Chapter L: Le Fevre (9)

From this moment their former love was converted into the most inveterate enmity. They attached themselves to opposite factions, and sought each other’s lives in the conflict of adverse party. In this manner they continued for more than two years, vowing mutual revenge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit of aversion. At length, however, that party of the _Jews_, to which the mean soldier belonged, joining with the _Romans_, it became victorious, and drove _John_, with all his adherents, into the temple. History has given us more than one picture of the dreadful conflagration of that superb edifice. The _Roman_ soldiers were gathered round it; the whole temple was in flames, and thousands were seen amidst them, within its sacred circuit. It was in this situation of things, that the now-successful soldier saw his former friend upon the battlements of the highest tower, looking round with horror, and just ready to be consumed with flames. All his former tenderness now returned; he saw the man of his bosom just going to perish; and, unable to withstand the impulse, he ran spreading his arms, and crying out to his friend, to leap down from the top, and find safety with him. The Centurion from above heard and obeyed; and, casting himself from the top of the tower, into his fellow-soldier’s arms, both fell a sacrifice on the spot; one being crushed to death by the weight of his companion, and the other dashed to pieces by the greatness of his fall.

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* * * *

HISTORY OF THE BEARD.

The respect which has been shewn to the Beard in all parts of the civilized, and in some parts of the uncivilized world, is well known to the slightest erudition; nay, a certain prejudice in its favour still exists, even in countries where the razor has long been omnipotent. This impression seems to arise very naturally from the habit of associating with it those ideas of experience and wisdom of which it is the emblem. It cannot wait upon the follies of youth; its bushy and descending honours are not known to grace the countenance of early life; and tho’ it may be said, in some degree, to grow with our growth, and strengthen with our strength, it continues to flourish in our decline, and attains its most honourable form and beauty when the knees tremble, the voice grows shrill, and the pate is bare.

When the bold and almost blasphemous pencil of the enthusiastic painter has aimed at representing the Creator of the world upon the canvass, a flowing beard has ever been one of the characteristic and essential marks of the Supreme Divinity. The Pagan Jupiter, and the graver inhabitants of Olympus, would not be known without this majestic ornament. Philosophy, till our smock faced days, has considered it as the appropriate symbol of its profession. Judaic Superstition, Egyptian Wisdom, Attic Elegance, and Roman Virtue, has been its fond protectors. To make it an object of dissention, and alternately to consider it as a sign of orthodoxy or the standard of heresy, was reserved for the fantastical zeal of the Christian Church.

In more modern times, not only provincial and national, but general Councils have been convened, Synods have been summoned, ecclesiastical Congregations and cloistered Chapters of every denomination have been assembled, to consider, at different periods, the character of this venerable grown of the human visage. Infinite disputes have been, of course, engendered, sometimes with respect to its form, at other times with regard to its existence. Religion interested herself in one age, in contending for that pointed form to which Nature conducts it: at a succeeding period, anathemas have been denounced against those who refused to give it a rounder shape; and to those, other denunciations have followed, which changed it to the square or the scollop. But, while religious caprice--for religion, sorry am I to say it, seems to be troubled with caprices---quarrelled about form and shape, the disputes were confined within the pale of the European Church: but, when the beard lessened into whiskers, and the scythe of ecclesiastical discipline threatened to mow down every hair from off the face, the East sounded the alarm, and the churches of Asia and Africa took up the cause, and supported, with all the violence of argument and remonstrance, those honours of the chin that they still preserve, and to which the existing inhabitants of those climates offer up a perpetual incense.

In the history of the Gallic Church, the scenes of religious comedy still live in description. For example:--a bearded Bishop appears at the door of a Cathedral in all the pomp of Prelacy, and demands installation to the diocese to which he is appointed. He is there met by a troop of beardless Canons, and refused admittance, unless he will employ the golden scissors they present to him, to cut that flowing ornament from his face, which they would think a disgrace to their own, as well as to the religion they profess. This same history, also, is not barren of examples, where the sturdy prelate has turned indignant from the disgraceful proposal, and sought the enforcing aid of sovereign power, which has not always been able, without much difficulty, to compel the reluctant chapter to acknowledge a bearded Diocesan. Others, unwilling to risk or delay the power and wealth of an episcopal throne for the sake of a cumbrous bush of hair, have, by the ready sacrifice of their beards, been installed amid acclamations and hosannas, as disgraceful as they were undeserved. It may appear still more ridiculous, but it is no less true, that some of these bishops have compounded the matter with their refractory clergy, in giving up the greater part of the beard, but retaining the growth of the upper lip in the form of whiskers. The idea of a bishop ‘en moustaches’ must trouble the spirit of a modern christian; but such there have been, who, in the act of sacrificing to the God of Peace, have exhibited the fierce terrific aspect of a German Pioneer.

At length, the persecuted Beard, which has been the object of such faithful veneration, finds in Europe, if we except part of Turkey, its only asylum in the Capuchin Cloister; unless we add the casual protection which is given to it by the fanatical Jew, or mendicant Hermit.

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_The following beautiful character is extracted from Mrs. D’Arblay’s
new work, entitled Camilla, or a Picture of Youth; Publishing by
the Editor on wove paper._

The form and the mind of Lavinia were in the most perfect harmony. Her polished complexion was fair, clear, and transparent; her features were of the extremest delicacy, her eyes of the softest blue, and her smile displayed internal serenity. The unruffled sweetness of her disposition bore the same character of modest excellence. Joy, hope, and prosperity, sickness, sorrow, and disappointment, assailed alike in vain the uniform gentleness of her temper: yet though thus exempt from all natural turbulence, either of pleasure or of pain, the meekness of her composition degenerated not into insensibility; it was open to all the feminine feelings of pity, of sympathy, and of tenderness.

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REFLECTION ON THE EARTH.

The Earth, gentle and indulgent, ever subservient to the wants of man, spreads his walks with flowers, and his table with plenty; returns with interest every good committed to her care; and, though she produces the poison, she still supplies the antidote; though constantly teazed more to furnish the luxuries of man than his necessities, yet, even to the last, she continues her kind indulgence, and, when life is over, she piously covers his remains in her bosom.

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* * * *

Interesting History Of
_THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._

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

_Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate KING of POLAND,
so recently dethroned._

(Continued from page 174.)

I assist him to descend from his horse; he sits down upon the grass, and making me sit down by his side, he takes one of my hands and presses it between his own:

“Lovzinski, you whom I have so much loved, you who know better than any one the purity of my intentions, how comes it about that you have taken up arms against me? Ungrateful Lovzinski! shall I never find you but amongst my most bitter enemies? Do you return but on purpose to sacrifice me?”

He then, in the most affecting language, recapitulates the pleasures of our early youth; our more intimate connection at an age approaching to manhood, the tender friendship which we had sworn to each other, and the regard which he had ever treated me with since that period. He spoke to me of the honours with which he would have loaded me during his reign, if I had been ambitious to merit them: he reproached me more particularly respecting the unworthy enterprise of which I appeared to be the leader, but of which, he said, he was well assured that I was no more than the instrument.

He threw all the horror of the plot upon Pulaski, representing to me, at the same time, that the author of such an attempt was not the sole culpable person; that I could not charge myself with its execution without committing a crime; and that this odious complaisance, so highly treasonable in a subject, was infinitely more in a friend. He concluded by pressing me to restore him to his liberty: “Fly,” said he to me; “and be assured, if I encounter any of the Russians patroles, I shall tell them that you have pursued an opposite road from that which you have taken.”

The king continued to press me with the most earnest entreaties: his natural eloquence, augmented by the danger of his situation, carried persuasion to my heart, and awakened the most tender sentiments there.

I confess that I staggered; I balanced the circumstances for some time in my own mind, but Pulaski at length triumphed.

I thought that I still heard the fierce republican reproaching me with my pusillanimity. The love of one’s country has perhaps its fanaticism and its superstitions: but if I was then culpable, I am still so; I am more than ever persuaded that in obliging the king to remount his horse again, I performed an action that reflected honour on my patriotism.

“Is it thus,” says he to me, in a melancholy accent, “that you reject the prayer addressed to you by a friend? that you refuse the pardon offered to you by your king? Well then, let us begone. I deliver myself up to my unhappy fate, or rather, I abandon you to yours.”

We now re-commence our journey once more; but the entreaties of the monarch, his arguments, his reproaches, his very menaces, the struggles which I felt within myself, affected me in such a manner, that I no longer could discern my way. Wandering up and down the country, I kept no one certain road: after half an hour’s fatigue we found ourselves at Marimont, and I was greatly alarmed at seeing us thus return towards Warsaw, instead of leaving it at a distance.

At about a quarter of a league beyond this, we unfortunately fell in with a party of Russians. The king immediately discovers himself to the commanding officer, and then instantly adds. “In the course of the preceding afternoon, I happened to bewilder myself during the chace; this good peasant, whom you see here, insisted on my partaking a frugal repast in his cottage; but as I thought that I perceived some of the soldiers of Pulaski roaming in the neighbourhood, I was desirous of returning to Warsaw immediately, and you will oblige me much by instantly accompanying me thither.

“As to you, my friend,” continues he, turning at the same time towards me, “I am not at all sorry that you have given yourself this useless trouble, for I am as much pleased at returning to my capital attended by these gentlemen (pointing at the same time to the escort), as in accompanying you any farther. However, it would be improper that I should leave you without any recompence; what are you desirous of? Speak--I will grant you any favour which you may demand of me!”

It will be easy to conceive hew much I was alarmed, for I was still doubtful of the king’s intentions. I endeavoured therefore to discover the true meaning of his equivocal discourse, which must be either full of a bitter irony, or a magnanimous address. M de P*** left me for some time in this cruel uncertainty: “I behold you greatly embarrassed,” continues he at length, with a gracious air; “you know not what to choose! Come then, my friend, embrace me: there is indeed more honour than profit in embracing a king (adds he with a smile); however, it must be allowed, that, in my place, many monarchs would not be at this moment so generous as myself!” On uttering these words, he instantly departs, leaving me penetrated with gratitude, and confounded with so much true greatness.

However the danger which the king had so generously relieved me from, began every moment to assail me again. It was more than probable that a great number of couriers expedited from Warsaw, had spread about on all sides the astonishing news of the king’s having been carried off. Already, without doubt, the ravishers were warmly pursued. My remarkable dress might betray me in my flight, and if I once more fell into the hands of any of the Russians, better informed of the circumstance, all the efforts of the king would not be able to save me. Supposing Pulaski had obtained all the success which he expected, he must still be at a great distance; a journey of ten more leagues at least regained for me to perform, and my horse was entirely spent with fatigue: I endeavoured however to spur him on, but he had not got five hundred paces before he fell under me.

A cavalier, well mounted, happened to pass along the road by the side of me, at this very moment; he perceived the poor animal tumble down, and, thinking to amuse himself at the expence of an unfortunate peasant, he began to banter me about my situation. Piqued at this buffoonery, I resolved to punish him for his raillery, and secure my own flight at one and the same time: I, therefore, instantly present one of my pistols to his breast, and obliged him to surrender his own horse to me; nay, I acknowledge to you, that, forced by the peculiarity of my situation, I despoiled him even of his cloak, which being very large, hid all my rags beneath it, which otherwise might have discovered me. I then cast my purse full of gold at the feet of the astonished traveller, and sprang forward as fast as my new horse could carry me.

Luckily for me, he was fresh and vigorous.---I dart forward twelve leagues, with all the swiftness of an arrow: at length I think I hear the firing of cannon, and I instantly conjecture that my father-in law was at hand, and was employed in fighting the Russians.

I was not deceived---I arrive on the field of battle at the very moment when one of our regiments had given way. I instantly discover myself to the fugitives, and having rallied them beneath a neighbouring hill, I attack the enemies in flank, while Pulaski charges them in front with the remainder of his troops. Our manœuvres were so well concerted, and so admirably executed, that the Russians were entirely routed, after experiencing a terrible carnage.

Pulaski deigned to attribute to me the honour of their defeat: “Ah!” cries he, embracing me, after hearing the particulars of my expedition---“ah! if your forty followers had but equalled you in courage, the king would have been at this very moment in my camp! But the Deity does not will it. I am grateful, however, that you have been preserved to us; and I return you thanks for the important service which you have rendered me: but for you, Kaluvski would have assassinated the monarch, and my name would have been covered with an eternal opprobrium!

“I might have been able,” added he, “to have advanced two miles farther; but I rather chose to take possession of this respectable post, on account of the security of my camp. Yesterday, in the course of my march, I surprised, and cut in pieces, a party of Russians; this morning I beat two more of their detachments; but another considerable corps having collected the remainder of the vanquished, took advantage of the night, on purpose to attack me. My soldiers, fatigued with the toil of a long march, and three succeeding engagements, began to fly; but victory returned to my camp at your approach. Let us entrench ourselves here; we will wait for the Russian army, and fight while we yet have a drop of blood remaining!”

(To be continued.)

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* * * *

MILITARY ANECDOTE.

Gonsalvo, who was lieutenant-general to the celebrated Spanish general, the marquis of Spinola, and governor of Milan, in 1624, intending to take possession of a little walled village in the Palatine, called Ogershiem, dispatched an officer, at the head of some troops upon that errand. On the first alarm, nine tenths of the inhabitants removed to Manheim, leaving behind them about twenty insignificant people, and a poor shepherd, who, beside being a brave fellow, was a man of humour. The shepherd in good time fastened the gates, let down the drawbridge, and made a wonderful shew of resistance. A trumpeter summoned the village in form, upon which the few inhabitants that remained made their escape through a postern-gate, and left only the shepherd, and the shepherdess, big with child. This unaccountable peasant, in a style of the representative of a garrison, gave audience, from the walls, to the military herald, and made his terms of capitulation, inch by inch, stipulating, at the same time, for the preservation of the state, and the free exercise of the protestant religion. Imagine, therefore, what must be the surprise of the Spaniards, when they entered the village, and found him and his wife only in it! Yet the droll peasant preserved the muscles of his countenance inflexible; and, some weeks afterward, when his wife lay in, he desired the great Gonsalvo to be godfather; which honour the pompous Spaniard, for the jest’s sake, could not decline, but on the contrary, sent her some very handsome presents. This account, the historian (_Mr. Spanheim, Hist. de l’ Elect. Palet._) says, might appear a little romantic to posterity, if the notoriety of it had not been a circumstance indisputable at the time it happened.

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_SINGULAR ACCOUNT OF LA MAUPIN._

From Burney’s History of Music.

La Maupin seems to have been a most extraordinary personage. “She was equally fond of both sexes, fought and lived like a man, and resisted and fell like a woman. Her adventures are of a very romantic kind. Married to a young husband, who soon was obliged to absent himself from her, to enter on an office he had obtained in Provence, she ran away with a fencing master, of whom she learnt the small sword, and became an excellent fencer, which was afterwards a useful qualification to her on several occasions. The lovers first retreated from persecution to Marseilles; but necessity soon obliged them to solicit employment there, at the opera; and, as both had by nature good voices, they were received without difficulty. But soon after this she was seized with a passion for a young person of her own sex, whom she seduced, but the object of her whimsical affection being pursued by her friends, and taken, was thrown into the convent at Avignon, where La Maupin soon followed her; and having presented herself as a novice obtained admission. Some time after, she set fire to the convent, and availing herself of the confusion she had occasioned, carried off her favourite. But being pursued and taken, she was condemned to the flames for contumacy: a sentence, however, which was not executed, as the young Marseillaise was found and restored to her friends.

“She then went to Paris, and made her first appearance on the opera stage in 1695, when she performed the part of Pallas, in Cadmus, with the greatest success. The applause was so violent, the she was obliged, in her car, to take off her casque to salute and thank the public, which redoubled their marks of approbation. From that time her success was uninterrupted. Cumeni, the singer, having affronted her, she put on men’s clothes, watched for him in the Place des Victoires, and insisted on his drawing his sword and fighting her, which he refusing, she caned him, and took from him his watch and snuff-box. Next day, Dumeni, having boasted at the opera-house, that he had defended himself against three men who attempted to rob him, she related the whole story, and produced his watch and snuff-box in proof of her having caned him for his cowardice. Thevenard was nearly treated in the same manner, and had no other way of escaping her chastisement, than by publicly asking her pardon, after hiding himself at the Palace Royal during three weeks. At a ball given by Monsieur, the brother of Louis XIV. she again put on men’s clothes, and having behaved impertinently to a lady, three of her friends, supposing La Maupin to be a man, called her out. She might easily have avoided the combat by discovering her sex, but she instantly drew, and killed them all three. Afterwards returning very coolly to the ball, she told the story to Monsieur, who obtained her pardon.”

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ANECDOTE OF MONS. DE SARTINE.

An Irish gentleman, who wished to purchase an estate in France, lodged his money in the hand of a banker, who took it, as common on the continent, without giving the gentleman a voucher; but lodged it in an iron chest, and gave to the gentleman the key. When the contract for the purchase was made, he called on his banker to receive his cash, when the latter peremptorily denied his having received any such sum, or having any money transaction whatever with the gentleman.----In this dilemma the injured party was advised to apply to M. de Sartine, and he accordingly did so, and told him his story. The minister sent for the banker, and asked him, if he had not received such a sum? The banker steadily denied it. “Very well (replied M. de Sartine), then sit down and write a letter which I shall dictate to you, and you shall continue in the room with me, until the answer arrives.” Paper was brought, and Sartine dictated, and made him write a letter to his wife, to the following effect:--“My dear wife, you must immediately send to me the sum which Mons. ---- left in my hands, and which was deposited originally in the iron chest, in the compting-house, but was removed you know whither. You must send it instantly, or else I shall be sent to the Bastile. I am already in the hands of justice.” The banker stared----“Mon Dieu! (says he) must I send this letter to my wife?”----“You must (says the minister): I dare say, if you are guilty of the robbery, your wife, who is remarkable for her ingenuity, was privy to it, and she will obey your commands: if you are innocent, she cannot comprehend the order which you send, and will say so in her answer. We will make the experiment, and if you resist, you shall go immediately to the Bastile.”

The resolution was decisive. The letter was sent, and in less than an hour the money was brought in the bags in which it was originally sealed, and restored to the original owner. M. de Sartine discharged the banker, telling him the matter should be kept a secret, provided he acted with more faith and honesty for the future.

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_NEW-YORK._

* * *

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening the 19th ult. at Florida, (Ulster County) by the Rev. Mr. Jaline, Mr. BENONA BRADNER, of Sugar-Loaf, to Miss MARY JEANS, of that place.

On Thursday evening the 24th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Linn, Mr. JOSHUA PARKER, to Miss SALLY VAN AULEN, daughter of Mr. Cornelius Van Aulen, both of this city.

On Monday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. JAMES WHITING, to Miss DEBORA ALLEN both of this city.

* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF A BABY NINE DAYS OLD.

The cup of life just to her lip she press’d,
Found the taste bitter, and declind’d the rest;
Averse, then turning from the face of day,
She gently sigh’d her little soul away.

* * * * *

_ON A BEE_
Having Stung the Thigh of an Old Maid.

On the annals of fame with Columbus you stand,
Who sought the American shore;
Advent’rous like him, you explore a new land,
Where none ever travell’d before.

* * * * *

_EPIGRAM._

Women were born, so fate declares,
To SMOOTH our linen and our cares;
And ’tis but just, for, by my troth,
They’re very apt to RUFFLE both.

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* * * *

ODE TO POESY.

I.

Hail Poesy! celestial maid!
Who loves, reclin’d near purling stream,
To rest beneath the beachen shade,
“Wrapt in some wild fantastic dream.”
Howe’er intent on other cares,
Still deign to hear a suppliant’s pray’rs!
Who fain would view thy ample store,
And all thy secret haunts explore,
Where, as enraptur’d bards have told,
Whose eyes have peer’d thy stores among,
Gnomes, sylphs, and sprites, their dwelling hold,
Till call’d by thee to grace their song;
Where fairies, clad in bright attire,
Faint lighted by the glow-worm’s fire,
Are seen to gambol to the breeze,
Which nightly plays amongst the trees;
And while, with silent step, their round they pace,
The flitting dew-drops gem the consecrated place.

II.

Or, if thou rather chuse to dwell
Intent to hear the beating wave,
In sparry grot, or rocky cell,
Or in the subterraneous cave,
Where to relieve perpetual night,
Dim lamps emit a feeble light;
While bound with necromantic tie,
A thousand weeping virgins lie,
Who, to enjoy the blaze of day,
To view once more the azure sky,
And drink the sun’s all-cheering ray,
Oft heave the unavailing sigh;
Till some advent’rous knight shall dare
(Long try’d in tournaments and war)
Assay to break the magic chain,
And give them liberty again;
In ruin wide the self-built structure spread,
And bid despondency erect her drooping head.

III.

Or, if those scenes delight thee more,
Which erst thy Ariosto drew,
O teach my muse like his to soar,
And ope thy treasures to her view!
For all that captivates the mind,
In his aspiring verse we find;
Where, wrapt in fancy’s pleasing guise
Conceal’d, the useful moral lies;
Where chivalry’s proud hosts, array’d
In all the dignity of war,
Appear, a splendid cavalcade,
Adorn’d with many a trophy’d car;
Where fair Alcina’s radiant charms,
With lawless bliss the bosom warms,
Till, in Atlanta’s reverend form,
Melissa abrogates the charm;
Recals the soul, for nobler deeds design’d,
And writes the glowing moral on the mind.

* * * * *
* * * *

IV.

If such thy votaries of old,
Some portion of their fire impart;
Then sportive fancy, uncontroll’d,
Shall spurn the rigid rules of art:--
But if in vain thy suppliant plead,
And if thy mandate has decreed
These magic stores conceal’d must lie,
Impervious to another’s eye;
Still, O celestial maid! display
Those tranquil scenes where beauty reigns,
And triumphs, with unrivall’d sway,
O’er rising hills and flow’ry plains,
And streams that, murm’ring as they flow,
Might lure the mourner from his woe;
Let pointed satire too be mine,
Aided by Johnson’s nervous line:--
And mine the pow’r to wake the tender sigh,
And call the pearly tear from Pity’s melting eye.

V.

Then lead me near some winding stream,
Whose surface, ruffled by the breeze,
Reflects chaste Dian’s silver beam,
Faintly beheld thro’ shadowy trees:
Then as I view, with joy serene,
The beauties of this tranquil scene:
If contrast aid the pow’rs of rhyme,
To make the beautiful sublime--
Bid the hoarse thunder loudly roar,
And driving clouds invest the skies;
While swelling torrents round me pour,
From rugged rocks their fresh supplies;
Which bursting on the plains below,
The lightning’s transient flashes shew,
Unfolding to th’ astonish’d sight
A cataract of foaming light.--
Be scenes like these thy suppliant’s award!
And give thine other stores to some more happy bard.

* * * * *

_BEAUTY._
A SONG.

When fascinating beauty smiles,
Tho’ deem’d a transient flow’r,
Vain man, with all his boasted might,
Submissive owns its pow’r.

Beauty makes misers quit their gold,
And cruelty its rage,
And gives the ardent fires of youth
To antiquated age.

Th’ imposter Mahomet, who knew
The sweets and pow’r of love,
With ever-blooming beauties fill’d
His blissful courts above.

Aright this great observer judg’d
That beauty’s promis’d charms,
Would lure whole millions to his aid,
And bless his conqu’ring arms.

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

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_UTILE DULCI._

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

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, December 14, 1796.+ [+No. 76.+

_From CAMILLA, or a Picture of Youth--just publishing by the EDITOR,
are extracted the following striking observations on the superiority
of mental accomplishments to personal attractions:--_

“Indeed, Sir--and pray believe me, I do not mean to repine I have not the beauty of Indiana; I know and have always heard her loveliness is beyond all comparison. I have no more, therefore, thought of envying it, than of envying the brightness of the sun. I knew, too, I bore no competition with my sisters; but I never dreamt of competition. I knew I was not handsome, but I supposed many people besides not handsome, and that I should pass with the rest; and I concluded the world to be full of people who had been sufferers as well as myself, by disease or accident. These have been occasionally my passing thoughts; but the subject never seized my mind; I never reflected upon it at all, till abuse, without provocation, all at once opened my eyes, and shewed me to myself! Bear with me, then, my father, in this first dawn of terrible conviction! Many have been unfortunate---but none unfortunate like me! Many have met with evils---but who with an accumulation like mine!”

Mr. Tyrold, extremely affected, embraced her with the utmost tenderness: “My dear, deserving, excellent child,” he cried, “what would I not endure, what sacrifice not make, to soothe this cruel disturbance, till time and your own understanding can exert their powers?” Then, while straining her to his breast with the fondest parental commiseration; the tears, with which his eyes were overflowing, bedewed her cheeks.

Eugenia felt them, and sinking to the ground, pressed his knees. “O my father,” she cried, “a tear from your revered eyes afflicts me more than all else! Let me not draw forth another, lest I should become not only unhappy, but guilty. Dry them up, my dearest father; let me kiss them away.”

“Tell me, then, my poor girl, you will struggle against this ineffectual sorrow! Tell me you will assert that fortitude which only waits for your exertion; and tell me you will forgive the misjudging compassion which feared to impress you earlier with pain!”

“I will do all, every thing you desire! my injustice is subdued! my complaints shall be hushed! you have conquered me, my beloved father! Your indulgence, your lenity shall take place of every hardship, and leave me nothing but filial affection!”

Seizing this grateful moment, he then required of her to relinquish her melancholy scheme of seclusion from the world: “The shyness and the fears which gave birth to it,” said he, “will but grow upon you if listened to; and they are not worthy the courage I would instil into your bosom---the courage, my Eugenia, of virtue---the courage to pass by, as if unheard, the insolence of the hard-hearted, and ignorance of the vulgar. Happiness is in your power, though beauty is not; and on that to set too high a value would be pardonable only in a weak and frivolous mind; since, whatever is the involuntary admiration with which it meets, every estimable quality and accomplishment is attainable without it: and though, which I cannot deny, its immediate influence is universal, yet in every competition and in every decision of esteem, the superior, the elegant, the better part of mankind give their suffrages to merit alone. And you, in particular, will find yourself, through life, rather the more than the less valued, by every mind capable of justice and compassion, for misfortunes which no guilt has incurred.”

Observing her now to be softened, though not absolutely consoled, he rang the bell, and begged the servant, who answered it, to request his brother would order the coach immediately, as he was obliged to return home; “And you, my love,” said he, “shall accompany me; it will be the least exertion you can make in first breaking through your averseness to quit the house.”

Eugenia would not resist; but her compliance was evidently repugnant to her inclination; and in going to the glass to put on her hat, she turned aside from it in shuddering, and hid her face with both her hands.

“My dearest child,” cried Mr. Tyrold, wrapping her again in his arms, “this strong susceptibility will soon wear away; but you cannot be too speedy nor too firm in resisting it. The omission of what never was in our power cannot cause remorse, and the bewailing what never can become in our power cannot afford comfort. Imagine but what would have been the fate of Indiana, had your situations been reversed, and had she, who can never acquire your capacity, and therefore never attain your knowledge, lost that beauty which is her all; but which to you, even if retained, could have been but a secondary gift. How short will be the reign of that all! how useless in sickness! how unavailing in solitude! how inadequate to long life! how forgotten, or repiningly remembered in old age! You will live to feel pity for all you covet and admire; to grow sensible to a lot more lastingly happy in your own acquirements and powers; and to exclaim, with contrition and wonder, time was when I would have changed with the poor mind-dependent Indiana!”

The carriage was now announced; Eugenia, with reluctant steps, descended; Camilla was called to join them, and Sir Hugh saw them set off with the utmost delight.

* * * * *

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION;
_OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

_Translated from the German of Tschink._

(Continued from page 179.)

The death-like paleness of the Duke’s countenance, his perturbated mien, his steps now slow and now moving with vehemence, and the contortions of his lips, bespoke the tempest raging in his soul, as exceeding the violence of the hurricane that was lashing the ocean. The hapless man now looked up to heaven, and now cast his anxious looks around, as if in search of some person, and I heard him pronounce repeatedly the name of Hiermanfor. This sight wounded my heart deeply, and pressed burning tears from my eyes.

Meanwhile a dreadful accident happened on the sea. The anchors which the fore-part of the ship was moored with were torn from the cables by the violent agitation of the vessel, which, riding now only with the small bower, was dashed against the adjacent rocks. A general piercing cry filled the air when this lamentable incident happened. The Duke was going to plunge into the sea, and I retained him with great difficulty by his right arm. Seeing, however, that his despair rendered him callous against our ardent prayers not to rush into the very jaws of death, Pietro and myself tied a long rope round his body, taking hold of one end. He now plunged into the boiling waves, which instantly devoured, and soon after cast him up again. Thus he advanced daringly towards the ship. He seemed several times to have a chance of forcing his way to the vessel, the irregular motions of the sea leaving him on the dry rocks; however the towering billows then returned with additional fury, and buried him beneath an enormous mass of water, which flung the Duke half dead upon the shore. But no sooner had he recovered his senses, than he darted up, hastening with new courage towards the vessel, which, however, began to separate, torn by the violence of the furious waves. The ship’s crew, who now despaired of saving their lives, plunged in crowds into the sea, grasping in the agony of despondency the floating chests, casks, and whatsoever they could lay hold on.

I shall never forget that horrid scene of woe! Two ladies now made their appearance on the stern of the vessel: one of them was the Countess and the other Lady Delier. Amelia expanded her arms towards her lover, who exerted all his strength to join the darling of his soul.--She seemed to have known the Duke by his undaunted courage. The baroness wrung her hands looking anxiously at the spectators, and pointing at Amelia, as if she wanted to say: leave me to my fate, but save my friend! Amelia was standing on the deck without betraying the smallest sign of fear, and seemed to be resigned to her impending deplorable doom, beckoning to us, as if she wanted to bid us an eternal adieu. All the spectators wept, and rent the air with doleful cries and lamentations. The Duke summoned the last remains of his strength, struggling with the frothing waves, in order to save his mistress from the brink of fell destruction; but a mountainous billow of an enormous bulk forced its way through the space betwixt the island and the coast, darting at the ship. In the same moment Amelia rushed into Lady Delier’s arms encircling her friend in wild agony, and in that situation they were buried in the abyss along with the vessel.

The stupefaction of horror which we were seized with, rendered us almost incapable of dragging the Duke on shore. The spirit of the hapless man seemed to have fled to better regions, along with that of his ill-fated bride. He was stretched out on the ground, violently bleeding, and seemingly a lifeless corpse.

I dropped down by his side, seized with terror and grief, imprinting kisses on his ash-pale face, contorted by pains, I called his, mine, and at last Amelia’s name in his ear; but seeing him without the least motion at the sound of the latter, I really feared that he was dead. Pietro beat his breast, tore his hair, and rent the air with doleful lamentations. The bye-standers crowded upon us, and perceiving, after many fruitless trials, some faint vestiges of life in the Duke, we carried him to the next house and put him to bed. The contusions and wounds he had received, by having been dashed against the rocks, were examined by a surgeon, who declared they were not mortal. I uttered a loud shout, throwing myself on my knees, and offering fervent thanks to God. The Duke opened his eyes and closed them again. The surgeon desired us to retire, and not to disturb his rest.

While Pietro went on horseback to the house of the Marquis, in order to inform him of the accident that had happened to his son, I repaired to the strand, in hopes that the bodies of Amelia and Lady Delier would be driven on shore. However the wind having shifted suddenly, as is usual in hurricanes, I was obliged to give up the hope of procuring an honourable burial to those unhappy ladies.

The Duke was in a senseless stupor, when I returned. Alas! his spirit seemed to tarry reluctantly in a world which separated him from his adored Amelia. But why should I tear open again my half-cicatrised wounds? I shall not enter into a description of his situation, I still fancy I hear the shrieks of horror, and the wild shouts which he uttered during a burning fever, when he fancied he saw his Amelia either in dangerous or in happy situations. His imagination and his lips were constantly occupied with her. When, at length, his fever abated, and his recollection returned, he really fancied the history of Amelia’s hapless fate to be the delusion of a feverish dream. Although I was very cautious to dislodge this delusive opinion only gradually, yet the discovery of his error affected him so violently, that I apprehended it would deprive him, if not of his life, at least of his understanding.

Here I cannot omit mentioning a scene which happened at the beginning of his amendment. The Marquis had ordered him to be carried to his house as soon as he began to mend, and nursed him with paternal care. He came, one day, when the Duke was sleeping, and I sitting by his bed-side, to enquire how his son did; as he bent over the sleeper, and seemed to look anxiously whether any signs of returning health appeared in his face, he observed on the bosom of his son a blue ribbon. He pulled it carefully out, and the picture of the Queen of Fr**ce was suspended to it. The countenance of the Marquis resembled at first that of a person who is dubious whether he is awake or dreaming; but soon after I saw his face grow deadly pale, and his whole frame quiver violently. No sooner had he recovered the power of utterance, then he begged me to retire. Two hours after he left the apartment in violent agitation, without observing me. On my entrance into the sick room I found the Duke bathed in tears. The ribbon was still fastened round his neck, but the picture of the Queen was taken from it.

I signified to him my astonishment. He squeezed my hand tenderly, and said:--“You are my only friend, for whom I wish to have no secrets; and yet I am so unhappy as to have this wish too denied me. Don’t press me to tell you what has been transacted between me and my father; I have been obliged to promise with a dreadful oath to take the secret along with me in my grave--In my grave!” he added a little while after, “I am impatient to occupy that habitation ever since Amelia and Antonio have made it their abode.”

“Miguel” I exclaimed, straining him to my heart, “dispel these gloomy thoughts. You shall learn that one has not lost every thing when in possession of a friend like me.”

“I know you, and I thank you,” he replied, with emotion, “let us die together; this world is not deserving to contain us. What business have we in a world (he added with a ghastly look) in which vice only triumphs, and good men find nothing but a grave?”

Reader, do not fancy this language to have originated merely from a transient agitation of mind; alas! it originated from a heart exasperated by the concurrence of the most melancholy misfortunes, and this exasperation was rooted deeper than I had fancied at first. It generated in his soul poisonous shoots which injured his religion. He declared it to be impossible a good God could designedly make good men so unhappy as he had been rendered. He ascribed the origin of his misfortunes to a bad principle, which, having a share in the government of the world, had appropriated his understanding merely to the execution of its bad purposes. He maintained that it was contrary to the nature of an infinitely good being to effect even the best purposes by bad means; and if there were in this world as much disorder, imperfection, and misfortune, as harmony, perfection and happiness, this would be an undeniable proof that the world was governed, and had been created jointly by a good and bad principle. In short, he subscribed entirely to the system of the _Manichees_.

I perceived this new deviation of his mind with astonishment and grief, and thought it my duty to lead him back in the path of truth as soon as possible, because this error deprived him of the last consolation in his sufferings. For which reason I endeavoured to convince him, that the ideas of a bad and a good principle annul each other; that it is a downright contradiction to believe in the existence of a bad God: that consequently, the fundamental ideas of his system were absurd, and, of course, the system itself unsupported. I proved to him that the evil in this world is not inconsistent with the goodness and providence of God, and that even the happiness of the wicked, and the sufferings of the good, ought not to undermine our belief, but rather to strengthen our hope of a life hereafter, in which every one will receive the just reward of his actions. But how convincing soever my arguments would have been to any unprejudiced person, yet they made very little impression on the Duke, whom the disharmony and gloominess of his mind had too much prepossessed for his comfortless system. Far from finding the least contradiction in it, he was firmly persuaded that the belief in a bad principle served to defend God against the complaints and reproaches of the unfortunate, while he found a great consolation in venting his resentment against the bad principle, whom he believed to be the author of his sufferings. He was therefore firmly resolved to refute the arguments which I had opposed to his system; and as soon as he was able to leave his bed, began to arrange his ideas on that head, and to secure them by a proper train of arguments against my objections. He had almost finished his work when Alumbrado returned from his journey.

(_To be continued._)

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TO THE EDITOR OF

_The +New-York Weekly Magazine.+_

SIR,

Of a situation in life respectable only because it is honest, I am neither depressed by a sense of inferiority nor elated with the idea of superior importance--Of feelings, not yet blunted by habits of depravity, I have a smile for beauty, and a tear for distress; and, I trust, there are some who will bear me witness, that I have a heart for friendship and for love--fond of society, and by no means an enemy to study, my time is usually divided between mankind, my books, and my thoughts. Of passions strong and lively, pleasure has to me peculiar charms; and though my charitable dispositions may be often disobliged, perhaps neither my mental nor corporeal constitution has cause to complain, that my finances do not co-extend with my desires. A commencement like this, may probably impress you with no very favorable idea of the purport of this address; and, suspecting its contents as no way likely to interest your readers, you may be induced to throw by this paper as a tax upon your patience: but, if you can summon fortitude sufficient to continue your perusal, I trust you will find reason, not only to excuse, but even to approve the egotism of my preamble.

To introduce their work with some account of the author, has, I believe, been generally the practice of those who offer to the public what are called periodical writings. I have conceived a similar design, and offer this for your acceptance as introductory to a course of numbers, with which, I hope, through the blessing of patience and the permission of indolence, from time to time to present you. Yet, it was not to gratify curiosity alone that I thought fit to delineate my conduct and my feelings. I believed that, like the exordium of the orator, it might prepare for my offspring a favorable reception.

The first and least interesting part of my egotistic narrative is my situation in life: From this, the only recommendation I can hope to derive is, that sentiment will at least not be corrupted by the habits of profession.

Secondly--To an author of sensibility, surely no objection can be found; a capacity to enjoy the sweets of friendship and the raptures of love will be no disadvantage in the eyes of the virtuous and the fair.

Thirdly--From commerce with man I may gain some knowledge of his tempers and propensities; from reading I will imbibe the sentiments of those much wiser than myself; and by comparing my own deductions with their abstract conclusions, I may, in converse with myself, give some degree of clearness, correctness, and solidity to my conceptions.

To the last feature in my character, which is properly the result of situation, I believe I may with truth ascribe the greater part of my literary acquirements, and what is not quite so honourable to myself, my presumption in becoming an author. To it I shall certainly be indebted for opportunities to exert the attention necessary for the execution of my design. And should not my papers afford instruction or entertainment to others (a persuasion of which I am not vain enough to entertain) they will at least procure improvement to myself. Convinced of the latter, and with a wish to the former, I offer myself a candidate for an office in your literary dispensary.

That subjecting one’s-self to the odium of mankind is the infallible consequence of reprobating his vices and ridiculing his follies, though often asserted, is by no means the fact. In the moment of calmness, uninfluenced by passion, man acknowledges and condemns his errors; and they are not angels alone who _weep_ for the apishness of humanity. It is in such a state of mind that we usually read; and the author need not fear for his censures or his laugh---strange that he should, when he has often occasion to expose those weaknesses in which he participates, and those crimes which disgrace himself. If, therefore, from reflection on my own conduct or observation of that of others in those hazardous moments when reason leaves the helm, I should at any time be induced to choose these themes, I shall have less reason to fear a frown for my intentions than contempt for my incompetency. And should I not pay a tribute to your fancy of one pathetic tale of hapless love, or of the wondrous adventures of one heroic knight, look not ye fair with disdain upon my labours. I love your sex, and deem their favour not the least of those few blessings that raise a wish for life: And, though now a hopeless thought, if in some happy hour I should conceive imagination equal to the task, I may attempt to gratify myself by pleasing you.

CANDIDUS,

New-York, Dec. 10, 1796.

* * * * *

MAN.

Man is the lord of all the sublunary creation; the howling savage, the winding serpent, with all the untameable and rebellious offspring of nature, are destroyed in the contest, or driven at a distance from his habitations. The extensive and tempestuous ocean, instead of limiting or dividing his power, only serves to assist his industry, and enlarge the sphere of his enjoyments. Its billows, and its monsters, instead of presenting a scene of terror, only call up the courage of this little intrepid being; and the greatest danger that man now fears on the deep, is from his fellow-creatures. Indeed, when I consider the human race as Nature has formed them, there is but very little of the habitable globe that seems made for them. But when I consider them as accumulating the experience of ages, in commanding the earth, there is nothing so great, or so terrible. What a poor contemptible being is the naked savage, standing on the beach of the ocean, and trembling at its tumults! How little capable is he of converting its terrors into benefits; or of saying, behold an element made wholly for my enjoyment! He considers it as an angry Deity, and pays it the homage of submission. But it is very different when he has exercised his mental powers; when he has learned to find his own superiority, and to make it subservient to his commands. It is then that his dignity begins to appear, and that the true Deity is justly praised for having been mindful of man; for having given him the earth for his habitation, and the sea for an inheritance.

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Interesting History Of
_THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI._