Let Fubal’s lute in skilful hands appear,
  And pour new numbers on the list’ning ear;
  With the full organ let them sweetly swell,
  With the loud trumpet languishingly shrill;
  Or in soft concord let the concert suit,
  The sprightly clarion with the Dorian flute:
  Then wake to vocal airs the warbling wire,
  Let the strings run beneath the poet’s fire;
  While sorrow sighs, ah! never let them cool,
  But melt melodious on the soften’d soul:
  So may the passions wait upon your hand,
  Move as you move, and act as you command:
  I’ve laid down precepts, to guide your vocal strains,
  Resume your lays, for hark, the Muse complains.

  [[Source:

  Title: “A Prospect of Poetry: address’d to the Right Honourable
    John, Earl of Orrery”.
  Author: “James De-La-Cour” or Dalacourt 1709-1781.
  Changes: Opening stanzas omitted; two stanzas skipped before
    “Your sounds in softer notes...”; last two lines not in original.]]

  EPIGRAM.
  Translated from the French, by the Late Dr. Cooper.

  To Love should Beauty not submit,
    In vain its power it tries,
  Love has a dart, if Beauty fights,
    And wings, if Beauty flies.

_NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS
BURLING, Jun. & Co.+ +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per
quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating
Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, April 12, 1797.+  [+No. 93.+

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

              A FUGITIVE THOUGHT.

Musing the other day in a pensive attitude, my head reclining on my
hand, and my elbow resting on the table--methought--Why is the mind
either incessantly haunted with gloom, or wrapt in extacy? Why is man
generally peevish, morose, sullen, fretful or passionate, and seldom
enjoying that beautiful equilibrium of temper that alone can produce
happiness to himself and others? The object of all (said I to myself) is
to acquire comfort and happiness; but how wide do they steer of the
mark, that give way to hateful passions. I recollected how trivial
faults of persons in my employ made me impatient--that I sometimes was
subject to those disagreeable emotions, and that I thereby made those
and myself unhappy: I bethought myself of recent trials, which, though
afflictive, should not have excited discontent; and I put up a fervent
petition to heaven, to assist me in a resolution I then formed of never
giving way to chagrin, but of always endeavouring to possess, at least,
a pleasing equanimity. I am no enemy to transports of joy, when not
carried to excess: I fancy, that for this end are the passions given us;
but we have perverted into a source of uneasiness what was designed to
increase our pleasure, and to make this life of probation less
burthensome.

I will, continued I, from this, endeavour to be as happy myself as
possible, and it shall be my care to cause those around me, as far as
lies in my power, to participate in my bliss. My domestics, and all
under my care, shall be but gently reproved when they err; or rather,
I will acquaint them merely with their faults, and if they are wise they
surely will improve. My children I will advise with the utmost
tenderness, and use every art to allure them into the paths of virtue;
good shall be represented to them in the most glowing and fascinating
colours, and vice shall be depicted with the most frightful, hideous and
forbidding appearance. My wife, the partner of my joys, must be the
partaker of my happiness--hand in hand shall we go on in this blissful
path--no jar shall disturb our harmony, nor shall discontent or anger
ever wrinkle our brows: then shall we fulfil the design of our Maker in
sending us into the world, and shall pass through its variegated scenes
with as much comfort and content as can possibly be enjoyed here below
by mortals.

  N. L.

  DISCONTENT.

In the humble and seemingly-quiet shade of private life, as well as
among the great and mighty, discontent broods over its imaginary
sorrows; preys upon the citizen no less than the courtier, and often
nourishes passions equally malignant in the cottage and in the palace.
Having once seized the mind, it spreads its own gloom over every
surrounding object; it every where searches out materials for itself;
and in no direction more frequently employs its unhappy activity, than
in creating divisions among mankind, and in magnifying slight
provocations into mortal injuries.

In situations where much comfort might be enjoyed, this man’s
superiority and that man’s neglect, our jealousy of a friend, our hatred
of a rival, an imagined affront, or a mistaken point of honour, allow us
no repose. Hence discord in families, animosities among friends, and
wars among nations! Look around us! every where we find a busy
multitude. Restless and uneasy in their present situation, they are
incessantly employed in accomplishing a change of it; and as soon as
their wish is fulfilled, we discern, by their behaviour, that they are
as dissatisfied as they were before. Where they expected to have found a
paradise, they find a desert.

The man of business pines for leisure; the leisure for which he had
longed proves an irksome gloom, and, through want of employment, he
languishes, sickens, and dies.

The man of retirement fancies no state so happy as that of active life;
but he has not engaged long in the tumults and contests of the world,
until he finds cause to look back with regret on the calm hours of his
former privacy and retreat.

Beauty, wit, eloquence and fame, are eagerly desired by persons in every
rank of life. They are the parent’s fondest wish for his child; the
ambition of the young, and the admiration of the old; and yet in what
numberless instances have they proved, to those who possessed them, no
other than shining snares, seductions to vice, instigations to folly,
and, in the end, sources of misery.

  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._

  (Concluded from page 315.)

The King proposed in the council of state in which this decree was
debated, that some of the criminals should be executed, but the rest
imprisoned for life. The Marquis of **ira insisted, however, upon the
execution of the legal punishment, and was seconded by the other
members. The King mitigated the punishment of those who had been
sentenced to be hanged, ordering them to be beheaded. The two prelates,
whose fate had been left to his Royal pleasure, were doomed to eternal
imprisonment.

Going to Court the next day, I heard Alumbrado had found means to escape
from his prison. It was believed Oliv*rez had bribed the gaoler by a
large sum to suffer him to liberate himself, which appeared to me very
probable, as the latter could be found no where, and very likely had
joined the villain in his flight, who, however, as it is to be wished
for the best of human kind, will not escape the punishment due to his
crimes*.

  [* He did not escape the vengeance of Heaven if, as I have reason to
  suppose, Alumbrado is the same person with Vi*o*va. The latter fled
  from Port**al to Spa*n, deceived the Minister through his pretended
  occult knowledge, and continued to be connected with him after he
  had been removed from the helm of government. However, a journey
  which Alumbrado made to Tol**o, where he attempted to play off his
  magical delusions, brought on his destruction; he was seized by the
  officers of the Inquisition, and executed as a heretic and sorcerer.
  Oli*arez too was arrested by the Inquisition, when that ruthless
  tribunal was informed of his connection with the villainous
  Alumbrado: his relations are, however, believed to have dispatched
  him by poison, in order to spare him the disgrace of a public
  execution.

    MARQUIS OF SAU*****.]

What I am going to relate now, is the account of an eye-witness, for how
could I have been present on such an heart-breaking occasion?

On the 28th of August a scaffold, covered with black cloth, was erected
before the house where the prisoners had been confined the preceding
night. On this scaffold three steps were seen, on each of which a chair
was placed, the upper one for the Duke of Cam*na, the middle chair for
the Marquis of Villa R*al, and the lower one for the Duke of Ar*amar.

The Marquis of Villa R*al was the first who stepped out of one of the
windows of the house, which served instead of a door. He begged the
bye-standers pardon in a short speech, and was beheaded.

As soon as his corpse was covered, his son made his appearance. His pale
and staring countenance resembled that of a corpse. He uttered not a
syllable, seated himself on the chair, and one blow severed his head
from his body.

The pen drops from my hand, and the idea of that horrid scene curdles
the blood in my veins. Reader, who art perusing these pages, look back
once more on the road on which a noble young man, adorned with the most
excellent genius, and the best of hearts, suffered himself to be seduced
to a crime for which he atoned with his life!

  CONTINUATION.

    (_By an unknown Hand._)

The Marquis of F*, to whom the preceding Memoirs had been entrusted for
publication, dying nine weeks after the execution of his unhappy friend,
left these interesting papers to me, after I had promised him on his
death-bed to execute the last request of their ill-fated author. I have
discharged the trust reposed in me some years since, and the character
of the poor deluded young man has been vindicated in the eyes of the
public, who have received the mournful tale of his misfortunes with
tears of pity. The continuation of these extraordinary Memoirs, which I
am going to add, is so wonderful and remarkable, that I wish it had been
in my power to communicate it to the public along with the rest; the
whole being, however, a secret of state, which I am not allowed to
disclose while the persons concerned in it are alive, I shall, perhaps,
be obliged to leave the publication of the subsequent pages to my
children.

Nine years are already elapsed since the execution of the conspirators,
and the death of the Marquis of F* and--the Duke of Ca*ina, whose
hapless fate the latter has bewailed in silent grief, and who generally
is believed to have been executed with the rest of his associates, is
yet alive.

The King, who ardently wished to spare the life of the Duke, but at the
same time was afraid of counteracting the decree of the council of
state, who had doomed him to public execution, found himself in no small
embarrassment. However, the Irishman, who wished with equal ardour to
save the life of the poor misguided young man, soon found out means of
dissolving the Gordian knot. “I could,” said he to the King, “make a
mask, which no one should be able to discern from the real phisiognomy
of the Duke; and this mask I could fasten to the face of some other
person, in such a manner, that every one should believe that person to
be the Duke. If, therefore, we can find a person who resembles him in
size, and in the make of his body, and at the same time shall be willing
to lose his head in the place of the Duke, it will not be difficult to
save the life of the latter, without either offending the Senate, or
leaving him at liberty to conspire a second time against the life of
your Majesty. This person, who in every respect will answer our purpose,
is _Alumbrado_. He is of the same size with the Duke, and if informed
that he is condemned to be torn by horses, will not refuse to accept the
mask, and to die by the sword in the place of the Duke. In order to
cover this innocent fraud, we must give out that Alumbrado has escaped
from the prison, and thus the benevolent wish of your Majesty can be
accomplished with secrecy and safety.”

This plan of the Irishman was executed with the privity and assistance
of only a few persons, who took a solemn oath never to disclose the
secret, and Alumbrado was beheaded in the room of the Duke. The deceit
was carried on so dexterously, that none of those who witnessed his
execution, suspected him to be any other person but the Duke whom he
represented.

The latter, however, knew nothing of this fraud that had been practised
in his favour, for although the Irishman had modelled his face in wax,
yet he had not received the most distant hint of the purpose for which
it had been done. When he was carried out of his dungeon, a few hours
after the execution of his father and the disguised Alumbrado, and led
through a dark subterraneous passage, he fancied that he was to meet his
doom. He was conducted over many secret staircases, and at length
entered, through an iron door, a dark apartment where he was ordered to
wait. But soon after a second door was opened, and an apartment
illuminated with numberless torches presented itself to his view. There
he beheld the King sitting at a table, and a man with a sack and a sword
standing by his side, who beckoned to him to step nearer. The Duke
having entered the apartment, the door was bolted after him, and he
expected every moment to be his last. The King looked at him for some
time without speaking a word, and at last began:--“You have designed the
ruin of your country, and conspired against my life, what do you think
you deserve?” “Death!” the Duke replied. “You have been doomed by the
Council of State to suffer a very painful death; I have, however,
mitigated their sentence into that of your being executed by the sword.”
The Duke thanked the King for his clemency, and looked at the man, whom
he mistook for the executioner. “Your sentence has been executed
already!” the King resumed, after a long pause of awful expectation. The
silence of the Duke, and the expression of his features, bespoke his
desire for an explanation of these mysterious words. “You gaze at me;”
the King added, “you doubt, perhaps, the truth of what I have said?
however you shall soon be convinced.” So saying he made a signal to the
man who was standing by his side, upon which the latter opened the sack,
and taking out a head recently cut off, showed it to the Duke, who
staggered back when he discerned his own features in the face of the
bleeding head. The whole mystery was now explained to him, and the King
added: “You owe your life to my mercy and the invention of the Irishman;
it is, however, not in my power to restore you to human society.
Although you are alive, yet you will be numbered among the dead, and be
lost to the world for ever. You will pass your life banished from
society, and deprived of liberty, yet you may rest assured that none of
the comforts of life, liberty excepted, will be denied you.”

This sentence was executed literally, the Duke was confined for the rest
of his life in a strong tower situated on the river Ta*o, where handsome
apartments were allotted to him, and wanted nothing but liberty.

                   *   *   *

  [The Address of the Translator of the preceding history to his
  Thinking Readers, being thought worthy their attention, it will
  be laid before them in our next, and succeeding number.]

  THE BALM OF SORROW.

Not studied consolatory speeches, not precepts from the Cynick’s tub,
nor a volume of last century sermons, but employment. Let the victim of
ingratitude, of grief, of love, plunge into the whirlpool of business,
and he will feel like the valetudinarian, invigorated from the bath. On
this subject ARMSTRONG prescribes like a physician, and exhorts like a
philosopher.

  “Go, soft enthusiast, quit the cypress groves,
  Nor to the rivulet’s lonely moanings tune
  Your sad complaint. Go seek the cheerful haunts
  Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd;
  Lay schemes for Wealth, or Power, or Fame, the wish
  Of noble minds, and push them night and day,
  Or join the caravan in quest of scenes
  New to your eyes, and shifting every hour,
  Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.
  Or, more adventurous, rush into the field
  Where war grows hot; and raging thro’ the sky,
  The lofty trumpet swells the madd’ning soul;
  And in the hardy camp and toilsome march
  Forget all softer and less manly cares.”

  ANECDOTES.

A gentleman who now fills an important office in this State, was
travelling through a part of the country where he was not so personally
known as his horses and carriage; having exchanged places with his
servant who attended on horseback, he fell into conversation with a
rough countryman, who was riding the same way, and from the gentleman’s
extraordinary paleness, mistook him for the servant. The conversation
turning on the fineness of the horses before the carriage, the clown
observed, that he knew them very well; they belonged to Mr. G--: the
gentleman replied they did: “And I suppose,” said the fellow, “that is
he in the coach; but if I had his horses, I wou’d’n’t care if the D--l
had him.”

                   *   *   *

A veteran toper complained to the celebrated Doctor W. of Boston, that
from long use of spirituous liquors, they palled upon his palate, and
failed to exhilirate his spirits. The Doctor, in a sportive mood,
inquired if he had ever used AQUA FORTIS, and recommended it to his
patient, diluted with water.--The toper immediately procured a quantity,
which he first mixed with water, and then took in its crude state; but
in a few months the AQUA FORTIS afforded him as little pleasure as
common New-England Rum. Soon after the unfortunate tipler, meeting the
Doctor in the street, addressed him thus, “Doctor, the aqua FORTIES
won’t do, can’t you give me something stronger; do, dear Doctor, _for
the love of grog_, let me have a little aqua FIFTIES.”

  Messrs. PRINTERS,

  The following story struck me on perusal, as an affecting one.
  Modern military _petit maitres_, who have never seen any other
  service but that of the ladies, pique themselves on extreme
  _insensibility_. They nightly infest the theatres, not to be
  entertained, but to interrupt--to display white teeth and empty
  heads--to laugh at every noble sentiment of Melpomene, though
  delivered with all the exquisite energy of a Siddons, or the
  delicate tenderness of a Merry--to such _beings_ this little story
  may be of infinite use--they may learn that _sensibility_ does not
  entirely disgrace regimentals, and that the _sympathetic tear_ may
  be given to distress, without tarnishing the honour of the soldier.

    EUGENIUS.

  +The FATAL EFFECTS of a TOO SUSCEPTIBLE HEART
  in a YOUNG PRUSSIAN OFFICER.+

“My son was an ensign in a regiment in which I ranked as Captain. We had
served two campaigns together, and I was pleased with the marks of a
cool and sensible courage, which I had observed in him, and which
promised the most flattering hopes of his becoming one day an ornament
to his family.

“His heart was naturally generous and tender. This virtue endeared him
to me; but I trembled for its effects. It might, I thought, shake his
fortitude in the trying scenes of the miserable spectacles of war, and
possibly suppress the enterprising spirit of youth; a quality so
essential to the advancement of a soldier, and so necessary an
embellishment to his character.

“Oftentimes, when his overflowing compassionate heart would vent itself
in a burst of sorrow for the unfortunate, I had recourse to the
_sophistry_ of argument, to paint those objects of his reflections in
different colours to his imagination; and while reproving him with his
unmanly weakness, could have clasped him to my bosom for the melting
tenderness of his nature.

“I frequently, though with utter repugnance, conducted him to the trying
scenes of suffering criminals; thus attempting to familiarize his mind
to the disastrous events which life is too often embittered with.

“Some little time after the affair of Schweidnitz, our army had burnt
and sacked a small village of the Austrians. It was our chance of duty
to be sent to this place. When the general confusion of the day had
subsided, and some order restored among the troops, we made an excursion
round the village to view the effects.

“On our approach to the ruins of a once clean and neat house, we were
suddenly shocked by the approach of an old woman. The genius of extreme
wretchedness seemed faithfully pourtrayed in her ghastly countenance.

“She flung herself upon her knees, and in a shrill voice of desperation,
imprecated the most direful curses on our heads. “If,” says she, “you
call yourselves men, and not savages of unequalled brutality, either
kill me instantly, and end my extreme sufferings; or, O! let me have
help to search for the remains of my children.”

“I tenderly exhorted her to calm herself--that she might expect every
assistance; and staying with her till my son had returned with a few
soldiers, I learnt, that on the alarm of the sudden approach of our
troops to the village, the unrestrained disorder which was naturally to
be expected, had forced her son and daughter, with two grandchildren, to
seek shelter in a cellar of the house; which house sharing the same
unfortunate fate with the rest, was soon pillaged and set on fire--that
she herself had fled some little way into the country, and had retired
from the danger of the enemy, in hopes that, in case of a discovery, her
age might secure her from that fate which her grandchildren, two young
women in the bloom of life, might otherwise be exposed to--that their
father, who was a notary of the place, with his wife, had resolved on
staying with the children in their concealment.

“When my son returned with the soldiers, the old woman showed us the
spot where we should search for the poor devoted family. We had not been
long at work among the ruins, when we broke into the cellar whither the
family had fled. Here a scene presented itself, that would have turned a
monarch’s heart from the fell tide of war, which brings such desolation
and horror in its course.

“Clasped in each others arms lay two beautiful sisters, with their
father and mother by their side, suffocated by the smoke; while the old
woman, with horrid yells, was bewailing the loss of her unfortunate
children, kissing the bodies, and frantic with grief. My son stood with
folded arms musing over this melancholy spectacle.

“I solicited him to depart; I urged him to withdraw from so affecting a
scene. Sternly did he turn his eyes on me, and seemed petrified to the
spot. In vain did I reason on the necessary consequences of war; that it
was no premeditated cruelty, but one of those casual misfortunes that
even the civil transactions of life are often checquered with.

“Where is your reason, your manhood, my boy? shall a soldier be overcome
with weak womanish feelings? for shame! for shame! All men in the course
of their lives must make up their minds to calamities like these. Away!
Your countrymen will ridicule your want of firmness; and the laurels
which you have hitherto acquired, will only serve to point you out as a
more conspicuous instance of effeminacy.

“I took him by the arm to draw him gently from this distressing sight,
when he flung himself away from me, and exclaimed, pointing to the
youngest of the girls, whose tongue, from the convulsive gasps of death,
hung from her mouth, “Behold this unparalleled butchery of my
countrymen! Will not the wrath of heaven revenge this outrage on
humanity? Cruel, cruel Prussians! You are bloody indeed! accursed
profession! Hell only has invented thee. From this moment I abjure thee.
I will not return to these blood-hounds: I will fly to the desarts for
ever, and hide my face from such inhumanity:” with “see there! my
father,” pointing again to the dead bodies, and burst into a flood of
tears.

“It required some force to bear him from this calamitous scene; and so
strong was the impression, that a fixed melancholy took entire
possession of him: and such was the extreme delicacy and tenderness of
his feelings, that I was destined to see this beloved child seized with
a violent fever, and to hear him, in the paroxisms of his distemper,
rave in the wildest, yet most pathetic language on this event.

“Some little time before he expired, he had fashioned one of the young
women into his wife; and starting up in bed, cursing the war which had
snatched her away from him, he fixed his eyes ghastly upon me, which I
readily translated into a remonstrance for being the author of his
unhappy malady, fell back into a swoon, from which he never recovered.”

  MIRANDA.
  A Moral Tale.

  (Concluded from page 318.)

Sighs and tears interrupted her speech; her words died on her tongue;
she pressed her little companion, and was silent. Her mother begged she
might here take up the story.

She was just beginning, when an old woman opened the cottage-door. Her
appearance was such as to prejudice beholders in her favour. She set
down a basket, which she carried on her arm; and, without speaking a
word, was about to retire, when the matron called to her--“This
gentleman, Mary, who deigns to interest himself so much in our
afflictions, will not, my heart, I know not why, tells me, be offended
at your being admitted to his company.” I joined my voice to the old
lady’s--Mary curtsied, and sat down.

“This, Sir,” continued the old lady; “this, Sir, is our Heaven-sent
benefactress: under that rustic garb, are virtues which would adorn the
possessors of a throne!--But I make you uneasy, my good friend; I will
cease to praise you in words: I will only tell your actions, and let
them praise you. This worthy creature, Sir, lived with us twenty years.
In that space, she saved nearly forty pounds; by which we have all, my
poor dear husband included, been for these nine months supported.”

“The money came from you, my good lady; it was my duty, therefore,” said
Mary, “when you stood in need, to restore it to you again.”

“Her attentions, Sir, would heal our woes, if they could admit of cure:
but, alas! that seems impossible. However, when I reflect how
miraculously Heaven has hitherto preserved us, I take comfort; and hope
that, in his own good time and manner, he will make us triumph over our
calamities. God is just; he chastens those whom he receives into the
number of his children.”

“Do not doubt, Madam,” exclaimed I, involuntarily clasping her hand; “do
not doubt, that God will speedily cause you to emerge out of this sea of
adversity!”

“Will you please, Madam, to take your little supper now?” said Mary,
with officious attention.

“We will,” replied her mistress; “and this gentleman, if he can put up
with our rustic food, will perhaps do us the honour to partake with us.”

We moved to the table; and, when supper was over, the old lady returned
the clue of the narrative--

“Henry, the rector’s amiable son, returned now from Oxford; he saw, he
admired, he loved Miranda. The nobleness of his nature caused him to act
in every thing with the strictest honour and integrity. He confessed his
passion, and received as ingenious reciprocation of love. With generous
frankness, he acquainted his father with his attachments. The haughty
priest foamed with rage at the bare mention of it, and maddened at the
idea of his son’s marrying---these were his words---“a wench without
fortune, family, or any thing; the daughter of my curate, too!” In
short, from hence forward, he studied only how to distress and ruin us.
His first motion was to get his son out of the way, whom he compelled to
take the tour of Europe!---Miranda sobbed aloud--“a joyless tour, alas!
for Henry.” We believe he constantly writes to Miranda; but the rector
secures his letters, knowing that we are not able to bring him to
account. Not satisfied with having separated the lovers, he sought for
other means of distressing us; and, having bought the debt which my
husband had contracted, thrust him with merciless cruelty into prison.
Here we succour him, and make him as comfortable as such a situation
will allow: though the surly priest takes every means of harrassing both
him and us.”

When the old lady had finished her narrative, I felt such deep
commiseration, that I could answer her only by marks of indignation, and
by sighs.

Miranda, during the whole time, had been totally absorbed in tears: but,
now, collecting herself, she caught my eyes fixed on the little dog.
“You wonder,” said she, “no doubt, at the unusual kindness which I
manifest towards this little animal. I will put an end to your
astonishment. It is the only memorial of my Henry; he gave it to me: we
were both wont to amuse ourselves with it; since his departure I have
cherished it in my bosom; it has eat of my bread, drank of my cup, and
been to me as my lover.”

I thanked her for her condescension; and, turning to address the old
lady, found her eyes again fastened on me: she examined my features
involuntarily, and with seeming forgetfulness; then shook her head as
before, and sighed. This striking behaviour, particularly as I found
myself similarly circumstanced, stopped what I was about to utter. I was
silent. Soon after, she looked eagerly at me again.

“Excuse me, Sir; I am sensible of my rudeness, but nature impels me to
this behaviour; will you have the goodness to ease my doubts, by
informing me, whether you are a native of England?”

“No, Madam! but born of English parents in Russia.”

“Good Heaven! art thou, then, making me amends for the afflictions thou
hast laid upon me!”

“Your words, Madam, distract me! What do they mean? My heart tells me
that some kindred tie binds us. Heaven grant that it may be so!”

“Is your name, then, Egerton?”---“The same.”

“I thank thee, O God!”---Here she sunk into a swoon; but was quickly
recovered by her daughter and the old servant.

She opened her eyes again; and, by the kindness of indulgent Heaven,
I embraced a long-lost-sister! Who can describe my joy?

Our family thought she had become a prey to the waves. She had been
shipwrecked, at an early age, in a vessel bound to England; was taken up
by an English privateer, and adopted as the captain’s daughter. About
the time she married, the captain had been unfortunate; and had,
therefore, no portion but about two hundred pounds to give with her,
which sum had been long since expended in the education of her children.
He promised, however, to seek out her parents, but was cast away in the
voyage. She, therefore, had never heard any thing of them; and, as the
captain of the vessel in which herself had been wrecked had her
instructions in his possession, she knew not whither she was intended to
go to, in England.

Miranda, and her sister, now pressed me to take their bed for the night,
as it was too late to return; but, as I was stronger, and in better
health than them, I insisted on using the couch.

Early next morning, I repaired to Lord Alton, my worthy host, and
acquainted him with my adventure. He hastened with me to relieve my
respected, but unknown brother, from the horrors of confinement.

We reached the prison; when, lo! the good man had just been liberated by
his future son. Henry had returned in disguise; had discharged the debt;
and was now receiving his grateful benediction. I explained who I was:
and they received me with tears of joy.

His lordship took upon himself the conciliation of the rector, and
immediately set out to acquaint him with all the circumstances, while we
hastened to the cot. I will not attempt to describe the overflowing joy
of the old couple, nor the rapturous embraces of the young folks.
Miranda underwent a transient suspension of her faculties, but awakened
to never-fading happiness. The two young children climbed the good man’s
knees, to share the long-regretted kiss. The old woman gazed on her
worthy master, with eyes overflowing with unaffected tears of mingled
joy and sorrow. Her extacy was unbounded; she lifted up her hands to
Heaven, and silently blessed its goodness! Her master did not neglect
her, but quickly received her in a kind and grateful embrace.

We now received a message from his lordship, desiring our attendance
immediately. Henry, the worthy curate, and myself, quickly obeyed it. We
met the hitherto obdurate father--but, how changed! He was all
politeness, all compliance: proud of an alliance with his lordship’s
friend and relation--for such Miranda now proved to be. I gave my niece
a dower equal to the young man’s fortune.

In a few days the nuptials were celebrated. All the inhabitants of the
village shared heartily in their joy. They danced on the village green,
and were treated in rustic sumptuousness by the happy bridegroom.
Whispers of blessings showered on them both! Such as had been ungrateful
to the father, threw themselves on their knees, and asked his
forgiveness; which was readily granted them, with a kind and gentle
rebuke. Even the rector sued for pardon, ashamed of his inhuman
treatment, as he himself termed it.

His lordship soon after stationed my brother in a comfortable rectory,
to which I added five hundred pounds a year as my sister’s fortune.

The old woman survived but a few months: during which time she had been
treated as a sister. Her remains were interred in a vault designed for
the family; and a small mural monument was erected with this
inscription----

  To the Memory of
  MARY S--
  A humble Christian,
  A steady Friend,
  The best of Servants;
  Who graced her station by her Virtues;
  Supported her Master and his Family
  In their distresses;
  And strove, with tender and incessant attention,
  To blunt the stings of Adversity:
  This Monument
  Is erected, as a testimony of Gratitude
  And sincere Respect,
  And as an example, to excite others
  To the like pious Conduct,
  By her grateful Master,
  W. JACKSON.

Henry, and his ever-lovely Miranda, live in tempered extacies of love;
their little dog is treated as a child. They have one child, a sweet
boy, called after my name. My niece is again pregnant. May Heaven render
my dear little son, and all their future offspring, who are to inherit
my estates, as worthy and as virtuous as their parents.

  ANECDOTE.

Some time ago, a gentleman was robbed of some _loose_ silver and an
_empty_ purse. The highwayman discovering the inutility of the latter,
very politely returned, and gave him his purse back, with the following
observations:--‘Sir, I shan’t put you to the trouble of advertising it;
for indeed it is of _no use but to the owner_.’

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  Thinking the following Fragment, found among the writings of the
  late much lamented Doctor _Joseph Youle_, will be an acquisition
  to the Editors of the _Weekly Magazine_, I have endeavoured to
  obtain a copy of it, and present it to them, with a wish that it
  may be received by the public with as much pleasure as it was by

    M.

    _A FRAGMENT, after the manner of J. Y._

The sun was retiring behind a lofty ridge of mountains to gladden other
regions; the towering spires of the village churches were tipt with
gold; while the resplendent rays reflected from the windows dazzled the
eye. Above was the azure vault, variegated with fleecy clouds; beneath
was Nature’s verdant carpet. The little songsters of the grove were
paying their tributes of praise in melodious strains; the bleatings of
the lambs, and the lowings of the milky mothers re-echoed from the
vallies. The waters of a gently murmuring stream, which ran by the foot
of a mountain, were silvered o’er by the mild rays of the queen of
night. The soothing sound of a distant cataract gently saluted the ear.
The fragrant odors of flowers, watered by gentle zephyrs, breath’d a
delightful perfume.

Surely, says AMELIA, all nature conspires to calm the mind, to restore
tranquility, to soften every care. But what can ease the torture of a
love-sick soul; like the angry sea after agitation by blustering winds,
’tis still tumultuous. My PHILANDER sleeps in the silent dust; to the
king of terrors he has fallen an untimely prey: cold are the clods that
cover his once faithful breast. That heart which was once the seat of
sensibility, and endowed with every virtue, ceases to vibrate to the
sound of woe. The widow and the orphan shall point to thy tomb,
PHILANDER, and cry, There lies our friend and patron! She walked
pensively towards the place where his last remains were interred: Is
this white stone, emblem of his innocence, the only _memento_ of the
lovely youth?--No--thou ever livest in the soul of AMELIA; there, in
indelible characters, thy image is impress’d. I will strew thy grave
with flowers; I will raise upon it the green sod; I will encircle it
with willows. Let not unhallowed feet tread here; this place to love is
sacred. Nightly will I visit thy grave, nor shall the wealth of worlds
induce me to forego the mournful pleasure. If the spirits of the just
watch round their surviving friends, then surely thou art my guardian
angel. Dear shade, thou knowest the anguish of my soul: to me thou
can’st not be visible--where thou art, I soon shall be, never to part
again: in that state, where eternal love, and joy, and peace prevail.
While she stood entranced in pleasing anticipation, she reflected on his
last request:--“AMELIA, live to reward my virtues, friend, and bless the
world with a race of angels like thyself.” Suddenly she started at the
voice of complaining and of woe;--’twas TITIUS, breathing the anguish of
his soul to the silent night.--“Oh, AMELIA, thou lovely fair one, how
long must I mourn an unreturned affection? thou knowest I waste my
midnight hours in thoughts on thee; the conscious moon, the woods, the
groves, are witnesses of my love: I grieve unpitied--I sigh unheard.” As
he advanced towards her, she exclaimed:--“TITIUS, I know, I feel thy
sorrow;--if thou can’st in return for love accept of friendship, I am
thine. Thou knowest the object of my soul, the once adorable, amiable
PHILANDER.” In an extacy of amazement and delight, he cries--“Angels,
catch the sounds; ’tis my AMELIA’s voice: thy friendship is more
valuable than the love of TITIUS. Let us be happy. We will visit the
grave of PHILANDER together, and pay to his memory the tribute of love
and friendship. Each returning season we will decorate his grave with
flowers, till we go to join him in the world of spirits; where there is
an ever blooming spring, an eternal day.”

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On Thursday the 30th ult. at Flatbush, (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Faitoute,
Mr. Charles Dickenson, of Saybrook, (Connecticut) to Miss Nancy Smith,
of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Pilmore, Mr. Hugh Dougherty, to Miss
Elizabeth Forbes, both of this city.

On Saturday evening the 1st inst. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. John
Kendrickson, of Albany, to Miss Maria Griffin, of this city.

On Sunday evening the 2d inst. by the Rev. Mr. Nicols, Mr. Stephen
Lyons, late of Stamford, (Connecticut) to Miss Ann Warner, of this city.

On Monday evening the 3d inst. by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Samuel Milner,
of the Island of St. Thomas’s, to Miss Mary Gardner, daughter of Mr.
Charles Gardner, of this city.

On Wednesday last, at East-Chester, by the Rev. Mr. Ireland, John Smith,
Esq. of Baltimore, to Miss Eliza Smith, of this city.

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 2d to the 8th inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

          deg.  deg.   6. 3.  6. 3.
             100   100
  April 2  40    48    sw. se.  clear l. wd.  do. h. w.
        3  46    70    s. do.   clear calm.  do. lt. w.
        4  46    60    e. s.    clr. l. w.  do. do. th. lg. r.
        5  54    82    sw. do.  clr. l. w.  do. cal. th. lg. r.
        6  56    56    n. e.    cloudy lt. wd.  do. do.
        7  44    42    ne. e.   cly. l. w.  P. rai. h. w.
        8  39    40    e. do.   cly. l. w.  P. rain.

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

  [The following, by mere accident, has fallen into my hands; the
  author of which I have not the honour of being acquainted with.
  --As I cannot conceive it will in any degree offend him by its
  insertion in your Repository, and as its merits intitles it to
  your attention, I beg you will give it a place.

    L. B.]

                   *   *   *

                    STANZAS,
           Addressed to a Young Lady.

  The hour full fraught with woes is now arriv’d,
    In which I bid thy lovely form farewell;
  Sever’d from thee can I the task survive,
    O cruel Fate! who I have lov’d so well!
        Endless and sharp will be my woes,
          No ray of comfort shall I see;
        And yet who knows, alas! who knows
          If thou wilt ever think of me!
  Still will my fond affection hold thee dear,
  And sensibility will draw th’ empassion’d tear.

  Pensive along the hollow murmuring shore,
    Or woods, and wilds, and solitary glades,
    Or night’s dull form, or ev’ning’s grateful shades,
  Or rocks romantic height, I’ll thee implore.
  From the grey twilight’s dawn till ev’ning’s close,
    In woods sequester’d I will call on thee;
  And yet who knows, alas! alas! who knows
    If thou wilt e’er bestow one thought on me.

  With cadence soft, the circumambient breeze,
  Responsive, bursting through the waving trees;
  And echo, repercussive from her cell,
  Does sweetly vibrate through the neighb’ring dell,
  To bid the mind’s tumultuous passion’s tide,
  In Reason’s law, and call recess subside.

  To lull the heart-rent pang of Nature’s sigh,
  And dry the tear of sensibility,
  In these lone solitary wilds I’ll call on thee,
  Whilst thou, perhaps, wilt ne’er remember me.
      There Nature, goddess of the heart,
        Shall ev’ry tender wish reclaim;
      Her healing balm she will impart,
        And ease my bosom of its pain.
  There, wrapt in meditation’s calm repose,
  My heart shall only weep for others woes.

        Adieu, dear maid! and may each hour
        Heav’n’s choicest gifts upon you show’r!
        May happiness shine in each day,
        And truth and virtue light your way!
  While I will never cease to think of thee,
  Though thou, perhaps, wilt ne’er remember me.

    CYNTHIO.

  ODE TO SPRING.

  Hail, gentle Spring! whose genial pow’r
  Calls to new life each fragrant flow’r,
    In richest tints array’d:
  Whose balmy breath revives each scene,
  The shady grove, the daisied green
    In verdant beauty clad.

  At thy approach the feather’d trains
  Renew their long neglected strains;
    Sweet music floats around;
  Whist list’ning Echo’s busy tongue
  Repeats the burden of each song,
    In faint imperfect sound.

  Thy presence prompts the lab’ring swain
  To give, with equal hand, the grain
    To the kind fost’ring soil:
  Mild suns autumnal shall mature
  The golden crop, in happy hour
    To recompense his toil.

  The mute sojourners of the brook
  Had long their wonted paths forsook,
    Cramp’d by stern Winter’s reign;
  But, rouz’d by thy revising beam,
  Again they gambol in the stream,
    And skim the glassy plain.

  Ah! short-liv’d joys! The angler keen
  Shall soon to sorrow change the scene,
    With the deceptive fly;
  The speckled rovers seize the bait,
  And swallow unsuspected fate;
    They flounce, they gasp, they die.

  Thy healing hand destroys disease;
  Thy breath brings health in every breeze;
    Before thee agues fly:
  Thou giv’st each heart with joy to glow,
  All blood in brisker streams to flow;
    Health laughs in every eye.

  What tribute, then, shall mortals bring,
  To offer to the genial Spring?
    What trophies shall we raise?
  With grateful sons, at least, let’s try
  To waft her praises to the sky,
    In loud accordant lays.

  SONG.--By +Maria Falconer+.

  Ye roses bow your lovely heads,
    Nor boast your damask hue;
  For see, yon spotless lily spreads
    Her charms to rival you.

  So in the beauteous female breast
    Does Envy’s passion dwell;
  Each blooming maid, of charms possest,
    Endeavours to excel.

  Ah silly nymphs, behold your doom,
    In yonder fading flower;
  For what is Beauty’s brightest bloom?
    The triumph of an hour!

_NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS
BURLING, Jun. & Co.+ +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per
quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating
Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, April 19, 1797.+  [+No. 94.+

                 CHEARFULNESS.

                   *   *   *

  “Come, Chearfulness, triumphant fair,
  Shine thro’ the painful cloud of care:
  O sweet of language, mild of mien;
  O virtue’s friend, and pleasure’s queen!
  And, while thy gracious gifts I feel,
  My song shall all thy praise reveal.”

    Dr. AKENSIDE.

It is the indispensable duty, not to say privilege, of every rational
being on the face of the earth, to cultivate and improve a serene and
chearful disposition, independent of that levity and versatility which
many possess from an erroneous way of thinking. “Chearfulness,” says Mr.
Addison, in the Spectator--a work of very considerable merit for its
natural sweetness, ease, and delicacy--“is the best promoter of health.
Repinings and secret murmurings of heart give imperceptible strokes to
those delicate fibres of which the vital parts are composed, and wear
out the machine insensibly; not to mention those violent ferments which
they stir up in the blood, and those irregular, disturbed motions, which
they raise in the animal spirits. The pleasures of friendship, books,
conversation, and other accidental diversions of life, offer themselves
as incitements to a chearful temper, to persons of all ranks and
conditions; and which may sufficiently shew us, that Providence did not
design this world should be filled with murmurs and repinings, or that
the heart of man should be involved in gloom and melancholy.”

There are many persons who indulge a fixed melancholy, from religious
motives. Many of the lower orders of society contract a gloomy,
forbidding aspect, by feeding their minds with the ranting effusions of
puritanical enthusiasts; whose doctrines, for the most part, are
particularly calculated to cloud all their bright intellects. They
discourage the good, and intimidate the penitent. They oftener disserve,
than benefit, the cause of christianity. It is an observation of the
learned and pious Dr. Watts, that religion never was designed to make
our pleasures less. Innocent recreations (and innocent they must be, or
not at all) calculated to promote chearfulness, are absolutely necessary
to soften the cares of life. Superstition and fanaticism are highly
incompatible with the generous feelings of a devotional taste and habit
which are in themselves very desirable; but a habit of melancholy is
altogether improper, and wholly repugnant to these divine precepts,
which ought to influence all to the adoption of amiable principles, and
a chearful disposition. “Piety and goodness,” says Dr. Blair, “ought
never to be marked with that dejection which sometimes takes rise from
superstition, but which is the proper portion only of guilt. At the same
time, the chearfulness belonging to virtue, is to be carefully
distinguished from that light and giddy temper which characterises
folly, and is so often found among the dissipated and vicious part of
mankind. Their gaiety is owing to a total want of reflection; and brings
with it the usual consequences of an unthinking habit, shame, remorse,
and heaviness of heart, in the end. The chearfulness of a well regulated
mind, springs from a good conscience and the favour of Heaven, and is
bounded by temperance and reason. It makes a man happy in himself, and
promotes the happiness of all around him. It is the clear and calm
sunshine of a mind illuminated by piety and virtue. It crowns all other
good dispositions, and comprehends the general effect which they ought
to produce on the heart.”

Indeed, true piety is an invaluable treasure; and happy are they who
esteem its salutary tendency. It meleorates the morals and disposition,
and promotes present and future felicity. It adds dignity, pleasure, and
security, to any age. To old age, in particular, it is the most becoming
grace, the most substantial support, and the sweetest comfort. It is the
only proper and adequate relief of decaying man. Let the old and the
young, therefore, who wish to be happy, and preserve so great an
acquisition, cultivate it with peculiar care and increasing ardour, as
the source of all tranquility and chearfulness; and let it be
remembered, that in order to retain it successfully, the whole tenour of
life must be guided and attended by the very admirable requisites of
temperance, innocence, and simplicity.

A chearful temper irradiates the progress of life, and dispels the evils
of sublunary nature. All, indeed, cannot possess so desirable a
blessing, without some interruptions, inseparable from the evils of
life, to damp its energy and excellence. Afflictions are so diversified,
that it were superfluous to enumerate even the most prominent and
lamentable: but in these, and all other misfortunes, there is a remedy
pointed out for the acceptance of mankind, which, if properly
administered, does not fail to alleviate the unavoidable casualties and
afflictions necessarily attendant on frail nature. Not a few are
rendered wretched and despondent by their own immediate vices, after
having exhausted their vile pursuits and prostituted their advancement
to a comfortable and peaceful life by practices which religion forbids
and wisdom reprobates. We should endeavour to turn our enjoyments to a
current altogether serene and pure. Such rational and manly conduct
would render us respectable: man would admire a life so exemplary, and
God himself would approve it.

I was pleased a few evenings since, on reading the answer of an Italian
Bishop, who possessed all the virtues which adorn and embellish human
life. He struggled through great difficulties without repining; and met
with much opposition in the discharge of his episcopal function, without
ever betraying the smallest impatience. An intimate friend, who highly
admired these virtues which he thought it impossible to imitate, one day
asked the prelate if he could communicate the _secret_ of being always
easy?--“Yes,” replied the old man, “I can teach you _my_ secret, and
with great facility: it consists in nothing more than making a right use
of my _eyes_.”

My friend begged him to explain himself. “Most willingly,” returned the
Bishop--“In whatever state I am, I first of all look up to heaven, and I
remember that my principal business here, is to get there: I then look
down upon the earth, and call to mind how small a space I shall occupy
in it when I come to be interred: I then look abroad into the world, and
observe what multitudes there are, who in many respects are more unhappy
than myself. Thus I learn where true happiness and innate chearfulness
are placed, where all my cares must end, and hew very little reason I
have to repine, or to complain.”

From what has been said, we may learn to be chearful; at least, calm and
contented; and gratefully enjoy, in moderation, the blessings which
Providence has bestowed on us. It is puerile and absurd, to indulge
melancholy. Be it, therefore, the endeavour of us all to cherish with
the greatest care an ingenuous and mild disposition; and, above all,
religion, piety, and virtue. Let it be our constant rule and practice to
cultivate self-command; to cultivate humility; to cultivate the milder
affections; submit to our reason and our conscience; be christians, and
be happy.

  T. C.

  OBSERVATION.

There can be no pleasure in any enjoyments which the heart cannot
approve, and which tends to sink, in our estimation the object of our
love: obstruct the idea of perfection and our enthusiasm vanishes: take
our esteem and love is at an end.

  +ADDRESS of the TRANSLATOR+
  +of+
  +The VICTIM of MAGICAL DELUSION+, &c.
  To His Thinking Readers.

Before the Translator takes leave of the Reader, who will not withhold a
tear of tender pity from the Hero of the preceding history, when
informed that the mournful tale of his deviations and hapless fate is
not the offspring of imaginary fiction, but founded on historical facts,
recorded in Abbe Vertot’s excellent history of the Revolution in
Portugal; he deems it his duty as a man, and as a Christian, to put his
young friends, who will peruse his translation, in a way to avoid the
snares of superstition, the dire effects of which are the theme of the
preceding history. A careful attention to the four following principles,
will be the surest means of steering clear of the dangerous rocks and
quicksands of superstition, on which the happiness of so many mortals
has been wrecked; the Translator, therefore, begs his readers who value
their peace of mind, never to forget

_That Order is the Supreme Law of Nature_. The motion of the celestial
bodies, the ecliptical course of our globe, the regular change of day
and night, and of the different seasons, and every object we behold in
Nature’s boundless realms, enforce the truth of that principle on the
mind of the attentive observer. We no where behold effects without a
sufficient cause, no where causes without proportionate effects; no
where vacancies nor irregular leaps in the series and concatenation of
things; no where beings that are insulated and unallied to the whole; no
where supernatural effects nor _immediate_ interpolations of the
Godhead, where the regular powers of Nature are sufficient to effect the
great views of the Creator. On the contrary, we behold every where the
most indissoluble union, and the exactest proportion between cause and
effect, every where the most admirable connection between all the
smaller and the lesser parts of the whole, and between all the mutations
and changes that take place therein: we behold every where fixed,
immutable laws, after which all the works of God, the sun and the
smallest grain of sand, the worm and man, the king of creation, move and
act, every where great ends and means that are proportionate to them.
Who can examine the world, without perceiving the most perfect order
whereby it is ruled? And what reasonable man would conclude from what he
_does not know, nor can comprehend_ of the contrary of those things
which he _can_ see and examine? How was it possible that man could
successfully carry on his occupations and labours without this
unalterable order of things? How could he know the will of his Creator,
and how execute it? how conclude with the least security from what is
past, of what will be? how compute the success of his undertakings,
meditations and exertions? What a dreadful scene of confusion would a
world exhibit, wherein the series and the connections of things were
constantly interrupted through miracles, or the influence of superior
beings. Order is, and ever will be, the supreme law of Nature; respect,
therefore, this law, take it for your guide on your pilgrimage, and you
will avoid the deviations of superstition.

Superstition misconceives this order of things, expects effects without
causes, or from such causes as have no relation to them; it arbitrarily
transforms the nature of things, separates what is indissolubly
connected, and connect in the same arbitrary manner things which
evidently contradict each other, or are not connected at all.

Superstition obliterates the natural limits of created beings, imputing
to them qualities and powers which they do not, nor can possess, if they
shall be and continue to be what they really are. The superstitious
expects every where miracles and exceptions from the stated rules of
Nature, and the more wild and confused his fancies are, the more
important solutions of mysteries do they appear to him to promise. But
is not this scorning the laws of the Supreme Ruler of the world, and
censuring the order of things which is founded thereupon? Is not this
exposing the world, which is the work of the Supreme wisdom and
goodness, to all the dangers and confusions of blind fatality, and
destroying all dependance on our reasoning and conclusions, on our
actions, hopes and expectations? Is such a manner of thinking consistent
with a sound knowledge of God, and of the ways of Providence? If you
wish to avoid the delusions and the snares of superstition, that bane of
human happiness, of good order, and of peace of mind, O! then respect
Order as the supreme law of Nature, as the unalterable will of her
Creator and Ruler! Make yourselves acquainted with the regulation of the
world, and the eternal laws after which it is governed; suspect every
thing that is contrary to the regular course of Nature, and do not
foolishly dream that it is in the power of mortal man to change or
abrogate it by means of certain words and formulas, or of certain
mysterious ceremonies. Endeavour to trace out the natural cause of every
effect, and if you cannot find it, at least take care not to yield to
the self-conceited idea, that there exists no natural cause, because you
are too short-sighted to see it. Let your system of reasoning be
governed by the same accurate connection, the same natural combination
and order you behold in the whole creation, and you will not be
surprised by self-delusion, or the deceptions of impostors.

_Reason is the greatest prerogative of Man_; a second truth that
powerfully can guard us against the wiles of superstition.

What distinguishes us more eminently from all other inhabitants of our
globe, what renders us more the resemblance of our Maker than _Reason?_
the faculty of tracing out the causes of things, of forming just ideas
of their connections with each other, and of deducing firm conclusions
from what we know, of what we do not know? Our sensible organs and
sensations we have in common with the beasts of the field; reason only
renders us superior to them. Reason enables us to discover the delusions
of our senses, or to compare and adjust the impressions we have received
from external objects. By the light of reason we can investigate the
origin of our feelings, trace out their secret causes and their turns,
and raise them to clear notions. Assisted by reason, we can govern every
other faculty of our mind, strengthen or weaken, and direct it in a
manner which is most favourable for the discovery and examination of
truth. Without reason every natural phenomenon would confound us, and
every uncommon effect it produces fill our soul with fear and
consternation; without reason we should be the sport of our own passions
and of those of others.

Superstition does, however, not argue thus. The superstitious and the
vile disseminator of superstition, despises reason, decries that sacred
prerogative of man, exaggerates her imperfections and weaknesses, hurls
her from the throne on which the Creator has placed her, and raises
sensation and imagination upon it. The superstitious will not think, not
examine nor draw just conclusions; every picture that heats his fancy;
every appearance that blinds his senses; every obscure idea that makes
his blood ferment, is well received by him; he prefers it to every
principle of reason, and every incontestible truth, because they do not
amuse, nor heat his senses and his imagination. The more mysterious, the
more inconceivable a phenomenon, an experience, doctrine or system is,
the more eagerly he takes hold of, and the more firmly does he rely upon
them, because they leave his reason at rest, and promise him great
discoveries without trouble and exertion. But can this be called
honouring human nature and her Creator? is this valuing and making a
proper use of the prerogatives that ennoble human nature? Do we not
degrade ourselves to an inferior sort of beings when trusting to no
other guides but to our senses and feelings, and scorning the dictates
of reason? Is it to be wondered at, when the superstitious entangles
himself in the mazes of delusion, and falls a victim to a self-created
tyrant? If you are desirous to avoid these dark and perilous labyrinths,
if you wish to pursue the road to eternity with peace of mind and
safety, O! then, honour reason as the greatest treasure of man, and
maintain the dignity this gift of all-bountiful heaven confers upon you.
Reject, without hesitation, whatever is contrary to generally adopted
principles of sound reasoning, however charming and seducing it be in
many other respects. Suspect every thing of which you can form no
distinct and clear idea, or no notion at all, every thing that obliges
you to trust merely to an obscure sensation, to your own feelings, or to
those of other people, or to vague pictures of imagination. Suspect
every thing that shuns the investigation of the impartial and cool
examiner; every thing that conceals itself under the veil of
incomprehensible mysteries; suspect every one that attempts to preoccupy
you against reason, and advises you not to be guided by her torch in
your opinion. If the secrets which are offered to you really are
incomprehensible, then you have no interest in them; if they are useful
and important truths, then they must admit examination, and be founded
on firm arguments.

  (To be concluded in our next.)

  MISCELLANY.

                   *   *   *

When viewing the race of men upon the large scale, in my spleen, I have
divided them into two classes--the _deceivers_, and the _deceived_.
Indeed so rooted an opinion have I imbibed of the ductility of my
fellow-mortals, that I never seriously believed, nor vindicated, what
are so proudly styled, the honour and dignity of human nature. Read
this, ye unwary, and draw some useful mementos with me. Leave no part of
your body _undipped in Styx_, and be invulnerable.

See then that _Politician_, wrapped up in the garb of patriotism, mount
the rostrum, tickle the stupid multitude into conviction that he is the
people’s, the mechanic’s, the poor man’s friend; that he, indignant of
his country’s wrongs, alone feels them and asserts her rights. Take off
that garb, look through the window of his breast, and see collected, at
the apex of his heart, sighs and flutterings after titles, honours,
places. Next turn to the bland _Physician_, who, with nerve of steel
himself, feels along the palpitating artery of my Lady Vapour’s, counts
its throbs, prescribes a cordial, and receives a guinea for making madam
a dupe. Look after that _military_ beau that struts through the Mall.
A cockade, a sword, and _two_ epaulets, dazzle the crowd, impose on boys
and girls, men and maidens to imagine, that not danger, nor the devil
himself could appal such a hero. Carry him to the field of honour, and
find him white-liver’d as a hen.

How easily my _Lawyer_, entrenched with forms and books, gulls clients
of their cash, is too stale to repeat. For _once_ in your life, be
persuaded, that if you come within the circle of his writs, pleas, bars,
demurrers, rejoinders, &c. you will be handsomely stripped, even to your
pin-feathers.

I am all gentleness to the sex: were it not that one smile of a
_Coquette_ makes me a slave, a flirt of a well-manœuvred fan puts all my
resolution asleep, I would not tread on consecrated ground. While I am
sensible, that she is playing me on the line, till some other gudgeon
come in view, when I shall be shaken off the hook; that I should fancy
nought but love in her eyes, on her cheeks but the down of the peach,
her hair _all_ auburn and natural, her lips _two rose leafs dipped in
dew_, symmetry in her form, taste in her dress, wit in her repartees,
with sincerity in her bosom, is, strange as it is, inconsistent,
inconclusive, and unwarrantable. The theatre, is all a cheat. The kings,
queens, lords and ladies on the stage, we find, on our streets, are the
veriest pieces of mortality. After so much mockery of our senses, not
only divinity is fled; something _less_ than mortality remains.

I am the first to confess that Fancy cheats _me_ at her will; not more
at the age when I blew the washer-woman’s soap suds through a pipe into
beautiful balloons, than at the period at which I am arrived, building
palaces on earth, and castles in air. I have roamed, in Imagination’s
car, from the seat of Paradise in former, to the present degenerate
days: I have searched _all_, of all ages and countries; and, in
abundance have found, as many simple, deluded, pliable, gazing, cheated,
weak-sighted mortals, as myself. But as virtue is better than vice, so
is _delusion_, than _wretchedness_. ’Tis only in regions superior, the
soul finds rest, perfection, and happiness.

  PROTEUS.

  ELINOR.
  A Sentimental Sketch.

----“Ah! how cold the wind blows!” said a tall female, as she descended
from a white cliff which over-hung the sea. I raised my eyes wistfully
to her face. I saw it was traced by the hand of Beauty, and not by the
tear of Misery. The fresh breeze blew through her loose garments, and
cast her brown hair in disordered, but beautiful masses over her naked
bosom: her eyes were sweet and blue, but they rolled with the quickness
of phrenzy as she approached. “Who are you?” asked I, with emotion,
taking her hand within mine. “They call me Wild Elinor!” answered she,
in a soft but hurried voice, eyeing some flowers.--“I am very poor--I
have no home--I have lost my lover----

  “Beneath yon wave
  Is Edwin’s grave!”

repeated she, in a musical tone. “But, come back with me, and see it.
I strew it every day with flowers, and weep sometimes----But--I can’t
now!” She stopped, and sighed; then, putting her hand on her breast---“I
am very unhappy, stranger! O my breaking heart!” Her voice died away.
I thought reason gleamed in her eye, as she sunk on the sod. I stooped
to raise her falling frame. She lifted her large blue orbs towards me
with silent gratitude: a soft bloom spread her pallid cheek; and,
articulating “Edwin!” fell lifeless on the earth.

“Thy gentle spirit is now at rest!” said I, bending pensively over her
clay. “But, oh! what agonies must have torn thy heart, luckless maid!
when returning _reason shewed thee all thy wretchedness_, and when that
wretchedness cut the thread of thy existence! Cold, cold is the
loveliest form of Nature! closed is the softest eye that ever poured a
beam on mine! That form must now moulder in the dust! that eye must no
longer open on the world!” The tears gushed as I spoke. I fell on the
earth beside her corpse: the warm drops of sensibility washed the marble
of her bosom---my heart heaved with agony. I was a _man_, and I gloried
in my tears!----

  DE BURGHE.

  [[For sources, see the end of the e-text. This story is also
  available from Project Gutenberg as e-text 32527.]]

  +The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;+
  An Interesting Spanish Tale.

Marina, at seventeen, was the most admired beauty in Granada. She was an
orphan, and heiress to an immense fortune, under the guardianship of an
old and avaricious uncle, whose name was Alonzo, and who passed his days
in counting ducats, and his nights in silencing serenades, nocturnally
addressed to Marina. His design was to marry her, for the sake of her
great fortune, to his own son, Henriquez, who had studied ten years in
the university of Salamanca, and was now able to explain Cornelius Nepos
tolerably well.

Almost all the cavaliers of Granada were in love with Marina. As they
could obtain a sight of her only at mass, the church she frequented was
filled with great numbers of the handsomest and most accomplished youths
of the country.

One of the most distinguished among these, was Don Alphonso, a captain
of cavalry, about twenty, not very rich, but of a family of the first
distinction. Handsome, polite, and witty, he attracted the eyes of all
the ladies of Granada; though he himself paid attention to none but
Marina, who, not insensible to his attachment, began, on her part, to
take notice of her admirer.

Two months passed away without the lovers daring to speak; nevertheless,
they silently said much. At the end of that time Don Alphonso found
means to convey a letter to his mistress; which informed her of what she
knew before. The reserved Marina had no sooner read this letter than she
sent it back to Don Alphonso; but, as she possessed an excellent memory,
she retained every word, and was able to return a very punctual answer,
a week afterwards.

A correspondence was now settled between the two lovers; but Don
Alphonso was desirous to be still more intimate. He had long solicited
permission to converse with Marina through her lattices. Such is the
custom in Spain, where the windows are of much more use during the night
than in the day. They are the places of rendezvous. When the street is
vacant and still, the lover wraps himself up in his cloak, and, taking
his sword, invokes love and night to favour him, and proceeds to some
low lattice, grated on the side next the street, and secured on the
inside by shutters.

He waits not long before the window opens softly, and the charming maid
appears. She asks, in a tremulous voice, if any one is there. Her lover,
transported at her condescension, endeavours to dispel her fears. They
talk in a whisper, and repeat the same thing a hundred times. Day, at
length, approaches, and they must separate.

Marina’s lattice was on the ground floor, and opened into a narrow
passage, where the houses were ill built, and only inhabited by the
lower class of people. Don Alphonso’s old nurse happened to occupy a
tenement directly opposite the window of Marina. Don Alphonso, therefore
repaired to his nurse. ‘My good woman,’ said he, ‘I have been much to
blame to suffer you to live so long in this miserable habitation; but I
am now determined to make you amends, by giving you an apartment in my
own house. Come, and reside in that, and leave me to dispose of this.’

The worthy woman could not refrain from tears, and, for a long time,
refused; but, at last, overcome by his solicitations, she consented to
the exchange, with every expression of gratitude to her benefactor.

Never did any monarch enter his palace with more satisfaction than Don
Alphonso did the hovel of his nurse.

Early in the evening Marina appeared at her lattice. She promised to
repair thither every other night, and she kept her word. These
delightful interviews served only to fan the flame of love, and, very
soon, the lovers nights were constantly passed in pleasing conversation,
and their days in writing passionate epistles.

Just at this time, Henriquez, the intended husband of Marina, arrived
from Salamanca; bringing with him a declaration of his passion in Latin,
which had been written for him by the head of his college.

The lovers consulted each other on this event at the lattice; but, in
the mean time, the old guardian had drawn up a contract of marriage, and
a day was fixed on for the celebration of the nuptials of Marina and
Henriquez.

In these circumstances, the only remedy was to fly into Portugal. This
was determined; and it was also settled that the two lovers, on arriving
at Lisbon, should first marry, and afterwards have recourse to the law,
against the guardian.

Marina was to carry with her a box of jewels, which had been left her by
her mother. These were very valuable, and sufficient to maintain the
happy pair till the decision of their law-suit. To effect this escape,
it was necessary to procure the key of the lattice, and in this Marina
succeeded.

It was resolved also, that the next night, at eleven, Don Alphonso,
after having appointed horses to wait without the city, should come and
fetch Marina; who should descend from the window, into the arms of her
lover, and immediately set off for Portugal.

Don Alphonso spent the whole day in preparations for his departure.
Marina, on her part, was equally busy, in getting ready the little box
she was to take with her. She was very careful to secret in it a very
fine emerald, which had been given her by her lover.

Marina and her box were ready by eight in the evening; and, before ten,
Don Alphonso, who had already provided carriages on the road to
Andalusia, arrived at the appointed spot: his heart beating with
perturbation and hope.

As he approached the place, he heard persons calling for assistance, and
perceived two men attacked by five armed assassins. The brave and humane
Alphonso forgot his own affairs to defend the lives of the assaulted. He
wounded two, and put the other three to flight.

What was his surprise, on more attentively viewing the persons he had
delivered, to perceive they were no other than Henriquez, and Alonzo,
the guardian of Marina. Some desperate young cavalier of the city, who
was in love with Marina, knowing it was intended that Henriquez should
espouse her, had hired bravoes, to assassinate them; and, had it not
been for the valour of Don Alphonso, the young scholar and the old miser
would have found it no easy matter to escape.

Alphonso did his utmost to avoid their grateful acknowledgments, but
Henriquez, who piqued himself on having learned politeness at Salamanca,
swore he should not leave them that night. Alphonso, in despair, had
already heard the clock strike eleven. Alas! he knew not the misfortune
that had happened.

One of the bravoes, whom he had put to flight, had passed muffled up in
his cloak, near the lattice of Marina. The night was extremely dark, and
the unfortunate beauty, having opened the window, imagined him to be Don
Alphonso, and presented him the box with joyful impatience: ‘Take our
diamonds,’ said she, ‘while I descend.’

At the word diamonds, the bravo suddenly stopped, took the box, without
speaking a word, and, while Marina was getting out of the window, fled
with the utmost precipitation.

Imagine the surprise of Marina, when she found herself alone in the
street, and saw nothing of him whom she had taken for Don Alphonso. She
thought, at first, he had left her, to avoid raising suspicion or alarm.
She, therefore, hastily walked to a little distance, looked round on
every side, and called in a low voice. But no Alphonso could she see; no
lover could she hear.

She was now seized with the most alarming apprehensions. She knew not
whether it were most adviseable to return home, or endeavour to find the
horses and attendants of Don Alphonso, that were waiting without the
city. She continued to walk forwards, in the utmost uncertainty and
distress, till she had lost herself in the streets; while her fears were
augmented by the darkness and silence of the night.

At length she met a person, whom she asked if she were far from the gate
of the city. The stranger conducted her thither; but she found nobody
waiting as she expected.

She dared not yet accuse her lover of deceiving her: still she hoped he
was at no great distance. She proceeded, therefore, along the road,
fearful of every bush, and calling Don Alphonso at every step; but the
farther she walked the more she was bewildered; for she had come out of
the city on the side opposite to the Portugal road.

In the mean time Don Alphonso found himself unable to get away from the
grateful Henriquez and his father. They would not suffer him to leave
them for a moment, but obliged him to enter the house with them; to
which Alphonso, fearful of betraying his intent, and frustrating his
dearest hopes; and imagining too that Marina might be soon acquainted
with the reason of his delay, most reluctantly consented.

Alonzo hastens to the chamber of his ward, to inform her of the danger
he had escaped. He calls, but receives no answer; he enters her
apartment, and finds the lattice open; his cries collect the servants,
and the alarm is immediately given, that Marina is missing.

Alphonso, in despair, immediately offered to go in quest of her.
Henriquez, thanking him for the concern he expressed, declared his
resolution to accompany him. Alphonso suggested, that the probability of
finding her would be greater, if they took different roads. Accordingly,
he hastened to rejoin his domestics: and not doubting but Marina had
taken the road to Portugal, put his horses at full speed. But their
swiftness only removed him farther from the object of his love; while
Henriquez galloped towards the Alpuxarian mountains, the way which
Marina had actually taken.

In the mean time, Marina continued to wander, disconsolate, along the
road that led to the Alpuxares. Presently she heard the clattering noise
of approaching horses; and at first, imagined it might be her beloved
Alphonso: but, afterward, fearful of discovery, or apprehensive of
robbers, she concealed herself, trembling, behind some bushes.

Here she presently saw Henriquez pass by, followed by a number of
servants. Shuddering at the danger of being again in the power of
Alonzo, if she continued in the high road, she turned aside, and took
refuge in a thick wood.

The Alpuxares are a chain of mountains, which extend from Granada to the
Mediterranean. They are inhabited only by a few peasants. To these, fear
and terror conducted the unfortunate maid. A dry and stony soil, with a
few oak trees, thinly scattered: some torrents and echoing cataracts,
and a number of wild goats, leaping from precipice to precipice; are the
only objects which present themselves at day-break to the eyes of
Marina. Exhausted, at length, by fatigue and vexation, she sat down in
the cavity of a rock, through the clifts of which a limped water gently
oozed.

The silence of this grotto, the wildness of the landscape around, the
hoarse and distant murmur of several cascades, and the noise of the
water near her, falling drop by drop into the bason it had hollowed
beneath, all conspired to excite in Marina the most melancholy
sensations. Now she thought herself cruelly abandoned by her lover; and
now she persuaded herself that some mistake had happened: ‘It certainly
could not be Alphonso,’ said she, ‘to whom I gave my diamonds. I must
have been mistaken. No doubt he is now far hence, seeking me with
anxiety and distraction; while I, as far distant from him, am perishing
here.’

While thus mournfully ruminating, Marina, on a sudden, heard the sound
of a rustic flute. Attentively listening, she soon heard an harmonious
voice, deploring, in plaintive strains, the infidelity of his mistress,
and the miseries of disappointed love.

‘And who can be more sensible of this than myself?’ said Marina, leaving
the grotto, in search of this unfortunate lover.

She found a young goatherd, sitting at the foot of a willow, his eyes
bedewed with tears, and intent on the water as it issued from its rocky
source. In his hand he held a flagalet, and by his side lay a staff and
a little parcel.

‘Shepherd,’ said Marina, ‘you are no doubt forsaken by your Mistress:
have pity on one abandoned, like yourself, and conduct me to some
habitation, where I may procure sustenance, at least, though not
repose!’

  (To be continued.)

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                 THE CRIMINAL.

                   *   *   *

  “And now, which way so ere I look or turn
    Scenes of incessant horror strike my view;
  I hear my famish’d babes expiring groan,
    I hear my wife the bursting sigh renew!”

Ah! cruel fortune, thou hast driven me to this! Ah, my father! thou wilt
not relieve my wants, because I wedded the woman of my choice and not of
thine. Once was I stiled my father’s darling, the son for whom he only
lived; and yet, for acting once contrary to his will, he banished me his
presence, with a pension barely sufficient to support life--That pension
now has ceased; for what reason I am totally ignorant. An amiable wife
and two children are perishing for want, and unless I bring them
something, they cannot exist. I went to my father’s house, with an
intent of informing him of our wretched condition: I sent in my name, he
would not see me!--Must my babes starve? They are young, and my wife
lies ill--and I am indeed a wretch for thus joining her to poverty!--

Here I am alone on this dreary heath--and what have I brought with
me?--A pistol charged with death.--What light was that?--My fears
transform every thing into enemies--It is the sun! Why dost thou shed
thy beams on one, whom dire necessity hath made the foe of man?--

       *   *   *   *   *   *

Here I am, plunged yet deeper in this forest’s gloom, like the insidious
serpent thirsting for his prey. On man--on a being formed like myself,
am I to avenge my want of bread?--My family must live--despair, do what
thou wilt!----

--Hark! what noise is that? Sure it resembled a horse’s tread. Undone
man, what fate hath bid thee pass this way? He approaches--how unlike
me.--Serenity is pictured in his countenance. He little thinks, that
like the harmless bird who flies unto the fowler’s snare, he is
hastening to destruction. Oh! My wife!--My children!--He comes!--

--“Stop, traveller!”----

  L. B.

  (To be continued.)

  +The MENTAL and PERSONAL QUALIFICATIONS of a HUSBAND.+

Great good nature, good humour, and good sense.

Lively by all means.

Stupid by no means.

His person agreeable rather than handsome.

No great objection to six feet, with an exact symmetry of parts.

Always clean, but not foppish in his dress.

Youth promises a duration of happiness, therefore is agreeable.

Well read in the classics, but no pedant.

Experimentally acquainted with natural philosophy.

A tolerable ear for music, but no fidler. I must repeat it again, no
fidling husband.

An easy and unaffected politeness.

No bully; just as much courage as is necessary to defend his own and his
wife’s honour.

May fortune smile on the man of my wishes.

A free thinker in every thing, except in matters of religion.

These, with Mr. Pope’s definition of wit, are the only qualifications I
require in the man I intend to honour with my hand and heart.

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

On Thursday the 6th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, SAMUEL ALDWILL SMITH,
Esq. to Mrs. ANN WOOD, both passengers in the Belvidere, from London.

On Saturday evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Kunzie, Mr. JOHN
HARKEY, of Albany, to Miss HANNAH ADAMSON, of this city.

On Thursday evening the 13th inst. by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Captain
MOSES TAYLOR, to Miss MARGARET TOWT, both of this city.

  _TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS._

[->] The Patrons of the WEEKLY MAGAZINE, who are not apprised of its
place of publication being removed, and at any time have commands for
the Editors, will please to call at No. 358, Pearl-street, near the
Friends meeting house:--where every attention will be paid to their
favors. A Letter Box is prepared for the reception of the productions of
our Literary Friends, through whose assistance we hope to communicate
the modern progress of Literature in this city; the remarks of the
ingenious, and the epistles of the pertinent, are always admissible,
when within the bounds of modest reserve. The “Verses addressed to Miss
A---- B----” shall be punctually honored in our next.

Those Subscribers who have it in contemplation to change their place of
residence the 1st of May, are requested to leave their address at the
office, or with the carrier of this MAGAZINE.

  _METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
  _From the 9th to the 15th inst._

    THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
      Prevailing winds.
        OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

           deg.  deg.   6. 3.  6. 3.
              100   100
  April  9  42    54    nw. do.  clear do.  h. w. l. do.
        10  36    48    nw. do.  clear do.  h. wd. do.
        11  38    56    w. do.   clear do.  h. wd. do.
        12  44    48    nw. se.  clear cloudy  l. w. do.
        13  41    38    e. do.   ra. do.  h. wd. do. p. r.
        14  35    58    n. w.    clear do.  l. wd. do.
        15  47    58    sw. s.   clr. cloudy  l. wd. do.

     _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

         A RECEIPT FOR WRITING NOVELS.

  Take a heroine, free from the tincture of vice,
  Renown’d for fine feeling, in sentiment nice;
  No matter what country her birth may be found in,
  But be sure that her name is quite grand and high-sounding;
  Make a peevish old crab, that at nothing would faulter,
  And who fully deserves for to swing from a halter;
  Let him mark all the letters that she will deposit,
  And find her, and the hero, lock’d up in a closet:
  Then quote Hamlet’s Ghost, but don’t tire yourself much,
  Only make old Curmudgeon as stiff as a crutch:
  Then such kneeling, and praying, together you jumble,
  And you bring off your lovers so meek and so humble.
  If you can attempt it--why bring in a poem,
  And if you have talents, the rhyming will show ’em;
  Thus, subscribers will croud in the bard-chearing roll,
  And each critic shall think it quite fine on his soul.
  A Confidant too, you must introduce,
  Her name must be sprightly, her character spruce;
  And if you should want for to lengthen the _action_,
  Let the maid court with John, for your own satisfaction;
  Let the reader be drown’d in a reverie deep,
  But I hope o’er your book he won’t quite fall asleep:
  Then rouse him at once with soniferous thunder,
  But when on the high horse, have a care, don’t fall under.
  Let a messenger enter as pale as a ghost!
  With a letter of woe, that would soften a post--
  The heroine reads, all her colour is fled,
  John, the drops! or Belinda is certainly dead!
  For her lover, quite wearied, and sick of his life,
  Had determin’d to end all this trouble and strife;
  You may say that he took a pestiferous _vorax_,
  Or planted a bullet just under his thorax!
  But don’t, for your life, let the fame to go loose,
  That your hero would tie up his neck in a noose;
  That death is too common, beside, ’tis quite wrong,
  For pois’ning, or shooting, is now quite the _ton_:
  Tho’ ev’ry man dies when he loses his breath,
  Yet there ought to be some small decorum in death;
  ’Tis so rude for to step in a trice to your grave,
  And not have the politeness to come take your leave;
  For some are so brutish, such cormorants quite,
  They don’t think it worth while for to bid us _good night_.

  SONNET.
  By Holcroft.

  Though pale and wan my cheeks appear,
    Though dead to joy and hope I live,
  Though the deep sigh and trickling tear,
    Are all the signs of life I give;

  The blood will blushing spread my face,
    Again my languid pulse will beat,
  If, in some unexpected place,
    I cruel Laura chance to meet.

  Thus will the touch of homicide,
    As we in ancient legends read,
  Recal the flowing purple tide,
    And make the lifeless body bleed

  TO A HOG--ON HIS BIRTH-DAY

  Never as yet the unjust muse
    (As if by those old precepts bound
  Which tie the superstitious Jews,)
    One line to praise a HOG has found.

  Never till now, as I remember,
    Has any poet sung a swine,
  O, Hog! this twentieth of November,
    I celebrate--the day is thine.

  Three years ago thy little eyes
    Peep’d on the day with optics weak;
  Three years ago thy infant cries,
    By mortal men were call’d a squeak.

  Ev’n then the muse prophetic saw
    Thy youthful days, thy latter state,
  And sigh’d at the relentless law,
    That doom’d thee to an early fate.

  Yes, the fond muse has anxious look’d,
    While thou a roaster, careless play’dst,
  Thoughtless how soon thou might’st be cook’d,
    (A fine appearance then thou mad’st.)

  The dangers of a roasting past,
    She saw thee rear’d a handsome shoat;
  Saw thee a full-grown hog at last,
    And heard thee grunt a deeper note.

  Thy charms mature with joy she view’d,
    As waddling on short legs about,
  Or rolling in delicious mud,
    Or rooting with sagacious snout.

  But thy last hour is near at hand;
    Before a year, a month, a week,
  Is past, ’tis Fate’s severe command,
    That death shall claim thy latest squeak.

  And this shall be thy various doom;
    Thou shalt be roasted, fry’d and boil’d,
  Black puddings shall thy blood become,
    Thy lifeless flesh shall pork be styl’d:

  Thy ears and feet in souse shall lie;
    Minc’d sausage meat thy guts shall cram;
  And each plump, pretty, waddling thigh,
    Salted and smoak’d, shall be a ham.

  Yet it is fruitless to complain:
    “Death cuts down all, both great and small;”
  And hope and fear alike are vain,
    To those who by his stroke must fall.

  Full many a hero, young and brave,
    Like thee, O Hog! resign’d his breath;
  The noble presents nature gave,
    Form’d but a surer mark for death.

  Achilles met an early doom;
    Euryalus and Nisus, young,
  Were slain; but honour’d was their tomb;
    That, Homer, these, sweet Maro sung.

  On the rude cliffs of proud Quebec,
    In glory’s arm Montgomery dy’d;
  And Freedom’s genius loves to deck
    His early grave with verdant pride.

  Nor shalt thou want a sprig of bays
    To crown thy name. When set agog,
  The muse shall tune eccentric lays,
    And, pleas’d, IMMORTALIZE A HOG.

_NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS
BURLING, Jun. & Co.+ +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per
quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating
Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street._

  THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE;
  or, Miscellaneous Repository.

  +Vol. II.+]  +Wednesday, April 26, 1797.+  [+No. 95.+

      _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

                   *   *   *

                 ON MATRIMONY.
             ADDRESSED TO MR. C. L.

You are desirous, you say, to see a small sketch and exemplification on
the benefits incumbent and to be experienced by embracing the connubial
state of matrimony.--I do not profess to be a competent judge in
pourtraying the perfections and incomprehensible felicities which might
be enjoyed by the sweet acquiescence of enlightened minds; but can, by a
slight survey of those incidents which has happened to excite my
wandering attention, anticipate those domestic enjoyments which are
experienced by the moral and virtuous pair. I shall not contend that all
who embrace the matrimonial state, enjoy that pure bliss for which such
a state was morally intended; those who come short of this privilege,
are contracted in their ideas; they are incapable of comprehending and
bringing into sweet subordination the faculties of the human mind--and
from hence, in time, arises a disgusting aversion to the sensation and
impulse which once stole upon their hearts, and stimulated them with an
eagerness to possess the object of their wishes; every trifling incident
tends to exhilirate evil propensities, and almost all their converse
becomes one continual series of discord and contention: the spark of
affection is now extinguished, and their existence becomes, as it were,
insupportable.--I readily admit, that such a compact of misery is very
inauspicious, and none more disgusting and unhappy.

But to enjoy the state of matrimony to the greatest advantage and
fullest extent, I think it propitious to be well acquainted with the
disposition of our own hearts; the guidance of our passions we should be
masters of, and always keep reason in our right hand, and evil
propensities at a distance. The feelings which are dishonourable, and
are in direct aversion to puerile happiness, may, at intervals, strive
to obtain a seat in the hearts of the most virtuous pair; but, with a
little exertion are defeated and put at defiance--and now it is that
those joys which are almost supreme and insurpassible take up a
residence in their breasts; they make it their chief and greatest
blessing to cultivate their hearts in love and accordant unison--their
social hours roll on in joyous emotions--they taste the blessings of a
lasting union in affection and disposition--they improve the hours of
solitude by endearing and virtuous precepts; and their hearts are ever
engaged to eternize each others happiness, both temporal and
spiritual.--With what ecstacy do they behold themselves possessed of a
little progeny; who, by their wise precepts, are initiated into morals
that enlighten and beautify the soul; they become ornaments to society,
and a soothing balm to the declining mortality of their revered parents.
What state in existence is so desirable and is productive of such
beneficent repose to the mind that was once prone to wander through the
thick mazes of perplexities, and encounter those versatile haunts of a
disturbed imagination? I hope you will agree with me in my conclusion,
that the matrimonial state, when supported inviolable by enlightened
hearts and conceptions, is the greatest felicity in the reach of
mortals, that existence can afford.

  Yours, &c.

    LAVENSTEIN.

      _New-York, April 20, 1797._

  MAN OF PLEASURE.

To a man of pleasure every moment appears to be lost, which partakes not
of the vivacity of amusement.--To connect one plan of gaiety with
another is his sole study, till in a very short time nothing remains but
to tread the same beaten round,--to enjoy what they have already
enjoyed,--and to see what they have often seen.

Pleasures thus drawn to the dregs become vapid and tasteless. What might
have pleased long, if enjoyed with temperance and mingled with
retirement, being devoured with such eager haste, speedily surfeits and
disgusts. Hence, having run through a rapid course of pleasure, after
having glittered for a few years in the foremost line of public
amusements, such men are the most apt to fly at last to a melancholy
retreat; not led by religion or reason, but driven by disappointed hopes
and exhausted spirits to the pensive conclusion, _that all is vanity_.

  +ADDRESS of the TRANSLATOR+
  +of+
  +The VICTIM of MAGICAL DELUSION+, &c.
  To His Thinking Readers.

  (Concluded from page 331.)

Pursue every ray of light on the road to the sanctuary of truth, while
you can account to yourselves for every step you proceed, and if
necessary, can return to the spot whence you started; but do not venture
on dark roads, where, with every step you proceed, you may lose your
way, or be precipitated into a bottomless abyss. A few clear truths that
force themselves on your understanding as such, and do not infringe on
the sacred rights of your reason, are certainly of far greater value,
and can guide you safer than all occult arts and sciences that force you
to renounce the use of your understanding, and to walk in the dark. Keep
firm to the former, and you will maintain your dignity, and be out of
the reach of superstitious delusions.

_Man is destinated for an active and a laborious life, and whatever
makes him relinquish, or dislike it, removes him from his destination._
This is the third principle I wish to recommend to the consideration of
the reader who wishes to guard against the insiduous wiles of
superstition. Man is not designed to lead an idle and contemplative
life, but to exert his faculties, and to acquire the means of happiness.
He is destinated to use all his mental and corporeal faculties, to apply
them to useful occupations, and thus to unfold and to improve them. He
therefore, never can grow reasonable and wise, nor virtuous, rich, and
powerful, without his own uninterrupted exertions to become so. He must
learn every thing through meditation and diligent application, and
acquire every thing with trouble and labour, and only what he thus
learns and acquires, he can consider as his property, which he can rely
upon, and use with safety. Man must not expect the interaction of
physical, or moral miracles, for the sake of his instruction and
support, the increase of his wealth, or the restoration of his health;
for if that were the case, he neither would, nor ever could attain here
below, that degree of perfection he is designed to acquire. Man shall
not overleap a single step on the scale of perfection, but approach the
great mark only by degrees, and with careful steps. Whoever will pay due
attention to the institutions and regulations God has made for the
improvement and the education of man, will be convinced of the truth of
this principle.

If, therefore, you wish to execute the will of God, and to attain the
destination for which you are designed, O! then, beware of superstition;
for it goes diametrically against the institutions and regulations which
God has made for the happiness of man, subverts the order of things, and
wants to lead you to the mark without the employment of means, or at
least by unnatural means; promises to conduct you to the goal of
happiness on a less difficult road than nature has designed.
Superstition promises you wisdom, knowledge, advantages and eminent
qualities, which are to cost you little or nothing, and which you are to
obtain without the least exertion and trouble, through faith, hope, or
mechanical processes and ceremonies. This is, however, not the course of
nature, is not the will of the Creator, nor the damnation of man; it is
the hope and the wish of the lazy and weak, the language of him who is
averse from labour and trouble, and yet wants to reap the fruits arising
therefrom. Apply your faculties according to your destination, apply
them with diligence and chearfulness, perform your duly faithfully, and
enquire for wisdom and knowledge, wealth and honour, health and power,
on the road of activity and usefulness, for this is the only path that
leads to happiness and human perfection.

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

  ON WEALTH.

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

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

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

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

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

  MARCUS.

  ANECDOTE.

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

  REMARKABLE SPEECH
  _OF ADAHOONZOU, KING OF DAHOMY,_
  An Interior Nation of Africa,

  On Hearing What Was Passing in England
  Respecting the Slave-Trade.

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

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

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

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

  [* The country expression for the woods.]

  [† Meaning--“We shall still live.”]

  [[Sources:

  Original: 1793 _History of Dahomy_ by Archibald Dalzel.
  Underlying source: “collected from the communications of” Lionel
    Abson, governor since 1766 (“Whydah” aka Ouidah).

  Background: “Whydah” is also spelled Ouidah. “Adahoonzou” or Adanzu
    died in 1789 of smallpox.
  Notes: The interpolated words “annual ceremony” after “make Custom”
    are not in the original. The word “Customs” is capitalized
    throughout. Footnotes are in the original.]]

  +The ADVENTURES of ALPHONSO and MARINA;+
  An Interesting Spanish Tale.

  (Continued from page 336.)

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

This short account suggested a new project to Marina.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  (To be concluded in our next.)

  STORY OF TWO CORDELIERS.
  By Margaret Valois, Queen of France.

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

               _LOVE AND FOLLY._

                   *   *   *

                     LOVE.

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

                     FOLLY.

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

  ANECDOTE.

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

   NEW-YORK.

   *   *   *

   _MARRIED,_

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

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. LEONARD
MEUISE, to Miss DOLLY SHUTE, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Provost, Mr. JOHN HAMILTON, to Miss GIFFY
HEDEN, both of this city.

On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Dr. ALEXANDER
ANDERSON, to Miss ANN VAN VLECK, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. CHARLES HENRY, to Miss
ELIZABETH ROBINSON, both of this city.

On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. ISRAEL POST,
to Miss ANN RICH, both of Philipsburgh, West-Chester.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. BENJAMIN TAYLOR,
to Miss MARY BARKER, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Kuypers, Mr. JAMES TORTON, to Miss ANNA
BARKER, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. SAMUEL LOW, to Miss
ANN CREGIER, both of this city.

  When pure and unresisted thoughts conspire,