VOLUME II.

“——TOUCH, WITH A SURPRISING DELICACY, “THE SWEETEST MOVEMENT OF THE MIND.“

NEW-YORK: Printed for the PROPRIETORS, at Homer’s-Head, No. 358, Pearl-Street. 1797.

ADDRESS.

THE very flattering patronage with which this work, for two years, has been kindly favoured, demands the warmest acknowledgments of the Editors. Since its commencement, it has witnessed the demise of other periodical publications; some established long before it, others that have taken their rise at a later period; while the particular distinction honorably awarded the Weekly Magazine, has marked it an object of public favor, and denoted the estimation in which it has ever been considered; not as matter of exultation do the Editors make this remark; but it gives their friends stronger claims on their gratitude, and acts as a momentum to impel them to exertions which in some degree might enable them to merit such attention. Strongly impressed with a sense of their duties as conductors of a work so universally read, they have, with the utmost solicitude, guarded against the intrusion of any thing, in the smallest degree, injurious to the feelings of the religionist. Their selection has uniformly tended either to inform and enlighten the understanding, to inculcate the purest lessons of morality, or to unbend the mind with innocent levities. To effect those primary objects, they have studiously endeavored to make the work abound with curious investigations, elegant descriptions, historical narrations, biographical sketches, well-chosen tales, essays, anecdotes, observations, maxims, poetical effusions, &c. &c., all contributing in the highest degree to mend the heart, to improve the head, and to form the taste. In order more fully to designate the properties of this work in the title, it is intended to commence the third volume under that of the Sentimental and Literary Magazine; this alteration, we trust, will be universally acceptable. We shall only trespass on the patience of our friends to make one remark more; the cheapness of this work is unrivalled; let it be considered that advertisements and news are wholly excluded—the former, in a literary publication, has, in our eyes, a very unpleasant appearance, beside the room engrossed to the exclusion of more agreeable matter; the latter, from the very general circulation of daily newspapers, must be rendered wholly uninteresting. This, then, is devoted solely to literature—and the many entire works, which, in the last two years it has contained, amount, when separately purchased, to considerably more than the price of the magazines during that period—besides the immense number of anecdotes, essays, extracts, sketches, &c. &c. and the poetry, which, alone, comprises more than an eighth of the whole.

Filled with a laudable ambition to render ourselves, by every thing in our power, worthy the continuance of general favor, we are, with the greatest respect, the devoted servants of a generous public,

The EDITORS.

Printing-Office, June 30, 1797.

INDEX

TO THE

NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE,

Or, Miscellaneous Repository,

For the YEAR 1796-7.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

Issues (“No.”) were numbered continuously through the run of the magazine, but pagination started over again with Volume II. Each issue was 8 pages.

The Index is shown as originally printed. Within each initial letter, articles are listed in page order. Items in italics indicate a poem listed in the first (prose) Index. In the Index, incorrect page references are underlined in red; other errors and inconsistencies are marked as usual.

Three Index items—Marriages, Meteorological Observations, and the serialized novel The Victim of Magical Delusion—were missing all entries for the year 1797 (pages 209-end, issues 79-end). They have been added in smaller type, along with a few other individual entries.

Poetry from 1797 was also not indexed, except for the final two issues, 103 and 104 (pages 408 and 416). These listings have not been added.

Prose: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W Z

Index of Poetry

A

Account of a dreadful murder, PAGE 20, 28

Activity conducive to happiness, 31

Account of a wonderful deliverance at sea, 31

Advice, 35

All men are slaves, 38

Anecdotes, 39, 47, 119, 175

Account of the last moments of Dr. Johnson, 43, 51

Aphorism, 44

Astonishing courage, 44

Anecdotes of men of extraordinary strength, 60

Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson, 63

Anecdotes of Dr. Goldsmith, 67

Activity, 65

Account of a negro woman who became white, 71

Anger, 76

Anecdote of Mr. Handel, 84

Authenticated etymologies, 89, 99, 131

Anecdote of Voltaire, 91

Anger, 99

Arabian Maxims, 126, 148

Anecdote of Miss D’Arblay, 151

Anecdote of Dr. Goldsmith, 159

Anecdote of the celebrated John De Witt, 164

Anecdote of Sir Philip Sidney, 169

Anecdote of Cæsare Arethuzi, 174

Anecdote of M. De Sartine, 183

Anecdote of an Earl of Portland, 195

Anecdote of Madame Fayette, 406

Anecdote of Champagneaux, 407

Anecdote of Camus, 407

Anecdote of Madame Cordet, 411

Anecdote of Voltaire, 411

Advice, 174

Account of La Maupin, 182

Affection, 199

Adieu to a favourite grove, 224

Ambition, 249

Answer to a grammatical epistle, 263

Art of happiness, 273

Artful lover, 281

Address of the Translator of Magical Delusions, 330, 338

Alfonso and Marina, 333, 341, 349

Approach of Spring, 352

African’s Complaint, 353

Affability, 361

Antiochus and Stratonice, 366

Anecdotes, 215, 219, 239, 243, 255, 270, 308, 315, 323, 326, 339, 343, 355, 363, 365, 391, 399, 403, 414, 415

B

Beautiful Allegory, 28

Bon Mot, 75

Benevolence, 78

Beggar, The—a Fragment, 84

Bonna, Life of, 286

Balm of sorrow, 323

Behaviour, 393

C

Curious proposition of a debtor to his creditor, 7

Curious etymology, 25

Curious Law Anecdote, 47

Cursory thoughts on fortune, 30

Conscience, 68

Character of a rich man, 68

Court of love, 68

Contemplation, 75

Courtship and marriage of Dr. Johnson, 76

Curious superscription of a letter, 81

Curious historical Anecdote, 91

Curious observations, 140

Curious observations on making love, 148

Character of a poor man, 87

Character of a good man, 119

Conjugal affection, 150

Conversation, on 153

Contentment, on 156

Compassion—an anecdote, 163

Communion with our own hearts 177

Character, a, extracted from Camilla, 185

Conversation of a fine woman, 190

Candidus, 214, 222

Contemplation—an ode, 216

Conduct of men towards the fair, 262

Choice, 280, 367

Curiosity, 285

Curious incident, 286

Curious Anecdote, 315

Chearfulness, 329

Criminal, 335, 351, 359, 375, 383

Collins’s monument, 366

Character of Lord Mount-Garth, 382

Clown and Lawyer, 384

Customs of the Hindoos, 388

Character of the Swedes, 390

Compassion, 401

D

Description of the salt mines of Williska, 1, 9

Dead infant, the—a fragment, 3

Discovery of ancient manuscripts, 38

Death, 39

Death, on 55

Death of a Philosopher, 217

Detached thoughts, 92

Deceit, 265

Duty of old age, 265

Debtor, 288

Digression, 316

Discontent, 321

Description of a Wonderful Cavern in Upper Hungary, 366

Domestic felicity, 401

Detraction, a vision, 414

E

Effect of music, 12

Extraordinary adventure of a Spanish nobleman, 27, 34

Extraordinary effects of sudden joy, 54

Extraordinary effects of jealousy, 68

Extraordinary thirst for fame, 95

Extraordinary instances of gratitude, 164

Extraordinary intrepidity of the Jomsburgians, 177

Extraordinary recompense according to merit, 207

Evening meditation, 73

Enthusiasm of character, 75

Enigmatical list of amiable young ladies, 87

Effects of love on life and manners, 89

Extract from a royal grant of land in Carrata, 97

Essay on patience, 137

Essay on hope, 145

Eulogy on Buffon, 139

Extravagance and avarice, 161

Essay from Candidus, 188

Essayist, 217, 233, 249

Education, reflections on 221

Ethicus, 271

Elliot, Mr. history of 277, 284, 293

Effects of love, 281

Effects of envy, 301, 309

Examples of humanity, 350

Epitaph on Mr. Scrip, 374

F

Fatal effects of indulging the passions, 2, 10, 18, 26

Forgetful man, the 23, 254

Funeral, the 44

Fact, a 46

Fragment, a—on benevolence, 81

Friendship, 108

Fragment, a 111

Fragments of Epicharmus, 124

Folly of Freethinking—an anecdote, 143

Fiery ordeal, the 158

Fugitive trifles, 159

Friendship, 198

Flower girl, 287

Fugitive thought, 321

Fatal effects of a too susceptible heart, 324

Fragment, 327

Farrago, 348, 356, 364, 372, 380, 388, 396, 404, 412

G

God’s providence in the formation of his creatures, 11

Good name, a, is better than precious ointment, 12

Greatness, 14

Geography, on 39

Gleanings, 87, 100, 117

Generosity, 140

Good husband, the 169

Good wife, the 169

Grammatical epistle, 255

Genius of women, 260

Genius of the Arabs, 268

Gratitude, 289

Genuine sentiment, 305

Generous rival, 357

H

History of the Princess de Ponthieu, 36, 42, 50, 58, 66, 74, 82, 90

Hint to the scholar, 46

Happiness, 79

Human life, 79

History of the Baron de Lovzinski, 98, 106, 114, 122, 133, 141, 149, 157, 165, 173, 181, 189, 197, 205, 212

Hymns of the native Peruvians, 113

Humanity, 166

Hypocrisy, on 171

History of the beard, 180

Happiness, 201

Humanity, 225

Happiness, 268

Hope, 303, 377

Humility, 377

Henry and Louisa, an affecting tale, 413

I

Imagination, on 84

Imitation, 91

Instance of benevolence, 167

Instance of uncommon friendship, 179

Instruction to loungers, 302

Imprudent friendship, 345

Intent of religion, 377

Ivar and Matilda, 406

J

Jealousy, 15

Juliet, a story, 100

K

Knowledge, 25

L

Landscape painting, on 49

Local curiosities, 83

Lady’s monitor, the 97

Laughing, on 161

Letter from the Hon. Miss B. to Sir Richard P. 193

Life, 196

Lamentations of Panthea over the body of Abradates, 201

Lavinia, a pastoral 272

Love and folly, 343

Literary pursuits, 369

Letter to a lady on her marriage, 373

Letter of Lady Compton to her husband, 385

M

Morning reflections, 1

Maxims, 17, 33, 119, 155

Moorish gratitude, 23

Moral axiom, 30

Mutability of fortune, on the 39

Melancholy transaction, 62

Means of acquiring happiness, 91

Military anecdotes, 92, 135, 182

Meanings of the word Make, 92

Misfortune, 95

Metamorphosis of characters, 127

Moral maxims, 127, 129

Maria; or the seduction, 132

Mental accomplishment superior to personal attractions, 185

Man, 188

Means of extinguishing fires, 196

Miser and prodigal, 172

Mordaunt, Mrs. history of 228, 237, 244, 253, 261, 269

Matrimonial ballad, 232

Miscellany, 279, 332

Men of genius not rewarded, 292

Marriage, 297

Miranda, a moral tale, 317, 325

Matrimony, 337

Man of pleasure, 337

Madelaine, a story, 396

Marriages, 7, 15, 23, 31, 39, 47, 55, 63, 71, 79, 87, 95, 103, 111, 119, 127, 135, 143, 151, 159, 167, 175, 183, 191, 199, 207, 215, 223, 231, 239, 255, 263, 271, 279, 287, 303, 311, 319, 327, 335, 343, 351, 359, 367, 375, 383, 391, 399, 407, 415

Meteorological observations, 7, 15, 31, 39, 47, 55, 63, 71, 79, 87, 95, 103, 111, 119, 127, 135, 143, 159, 167, 199, 207, 223, 231, 239, 247, 255, 263, 271, 279, 287, 295, 303, 311, 319, 327, 335, 343, 351, 359, 367, 375, 383, 391, 399, 407, 415 “Marriages” did not appear in issues 83 (p. 247) and 89 (p. 295). “Meteorological Observations“ did not appear in issues 55 (p. 23), 71 (p. 151), 74-76 (pp. 175, 183, 191) and 79 (p. 215). Readings were printed in the following issue(s).

N

Notes between Walter Townsend and Theodore, 135

Nature, 171, 199

Nettle and rose—an essay, 209

Negligence in epis. con. 294

New May, 360

O

Observations, 12, 23, 31, 35, 44, 190, 330, 379

Observations on the boiling point of water, 70

On the origin of love, 175

Osmin—an original essay, 220

Origin of the Spencer, 316

P

Prodigy, a 14

Politeness, on 23

Precepts of Chilo, the Grecian philosopher, 60

Peep, a, into the den of idleness, 81

Perfect friendship, 116

Pride, 137

Power, 158

Politics, 175

Pleasure, 190

Panegyric on marriage, 191

Pity and benevolence—an essay, 229

Piedmontese sharper, 241

Power of music, 252

Pleasures of old age, 257

Proverbialist, 276

Panegyric on impudence, 308

Prosperity, 313

Poverty of the learned, 390

Prostitute, 392

R

Remarkable account of two brothers, 6

Results of Meteorological Observations, for

June, 1796, 7

July, 39

August, 79

September, 111

October, 159

November, 199

December, 223

January, 1797, 263

February, 287

March, 319

April, 351

May, 391

Reflections occasioned by the death of Miss Blackbourn, 14

Remarks on the wonderful construction of the eye, 17

Remarks on the wonderful construction of the ear, 57

Remarkable cure of a fever by music, 44

Reason, 49

Road to ruin, the 59

Rules for judging of the beauties of painting, music, and poetry, 65

Remarks, 83, 92, 111, 115, 163

Remarks on music, 91, 103, 108, 124, 140, 156

Rural picture, a 100

Runners remarkable for swiftness, 110

Reflections on the harmony of sensibility and reason, 121

Rencounter, the 124

Rose, the—a reflection, 140

Retrospection, 167

Reflection on the earth, 180

Reason, 235

Reflection, an ode, 240

Ridicule, 305

Radcliffe, Mrs. 318

Receipt for writing novels, 336

S

Sentimental perfumery, 7

Speaking statue, 19

Singular state of man when asleep, 41

Study, 41

Study of nature, 44

Specimen of Indian eloquence, 52

Segar smoaking, on 60

Speech of Logan, an Indian, 75

Simplicity, 92

Singularity of manners, on, 105

Society, 105, 207

Sentimental fragment, 129

Self-love, 169

Specimens of speech or speakings, 196

Story of Alcander and Septimeus, 204

Setting sun, 224

School of libertines—a story, 236, 245

School of nature, 270

Slavery, 303

Speech of the king of Dahomy, 340

Scandal, 381

Stanzas to hope, 384

Storm, the—a fragment, 403

T

Three cornered hat, on the 19

Temperance, on 60

To Tyrunculus, 71

Taciturnity, an apologue, 83

Taste, 156

Temple of Hope, 246

True meekness, 247

U

Unaccountable thirst for fame, 63

V

Victim of magical delusion, 4, 12, 21, 29, 37, 45, 53, 61, 69, 77, 93, 101, 109, 117, 125, 130, 138, 146, 154, 162, 170, 178, 186, 194, 202, 210, 218, 226, 234, 242, 250, 258, 266, 274, 282, 290, 298, 306, 314, 322

View of the starry heavens, 25, 33

Virtue rewarded 172

Verses addressed to Miss A. B. 344

W

Wonderful account of a man fish, 23

Wonderful qualities of hope, 52

Wisdom and virtue, 129

Winter, an ode, 216

Wealth, reflections on 247, 339

Wit, 257

War, 300

Wanderings of imagination, 346, 354, 362, 370, 378, 386, 394, 402, 410

Wisdom, 403

World, knowledge of the, 409

Z

Zulindus, 361

POETRY.

A B C D E F G H K L M O P R S T V W

Index of Prose

A

To Amanda, PAGE 32

Adversity, 39

To Amynta, 56

Anticipation, 63

An appeal, 152

Address to a favourite canary-bird, 160

The Amaranth, to Maria, 192

B

Of the Beautiful and Virtuous, 7

The Bachelor’s wish, 88

The Belle’s invocation to winter, 160

On a Bee having stung the thigh of an old maid, 183

Beauty, a song, 184

The Bachelor’s soliloquy, 208

C

Cupid stung, 48

The Confession 56

To Clara, 104, 136

The Captive’s complaint, 104

Contented in the vale 135

The Complaint, 160

D

On the Death of Miss Mary Blackbourn, 15

The Doctor’s duel, 112

On the Death of a Baby, nine days old, 183

E

Epistle from Octavia to Anthony, 8, 16

Epitaph on a violent scold, 23

Elegy, addressed to a young lady, 24

To Eliza, 31

Ejaculation over the grave of my wife, 31

Elegy on an unfortunate veteran, 48

Epigrams, 48, 88, 112, 183, 200

Elegy written at sea, 56

To Eliza, 64

Eliza in answer to ****, 72

Epitaph, 72

To Emma, 80

Elegy on the death of Mr. Abeel, 88

To Emma, 87

Elegy on Miss Margaret Hervey, 95

Extent of life’s variety, 112

To Emma, 120

Elegy on Dr. Joseph Youle, 128

Epitaph on Mr. W——. N——. 128

Elegy on Miss Polly Martin, 136

Evening, 143

Epitaph on a celebrated coach-maker, 144

Eve of Hymen, 152

Epitaph, 208

Evening Star, to the 408

Epigram, hint to a poor author, 408

Early impressions, sonnet on 408

Elegy to a disconsolate lover, 416

Epigram, 416

F

Fragment, 16

G

On a good conscience 144

H

The Happy man, 72

Health, 416

K

The Kiss, 40

L

Lines sent to a young lady with an Æolian Harp, 48

Lines on Shakespeare, 64

Lines to a gentleman made prisoner by the Indians, 80

Lines on the death of a young lady, killed by lightning, 80

Lines written during a storm, 96

Lines on hearing a young lady sing a song, 96

Lines on a lady putting a white rocket in her bosom, 96

Lines by a lady, on receiving a bouquet from a boy, 128

Lines from the Rev. Mr. Bishop to his wife, 151

Lines on the late Scotch poet, 200

Lines to a gentleman who attempted drawing the picture of a lady, 200

Lines on losing a friend, 208

La Fayette, a song, 127

M

The Mall, 24

To Matilda, 24

Morning dawn, 71

Military fame, 112

Maternal affection 144

To Maria, 176

Moral verses, addressed to youth, 200

O

Ode to Bacches, 168

Ode to Poesy, 184

P

Pity, 8

Paddy’s remark on a treble rap at the door, 96

Poor man’s address to Winter, 168

R

The Recantation 24

On Reading some elegies, 47

On Revisiting a native place, 72

The Rising moon, 88

Reflections in a church yard, 112

The Repartee, 119

On the Recovery of an only child from the small pox, 192

S

The Setting Sun, 64

The Shield of sorrow, 96

Sonnets, 104, 207, 208

Sonnet on my beard, 112

Soliloquy to love, 120

Sonnet from a manuscript novel, 152

Sonnet to Maria, 167

Sonnet to Helen Maria Williams, 176

The Snow-drop and primrose, 152

The Season of delight, 176

Song 208

T

The Threat, 32

Twilight, 48

The Tribunal of conscience, 96

Tragedy, ode to 408

V

The Velvet larkspur and eglantine, 40

On Vicissitude, 64

Verses to ——, 79

Verses to a young lady on reading Sterne’s Maria, 119

Verses to Miss A. H. 144

To a Violet, 152

Virtue and ornament, 192

W

The Wish, 32

What is happiness, 55

Wintery prospect, 176

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, July 6, 1796. [No. 53.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

MORNING REFLECTIONS.

In one of my rambles I saw a collection of people, some appeared highly elated, while others in stupid indifference were not the least affected; I advanced, and found two boys fighting; in attempting to part them, I had nearly got myself in the same predicament, from a motley bullying fellow, whose feelings, if he was possessed of any, were more becoming a tyger than a human being. Those who were before mute, appeared delighted in the prospect of another scene of brutality, expecting that we would decide our dispute with blows; I plainly saw that the most prudent step for me, would be to leave them as peaceable as possible in possession of the field.

From what source these barbarous dispositions spring, and how they can exist in a country where information is so easily attained, would, to a foreigner, appear a mystery; every child of nature has a vacancy in their understandings to be filled up, and why it should not be stored with rational humanity, let parents judge. Slaves from dejection become callous, hence barbarous sports are congenial with their minds, in proportion to the severe treatment they receive from their matters.

How degraded is that master who neglects to inculcate moral principles into his slave, and how much more wretched are parents who attend not to the improvement of their own children; too many instances of such omissions momentarily occur; a parent who entertains a child with a bull-beat, fixes a supposition in the tender mind that the creation was formed only for caprice, and is verified in their tormenting domestic animals; with years the feelings naturally become hardened, and the youth thus brought up, only waits an opportunity to leave off all restraint. This is plainly evinced in war, when the law is suspended, murders and robbery become fashionable, and those very men who were peaceable inhabitants, with exultation take the lives of strangers whom they have never seen, and by whom they have never been injured.

T.

New-York, July 1, 1796.

Description of the famous SALT MINES at Williska in Poland.

There are mines of salt in Hungary, Catalonia, and many other parts of Europe, but the greatest in the world is that at Williska in Poland, from which a great part of the continent is supplied. Williska is a small town not far from Cracow, and the mine has been worked ever since the year 1251, when it was accidentally found in digging for a well. There are eight openings or descents into this mine, six in the field, and two in the town itself, which are most used for letting down the workmen, and taking up the salt; the others being mostly used for letting in wood and necessaries.

The openings are five square, and about four feet wide; they are lined throughout with timber, and at the top of each there is a large wheel with a rope as thick as a cable, by which things are let down and drawn up: it is worked by a horse. When a stranger has a curiosity to see these works, he must descend by one of these holes; he is first to put on a miner’s coat over his clothes, and then being led to the mouth of the hole by a miner, who serves for a guide, the miner fastens a smaller rope to the larger one, and ties it about himself; he sits in this, and taking the stranger in his lap, he gives the sign to be let down. They are carried down a narrow and dark well to the depth of six hundred feet perpendicular; this is in reality an immense depth, but the terror and tediousness of the descent makes it appear to most people vastly more than it is. As soon as the miner touches the ground at the bottom, he slips out of the rope, and sets his companion upon his legs.

The place where they are set down here is perfectly dark, but the miner strikes fire, and lights a small lamp, by means of which (taking the stranger he has care of by the arm) he leads him through a number of strange passages and meanders, all descending lower and lower, till they come to certain ladders by which they descend an immense depth, and this through passages perfectly dark. The damp, cold, and darkness of these places, and the horror of being so many yards under ground, generally makes strangers heartily repent before they get thus far; but when at bottom they are well rewarded for their pains, by a sight that could never have been expected after so much horror.

(The conclusion in our next.)

This serial began in No. 45 of the New-York Weekly; the last 4 of its 12 installments are in Volume II. For sources, see the end of this file.

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

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 410 of Vol. I.)

I informed her of my determination, assuring her, at the same time, it was irrevocable. I confess, however, notwithstanding my certitude, at moments, of her hatred, I secretly flattered myself, that this declaration would astonish, and produce a most lively emotion in Julia; and it is certain, had I discovered the least signs of regret on her part, I should have cast myself at her feet, and abjured a resolution which pierced my very soul.

I was deceived in supposing myself hated; I was equally wrong in imagining my conduct could inspire even momentary love. Great minds are incapable of hatred; but a continued improper and bad conduct will produce indifference, as it did with Julia. I had lost her heart past recal. She heard me with tranquility, without surprize, and without emotion. My reputation, said she, is already injured, and this will confirm the unjust suspicions of the public; but if my presence is an obstacle to your happiness, I am ready to depart; my innocence is still my own, and I shall have sufficient strength to submit to my fate.

Cruel woman! cried I, shedding a torrent of tears, with what ease do you speak of parting!

Is it not your own proposal!

And is it not I who adore you, and you who hate me!

Of what benefit is your love to me; or of what injury is what you call my hatred to you?

I have made you unhappy; I am unjust, capricious, mad; and yet if you do hate me, Julia, your revenge is too severe; there is no misery can equal your hatred.

I do not hate you.

The manner in which she pronounced this, said so positively I do not love you, that I was transported beyond all bounds of patience; I became furious, yet the next instant, imagining I saw terror in the eyes of Julia, I fell at her feet. A tear, a sigh at that moment, had changed my future fate, but she still preserved her cold tranquility. I hastily got up, went to the door, and stopped. Farewell for ever! said I, half suffocated with passion. Julia turned pale, and rose as if to come to me; I advanced towards her, and she fell back into her chair, ready almost to faint. I interpreted this violent agitation, into terror. What, am I become a subject of horror! cried I; well, I will deliver you from this odious object. So saying, I darted from the chamber in an agony of despair.

My uncle was absent, I no longer had a friend, no one to advise or counteract the rashness of the moment. Distracted, totally beside myself, I ran to the parents of Julia, declared my intention, added, Julia herself was desirous of a separation, and that I would give back all her fortune.

They endeavoured to reason with me, but in vain; I informed them I should go directly into the country, where I should stay three days, and when I came back I expected to find myself alone in my own house. I next wrote to Julia to inform her of my proceedings, and departed, as I had said I would, the same evening for the country.

My passions were too much agitated to let me perceive the extent of misery to which I condemned myself; and what seems now inconceivable was, that though I loved my wife dearer than ever, and was inwardly persuaded I might yet regain her affections, I found a kind of satisfaction in making our rupture thus ridiculously public. I never could have determined on a separation from Julia with that coolness and propriety which such things, when absolutely necessary, demand. I wanted to astonish, to agitate, to rouze her from her state of indifference, which, to me, was more dreadful even than her hatred. I flattered myself that, hearing me, she had doubted my sincerity, and supposed me incapable of finally parting from her.

I likewise imagined that event would rekindle in her heart all her former affection; and this hope alone was enough to confirm me in the execution of my project. I took pleasure in supposing her incertitude, astonishment, and distress; my fancy represented her when reading my letter; beheld her, conducted by her relations, pale and trembling, descend the stairs; saw her stop and sigh as she passed the door of my apartment, and weep as she stepped into the carriage.

I had left a trusty person at Paris, with orders to observe her as carefully as possible; to watch her, follow her, question her women, and inform me of all she said or did at this critical moment; but the relation was not long. Julia continued secluded in her chamber, received her friends without a witness, and departed by a private stair-case unseen of any one.

The same afternoon that she left my house she wrote me a note, which contained nearly these words.

“I have followed your orders, and departed from a place whither I shall always be ready to return, whenever your heart shall recall me. As to your proposal of giving back a fortune too considerable for my present situation, I dare expect as a proof of your esteem, it will not be insisted upon: so to do is now the only remaining thing that can add to my uneasiness. Condescend therefore, to accept the half of an income, which can give me no pleasure if you do not partake it with me.”

This billet, which I washed with my tears, gave birth to a crowd of reflections. The contrast of behaviour between me and Julia forcibly struck me, and I saw by the effects how much affection, founded upon duty, is preferable to passion. I adore Julia, said I, and yet am become her tormentor; have determined to proceed even to a separation; she loved me without passion, and was constantly endeavouring to make me happy; ever ready to sacrifice her opinions, wishes and will and continually pardoning real offences, while I have been imputing to her imaginary ones; and, at last, when my excessive folly and injustice have lost her heart, her forgiveness and generosity have yet survived her tenderness, and she thinks and acts the most noble and affecting duties towards an object she once loved. Oh yes! I now perceive true affection to be that which reason approves, and virtue strengthens.

Overwhelmed by such reflections, the most bitter repentance widened every wound of my bleeding heart. I shuddered when I remembered the public manner in which I had put away my wife; and in this fearful state of mind, I had doubtless gone and cast myself at Julia’s feet, acknowledged all my wrongs, and declared I could not live without her, had I not been prevented by scruples, which for once were but too well founded.

I had been a Prodigal and a Gamester and, what was still worse, had a steward, who possessed in a superior degree the art of confusing his accounts, which indubitably proves such a person to want either honesty or capacity. Instead of at first discharging him, I only begged he would not trouble me with his bills and papers; which order with him needed no repetition, for it was not unintentionally he had been so obscure and diffuse.

About six months, however, before the period I at present speak of, he had several times demanded an audience, to shew me the declining state of my affairs. At the moment, this made little impression upon me; but after reading Julia’s note it came into my mind, and before I could think of obtaining my pardon, I resolved to learn my real situation.

Unhappily for me, my conduct had been such that I had no right to depend on my wife’s esteem; and, if ruined, how could I ask her to return and forget what was passed? Would not she ascribe that to interest, which love alone had inspired? The idea was insupportable, and I would rather even never behold Julia more, than be liable to be so suspected.

With such fears I returned hastily to Paris. But what were my sensations at entering a house which Julia no longer inhabited, and whence I myself had had the madness and folly to banish her! Attacked by a thousand afflicting thoughts, overwhelmed with grief and regret, I had one only hope, which was, that by œconomy and care I might again re-establish my affairs, and afterwards obtain forgiveness, and be reconciled to Julia.

I sent for my steward, and began by declaring, the first step I should take would be to return my wife’s fortune. He seemed astonished at this, and wanted to dissuade me, by saying he did not think it possible I could make this restitution without absolute ruin being the consequence. I saw by this my affairs were even much worse than I had imagined.

The discovery threw me into the most dreadful despair; for to lose my fortune was, according to my principles, to lose Julia eternally.

Before I searched my situation to the bottom, I restored Julia’s whole portion; I then paid my debts; and these affairs finished, I found myself so completely ruined, that, in order to live, I was obliged to purchase a trifling life-annuity, with what remained of a large fortune. My estates, horses, houses, all were sold, and I hired a small apartment near the Luxembourg, about three months after my separation from my wife. My Uncle was not rich; he had little to live on except a pension from the government, though he offered me assistance, which I refused.

Julia, in the mean time, had retired to a convent. On the very day I had quitted my house, I received a letter from her in the following terms:

“Since you have forced me to receive what you call mine, since you treat me like a stranger, I think myself justified in doing the same. When I left your house, the fear of offending you, in appearing to despise your gifts, occasioned me to take with me the diamonds and jewels which you had presented to me: it was your request, your command that I should do so, and I held obedience my duty. But since you shew me you will not act with the same delicacy, I have determined to part with these useless ornaments, which never were valuable but as coming from you. I found a favourable opportunity of selling them advantageously for twenty-four thousand livres (a thousand pounds sterling), which I have sent to your Attorney, as a sum I was indebted to you, and which you cannot oblige me to take back, since it is not mine.

“I have been in the convent of * * * for these two months past, where I intend to remain for some weeks at least, unless you take me hence.——We have a fine estate in Flanders; they say it is a charming country. Speak but a word, and I am ready to go with you, to live with you, to die with you.”

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE DEAD INFANT; or, the AGONIZING MOTHER.

——“Speak, Menander, let thy mother once more hear the Voice that was her last comfort—” She begged in vain, for Menander had closed his eyes in death, and with him had fled the only happiness that his widowed mother possessed. She had but a little while since bade farewell to another child, who had gone to that bourne from whence there is no return. And now must she lose the other—the thought was too much.—No one should part her from him.—“I will still keep him,” said she, in the height of maniac rage, “if he will not speak to me I shall still behold him—I will still have my child.”

A friend who willingly would have been the means of allaying her extreme sorrow, had taken the liberty, while the mother slept, of arraying the corpse in the dress suitable for interment, and removed it to the appointed place. The mother awoke—missed her child, and hastened to the church-yard.—It was not yet deposited in the earth.—In agony she tore the lid from the coffin—pressed him to her heart, and returned home.—She kissed him---kept him continually encircled in her arms---nor would she again be parted from him.

She offered part of the necessaries that were set before her to the insensate clay, nor did she eat because her son could not.---But nature could not long bear up against this torrent of grief.---She once more pressed him with redoubled force to her breast, again kissed his putrid cheek—and slept her final sleep.

L. B.

This serialized novel began in No. 22 of the New-York Weekly; the last 41 of its 72 segments are in Volume II. For sources, see the end of the Index file.

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 415 of Vol. I.)

“Your features, dear Duke,” she resumed after a long pause, “have no resemblance with those of this picture; and yet the originality of the face is so remarkable to me, that it would afford me the greatest pleasure, if you would give it me.”

“If your Majesty should know how dear it is to me—”

“Well, that will enhance the value it has in my eyes. Whenever I shall look at the picture of the mother, I will remember the son. I will give you my picture, in lieu of it; will you resign it to me on that condition?”

I bowed respectfully, she opened a drawer, putting my picture in it, and took another out of it, which was adorned with jewels much more precious than that of my mother.

“Take it, Duke, and whenever you look at it, think that it is the picture of—a very unhappy woman.” So saying, she gave me the picture.

The accent and the mien with which these words were pronounced, wounded my heart. I prostrated myself---“How, amiable Queen, should you really be unhappy? and this pledge of your condescension should be to me a remembrancer of your misfortunes? O, name the source of your sorrows, and if the power of a mortal being can remove it, I will do it with pleasure, will attempt it even at the peril of my life!” So saying, I pressed my lips with vehemence on her hand.

“Rise! the interest which you take in my unhappiness renders me less unfortunate. It will not be in your power to make me happy, though I should be at liberty to unfold a mystery to you which never must be revealed. Rise, Duke!” She stooped to raise me up, her cheek touched my face, and a tremor of joy trembled through my frame. “Take courage!” I exclaimed, “though neither my power nor that of any man living should be able to render you happy, yet I know a person who possesses supernatural powers, and I flatter myself he will not refuse to grant my prayers. He shall make you happy, my Queen!”

She looked at me with weeping eyes, then up to heaven, and then again at me. “Your prayer,” she said at length, “would be fruitless; for if an angel would descend from heaven to offer me his assistance, he could not restore me to happiness, while certain human laws and political relations are in force.”——

I plainly perceived the dreadful struggles of her soul, and it would have been cruel to render her victory more difficult by farther persuasions.

I beheld with respectful silence the workings of her mind; however, she could not but observe that I adored her---her looks bespoke the grateful emotions of her heart.

“You have told me a few minutes ago, that your mother is no more,” she began after a long pause. “I hope your father is yet alive?”

“I have little reason to think he is.”

The Queen turned as pale as a corpse. “You doubt?” she stammered, “you doubt whether your father is alive?”

“A dangerous illness which has confined him to his bed, gives me reason to apprehend---but what is the matter with your Majesty?”

“Nothing---nothing at all---A dangerous illness did you say.”

“So he has informed me sometime since, by a letter, and requested me, at the same time, to hasten to his arms, that he might see me once more before his death, and give me his blessing.”

The Queen started up, and went to another part of the room, as if in search of something, but soon came back again:

“He wants to see you and you are here?”

“Before I received the letter of my father, I had promised to that Unknown of whom I have been speaking, that nothing should detain me from travelling to Fr**ce, and imploring your assistance in behalf of my unhappy country.”

“Poor father!” said the Queen, absorbed in melancholy, “how anxiously will he have expected the arrival of his son—I fancy I see the dying Marquis, how he extends his arms in vain to receive the child of his love—”

“Does your Majesty know my father?” I enquired hastily.

She gazed at me. “If I know him?---no!---yes---I saw him several times when at the court of my father---But why do you ask this question?”---Without giving me time to reply, she resumed, “Make haste! make haste, return to your native country; perhaps he is yet alive---the sight of you will animate him with new strength, he will recover in your arms, and perhaps be restored to health!” The last words she pronounced with a visible joyful emotion.

“Shall I leave your Majesty,” I replied “without having my prayer granted? Is my unhappy country to expect no assistance from a Queen whose sentiments are so sublime? Is the picture of the best of women to be to me a lasting mark of her favour and displeasure?”

She seemed to meditate, “It is true,” she said at length, “we have entirely wandered from your concerns. Did you not tell me that you are haunted every where by an apparition? I too have seen an apparition some time ago. It was the ghost of my departed father, who, at midnight drew the curtains of my bed, and said ‘I am very wretched my daughter! neither prayers nor masses will give me relief, while Por****l which we have usurped shall be submitted to the Sp***sh sceptre. O! my daughter, if the least spark of filial love is left in thy bosom, if thou wilt relieve me from unspeakable torments, then make use of all thy interest at this court, in order to support the endeavours of those who, at present, are secretly occupied to deliver Por****l from her oppressors. A noble youth will arrive in a few days and implore thy assistance. He is sent from Heaven; grant his prayer. He has a mole on his left breast, which will be to thee a token of his mission.”

I started up. “That youth stands before your Majesty,” I exclaimed, uncovering my breast, “behold here the mole. O! relieve the suffering spirit of your father, relieve my country!”

She seemed to be in a trance, encircling me with her arms, and straining me to her bosom. “Thy prayer is granted!” she said in a faint accent.---No sooner had the last syllable escaped her lips, when the sound of a little bell was heard in the adjoining apartment. She disengaged herself from my neck and started back, “Gracious heaven!---” she exclaimed, pale and trembling, “the King is returned. Begone! for God’s sake begone!”

I was going to obey her command; the stopped me: “Never reveal a word of what has happened between ourselves,” she whispered; “leave the palace and the kingdom as soon as possible: beware of the King, I conjure you!”

I prostrated myself and encircled her knees, shedding tears of anguish; wanted to take leave, but could not utter a single word. The bell in the adjoining apartment was rung a second time; the Queen disengaged herself seized with terror: “make haste!---flee!---O stay!” she exclaimed when I hastened to the door, “come back!” She opened her arms to receive me; I flew to her bosom; she imprinted three burning kisses on my lips, and hurried into an adjoining apartment.

I do not recollect how I got out of the room. On the staircase I observed first, that the same lady who had conducted me to the Queen was walking by my side. We returned the same way by which I had entered the palace, and I arrived happily at our hotel in the company of the Count.

After I had communicated to him my success, I went to my apartment in order to give audience to my thoughts; however I was not able to account for the behaviour of the Queen, and my feelings during the whole scene. Was it love that I felt for the Queen? certainly not; at least, my sentiments for her were quite different from those I entertained for Amelia; was it mere esteem that endeared her so much to me? impossible!---My heart left me entirely in the dark with respect to that point, as well as my reason. It is true, one particular idea prevailed in my soul, however it appeared to me ridiculous, as soon as I reflected on other circumstances. The account which the Queen gave me of the apparition of the ghost of her father, completed my confusion. Was it the work of the Unknown, and did she really believe she had seen the ghost of her father? in that case the grant of my prayer was perhaps merely the consequence of her love for her father, whom she hoped to release thus from his sufferings; even her tears, embraces, and kisses, were then nothing else but means of alluring me to strain every nerve, in order to bring to a happy conclusion an undertaking, from the execution of which the eternal happiness of her father depended. But perhaps---and that, I thought, was not less possible---has she only invented that apparition in order to prevent me from suspecting the real source of her willingness to grant my prayer, and her confidential and endearing deportment? Even the manner in which she mentioned the mole on my breast, appeared to me an artifice which she might have made use of, rather to assure herself of the identity of my person, than of my mission from above; and this supposition received an additional confirmation, by her singular behaviour, after the discovery.---Thus I was wandering in the mazy labyrinth of conjectures and doubts, till sleep stole upon me by degrees, and shut my heavy eyes.

We left P**is the following night, and directed our road to Sp**n as Hiermanfor had ordered.

I stopped a few days at **cia, a hundred miles from the frontiers of Fr**ce, in order to rest a little from the fatigues of my journey, and received from the bribed surgeon a letter from my father, who informed me he was in a fair way of recovery. This welcome intelligence animated me with new life, and dispelled the gloom which had overcast my mind. We continued our journey without delay, and arrived at ***pala, where we alighted at the principal hotel. The first object that attracted my attention, was a handsome well dressed man, whose features struck me at a great distance, because I fancied I knew them. He was engaged in conversation with a tall thin man, and did not observe me till I was close by him. My sudden appearance seemed to surprize him, and the sight of him produced the same effect upon me, for now I perceived that it was Paleski, Amelia’s former valet. He approached me with evident marks of uneasiness, and welcomed me in broken accents. I ordered him to follow me to my apartment. The first question I put to him, was where Amelia resided, and how she was. Paleski lamented it was not in his power to give me the least information on that head. I enquired after the Unknown, and he assured me that he had not seen him since the last scene in the wood. “However,” said I, “you still owe me an account of a dreadful accident concerning the Unknown, of which you pretended to have been informed on your pilgrimage.” Paleski hesitated a few moments, and then promised to satisfy my curiosity the day following, being prevented by business of great importance from doing it on the spot. I dismissed him, with the injunction not to forget to come to my apartment in the evening of the next day. He promised it; however I waited in vain for him, for in his room a Capuchin friar came to my hotel, desiring to speak a few words to me in private. I ordered him to be admitted, and was told by him that Paleski had had a quarrel with some young men, who first had intoxicated and then provoked him, and that he had received some mortal wounds, by which he was confined to his bed at the hospital where he desired to see me, in order to disclose to me important secrets. The friar offered to conduct me to the hospital, and I drove thither in anxious expectation.

When I alighted at the gate of the hospital, I met Count Clairval. He seemed to be petrified when he saw me in the company of the friar. “Whither are you going?” he enquired at length. “To Paleski, who is on the brink of eternity.” The Count changed colour, and whispered in my ear: “Don’t go, the fellow is infected with a contagious disease.”---“You are mistaken (was my answer) he has been wounded dangerously, as his confessor tells me.” “I have just come from him,” the Count resumed with visible uneasiness, “the fever has deranged his head, and he will tell you a number of foolish things.” “No matter,” I replied, “I must see him, for he has sent me word that he has important discoveries to make.” “What can he discover to you?” said the Count, “Paleski has ever been an impostor.” “This will render his confession on the brink of eternity so much the more remarkable. But I must not lose a moment. Farewell, Count, till I see you again!” So saying, I tore myself from him, and hastened with the friar to Paleski’s apartment. When the nurse had left the room, the former said: “you need but ring the bell, if you should want me, I shall be within hearing.”---With these words he went out of the room. Paleski stared at me for some time. The livid colour of death covered his haggard countenance, and the most agonizing anguish of a tormented conscience was strongly painted on his looks. “My Lord!” he at length began, “I owe you a thousand thanks for your condescension; I should undoubtedly have fallen a sacrifice to black despair, if you had refused to give me an opportunity to unfold mysteries to you which lie heavy on my mind.”

I took a seat close by the bed, seized with dreadful bodings.

(To be continued.)

A remarkable account of two Brothers, extracted from Linschoten’s Voyages.

In the sixteenth century, the Portuguese carracks sailed from Lisbon to Goa. There were no less than twelve hundred souls on board one of these vessels. The beginning of their voyage was prosperous; they had doubled the Cape of Good Hope and were steering their course North-east, to the great continent of India, when some Gentlemen on board who having studied Geography and Navigation, found in the latitude they were then in, a large ridge of rocks laid down in their Sea-charts. They no sooner made this discovery, than they acquainted the Captain of the ship with it, desiring him to communicate the same to the pilot, which request he immediately granted, recommending him to lay by in the night, and slacken sail in the day, until they should be past the danger. It is a custom among the Portuguese absolutely to commit the navigation, or sailing part of the vessel to the Pilot, who is answerable with his head for the safe-conduct or carriage of the King’s ships, or those that belong to private traders; and is under no manner of direction from the Captain, who commands in every other respect. The Pilot being a self sufficient man, took it as an affront to be taught his art, and instead of complying with the captain’s request, actually crowded more sail. They had not sailed many hours, before the ship struck upon a rock. In this distress the Captain ordered the pinnace to be launched, into which having tossed a small quantity of biscuit, and some boxes of marmalade, he jumped in himself with nineteen others, who with their swords prevented the coming in of any more, lest the boat should sink. In this condition they put off in the great Indian ocean, without a compass to steer by or any fresh water, but what might happen to fall from the heavens, whose mercy alone could deliver them.

After they had rowed to and fro for four days the captain died: this added, if possible, to their misery, for as they now fell into confusion, every one would govern and none would obey. This obliged them to elect one of their company to command them, whose orders they implicitly agreed to follow. This person proposed to draw lots, and to cast every fourth man overboard; as their small stock of provision was not sufficient to sustain life above three days longer. They were now nineteen persons in all; in this number were a friar and a carpenter, both of whom they would exempt, as one was useful to absolve and comfort them in their last extremity, and the other to repair the pinnace, in case of a leak or other accident. The same compliment they paid to their new captain, he being the odd man, and his life of much consequence. He refused their indulgence a great while; but at last they obliged him to acquiesce, so that there were four to die out of sixteen.

The three first, after having confessed and received absolution submitted to their fate. The fourth was a Portuguese gentleman that had a younger brother in the boat, who seeing him about to be thrown overboard most tenderly embraced him, and with tears in his eyes besought him to let him die in his room, telling him that he had a wife and children at Goa, besides the care of three sisters: that as for himself he was single, and his life of no great importance; he therefore conjured him to suffer him to supply his place. The elder brother astonished with this generosity, replied, That since the divine Providence had appointed him to suffer, it would be wicked to permit any other to die for him; especially a brother to whom he was so infinitely obliged. The younger would take no denial; but throwing himself on his knees held his brother so fast that the company could not disengage them. Thus they disputed for awhile, the elder brother bidding him be a father to his children, and recommended his wife to his protection, and as he would inherit his estate, to take care of their common sisters; but all he said could not make the younger desist. At last the elder brother acquiesced, and suffered the gallant youth to supply his place, who being cast into the sea, and a good swimmer, soon got to the stern of the pinnace and laid hold of the rudder with his right hand, which being perceived by one of the sailors, he cut off the hand with his sword: then dropping into the sea, he frequently caught hold again with his left, which received the same fate. Thus dismembered of both hands, he made a shift to keep himself above water with his feet and two stumps, which he held bleeding upwards.

This spectacle so raised the pity of the whole company that they cried out, he is but one man! let us endeavour to save his life! and he was accordingly taken into the boat; where he had his stumps bound up as well as the place and circumstances would permit. They rowed all that night, and the next morning, when the sun rose, as if heaven would reward the piety and gallantry of this young man, they descried land, which proved to be the mountains of Mozambique in Africa, not far from a Portuguese colony. There they all safely arrived, where they remained until the next ship from Lisbon passed by and carried them to Goa.

At that city, Linschoten, a writer of good credit, assured us, that he himself saw them land, supped with the two brothers that very night, beheld the younger with his stumps, and had the story from their mouths, as well as from the rest of the company.

Original: Jan Huyghen van Linschoten (1563-1611), Voyages.

First English translation: 1598, rpt. by Hakluyt society 1885.

Notes: “At that city, Linschoten, a writer of good credit, assured us, that he himself saw them land.”

The article is loosely adapted from chapter CXII, “Of certaine memorable Things”, vol. II, pg. 179-181 in the reprint.

Links: http://www.archive.org/details/voyagejohnhuygh01tielgoog and ...02...

SENTIMENTAL PERFUMERY.

A sentimental Perfumer recommends it to the fine ladies, to furnish their toilets with the following articles:

Self knowledge:—A mirror, shewing the full shape in the truest light.

Innocence:—A white paint, which will stand for a considerable time, if not abused.

Modesty:—Very best rouge, giving a becoming bloom to the cheek.

Contentment:—An infallible smoother of wrinkles in the face.

Truth:—A salve, rendering the lips soft and peculiarly graceful.

Good humour:—An universal beautifier.

Mildness:—Giving a tincture to the voice.

Tears of Pity:—A water, that gives lustre and brightness to the eye.

N.B. The constant use of these articles cannot fail rendering them quite agreeable to the sensible and deserving part of mankind.

CURIOUS PROPOSITION OF A DEBTOR TO HIS CREDITOR

(From a London Paper)

A debtor in the Fleet prison, lately sent to his creditor, to let him know that he had a proposal to make which he believed would be for their mutual benefit; accordingly the creditor called on him to hear it. “I have,” said he, “been thinking that it is a very idle thing for me to be here and put you to the expence of seven groats a week; my being so chargeable to you has given me great uneasiness; and God knows what it may cost you in the end; therefore what I would propose is this, you shall set me out of prison, and instead of seven groats, you shall only allow me eighteen pence a week and the other ten pence shall go towards the discharge of the debt.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, David Hunt, Esq. of West-Chester, to the Widow Cooper of Fish-Kills.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From June 26th to July 2d.

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

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

June 26 79 84 82 SW. W. do. clear light wind.

27 75 80 75 N. NW. SW. cleardo.do.

28 7875 80 79 SW.do.do. cleardo.cloudy.

29 8150 83 79 W. NW.do. rain thund. and lightn.

30 70 79 77 N.do.do. cleardo.do.

July 1 6950 8150 79 NW. W. do. clear.do.do.

2 72 82 72 NW. W. SW. cleardo.do.

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

For June 1796.

deg. 100

Mean temperature of the thermometer at 8 A.M. 71 37

Do. do. of the do. at 1 P.M. 73 97

Do. do. of the do. at 6 P.M. 68 74

Do. do. of the whole month 71 6

Greatest monthly range between the 12th and 26th 25 25

Do. do. in 24 hours the 3d 9 50

Warmest day the 26 84

Coldest do. the 12 59 50

10 Days it rained. A large quantity has fallen this month.

15 do. it was clear at 8 1 and 6 o’clock.

6 do. it was cloudy at do. do.

23 do. the wind was light at do.

16 do. the wind was to the westward of north and south.

3 times it thundered and lightned in this month.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND VIRTUOUS.

For sources, see the end of the second installment (pg. 16).

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTHONY. From the French.

(To be concluded in our next.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

PITY.

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

UTILE DULCI.

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

Vol. II.] WEDNESDAY, July 13, 1796. [No. 54.

Description of the famous SALT MINES at Williska in Poland.

(Concluded from page 1.)

At the bottom of the last ladder the stranger is received in a small cavern, walled up, perfectly close on all sides. To encrease the terror of the scene, it is usual for the guide to pretend the utmost terror on the apprehension of his lamp going out, declaring they must perish in the mazes of the mine if it did. When arrived in this dreary chamber, he puts out his light as if by accident, and after much cant, catches the stranger by the hand, and drags him through a narrow creek into the body of the mine, when there bursts at once upon his view, a world, the lustre of which is scarce to be imagined. It is a spacious plain, containing a whole people, a kind of subterraneous republic, with houses, carriages, roads, &c. This is wholly scooped out of one vast bed of salt, which is all a hard rock, as bright and glittering as crystal; and the whole space before him is formed of lofty arched vaults, supported by columns of salt, and roofed and floored with the same, so that the columns, and indeed the whole fabric, seem composed of the purest crystal.

They have many public lights in this place continually burning for the general use, and the blaze of those reflected from every part of the mine, gives a more glittering prospect than any thing above ground can possibly exhibit. Were this the whole beauty of the spot, it were sufficient to attract our wonder; but this is but a small part. The salt (though generally clear and bright as crystal) is in some parts tinged with all the colours of precious stones, as blue, yellow, purple, and green; there are numerous columns wholly composed of these kinds, and they look like masses of rubies, emeralds, amethysts, and sapphires, darting a radiance which the eye can hardly bear, and which has given many people occasion to compare it to the supposed magnificence of heaven.

Besides the variegated forms of these vaults, tables, arches, and columns, which are formed as they dig out the salt for the purpose of keeping up the roof, there is a vast variety of others, grotesque and finely figured, the work of nature, and these are generally of the purest and brightest salt.

The roofs of the arches are in many places full of salt, hanging pendant from the top in the form of icicles, and having all the hues and colours of the rainbow; the walks are covered with various congelations of the same kind, and the very floors, when not too much trodden and battered, are covered with globules of the same sort of beautiful materials.

In various parts of this spacious plain stand the huts of the miners and families, some standing single, and others in clusters like villages. They have very little communication with the world above ground, and many hundreds of people are born, and live all their lives here.

Through the midst of this plain lies the great road to the mouth of the mine. This road is always filled with carriages loaded with masses of salt out of the farther part of the mine, and carrying them to the place where the rope belonging to the wheel receives them. The drivers of these carriages are all merry and singing, and the salt looks like a load of gems. The horses kept here are a very great number, and when once let down, they never see the day-light again; but some of the men take frequent occasions of going up and breathing the fresh air. The instruments principally used by the miners are pick-axes, hammers, and chissels: with these they dig out the salt in forms of huge cylinders, each of many hundred weight. This is found the most convenient method of getting them out of the mine, and as soon as got above ground, they are broken into smaller pieces, and sent to the mills, where they are ground to powder. The finest sort of the salt is frequently cut into toys, and often passes for real crystal. This hard kind makes a great part of the floor of the mine, and what is most surprising of all in the whole place is, that there runs constantly over this, and through a large part of the mine, a spring of fresh water, sufficient to supply the inhabitants and their horses, so that they need not have any from above ground. The horses usually grow blind after they have been some little time in the mine, but they do as well for service afterwards as before. After admiring the wonders of this amazing place, it is no very comfortable remembrance to the stranger, that he is to go back again through the same dismal way he came.

Earlier publication: “The New magazine of knowledge concerning Heaven and Hell, and the Universal World of Nature” Vol. I, June 1790

Background: The Polish spelling is Wieliczka. The salt mines are currently a major tourist attraction.

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

Translated from the French.

(Continued from page 3.)

How shall I describe my feelings at reading this letter! Oh, Julia! cried I, lovely, adorable woman! Is it possible! O God! Can it be that I have accused you of perfidy!—have done every thing in my power to dishonour you!---have abandoned you! What! a heart so delicate, so noble, did I once possess, and have I lost it! Oh misery! I might have been the happiest of men; I am the most wretched. And can I, in my present circumstances, accept the generous pardon thou offerest! O, no! Better die than so debase myself! No, Julia, though thou mayest truly accuse me of extravagance and injustice, thou never shalt have reason to suspect me of meanness.

Streams of tears ran down my cheeks, while I reasoned thus. I wrote twenty answers, and tore them all: at last I sent the following:

“I admire the noble manner of your proceeding, the sublimity of your mind; and this excess of generosity is not incomprehensible to me. Yes, I conceive all the self-satisfaction of saying, All which the most tender love can inspire, virtue alone shall make me perform.---But I will not take advantage of its empire over you—Live free, be happy, forget me.——Adieu! Julia---You have indisputably all the superiority of reason over passion———and yet I have a heart, perhaps, not unworthy of yours.”

With this letter I returned the twenty-four thousand livres, ordering it to be told her, that the diamonds having been given at her marriage, were undoubtedly her’s; and having once received, she had no right to force them back upon me.

I had now made a sacrifice the most painful; Julia had offered to consecrate her life to me, and I had renounced a happiness without which there was neither happiness nor peace on earth for me. My grief, however, was rather profound than violent; I had offered up felicity at the altar of honour, and that idea, in some measure, supported me. Besides, I did not doubt but my letter would prove to Julia that, notwithstanding all my errors, I yet was worthy of her esteem. The hope of exciting her pity, and especially her regret at parting from me, again animated my heart: I supposed her relenting, and grieved, and the supposition gave me a little ease.

I had lived about a fortnight retired in my lodging near the Luxembourg, when I received an order to depart immediately, and join my regiment. Peace had been declared near a year, and my regiment was in garrison two hundred leagues from Paris. I was one of the most ignorant Colonels in Europe; besides that I still secretly cherished the fond hope Julia was not lost to me for ever; though I perfectly felt I could not recede, nor could she make any further advances, yet I still flattered myself some unforeseen event would again confer a blessing on me which I had never sincerely renounced.

In fact, I could not resolve to quit Paris, and put the intolerable space of two hundred leagues between me and Julia; I wrote therefore to the minister, to obtain leave of absence, which was refused me, and I instantly threw up my commission.

Thus did I quit the service at five-and-twenty, and thus did passion and folly direct my conduct in all the most important events of life.

This last act of extravagance was the cause of great vexation to me; it increased and completed the difference between me and my Uncle, who was previously very angry with me for rashly separating from my wife: so that I now found myself absolutely forsaken by every person in the world whom most I loved.

At first, indeed, I did not feel the horror of my situation, being solely occupied by one idea, which swallowed up all the rest. I wished to see Julia once more. I imagined, if I could but find any means of appearing suddenly and unexpectedly before her, I should revive some part of the affection she formerly had for me. But I could not ask for her at the convent; for what had I to say? She never went out, and her apartment was in the interior part of the house; how then could I come to the sight of her?

I had a valet, who happened to be acquainted with a cousin of one of the Tourieres*. I spoke to this man, and got him to give me a letter for his cousin the Touriere, in which I was announced as one of his friends, and steward to a country lady, who wanted to send her daughter to a convent.

Accordingly, at twilight, I wrapped myself up in a great coat, put on an old slouched hat, and went to the convent. The Touriere was exactly such a person as I wished; that is, she was exceedingly talkative and communicative. At first I put some vague questions to her, and afterwards said, my mistress was not absolutely determined to send her daughter to a convent; whence I took occasion to ask if they had many boarders.

Oh yes, replied she, and married women too, I assure you. Here my heart beat violently, and she, with a whisper, a smile, and an air of secrecy, added——You must know, Sir, it is this very convent that incloses the beautiful Madame de la Paliniere, of whom you have certainly heard so much.

Yes---yes---I have---She is a charming woman.

Charming! Oh beautiful to a degree! It is a great pit!---but it is to be hoped God will grant her the gift of repentance.

Repent! of what?

Sir!——Yes, yes, Sir, it is plain enough you are just come from the country, or you could not ask such a question. So you don’t know!

I have heard she had a capricious unjust husband, but————

Oh yes! That to be sure she had; every body talks of his folly and brutality, but that will not excuse her conduct. I hear every thing, and can assure you she is here much against her inclination; nay, she would not have come, had she not dreaded an order for imprisonment.

Imprisonment! Oh! heavens!

Not for her good behaviour, as you may suppose. Why she is neither suffered to go out, nor see any person whatever, except her nearest relations. Oh! she leads a very melancholy life! You may well think, our Nuns won’t have any communication with a wife false to her husband’s bed. The very Boarders will not look at her; every body avoids her as they would infection. God forgive her! she must do penance yet: but instead of that, she is playing upon the harpsichord all day long; is as fresh as a rose, and looks better every day: she must be stubborn in sin.

And does not she seem sorrowful?

Not at all; her woman says, she never saw her so contented; for my own part, I am charitable, and hope she may yet be reclaimed, for she has not a bad heart; she is generous and charitable; and yet she has insisted upon having all her fortune restored, and has left her husband in absolute want. You will tell me he is mad and foolish, has ruined himself nobody knows how, and has just suffered the disgrace of being degraded in the army. I own they have taken away his commission: yes, he has lost his regiment; but yet, I say, a husband is a husband. The poor man wrote to her about a month since to beg her assistance, but no! she told him plainly, no! ’Tis very hard though!---I have all these things from the best authority; I don’t talk by hearsay; I have been fifteen years in this house, and, I thank my God, nobody could ever say I was a tatler, or a vender of scandal.

The Touriere continued at her own ease praising herself; I had not the power of interruption left. She was loudly called for, kept talking all the way she went, and in a few minutes returned.

It was the relation of a young Novice who takes the veil to-morrow, that wanted me, said she. Ah! now; there; there is a true convert! A call of grace! Gives fifty thousand francs (2083l. sterling) to the convent! You ought to see the ceremony: our Boarders will all be there, and you can take a peep through the church window.

At what o’clock will it begin?

Three in the afternoon. The Novice is as beautiful as an angel, and is only twenty. Had she not lost her lover and her father in the same year, the would never have attended to the blessed inspiration of the Spirit. How good Providence is to us! Her father died first, and her lover, who was imprisoned at Saumur, about five months after, of a broken heart, as it is thought.

What was his name? cried I, in an agony not to be described.

The Marquis of Clainville, replied the Touriere, and our novice is called Mademoiselle d’Elbene.

This last sentence went with inexpressible torture to my heart. I rose suddenly, and ran out with an exclamation that threw the Touriere into astonishment and terror.

Arrived at my lodgings, I threw myself upon the sopha, penetrated, torn, and confounded at all that I had heard. The veil was rent away, the illusion passed, I knew at length the extent of my misery; saw to what a point my extravagant conduct had stained my wife’s reputation; felt how impossible it was for this innocent victim of my destruction truly to pardon the injury I had done her, by destroying the most precious thing a woman possesses; and owned, that the unjust contempt with which the world treated her, ought incessantly to reanimate her resentment against me its author. To her virtue alone could I now attribute her generous manner of acting.

In fact from the account given by the Touriere, it was evident that Julia, consoled by the testimony of a good conscience, was resigned to her fate, and lived at peace; which she could not continue to do, but by burying my memory in eternal oblivion.

(To be continued.)

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON GOD’S PROVIDENCE IN THE FORMATION OF HIS CREATURES.

When God created man he endowed him with certain principles of action, which distinguished him from the animal or brute creation.---It is a question which involves in it much disquisition and philosophy, whether men were aboriginally white, black, or brown; but the popular opinion with us seems to be, that all men were radically white. We see around us on the face of nature, people of various complexions, some of whom are the sons of science and education; others beclouded by the chilling mists of profound ignorance: Those, however, that are more enlightened presumptuously advance in the face of truth, that they alone are favoured mortals, because of their superiority in the knowledge of things.---Fallacious reasoning!---God is an equal providence, his endowments are not partial but universal. He has given all men equal abilities, which time and circumstance have rendered more conspicuous in some; and if the same opportunities, the same education, the same youthful care and social intercourse had been extended to all---all would have been equally conspicuous. The sons of Ethiopia would vie with the ablest of mankind, we should blush to call them slaves, and attach to their reputation a more becoming appellation. Were I to argue from other deductions, I should justly be accused of an attempt to argue a defect in the God of nature---impossible!---It may not be improper here to ask the ingenious advocates for opposite principles, what grounds they rest their theory upon. Alive to the feelings of sensibility, with reluctance I anticipate their answer: “Appearances are the criterions by which we judge!” Generous Deity! is a whole nation to be imposed upon and bear the shackles of ignominious bondage, because there is an external difference of appearances? I shudder at concomitant reflections! and must suspend the inquiry with deploring their miserable condition if they ever consult their consciences.

LUCIUS.

Pine-Street, June 28, 1796.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

IF A STORY BE NOT GOOD, SAY ‘TIS A DUTCH ONE.—ERASMUS. A Good Name is better than precious Ointment——SOLOMON.

’Tis certainly a strange and a ludicrous sentiment—there appears to be such a contrast in the objects—I presume, in former days, ointments were in greater estimation than at present---for it seems to have been as currently talked of as bank bills with us.---I recollect his father’s wonderful conception, that love and unity were similar to the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron’s beard that went down to the skirts of his garments.---I cannot conjecture the reason for their prizing it so highly:---Is this the ointment or oil, pray, that made their kings? Well, admitting it is,---why should it be set along side a good name.---We lessen the importance of the noble object by placing it with a trivial one----The fact is, I believe, Solomon said it because he happened to hear it (like many other things) at home. Does there need much inspiration to raise so noble a thought?---What if he said, a good name is better than 300 wives and 700 concubines---would it not have made an admirable sound indeed? Yes, how striking it would have been, had he only said, ’tis better than 1000 stalls of horses---how some penetrating diving old gentlemen would have eyed it thro’ their spectacles.---But such trivial things as a few wives, concubines, or horses extra did not pop into his mind just then. When I recollect how far the Queen of the South came to see his wisdom, and that, in fact, he was acknowleged able to distinguish and divide a hair twixt south and south-west side---I must blush and confess it folly and presumption to smile at him---though I had nothing else to do and cannot sleep;---but truly it would have read so handsomely to me had it been a good name is better, far better, (understand me right,) than the best of gingerbread.

R. G. W.

EFFECT OF MUSIC.

(From a London Paper.)

The effect of music on the senses was oddly and wonderfully verified, during the mourning for the late Duke of Cumberland: A taylor had a great number of black suits, which were to be finished in a very short space of time---among his workmen, there was a fellow who was always singing Rule Britannia, and the rest of the journeymen joined in the chorus.---The taylor made his observations, and found that the slow time of his tune retarded the work, in consequence, he engaged a blind fidler and placing him near the workshop, made him play constantly the lively tune of Nancy Dawson.---The design had the proper effect---the taylors elbows moved obedient to the melody, and the clothes were sent home within the prescribed period.

OBSERVATION.

It is ungenerous to give a man occasion to blush at his own ignorance in one thing, who perhaps may excel us in many.

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 6.)

“But, my Lord,” he continued, folding his hands, “will you be able to pardon the manifold injuries which you have received from me, if I can convince you that I have been only the tool of greater impostors.”

“Speak frankly and without reserve! I will forgive you every thing.”

“My Lord!---you are in dreadful hands. That Unknown---”

“Who is he?” I interrupted him impatiently.

“Who he is, I do not know! as sure as I am going to appear before the omniscient searcher of hearts, I do not know it. He always has observed the greatest secrecy on that head. ‘I am who I am!’ he always replied, when I questioned him on that point, ‘and I never am what I seem to be!’ Three days before you made your first appearance at the castle of the Countess, he came late at night to the gate, disguised as a beggar, and enquired for me. Supposing that he wanted alms, I gave him a piece of money. He raised a loud laughter, whilst he took a handful of ducats out of his pocket, and put them in mine. ‘This is only a prelude to what I am going to do for you,’ said he, without paying the least regard to my astonishment, ‘if you will assist me in executing a plan which I have formed, without betraying our connection to the Countess.’ ‘And what plan is it?’ ‘It is a very innocent one,’ he replied, ‘I wish to work some miracles in the castle, and should be glad if you would assist me. ‘For what purpose?’ ‘I want to make two people happy,’ was his reply, ‘the Countess, and a young nobleman, who will arrive within three days. The Countess abandons herself too much to her grief, on account of her deceased husband, and I know no better means to cure her of it, than to banish the dead husband from her heart by a living lover. As a mediator between the Countess and the young nobleman, I must render myself important to both, and for that purpose I must work miracles; if I succeed in getting the sway over their understanding, then I shall easily make myself master of their hearts.’ He then asked me whether he could rely on me, and if the rest of the servants could not be gained by money? I assured him of my readiness to serve him, and promised to attempt the latter, in which I succeeded. My fellow servants were easily bribed, because they were persuaded that it was a laudable, or at least an innocent undertaking in which they were to be engaged. The cheat which was to be played on you and the Countess was believed to be innocent, as it appeared to be a means of gaining a salutary purpose. To be brief, I informed the Unknown the day following, that all of us were firmly determined to assist him in the execution of his plan; a resolution which he again rewarded with a handful of ducats.

“As soon as the Countess was gone to bed, I introduced the generous stranger to my fellow servants. He soon convinced us that he was no stranger in the castle; for he knew every apartment, and every corner. ‘I was acquainted with the Prince of Ge**,’ he said, ‘the former possessor of the castle. He was extremely fond of physic, and chemistry, and his great skill in these sciences procured him publicly, the name of a man of great learning, and privately that of a sorcerer. His rank protected him against the fate which would have been the portion of every body else, if suspected of sorcery. He built the castle in this forest, in order to indulge here, without being interrupted by intruding visitors, his inclination for physical and chemical operations, by means of which he frightened many uninvited guests out of the castle. The most extraordinary tricks he played in the last room, on the first floor, which is connected by means of a machine, with a secret apartment on the ground floor. The latter having neither a door or windows, has very likely not yet been discovered by any of the inhabitants of the castle.’ This is really the case. The Unknown demanded a candle, and requested us to follow him. He led us to a wall which we never had noticed. There he took a stone out of the floor, put his arm into the opening, and pushed a part of the wooden wall back. We followed him through the aperture of a small room, where we instantly beheld the machine of which we had been speaking. It consisted of a strong spring, which was connected with a large wooden cone, fitted in the ceiling, and fastened by a bolt. As soon as the bolt was pushed back, and somebody placed himself on the cone in the upper apartment, the spring was pressed down and the person sunk into the lower apartment, between four posts, in the joints of which the cone was sliding down. However as soon as one jumped from the cone, the spring made it snap back by the elastic force into its former place. In order to convince us of it, the Unknown mounted up to the ceiling upon a ladder which was in the room, and suspended some heavy weights to hooks which were fastened to the under part of the cone, which made it slide down as soon as he removed the bolt, and was forced up again into its former place, by the elastic force of the spring, as soon as he had taken away the weights. This machine could not be perceived in the upper apartment, the floor of which consisted of cubical squares, resembling in form, colour and position, the moveable cone to which they seemed to be closely joined.

“Besides this machine, he shewed us a crooked tube, which was fixed to the ceiling, and reached down to the middle of the room. This tube, said the Unknown, is in communication with the wall of the upper apartment where it ends in the open jaw of one of the four lions which are standing in the corner of that room. By means of that tube, one cannot only hear very distinctly in this room what is spoken in the upper apartment, but one hears equally distinctly what one speaks here, without suspecting from whence the voice proceeds. You know, my lord, from your own experience how well the Unknown knew how to render these machines serviceable to his plan.

“Before the Unknown left the castle, he asked me in what apartment the Countess was used to receive strangers? ‘In the room,’ I replied, ‘contiguous to that in the floor of which the moveable cone is fixed.’—He left us with visible marks of satisfaction.

“The next day he came again to the castle, and meeting me at the gate, exclaimed in accents of joy, ‘To-morrow already we must begin to work miracles. I have invented a plan which cannot miscarry. The young nobleman will come to the castle to-night. Place some lights in the windows of the upper and lower apartments, that he may find his way to the castle, and order the gates to be opened without delay, as soon as you hear him ring the bell. The Countess, who will be gone to bed by that time, cannot see him before to-morrow morning. When you shall have introduced him to her, then you must return to her apartment, after a short interval and deliver this box and the note which I am going to give you, into the hands of the Countess. If you are asked who has brought it, describe me as you have seen me the first time I came to the castle gate. The young nobleman will be desirous to see and to speak to me, but you must tell him that I had left the castle after the box and the note had been delivered. He will order you to pursue me without delay; however, I will save you that trouble, for I shall stay at the castle, and surrender to you as soon as you shall want me. Keep some cords ready, which must be cut asunder and slightly sewn again together. With these cords you must tie me, and charge some of the servants to conduct me to the Countess, pretending that I had refused obstinately to return. Then I shall tear the cords asunder, fly into the adjoining room, and bolt the door after me. Meanwhile you must expect me in the lower apartment and unfasten the bolt beneath the cone, that I may sink down as soon as I shall get upon the latter. When the cone shall have snapt back into its former place, you must be ready to fasten it by means of the bolt. When the Countess and her guest, impatient to seize me, shall force open the door and find the room empty, they will fancy me to be a supernatural being, not being acquainted with the secret of the machine.’

“You know my Lord, how punctually and successfully this design has been put into execution. An accident was the cause of a second more important plan, the execution of which has not been less successful. The Unknown, who after his disappearance was listening attentively, in the secret chamber, heard among other discourses, by means of the tube, the prayer which the Countess addressed to him on account of the apparition of her deceased Lord. He reflected a few minutes on the possibility of granting it, and promised to satisfy her wishes. The tube was the channel through which the Unknown conveyed his answer to the Countess.”