain, who would have all, perhaps your life, from you. Remember his son, my lord Walden, what entertainment he gave me, when you were at Tilt-yard. If you were dead, he said, he would be a husband, a father, a brother, and said he would marry me. I protest, I grieve to see the poor man have so little wit and honesty to use his friends so vilely. Also he fed me with untruths concerning the Charter-house, but that is the least; he wished me much harm, you know how. God keep you and me from him, and any such as he is. So now that I have declared to you what I would have, and what it is that I would not have, I pray, when you be an earl, to allow me 2000l. more than now I desire, and double attendance.

“Your loving wife,

“Eliza Compton.”

This is apparently a real letter. William Compton, Eliza’s husband, inherited somewhere between £500,000 and £800,000 in 1610. The letter may date from 1617; it can be no later than 1618, when William was created Earl of Northumberland.

THE

WANDERINGS OF THE IMAGINATION.

BY MRS. GOOCH.

(Continued from page 379.)

FOURTH WANDERING.

There are few subjects which deserve a closer investigation of the legislation of the legislative power, and which is more neglected, than the excessive cruelty that is exercised in this metropolis over unhappy, and devoted animals. As they have no law to protect them, they are doubly entitled to the attention of Humanity. It is scarcely possible to walk through the city (London) without having one’s feelings tortured by the abandoned race of butcher’s boys, and drovers. I could mention many, I might say daily instances of what I have been painfully compelled to witness, whenever I was led into that part of the town. One only I will mention, which strongly evinces philanthropy on one hand, and infamy on the other.

These contrasted practices belonging to the same class of people, the lowest order, of the vulgar, are convincing proofs, that Education has less to do with the formation of our ideas, and the realization of our actions, than Nature. She governs the human system, while she forms it; and however villainy may be glossed over by the specious arts of accomplished deception in splendid life, or worth may lie concealed under the thick shade of retirement, the innate sentiment still “grows with our growth,” and effectually steers us throughout the course of our existence.

It is not three weeks since I was going up Snow-hill, and was met by a number of sheep, followed by one of these imps of the Devil that I have mentioned. As I was standing by, to let them pass, I was struck by the voice of an old woman, whose “tattered garment spoke variety of wretchedness,” and who, (to continue the simile) was exactly what Fancy pictures Otway’s witch to have been. She was mourning over one of these wretched animals, who had sunk on its knees, exhausted by ill-usage and fatigue. One horn was plucked out by the roots; its legs were lacerated, and streaming with blood, which issued from the nostrils, while the man (why I am forced to call him so) was employing all his strength in belabouring, with a thick stick, its agonized sides!—The old woman was remonstrating, with all the eloquence of genuine humanity. It was a foreign language to a wretch of this description, and he answered her in his own; while I walked on; unable to bear the sight before me, or to attend to the impious execrations of the infernal cause of it.

How continually do we behold the newly-expired carcase of the generous Horse, that has at last surrendered to toils beyond his strength! The horse, which has been proudly contended for, and brought a little mine of wealth to his ungrateful master, is now denied by him even that little that would make his old age comfortable. Houseless, and hungry, he smarts under the galling whip, and is not allowed that rest which God has equally ordained for man and brute. Mr. Dibdin’s justly celebrated song of The Race-Horse, is more descriptive than I can be of the horrid barbarities practised against this most useful creature; and which is, both in strength and generosity, superior to his masters.

There are many licensed abuses; and I will confine myself to one more only. It is an essential one, and ought to be remedied. I mean, respecting Servants. This class of people is particularly happy in its privileges. The Soldier, and the Sailor, are sure to meet with severe corporal punishment, if, in the slightest instance, they disobey the commands of their superior; but for the Servant, there is no punishment, unless caught in the very act of robbery; and even then, much money, time, and uneasiness, must be the cost, before you can bring yourself publicly to expose them.

How continually it happens, that exorbitant wages are due to these people, which it is not immediately convenient for the master, or mistress, to discharge. In that case, the servant, well acquainted with the circumstance, becomes insolent, or, at best, regardless; and if you find fault with them, they ask you, why you do not pay, and discharge them? while they are well convinced, that if you did pay and discharge them, they must either adopt another mode of conduct, or be reduced to beggary. But though these are facts too common throughout life, yet still, for the honour of humanity, some exceptions are to be found, but, in general, this inference may be drawn from contrasting characters of the same description in different, though similar situations, and proves one important fact, that in all situations, where vulgar minds can have an ascendancy, or pre-eminence, tyranny will ever be the result of their conduct, whether in the Drover or the Domestic.

The Courtezan, who, from dirt and darkness, emerges, by fortuitous circumstances, to gaudy splendor, and untasted affluence; or the low-bred mechanic, who, by carping care, and assiduous industry, in taking the advantage of the wants of those with whom he has acquaintance, or connection, rises into opulence, the vulgar mind will always appear in their conduct and behaviour. A haughty overbearing demeanor will always mark their manner to those who may have the misfortune to be under their power, and inconsistent meanness will ever appear, from under their most sumptuous trappings, when attempting elegance and refinement—but why it should be so is neither unnatural or wonderful—for the truth is, that conscious of their own innate meanness, and incapacity to sustain the character they would wish to assume, they conceive that all who have known them, or do know them, entertain the same contemptible ideas of them as they do of themselves, and hence conclude it necessary, in support of that dignity to which they aspire, or assume, to treat those around them with hauteur and tyranny, to impress on their minds a constant practice of the submission and obedience they wish to exact. It were well if the indigent, who may attain to affluence, or the menial servant, who may arise to superiority of situation in life, would recollect that greatness of soul, and elevation of sentiment, are equally shown, though not so efficaciously proved, in want as in wealth; in being commanded as in commanding.

Ostensible situations to such as are incapable of filling them, only display the imperfections of the possessor in a more prominent point of view; and it were well also, if those whom Nature made in hasty moments, and in its coarsest moulds, whom Reason never regenerated, nor Education ever refined—whose ideas never have, and perhaps never can be enlarged, and whose sentiments, if ever sentiments arose in the breast of such persons, were only conducive to encourage them in the pursuit of their grovelling designs, and barbarous and unrefined opinions, would seek the coverture of the shade, rather than expose their fantastic enormities, and preposterous ignorance and inability in the sunshine.

FIFTH WANDERING.

It has been said, and more than that it is generally believed, that happiness is not to be found on earth. I deny it. For although I have never been allowed even to taste it in domestic life (with which the world is too well acquainted to doubt my veracity) yet I have observed almost daily instances of what I call happiness; and which, if not admitted to be such by those in the enjoyment of it, fully demonstrates a wilful incapacity to know its value, and ingratitude to that Being who, for his own wise purposes, bestows or takes it away.

There are two conditions of life from which only I conceive happiness to be naturally excluded; and by these I mean the extremes of affluence and penury. The man who abounds in wealth cannot be happy. His soul, if naturally great, is confined within the narrow precincts of custom and education, and has no room to expand itself. Few of these have courage, if they do not want inclination, to pry into the distresses of their fellow-creatures; and they dread the effect of prejudice, as they would dread the effect of treason. I am sorry to speak from my own observation, when I declare, that throughout this wealthy metropolis, (London) I have never yet found one man, rich in the gifts of fortune, who had spirit enough to disdain the tinsel shew that surrounded him, and consecrate his time and his money to those whom he seemed sent into the world to gladden and relieve. One only instance have I heard of it in the female world; and to her virtues, more than to her rank, may the honest tribute of applause, not the flattering voice of adulation, be given: I mean the Dowager Countess S——, where virtue unites itself to talents, and both combine to render her on whom they are bestowed inestimable. What heart can refrain from offering up thanks to its Creator, who now and then condescends, as in her, to shew a well-drawn picture of himself? While she lives, her numerous charities cannot be forgotten; and when that God whom she adores transplants her to a world more worthy of her, still shall her name remain immortalized, while gratitude holds a place in the hearts of the many indigent her bounties have deigned to relieve!

But to proceed to my ideas of happiness;—I say ideas, because I have only drawn a sketch of it from what I have seen, and from “The Wanderings of my Imagination.” Can I picture to myself a greater felicity than a happy independent family I once saw in Yorkshire? They were many in number, yet one soul seemed to animate all. The old farmer, who had no more than he wished for, nor wished for more than he possessed, was one of those jovial, honest, well-meaning men, whose knowledge of the world extended not beyond the limits of his own farm. His family consisted of an old widowed sister, whom he supported, his wife, three daughters, and a son, who imitating his sire in industrious labour and attention to the peaceful and useful arts of agriculture, was requited by that tranquillity of mind which is ever the result of a good disposition.

Nature had by no means slighted the daughters in the formation of their outward graces; but had, on the contrary, given convincing proofs that those requisites necessary to engage the eye, and interest the heart of every beholder, were to be met with in the unassuming manners, and unaffected benignity, which beamed in each of their countenances. These strongly indicated that their minds was the soil where all the social virtues, that diffuse happiness alike to the possessor and those in connection with them, were to be found cultivated and sublimed; endowments which require more of the sunshine in life to sustain or invigorate; but blossoming and ripening in the shade, bid defiance to the canker of time, and the chilling damps of progressive age. Their prospects in life bounded and unenlarged, gave increase of pleasure and tranquillity, by their having fewer wants to suffice, and fewer expectations to pursue; for the less desire we have for the gratification of our passions, the more our minds must be at ease. The airy phantoms and deluding visions raised by the magic of Imagination, are more or less conjured up by awakened passions roused by variety of scenes striking our different senses; those once awakened, are soon allured; and allurements once indulged, are seldom allayed. But why do I thus insensibly wander? Why am I deviating so widely and wildly from my intended narration of rustic felicity? Yes, I must indulge it. Visions of earthly pleasure, whither are you fled? Oh, social delights, known only in domestic seclusion, and blooming only in sequestered retirement, why am I forbid to enter your hallowed abodes? I must now only in sadness survey what once I might have enjoyed, had the dictates of nature (in me) been obeyed; and instead of being made the victim of fashion, I should now be solacing myself with the inestimable pleasures of a tranquil mind, and the rational reflection of enjoying all that is worth enjoyment in life, and consequently fulfilling all the ends for which life was bestowed. But, ah! like thousands more who have lived, and will live hereafter, and in spite of all that Poets have sung, and Philosophers taught, we live not for ourselves, but for others.

(To be continued.)

THE FARRAGO.

Nº. VI.

In the highlands of Scotland, when a benighted traveller knocks at a cottage door, and is denied admittance by a female voice, he never dreams of grumbling at the refusal, if the Caledonian dame subjoin, in her country’s phrase, that she is a lone woman. Should some carping critic look through my lattice, and censure me for sameness of sentiment, or barrenness of fancy, I would reply, in an accent of deprecation—Mr. Zoilus, I am a lone author. In the periodical publications of Great Britain, the papers are usually furnished by the members of a literary society, who assemble at some coffee-house or tavern, and club their genius to amuse the public, as they club their cash to discharge their reckoning. Those speculations, which have improved, and have gladdened life, were rarely the fruit of a single brain, but the offspring of wit in conjunction. The union of abilities is almost as essential to the perfection of a miscellany, as the union of sexes to the formation of our being. Both Genius and Dullness are prone to court alliances.—Beaumont and Fletcher, composed comedies in company; and Sternhold, when he undertook a translation of David’s psalms, employed Hopkins to eke out his metre. Relying on his native strength, Dr. Johnson composed a series of lucubrations himself; but who is endowed with the comprehensive mind of the author of the Rambler? Like a poor man loaded with a fardel of debt, common writers are glad to borrow. Cursed occasionally with a penury of thought, and most willing to pay my public debt, I solicit a hint from one, a sentiment from another, and a subject from a third. Conscious of imbecility, I dread stumbling in my solitary walk, and timidity warns me to lean, sometimes on the staff of quotation, and sometimes, to employ a guide. My acquaintance, Adage, who loves sentences short and pithy, like himself, and who has read with diligence, and who admires with judgment, the PROMPTER, requests me to compose an essay in his laconic style. No, I replied, he has exhausted Franklinisms, he has commented upon almost every common saying in the popular mouth. Your reasons, Adage rejoined, are like Gratiano’s in the Merchant of Venice; they are two grains of wheat, hid in two bushels of chaff, you shall search all day ere you find them, and when found, they are not worth the search. Be it my task to furnish a subject, to take the pen and write quickly be thine. My neighbour Crispin, quoth Adage, contracted last week with a countryman for cheese. It was damaged; Crispin gives five pence per lb. and promises to pay in leather. I thought he was over-reached; but, when the cheese-monger had departed, Crispin laughingly cries, “if his cheese is mouldy, my leather is unmerchantable, and two cheats make an even bargain.” As the PROMPTER, continued Adage, never preached a sermon from that text, and as, to continue the allusion, the bishop is slumbering in his stall, do you become his chaplain, and ascend the pulpit yourself.

Reflecting on my friends advice, I quickly perceived that this even bargain was concluded by many characters besides professional cheats. An old London magazine, which I read many years ago, and which memory just handed me, offers the first example.

A brocaded Italian Count had an amour with Lady Ligonier. Every body bewailed the fate of her unhappy husband; but every body did not know that his wretchedness was alleviated in the arms of a courtezan. Every body did not know, that these two right honourable cheats made an even bargain.

A clown solicits an attorney to prosecute an obsolete claim against neighbour Clodpole; the limb of the law knows that the claim of his client is as lame, as his hobbling justice, he tells him nevertheless that he will recover, and anticipates a heavy bill of cost. He does his dirty work, and the plaintiff is nonsuited, who emigrates to Genesee, and forgets to pay the advocate his fees. Don’t fret, Mr. Greenbag, keep yourself cool, you have another cause to argue, another false title to set up which will demand the calmness and intrepidity of falsehood. Don’t damn your absconded client. The balance of deception was in equilibrio between you. Two cheats make an even bargain.

A spruce stripling of sixteen, courts an old beldame of sixty. He thinks her rich, and hopes that her gold will enable him to buy at the female flesh market of beauty a more juicy rib. She, relying on the bridegroom’s vigour, dreams of the comforts of matrimony, and forthwith pronounces—I obey, before the Parson. But alas! the bride’s purse is coinless, and the fond bridegroom chooses to consummate elsewhere. I advise the husband when in consequence of his wife’s fortune, he keeps a coach, to choose for a motto, two cheats make an even bargain.

Last week, I wrote at length, and like Dogberry, in Shakespeare, bestowed all my tediousness upon my readers. I will make atonement. The PROMPTER is laconic, and Adage hates prolixity.

SINGULAR CUSTOMS OF THE HINDOOS.

Although the Hindoos are naturally the most inoffensive of all mortals, yet does their humanity consist more in abstaining from injurious, than in the performance of beneficent actions. There is a wonderful mildness in their manners, and also in their laws, which are influenced by their manners; by which the murder of an human creature, and of a cow, are the only crimes that are punished by death. Yet with all this gentleness of disposition, they are inferior to the boisterous Europeans, with all their vices, in the virtues of compassion and generosity. They are wanting in that tenderness which is the most amiable part of our nature. They are less affected by the distresses and dangers, and even the accidental deaths of one another, than any nation I know in the old or new world. Yet they love to excess: a proof, either of the inconstancy of the human character; or that the amorous passion is not derived from the noblest part of our nature.

This insensibility of the Hindoos to the distresses and dangers of their fellow-creatures, appears to me a wonderful phenomenon. Perhaps that despotism which has long been exercised under the Mogul tyranny, by familiarising the mind to scenes of death, has blunted a sense of its terrors. Perhaps those ideas of predestination and irresistible fate, which prevail in Asia, and in all despotic governments, prepares the mind for an acquiescence in all events. An English gentleman was standing by a native of Hindostan when an enormous and fierce tiger leaped from a thicket, and carried off a screaming boy, the son of one of his neighbours. The Englishman expressed symptoms of the most extreme horror, while the Hindoo remained unmoved. “What,” said the former, “are you unaffected by so dreadful a scene?”—“The great God,” said the other, “would have it so.”—Whatever may be the cause, it is certain, that death is regarded with less horror in India than in any other country in the world. The origin and the end of all things, say the philosophers of India of the present time, is a vacuum. A state of repose is the state of greatest perfection: and this is the state after which a wise man aspires. It is better, say the Hindoos, to sit than to walk, and to sleep than to wake; but death is the best of all.

According to the Gentoo laws, criminals sentenced to death are not to be strangled, suffocated, or poisoned, but to be cut off by the sword; because, without an effusion of blood, malefactors are supposed to die with all their sins about them; but the shedding of their blood, it is thought, expiates their crimes. The unjust punishment of Nundcomar, who was hanged on a gibbet against the laws of his country, and even by an ex post facto English law, was aggravated by that circumstance of horror, that he died without an effusion of blood.

The Hindoos are well acquainted with the nature of simples, and apply them judiciously either in performing cures which require not amputation, or in effecting death by quick or slow poisons. They have been for ages in the practice of inoculating for the small-pox; on which occasion, as well as on others, they have recourse to the favourable mediation of charms, or spells.

Although the practice of Hindoo women burning themselves on the funeral piles of their husbands, and embracing in the mean time their dead bodies in their arms, be not so general now as it has formerly been, yet does it still prevail among some of the wives of men of high caste or condition: and although this effort of frantic love, courage, and ambition, be deemed an aggrandizement of the family and relations of both husband and wife, but especially of the wife’s, yet their friends and relations constantly endeavour to dissuade the women who declare their resolutions of burning, from carrying them into execution. Even the Brahmins do not encourage this practice.

The causes which inspire Hindoo women with this desperate resolution, are, I imagine, the following:

In the first place; as the wife has, from her earliest infancy, been betrothed in marriage to her husband, and from that time has never been permitted to see another man; as she is instructed to believe that he is perfectly accomplished, and taught to respect and honour him; as, after consummation, she is shut up from the company, conversation, and even the sight of other men, with still greater care, if possible, than before, being now debarred from seeing even the father or elder brother of her husband, the bonds of her affection must needs be inconceivably strong and indissoluble. To an European lady the zenana naturally appears in the light of an horrible prison: but the daughters of Asia never consider confinement to the zenana as any hardship. They consider it as a condition of their existence, and they enjoy all the happiness of which they have any conception; their whole desires being concentered and fixed on their husband, their food, jewels, and female attendants.

In the second place, if the wife survive her husband, she cannot marry again, and is treated as an inferior person, and an outcast from her family. Nay, she is obliged, in her mournful and hopeless widowhood, to perform all the offices of a menial servant.

In the third place, she is flattered with the idea of having immortalized her name, and aggrandized her children, and her own and husbands families.

Lastly, she is rendered insensible to the pains and horrors of what she is to suffer, by those intoxicating perfumes and mixtures which are administered to her after she has declared her final and unalterable resolution—I say her final resolution, because one or two declarations, of an intention to die with her husband, is not sufficient.