Chapter L: Le Fevre (10)

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 182._)

In the mean time, the camp resounded with the cries of gladness, and our victorious soldiers mingled my praises with those of Pulaski. At the noise of my name, repeated by a thousand tongues, Lodoiska ran to her father’s tent. She convinced me of the excess of her tenderness, by the excess of her joy at our meeting; and I was obliged once more to commence the recital of the dangers from which I had escaped. She could not hear of the singular generosity of the monarch, when I was in the power of the Russians, without shedding tears: “How magnanimous he is!” exclaims she, amidst a transport of joy; “how worthy of being a king, he who so generously pardoned you! How many sighs has he spared a wife whom you forsake! how many tears the loving wife whom you are not afraid of sacrificing! Cruel Lovzinski, are not the dangers to which you daily expose yourself sufficient----”

Pulaski here interrupts his daughter with a certain degree of harshness: “Indiscreet and weak woman!” exclaims he, “is it before me that you dare to hold such a discourse as this?”

“Alas!” replies she in a mild accent; “alas! must I forever tremble for the life of a father and a husband?” Lodoiska also made the most affecting complaints to me, and sighed after a more happy futurity, while fortune was preparing for us the most cruel reverse.

Our Cossacks, placed at the out-posts, now came in from all parts, and informed us that the Russian army was approaching. Pulaski reckoned on being attacked at the break of day; but he was not: however, about the middle of the following night I was informed that the enemy was preparing to force our entrenchments.

Pulaski, always ready, always active, was actually defending them: during the course of this fatal night, he achieved every thing that might have been expected from his valour and experience.

We repel the assailants no less than five different times, but they return unceasingly to the charge, pour in fresh troops at every new attack, and, during the last one, penetrate into the heart of our very camp by three different avenues, at one and the same time.

Zaremba was killed by my side; a crowd of nobles fell in this bloody action; the enemy refused to give any quarter. Furious at seeing all my friends perish before my eyes, I resolved to precipitate myself into the midst of the Russian battalions.

“Heedless man!” exclaims Pulaski, “what blind fury urges you towards your destruction? My army is entirely routed---destroyed---but my courage still remains! Why should we perish uselessly here? Let us be gone! I will conduct you into climes where we may raise up new enemies against the Russian name. Let us live, since we can still serve our country! Let us save ourselves, let us save Lodoiska.”

“Lodoiska! am I capable of abandoning her?”

We instantly run to her tent--we are scarce in time: we carry her off, precipitate ourselves into the neighbouring woods, and on the next morning we venture to sally forth, and present ourselves before the gate of a castle that was not altogether unknown to us.

It indeed belonged to a noble Pole, who had served during some time in our army. Micislas instantly comes forth, and offers an asylum, which he advises us, however, to make use of for a few hours only. He informs us, that a very astonishing piece of news had spread abroad on the former evening, and began to be confirmed, according to which the king himself had been carried away out of Warsaw, that the Russians had pursued the conspirators, and brought back the monarch to his capital; and that, in fine, it was talked of putting a price upon the head of Pulaski, who was suspected of being the author of this treason.

“Believe me,” says he, “when I assure you, whether you have engaged or not in this bold plot, that you ought to fly; leave your uniforms here, which will assuredly betray you: I will instantly supply you with clothes which are less remarkable: and as to Lodoiska, I myself will conduct her to the place which you have chosen for your retreat.”

Lodoiska now interrupts Micislas: “The place of my retreat shall be that of their flight, for I will accompany them every where.”

Pulaski represents to his daughter, that she was not able to sustain the fatigue incident to such a long journey, and that besides we should be liable to continual dangers.

“The greater the peril is,” replies she, “the more I ought to partake it with you. You have repeated to me a hundred times, that the daughter of Pulaski ought not to be an ordinary woman. For the last eight years I have constantly lived in the midst of alarms; I have seen nothing but scenes of carnage and horror. Death has environed me on all sides, and menaced me at every moment: will you not permit me to brave it now by your side? Is not the life of Lodoiska connected with that of her father? Lovzinski, will not the stroke that fells you to the ground send your wife to the grave? and am I no longer worthy----”

I now interrupt Lodoiska, and join with her father, in stating the reasons which determined us to leave her in Poland. She hears me with impatience: “Ungrateful man,” exclaims she at length, “will you fly without me?” “You shall remain,” replies Pulaski, “with Lovzinski’s sisters, and I prohibit you----”

His daughter, now frantic with grief, would not permit him to finish the sentence.

“I know your rights, my father! I respect them; they shall always appear sacred to me: but you do not possess that of separating a wife from her husband.”

“Ah, pardon me! I see that I offend you---my reason no longer maintains its empire---”

“But pity my grief---”

“Excuse my despair---”

“My father! Lovzinski! hear me, both of you; I am determined to accompany you every where!

“Yes, I will follow you every where, cruel men! I will follow you in spite of yourselves!

“Lovzinski, if your wife has lost all the rights she had over your heart, recollect at least her who was once the mistress of your affections.

“Recal to your remembrance that frightful night, when I was about to perish in the flames; that terrible moment when you ascended the burning tower, crying out, let me live or die with Lodoiska!

“That which you felt at that terrible moment, I now experience! I know no greater evil than that of being separated from you; and I now exclaim in my turn, let me either live or die with my father and my husband!

“Unfortunate wretch! what will become of me, if you should forsake me. Reduced to the cruel situation of bewailing you both, where shall I find a solace for my miseries? Will my children console me? Alas! in two years death hath snatched four away from me; and the Russians, equally pitiless as death itself, have bereaved me of the last! I have only you remaining in the world, and even you wish to abandon me! my father! my husband! Will such dear connexions as these be insensible to my sufferings! Have compassion, take pity on your own Lodoiska.” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Her tears now intercepted her speech. Micislas wept; my heart was torn with anguish. “You are resolved to accompany us, my daughter---be it so; I consent,” says Pulaski, “but I wish that heaven may not punish me for my complaisance!”

Lodoiska now embraces us both with as much joy at if all our ills had been at an end. I leave two letters with Micislas, which he undertook to transmit according to the direction: the one was addressed to my sisters, and the other to Boleslas. I bade them adieu, and I recommended to them, to neglect no means to endeavour to recover my dear Dorliska!

It was necessary that I should disguise my wife---she assumes a masculine dress; we change our own, and we employ all the means in our power to disfigure ourselves in such a manner as to elude research, and prevent discovery.

Thus altered in our appearance, armed with our sabres and our pistols, provided with a considerable sum in gold, with some trinkets, and all the jewels of Lodoiska, we take leave of Micislas, and make haste to regain the woods.

(To be continued.)

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OBSERVATION.

He whose passions are mild, whose fortune is equal to his desires and situation, who passes his life with his relations and friends, and dies in their arms without remorse, fear or pain, is a happy man.

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* * * *

PLEASURE.

The enthusiasm of pleasure charms only by intervals. The highest rapture lasts only for a moment, and all the senses seem so combined, as to be soon tired into languor by the gratification of any one of them. It is only among the Poets we hear of men changing to one delight, when satiated with another. In nature, it is very different; the glutton, when sated with the full meal, is unqualified to feel the real pleasure of drinking; the drunkard, in turn, finds few of those transports which lovers boast in enjoyment; and the lover, when cloyed, finds a diminution of every other appetite. Thus, after a full indulgence of any one sense, the man of pleasure finds a languor in all, is placed in a chasm between past and expected enjoyment, perceives an interval which must be filled up. The present can give no satisfaction, because he has already robbed it of every charm. A mind thus left without immediate employment, naturally recurs to the past or the future: the reflector finds that he was happy, and knows that he cannot be so now; he sees that he may yet be happy, and wishes the hour was come: thus every period of his continuance is miserable, except that very short one of immediate gratification. Instead of a life of dissipation, none has more frequent conversations with disagreeable _self_ than he: his enthusiasms are but few and transient; his appetites, like angry creditors, continually making fruitless demands for what he is unable to pay; and the greater his former pleasure, the more strong his regret, the more impatient his expectations. A life of pleasure is, therefore, the most unpleasing life in the world.

Habit has rendered the man of business more cool in his desires; he finds less regret for past pleasures, and less solicitude for those to come. The life he now leads, though tainted in some measure with hope, is yet not afflicted so strongly with regret, and is less divided between shortlived rapture and lasting anguish. The pleasures he has enjoyed are not so vivid, and those he has to expect cannot consequently create so much anxiety.

The philosopher, who extends his regard to all mankind, must have still a smaller concern for what has already affected, or may hereafter affect himself; the concerns of others make his whole study, and that study is his pleasure; and this pleasure is permanent in its nature, because it can be changed at will, leaving but few of those anxious intervals which are employed in remembrance or anticipation. The philosopher, by these means, leads a life of almost continued dissipation; and reflection, which makes the uneasiness and misery of others, serves as a companion and instructor to him.

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CONVERSATION OF A FINE WOMAN.

There is something irresistibly pleasing in the conversation of a fine woman; even though her tongue be silent, the eloquence of her eyes teaches wisdom. The mind sympathises with the regularity of the object in view, and, struck with external grace, vibrates into respondent harmony.

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* * * *

PANEGYRIC ON MARRIAGE.

“O time roll on thy sluggish wheels, and haste the day
“When joys like these shall decorate MY way.”

If it be true, that our pleasures are chiefly of a comparative or reflected kind--How supreme must be theirs, who continually reflect on each other, the portraitures of happiness---whose amusements---

“Tho’ varied still---are still the same---in infinite progression.”

How tranquil is the state of that bosom, which has, as it were, a door perpetually open to the reception of joy, or departure of pain, by uninterrupted confidence in, and sympathy with, the object of its affection! I know of no part of the single or bachelor’s estate, more irksome than the privation we feel by it, of any friendly breast in which to pour our delights, or from whence to extract an antidote for whatever may chance to give us pain---The mind of a good man, I believe to be rather communicative than torpid:---If so, how often may a youth, of even the best principles, expose himself to very disagreeable sensations, from sentiments inadvertently dropped, or a confidence improperly reposed!---What, but silence, can be recommended to them; since, in breaking it: so much danger is incurred, among those little interested in our welfare? A good heart, it is true, need not fear the exposition of its amiable contents:---But, alas, is it always a security for us, that we mean well, when our expressions are liable to be misconstrued by such as appear to lie in wait only to pervert them to some ungenerous purpose?

The charms, then, of social life, and the sweets of domestic conversation, are no small incitements to the marriage state.--What more agreeable than the conversation of an intelligent, amiable, and interesting friend? But who more intelligent than a well-educated female? What more amiable than gentleness and sensibility itself? Or what friend more interesting than such a one as we have selected from the whole world, to be our steady companion, in every vicissitude of seasons or of life?

“Give me some companion,” says Sterne, “in my journey, be it only to remark to, how our shadows lengthen as the sun goes down; to whom I may say, how fresh is the face of nature! How sweet the flowers of the field! How delicious are these fruits!”

If either of these parties be versed in music, what a tide of innocent delight must it prove,---to soothe in adversity, to humanize in prosperity, to compose in noise, and to command serenity in every situation. If books have any charms for them, (and must they not be tasteless, if they have not) well might the poet of nature place them in company like this:

“An elegant sufficiency, content,
“Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
“Ease, and alternate labour, useful life,
“Progressive virtue, and approving heaven.”

What a transition is it from what a Shakespear wrote, to what a Handel played! How charming a relaxation from the necessary avocations of business!----“Of business do you say?”---Yes; for I number this too, among the pleasures of the happily married. Let the lady find agreeable employment at home, in the domestic œconomy of her household, but let the gentleman be pursuing by unremitted and honest industry, new comforts for her, for his children, and for himself.

Is there not some gratification too, in reflecting, that the blessings of the marriage state, are more secure and permanent than most others, which fall within the compass of human life?---it is the haven of a sea of gallantries, of turbulence, and fears. Other friendships are seen to fade, to languish, and to die, by removal of abode, by variance of interest, by injuries, or even by mistakes: but this is co-equal with life, the present existence has been called a state of trial, and of preparation for a better, marriage is the perfection of it, here our education is completed, all the sympathies and affections of the citizen, the parent, and the friend, have their fullest spheres assigned them; and, doubtless, that pair, who in this engagement, are truly happy and irreproachable, must have so qualified themselves by a thousand instances of mutual affection and forbearance, for an improved state of manners and society, that they may be pronounced to have reached the pinnacle of human felicity, from whence to Heaven, the transition will neither be difficult nor strange; for that is the _home_ to which the best improvements of social life are only framed to conduct us.---

“Evening comes at last, serene and mild,
“When after the long vernal day of life,
“Enamour’d more, as more remembrance swells,
“With many a proof of recollected love;
“Together down they sink in social sleep;
“Together freed, their gentle spirits fly
“To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.”

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_NEW-YORK._

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. JAMES HEWITT, to the very amiable and accomplished Miss ELIZA KING, daughter of the late Major King, of England.

Lo, the lovely blooming maid,
Full in beauty’s grace array’d.
Softly treads to Hymen’s shrine,
Radiant as the Ophirian mine.

Happiest youth, with haste away,
Seize the blushing, dazzling prey;
Loves and graces all unite,
Charm with rapturous delight.

Bless, O bless, ye powers above,
Each in others endless love;
And when time dissolves the pair,
Bliss eternal may they share!

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TO CORRESPONDENTS.

⁂ The beautiful lines of ALEXIS, on the Scottish Bard, are received, and shall appear in our next. We flatter ourselves CANDIDUS will not forget his promise to bring forward a series of Essays; we shall deem as a high favour, a continuation of his correspondence.

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_THE AMARANTH._*

TO MARIA.

* * *

“Immortal Amaranth! a flow’r which once
“In Paradise, fast by the tree of life,
“Began to bloom; but soon, for man’s offence,
“To Heav’n remov’d, where first it grew, there grows,
“And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life;
“And where the river of bliss, thro’ midst of Heav’n,
“Rolls o’er Elysian flow’rs her amber stream:
“With these, that never fade, the spirits elect
“Bind their resplendent locks, inwreath’d with beams.”

MILTON’S PARADISE LOST.

* * *

Say, lovely fair! whene’er you rove,
Along the flow’r-enamell’d vale,
Or, careless tread the perfum’d grove
Whose sweets impregnate ev’ry gale:

As then the varying scene you view,
Does not instruction freely pour,
From ev’ry shrub that tastes the dew,
The treasures of his copious store?

Let these attract the mental eye,
These prompt Maria’s thought profound
To call the gems, which ambush’d lie
In Nature’s vegetable round.

But then, as myriads confuse,
And each the other’s sweets annoy,
Wilt thou condemn the friendly muse
Who aids thee in the great employ?

Who bids thee now neglect the rose,
Which long has claim’d the moral lay,
For the bright amaranth, that glows
In regal purple ever gay--

Bright boasted flow’r, of boasted plains!
Whilst myriads around thee fade,
Thy living lustre still remains
Untainted by, or sun, or shade!

The dappled pink, and lily pale,
With ev’ry gaudy-tinted flow’r
That decks the hill, or scents the dale,
If gather’d, fade to bloom no more.

But thou, Elysian flow’r divine!
If sprinkled o’er with balmy dew,
Again thy wonted colours shine,
Again thy purple beams anew!

--Let this instructive flow’r, my fair,
A grateful secret thus impart,
How you may beauty’s charms repair,
Unaided by cosmetic art.

When time (that worst of female foes)
Has torn, with ruthless hand, away
From beauty’s cheek the blushing rose,
Which far outvies the blooms of May,

For orient, renovating dew,
Which purples o’er this regal flow’r;
Let mild good humour beam in you,
Aided by virtues magic pow’r.

These, lasting beauties will create,
These, give new lustre to the eye;
The cheeks bright bloom reanimate,
And plant the rose that ne’er will die.

Thus, lovely maid, where’er you rove,
’Cross verdant hill, or fragrant dale,
Make the gay flowrets of the grove,
More useful than to scent the gale.

[* “A flower of purple velvet colour, which, though gathered,
keeps its beauty; and when all other flowers fade, recovers
its lustre by being sprinkled with a little water.”

NOTES ON MILTON.]

* * * * *

VIRTUE AND ORNAMENT; AN ODE.
TO THE LADIES.

The diamond’s and the ruby’s rays
Shine with a milder, finer flame,
And more attract our love and praise
Than Beauty’s self, if lost to fame.

But the sweet tear in Pity’s eye,
Transcends the diamond’s brightest beams;
And the soft blush of modesty
More precious than the ruby seems.

The glowing gem, the sparkling stone,
May strike the sight with quick surprise,
But Truth and Innocence alone
Can still engage the good and wise.

No glitt’ring ornament or show
Will aught avail in grief or pain:
Only from inward worth can flow
Delight that ever shall remain.

* * * * *

_On the recovery of an only Child from the Small-pox._

When sickness pal’d thy rosy cheek,
And stole the lustre from thine eye,
The minutes of each tedious hour
Were mark’d by sad anxiety.

For all thy soft endearing smiles,
Which spoke with such expressive grace,
Alas! were fled, and only pain
Was trac’d upon thy cherub face.

When near the doubtful crisis drew,
And keener anguish fill’d my breast;
In trembling hope, the fervent prayer
My agonising soul address’d.

’Twas heard--and health again restores
The sprightly look, the rosy hue:
Father of Heaven, to thee alone,
All gratitude, all praise is due.

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 21, 1796.+ [+No. 77.+

+Animated Letter from the Hon. Miss B-- to Sir Richard P---+

* * *

[From an English Paper.]

* * *

The various passions which agitated my distracted soul have subsided and I now am calm. I am alone, and in no danger of interruption: the insignificants that fluttered around me are fled; and their departure gives me no uneasiness.

I am at leisure to consider what I have been, and what I am; admired, applauded, courted; avoided, despised, pitied. However, when I take a view of my own heart, the prospect is less gloomy. I have been incautious, but not abandoned; indiscreet, but not vicious; faulty, but not depraved. If female virtue consists, as I have sometimes been told, in female reputation, my virtue is gone: but if, as my soberer reason teaches, virtue is independent of human opinion, I feel myself its ardent votary, and my heart is pregnant with its noblest principles. The children of ignorance cannot, and the children of malevolence will not, comprehend this; but I court not their approbation, nor fear their censure.

My soul, it must be owned, was formed of sensibility, formed for all the luxury of the melting passions; but it is equally true, that the severest delicacy had ever a place there. The groves of Br-----n can witness, that whenever the loves presided at the entertainment, the graces were not absent: that in the very delirium of pleasure, the rapture was chastened, and the transport restrained.

My understanding was never made the dupe to my fonder wishes; nor did I ever call in the wretched aids of a sceptical and impious philosophy to countenance my unhappy fall. Though nature was my goddess and my law-giver, I never dreamt of appealing from the decisions of positive institutions. My principles were uncorrupted, whilst my heart was warm; and if I fell as a woman, you know at the same time that I fell, like Caesar, with decent dignity.

I write not to justify myself to you; you deserve not, you desire not any such justification; but whilst I open my heart, I beg of you to examine your own. The hour of reflection seldom comes too soon; and what must your sensations be, when you recollect that you have violated all laws divine and human, broken through every principle of virtue, and every tie of humanity; that you have offered an insult to the kind genius of hospitality, the benevolent spirit of good neighbourhood, and the sacred and dignified powers of friendship! I mean not to reproach you, but suffer me to ask, was it not sufficient that you had added my name to the list of your infamous triumphs (for infamous they are, in spite of sophistry, gaiety, and the world), that you had ranked me among the daughters of wretchedness and ignominy, deprived me of my father, my all of comfort, and my all of hope; were not these things, I say, sufficient, without adding to them the meanness and baseness of publicly speaking of me, in language that a gentleman would not have used to the vilest wanton? weak, unhappy man, I am now indeed ashamed of my defeat!

For myself, I am well aware that “the world is not my friend, nor the world’s law.” I expect not nor desire its favour: it never forgives offences of this kind. My own sex, in particular, is inexorable; for never did female kindness shed a tear of genuine commiseration upon misfortunes like mine. The insolent familiarity of some, and the cautious reserve of others, the affected concern, the self-approving condolence, sufficiently teach me what is the friendship of women. But I have no anxiety on this account: the remainder of my days I give to solitude: and if Heaven will hear my most ardent prayer, if my presaging heart and declining strength deceive me not, this remainder will not be long. Sister angels shall joyfully receive me into their happy choirs, though my too virtuous sisters in this world avoid my company as contagious. In the mean time, never shall the returning sun gild the roof of my humble habitation, but I will drop a tear of deep repentance to the fatal indiscretion which robbed me of my peace, and plunged a whole family in misery: and, when the hour of my delivery comes, if an offended parent will but take me in his arms, and pronounce me forgiven, my heart shall again be sensible of comfort, joy shall once more sparkle in the eyes of

MARIA.

* * * * *
* * * *

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 187.)

It is almost incredible, with how much appearance of truth and cordiality he manifested his grief at the hapless fate of the Duke. He affected such a tender fellow-feeling, and so much friendship for Miguel, that the latter was charmed with him, and fancied the favourable opinion he had conceived of Alumbrado to be fully justified. The hypocrite not only pitied him, but at the same time, endeavoured to afford him comfort. Mentioning, however, among other arguments, how wonderful the ways of Providence are, and how God promoted our happiness, even through the evils of this world; the Duke shook his head. Alumbrado was surprised at it, and enquired what objection he had against that doctrine? The Duke, who thought him deserving of his confidence, was so imprudent as to unfold to him his new creed; nay, he carried his inconsideration so far as to read to him part of his tract which he had wrote on that subject. Although I was very much terrified at it, yet I was impatient to know Alumbrado’s opinion and behaviour on this occasion. My astonishment rose to the highest degree, when he refuted the arguments of the Duke with a frankness which generally is supposed to arise only from love of truth, and defended the goodness and providence of God, with an evidence and warmth which can originate only from the light of religion. The dignity and energy with which he spoke had an irresistable effect on the Duke; he cast his eyes upon the ground in dumb amazement, and appeared to be confounded and ashamed.

I cannot but confess that I myself began to believe I had been egregiously mistaken in my opinion of Alumbrado’s character. I begged his pardon in my heart, and though I could not love him, yet I thought it my duty not to refuse him my regard any longer.

However, soon after two accidents happened which gave me reason to apprehend that I had changed my opinion too prematurely. I got intelligence that Alumbrado visited the house of a man whose character was very much suspected. Baeza was his name. The important office which he kept at the custom-house, and the extensive trade he carried on all over Europe, had rendered his house respected, wealthy, powerful, and honoured. He was a Jew by birth, but changed his religion from political motives. His conduct, at least, did not refute the opinion that he confessed only with his lips the Roman Catholic religion, and it had given rise to much scandal when Oliva*ez conferred on him the order of Christ. The connection between him and this minister was very intimate and not at all shaken by the revolution; but continued, only with more assiduity and circumspection, which was no difficult task to a consummate hypocrite like Baeza. It will be obvious that Alumbrado’s connection with this man displeased me for more than one reason. Another circumstance contributed to strengthen my suspicion of Alumbrado’s honesty. The Duke missed a sheet of his tract on the system of the _Manichees_. Alumbrado had visited him frequently, had been alone in his study many a time where the manuscript was lying on the writing desk. The Duke, far from suspecting him, fancied he had mislaid the paper, and having renounced that system on Alumbrado’s persuasion, did not care much for that tract.

Although my repeated exhortations and my avowed antipathy had not been able to prevail on my friend to drop all connections with that dangerous man, yet they had retained him from being too intimate with him; however, since he knew that I had conceived a more favourable opinion of Alumbrado, he attached himself more closely to him. The old Marquis observed this change with great satisfaction, but, at the same time, saw with greater grief the recovery of his son’s health make but very slow progress. The cause of it was a secret, but rooted melancholy, into which the overflowing exasperation of his heart and furious agony of mind had changed ever since he had adopted the principles of the Manichean system. This melancholy corroded his vitals like the slow poison of a cancer, and stopped not only the circulation of the vital powers, but also the energy of the soul of my unhappy friend in its wonted activity. The situation of his mind was therefore merely passive, which rendered him the more susceptible for those external impressions which fitted the situation of his mind, the less power of resistance and self-activity he possessed. Thus he was an instrument which Alumbrado could play on at pleasure. The latter seemed, however, not yet determined what measures he should take for attaining his aim; but, unfortunately, the Duke himself put him afterwards on the right track. He found particular pleasure in conversing with his new confidant on the happiness which loving souls would derive from their reunion in a better world, and he neglected me now for no other reason but because I could say but very little on that subject, while Alumbrado’s imagination and eloquence were inexhaustible. I had no hope of giving the mind of the Duke a different turn; his natural vivacity, which formerly so frequently avocated his attention from one object, and oftentimes directed it irresistably to another of a nature entirely opposite, this vivacity was entirely extinguished; a gloomy sameness, which was immoveably fixed to the object which once had attracted his attention, having stept in its place. Every terrestrial joy had fled with Amelia, Lady Delier and Antonio; the source from which he at present derived his pleasure, originated beyond the grave. How joyfully would he have overleaped the cleft which separated him from the darlings of his heart, if he had not been kept back by mine and Alumbrado’s persuasions. This state of mind encreased his anxious desire of discovering an artificial bridge of communication with the kingdom of spirits. In short, all the ideas he had imbibed in the school of the Irishman awoke in his mind with redoubled force. What at first had been to him a mere object of knowledge, became now the most important concern of his heart. One time he surprised Alumbrado with the question whether he thought it possible to converse with spirits before our death? However the artful man extricated his neck with great dexterity from the sling, replying, that such a question could not be answered in general, nor with a few words. I perceived that Alumbrado viewed the Duke attentively and began to muse, although he had cut off abruptly the thread of the conversation.

No one can conceive how ardently the Duke longed for the arrival of the Irishman, of whom he expected to receive the final solution of that problem. One rather should think that the Irishman ought to have lost all credit with him, on account of his treacherous behaviour; for not only his first promise to put the Duke in possession of Amelia by means of his supernatural power; but also the second, that he would initiate him in the practical mysteries of his supernatural wisdom, as soon as the revolution should have been accomplished, was still incompleted. However, the Duke excused him, instead of suspecting his having deceived him. “Hiermanfor,” he said, “is not all powerful; how could he therefore, avert that fatal blow from Amelia’s head? Hiermanfor has not fixed the day of his return; perhaps he has been detained by business of the greatest consequence, or means to try the measure of my confidence in him; but whatever may be the reason of his non-arrival, he certainly will not omit to make good his word.” Alumbrado asked him who that Hiermanfor was? and the Duke related to him at large his adventures with that man, without betraying the share he had had in the revolution. I expected that Alumbrado, who at once was made acquainted with so dangerous a rival, would do his utmost to ruin his credit; but I was mistaken; all that he ventured to say, was, indeed, very much against him; but he added, that one ought not to judge prematurely on so great and deep a character.

This lenient judgment was not sufficient to cure the Duke of his delusion; although his confidence in the Irishman was very strong, yet his patience was very weak, and my reasoning against Hiermanfor began to make him uneasy. Several times was he going to make public inquiries after him, but the apprehension of offending him without being able to find him out always prevented him from doing it. At last, when the Irishman did not appear after a long and fruitless expectation, my friend took it in his head to inquire after the Count de Clairval and in case he should discover him, to seize him either by force or art, because he expected to receive from him some information of Hiermanfor. Alumbrado desired the Duke to give him a description of the Count. “He is almost of my size,” my friend replied, “but fair, of an interesting countenance, and a tranquil, gentle seriousness, generally characterizes his mien, which however, frequently bespeaks the most jovial humour; his nose is rather of the aquiline kind, his mouth almost woman like handsome, and his chin falls a little back, yet without disfiguring him.” “If you wish to get him in your power,” Alumbrado replied, “I will endeavour to _spell-bind him_; but then I shall want his picture; could you delineate it on a piece of paper?” The Duke, who as little as myself knew what to think of this offer, looked alternately at me and at Alumbrado. “Indeed,” the latter continued, “I wish to possess the picture of the Count; leave the consequence to me.”

“If you really wish to possess it,” my friend replied. “you shall have it.”

Possessing a great skill in drawing striking likenesses, he finished the portrait the day following, assisted by his imagination, and gave it to Alumbrado. We were impatient to learn what he was going to do with it; however, he visited the Duke four days without mentioning the picture; but on the fifth day informed him in what hotel he would find the Count. We were looking at him in dumb astonishment, when he added, “Make haste, now you can surprise him and if he should refuse to follow you, you only need to tell him that the guard is waiting for your order to seize him.”

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

_Anecdote of an Earl of Portland, Lord Treasurer.
From a Manuscript in the British Museum._

When the Earl of Portland was Lord Treasurer of England (1634) he had, like other great statesmen, a crowd of suitors; among others was Mr. Cæsar, Master of the Rolls, who had been soliciting the place of one of the six clerks in Chancery for his son, Mr. Robt. Cæsar, in the room of Mr. D’Ewes, but was disappointed in his expectations; the Lord Treasurer, although he had promised it to Mr. Cæsar, having given it to Mr. Keene; but promised to urge his Majesty in favour of Mr. Cæsar the next vacancy. That happened---the Treasurer was as negligent as formerly; when Ld. Tillibarne eagerly solicited for Mr. Cæsar, and was promised. Tired with useless application, he desired the Treasurer to declare his intentions;---he answered his intentions were for Mr. Cæsar but that he might not forget in future, he desired a token of remembrance; which the other readily complied with, and wrote on a paper “Remember Cæsar!”---In the hurry of the Earl’s business, even this was forgot. Some time after, while he was looking over some loose papers, he observed one, having written on it “Remember Cæsar!” The former circumstances had escaped his recollection; therefore, alarmed, he summoned his friends, to have their opinion upon it; who all agreed, an attempt on his life was in agitation, and desired him to use every precaution---In consequence of this, his house was barricadoed, guards were placed around, and all had the appearance of danger and apprehension, when Ld. Tillibarne waited upon him again, but could not gain admittance, till he informed one of the Treasurer’s friends of the circumstances of the note, which brought the whole to the Earl’s recollection, and he complied with Lord Tillibarne’s request; Mr. Cæsar being appointed one of the Six Clerks.

* * * * *
* * * *

_ABSTRACT of the ABBE BERTHOLON’s PAPER on FIRES,
and the MEANS of extinguishing them._

Published in the Lausanne Memoirs.

This subject is important and interesting, although the Abbé has rather collected the observations and experiments made by others, than conveyed any new and original information. He ascribes the inflammability of bodies to the inflammable gas which they contain, and which, on their decomposition by heat, is let loose, and coming into contact with the atmosphere is ignited, and bursts out into flame. The principal part of the memoir is devoted to a detail of the means of preventing and extinguishing fires; and here the author’s chief advice, which is “in the construction of buildings, to employ as little as possible of those materials which yield inflammable air on their decomposition,” will be allowed to be perfectly just in theory, but will probably be little followed in practice: nor is the security resulting from brick floors likely to compensate, in this age of affected elegance, for their appearance. He informs us, however, that M. Ango, an architect of Paris, has contrived a method of constructing a floor with iron bars, instead of timber joists, which is even less expensive than the common mode. The wood used in buildings may be rendered uninflammable, by being steeped in a saline solution, and by being prepared with allum, even canvass and paper hangings may be made to burn without flame.

Many other precautions are mentioned by the Abbé, which we shall not detail, as they are universally known, and we believe pretty generally adopted. After describing the inventions of Mr. Hartly and Lord Mahon, together with a preparation similar to that of Lord Mahon’s recommended by M. Frederic, of Vienna, the Abbé gives an account of a substance, which he calls paper stone, invented by Dr. Faye, physician to the Swedish admiralty: its composition is not known, but from a chemical analysis it appears to consist of two parts of an earthly basis, and one of animal oil, mixed up with two parts of some vegetable substance. At Carlscrone a hut was built of dry wood, covered with this paper, which is not more than two lines in thickness, it was then filled with combustibles, which were set on fire and consumed without burning the building: the paper, which had been pasted on boards, was reduced to a cinder, and formed a kind of incrustation, which preserved them from the effects of the flame. As this paper readily takes any colour, it may be rendered ornamental as well as useful.

In his directions for extinguishing fires, the Abbé observes, that water, in which a small quantity of potash has been dissolved, is more efficacious than any other; he also recommends an engine called an hydraulic ventilator, invented by M. Castelli, which is worked by vanes instead of pistions, and may be managed by one person. The advantages ascribed by our author to this machine are very considerable, but we cannot suppress our astonishment on being told, that with a cylinder of only three inches in diameter, it will throw up more water than the largest fire engine; however, it certainly appears to be less expensive and more portable than the common forcing pumps, and may be of use in extinguishing a fire, before it has made any great progress. The utility of garden mould with wet sand in this respect, is well known, but it can seldom be applied, and we doubt the efficacy of the kind of catapult which the author recommends, for throwing it so any distance.

The remainder of the memoir contains some very just and obvious remarks on the necessity of a regular discipline among firemen, and it concludes with a description of the engines, cisterns and pipes at the opera house in Paris, the construction and arrangement of which the Abbé recommends to be adopted in every public theatre.

* * * * *

SPECIMENS OF SPEECH OR SPEAKINGS.
_Imprimis. Oratio Floridensis._

GENTLEMEN,

Though tautology is allowable in practice, I don’t approve on’t theoretically; therefore I shall plainly, fully, openly, and concisely, I hope, acquit myself, without being critical, or political, or satyrical, or mystical, or rhetorical, or schismatical, or chimerical, or whimsical.--I’ll give no utterance to any arrogance, with dissonance of deliverance, nor countenance any exorbitance of intemperance, ignorance, or extravagance: what I communicate I shall authenticate, and I beg you’ll compassionate: I will not exaggerate, nor contaminate, nor depreciate, nor discriminate, an intemperate candidate, at any rate. But I prognosticate he must be a profligate, reprobate, and illiterate, apt to prevaricate, hesitate, and degenerate.--I’ll use no eloquence in this conference, in confidence, the consequence of my diligence will evidence the excellence of my innocence, with reference to your preference.

Let others, by a flourish of words, fancy it an accomplishment or an embellishment, by the tongue’s blandishment, it is an astonishment that some speakers are so impertinent to the detriment of every eminent fundament of rudiment.

I take this opportunity without ambiguity, void of incongruity, with perspicuity by narrative, to assert my prerogative without preparative, or provocative.

I shall now conclude without a multitude of solicitude; for the aptitude of men to ingratitude is too plain, so I’ll insist that Shakespeare, and Milton, were sophistical scribblers, and bad luck to the man, who invented the alphabet; oratory is composed of two parts, weeds and flowers; the weeds of metaphor are the roots of Rhetorick; and the flowers of phrase compose the nosegay of Eloquence. A set of Philosophers are like a bundle of brushwood, when they are lighted up by the fire of dispute, and put into the oven of altercation; then out comes the crum and crust of fair argument.

* * * * *

LIFE.

In considering the impatient ardour of the passions in youth, we might be led to suppose that life was to last but for a day; but the precautions of the aged seem to be such as if it was eternal.

* * * * *
* * * *

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 190.)

Pulaski now communicates to us the design which he had formed of taking refuge in Turkey. He hoped to be employed in a situation equal to his rank and his abilities, in the armies of the grand signior, who had for the two last years with some difficulty sustained a disastrous war against the Russians.

Lodoiska did not appear in the least affrighted at the long journey which we had to make; and as she could neither be known nor sought after, she insisted upon going out to reconnoitre the adjacent country, and at the same time charged herself with the fatiguing but important task of bringing us the provisions which we stood in need of.

As soon as the day appeared, we retired into the wood: hid either in the trunks of trees, or in the thick groves of pines, we waited impatiently for the return of night, on purpose to continue our march. It was thus that, during several weeks, we were enabled to escape from the search of a multitude of different bodies of Russian troops, who were sent out on purpose to discover us, and who pursued us like so many blood-hounds, animated with the passions of hatred and revenge.

One day as Lodoiska, still disguised as a peasant, returned from a neighbouring hamlet, where she had gone on purpose to purchase the provisions which she was now conveying to us, two Russian marauders attached her at the entry of the forest in which we were concealed.

After having robbed, they prepared to strip her. At the shrieks which she uttered we hasten from our retreat, and the two ruffians immediately betake themselves to flight upon our appearance; but we were greatly alarmed lest they should recount this adventure to their companions, whose suspicions aroused by this singular rencounter, might induce them to come and drag us from our asylum.

After a most fatiguing journey, we enter Polesia*. Pulaski wept at leaving his native country.

[* Polesia is a name given to the palatinate of Breste in Lithuania;
Breste, Briescia, or Bressici, is situated upon the banks of the
river Bog. T.]

“At least,” exclaims he with a mournful accent---“at least I have faithfully served you, and I now only go into exile that I may be enabled to serve you again.”

So many fatigues had exhausted the strength of Lodoiska. Arrived at Novogorod†, we resolve to stop there on purpose to give her time to recover her strength. It was our design to remain some days, but some of the country people whom we questioned, frankly informed us, that a number of troops were in motion in that neighbourhood, on purpose to arrest a certain person of the name of Pulaski, who had occasioned the king of Poland to be taken prisoner, and carried off from the midst of his own capital.

[† There are several towns of this name in Russia. This seems to
have been Novogorod Welicki, or Great Novogorod, the capital of
a duchy of the same name. T.]

Justly alarmed at this intelligence, we remain but a few hours in this town, where we, however, found means to purchase some horses without being discovered.

We then pass the Desna above Czernicove*; and following the banks of the Sula, we cross that river at Perevoloczna, where we learn that Pulaski, who had been traced to Novogorod, had escaped as it were by miracle, and that the Russian soldiers, indefatigable in their pursuit, were still searching after him, and were in hopes of making him prisoner.

[* Czernicove, or Czernikou, is a considerable town, and is the
capital of the duchy of the same name. It is situate on the river
Desna, 75 miles north-east of Kiow. T.]

It was now again become necessary to fly once more, and once more to change our route; we therefore instantly made for the immense forests which cover the face of the country between the Sula and the Zem, in the dark retreats of which we hoped to find shelter from our foes.

We at length discover a cavern, in which we were reduced to the necessity of taking up our abode. A she-bear disputes with us the entrance into this asylum equally solitary and frightful: we assail, we kill her, and devour her young.

Pulaski was wounded in this encounter: Lodoiska, worn out with fatigue and distress, was scarcely able to support her existence: the winter was approaching, and the cold was already excessive.

Pursued by the Russians in the inhabited parts; menaced by wild and ferocious animals in this vast desart; destitute of any arms but our swords; reduced in a short time to eat our very horses; what was to become of us?

The danger of the situation to which my father-in-law and my wife were reduced, had become so pressing, that no other fear any longer alarmed me. My personal safety, hitherto so dear to me, did not now suggest itself once to my mind: I felt only for theirs. I resolved, therefore, to procure to them at any rate those succours which their situation required, which was still more deplorable than my own; and leaving them both with the promise of rejoining them in a short time, I take a few of the diamonds belonging to Lodoiska, and follow the stream of the Warsklo.

It is well known that a traveller, bewildered amidst those vast countries, and reduced to the necessity of wandering about without a compass, and without a guide, is obliged to follow the course of a river, because it is upon its banks that the habitations of mankind are most commonly to be met with.

It was necessary that I should gain, as soon at possible, some considerable town in which a few merchants resided: I therefore journeyed along the banks of the Warsklo, and travelling day and night, found myself at Pultava* at the end of four days. During my residence in this place, I pass for a trader belonging to Bielgorod. I there learn that the Russian troops were still roaming about in pursuit of Pulaski, and that the Empress had sent an exact description of his person every where, with orders to seize him either dead or alive, wherever he might be found.

[* Pultoway, Pultowa, or Pultava, is a fortified town in the
Ukraine, famous for a battle fought in its neighbourhood between
Charles XII. of Sweden and Peter the Great of Russia. It is 100
miles south-west of Bielgorod from which Lovzinski pretended to
have come on purpose to purchase merchandize, &c. T.]

I make haste to sell my diamonds, to purchase powder, arms, and provisions of all kinds, different utensils, and some coarse and necessary furniture; every thing, in fine, which I judged most proper to relieve our misery, and soften our misfortunes.---With these I load a waggon, drawn by four good horses, of which I was the only conductor.

My return was equally tedious and difficult; no less than eight whole days expired before I arrived at the entrance of the forest.

It was there that, terminating my disagreeable and dangerous journey, I was about to succour my father-in-law and my wife; that I was about to revisit all that was most dear to me in the world; and yet I felt none of those transports of joy which such an event seemed likely to inspire.

Philosophers have no belief in forebodings.

Certain it is, however, that I experienced an involuntary uneasiness: my mind became dispirited, dismayed, and something, I know not what, seemed to whisper to me, that the most unhappy moment of my whole life was fast approaching.