Chapter L: Le Fevre (15)

A young gentleman of the name of Easton, often visited at Mr. Freeman’s, whose house was always open to people of fashion; and though their years did not correspond, yet the former still carried an appearance of youth and gaiety, assisted by an uncommon share of health, and a heart feelingly alive to every call of pleasure.

Alike dissolute in manners and inclination, an intimacy soon commenced between them. The present Mrs. Freeman, who, before her marriage, experienced every indulgence and attention from parents who adored her, had too early an occasion to lament her misplaced love, and unhappy choice.

Never, but in the hours of inebriation, did she experience any thing like attention and kindness from the man who owed every thing to her. Then, indeed, he would utter rhapsodies of affection, alike destitute of sincerity as of reason.

And now, their only child (a beautiful young lady who had just attained her 13th year, the only companion of her pensive mother, to whom she was indeed a real comfort, dutiful affection and endearing sensibility having lightened many a painful day) was visited by a fever, which robbed her afflicted parent of her sole remaining blessing. This calamity deeply affected them both. The impression made on Mrs. Freeman brought on a decline, which proved fatal--bereft of every earthly happiness, she looked up to that heaven she had been long preparing for, and in a short time obtained dismission from a world, from which she had been weaned by trouble, and the unkind neglect of a husband she had loved but too well.

Mr. Freeman put on the outward “trappings and the suits of woe”--but wanted “that within,” which goes beyond every external appearance.

Pomp and parade, indeed, attended her remains to the silent tomb; but these were not accompanied with the husband’s tear. The monument was raised on which his sorrows were recorded, but, cold and senseless as the marble which received that record, his heart was a stranger to those feelings that dignify the husband, the father, and the man.

(_To be concluded in our next._)

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+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
[Written by Herself.]

(Continued from our last.)

The first instant I could retire, I retreated to my chamber, my mind embarrassed with the cruelest sensations: grief and astonishment at his mean situation. I wished, yet durst not go to the garden; unconscious of art, I feared I might betray unguardedly the too fond sentiments of my soul. The next day my maid brought me a beautious bouquet; she said the gardener had culled it from the choicest of his flowers---a sigh heaved my bosom at this present---I dismist her---a paper was rolled round, a presentiment struck me it might contain something interesting==I hastily tore it from the flowers, and read the following lines:

“Will the loveliest of her sex pardon the presumption of an unfortunate man, the early victim of calamity?==will she deign to peruse a relation of those woes which have reduced him to the disgraceful station he now fills==an irresistible impulse prompts this request; if ’tis granted, write a line and drop it in the garden==in expectation of such a favour, I will keep in sight, and then by the first opportunity transmit my narrative to you.”

Tears gushed from me on perusing this note, heavens! what anguish rent my breast at my inability to succour him. Without the smallest hesitation, I complied with his request, and instantly wrote the note he desired. The next day, concealed in a basket of fruit which he sent me, I found the ardently desired paquet, containing the history of his life.

“Prompted by an inclination not to be supprest, I sit down to relate a tale full of woe to her, whose gentle heart will yield the soft tribute of sensibility.

“Early in life fortune loured on my parents, and their misfortunes are, I fear, entailed upon their wretched offspring. My father’s name was Harland, he was descended from a noble family, whose possessions tho’ large, could keep no pace with unbounded prodigality; the fortune was so dissipated, that but a residue remained sufficient to purchase him a commission. Courage glowed in his breast and he distinguished himself by many a gallant action in a tedious war which England undertook against France. At the expiration of it he married a woman, rich only in rectitude and beauty, and retired from a profession which had but ill rewarded his activity. For some time they struggled against adversity---the fell adversary at length overcame. Two children of whom I was the eldest, aggravated the horrors of their condition; he could scarcely support them, as his half-pay afforded but a few of even the necessaries of life. In this situation he was discovered by a friend, possessed of affluence, who was single; as he had always exprest an aversion to matrimony, he inherited pride enough however to wish his name might be continued. Actuated by this wish, he made a proposal to my parents which they gladly embraced---it was adopting me for his heir. I was then five years old, he shortly brought me to his estate for he had only made an occasional visit to the shire where my father resided; his understanding was rather weak, his chief foible a credulous susceptibility to flattery; he treated me however, with tenderness, and I was considered by every one as his future heir. At a proper age, he sent me to Oxford to complete my studies; I made a proficiency there that pleased him, and he declared I should be indulged in chusing a profession. Every vacation I spent with him. In one, ere I was an hour arrived, he mentioned with peculiar pleasure an acquisition his neighbourhood had lately received from a most agreeable family settling in it. Mr. and Mrs. Wilford with their two sons, he affirmed, I should like; but he was mistaken, a servility ran thro’ the family highly disgusting to a liberal mind; I found them all replete with flattery and meanness. A domestic who had ever evinced the strongest partiality for me, cautioned me against them; he said he was acquainted with their arts, and bid me beware, as they were almost continually with his master, wheedling and indulging his favourite foible. Unskilled in the treachery of man, I neglected this caution, I judged of them by myself, I imagined them all as free from guile. Fatal experience however, that school of wisdom, undeceived me. I thought also it was impossible any person could be so perfidious, as after promising protection, to withdraw it without cause. Mr. T---- convinced me such perfidy existed. By the next vacation my studies were completed, and I returned full of pleasing expectations, that my adopted father would now indulge me in chusing a profession, which of all others I admired--a military life, for like Douglas, I longed to follow to the field some warlike lord.

“Mr. T----’s reception surprized me, it was cold and reserved; whenever his eyes met mine, a guilty confusion covered his face. Base, worthless man! no wonder. Two days after my arrival, he sent for me to his library, for some moments he was silent, then in hesitating accents began a long preamble of his generosity to my father, in so long supporting me, and giving me an education suitable to the first man in the kingdom, of which he supposed I must be sensible; an assenting bow was my only reply: and he continued: his relations, he said, began with justice to murmer, at the intention he had conceived of bequeathing me his fortune, to whom no tie connected him, that he had discarded the idle idea of adopting me, and added, my education was such as to inspire me with hopes of a speedy establishment; to forward which, he would give two hundred pounds, and on every occasion I might depend upon his friendly interest. He stopt; amazement harrowed my soul, and indignation tied my tongue. But on repeating his words, and offering me the money, I dashed it from his hand, and in a phrenzy of fury rushed from the house. I guessed full well the authors of my misery, the vile Wilfords, who, in my absence, by the most servile arts, ingratiated themselves with Mr. T----. He abandoned me for their sons. Hours I continued walking about his demesne almost unconscious of my being; the insult I had received, the disappointment of all my hopes was too much for a naturally impetuous temper. When reason a little calmed my passion, I resolved immediately to repair to my parents. I had not seen them since my infancy, though my wishes to behold them were great. Mr. T---- always prevented my gratifying them, as they lived at an extreme distance from him. Nothing will intimidate a youthful mind when bent on executing a favourite project; on foot, therefore, without consideration, I began my journey; no pleasing thoughts soothed my breast or beguiled the tedious way. The third day I conjectured I must be pretty near their habitation; filial piety sprung in my breast and quickened my steps at the idea; a pleasing calm diffused itself over my soul in anticipating the rapture of the paternal embrace---a dusky hue was beginning to steal along the expanse, and sober evening had taken ‘her wonted station in the middle air.’

“A Church-yard lay on one side of the road, and the only separation between them was a slight broom hedge. I thought I heard the plaintive voice of woe. I looked and discerned a venerable man, whose figure must have moved even the sullen apathy of the stoic. He was seated on a new-made grave--his grey locks displayed his age, and he appeared bending beneath the pressure of misfortune--his eyes were now watering the grave, now cast up to heaven, with a settled look of despair. I could not pass him unnoticed--I entered this mournful receptacle of death--too much absorbed, he had not heeded me, till a sigh burst from my oppressed heart. Without starting, he raised his head, and cried, who seeks this dreary spot?--One, I replied, pierced by adversity, who is hastening to a parent’s bosom, where his wounds may receive the balm of consolation. Struck by your distress, I could not pass you, a secret impulse rose in my soul, I wished to hear your woes. Alas! young man, he answered, my woes are of the severest kind. I indulged hope, I listened to its idle prattle, I thought to have spent the remnant of my days in peace--but the shafts of affliction were let loose against me--they pierced this aged breast---it once had courage, resolution---I now can boast of none---grief has subdued it---yesterday’s sun beheld the darling of my age consigned to the earth---the worm will soon begin to feast upon the beautious cheek I have so often kist with all the idolizing warmth of a parent; but she is happy, an angel---his voice faultered---Nature demands those tears from me as her just tribute---the virtues of my child too--he could not proceed, a sob stifled his words---after an interval, he continued. I have a wife, she is dying, blest release from misery, yet frail fortitude would not enable me to see her depart. She raved for her child---I wept---she called for food---I shuddered---I had none---I crawled from the house to this grave---it has been watered with my tears. Unhappy man! ill-fated Harland--------Harland! repeated I with emotion---Great God! pardon me, had you a son?---Yes, the hopes of his happiness mitigates my despair. A friend adopted him, and promised to shelter his youthful head from the misery I feel. Since the five first years of his life I have not beheld him. Now, cried I, catching him in my arms, you behold him ---blasted his ardent expectations, returned a beggar to you. For a moment he was silent, then raising his hands to heaven, exclaimed, thy will be done, Almighty Father! this is the final stroke. How fallacious are the promises of men. Well does the holy book of infinite wisdom advise---Put not your trust in princes or the children of men.

“Come, my child, my poor deceived son, let us hasten to your mother, perhaps she lives, you may receive her blessing. But why should I minutely dwell on this melancholy subject? No, amiable Miss Blandford, I will not pain your generously susceptible heart. In a fortnight I paid the last mournful tribute to both my parents. Half insensible of existence, I continued till a happy destiny conducted me to the spot where so providentially I assisted in saving you---again I was the instrument of preserving a life so infinitely precious. Oh, Miss Blandford! at your sight sensations unknown before rose in my breast! Pardon my presumption. My mind open to each soft impression---such a form, such sweetness, no wonder. The keenest distress reduced me to my present situation. I had no friends to whom I could apply for assistance. In my tranquil days I had taken pleasure in cultivating small spots of ground, and rearing

All the lowly children of the vale.

In this situation I mix not with the other domestics---that indeed I could not bear. Fortune in degrading my rank has left my spirit unsubdued. Pardon me, Madam, for having engrossed so much of your time. I could not resist the wish of acquainting you with the occurrences that have reduced me to this station. Farewell, most amiable of women, may smiling peace ever hover round you, prays

E. H.”

(_To be continued._)

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ANECDOTES OF THE LATE EMPEROR OF GERMANY.

The Emperor being at supper at Paris, with Count de Vergennes, the French minister, and discoursing of French affairs, he advised the Count to announce a national bankruptcy, in order to clear France of all her debts: to this he was answered---“Should such an event take place, your Majesty’s own subjects in Brabant would lose more than eighty millions.” “Do not let that deter you (answered Joseph,) give me half that sum, and you shall have my assent.”

At the time of the affair with the Dutch concerning the Schelt, which terminated so shamefully for Joseph, talking with his head gardner, the gardner asked permission to write to Haarlem for a few slips of flowers, which he wanted. The Emperor started from his seat; his eyes flashing fire==“No, said he, you shall not write. Within six weeks I will fetch them myself from Haarlem, at the head of my army.” Within that time the affair was finished with disgrace. So positive was he of success, and so sure always to fail.

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_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

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ORIGINAL OBSERVATION.

Though some giddy girls are silly enough to delight in panegyric, unrestrained compliments, yet all women of sense do heartily despise the wanton effusions of an indiscreet and excessive complaisance.---And whoever is much in the world will find, that most ladies are more apt to regard the man of plain sense and unaffected behaviour, who speak as they think, and appear just what they are, than the most specious, insinuating hypocrite, or the most noisy pretender.

E.

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At the request of a Correspondent, we give the following LETTER
a place:--- It is extracted from a London periodical publication---
and, notwithstanding the errors in the orthography and diction of
it, the author had the pleasure of making a conquest.

* * *

_My dear charmin Cratur,_

If your brite eies have had the same efet upon others, they have been after havin upon me, you must already, like Samson, have slain your Tousands, though not with the same sort of weepor. For _I_ had no sooner beheld you tother nite at Rennela, than your two little percers darted their poysen quite thro my hart, and killed me on the spot. So that _I_ immediately determined to find you out, that _I_ may he revenged of you. So havin done so, as sed before, _I_ now write to tell you my situashon; and to begg that you woud have compashon on a lover that lies bleedin at your fete.

If you have not the hart of a she tygres, you will admit me to your presance, most adorable cratur, that _I_ may have the plashure of dyin in your beloved site. And if you shall be after bein so kind as to relent of your crewelty, and rais your expirin lover, _I_ will lay my fortun and my honers in the same place where _I_ laid myself, and raise you in your turn to be Lady O’----l. For _I_ vow by the great Shant Patrick, that _I_ love you better than ever _I_ loved any women except yourself.

And _I_ further vow by the holy shrine of Shant Patrick aforesed, that _I_ will not outliv the fatal anser you send me. But as you are as far above all your sex in buty, as the glorius sun is above the palfaced moon and the little twinklin stars, _I_ dout not but you exced them as much in goodness. Therfore _I_ will not dispare, but hope that you will send me word by your confidante, at what hower _I_ shall have the plashure of waitin upon you, to receve from your own pretty mouth my destinny. Till when, _I_ remane, most enchantin and angelic cratur,

Your’s whether livin or dyin,

_Sir ROUKE O’----L, Barrownite._

P.S. Pray let me kno when _I_ shall call for an anser, as _I_ do not chuse to send any boddy else but myself.

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ANECDOTE.

When Peter the Great visited Paris, he was conducted to the Sorbonne, where they shewed him the famous mausoleum of Cardinal Richelieu. He asked whose statue it was, and they told him: the view of this grand object threw him into an enthusiastic rapture, which he always felt on the like occasion, so that he immediately ran to embrace the statue, saying, “Oh! that thou wert but still living; _I_ would give thee one half my empire to govern the other.”

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NEW-YORK.

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MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Roberts, Mr. PETER CUTLER, to Miss ESTHER JACOBS, both of this city.

Same evening, at Hempsted, by the Rev. Mr. Moore, Mr. VAN WYCK, of Flushing, (L.I.) to Miss THORNE, daughter of Capt. Thorne, of that place.

On Thursday evening the 12th inst. Mr. JOHN ROE, merchant, of this city, to Miss SUSANNAH R. STEVENS, of Perth-Amboy, (N.J.)

On Sunday the 15th inst. at East-Chester, by the Rev. Mr. Bartow, Capt. DAVID CARGILL, of this city, to Miss MARY SHUTE, daughter of Mr. Thomas Shute of that place.

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_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 15th to the 21st 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. 15 33 75 41 nw. w. clear light wd. clear do.
16 32 41 sw. nw. snow cr. lt. wd. clear do.
17 26 31 nw. do. clear high wd. clear h. wd.
18 23 50 32 se. s. sn. lt. wd. sn. 3 in. deep.
19 27 28 nw. n. clear lt. wd. clear lt. wd.
20 18 50 28 ne. do. cloudy lt. wd. cloudy do.
21 24 28 ne. do. sn. 4 in. deep, light wind.

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ELEGIAC SONNET.

Ye worldly, hence! that have not drank the stream
Of deep affliction at the fountain head;
That have not fondly gaz’d the dying---dead!
’Till the set eye refus’d the conscious gleam
That fed Affection with its parting beam;
Nor kiss’d the cold lips, whence the spirit fled,
Of her you lov’d beyond a poets dream:
And who but lately blest your genial bed!---

This, has the mourner at Amelia’s tomb;
And but one star illumes his night of gloom:---
As from its parent dust the phœnix soar’d,
Her infant self surviving seems to say---
The LORD has giv’n---the LORD has ta’en away;
For ever blessed be his name,---the LORD!

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+To the Editor,+

The following STANZA’S were recently written by that celebrated
Genius and Traveller Governor HENRY ELLIS, on seeing an infirm old
Man treated by a young rabble with indecent mockery in the Street
at PISA in Italy--a country where every inanimate vestage of
antiquity is viewed with so much veneration.

The mould’ring Tower, the antique bust,
The ruin’d temple’s sacred dust,
Are view’d with rev’rence and delight;
But man decay’d and sunk with years
And sad infirmities, appears
An object of neglect and slight.

Ah, thoughtless race! in youthful prime,
You mock the ravages of time,
As if you could elude its rage;
That piteous form which you despise,
With wrinkled front and beamless eyes;
That form, alas! you’ll take with age.

Some vital sparks that every day,
Time’s rapid pinion sweeps away,
Prepare you for that hapless state;
When left and slighted in your turn,
Your former levities you’ll mourn,
And own the justice of your fate.

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AN ELEGY.

[by the same.]

Near yon lone pile, with ivy overspread,
Fast by the riv’let’s peace-persuading sound;
Where sleeps the moonlight on yon verdant bed,
O, humbly press that consecrated ground!

For there does EDMUND rest--the learned swain!
And there his pale-ey’d phantom loves to rove:
Young EDMUND, fam’d for each harmonious strain,
And the sore wounds of ill-requited love.

Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
And loads the zephyr with its soft perfume;
His manhood blossom’d ere the faithless pride
Of fair LUCINDA sunk him to the tomb.

But soon did righteous Heav’n her crime pursue,
Where’er with wilder’d steps she wander’d pale;
Still EDMUND’s image rose to blast her view---
Still EDMUND’s voice accus’d her in each gale.

With keen remorse, and tortur’d guilt’s alarm,
Amid the pomp of affluence she pin’d;
Nor all that lur’d her faith from EDMUND’s arms,
Could sooth the conscious horrors of her mind.

Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught,
Some lovely maid perchance, or blooming youth,
May hold it in remembrance and be taught,
That riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

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ODE TO REFLECTION.

’Twas when Nature’s darling child,
Flora, fan’d by zephyrs mild,
Th’ gorgeous canopy outspread
O’er the sun’s declining head,
Wending from the buz of day,
Thus a bard attun’d his lay:

Bright Reflection, child of heav’n,
Noblest gift to mortals given,
Goddess of the pensive eye,
Glancing thro’ eternity,
Rob’d in intellectual light,
Come, with all thy charms bedight.

Tho’ nor fame, nor splendid worth,
Mark’d thy humble vot’ry’s birth,
Snatch’d by thee from cank’ring care,
I defy the fiend Despair;
All the joys that Bacchus loves,
All inglorious pleasure proves;
All the fleeting modish toys.
Buoy’d by Folly’s frantic noise;
All, except the sacred lore,
Flowing from thy boundless store!
For when thy bright form appears,
Even wild Confusion hears,
Chaos glows, impervious night
Shrinks from thy all-piercing sight;
Yet, alas! what vain extremes
Mortals prove in Error’s schemes
Sunk profound in torpor’s trance,
Or with levity they dance,
Or, in murmers deep, the soul
Thinks it bliss beyond the pole;
Bounding swift o’er time and place,
Vacant still thro’ boundless space,
Leaving happiness at home,
Thus the mental vagrants roam
But when thou with sober mien,
Deign’st to bless this wayward scene,
Like Aurora shining clear
O’er the mental hemisphere;
Who but hears a soothing strain
Warbling “Heaven’s ways are plain!”
Who but hears the charmer say,

“These obscure the living ray:----
“Self-love, the foulest fiend of night
“That ever stain’d the virgin-light,
“Coward, wretch, who shuns to share,
“Or sooth the woes that others bear;
“Envy with an eagle’s eye;
“Scandal’s tales that never die;
“Int’rest vile, with countless tongues,
“Trembling for ideal wrongs;
“Flatt’ry base, with supple knee,
“Cringing low servility:
“Prejudice, with eyes askew,
“Still suspecting ought that’s new,--
“Would but men from these refrain,
“Eden’s bow’rs would bloom again,
“Doubts in embryo melt away,
“Truth’s eternal sun-beams play!”

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, February 1, 1797.+ [+No. 83.+

THE PIEDMONTESE SHARPER.

In the year 1695, a Piedmontese, who stiled himself Count Caraffa, came to Vienna, and privately waited on the prime minister, pretending he was sent by the duke of Savoy on a very important affair, which they two were to negotiate without the privity of the French court. At the same time he produced his credentials, in which the duke’s seal and signature were very exactly imitated. He met with a very favourable reception, and, without affecting any privacy, took upon him the title of envoy extraordinary from the court of Savoy. He had several conferences with the imperial council, and made so great a figure in the most distinguished assemblies, that once at a private concert at court, the captain of the guard, denying him admittance, he demanded satisfaction in his master’s name, and the officer was obliged to ask his pardon. His first care was to ingratiate himself with the jesuits, who at that time bore a great sway at court; and in order to this, he went to visit their church, which remained unfinished, they pretended from the low circumstances of the society, he asked them how much money would complete it. An estimate to the amount of two thousand louis-d’ors being laid before him, Caraffa assured them of his constant attachment to their order; that he had gladly embraced such a public opportunity of shewing his esteem for them, and that they might immediately proceed to finishing their church. In consequence of his promise, he sent that very day the two thousand louis-d’ors, at which sum the charge had been computed.

He was very sensible this was a part he could not act long without being detected; and that this piece of generosity might not be at his own expence, he invited a great number of ladies of the first rank to supper and a ball. Every one of the guests had promised to be there; but he complained to them all of the ill returns made to his civilities, adding, that he had been often disappointed, as the ladies made no scruple of breaking their word on such occasions, and, in a jocular way, insisted on a pledge from every lady for their appearance at the time appointed. One gave him a ring, another a pearl necklace, a third a pair of earings, a fourth a gold watch, and several such trinkets, to the amount of twelve thousand dollars. On the evening appointed not one of the guests were missing; but it may easily be conceived, what a damp it struck upon the whole assembly, when it was at last found that the gay Piedmontese was a sharper, and had disappeared. Nor had the jesuits any great reason to applaud themselves on the success of their dissimulation; for a few days before his departure, the pretended count, putting on an air of deep concern, placed himself in the way of the emperor’s confessor, who inquiring into the cause of his apparent melancholy, he intrusted him with the important secret, that he was short of money at a juncture when eight thousand louis-d’ors were immediately wanted for his master’s affairs, to be distributed at the imperial court. The jesuits, to whom he had given a recent instance of his liberality by so large a donation, immediately furnished him with the sum he wanted; and with this acquisition, and the ladies pledges, he thought he had carried his jests far enough, and very prudently withdrew from Vienna.

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ALMANZOR, THE ARABIAN.

The great Almanzor, as he is called, to distinguish him from some other Arabian princes of his name, was king of Cordova, in Spain. He was no less famous for his wisdom than for his courage; he wrote a book of maxims, from which these that follow are taken.

“If hungry beggars are whipt through the streets, beggars in fine cloaths have a right to their proportion of notice, and should be sent to the gallies.

“Pride is as true a beggar, very often, as poverty can be, but a good deal more saucy.

“A prince who resolves to do no good, unless he can do every thing, teaches his people to see that they are slaves, and they have a right to do whatever they have a mind to.

“Power and liberty are like heat and moisture; when they are well mixed, every thing prospers; when they are single, they ever do mischief.

“I believe the least useful part of the people have the most credit with the prince. Men will conclude therefore, that to get every thing, it is necessary to be good for nothing.”

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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 235.)

I had not yet recovered from my astonishment at the speech of the Duke, when Alumbrado asked me, after a short pause:

“Then you think it absurd to believe in the possibility of apparitions?”

“A belief that has no firm foundation is absurd.”

“You then think every apparition, however it be shaped--”

“Is delusion, the source of which arises either from external natural causes, or flows from our bewildered imagination, or from both at once.”

“One question more!” the Duke said, “What do you think of the occult wisdom which Hiermanfor is said to have learnt from the Bramins?”

“That it consists in a profound knowledge of physic and natural history.”

“And the supernatural power he is boasting of--?”

“Is nothing but a skilful application of that knowledge!”

The Duke remained silent for some time, and then resumed:

“You think it impossible for mortals to acquire a supernatural power?”

I smiled.

“It seems you deny also the possibility of miracles?” Alumbrado said with a dreadful look, which he however soon sweetened again.

“I am convinced of the possibility of miracles,” I replied, “because it is self-evident that God, who is the author of the laws of nature, can alter and suspend them; but this only the Creator can do; man, consequently, is not capable of working miracles.”

“But men can become instruments in the hand of God,” Alumbrado continued, “whereby Providence performs miracles!”

“Undoubtedly, but no wretches like the Irishman. The eternal source of truth and holiness can never employ, as an immediate instrument, an impostor who deals in lies and artifice.”

“Where will you find a mortal without fault?” the Duke said, “indeed you are too much prejudiced against the Irishman. He did not deceive me out of malice or selfishness, but only for the sake of a just and noble purpose.”

“Actions that are in themselves immoral, like imposition and lies, never can be rendered moral by the justness of their end, and an organ of the Godhead never can employ means of so culpable a nature. But, my friend, if you really are persuaded the furtherance of the revolution to have been a noble and just action, why has the Irishman been obliged to exert all his arts to prevail on you to assist in the execution of that undertaking?”

The Duke cast his eyes to the ground, and Alumbrado left us. Miguel seemed to be penetrated with shame and confusion, and continued for some time to keep his eyes rivetted to the ground without uttering a word.

I took him affectionately by the hand: “It was not my intention to tell you my opinion of your adventures with the Irishman in Alumbrado’s presence; you have forced me to do it, and I could not help telling my mind freely.”

“I thank you for it.”

“Your obstinacy and my frankness may prove fatal to me.”

“How so?”

“It will perhaps cost me my life and liberty.”

“I do not comprehend you.”

“I have declared myself against the belief in apparitions, and Alumbrado is perhaps at present on the road to the inquisition, in order to inform against me.”

“Have you not yet conquered your prejudices against him? Don’t be uneasy, and cease judging unjustly of a man against whom you have no reason of complaint, except a countenance you do not like.”

“You did not observe the fiend-like look he darted at me. O my friend, whatever may befall me, I will submit willingly to it, if I have succeeded in recalling you from your errors!”

“I thank you for your love, but I apprehend very much I am one of those unhappy men of whom you have been saying, that no arguments of reason can remove their delusion. I am sensible that my sensations has an immediate evidence, which overpowers every persuasion of the understanding---this I am sensible of, as often as I recall to my mind the apparition at the church-yard.”

“You view me with looks of pity,” the Duke continued, after a short pause, “I divine your thoughts. However, if you had seen what I have witnessed---”

“Then I should have been astonished at the artful delusion, and the dexterity of the Irishman.”

“And at the same time would not have been able to conceive, as well as myself, how it could have been performed in a natural manner.”

“I grant it; but I never conclude that any thing has been performed by supernatural means, because I cannot comprehend how it could have been effected in a natural manner. These was a time when you fancied the apparition in Amelia’s apartment to have been effected by supernatural means, and yet it was not so. Who would have the childish arrogance to fancy his intellectual faculties to be the scale of the powers of nature, and his knowledge the limit of human art? However, the apparition of the church-yard has some defects, which its author could not efface in spite of his dexterity, and which easily would have dispelled the delusion before the eyes of a cool observer. The Irishman could not give to the phantom the accent of Antonio’s voice, how skilfully soever he imitated his features. That the apparition did not move his eyes and lips, nor any limb, is also a suspicious circumstance, that proves the limits of the artificer’s skill. But what renders the reality of the apparition most suspicious is, undoubtedly, your friend’s ignorance of what his pretended spirit (consequently his proper self) told you at the church-yard; for if he had known any thing of it, he would not have concealed it from the Prince of Braganza, in whose arms he died, much less from you, in his farewell letter. Finally, if you consider what your tutor has told the Prince about his statue, which has been cut in wood during his imprisonment, you will find it very probable that the Irishman has made use of it in some manner or other for effecting that delusion.”

The Duke stared at me like a person suddenly roused from a profound sleep.--“Marquis!” he said, at length, “you have opened my eyes; but my unwont looks are unable to penetrate another fact I cannot expel from my memory.”

“Again, an apparition--?”

“Which, however, did not happen to me, but to my father.”

“You mean the apparition of Count San*?”

“The very same.”

“Your father has related to me all the particulars of it; I have reflected upon it, and imagine I am capable of explaining it in a natural manner. Your father received, two days before the ghost appeared to him, a letter, by which he was informed that the Count was dangerously ill, and that his life was despaired of on account of his advanced age. This intelligence affected him violently, and the idea of the impending dissolution of his dearest friend, prevailed in his mind from that moment. The melancholy of your father seemed to encrease hourly, reduced him in the day to the state of a dreaming person, and disturbed his rest at night. As often us he awoke in the second night, he fancied he heard somebody groan, yet the groaning person was undoubtedly nobody but himself, and the cause of his groans originated from the pressure of the blood against the breast. This pressure awakened him once more, early in the morning, with some violence; he fell again asleep a few minutes after, and it was very natural that the object of the dream that stole upon him should be no other but Count San*. Your father mistook that dream for a real apparition, and nothing is more pardonable than this self-deceit. The only circumstance that renders this incident remarkable, is, that the Count really expired in that very hour. However, I ask you whether it be so very strange, if our imagination, which deceives us so many thousand times by its delusions, should at length coincide once accidentally with the truth?”

“One rather ought to wonder,” the Duke replied, “that this is so rarely the case.”

“Here you have two instances of apparitions,” I resumed, “which agree in their being delusions, only with that difference, that one of them which happened at the church-yard originated from external causes, and the other from the imagination of your father. We are not always so fortunate as to be able to explain apparitions in so natural a manner; our incapacity and ignorance gives us, however, no right to think that they are supernatural.”

“You think then that the belief in apparitions and the influence of spirits originates merely from ignorance?”

“Certainly; when man was yet in his unpolished state, and ignorant of the laws of nature and of thinking, the uncivilized mortals could not but observe many external phenomena which they could not explain, their stock of experimental knowledge not being equal to that task. Necessitated by the law of reason to search for the cause of every effect, they substituted unknown causes, when unable to find out any that were known to them, and mistook these powers for spirits, because they were invisible to them, though they perceived their effects.”

“I do not deny, my friend, that the original source of the belief in apparitions, and the influence of spirits, has taken its rise from an evidently false conclusion. It has however been frequently the fate of truth, that its discovery was founded on erroneous premises; consequently the manner in which an idea is generated cannot render its internal truth suspected, provided it be supported by other valid arguments.”

“Your remark is very just and true, yet it cannot be applied to the present case, for I have already proved that we possess neither an external nor an internal criterion by which we could discern the influence and apparition of those invisible beings, and that we consequently have no sufficient reason to believe in their existence. This too I will not contest. You have, however, proved only the impossibility of finding out a criterion by which we could discern the real influence of spirits, but not the impossibility of that influence itself. It may yet be supposed that these beings can produce apparitions without, and effects within ourselves, and that we are connected with them in an effectual and secret manner. While this internal impossibility is not proved, it will not be absurd to imagine that men who mortify their sensuality, who are entirely absorbed in meditation, and fix their looks merely on super-terrestial things, may be favoured more frequently with the influence of spiritual beings, and a more intimate connection with them.”

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

ANECDOTE OF MR. FERGUSON.

The following story Mr. Ferguson used frequently to repeat: He had finished the picture of a handsome young lady, whose numerous friends, though they commended the piece, found each some small faults, they thought might be corrected, which would render the likeness complete. Mr. Ferguson, when informed of it, desired they all might meet him at a certain hour, and being properly placed, with his pallet and brushes in his hand, the picture before him, and the lady sitting in a just light, he begged to be favoured with the opinions and objections of the company present, one by one; he acquiesced with them all, and put himself in a posture to remedy the defects, pointed out. When he had gone through the whole he turned the picture towards them, and every one pronounced it so finished a piece, and so perfect a likeness, that it could not be improved. He then requested them to examine both the pencils and canvass, which had been all along perfectly dry, and left them to draw their own conclusions.

* * * * *
* * * *

+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
[Written by Herself.]

(Continued from our last.)

As I mean to banish prolixity from my narrative, I shall not mention the emotions this tale excited when next we met. I could not help lamenting my utter inability to aid his distress. A glow of grateful feelings brightened his countenance. He caught my hand. Angelic sweetness, he cried---your face, how true an index of your mind. In short, both strangers to dissimulation, we soon perceived a passion, ardent, sincere, and reciprocal. We loved with all the romantic enthusiasm of youth, forgetting the insuperable barriers between us. We indulged our tenderness till it grew too great to be subdued. Sitting together one afternoon, planning future days of bliss, my hand locked in his, my soul beaming from my eyes, we suddenly heard a rustling among some trees behind us, and my father instantly rushed out, rage flashing from every glance. Frantic, he tore me from Harland, and bid him begone, as he durst not answer for what he might be tempted to do. Harland hesitated. I saw passion kindling in his eyes. Terrified at the consequences which might ensue, I had just power to articulate, obey him, oh obey him. My father loaded me with every violent invective rage could suggest. To exculpate myself from the meanness he accused me of, I divulged Harland’s history, but he believed it not. He said it was a vile, artful tale, calculated to deceive my unsuspecting youth, and lead me into a connection which he would eternally have cursed me for. Good heaven! how my soul shuddered at these words. For three days I gave myself up to immoderate grief; the fourth, walking in an avenue cut through the wood, I saw a little boy playing before me, I heeded him not, till I perceived him drop a piece of paper, give me a significant sign, and run off. I flew forward hastily, snatched it up, and retired to a chamber, where I read the following lines from my unfortunate Harland:

“Oh, my Julia! what a cruel separation! Thus torn from thee, it fills me with anguish--my only comfort thy society, deprived of that too---merciless fortune! I am incoherent---I hardly know what I write. Julia, to quit this spot, without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support. Meet me if possible I beseech you at night, in the wood. One parting interview---to meet perhaps; I can’t go on---Oh Julia! grant my last request.”

I determined to comply, but could not without my maid’s assistance. I entrusted her, and she promised to assist me. When the family were retired to rest, she conducted me down stairs, and opening a little door which led into the wood, said she would there watch my return.

Gently the moon dispers’d her pleasing light
And silver’d o’er the trembling lucid wave,
Fair was the view, that hail’d the wond’ring sight,
And soft the pleasure midnight silence gave.

Harland was impatiently waiting for me; at my approach he sprung forward, oh my Julia, he cried, what goodness, what condescension, but you are all complying sweetness. He regretted his separation; lamented his want of fortune; now bid me for ever forget him; then assured me, without the chearing idea of my love, life would be unsupportable. I wept, assured him it was unalterable, that only with existence it would cease. The moment arrived to separate. He sunk upon his knees, besought eternal blessings on my head, tenderly embraced me, while his voice was stifled with the emotions of his soul, and tore himself away. I tottered home, and leaning on my maid, retired to my chamber, where I past the remainder of the night in tears, and all the pangs of hopeless love. Shortly after this, a gentleman arrived at the castle who was son to a deceased friend of my father’s, his birth and fortune noble, but his manners tainted with arrogance and ill-nature. He conceived a partiality for me. Just powers, what has it not caused me! Sir George still dreading the unfortunate Harland, encouraged it. He was also really desirous of having me advantageously married. He compelled me to listen to Mordaunt; and in short, not to dwell longer on this painful subject, notwithstanding my prayers, my tears, my declaration of passion for another, I was forced the altar. The horror of that moment I can’t express; the image of Harland was continually before me; my broken vows; his sufferings; his love; they almost bereft me of reason. Three days after the fatal ceremony, sitting alone in my dressing-room, as the gentlemen were out, I heard a carriage drive hastily to the door. I imagined it was some obtrusive visitors who came to pay their unwelcome compliments, when in an instant the door was thrown open, and Harland entered, the smile of anticipating pleasure on his face. He attempted to clasp me in his arms, but shrinking from them, I endeavoured to fly from the room; he caught my hand and forcibly withheld me; he looked amazed at my agitation. Speak to me, my adored Julia, he cried, Oh why this distress?---heaven has at length removed my sufferings---Mr. T. has at last done justice to me. I am come to claim your hand. Sir George cannot deny me now. What bliss! what happiness in store for us. I could hear no more; I broke from him, and in agony of soul rending misery, wrung my hands together. We are ruined, exclaimed I, for ever wretched. Oh Harland! forgive me. I am miserable, compulsive power has undone me. I am, oh detest me not, already married. I might have gone on for ever---his senses seemed annihilated, a deadly paleness overspread his face; I was terrified; I flew to him; I attempted to take his hand; my touch revived him. He started from me; base faithless woman; his lips quivered, and in a phrenzy of disappointed passion he rushed out of the house. He left me on the verge of distraction, but when a little composed, I revolved my conduct: I considered it improper; I was now married; those tender sensations for another man were criminal; my virtue was strong, I determined to exert it; the lessons of my beloved mother recurred to me. She often said, affliction was the purifier of our passions, it refined the soul, and lifted to that infinite Almighty power in whose hands the balm was held for healing the wounds received on this spot.

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *
* * * *

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

(Continued from our last.)

As the family of his late consort were rich and powerful Mr. Freeman checked his libertine pursuits for a time; but the strength of habit soon overcame the dictates of prudence, and again he listened to the powerful calls of vice and dissipation.

A few months after Mrs. Freeman’s death he informed his friend Easton that he would introduce him to a young creature, lovely as imagination could form. He owned that the connection between them, being only that of sentiment, became rather troublesome; that she had denied him the most distant favour, and, in tears, regretted her ever giving way to a hopeless passion which had driven her from home, and subjected her to dangers of every kind.

“I first saw,” he continued, “this foolish girl at the neighbouring convent---Her beauty charmed me; I gained her attention, and held many conversations at the grate, in the course of which she informed me that, disappointed in a love affair, and to avoid a forced marriage, she had fled from her guardian, and sought refuge in the convent.

“I need not tell you, Easton, how love-sick girls are wrought upon. I found more sensibility than prudence--her sorrows subsided as I artfully dropped an answering tear, accompanied with a well-feigned emotion. I used every means which is common with us fellows of intrigue, and at length gained her consent to suffer me to procure her enlargement, on my promise of protection and friendship.

“Her remove from the convent was, with some difficulty and no small degree of danger, effected; when, expecting my reward and urging her to be kind, she wept, said I had deceived her, and thus addressed me:----‘Cease, Sir, to alarm, with professions of love, a poor young creature that knows not where to fly. Ask me for my friendship and esteem, and honour me with your’s, and I shall be as happy as my fortunes will permit. I wished to cast myself on your protection, from a confidence in your honour--I have done it--betray not then, oh! betray not the trust reposed in you. If you take a violent and cruel advantage of my situation, short will be your pleasure--but lasting your pain. You will at once lose all the respect I now bear you, and render me completely wretched: it is too true I am in your power, but do not, oh! do not abuse that power, by plunging a wretch, already almost lost, into infamy and perdition.’

“I give you her own words, Easton, for you will find her romantic in the extreme, with all the airs of dignity and virtue about her. I endeavoured all I could to comfort and compose her spirits, and offered to write home to her guardian; but to this she would not consent, as in such a case her _name_ would be exposed. ‘If,’ said she, ‘imputed guilt is to be my portion, let me, with life, lament the effects of my imprudent flight--but there are, whom, my folly might disgrace, should an unfeeling world cast a stigma upon me--know me, therefore, only as--_the wretched Julia!_’

“Upon this I left her, fool enough to be somewhat affected, and what she means to do I cannot tell; I had procured her an apartment in a private part of the city, with a servant to attend her; but not finding in me the father she expected, I have a strong idea that she means to play me the slip and steal away without my knowledge, which would prove a disappointment to both of us.

“For, Easton, as you are a fine fellow, and withal somewhat younger than myself, as _I_ cannot succeed, I think you might venture a trial upon your own account.”

“A friendly proposal,” exclaimed Easton, “convey me to her, and what love, gallantry, and fine speeches can effect, depend on.”

The agreement made, they proceeded to pay a visit to the unfortunate young lady.

The servant having given in Mr. Freeman’s name, they were conducted to her apartment. But oh! heaven! what horror seized the heart of Easton on beholding--_his sister_! He had left her during his travels, which had detained him two years, under the protection of her guardian, a man of sordid ideas, little principle, and still less humanity---but who had cunning sufficient to carry the appearance of every good quality, and, by the deepest dissimulation, had prevailed on the worthy Mr. Easton, the gentleman who had given these unhappy children his name and fortune, in his last moments to submit to him the management of the estate bequeathed them till the youth became of age, and his sister was disposed of in marriage.

How he had performed the will of his dying friend, respecting the young lady, the reader has, in part, been made acquainted with---it remains only to say, that, by his forbidding the addresses of Mr. Harcourt, a young soldier, whose heart was as honourable as his profession, and who sincerely loved her, and encouraging the hopes of a wretch, worn out with infirmities and a diseased mind, he forced the unhappy Julia to determine on flight. Her Harcourt had been called to the field, where, by protecting his country at the hazard of his life, it was not then in his power to defend her he held dearer than his own existence.

For a time, overcome with mutual astonishment, they both remained silent! At length Easton, relieved by tears, embracing the sister of his heart, exclaiming, “And have bad principles and bad men brought me to the brink of such perdition? But Heaven is just, and at the same moment converts my erring heart, and restores me to an almost-lost sister, whom my future care and affection shall protect from every snare of deep-laid villany.”