Chapter L: Le Fevre (14)

“At bottom it matters very little. What confidence could you have reposed in the confession of a man, who on a former occasion has imposed on you in so shameless and daring a manner? And what will you say if I prove to you that he has belied you the last time too?”

“You astonish me.”

“Don’t you recollect that he pretended the note through which Amelia has been absolved from her vow by her late Lord, to have been the effect of Hiermanfor’s supernatural power?”

“Not only the Count, Hiermanfor too has made me believe it.”

“Both of them has told you a barefaced lie.”

“Friend, how will you be able to make good your charge?”

“By proving that pretended miracle to be a juggling trick.”

“You have raised my expectation to the highest pitch.”

“I have learned that trick of a juggler, and I am sure that which the Irishman has made use of is the same. He gave Amelia a blank slip of paper, and directed her to write the question on the upper part of it. Here you must regard three points; first of all, that he _himself_ gave the paper, to Amelia; secondly, that he desired the question to be written on the upper part of it; and thirdly, that he dictated the question to her; he then put the paper on the table, fumigated the apartment with an incense of his own composition, and requested the Countess to look at the paper in the morning. It was very natural that the answer to the question was seen beneath it, having been previously written with sympathetic ink the preceding evening, but first rendered visible in the night by the fumigation. Very likely it had been written by the Count, who could imitate the hand-writing of his brother.”

The Duke gazed at me along while, seized with dumb astonishment. At length he clapped his hands joyfully, exclaiming, “O! my friend, what a light have you cast upon that dark mysterious affair.”

“A light,” my reply was, “that will assist you to see clearly how dishonestly the Irishman and the Count have dealt with you to the last. They endeavoured to persuade you that you had been deceived at first, merely for the sake of probation, and that you had been paid with sterling truth after Paleski’s discovery. Poor deceived man; you have always been beset with lies and delusions; the sole point in which they differed from each other, consisting merely in the superior art which the latter impositions were contrived with.”

“Then you believe that the apparition at the church-yard has also been a deception, like the incident with the miraculous note.”

“Yes, I have every reason to think so. When I have once caught a person in the act of committing a fraud, I then have the greatest right to suppose that he has repeatedly imposed upon me; and when I am convinced that he has frequently deceived me, I then have the greatest reason to conclude that he has cheated me the last time also.”

“Then you think a real apparition of a ghost to be impossible.”

“Why do you ask that question? All that we have to decide at present, is, whether the Irishman or any man living can effect such an apparition.”

“You want to evade my question.”

“Indeed not!”

“Then tell me, do you think apparitions of ghosts to be possible?”

“Tell me, does not this question imply, that, are men capable of seeing ghosts?”

“Certainly.”

“That I deny.”

“You think that no man living has that capacity.”

“And not without reason. We can see only those objects which throw an image on the retina of the eye, and consequently only expanded things; a spirit has no expansion, and therefore cannot be seen by us.”

“You cut it very short.”

“My argument is valid.”

(To be continued.)

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[[For sources, see the end of the e-text.]]

+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
[By Herself.]

I shall not regret tracing the sorrows which marked the morning of my life. If I can inspire suffering virtue with confidence in heaven, and a gentle hope that when chastened in the school of adversity, the hand of happiness will amply recompense those who have patiently sustained its rough discipline.

At the tender age of sixteen I was deprived of a mother, whose loss I had every reason to deplore, as her precepts instilled into my inexperienced heart wisdom, and her example taught me to persevere in the path of virtue; though crossed with sorrows and perplexed with difficulties, she was prepared for that hour which so unexpectedly arrived, and launched her spotless into eternity. My father, Sir George Blandford, ah! how different from her in every respect, nobly descended, and possessed of an affluent fortune, he thought himself superior to the world; his soul was filled with pride, and he looked down with haughtiness on the rest of mankind. He had a son five years older than me; gentle, generous, and like his departed mother, susceptible of every soft impression; he was abroad at her death, which happened in London, and from which place Sir George determined immediately to bring me to his seat in the country. With melancholy hearts, we commenced our journey, the second day crossing a little stream, we found ourselves in imminent danger, owing to a violent fall of rain, which had rendered the current so rapid, the horses vainly struggled against it--in a few moments we should inevitably have perished, but for the interposition of a young man, who standing on the opposite bank, perceived our situation, and with wonderful presence of mind rushed into the water and assisted the men in bringing the carriage to shore. I had fainted from terror, a small cottage stood at a little distance to which they conveyed me, after a few remedies I revived. My apprehensions being over, I had an opportunity of contemplating the figure of my generous deliverer, whose resolution excited my warmest gratitude. He was just at that period of life when youth loses itself in manhood; his person strikingly elegant, his face expressive of the greatest sensibility, and his fine eyes beaming with a soft melancholy which seemed to announce him the son of sorrow. My father thanked him with as much warmth as he could assume, but a nobler gratitude rose in my soul, for from that hour I loved. With pain I heard the carriage announced, and entered it, I durst not talk of him, the rigidity of Sir George’s disposition, prevented me.

The estate to which we were going I had never been at, but its castle was held in wonderful estimation by my father. He confirmed it as an honourable memorial of the antiquity of his ancestors. At our arrival I was struck with horror; the ravages of all-conquering time were in several places displayed; a dark wood surrounded it, impenetrable to the chearing rays of the resplendant luminary; thro’ vistas cut amidst the thick boughs of old oaks, a cataract was espied foaming with impetuous fury down the side of a stupenduous mountain, from which a muddy stream took its course in hoarse murmurings through the wood. What an habitation for a mind already depressed, it filled mine with gloomy sadness, which I durst not manifest, for to dislike my father’s favourite mansion would have incurred his severest displeasure. A fortnight after my arrival, I obtained with difficulty, permission to spend some time with a young lady whom I had known from my infancy, and loved with the tenderest affection. We spent our days delightfully; happy in each other’s society, they glided insensibly away. Riding early one morning with her, my horse, alarmed by the shouting of some thoughtless boys going to school, notwithstanding all my efforts, flew off at a rate that terrified me with the idea of every moment being dashed off.

From those fears I was relieved by a man springing from behind a hedge, who catching the bridle, stopt my rapid career--but what were my emotions on perceiving he was the generous deliverer who had before saved me? More overcome by my sensations than fright, I sunk half fainting in his arms, he appeared equally affected. “Great Heaven!” cried he, “what transport! twice to have saved this precious life!” My friend here arrived--she congratulated me on my escape---our horses were given to the servants; she asked the charming stranger to accompany us to her house. I would have prest him to accept her invitation, but shame withheld my faultering accents. My conversation now wholly ran on this adventure. Miss Rivers, (the name of my friend) frequently rallied me upon it; I would blush, perhaps be silent, but quickly again begin the pleasing topic. A mandate now arrived from Sir George for me to return home. I obeyed, though with pain. As usual he received me with haughty coldness.---At night, my maid whom I had left at home, began to relate the occurrences which happened during my absence, and at length ended her narrative by saying the old gardener was discharged, and a new one hired in his place, the sweetest prettiest fellow she ever beheld. Indeed he was a little melancholy, but certainly it was owing to his situation which he appeared not designed for. I laughed and said I fancied he had made a conquest of her, she foolishly tittered, as if the idea was very pleasant. The next morning, as was my usual custom, I rose early and entered the garden. I directed my steps to a little walk shaded by poplars. At a distance I discerned a man busily employed, whom I conjectured to be the new accomplished gardener. As I approached nearer I perceived him start, and with precipitation hurry from the spot in his eagerness to avoid me. His foot stumbled and he fell. I was just beginning an involuntary exclamation of are you hurt? when raising his head, I perceived my preserver. Amazement seized me, I had not power to move, the deepest confusion tinged his cheek, he could not raise his eyes, he attempted to speak, but his tremulous voice was unintelligible. I could not stir till the appearance of my father roused me; I started and hurried from the spot.

(To be continued.)

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An Essay
ON PITY AND BENEVOLENCE.

Pity has been generally considered as the passion of gentle, benevolent, and virtuous minds; although it is acknowledged to produce only such a participation of the calamity of others, as upon the whole is pleasing to ourselves.

As a tender participation of foreign distress, it has been urged to prove, that man is endowed with social affections, which, however forcible, are wholly disinterested: and as a pleasing sensation, it has been deemed an example of unmixed selfishness and malignity. It has been resolved into that power of imagination by which we apply the misfortunes of others to ourselves: we have been said to pity, no longer than we fancy ourselves to suffer; and to be pleased, only by reflecting that our sufferings are not real; thus indulging a dream of distress from which we can awake whenever we please, to exult in our security, and enjoy the comparison of the fiction with truth.

Pity is generally understood to be that passion, which is excited by the sufferings of persons with whom we have no tender connection, and with whose welfare the stronger passions have not united our felicity; for no man would call the anguish of a mother, whose infant was torn from her breast and left to be devoured in a desart, by the name of pity; although the sentiments of a stranger, who should drop a silent tear at the relation, which yet might the next hour be forgotten, could not otherwise be justly denominated.

If pity, therefore, is absorbed in another passion, when our love of those that suffer is strong; pity is rather an evidence of the weakness than the strength of that general philanthropy for which some have so eagerly contended, with which they have flattered the pride and veiled the vices of mankind, and which they have affirmed to be alone sufficient to recommend them to the favour of Heaven, to atone for the indulgence of every appetite, and the neglect of every duty.

If human benevolence was absolutely pure and social, it would not be necessary to relate the ravages of a pestilence or a famine with minute and discriminating circumstances to rouse our sensibility: we should certainly deplore irremediable calamity, and participate temporary distress, without any mixture of delight. That deceitful sorrow, in which pleasure is so well known to be predominant, that invention has been busied for ages in contriving tales of fictitious sufferings for no other end than to excite it, would be changed into honest commiseration in which pain would be unmixed, and which, therefore, we should wish to lose.

Soon after the fatal battle of Fontenoy, a young gentleman, who came over with the officer that brought the express, being expected at the house of a friend, a numerous company of gentlemen and ladies were assembled to hear an account of the action from an eye-witness.

The gentleman, as every man is flattered by commanding attention, was easily prevailed upon to gratify the company, as soon as they were seated, and the first ceremonies past. He described the march of many thousands of their countrymen into the field, where batteries had been concealed on each side, which in a moment strewed the ground with mangled limbs and carcasses that almost floated in blood, and obstructed the path of those who followed to the slaughter. He related, how often the decreasing multitude returned to the cannon; how suddenly they were rallied, and how suddenly broken; he repeated the list of officers who had fallen undistinguished in the carnage, men whose eminence rendered their names universally known, their influence extensive, and their attachments numerous; and he hinted the fatal effects which this defeat might produce to the nation, by turning the success of the war against us. But the company, however amused by the relation, appeared not to be affected by the event: they were still attentive to every trifling punctilio of ceremony, usual among well bred persons; they bowed with a graceful simper to a lady who sneezed, mutually presented each other with snuff, shook their heads and changed their posture at proper intervals, asked some questions which tended to produce a more minute detail of such circumstances of horror as had been lightly touched, and having at last remarked that the Roman patriot regretted the brave could die but once, the conversation soon became general, and a motion was made to divide into parties at whist. But just as they were about to comply, the gentleman again engaged their attention. I forgot (said he) to relate one particular; which, however, deserves to be remembered. The captain of a company, whose name I cannot now recollect, had, just before his corps was ordered to embark, married a young lady to whom he had been long tenderly attached, and who, contrary to the advice of friends, and the expostulations, persuasion and entreaty of her husband, insisted to go abroad with him, and share his fortune at all events. If he should be wounded, she said, that she might hasten his recovery, and alleviate his pain, by such attendance as strangers cannot be hired to pay; if he should be taken prisoner, she might, perhaps, be permitted to shorten the tedious hours of captivity, which solitude would protract; and if he should die, that it would be better for her to know it with certainty and speed, than to wait at a distance in anxiety and suspense, tormented by doubtful and contradictory reports, and at last believing it possible, that if she had been present, her assiduity and tenderness might have preserved his life. The captain, though he was not convinced by her reasoning, was yet overcome by the importunate eloquence of her love: he consented to her request, and they embarked together.

The head quarters of the duke of Cumberland were at Brussoel, from whence they removed the evening before the battle to Monbray, a village within musket shot of the enemy’s lines, where the captain who commanded in the left wing, was encamped.

Their parting in the morning was short. She looked after him, till he could no longer be distinguished from others; and as soon as the firing began she went back pale and trembling, and sat down expecting the event in an agony of impatience, anxiety and terror. She soon learned from stragglers and fugitives, that the slaughter was dreadful, and the victory hopeless. She did not, however, yet despair; she hoped that the captain might return among the few that should remain: But soon after the retreat, this hope was cut off, and she was informed that he fell in the first charge, and was left among the dead. She was restrained by those about her, from rushing in the phrenzy of desperation to the field of battle, of which the enemy was still possessed; but the tumult of her mind having abated, and her grief become more calm during the night, she ordered a servant to attend her at break of day; and as leave had been given to bury the dead, she went herself to seek the remains of her husband, that she might honour them with the last rites, and pour the tears of conjugal affection upon his grave. They wandered about among the dying and the dead, gazing on every distorted countenance, and looked round with irresolution and amazement on a scene, which those who stripped had left tenfold more a sight of horror than those who had slain. From this sight she was at last turning with confusion and despair, but was stopped by the cries of a favourite spaniel, who had followed her without being perceived. He was standing at some distance in the field; and the moment she saw him, she conceived the strongest assurance that he had found his master. She hasted instantly to the place without regarding any other object; and stooping over the corps by which he stood, she found it so disfigured with wounds and besmeared with blood, that the features were not to be known: But, as she was weeping in the anguish of suspence, she discovered hanging on the wrist the remains of a ruffle, round which there was a slight border of her own work. Thus suddenly to have discovered, and in such dreadful circumstances, that which she had sought, quite overwhelmed her, and she sunk down on the body. By the assistance of the servant, she was recovered to sensibility, but not to reason; she was seized at once with convulsions and madness; and a few hours after she was carried back to the village she expired.

Those who had heard the fate of whole battalions without pity, and the loss of a battle, by which their country would probably suffer irreparable damage, without concern, listened to a tale of private distress with uninterrupted attention. All regard to each other was for a while suspended; tears by degrees overflowed every eye, and every bosom became susceptible of pity: But the whole circle paused with evident regret, when the narrative was at an end: and would have been glad that such another could have been told, to continue their entertainment.--Such was the benevolence of pity! But a lady who had taken the opportunity of a very slight acquaintance to satisfy her curiosity, was touched with much deeper distress; and fainting in the struggle to conceal the emotions of her mind, fell back in her chair. An accident which was not sooner discovered, because every eye had been fixed upon the speaker, and all attention monopolized by the story. Every one, however, was ready to afford her assistance; and it was soon discovered, that she was mother to the lady whose distress had afforded so much virtuous pleasure to the company. It was not possible to tell her another story, which would revive the same sensations; and if it had, the world could not have bribed her to have heard it. Her affection to the sufferer was too strong to permit her, on this occasion, to enjoy the luxury of pity, and applaud her benevolence for sensations which shewed its defects. It would, indeed, be happy for us, if we were to exist only in this state of imperfection, that a greater share of sensibility is not allowed us; but if the mole, in the kindness of unerring Wisdom, is permitted scarce to distinguish light from darkness, the mole should not surely, be praised for the perspicuity of its sight.

Let us distinguish that malignity, which others confound with benevolence, and applaud as virtue, let the imperfection of nature, which is adapted to this imperfect state, teach us humility; and fix our dependence upon Him, who has promised to “create in us a new heart and a right spirit,” and to receive us to that place, where our love of others, however ardent, can only increase our felicity; because, in that place, there will be no object, but such as perfect benevolence can contemplate with delight.

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REMARKABLE OCCURRENCE.

Mr. Cecil, assuming the name of Jones, some years since, purchased a small piece of land, and built on it a neat house on the edge of a common in Wiltshire. Here he long resided, unknowing, and almost unknown, by the neighbourhood. Various conjectures were formed respecting this solitary and singular stranger; at length a clergyman took some notice of him, and occasionally inviting him to his house, he found him possessed of intelligence and manners, which evidently indicated his origin to have been in the higher stations of life. Returning one day from a visit at this clergyman’s, he passed the house of a farmer, at the door of which was the daughter employed at the washing-tub. He looked at the girl a moment, and thus accosted her.--“My girl, would you like to be married?” “Sir!” exclaimed the girl.---“I asked you, young woman, whether you would wish to be married; because, if you would, I will marry you,” “Lord, Sir! these are strange questions from a man I never saw in my life before.” “Very likely,” replied Mr. Jones; “but, however, I am serious, and will leave you till ten o’clock to-morrow to consider of it; I will then call on you again, and if I have your and your father’s consent, we will be married the following day.”

He kept his appointment, and meeting with the father, he thus addressed him: “Sir, I have seen your daughter; I should like her for a wife; and I am come to ask your consent.” “This proposal,” answered the old man, “is very extraordinary from a perfect stranger: Pray, sir, who are you? and what are you?” “Sir,” replied Mr. J. “you have a right to ask these questions: my name is Jones; the new house on the edge of the common is mine, and if it be necessary, I can purchase your house and farm, and half the neighbourhood.”

Another hour’s conversation, brought all parties into one mind, and the friendly clergyman aforementioned united the happy pair. Three or four years they lived in this retirement, and were blessed with two children. Mr. J. employed great part of his time in improving his wife’s mind, but never disclosing his own origin. At length, upon taking a journey of pleasure with her, while remarking the beauties of the country, he noticed and named the different gentlemen’s seats as they passed; and coming to a very magnificent one, “This, my dear,” said he, “is Burleigh house, the seat of the earl of Exeter, and, if you please, we will go in and ask leave to look at it: it is an elegant house, and probably will amuse you.”

The nobleman who possessed this mansion was lately dead. He once had a nephew, who, in the gaities of his youth, had incurred some debts, on account of which he had retired from fashionable life on about 200l. per annum, and had not been heard of for some years. This nephew was the identical Mr. Jones, the hero of our story, who now took possession of the house, title, and estate, and is the present earl of Exeter!

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A PLEASING REVERIE.

Conducted by Contemplation, I found myself in the fertile regions of Imagination; Genius and Education had dispersed those mists which are the offspring of Prejudice. My soul, seized with the fire of Enthusiasm, took her flight to scenes which mortals have not yet dared to explore. I penetrated the inmost recesses of the temple of that Virtue, by the exercise of whose attributes mortals are almost elevated to the mighty inhabitants of heaven. At the porch of this edifice stood blooming Temperance, and meek Religion with uplifted eye. At the feet of Temperance laid grovelling Austerity, accompanied with the meagre crowd of penitential Fasts. Cloathed in black, at the feet of Religion, appeared Superstition, with her attendants, Folly, Enthusiasm, and Hypocrisy. In vain they endeavoured to enter the temple of Virtue; Temperance and Religion united, stood the shock of their numberless hosts! Having passed the porch, my divine guide left me to the care of Liberality of Mind: “You heed not my advice; follow her dictates and they will assuredly conduct thee to Virtue.” As we proceeded, Liberality of Mind made me acquainted with the names of these moral virtues by whose aid the throne of the goddess is ascended. “He who perpetually points to the divine throne, is Philosophy. He unfolds the various secrets of nature, which are hid from the ignorant. Before him is Contemplation; and behind him, Imagination, who has given birth to so many hypotheses. See Fortitude, with her eye of fire, disdaining every allurement the earth affords: after whom follows Resignation to the will of Providence; and here, behold----” I now saw Virtue enthroned; with Benevolence one side, and on the other that celestial power who teaches men to controul their mortal passions. Virtue’s glory did not blaze forth; her fire was that which burnt continually the same equal flame; unlike the glare of vice, which greatly blazes forth for the moment, but soon leaves us in eternal darkness!

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SATIRE.

General satyrists are usually tinctured with a degree of misanthropy; they dislike the species for the faults of individuals, and they attribute to the whole, what is due only to a small portion of mankind. This talent of prying into the infirmities of human nature, is frequently useful to the public; it is always inconvenient to the possessor; it corrects the vanity, the affectation, and the vices of other men, but it breeds conceit, pride, obstinacy and peevishness in the mind of the owner. Though it maybe founded on good sense, it destroys the best fruits of that invaluable blessing---self-happiness. One cannot declaim against the world without dreading some retribution; the satirist in the full career of triumph, trembles at the thoughts of being hated by those he pretends to despise, and he commonly meets with that contempt which he so liberally bestows.

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NEW-YORK.

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MARRIED,

On Tuesday the 27th ult. at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Hart, Mr. PHENEAS SILLS, of Cow-Harbour, to Mrs. REBECCA WHITE, of Crab-Meadow.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. CHARLES CORNELL, of Long Island, to Miss SALLY BUXTON, of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Nesbit, Mr. HENRY DAWSON, jun. of Brooklyn (L.I.) to Miss MARIAH HICKS, daughter of Mr. Jacob Hicks of that place.

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_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 8th to the 14th inst._

_Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._
_Prevailing winds._
_OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3.
100 100
Jan. 8 3 50 15 n. ne. clear, light wind.
9 0 16 n. do. clear high wd. clear lt. wd.
10 3 50 24 25 nw. sw. frost, clear lt. wd. clear do.
11 23 36 e. se. cloudy lt. wd. much rain.
12 32 50 38 w. do. clear lt. wind, clear h. wd.
13 31 40 50 nw. w. clear lt. wd. do. do.
14 30 33 25 sw. ne. cloudy lt. wd. much rain

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A CHARM FOR ENNUI.

A MATRIMONIAL BALLAD.

Ye couples, who meet under Love’s smiling star,
Too gentle to skirmish, too soft e’er to jar;
Though cover’d with roses from Joy’s richest tree,
Near the couch of Delight lurks the dæmon _Ennui_.

Let the Muses gay lyre, like Ithuriel’s bright spear,
Keep this fiend, ye sweet brides, from approaching your ear;
Since you know the squat toad’s infernal _esprit_,
Never listen, like Eve, to the devil _Ennui_.

Let no gloom of your hall, no shade of your bower,
Make you think you behold this malevolent power:
Like a child in the dark, what you fear you will see;
Take courage, away flies the phantom _Ennui_.

O trust me, the powers both of person and mind,
To defeat this sly foe full sufficient you’ll find;
Should your eyes fail to kill him, with keen repartee,
You can sink the flat boat of th’invader _Ennui_.

If a cool _non-chalance_ o’er your _sposa_ should spread,
(For vapours will rise e’en on Jupiter’s head,)
O ever believe it, from jealousy free,
A thin passing cloud, not the fog of _Ennui_.

Of tender complainings tho’ Love be the theme,
O beware, my sweet friends, ’tis a dangerous scheme;
And tho’ often ’tis tried, mark the _pauvre mari_
Thus by kindness inclos’d in the coop of _Ennui_.

Let Confidence, rising such meanness above,
Drown the discord of doubt in the music of Love;
Your _duette_ shall thus charm in the natural key,
No sharps from vexation, no flats from _Ennui_.

But to you, happy husbands, in matters more nice,
The Muse, though a maiden, now offers advice;
O drink not too keenly your bumper of glee,
E’en extasy’s cup has some dregs of _Ennui_.

Tho’ Love for your lips fill with nectar his bowl,
Tho’ his warm bath of blessings inspirit your soul;
O swim not too far on Rapture’s high sea,
Lest you sink unawares in the gulph of _Ennui_.

Impatient of law, Passion oft will reply--
Against limitations I’ll plead till I die!
But chief-justice Nature rejects the vain plea,
And such culprits are doom’d to the gaol of _Ennui_.

When husband and wife are of honey too fond,
They’re like poison’d carp at the top of a pond;
Together they gape o’er a cold dish of tea,
Two muddy-sick fish in the net of _Ennui_.

Of indolence most, ye mild couples, beware,
For the myrtles of Love often hide her soft snare;
The fond doves in their net, from his pounce cannot flee,
But the lark in the morn ’scapes the dæmon _Ennui_.

Let cheerful good-humour, that sunshine of life,
Which smiles in the maiden, illumine the wife;
And mutual attention, in equal degree,
Keep Hymen’s bright chain from the rust of _Ennui_.

To the graces together, O fail not to bend,
And both to the voice of the Muses attend;
So Minerva, for you shall with Cupid agree,
And preserve your chaste flame from the smoke of _Ennui_.

* * * * *
* * * *

ELEGY.

Chill JANUARY waves his wither’d hand,
With magic touch he rifles Nature’s charms;
He speaks and frowns--Earth hears the hoarse command,
And sinks obedient to his icy arms.

With paler lustre now the distant sun,
On every branch from fretted hoar frost gleams;
Enchain’d and barr’d their former course to run,
In icy bonds are held the chrystal streams.

Each fairest work of lib’ral Nature dies,
Whene’er the proud imperious tempest bids;
With clouds becapt, to prop the lowering skies,
The snow-clad mountains lift their hoary heads.

Their leafy honours shed, the naked trees,
Stretch helpless forth their bare unshelter’d arms;
Imploring Spring, on wings of tepid breeze,
To wake once more to life their native charms.

Ah! ponder well, my soul, th’ instructive scene--
Scarce four short months the circling year has run,
Since blooming nature smil’d a chearful green,
And infant flow’rets drank the early sun.

Thus childhood smiles serene---the spring of life
One fleeting hour---and all its joys are past;---
Youth next, ’tween hope and fear eternal strife,
Like Summer, sunshine now, and now with clouds o’ercast.

Next manhood comes---like Autum comes---is fled,
And age like hoary Winter, gloomy, grave,
Now silvers o’er sage Wisdom’s sacred head,
And o’er his bosom spreads the blossoms of the grave.

Now comes the last most awful scene of all---
Life’s glimmering landscape dim before the sight;
Death’s sable hand outspreads his sooty pall;
We humble---breathe a prayer---then sink in night!

Prepare, thou fluttering soul, prepare for death---
With dauntless foot to tread the beaten road;
And oh! when this frail clay resigns its fleeting breath,
Exulting spring unfetter’d to thy God.

Ne’er dies the soul---the grave not ends its being;
A ray divine will pierce the awful gloom;
Eternal there shall smile a living Spring!
The soul eternal blossom in the tomb!

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VERSES
To a Young Lady, on the Death of a Companion.

When beats your heart with young desire,
May love a mutual glow inspire;
And when at Hymen’s shrine you bow,
May innocence smile on your vow;
And Joy and Peace illume your way,
As thro’ life’s varying scenes you stray:
So may you never, never, know the tear,
That now a lover pours o’er his Amelia’s bier!

NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. No. 115, Cherry-street+-- where +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received--And at No. 33, +Oliver-Street+._

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_UTILE DULCI._

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

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, January 25, 1797.+ [+No. 82.+

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

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ESSAYIST. No. II.

“To give reflection time, with lenient art,
“Each fond delusion from her soul to steal.”

MASON.

To review the transactions of former days, the many sportive hours which have long been past, and to recall the pleasures of innocence and virtue, is both pleasing and instructive; pleasing, because it delights the heart with joys it once participated, and of which, while animated with the prospect, tho’ only the delusive paintings of imagination, it seems even now to partake; instructive, because it presents our progress in happiness and virtue, or the mournful reverse our deviation from innocence and rectitude. But it is particularly pleasing to look back on the scenes of youth and childhood; we review those seasons of life with the greatest partiality and delight. ’Twas then health and beauty bloomed upon the cheek, and every object was decked with the charms of fascination. ’Twas then the heart ignorant of vice and unacquainted with sorrow or misfortune, enjoyed every pleasure without alloy. There are likewise other parts of life which occupy the moment of reflection: the learned dwell with rapture on the hours spent in the acquirement of knowledge and instruction, the ambitious on their gradual progression to wealth and fame, and the brave on the many dangers and hardships they have undergone in the field of battle. Reflection is especially the attendant of age, it assists to enliven the many vacant hours which are common at this period. The aged almost feel their strength renewed in recounting their former seats of activity, and their hearts are animated by the virtuous deeds they have performed.

Happy then is he who having spent his days in the practice of every public and social virtue, reviews the past actions of his life with chearfulness and content: the pleasures of reflection shall chear the listless moments of decrepitude and age, and shall convey peace and comfort to his bosom in those moments when present enjoyments have lost their relish. Tho’ he no more can perceive the splendour of the sun, and the various beauties of creation: tho’ incapable of hearing the most harmonious music, and of enjoying the choicest delicacies; still shall the power of his mind survive the general ruin, and reflection chear him in the evening of his days.

A. D.

_Jan. 15, 1797._

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FELICITY EQUALLY DISTRIBUTED.

Among the different conditions and ranks of men, the balance of happiness is preserved in a great measure equal; and the high and low, the rich and the poor, approach in point of real enjoyment much nearer to each other than is commonly imagined. Providence never intended that any state here should either be completely happy, or entirely miserable.

If the feelings of pleasure are more numerous and more lively, in the higher departments of life, such also are those of pain. If greatness flatters our vanity, it multiplies our dangers.--If opulence increases our gratifications, it increases in the same proportion our desires and demands.--If the poor are confined to a more narrow circle, yet within that circle lie most of those natural satisfactions, which, after all the refinements of art, are found to be the most genuine and true. For the happiness of every man depends more upon the state of his own mind than upon any one external circumstance; nay, more than upon all external things put together.

Inordinate passions are the great disturbers of life; and unless we possess a good conscience, and a well governed mind, discontent will blast every enjoyment, and the highest prosperity will only prove disgusted misery. This conclusion then would be fixed in the mind: The destruction of virtue is the destruction of peace. In no station---in no period are we secure from the dangers which spring from our passions. Every age, and every station they beset, from youth to grey hairs, and from the peasant to the prince.

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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 227.)

“Yet you have demonstrated nothing else but that we cannot see _pure_ spirits; we may, nevertheless, be capable of seeing spirits in bodily clothing.”

“This I grant without the least hesitation, for daily experience proves it. We see _men_, of course we see spirits in _bodily clothing_.”

“You fancy to escape me by this turn; but you are mistaken. You allow that we can see spirits if clothed in a bodily covering.”

“What we _see_ is always nothing but the bodily covering; but we must _conclude_ by other marks and circumstances, whether it be inhabited by a spirit. Besides, there is in the whole dominion of our _sensible_ knowledge not one being that answers our idea of a spirit; this idea has been produced merely by _reasoning_, and therefore a spirit never can become an object of our _perception_.”

“Very strange!” the Duke replied, shaking his head; “the Irishman has said much the same, and nevertheless, he hit upon an expedient of proving to me the possibility of apparitions.”

“I have read that argument; it is taken from the dialectic. This circumstance alone ought to have made you suspect it. Or are you such a novice in that science that you should not know how pliable it is to accommodate itself to all opinions? Those philosophers who fancy all the beings of the whole creation to be spirits, as well as those who deny the existence of God, draw their arguments from that source. Is there any absurdity that could not be fitted to that baseless philosophy?”

“You are carrying matters too far. The Irishman did indeed propound several positions, which by their evidence enforce their claim to truth.”

“That I do not deny. A great deal of philosophical penetration is however required, if one shall be able to discern the truth and falsehood, which its assertion imply in a strange and m One feels indeed, frequently, the falsehood of sophistical subtilities without being able to refute them.”

“I should be glad to know what you have to object against the doctrine of the Irishman concerning the possibility of apparitions?”

“In order to do this, it will be necessary previously to abstract his doctrine.

“When a spirit, the Irishman says, operates on mine, then he is present to me. If I were a mere rational being, I then should be satisfied with _imagining_ the presence of the spirit, _without_ myself; but since I am a sensible being, by virtue of my nature, my imagination forms a corporeal idea of the object which my understanding _thinks_; that is, it forms an image of it. The presence of a spirit, therefore, puts my inferior intellectual powers in motion by means of the superior ones; I do not only imagine it merely without myself, but I perceive, at the same time, a shape answerable to it; I not only collect the ideas which he produces in my mind, but, at the same time, shape them in words. In short, I see the spirit and hear him speak.--Do you think, my friend, that I have comprehended the doctrine of the Irishman?”

“Perfectly!”

“The shape in which I see the spirit is, consequently, no real substance, but only the product of my sensitive power of perception, of my imagination.”

“Very right.”

“Consequently, the seeing of a spirit is, indeed, founded on a spiritual influx, which, however, is formed and shaped at pleasure by our imagination; therefore, on every apparition of spirits truth would be intermixed with illusion, and the notions which have been instilled in our mind by our education, and all the prejudices we have imbibed in our infancy, would act an important part on every occasion of that kind?”

“I perceive what you are aiming at.”

“Then tell me, what would the gift of seeing spirits and ghosts benefit us, since the spiritual effect could not but be interwoven so closely with the phantoms of our imagination, that it would be impossible to discern reality from the gross illusions which it is surrounded with?”

The Duke was absorbed in silent meditation, and I continued:---

“Don’t you see that _superstition_ thus would be at full liberty to exercise its sway over us, because we would be led to believe that even the most absurd delusions of our imagination _could possibly_ be founded on a spiritual influx?”

The Duke continued to be silent, and I resumed.--

“And don’t you see that it would be impossible to discern a ghost-seer from a lunatic?”

The Duke started up: “How, from a lunatic?”

“Undoubtedly. The characteristic of lunacy consists in mistaking mere objects of the imagination for real substances, existing without ourselves, the original cause of which is a convulsion of the vessels of our brain, which are put out of their equilibrium. This suspension of the equilibrium can arise either from weakness of nerves, or from too strong a pressure of the blood towards the head, and mere phantoms of our imagination then appear to us, even while awake, to be real objects without ourselves. Although such an image should be but faint at first, yet the consternation at such an apparition, so contrary to the natural order of things, would soon excite the attention, and impart to the phantom a vivacity that would not suffer the deluded person to doubt its reality. It is therefore very natural; for the visionary fancies he sees and hears very plainly, what no person besides him perceives, or imagines he sees such phantoms appear and disappear suddenly, when they are gamboling only before _one_ sense that of _sight_, without being perceived through another sense; for example, that of _feeling_, and therefore appear to be penetrable. The distemper of the visionary does not affect the understanding immediately, but only the senses; in consequence of which the unhappy wretch cannot remove the delusion by arguments of reason, because the real or supposed perception through the senses, always antecedes the judgment of the understanding, and possesses an immediate evidence which surpasses all reflection. For which reason I can blame no person who treats the ghost-seers as candidates for the lunatic hospital, instead of looking upon them as people belonging, partly, to another world.”

“Marquis, Marquis!” the Duke said, smiling, “you use the ghost-seers very ill. I should leave them entirely at your mercy, if the Irishman had not promised to communicate to me a criterion by which one can discern real apparitions from vain phantoms of the imagination.”

“It is a pity he has only promised it, it being probable that this promise will not be performed with greater punctuality than the rest of his engagements.”

“The event will prove how much you wrong him.”

“But what would you say, if I could prove that he can communicate to you no criterion of that nature?”

“If you could do this---”

“Nothing is easier. The criterion whereby a real apparition of a ghost could be discerned from an illusion, must be either external or internal: that is, you must be able to ascertain the presence of a ghost, either by means of your senses, or by conclusions deduced from the impression your mind receives. Don’t you think so?”

“It would be much safer if these two criterions co-existed.”

“It would be sufficient if only one of these two criterions were possible. However, you shall soon be convinced that neither can be proved. Whatever you perceive, or suppose you perceive by means of your senses, in case of an apparition, is either a real material object, whereby perhaps an impostor, perhaps nature, who is so inexhaustable in her effects, or an accidental meeting of uncommon incidents surprises you; or it is an object that exists no where but in your heated imagination; what you perceive through your senses never can be the spirit himself, because spirits are incorporeal beings, and therefore neither can be seen, heard, nor felt; it is, consequently, evident that no external criterion of the reality of an apparition can exist.”

“This, I think, cannot be disputed.”

“But there exists perhaps an internal criterion. In order to decide this question, let us consider what passes in the human mind when a ghost appears. First of all, a lively idea of the presence of a ghost takes place, and sensations of terror, astonishment and awe arise---however, this idea and these sensations may be nothing else but the consequence of an uncommon, though natural external impression of a feverish fancy, and consequently never can be indubitable proofs of the presence of spirits. But perhaps the presence of spirits is ascertained by the co-existence of certain extraordinary notions, sensations, and cognitions! This too cannot be, for we must be convinced that they could not arise in our soul in a natural manner, if we shall be able to ascertain their having been produced by the influence of a spirit. In that case it would be requisite we should know the whole store of our clear and obscure ideas, all their reciprocal relations, and all possible compositions which our imagination can form of them, a knowledge that is reserved only for the omniscient Ruler of the world. If we happen sometimes, in our dreams, to have the most wonderful visions, to reason in the most sensible manner, to discover new truths, and to predict incidents which afterwards really happen; why should not the same faculty of the soul which produces such uncommon effects in our dreams, surprise us sometimes with similar operations while we are awake, when it is agitated in a violent manner? In short, my friend, there exists neither an internal nor an external criterion whereby we could ascertain the reality of an apparition.”

“O how insufficient is human reason!” the Duke groaned, “how ambiguous the faculty through which we fancy we resemble the Godhead, and that guides us much unsafer than instinct directs brutes. But a short time since I thought it to be consonant with reason to believe in apparitions of ghosts, and now I am convinced of the contrary. Your arguments have pulled down what those of the Irishman have constructed, and thus I am constantly driven from one belief to the opposite one. Where shall I find, at length, a fixed point to rest upon? O! how happy is he, who undisturbed by the restless instinct of thinking, and of investigating the nature of things, rests in the lap of faith!”

(_To be continued._)

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REASON.

O Reason; Heaven-born Reason; image of Supreme Intelligence which created the world, never will I forsake thy altars; but to continue faithful to thee, will disdain alike the hatred of some, the ingratitude of others, and the injustice of all. Reason, whose empire is so congenial and so pleasing to souls of feeling, and hearts of true elevation: Reason, celestial Reason, our guide and support in the labyrinth of life; alas! whither wilt thou fly in this season of discord and maddening fury? The oppressors will have nothing to say to thee, and thou art rejected by the oppressed. Come then, since the world abandons thee, to inhabit the retreat of the sage; dwell there protected by his vigilance, and honoured by the expressive silence of his worship. One day thou wilt appear again attired in all thy glory, while imposition and deceit shall vanish into nothing. At that period perhaps I shall be no more; yet permit the shade of thy departed advocate to rest in full assurance of thy pre-eminence and glorious reign:---The hope, the pleasing anticipation of the happiness that will then be diffused through the world, affords me consolations of the most soothing and satisfactory nature.

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[[For sources, see the end of the second installment.]]

+The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,+
A Story, Founded on Facts.

If the heart hitherto satisfied and happy in the long-preserved ideas of rectitude and honour, rational enjoyment, and the sweets of domestic felicity, should now, strongly tempted by the fatal fascinations of vice, be meditating a departure from virtue, and this relation prove the means of preserving its owner from error and delusion, the wishes of the writer will be accomplished: or if those already engaged in pursuits that, however brilliant and alluring to the giddy votaries of false enjoyment, must eventually terminate in confusion, and the loss of every thing that ought to be held dear, become, from this story convinced of the necessity of an altered conduct, well repaid, indeed, will be the recorder of scenes, which, for the sake of society at large, he hopes will be found less and less frequent in the present age of true refinement and unaffected sensibility.

Mr. Alton, once amply possessed of the gifts of fortune, and surrounded with every earthly blessing, suddenly left his weeping lady, then pregnant, and an infant son, and fled from the pursuit of justice.

He had violated the laws of religion, honour and his country, by seducing from her duty the wife of his friend; a duel was the consequence, and the injured husband lost his life in the fatal rencounter.

Immediate flight was Mr. Alton’s only resource; therefore, regardless of every feeling but such as arose for his own safety, he precipitately left his native country, completely wretched, and loaded with all the horrors of guilt and dismay.

A short time after his arrival in Italy, his means of support failed; extravagance and dissipation had ruined his fortunes, and he must soon have fled from importunate creditors, had not this still more dreadful cause forced him from his wretched family.

As he had acquired the art of becoming fortunate at play, his talents that way were now brought forward, and an uncommon run of success soon enabled him to shine forth again in a foreign country with the same splendour he once displayed in his own.

Again engaged in frivolous pursuits of expence and pleasure, his light and worthless heart soon dismissed every trace of remorse for the distress and anguish he had occasioned in the family of his murdered friend, and the utter ruin brought on his deserted wife and children.

Possessing every art of genteel address, an elegant person, assisted with all the powers of soft persuasion, he soon (under the name of Freeman, not daring to use his real one) won upon the heart of a young lady of exalted birth, whom he privately married.

Her friends at first forbade them their presence, but the young and beautiful Italian being a much-loved and only child, they soon yielded to excuses and professions which he too well knew how to frame, and at length received them to favour and protection.

Many years passed on without a returning thought of former connections he had heard long since, by private means, that his first lady had fallen a victim to a broken heart, leaving the care of a son and daughter to her afflicted father, who had little remaining to support them, the necessities of the unprincipled and unfeeling Alton having almost drained his once ample fortune.

And here it is necessary to inform the reader, that the poor old gentleman did not long survive the loss of his child. But heaven raised up a friend to her offspring: this friend, who delighted in acts of mercy, adopted the two innocents, as his own, making over to them his estate and _his name_.