VOLUME II. (continued 8)

Could I any longer doubt the extent of my misery? I instantly called for Boleslas, one of the most faithful of my domestics: I ordered him to place trusty spies about the palace of Pulaski, who should bring an account of every thing that passed there; and commanded that if the count returned to the capital before me, he should follow him wherever he went. Having given these instructions, and not yet despairing of still finding the family at one of their seats in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, I myself set out in pursuit of my mistress.

I accordingly searched through all the domains of Pulaski, and asked concerning Lodoiska of all the passengers whom I met, but without success. After having spent eight days in fruitless enquiry, I resolved to return to Warsaw, and I was not a little astonished, on my arrival, to find a Russian army encamped on the banks of the Vistula, almost under the very walls of that city.

It was night when I entered the capital: the palaces of the grandees were all illuminated, an immense multitude filled the streets; I heard the songs of joy; I beheld wine flowing in rivulets in the public squares: every thing announced to me that Poland had a king.

Boleslas, who expected me with impatience, informed me that Pulaski had returned alone on the second day after my departure; and that he had not stirred from his own palace but to repair to the diet, where, in spite of his efforts, the ascendancy of Russia became every day more manifest. “During the last assembly held this very morning,” adds he, “M. de P—— united almost all the suffrages in his favour, and was about to be declared king, when Pulaski pronounced the fatal Veto: at that instant twenty sabres were brandished in the air. The fierce palatine of ————, whom the count had insulted in the former assembly, was the first to rush forwards, and gave him a terrible wound on the head. Zaremba, and some others, flew to the defence of their friend; but all their efforts would have been unable to have saved him, if M. de P———— had not ranged himself on their side, exclaiming at the same time, that he would sacrifice, with his own hand, the first person who dared to approach him. On this the assailants retired. In the mean time Pulaski, fainting with the loss of blood, was carried off the field in a state of insensibility. Zaremba departed also, swearing to avenge his friend. Having thus become master of the deliberations, the numerous partisans of M. de P————, instantly proclaimed him sovereign.

“Pulaski, who had been carried to his palace, was soon restored to life; and the surgeons who attended him, declared that his wounds, although dangerous, were not mortal. In that state, although languishing under the most cruel torments, contrary to the advice of all his friends, he ordered himself to be lifted into his carriage, and before noon he left Warsaw, accompanied by Mazeppa and a few male-contents.”

It was scarcely possible to have announced worse news to me. My friend was upon the throne, but my reconciliation with Pulaski appeared henceforth impossible, and in all appearance Lodoiska was lost for ever. I knew her father so well as to be under apprehensions lest he should proceed to extremities with his daughter. I was affrighted at the present, I durst not look forwards towards the future; and my heart was so devoured with chagrin, that I did not go out, even to felicitate the new king.

One of my people, whom Boleslas dispatched after Pulaski, returned at the end of the fourth day: he had followed him fifteen leagues from the capital; when, about that distance, Zaremba, who perceived a stranger at a little distance from the carriage, began to conceive suspicions. As they proceeded, four of his followers, who had concealed themselves behind the ruins of an old house, surprised my courier, and conducted him to Pulaski. He, with a pistol in his hand, forced him to acknowledge to whom he belonged. “I shall send you back to Lovzinski,” said the fierce republican, “on purpose to announce from me, that he shall not escape my just vengeance.” At these words they blindfolded my servant, who could not tell where they had carried him. At the end of four-and-twenty hours they resumed, and tying a handkerchief once more about his eyes they put him into a carriage, which having stopped at length, after a journey of several hours, he was ordered to descend. Scarce had he put his foot upon the ground but his guards departed at a full gallop; on which he removed the bandage, and found himself precisely on the same spot as that on which he had been first arrested.

This intelligence filled me with uneasiness; the menaces of Pulaski terrified me, much less on my own account than on Lodoiska’s, who remained in his power: in the midst of his fury he might sacrifice her life! I resolved therefore to expose myself to every species of danger, on purpose to discover the retreat of the father, and the prison of his only child.

On the succeeding day, after informing my sisters of my design, I left the capital: Boleslas alone accompanied me, and I passed for his brother. We wandered over all Poland, and I then perceived that the fears of Pulaski were but too well justified by the event. Under pretence of obliging the inhabitants to take the oath of fidelity to the new King, the Russians, scattered about in the provinces, desolated the country, and committed a multitude of exactions in the cities.

After having spent three months in vain enquiries, despairing of being able to find Lodoiska, touched with the most lively grief for the fate of my country, and weeping at one and the same time for her misfortunes and my own, I was about to return to Warsaw, to inform the new king of the excesses committed by those foreigners in his states, when an adventure that at first seemed to be very inauspicious, forced me to a very different resolution.

The Turks having declared war against Russia, the Tartars of Budziac and the Crimea made frequent incursions into Volhynia, where I then was. Four of those robbers attacked us one afternoon, as we were leaving a wood near Ostropol. I had imprudently neglected to load my pistols; but I made use of my sabre with so much address and good luck, that in a short time, two of them fell covered with wounds. Boleslas encountered the third: the fourth attacked me with great fury; he gave me a slight cut upon the leg, but received a terrible stroke in return, that dismounted him from his horse, and felled him to the ground. Boleslas at the same moment perceived himself disencumbered from his enemy, who, at the noise made by his comrade’s fall, took to flight. He whom I had just vanquished, then addressed me in very bad Polish, and said: “a brave man like you ought to be generous. I beg my life of you; instead of putting me to death, succour me, relieve me, bind up my wounds, and assist me to arise.”

He demanded quarter with an air so noble, that I did not hesitate for a moment. I accordingly descend from my horse, and Boleslas and myself having helped him to arise, we dressed his wounds. “You behave well!” says the Tartar to me; “you behave well!” As he spoke we beheld a cloud of dust, and in a moment after more than three hundred Tartars rushed upon us at full speed. “Be not afraid, dread nothing,” says he whom I had spared; “I am chief of this troop.” Accordingly, by means of a sign, he stops his followers, who were on the point of massacring us; and speaking to them in their own language, which I was unable to comprehend, they instantly open their ranks on purpose to permit us to pass.

“Brave man,” exclaims their captain, addressing himself to me once more, “had I not reason to say that you behaved well? You left me my life, and I now save yours; it is sometimes right to spare an enemy, and even a robber! Hear me, my friend: in attacking you, I followed my profession, and you did your duty in conquering me. I pardon you, you have already pardoned me; let us therefore embrace.”—He then adds: “The day is wasting, and I would not advise you to travel in these cantons during the present night. My people are about to repair each to his respective post, and I cannot answer for their discretion. You perceive a castle on a rising ground, towards the right: it belongs to a certain Pole of the name of Dourlinski, for whom we have a high esteem, because he is very rich. Go, demand an asylum from him; tell him that you have wounded Titsikan, and that Titsikan pursues you. He is acquainted with my name: I have already made him pass many an uneasy night. As to the rest, you may rely on it, that while you remain with him, his castle shall be sacred; but be careful not to come forth on any account before the end of three days, and not to remain there longer than eight.---Adieu!”

It was with unfeigned pleasure that we took leave of Titsikan and his companions. The advice of the Tartar was a command: I therefore said to Boleslas; “Let us immediately make for the castle that he has now pointed out to us; I am well acquainted with this same Dourlinski by name, Pulaski has sometimes spoken to me concerning him: he perhaps is not ignorant of the place to which the Count has retired; and it is not impossible but that with a little address we may be able to draw the secret from him. I shall say at all events that we are sent by Pulaski, and this recommendation will be of more service to us than that of Titsikan: in the mean time, Boleslas, do not forget that I am your brother, and be sure not to discover me.”

(To be continued.)

REMARK.

There are people, whose conversation or presence always excites languor in others: these are men who, by the void in their minds, communicate weariness; or who are fatiguing by a superabundance of uninteresting conversation; thus want and superfluity are sources of languor.

PERFECT FRIENDSHIP.

Seneca has observed, and justly, that a great man struggling with adversity, and bearing its attacks with fortitude, is a sight worthy of the gods. But a sight, as interesting, if not more so, is that of a virtuous mind, oppressed by calumny, with the ability to elude its shafts, yet cheerfully opposing itself to their force, for some secret but worthy purpose.

Fouquet, intendant of the finances to Lewis the Fourteenth, after living in the greatest splendor, enjoying the unlimited favour and confidence of his master, and seeing his levees crowded by the first nobles in the land, fell into disgrace, and was sent to the Bastile. He experienced the common fate of all favourites in disgrace; forsaken by his friends, and persecuted by his foes, the courtiers in general viewed his ruin with pleasure, and charitably resolved to complete his destruction. The envious and the disappointed had found means to prejudice his sovereign against him, and his displeasure was the signal of hatred and persecution to the fawning crew that surrounded his throne. Adulation is coeval with monarchy; and no king probably ever deserved implicit obedience from his subjects more than Lewis the Fourteenth*, on whom nature had conferred every quality that could excite awe, or command respect; the majesty of his person seemed one of his first claims to sovereignty. It has been remarked, that but very few of those who were so unfortunate to incur the displeasure of this prince, could survive the loss of his favour†. Fouquet is one of the few. He was well aware, however, of the extreme danger to which he was exposed; and among an infinity of motives for serious apprehension, the intendant regarded the examination of his papers as one of the most certain causes of his ruin. This consideration greatly encreased the anxiety occasioned by his confinement; if he could but have destroyed those unfortunate papers previous to his detention, he should not have so much dreaded the machinations of his enemies, however ingeniously formed, or inveterately pursued.

In the midst of these alarms for his situation, he received the dreadful news that Pélisson, his secretary, and his friend, had openly declared himself his accuser, and was soon to be confronted with him. Shocked at the intelligence, his courage forsook him, and he gave way to despair.

This action of Pélisson’s soon made a noise in the world, and excited the most lively sensations of resentment in the minds of the public, who so seldom interest themselves in the fate of the unfortunate. Every body exclaimed that he was the most base and most criminal of mankind! Loaded with the benefactions of his master, honoured with his particular confidence,—his friend, in short—he stands forward in the infamous light of a public informer, and is about to stab him to the heart.

Pélisson, could not be ignorant of these reports to his prejudice, which encreased every day; at length they attained to such a height, that some worthy members of society took the resolution publicly to reproach him with the baseness of his conduct, wherever they met him. The secretary, though now an object of contempt, preserved his tranquility, and appeared wholly indifferent to every thing that was said to him. The few friends who still remained true to the interests of the unfortunate minister, went to Pélisson’s house, and by alternate threats, entreaties, and supplications, endeavoured to deter him from his purpose, but in vain; he remained firm, and persisted in his resolution of speaking the truth, and of accusing Fouquet to his face. It must be observed that the prisoner, during this time, was invisible to every one but his judges, who were his greatest enemies, and many of whom, in violation of every principle of justice, had openly declared their intention of finding him guilty.

At length the day arrived on which Pélisson was to prefer his accusation, and incur the atrocious sin of ingratitude. The doors of the Bastile are opened to him: he is confronted with his master, who exclaims, “Ah Pélisson, is it you? Are you my enemy, too?—Alas! I mistook you for my friend!”—The secretary, far from being disconcerted at this exclamation, began to fulfil the task he had undertaken, with all the impudence of the most hardened calumniator; he taxed Fouquet with crimes which were totally destitute of foundation, and which he hastened to contradict, with the manly firmness of conscious innocence. “That is not true,” said he, interrupting Pélisson, “you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus gross, and not blush with shame?”—“Oh,” replied Pélisson, whose countenance betrayed the most violent indignation, “you would not dare to contradict me, with so much assurance, if you did not know that your papers were burnt.”

These last words flashed conviction on the mind of Fouquet, who immediately perceived the wonderful address of Pélisson, and the generosity of his soul. He perceived that his secretary, firm and unshaken in his friendship, had burned his papers, and had conceived the design—the only one that could be possibly adopted—of becoming the accuser, in order to gain admittance to his inaccessible prison, that he might make him acquainted with the important service he had rendered him. The intendant, ashamed of his unjust suspicions, and anxious to make amends for them, cast a look on Pélisson, which gave him to understand that he had perfectly understood him, and was penetrated with the most lively sensations of gratitude for his conduct.

The secretary, feeling the complete satisfaction at the success of his project, still continued to expose himself to the scorn and indignation of the public. Considered as the basest of mankind, he experienced every species of insult; while conscious integrity insured to him that serenity of soul, which was regarded as the hardened effrontery of a mind wholly callous to shame.

It was not till some time after that the truth came to be known. The scene then changed. Pélisson became the object of general admiration, and of enthusiastic esteem, that bordered on veneration; but he still preserved the same serenity of mind, and displayed the same indifference to merited praise, as he had before shewn to unmerited censure. Whenever his friends expatiated on his unshaken firmness, and extraordinary heroism, the worthy stoic replied—“That man must appear of little consequence in his own eyes, whose moral existence depends merely on the opinion of others! It is our place to fix a just value on ourselves before others attempt to appreciate us. I did but fulfil my duty in serving a man to whom I did not chuse to be an impotent or useless friend: the title of friend imposes on those who bear it essential obligations, which I have endeavoured to discharge; I have given more than my life: I have suffered myself to be polluted by the imputation of vice and dishonour; because it was the only means of serving the friend I loved. What made me amends for the mean opinion which the public entertained of me?—The good opinion I entertained of myself. That paid me amply for the effects of prejudice which was founded in injustice. Virtue is but mental fortitude; and I exerted the whole of mine, to be able to brave the opinion of all mankind. You now see, there are occasions which require a man to raise himself above that solemn judgment to which every human being must generally submit. You must permit me, however, to give you one piece of advice. Another time be less prompt to decide on the merits of a man who enjoys some reputation for probity; and be assured, that he can never be on a sudden converted into the vilest of rogues. The friend of Fouquet could not act in a manner so contrary to his natural disposition.”

Philosophy—adds the relator of this anecdote—will have attained to its highest degree of perfection, when it shall have enforced the conviction. That virtue is infinitely superior to talents. By virtue alone can the duties we owe to society, and to ourselves, be properly discharged.

GLEANINGS.

Man is not more superior to a brute, than one man is to another by the mere force of wisdom. Wisdom is the sole destroyer of equality, the fountain of honour, and the only mark by which one man, for ten minutes together, can be known from another.

Were men always skilful they would never use craft or treachery. That men are so cunning, arises from the littleness of their minds, which, if it can conceal itself in one place, quickly discovers itself in another.

Cunning men, like jugglers, are only versed in two or three little tricks, while wisdom excels in the whole circle of action.

The cunning man and the wise man differ not only in point of honesty, but ability. He that can pack the cards, does not always play well.

I have a right to hold my tongue, and to be silent at all times; but if I speak to another, I have no right to make him answer for me just as I please.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 110.)

“I will not disappoint your hope; however, I must repeat once more that I can lead you to truth by no other road but that of reason purified from all sensual dregs. You will find it difficult to pursue that road, and it will be no easy task to me to guide you. I shall be obliged to avoid all emblematic language, in order to convey to your mind these supersensible notions in their natural purity, and it will be necessary that you should know how to apply the abstractest and purest notions, although they should contradict your present manner of perception.”

“I shall at least not be wanting in attention and good-will.”

“First of all it will be necessary to agree in the notion of what is called spirit. The best method of fixing that notion will be to examine what the word spirit means according to the general rules of language. If one man says, man consists of body and spirit, by the former a corporeal, and by the latter an incorporeal being is understood. We have, therefore, a common point from which we can proceed in our investigation. Spirit is opposite to body. In this point we agree according to the most general meaning and use of the word.”

“I do.”

“Let us see what follows thence! Every body is a compounded, extended, impenetrable being, subject to the laws of motion, consequently, every spirit is a simple, unextended and penetrable being, not subject to the laws of motion.”

“Exactly so!”

“Bodies are extended, that is they occupy a room, and the proportion which one body bears to the other in point of room, constitutes its place; spirits are not extended, and consequently exist in no room, and in no place.”

“How am I to understand this?”

“Just as I have said.—But let me elucidate my argument. Why cannot two bodies exist at the same time, in the same space? Because they exclude each other on account of their extension and impenetrability. Two bodies must, of course, occupy two different places, if existing at the same time; that is, every individual body must occupy its own individual place. And why must every body occupy its own place?”

“Because of its expansion and impenetrability.”

“Very well! But these two qualities cannot appertain to a spirit, and, consequently, a spirit can occupy no place.”

“This seems really to follow.”

“This argument can also be stated thus: a spirit has, as a simple being, neither a right nor left, neither a front nor a back side, and consequently can have no relation from no side to any thing that occupies a space. The conclusion is very palpable.”

“Then a spirit could occupy no room in the whole material world?”

“Would you perhaps assign to spirits a place in the immaterial world? How could you imagine, without contradiction, that space or place can exist in such a world? If one spirit does not occupy a room, then all spirits together can occupy none, how could therefore any proportion exist among them with relation to space or place?”

“I comprehend and do not comprehend you. You want to convince me of the possibility of apparitions of spirits, and deny the existence of spirits; for if they do occupy no place either in the visible or invisible world, where else can they exist?”

“How sensitive and confused your ideas are! Don’t you perceive that your question is equal to this: in which place do spirits exist? and that, of course, you premise in your question what I have just clearly proved to be absurd. Do you not comprehend that room and place are nothing else but external qualities, only relations of material things? and do you believe that the existence of any being depends merely on external qualities and material relations?”

“Have patience with me!”

“I have; for I am well aware how difficult it is to abstract from material ideas; however, since they cannot be applicable to spirits we must renounce them, else we cannot pass over the bounds of the material world.”

“I intreat you, Hiermanfor, to go on!”

“From our investigation we have learnt, as yet, nothing farther than what a spirit is not, and what attributes cannot be ascribed to it. We now must endeavour to state what real qualities constitute the nature of spirits. One of them we have already touched upon; I mean, independence of the laws of physical nature, or arbitrary choice. A second quality presses upon us, namely the faculty of perception, which our soul is endowed with like all other spirits. And now we are enabled to form a notion of spirits, which, however imperfect it be, yet is determined: a spirit is a simple being, endowed with arbitrary choice, and the faculty of perception. Don’t you think that this definition answers the common manner of speaking.”

“An additional proof of its fitness.”

“In the same manner in which the body evinces its existence, by the material effect it produces in the room, the spirit likewise proves its existence by the manifestation of its faculty of perception and of free will. However evident and generally received this proposition is, yet it is misapplied very frequently; for it is, according to my premises, absolutely false, and nothing else but a kind of optic illusion, if we imagine our soul to be inclosed in the human body, nay even in some particular place of it. This illusion may be opposed by another: there are diversions of thought, in which the thinking principle leaves our body so entirely, that only the animal powers are active in the latter, and on the return of our awakening self-consciousness, the soul seems to return from far distant regions. However, this too is mere illusion. We can say nothing farther of the union which subsists between our soul and body, than that our soul is sensible of the existence of a corporeal organ, the mutations of which harmonise exactly with her ideas and resolutions; however, as you never will suppose that your spirit is inclosed by the walls of Amelia’s distant habitation, where your whole soul, with all her sentiments and ideas, is, as it were, translated to; so your spirit can also not be supposed to be inclosed in your body, which seems to be its common residence. No, no, my Lord, that cannot be! the bonds of space can never fetter an immaterial being to a material one.”

“This is indeed the natural conclusion which flows from your premises; but by what bonds should then the communion between body and soul be preserved?”

“Your question refers to a fact, the answer to it, consequently, belongs to the practical part of this philosophy. Yet,” added the Irishman after some reflections, “I can give you a hint upon that head, which will throw some light upon it: Every substance, consequently the body too, must possess an internal activity, that is the invisible cause of its external actions, which are visible in the space. This internal principle of the body, acts upon the spirit in the same manner in which the spirit acts upon this principle. Soul and body, consequently, cannot act upon each other immediately, but only by means of this principle. As all material beings, concretively taken, compose a great totum, which is called the physical world, so the concrete of all immaterial beings composes what we call the immaterial world. It follows from the antecedent, that the order, regularity, and union which are seen in the former world, are entirely different from the order, regularity, and union which prevails in the latter world. All material beings are subject to the sceptre of stern necessity, and kept in order by physical laws; the rank which these beings maintain towards one another, is founded either on innate qualities, or such as have been attributed to them by general agreement; and they are nearer each other, or more distant from one another, according to their relations constituted by space and time. How different is this in the material world! rational beings, endowed with free will, are subject to no other laws but to those of morality; the prerogatives and degrees which subsist among them, depend on the different degrees of their wisdom and virtue, and according to the similarity or difference of their manner of thinking, and of their sentiments, they are nearer each other, or more distant from one another; that is, they harmonize, or disharmonize. Man belongs, by virtue of his body and soul, to both of these worlds, and, consequently, is connected with the material and immaterial world. It may therefore happen, that the same person who acts an important part on earth, in virtue of his physical or political situation, occupies at the same time the lowest degree among the super-terrestrial beings; that the soul of a body whose beauty charms every eye here below, is an indifferent, or a contemptible object in the spiritual world; that the soul of an inhabitant of Saturn, and that of an inhabitant of the earth, with regard to their spiritual communion, are oftentimes, nearer neighbours than the souls of those whose abode is beneath the same roof.”

“This is very plain!”

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

CHARACTER OF A GOOD MAN.

Agatho makes the interest of mankind, in a manner, his own; and has a tender and affectionate concern for their welfare; he cannot think himself happy, whatever his possessions and his preferments are, while he sees others miserable; his power and wealth delight him chiefly, as the poor and indigent are better for it; and the greatest charm of prosperity is the advantage it affords of relieving his fellow-creatures; and to give assistance and support, according to the various exigencies of those with whom he converses, is his constant endeavour; and that he may practice the more large and generous charity, he retrenches useless pomp and expence, esteeming that a much more sublime and noble gratification than the amusements and gallantries of a vain and luxurious age. In fine, he is unwearied in his endeavours to promote the happiness of others, and he not only takes all opportunities that present themselves of doing good, but seeks all occasions to be useful, though he has frequently met with ungrateful returns——He is good.

ANECDOTE.

Sir William Lilly, a famous painter in the reign of king Charles I. had at a certain agreement drawn the picture of a rich citizen of London to the life, that was not indebted to nature either for face or proportion of body; but when the citizen came to fetch it away, he refused to give Sir William so much money, as they had agreed for, because, as he alleged, if the owner did not buy it, it would lie upon his hands. “That’s your mistake,” says the painter, “for I can sell it for double the price I demand.” “How can that be,” says the citizen, “for ’tis like nobody but myself?” “’Tis true,” says Sir William, “but I will draw a tail to it, and then it will be the best piece for a monkey in England.” Upon which the citizen rather than be exposed, paid down his money and took away his picture.

MAXIMS.

What gold is in the crucible that refines it, the learned man is in his country.

The wise and learned in his own opinion, is but an ignorant person in the eyes of God and men.

It is less difficult to divert a wicked man from his iniquitous schemes, than to dispel the sorrows of a heart that permits grief to prey upon it.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday last, by the Rev. Mr. Beach, Mr. Garland Davies, to Miss Elizabeth Barton, both of this city.

On Thursday evening, the 29th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Woodhull, Mr. William Lawrence, merchant, to Miss Margaret Van Horne, daughter of Mr. James Van Horne, merchant, late of this city, deceased.

On Saturday evening last by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Daniel Paris, Esq. of Montgomery county, to Miss Kitty Irving, daughter of Mr. William Irving of this city.

The same evening, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Jonas Mapes, to Miss Elizabeth Tylee, daughter of Mr. James Tylee of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Thomas Ringwood, Printer, to Miss Catharine Herbert, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 2d to the 8th inst.

Days of the Month. Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

deg.100 deg.100

Oct 2 54 6075 ne.do. cloudy lht. wd.do.

3 53 54 ne.do. rain high wd.do.

4 51 65 n.do. cloudy h. wd.do. do.

5 53 6375 sw.e. cloudy calmdo. do.

6 52 63 nw.w. cloudy lt. wd.clear do.

7 46 59 nw.do. clear, light winddo.

8 44 57 n.w. clear, light wd.do.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

ON THE AUTHOR’S READING TO HER STERNE’S BEAUTIFUL STORY OF MARIA.

THE REPARTEE.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

TO EMMA.

SOLILOQUY TO LOVE.

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

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, October 19, 1796. [No. 68.

REFLECTIONS ON THE HARMONY OF SENSIBILITY AND REASON.

SINCERITY.

A little judgment, with less sensibility, makes a man cunning; a little more feeling, with even less reason, would make him sincere.

Some have no more knowledge of humanity, than just serves them to put on an appearance of it, to answer their own base and selfish purposes.

He who prefers cunning to sincerity, is insensible to the disgrace and suspicion which attend craft and deceit, and the social satisfaction which the generous mind finds in honesty and plain-dealing.

Men who know not the pleasures of sincerity, and who traffic in deceit, barter an image of kindness for a shadow of joy, and are deceived more than they deceive.

PASSION.

Let us suppose an end of Passion, there must be an end of reasoning. Passion alone can correct Passion. Thus we forego a present pleasure, in hopes that we shall afterwards enjoy a greater pleasure, or of longer duration: or suffer a present pain, to escape a greater; and this is called an act of the judgment. He who gives way to the dictates of present passion, without consulting experience, listens to a partial evidence, and must of course determine wrongfully.

Some, in order to pay a false compliment to sentimental pleasures, attempt altogether to depreciate the pleasures of sense: with as little justice, though with like plausibility, have men endeavoured to decry the natural passions and affections as inconsistent with human felicity. Not from our natural desires and passions do we suffer misery; for, without these, what pleasure can we be supposed to enjoy? But from false desires, or diseased appetites, acting without the aid of experience and understanding.

He who commits an action which debases him in his own mind, besides its other evil consequences, lays up a store of future misery, which will haunt him as long as the memory of the deed remains.

Along with the present effects of any action, in order to judge of it aright, we must put in the balance also its future consequences, and consider, on one side, the satisfaction and honour; on the other, the evil and disgrace that may attend it.

Magnanimity exercises itself in contempt of labours and pains, in order to avoid greater pains, or overtake greater pleasures.

TEMPERANCE.

The great rule of sensual pleasures is to use them so as they may not destroy themselves, or be divorced from the pleasures of sentiment; but rather as they are assisted by, and mutually assisting to, the more refined and exalted sympathy of rational enjoyment.

Men ever refine the meaning of the word pleasure to what pleases themselves: gluttons imagine, that by pleasure is meant gluttony. The only true epicures are such as enjoy the pleasures of temperance. Small pleasures seem great to such as know no greater. The virtuous man is he who has sense enough to enjoy the greatest pleasure.

Superfluity and parade among the vulgar-rich pass for elegance and greatness. To the man of true taste, temperance is luxury, and simplicity grandeur.

Whatever pleasures are immediately derived from the senses, persons of fine internal feelings enjoy besides their other pleasures; while such as place their chief happiness in the former, can have no true taste for the delicious sensations of the soul.

They who divide profit and honesty, mistake the nature of the one or the other. We must make a difference between appearances and truths: the really profitable and the good are the same.

False appearances of profit are the greatest enemies to true interest. Future sorrows present themselves in the disguise of present pleasures, and short-sighted folly eagerly embraces the deceit.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

(Continued from page 115.)

We soon arrived at the ditch of the castle; the servants of Dourlinski demanded who we were; I answered that we were come from Pulaski, and wished to speak to their lord, and that we had been attacked by robbers, who were still in pursuit of us. The drawbridge was accordingly let down; and having entered, we were informed that at present we could not see Dourlinski, but that on the next day at ten o’clock he would give us audience. They then demanded our arms, which we delivered up without any difficulty, and Boleslas soon after took an opportunity of looking at my wound, which was found to be but superficial.

In a short time a frugal repast was served up for us in the kitchen. We were afterwards conducted to a lower chamber, where two beds were prepared for us. The domestics then left us without any light, and immediately locked the door of the apartment.

I could not close my eyes during the whole night. Titsikan had given me but a slight wound, but that which my heart had received was so very deep! At day break, I became impatient in my prison, and wished to open the shutters, but they were nailed up. I attacked them, however, so vigorously, that the fastenings gave way, and I beheld a very fine park. The window being low, I cleared it at a leap, and in a single instant found myself in the gardens of the Polish chieftain.

After having walked about for a few minutes, I sat down on a stone bench, which was placed at the foot of a tower, whose ancient architecture I had been some time considering. I remained for a few seconds enveloped in reflection, when a tile fell at my feet. I thought that it had dropped from the roof of this old building; and, to avoid the effects of a similar accident, I went and placed myself at the other end of the seat. A few moments after, a second tile fell by my side. The circumstance appeared surprising: I arose with some degree of inquietude, and attentively examined the tower. I perceived at about twenty-five or thirty feet from the ground, a narrow opening. On this I picked up the tiles which had been thrown at me, and on the first I discovered the following words, written with a bit of plaister;

“LOVZINSKI, is it you! Do you still live!”

And on the second these:

“Deliver me! save Lodoiska.”

It is impossible to conceive how many different sentiments occupied my mind at one and the same time: my astonishment, my joy, my grief, my embarrassment, cannot be expressed. I examined once more the prison of Lodoiska, and plotted in my own mind how I could procure her liberty. She at length threw down another tile, and I read as follows:

“At midnight, bring me paper, ink, and pens; and to-morrow, an hour after sun-rise, come and receive a letter.————Begone.”—

Having returned towards my chamber, I called to Boleslas, who assisted me in re-entering through the window. I then informed my faithful servant, of the unexpected accident that had put an end to my wanderings, and redoubled my inquietude.

How could I penetrate into this tower? How could we procure arms? By what means were we to deliver Lodoiska from captivity! How could we carry her off under the eye of Dourlinski, in the midst of his people, from a fortified castle? and supposing that so many obstacles were not unsurmountable, could I attempt such an enterprize during the short delay prescribed by Titsikan?

Did not the Tartar enjoin me to stay with Dourlinski three days, but not to remain longer than eight?

Would it not be to expose ourselves to the attacks of the enemy, to leave this castle before the third, or after the expiration of the eighth day? Should I release my dear Lodoiska from a prison, on purpose to deliver her into the hands of robbers, to be forever separated from her either by slavery or death? This would be a horrible idea!

But wherefore was she confined in such a frightful prison? The letter which she had promised would doubtless instruct me: It was therefore necessary to procure paper, pen and ink. I accordingly charged Boleslas with this employment, and began to prepare myself for acting the delicate part of an emissary of Pulaski in the presence of Dourlinski.

It was broad day-light when they came to set us at liberty, and inform us, that Dourlinski was at leisure and wished to see us. We accordingly presented ourselves before him with great confidence; and we were introduced to a man of about sixty years of age, whose reception was blunt, and whose manners were repulsive. He demanded who we were. “My brother and myself,” replied I, “belong to Count Pulaski. My master has entrusted me with a secret commission to you. My brother accompanies me on another account. Before I explain, I must be in private, for I am charged not to speak but to you alone.”

“It is very well,” replies Dourlinski: “your brother may retire, and you also,” addressing himself to his servants; “begone! As to him (pointing to a person who was his confident), he must remain, and you may speak any thing before him.”

“Pulaski has sent me.”————“I see very well that he has sent you,” says the palatine, interrupting me——“to demand of you—” “What?”————“news of his daughter.”—“News of his daughter! Did Pulaski say so?”————“Yes my lord, he said that his daughter was here.”---I perceived that Dourlinski instantly grew pale; he then looked towards his confident, and surveyed me for some time in silence.

“You astonish me,” rejoins he at length. “In confiding a secret of this importance to you, it necessarily follows that your master must have been very imprudent.”

“No more than you, my lord, for have not you also a confident? Grandees would be much to be pitied if they could not rely upon any of their domestics. Pulaski has charged me to inform you, that Lovsinski has already searched through a great part of Poland, and that he will undoubtedly visit these cantons.”

“If he dares to come here,” replies he with great vivacity, “I will provide a lodging for him, which he shall inhabit for some time. Do you know this Lovsinski?”

“I have seen him at my master’s house in Warsaw.”—“They say he is handsome?”

“He is well made, and about my size.”

“His person?---is prepossessing; it is————”

“He is a wretch,” adds he, interrupting me in a great passion———“O that he were but to fall into my hands!”

“My lord, they say that he is brave---”

“He! I will wager any sum of money that he is only calculated to seduce women!---O that he would but fall into my hands!” Then, assuming a less ferocious tone, he continued thus. “It is a long time since Pulaski wrote to me---where is he at present?”

“My lord, I have precise orders not to answer that question: all that I dare to say is, that he has the strongest reasons for neither discovering the place of his retreat, nor writing to any person, and that he will soon come and explain them to you in person.”

Dourlinski appeared exceedingly astonished at this information; I could discover some symptoms of fear in his countenance. At length, looking at his confident, who seemed equally embarrassed with himself, he proceeded: “You say that Pulaski will come here soon?”---“Yes, my lord, in about a fortnight, or a little later.” On this he again turned to his attendant; but in a short time affecting as much calmness as he had before discovered embarrassment; “Return to your master”, added he; “I am sorry to have nothing but bad news to communicate to him————tell him that Lodoiska is no longer here.” I myself became surprised in my turn at this information. “What! my lord, Lodoiska————”

“Is not longer here, I tell you!————To oblige Pulaski, whom I esteem, I undertook, although with great repugnance, the talk of confining his daughter in my castle: nobody but myself and he (pointing to his confident) knew that she was here. It is about a month since we went, as usual, to carry her provisions for the day, but there was nobody in the apartment. I am ignorant how it happened; but what I know well is, that she has escaped, for I have heard nothing of her since.---She must undoubtedly have gone to join Lovsinski at Warsaw, if perchance the Tartars have not intercepted her in her journey.”

My astonishment on this became extreme. How could I reconcile that which I had seen in the garden, with that which Dourlinski now told me? There was some mystery in this business, which I became exceedingly impatient to be acquainted with: I was however extremely careful not to exhibit any appearance of doubt. “My lord,” said I, “this is bad news for my master!”————“Undoubtedly, but it is not my fault.”

“My lord, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“Let me hear it.”———“The Tartars are ravaging the neighbourhood of your castle—they attacked us———we escaped as it were by a miracle. Will you permit my brother and myself to remain here only for the space of two days?”

“For two days only I give my consent.”

“Where do they lodge?” says he to his attendant. “In an apartment below ground,” was the reply.

“Which overlooks my gardens?” rejoins Dourlinski, interrupting him with great agitation.

“The shutters are well fastened,” adds the other.

“No matter————You must put them elsewhere.” These words made me tremble.

“It is not possible, but,”———continues the confident, and then whispered the rest of the sentence in his ear.

“Right,” says the Baron; “and let it be done instantly.” Then, addressing himself to me, “know that your brother and you must depart the day after to-morrow: before you go, you shall see me again, and I will give you a letter for Pulaski.”

I then went to rejoin Boleslas in the kitchen, where he was at breakfast, who soon after presented me with a little bottle full of ink, several pens, and some sheets of paper, which he had procured without difficulty. I panted with desire to write to Lodoiska; and the only difficulty that now remained, was to find a commodious place where I might not be discovered by the curiosity of Dourlinski’s people.

They had already informed Boleslas that we could not again be admitted into the apartment where we had spent the preceding night, until the time should arrive when we were to retire to rest. I soon, however, bethought myself of a stratagem which succeeded to admiration.

The servants were drinking with my pretended brother, and politely invited me to help them to empty a few flasks.

I swallowed, with a good grace, several glasses of bad wine in succession: in a few minutes my legs seemed to totter, my tongue faltered: I related a hundred pleasant and improbable tales to the joyous company; in a word, I acted the drunken man so well, that Boleslas himself became a dupe to my scheme, and actually trembled lest, in a moment when I seemed disposed to communicate every thing, my secret should escape.

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REMARKS ON MUSIC.

(Continued from page 108.)

The sacred scriptures afford almost the only materials from which any knowledge of the Hebrew music can be drawn. In the rapid sketch, therefore of ancient music which I mean to exhibit, very few observations are all that can properly be given to that department of the subject.

Moses was educated by Pharoah’s daughter in all the literature and elegant arts cultivated in Egypt. It is probable, therefore, that the taste and style of Egyptian music would be infused in some degree into that of the Hebrews. Music appears to have been interwoven thro’ the whole tissue of religious ceremony in Palestine. The priesthood seem to have been musicians hereditarily and by office. The prophets appear to have accompanied their inspired effusions with music; and every prophet like the present Improvisatori of Italy, seems to have been accompanied by a musical instrument.

Music, vocal and instrumental, constituted a great part of the funeral ceremonies of the Jews. The pomp and expence used on those occasions advanced by degrees to an excessive extent. The number of flute-players in the procession amounted sometimes to several hundreds, and the attendance of the guests continued frequently for thirty days.

The Hebrew language abounds with consonants, and has so few vowels, that in the original alphabet they had no characters, it must, therefore, have been harsh and unfavourable to music. Their instruments of music were chiefly those of percussion, so that the music must have been coarse and noisy: The vast numbers of performers too, whom it was the taste of the Hebrews to collect together, could not with such language and instruments produce any thing but clamour and jargon. According to Josephus, there were 200,000 musicians at the dedication of the temple of Solomon.

The history of King David furnishes us with very striking proofs of his attachment to music. Saul being troubled in his mind, and melancholy, was advised to apply to music as a remedy for his disorder: “David took his harp, and played tunes of sweet melody, and Saul was comforted.”

The Psalms of David, which glow with ardour of genius, of an elevation of the most becoming sentiments, were, it is more than probable, set to the most sublime and expressive music, such was the attachment of the Hebrews to this art, and such was the proficiency they made in it; and when they were in captivity in Babylon, they regretted the loss of those songs which they had sung with rapture in the temple of Jerusalem. Such are the circumstances from which only an idea of the Hebrew music can be formed, for the Jews neither ancient nor modern have ever had any characters peculiar to music; and the melodies used in their religious ceremonies have at all times been entirely traditional.

A. O.

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE RENCOUNTER.

“Shame! Where is thy blush?”

How degrading to human nature! Worse than the brute is he who endeavours to draw another into a contest!

An instance occurred a few days since of a battle between two persons, who (as I withhold their real names) I shall distinguish by the titles of Willet and Martin. Willet had long been a visitor at the house of the other, for what purpose I know not; but be it what it may, his intentions, no doubt, were honourable. Martin has an amiable sister, and report says, the heart of Willet has been smitten by her charms; and when time permitted, and she consented, he intended to have made her his bride.

His visits, it seems, were not very pleasing to the brother of the young lady, who took an opportunity of loading him with a series of epithets consisting of “mean, low,” &c. &c. To these Willet scarcely deigned a reply. When Martin found the object of his malice removed by his vile insinuations, he challenged him to fight. He was forced to comply, though much against his inclination, and both quitting the house, he found himself instantly attacked in the open street, where a scene ensued that would have made the unprincipled savage, were he present, blush with indignation.

In short, the challenger was worsted; he was not a match for his antagonist, though he had the better of him in years. His mother and sister saw the conflict from a window, and endeavoured to restore him to reason, but without effect; he was quite transported with excess of passion.

Martin was the aggressor, and his punishment was just. When he became sensible that he had suffered sufficiently, he was conveyed home, without enjoying the pleasure of beholding that bright luminary, the sun, the cuffs he had received having entirely closed up the organs of sight; to all appearance, a few more would have made him an inhabitant of the world of spirits; but by a lucky turn of the wheel of fortune, they were restrained.

THEODORE.

New-York, Oct. 12, 1796.

FRAGMENTS OF EPICHARMUS.

MORAL MAXIMS.

Be sober in thought; be slow in belief; these are the sinews of wisdom.

It is the part of a wise man to foresee what is to be done, so shall he not repent of what is done.

Throw not away thine anger upon trifles—Reason and not rage should govern.

AN ANTITHESIS.

It demands the strength of a lion to subdue the weakness of love.

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 119.)

“The human soul, of course, is already, in this life, connected with the members of the invisible world, and this connection is lasting and essential, while that with the body is accidental and transient. However a union of substances, that is, of active natures, cannot be supposed to exist without a reciprocal influence; consequently the human soul must have an effective influence upon the spirits to whom she is linked, and the members of the spiritual world must act reciprocally on our soul. But why are we not equally sensible of these reciprocal influences and communications, as of those which subsist between our soul and body? The cause of this is very obvious. The human spirit can have a clear idea only of the objects of the material world, because of its corporeal organ; it is, therefore, not even capable of a clear immediate contemplation of its own self, much less of its immaterial relations to other spirits: the difference which exists between those ideas which arise in our soul by means of its immateriality, and its communion with spiritual beings, and the ideas which it receives by the medium of the body, or abstracted from material objects, is so essential, that the ideas of the former kind cannot come in connection with those of the latter; for which reason we have either no notion at all of them, or, at most, a very obscure one; however, we become plainly conscious of them as soon as the union of the soul and its corporeal organ ceases.”

“This, Hiermanfor, seems, in some measure to be the case when we are sleeping, and the sensitive organs are resting from their occupations. Should therefore those philosophers of antiquity, who have believed that in our dreams we are capable of being influenced by superior beings, and of receiving supernatural inspirations, be mistaken?”

“There is, certainly, some truth in this remark. I must, however, observe, that we do not possess that capacity when dreaming, but when we are fast asleep. It is commonly thought that we have only obscure notions in the latter state, and this opinion arises from our not recollecting them when we awake; however, on what ground can we conclude therefrom that they have not been clear while we were sleeping? Such ideas, perhaps, may be clearer and more extensive, than even the most perspicuous when we are awake, because the activity of our soul is neither modified nor confined by any thing whatever, the sensitive organs being intirely at rest. However this very rest of our sensitive organs, is the cause which prevents the re-production of these ideas when we are awake, our sleeping body having no share in them, and, consequently, being destitute of its concomitant notion of them; they, of course, remain insulated in our soul, having no connection at all with those ideas which arise within ourselves before and after we are fast asleep, and in which our body takes a greater or a smaller share. This is not the case with our dreams; for when we are dreaming, the faculties of the soul do not act so pure and uncontrouled as when we are fast asleep. Dreaming is an intermediate state between waking and sleeping. We have then already, in some measure, clear ideas, and interweave the actions of our soul with the impressions of our exterior senses, whereby a strange, and sometimes ridiculous mixture is engendered, which we partly recollect when we awake.”

“You have, as yet, proved only the probability of clear notions during our being fast asleep; could you not also prove their reality?”

“Certainly! however these arguments do not belong to the theoretical part of our philosophy. Yet I must beg of you to recollect, en passant, the actions of some noctambulos, who sometimes, during the profoundest sleep, shew more understanding than at any other time, but cannot recollect those actions when awake?”

“This is true!” I exclaimed, “this throws an astonishing light upon this matter.”

“Yet not only while asleep,” the Irishman continued, “but also when awake, many people can be capable of having a clear notion of their connection with the spiritual world, and the influence of spirits upon them. Yet the essential difference which exists between the notions of spirits and those of men is a great impediment, which, however, is not at all insurmountable. It is true than man cannot have an immediate notion of those spiritual ideas, because of the co-operation of his corporeal organs; however they can, in virtue of the law of the association of ideas, produce in the human mind those images which are related to them and consequently procreate analogical representations of our senses, which, although they be not the spiritual actions themselves, yet are their symbols.”

“I perceive what you are aiming at.”

“Examples will render the matter more intelligible to you. Experience teaches that our superior intellectual notions, which are near a-kin to the spiritual ideas, commonly assume a bodily garb, in order to render themselves perspicuous. Thence the poet transforms wisdom into the Goddess Minerva, the stings of conscience into furies, and personifies virtues and vices; the mathematician describes time by a line, and is there any philosopher who always forms an idea even of the Godhead, without intermixing human qualities? In that manner ideas, which have been imparted to us by spiritual influence, may dress themselves in the symbols of that language which is common to us, and the presence of a spirit which we perceive, assume the image of a human shape—witness the late apparition of your tutor.——Thus the theory of all supernatural inspirations and visions is ascertained; consequently the apparitions of spirits have that in common with our dreams, that they represent to us effects which are produced within ourselves, as if happening without ourselves; however, at the same time, they differ from them with respect to their being really founded upon an effect from without, a spiritual influence. However this influence cannot reveal itself to our consciousness immediately, but only by means of associated images of our fancy, which attain the vivacity of objects really perceived. You see, therefore, what an essential difference there is between the phantoms of our dreams, and the apparitions of spirits. But here is the boundary of theory. The criterion whereby apparitions of spirits, in every particular case, can be distinguished with certainty, from vain phantoms, and supernatural inspirations from natural ideas, and the means of effecting apparitions, and of obtaining assistance and instructions from spiritual beings; these and several more things belong to the practical part of the occult philosophy.

“Here, my Lord, I must conclude for the present, and drop the curtain. Stress of time obliges me to abbreviate my discourse on a subject which would not be exhausted in many days; however I may safely leave to your own understanding the finishing and enlargement of this sketch. Suffice it that I have enabled you to comprehend the apparition of your friend, and to see that reason does not pronounce judgment against subjects of this nature, but rather is the only mean which affords us light and certainty with respect to them. The theory which I have given you may, at the same time, serve you to judge whether it will be worth your trouble to be initiated in the mysteries of the practical part of this philosophy. However, I must tell you, that no mortal who has not sanctified himself by bridling his sensitive nature, and purifying his spiritual faculties, can be admitted to that sanctuary. Are you resolved to do this?”

“I am, put me to the test!”

“Then depart with the first dawn of day for Ma**id, without taking leave of the Countess.”

The Irishman could not have chosen a severer trial, nor demanded a greater sacrifice. The combat which I had to fight with my heart, before I could come to a resolution, was short but dreadful.---I promised the Irishman to execute his will.

“Well!” said he, “then hear what measures you are to take. As soon as you shall be arrived at Ma**id, you must, without delay, wait upon the Prime Minister, Oliv**ez, and the Secretary of State Suma*ez, but take care not to discover your political views to either of them; pretend that you intend to stay some time at Ma**id merely for the sake of amusement. Repeat your visits till you have gained their confidence. Your winning demeanor, my Lord, and your intimate connection with Vascon*ellos will render this conquest easy.---Farewell, at Ma**id we shall meet again!”

We parted. The Irishman returned once more. “Your manner of life while at Ma**id,” said he, “will require great expences, and you must be well provided with money. I have taken care that you shall be well supplied with that needful article. You will find in your apartment a sum which you may dispose of at pleasure.” So saying, he left me suddenly.

On coming home, I found on my table two bags with money, each of them containing a thousand ducats. Pietro told me they had been brought by a servant of the Irish Captain.

No one will doubt that I was now entirely devoted to the Irishman. By his discourse at the burying place he had persuaded, and by his liberality convinced me, that I could not do better than to let myself be guided entirely by him; and as I at first had been determined to this by the conquering superiority of his soul, so I was now confirmed in it by the applause of my reason. Nay, if the Irishman should now have offered to break off all connection with me, I should have courted his friendship, so much had I been charmed by the profound wisdom of his discourse. Not the least vestige of mistrust against his secret power was left in my soul, and the very regard for philosophy which but lately had prejudiced me against him, was now one of the strongest bonds that chained me to him. How agreeably was I surprised to find in Reason herself, whom I formerly had thought to be the principal adversary of the belief in miracles, the most convincing arguments for the same, and to have been conquered with the same weapons which I had been fighting with against the Irishman, without having the least reason to reproach him with having had recourse to any stratagem whatever. The frankness and strength of argument which distinguished every step of his philosophical instruction, were to me the most unexceptionable security for the justness of the result. If he had delivered his arguments in a flowery and mysterious language, supported by the charms of declamation, then I should certainly have suspected them; however he had made use of the cool, simple and clear language of reason, divested of all sophistical artifices; started from principles which are generally received, drew no conclusions to which he was not entitled by his premises, combatted errors and prejudices upon which he could have founded surreptious conclusions; nay, it appeared as if he, unmindful of what he was to prove, had left it entirely to the course of his impartial inquiry whither it would lead him, and I beheld myself, with astonishment, on the conclusion of it, at the mark from which the road we had taken threatened to lead us astray.

I cannot describe the wonderful bold ideas which the instructions I had received produced in my mind, nor the awfully agreeable sensations which those ideas were accompanied with. The rising sun surprised me in that indescribable state of mind, and reminded me by his rays, that it was time to set off.

(To be continued.)

++++++++++++

ARABIAN MAXIMS.

The car of Hope is always escorted by Want.

Consider the man that flatters you as an enemy.

If there were none but wise men in the world it would soon be desert.

Would you censure others? Examine your own conduct first.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

METAMORPHOSIS OF CHARACTERS.

How much is man the creature of incidents!——The solitary student becomes a Hypochondriac, a Misanthropist; the world seems to him a prison, and its inhabitants a parcel of rogues and vagabonds; he no longer views mankind with complacency, with a fellow feeling for their infirmities and pity for their misfortunes, but considers them with the severity of a Censor.——But let him emerge from his closet, let him enter into the concerns of life and undergo the salutary agitation of gentle exercise, while he beholds his neighbours industriously and chearfully employed, and he becomes quite another man. If we now penetrate his mind we find him no longer disturbed by imaginary evils, or vexed with supposed injuries. He begins to view mankind as his brethren, and fellow travellers; and feels a disposition to assist the weary, and to recall the wanderer to the right path, with a friendly commiseration for his errors. Scrupulosus was once a crabbed, morose sceptic; he would believe nothing but what had undergone the ordeal of his own reason, nor trust any man farther than he could see him.—Necessity drove him into the busy world, and a concurrence of events, placed him in the matrimonial state.—He now finds fewer difficulties, than formerly, to encounter; and perceives that his self-sufficiency, and conceit had involved many things in an impenetrable mist.—Connections multiply, and a smiling progeny surrounds him.---Scrupulosus, is no longer a cavilling sceptic---he is a christian.

What a change is this! what a metamorphosis of characters! Neither is it the fiction of imagination, but the delineation of what daily occurs in real life.---The traveller is quite a different being from the sedentary man, because he is active, and constantly excited by a variety of objects.

Our ideas of the Almighty, are not less influenced by the circumstances which surround us. Behold the torpid monk, seeking the favour of a God of vengeance, by the rigours of an austere life. On the other hand, see the chearful friend of man, addressing the father of his fellow-creatures, with a heart full of love and gratitude, and a lively hope of his favour and protection. Such, then, is the penalty imposed on immoderate study, and thus the solitary pursuit of knowledge, when excessive, will entirely frustrate our expectations, and destroy the health of both body and mind.

VIATOR.

MORAL MAXIMS.

Mankind are more indebted to industry than ingenuity: the gods set up their favours at a price, and industry is the purchaser.

A man without merit may live without envy; but who would wish to escape on these terms?

This item is repeated on pg. 129 (next Number).

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last by the Rev. Bishop Provost, Captain John Sanders, of Exeter, (England) to the amiable Miss Catherine Livingston, of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 9th to the 15th inst.

Thermometor observed at Prevailing winds. OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

Oct deg.100 deg.100

9 43 55 ne.s. clear, light winddo. do.

10 3750 51 ne.do. clear, lht. wd.cloudy do.

11 48 5575 ne.se. cloudy lt. wd.do. do.

12 46 58 n.se. clear lt. wd.do. do.

13 55 66 ne.se. foggy light windcalm do.

14 55 7075 w.s. cloudy light windclear calm

15 53 6150 ns. foggy calmclear light wind

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

LA FAYETTE——A SONG.

BY WILLIAM BRADFORD, ESQ. LATE ATTORNEY GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

When the Author of the following Elegy finds it is committed to print, he will not, I am persuaded, be offended, after I remind him of the conversation we had some time since:—And also when he reflects on the injury he does the Public, by keeping any of his productions from their view.

ELEGY

ADDRESSED TO THE CALLIOPEAN SOCIETY, ON THE DEATH OF DOCTOR JOSEPH YOULE.

A Lady having received a Bouquet from a Boy, sent him the following Verses.

The Answer, by a Friend of the Boy.

EPITAPH ON MR. W—— N——

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

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, October 26, 1796. [No. 69.

A SENTIMENTAL FRAGMENT.

It was low ebb when our vessel made the offing of Dublin bay, and it being then night, we lay at anchor till morning. The moon shone remarkably bright, and reflected in silver shades upon the sea, which waved with a gentle heaving---a murmur---it was nature sighing with a love-creating respiration.

For some leagues on each side the harbour’s mouth it was encircled with a fleet of herring boats, and I not being inclined to sleep, accompanied the captain in the yawl, to visit them.

The drawing of the herring nets, is, perhaps, the most pleasing and beautiful sight the human mind can conceive: the fish, as they are hawled up the vessel’s side, sparkle like diamonds.

I could not but express my surprize to the captain at the quantity taken; and by him was informed, that these sculls approached the coast by millions and tens of millions, extending many miles, and swimming several fathoms deep over one another. They make their way through the sea, as men do on earth, each individual striving to be uppermost, and with this stronger circumstance of similarity, that the fish which gets uppermost is always in most danger.

“I shall eat half a dozen of these herrings,” said the captain, as he took about a dozen out of a net without leave or notice, to the boatman, who made no objection. “I shall eat half a dozen of these herrings,” said he, “when I return to my vessel.”---“What, captain, must six lives be sacrificed to satisfy your appetite at one meal?”

For half a moment I was converted by this reflection to the religion of the Indian Bramins, who refuse all animal food; but the captain who was a philosopher, as suddenly induced me to apostatize from my new opinion.

A number of large porpoises or sea hogs, were sporting round.---“Why not eat them?” said the captain, pointing to the porpoises; “those creatures feed upon herrings, and innumerable great fish feed upon them; and it is the same to the herring, whether he is eaten by a porpoise or by a man.”

“Very true,” said I, “there are sea monsters, who live upon their fellow-creatures as well as land monsters, who devour each other.”

“It is impossible to understand those affairs, or the reason of them,” observed the captain; “I have got a microscope on board, and I’ll prove to you that innumerable animals perish at every suction of your breath. The great difference between voracious fish, voracious quadrupeds, voracious birds, and voracious man, is this: the first three classes eat to satisfy hunger only, and devour without preparation; but the cruelty which man inflicts upon those creatures Providence has empowered him to use for his sustenance, may be considered as a species of ingratitude, which of all crimes merits the severest punishment.”

Wisdom and Virtue.

Wisdom or virtue is nothing more than the disposition to attain and enjoy the greatest happiness, with the knowledge how to attain and to bestow it.

Wisdom has ever some benevolent end in her purposes and actions; on the contrary, folly either mistakes evil for good, or, when she assumes the nature of vice, entertains a malevolent intention.

The advantages and defects of nature mould be considered as common to society: the weak have a claim to the assistance of the strong; the strong derive a pleasure from assisting the weak; and the wise are so far happy as the well disposed partake of their wisdom.

There is no one virtue that includes not, in a general sense, all other virtues. Wisdom cannot subsist without justice, temperance, and fortitude, for wisdom is the sum of all these. It is impossible to be just without temperance, or temperate without fortitude, and so alternately of the rest.

MORAL MAXIMS.

A man without merit may live without envy; but who would wish to escape on these terms?

Live so as to hold yourself prepared either for a long life or a short one.

This item previously appeared on pg. 127 (previous Number).

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION; OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 126.)

I made, without delay, the requisite preparations, and in a quarter of an hour, stepped in my carriage. I looked once more back to the spot where Amelia resided, and drove through the city-gate.

At the first stage I wrote to her that an unforeseen important accident had forced me to set out on my journey so early in the morning that it would have been unbecoming to pay her the promised farewell visit; I vowed to return on pinions of love, as soon as my business at M****d should be settled. I painted with lively colours all the pains of separation, and all the tenderness of an afflicted heart, in order to convince Amelia, that I had been forced by stern necessity to depart without seeing her once more. Alas! the farther the rolling carriage removed me from the dear object of my love, the more I grew sensible of the greatness of the sacrifice which I had made to the Irishman. I examined my letters and papers in order to divert my gloomy thoughts, and found one more copy of a letter from the Irishman which I had not yet decyphered. The following is the result of my endeavours to unfold its contents:

“My Lord,

“My designs on Miguel had very near been ruined by the loss of his life, and in some measure I myself have been the cause of his having been hurried to the brink of destruction. But who could have foreseen such an event! With the leave of your Excellency, I shall relate the incident at large.

“I had sent one part of my servants to follow Miguel on his journey. I myself staid behind in order to make an attempt of restoring the health of the Countess, for whose life the ignorance of her physicians had made me tremble. The success I met with surprised my most sanguine expectation. Some drops of an electuary which I poured into the mouth of the Countess produced so sudden an effect, that, in a few hours, the most unequivocal signs of returning health were perceived. As soon as I had been informed of this desirable change, I followed Miguel with the rest of my people; having previously ordered the valet of the Countess to write three days after to the Duke, that the Countess was dead—and in a few days later, that I had recalled her to life. At the same time I requested him to desire his dismission from Amelia, and to follow me, because I wanted his assistance in the execution of my designs. The view I had in commanding him to inform the Duke of Amelia’s pretended death, was to convince myself by the manner in which he should receive that intelligence, whether his love to the Countess had been only a transient attachment, or whether his passion for her was of a more serious nature, and what degree it had attained. I need not explain to your Excellency, how necessary this knowledge was to me. The second commission had no other aim, than to pour balsam in Miguel’s wound, and at the same time, to make me appear to him a miracle-working being, and his and Amelia’s friend; whereby I expected to gain his confidence.

“I pursued my road with so much speed, that I overtook Miguel before he had finished one half of his journey, and joined my people, who preceded me. As soon as the Duke had arrived at the place of his destination, and we along with him, I quartered my people in different places in such a manner, that he was surrounded by them from all sides. I took a convenient house in the suburbs for myself, in order to escape his looks with greater safety.

“On the third day after our arrival, Miguel received the letter by which he was informed of the Countess’s death. The effects which this intelligence produced upon him must have been a kind of frenzy. One of my people who watched all his steps, informed me late in the evening, he had seen Miguel rushing out of his house with every mark of despair in his countenance, and running with such a velocity that he and his comrade hardly had been able so follow him. He added, that Miguel after two hours roaming about, had stopped not far from hence, at the banks of a river, where he was walking up and down, absorbed in profound reverie.

“Soon after a second messenger told me, Miguel had plunged into the river, but one of his comrades who had watched him narrowly, and leaped after him, had saved him, and was going to carry him to my house. A few minutes after, Miguel was brought by some of my people. He resembled a corpse, the palpitation of his pulse was scarcely perceptible, and he was entirely bereft of his recollection. I ordered him instantly to be carried to a spacious empty vault, and while some of my men endeavoured to restore him to the use of his senses, I was making preparations to chastise him severely when he should have recovered from his stupor.

“As soon as my servants perceived that he was recovering, I ordered him to be carried into the middle of the vault, and placed myself in deep disguise opposite him at a considerable distance, making a signal to those who were present to retire to an adjoining apartment, and to take the candles with them. No sooner was every thing in order, than I perceived by a deep groan of Miguel, that he had recovered his recollection. His state of mind when awaking, must have been very strange. His recollection told him, that he had plunged into the river, in a place where he saw nobody present, and now he awoke in a dry, empty, and spacious dark room: he must have fancied he awoke in another world; and this idea seems to have thrilled him with its acutest pungency, for he uttered a loud scream which made the vault resound.* This was the signal for which my people had been waiting in the adjoining chamber. They kindled a pole which was fixed near an aperture in the wall, and enveloped with flax, and wetted with spirit of wine, which spread a faint light through the spacious vault. The astonishment which Miguel was seized with, when looking all around and seeing nothing but a man wrapt in a scarlet cloak, surpasses all powers of description. His anxiety encreased when he saw me staring at him without replying a word to his questions, and heard one of my people exclaim, in a doleful accent, woe! woe! woe! When I at last stepped forth and made myself known to him, he prostrated himself, as if in the presence of a superior being. I read him a severe lecture on his rash deed, and at the same time endeavoured to rouse his ambition for the service of his country, in which I succeeded. A soft music began at once in the adjoining chamber, on a signal which I made to my people. The melodious strains of a harp and a flute were accompanied by the sweet notes of an harmonious voice, which announced to the astonished Miguel that Amelia was alive. His rapture bordered on frenzy. I ordered him to be silent, blind-folded him and delivered him to the care of a servant, whom I secretly ordered to conduct him to his hotel, and to return no answer to his questions. My deputy acquitted himself extremely well of his trust. He led him silently to his hotel, and when Miguel turned round the corner of the house, unfastened the bandage which blind-folded his eyes, and concealed himself in a house, the door of which was open. Miguel must have been strangely situated, when after a few steps the bandage dropped from his eyes and nobody was seen around him. Very fortunately the night was far advanced, and the whole affair remained concealed.

“Thus happily ended an adventure which had begun in a manner so inauspicious.

“However, Paleski has committed a foolish trick, which I cannot forgive him. He desired his dismission from the Countess, which being refused by his Lady, who imagined him to be a faithful servant, he left her clandestinely. He shall smart for this inconsiderate action.

“I am with the greatest respect,

“&c. &c. &c.”

As far as this letter informed me that no superior power had had a share in the above mentioned adventure, it contained nothing that was new to me, for the Irishman himself had not concealed from me, that all the wonderful adventures which had happened to me before Paleski’s confession had been the effect of illusion; however, it was important to me to learn how, and by what artifices I had been deceived. I cannot but confess that this natural explanation of the whole affair excited my astonishment at the Irishman, not less than those adventures had surprised me at the time when I believed him to be a supernatural being, and that I ardently wished to have cleared up several other events of that epocha which I could not unriddle.

Soon after my arrival at M****d, I went to pay a visit to the minister. He received me very kindly, and discoursed above an hour with me, although he was so over charged with state-affairs that no stranger could get access to him. I was not less successful with the Secretary of State, in whose favour I ingratiated myself so much in the course of half an hour, that he professed himself extremely happy in having got acquainted with me. Both of them invited me to visit them frequently during my stay at M****d, an invitation which I took care to make the best use of.