Chapter L: Le Fevre (16)

Then turning to the confounded and abashed Freeman, he uttered, “As for you, be warned by this interposition of Providence in favour of your undeserving friend.--- Your years and your principles do not correspond. I had a father, gay and volatile like yourself, whose wretched story I have heard, but whose guilt has divided his children and him--perhaps---forever! Mournful, no doubt, has been his existence, and, if no more, miserable his end.---But wherever he may wander, if yet alive, oh! my sister! would not you rejoice with me in comforting his suffering heart, and in return receive the blessings of our nameless and interdicted parent?”

Hearing, with trembling limbs, this passionate address, Mr. Freeman exclaims, “Who, who was your father?”

“Oh!” returned Easton, “he has lost his name in his crimes, which drove him from his family and country---an outlawed murderer!”

For the first time, powerful conviction rushed on the heart of Freeman! “Oh!” he exclaimed, “be more explicit, surely my children are now before me---nor fear nor fate shall longer hide my name---’Tis _Alton_! the miserable _Alton_, now casts his wretched load of existence before you.”--------They both ran towards him, and owning an interposing providence with tears of joy and gratitude, raised their _long-lost parent_! who at once reclaimed, at once thankful to mysterious Heaven, embraced _his children_!

It only remains to inform the reader, that the father, with his son and daughter, took shipping for England. An honourable peace soon brought home to love and fortune the generous Harcourt, who was at length united to his faithful Julia.

The old guardian had paid the debt of nature, and, struck with a check of conscience, he not only left the whole estate of the late Mr. Easton, unimpaired, to the brother and sister, but added thereto a large portion of his own. Application was made to an earthly throne for mercy to the repentant father; it was extended towards him, and being now a sincere penitent, it is to be wished and hoped that he may experience the same mercy from a still higher power.

[[Sources:

Original: “A School for Libertines. A Story, Founded on Facts” by
Thomas Bellamy.
Possible sources include “The general magazine and impartial
review ...” (Vol. 1, July 1787); “Walker’s Hibernian Magazine”
(Sept. 1787, 483ff., appearing immediately after “Alphonso and
Marina)”; The New-York Magazine, 1795 pg. 688ff

Link: http://books.google.com/books?id=T7oRAAAAYAAJ]]

* * * * *

THE TEMPLE OF HOPE,
A Vision.

Reading one summer’s eve in a grove, by which ran a most beautiful translucent rivulet, I was, by its murmurs, mingled with the sighs of Zephyr, lulled into an agreeable slumber. Somnus had no sooner laid me on his couch of poppies, than I thought myself transported to a dreary waste, where Nature sits on her heath-blossom’d throne, dispensing the seeds of furze, broom, brambles, and thistles around her.

The sight of this barren scene would have awakened me with dismay, had not my sight been immediately charmed, and my mind astonished with the rising of a most superb Temple. Multitudes were repairing thither. Misery sat on their wan cheek---but I was pleased to see, at the same time, expectation glisten in their eye. Around the Temple spontaneously rose, in their most perfect, fragrant, and variegated bloom, the most beautiful parterres. Amidst the flowering shrubs and ever-greens, were playing charming infants of both sexes, whose talk was as melodious as the vesper of the nightingale, and as gay as the matin of the lark. Their countenances were as blithe and as beauteous as Flora, blushing with the kiss of Spring. I was informed, that they were the children of Arts, Sciences, Peace, Plenty, and Pleasure. Rills murmured through the walks. Fountains scattered over the beds of perennial blossoms, their pearls of liquid crystal, and Zephyrs, with Æolian harps, caused every leaf to dance to their delightful harmony.

The style of the Temple itself united every order of architecture to denote that it was free to the access and devotion of every country. The Gothic, Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite were there displayed. The walls were supported by a foundation, that, I learned, was dug from the sand-pit of Expectation and the quarry of Enterprise. The walls themselves were formed of one entire crystal, taken from the mountain of promise. I presume the goddess chose them to be formed of this material, to denote that her various devotees might here be delighted with the most charming prospects which the magic of fancy could create for their allurement and entertainment. It had no roof, that nothing might impede their incessant view of the etherial throne of Providence. Instead of pillars, the portico was supported with anchors, which had been formerly the salvation of thousands sailing in the bark of human misery, from being shipwrecked against the rocks of despair. In varied festoons, hung around every apartment, cables in the style of the most exquisite and elegant fancy. They were likewise, wreathed with flowers of various sorts, which appeared to be always changing, but never losing their bloom.

The innumerable persons of all ages, ranks, and descriptions, which were going to this Fane, having gained admittance, the Temple rose most majestically to the regions of bliss. Every votary knelt around the shrine, and sung hallelujahs whilst it ascended.

I followed it with admiration, satisfaction, and astonishment, until it disappeared; and the chorusses of the happy mortals, thus transported, left my listening sense to taste in silence that ecstasy in which so delightful a scene of human enjoyment had enwrapped my sensibility.

I awoke, and was sorry to find the happiness of so many of my fellow creatures, was only the delusive prospect of a vision.

* * * * *

EXTRACT.

Nature gives us talents, it is education that applies them right or wrong. Nature bestows propensities and affections, which may be directed to good, either public or private. It is culture that improves or prevents them.

* * * * *
* * * *

ON WEALTH.

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

TRUE MEEKNESS.

Meekness, like most other virtues, has certain limits, which it no sooner exceeds than it becomes criminal. She who hears innocence maligned without vindicating it---falsehood asserted without contradicting it,--or religion profaned without resenting it, is not gentle, but wicked.

Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active and passive; if it will not enable us to subdue our own passions and resentments, as well as qualify us to bear patiently the passions and resentments of others. If it were only for mere human reasons, it would turn to a profitable account to be patient; nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like the spirit of forbearance; the return of rage for rage cannot be so effectually provoking.

True gentleness, like an impenetrable armour, repels the most pointed shafts of malice: they cannot pierce through this invulnerable shield, but either fall hurtless to the ground, or return to wound the hand that shot them.

A meek spirit will not look out of itself for happiness, because it finds a constant banquet at home; yet, by a sort of divine alchemy, it will convert all external events to its own profit; and be able to deduce some good, even from the most unpromising; it will extract comfort and satisfaction, from the most barren circumstances; “it will suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock.”

Meekness may be called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels every obstruction, and smooths every difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their progress. Honours and dignities are transient;---beauty and riches frail and fugacious;---but this amiable virtue, is permanent. And surely the truly wise would wish to have some one possession, which they might call their own in the severest exigencies. This can only be accomplished by acquiring and maintaining that calm and absolute self-possession, which, as the world had no hand in giving, so it cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power, take away.

[[Source:

“True and False Meekness” in Hannah More, _Essays Principally
Designed for Young Ladies_ (1777). “Compassion” (p. 401, no. 103)
is from the same source.]]

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Editor thankfully acknowledges the receipt of the third excellent Essay of A. D.

The Acrostic of V. E. displays some merit, but the author cannot, with propriety, expect its insertion without some correction: The effusions of the Muse will ever find a hearty welcome attending their reception, when indiscriminately adapted for instruction, or not too pointedly addressed with extatic strains to an individual.

* * * * *

_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 22d to the 28th 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. 22 23 29 ne. nw. snow light wd. snow
23 27 50 37 sw. do. cloudy do. clear lt. wd.
24 26 41 w. do. clear light wind do. do.
25 20 27 nw. se. clear high wind do. lt. wd.
26 28 42 s. do. cloudy lt. wd. clear do.
27 36 45 50 sw. do. clear lt. wind, do. do.
28 39 46 sw. do. clear lt. wd. cloudy do.

* * * * *

FRIENDSHIP.

What greater blessing can kind Heav’n send
Than a sincere, indulgent, tender friend!
What greater blessing can we ask than this?
The greatest, surely, of all earthly bliss.
What comfort is it, when the mind’s depress’d,
To lodge our sorrows in a faithful breast!

* * * * *
* * * *

TO A LADY,
On her too great Affectation of Ornament.

Dear Mira, whence of late this studious care,
As fashion bids, to braid thy flowing hair;
With costly veils to shade thy snowy breast,
And load with gorgeous fringe the sumptuous vest?
Why these perfumes that scent the ambient air?
Alas! all art must render thee less fair.

Each ornament from that celestial face
Detracts a charm, and banishes a grace:
Who on the violet can sweets bestow?
Or needs the rose with borrow’d colours glow?
Great Nature’s beauties ever reach the heart,
And spurn the trivial aids of needless art.
No art directs the vernal bloom to blow,
No art assists the murmering streams to flow,
And the sweet songsters of the vocal grove,
By art unaided, swell their throats to love.

Phœbe and Elaira charm’d of old
Fair Helen’s brothers, not with gems or gold;
Idas with Phœbus for Marpessa vied,
But for her beauties, not her wealth he sigh’d,
When godlike Pelops Hippodamia won,
He panted for her virgin charms alone.
With native grace these nymphs inflam’d the heart,
Unskill’d in ornament, devoid of art;
In the sweet blush of modesty alone,
And smiles of innocence attir’d, they shone.

Then needless artifice, dear maid, forbear
What charms the lover best, adorns the fair.

* * * * *

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

Haste, pallid nymph, forego thy moss-crown’d cell,
Clad in thy milk-white vest,
By Nature woven, by the Graces drest:
Come seek the adust retreat of these lone groves,
Where Shenstone breath’d, ere Fate had rung his knell,
And join the requium of confederate loves.

Can you forget how oft in wooing you,
He artless led the passions in a throng?
No suppliant ever felt a flame more true,
And wit and beauty mingled in his song.

Tho’ Nepthe blaz’d, her brows with myrtle twin’d,
Not all her loveliness could shake his constant mind.

In the meridian of his quiet day,
When gentle Reason had matur’d his youth;
The relatives of Onus bless that lay
He gave to you, and gave it with his truth.

Pure were his morals as the Patriarchs thought,
And heaven approv’d the dogma Fancy taught.

Ah me, that breast which glow’d with patriot fire,
Beneath this grass-green mantle lies entom’d!
Cold is that nerve which harmoniz’d the lyre,
And all his bright’ning faculties consum’d:
Come then, such fallen excellence deplore,
His harp’s unstrung, his minstrelsy is o’er.

* * * * *
* * * *

ODE TO HAPPINESS.

Tho’ all men aim at happiness,
And some their boasted schemes profess,
Yet few, alas! too few we find,
Take the right course, by nature blind.

Th’ ambitious man directs his way
Thro’ title, honours, night and day:
The miser hovers o’er his gold,
With heaps on heaps, each farthing told:

But sooner or later they’ll perceive,
These trifling things the mind bereave
Of ev’ry solid, dear delight,
The soul o’erspread with gloom of night;

That envied titles, honours, fame,
Are but a sounding, empty name:
That riches fly on wings away;
The brightest name will soon decay:

Yet riches ne’er will satisfy, }
Tho’ e’er so certain, still they cloy }
The dupe, that on them doth rely. }
Still surer doth the sensualist
His pleasures, and his good resist;
With loss of health, misfortunes rues
The man, who sensual paths pursues:

For pleasures dissipate the mind,
Bring on diseases, death unkind;
Ruin his fortune, robs his soul
Of all true joy, without controul.

The philosophic sage also,
Unless the fear of God he know,
Unless his Maker’s works he scan, }
Is but a poor bewilder’d man; }
Much knowledge will more sorrows gain. }

But he who would true pleasure find,
Delight of a superior kind,
Must firmly virtue’s steps pursue,
To worldly folly bid adieu;
Dispos’d, all heav’n’s decrees to meet
With fortitude, or harsh, or sweet;

If fortune blows in prosp’rous gales,
Or adverse wind his skiff assails,
Still he is happy, pleas’d, content,
With what kind heav’n, not him hath sent;

Nor pines with grief, himself alone }
Bears all the shock of fortune’s frown, }
Untouch’d, resign’d, God’s will his own: }
In patience tastes a greater joy,
Than all the world’s variety.

Religion doth a good afford,
To all, with gladsome pleasure stor’d,
Such as the world to give in vain }
May boast for all its pleasures pain, }
Compar’d with virtue’s smiling train, }
Of joy refin’d, of peace and health,
The greatest good, the best of wealth.

For there’s that sweetness, and that peace
In virtue’s blessed, wholesome ways,
Which no disaster can defeat,
Its transports so divinely great.

Who would not then this course pursue,
Which only leads to bliss, and pleasures ever new?

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+._

* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *

_UTILE DULCI._

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

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, February 8, 1797.+ [+No. 84.+

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

ESSAYIST. No. III.

“Fav’rite of heaven and friend of earth!
Philanthropy, benignant power!
Whose sons display no doubtful worth,
The pageant of the passing hour.”

HALEY’s ode to HOWARD.

In man there appears to be a natural affection for his fellow creatures, this as a general remark is evident, when the whole bulk of mankind is considered; but if we descend to particulars and examine how his affection exists, with regard to individuals, how often do we find him defective. Some under the smiling aspect of friendship conceal the envenomed sting of hatred, while others openly declare their enmity. But philanthropy extends its kindness to all whether friend or foe. It encircles in the arms of love, alike the rich and poor--the bondman and the free. Anger, revenge, and all the rougher passions which divest the mind of its serenity, and immerse it in gloom and despondence, as if driven by supernatural power, fly at its approach. It delights to assist the distressed and infuse hope and comfort into the heart almost broken by misfortune. The soul that is warmed by the genial sparks of philanthropy and benevolence, looks with pleasure on his companions, feels himself interested in all their transactions, and participates in their prosperity. The persecuted are ever sure to find in him a protector, and the wretched a friend. He exposes himself to the breath of contagion, that he may bring assistance to those who are sinking under the accumulated load of poverty and disease. He explores the gloomy dungeon and softens the bonds of the captive: his whole life presents a series of benevolent and worthy actions. Such is the philanthropist; justly admired by the world at large, and sincerely beloved by the small circle of his friends.

And such was Howard---the benevolent, the philanthropic Howard--more worthy of our admiration and more deserving of our envy, while imbibing the deadly vapours of the lazaretto, or exposing his constitution to the chill damps of the subterranean dungeon, than pompous royalty clothed with the ensigns of power and encircled with all the splendors of a court.

A. D.

JANUARY 26.

* * * * *
* * * *

ON AMBITION.

The best of all good things, says M. Retz, is repose. All the pleasures which nature can bestow, become insipid to him who is agitated by ambition, who is tormented by vanity, or torn by envy. You shall see a man on whom fortune has been prodigal of her choicest favours, to whom nature has given a sound and vigorous body; who is beloved by his wife and his children, whom he cherishes; whose presence spreads pleasure and joy in his family, where he is only an apparition; who, if he lived on his own domains, would enjoy the pleasure of doing good to a set of vassals, but he there makes his appearance only three or four times in a year; and is then scarcely seen till he is gone again. This man does not feel the value of health; he does not enjoy his fortune. His life which might flow on in that kind of animated leisure, which results from the exercise of acts of beneficence, is consumed in agitation and in fear. Independent by his riches, he devotes himself to servitude, and is tormented by chagrin. His sleep, which ought to be pleasing, is troubled by envy and disquietude. He writes, he cringes, he solicits, he tears himself from pleasures, and gives himself up to occupations that are not suited to his taste; he in a measure refuses to live during forty years of his life, in order that he may obtain employment, dignities, marks of distinction, which, when he obtains them, he cannot enjoy.

* * * * *

TRUE VIRTUE AND HONOUR.

Men possessed of these, value not themselves upon any regard to inferior obligations, and yet violate that which is the most sacred and ancient of all---religion.

They should consider such violation as a severe reproach in the most enlightened state of human nature; and under the purest dispensation of religion, it appears to have extinguished the sense of gratitude to Heaven, and to slight all acknowledgment of the great and true God. Such conduct implies either an entire want, or a wilful suppression of some of the best and most generous affections belonging to human nature.

* * * * *
* * * *

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 243.)

“I will not pretend to say that this class of men qualify themselves for ghost-seers by the mortifications you have been mentioning; it is however certain, that they are in a fair way of becoming fanatics and madmen. At the same time, I think it very imprudent to sacrifice every earthly pleasure, to neglect the duties we owe to human society, on account of the possibility of a matter, the reality of which is founded on no arguments whatever. It is no absolute impossibility that I should one time be made a Mandarin of China, yet the bare possibility of it will certainly not induce me to trouble my head with the study of the Chinese state-politics in order to qualify myself for that dignity. Moreover, it is not only possible, nay, it is probable that the moon is inhabited by rational beings, I shall nevertheless certainly not be anxious to give any offence to the man in the moon by my actions. But to be serious, my friend, the point of your question is not, whether it be possible spirits should have an influence on us and external objects, but whether we really do possess a certain and decisive criterion whereby we can ascertain the reality of that influence; and I think I have sufficiently proved that we possess none. Nay I even maintain, that if something should not only be possible, but also really exist, yet its existence is no concern of mine, while I cannot ascertain its existence by a sufficient ground, while it does not manifest its existence to my knowledge by certain and indubitable criterions.”

“But your objection,” I resumed after a short silence, “may be pursued still further. You maintain that I could not prove the internal impossibility of the influence of spirits on human beings, and thus far you are right; but I have an equal right to maintain that you also cannot prove their real possibility; for in that case it would be requisite to know not only what a spirit is according to our idea, but also what it is in itself; and that only the Author of spirits can know. We know our own soul only by its effects, and no mortal can explain the essential nature of this first cause of all our ideas and actions. For that very reason it ever will be concealed from us whether it is related at all to spirits here below, and what the nature of that relation is? Here, my friend, are the limits of human reason, beyond which we cannot proceed without falling in with the empty space of sophistical phantoms. While you shall remain within the lawful boundaries, you never will have reason to complain of the insufficiency of human reason, as you have done just now. It is criminal arrogance to overleap the sacred limits, to which Providence has confined it; for the eternal wisdom of God is equally entitled to our regard by what it has denied, as by what it has granted us. Descend, therefore, my friend, descend from the empty space to which the Irishman had seduced you, to the firm ground of experience and common sense! Happy is he who looks upon this ground as a post allotted to him, which we can never transgress without being punished, and which implies every thing that can afford us satisfaction while we keep firm to what is useful.”

About six weeks after this conversation, I happened one night to sup with the Marquis in the company of his son and Alumbrado. Our discourse on the new government was growing very warm, when the clock in the room struck ten. Alumbrado suddenly grew deadly wan, and seemed to be struck dumb; his eyes stared at one spot, and he resembled a lifeless statue. We looked at each other with astonishment; the old Marquis was the first who called to him, but received no answer, and started up seized with terror. The Duke and myself followed his example; our endeavours to restore Alumbrado to recollection were, however, fruitless; he remained in profound stupefaction. Not knowing what had happened to him, we were going to send for a physician, when he rose from his chair like a person to whom nothing uncommon has happened, and told us with the greatest unconcern, “This very moment a strange accident has happened 300 miles from hence. At *li*, at the Sun Tavern, the picture of the new king which was hung up in the dining room, give occasion to a discourse concerning him. One of the guests said a great deal to his praise, manifesting, at the same time, a strong apprehension that the King of S--------n might not submit so quietly to the loss of the crown of P--------l, and perhaps, reclaim it by force of arms. Another guest declared this to be a vain idea, maintaining that the new King was as firmly fixed on his throne as his picture opposite him on the wall: but no sooner had he pronounced these words, when the picture suddenly fell to the ground with a tremendous noise.”

Here Alumbrado stopped. While we were standing around him in dumb astonishment, he eyed us with the firm look of a person who has related an incident of which he has been an eye witness. Astonishment and horror seized me, and I did not know what to say. The Duke recovered first from his surprise, asking him by what means he had got that intelligence. “I must beg you,” Alumbrado replied in a low accent, “to suppress a question to which I can give no satisfactory answer. However,” he added with emphasis, “you may rely on the truth of my intelligence.”

He had not deceived us. On the sixth day after this extraordinary incident, letters from *li* arrived confirming the same event, and nine days after, it was reported in the foreign newspapers. It really happened on the same evening, and the same night when Alumbrado had informed us of it.

Being unexpectedly honoured by the new King with a commission that obliged me to leave the kingdom of P----l, soon after this extraordinary incident had happened, I was not at leisure to investigate the source of Alumbrado’s prophecy; nor could I learn the Duke’s opinion of it; my deluded friend beginning to grow very close and reserved in my presence. It grieved me to be obliged to leave him in Alumbrado’s power, under such critical circumstances, I could however, not delay my departure. The Duke tore himself from my embraces with weeping eyes, and promised to write frequently to me.

A week after my arrival at the place of my destination, I received a letter from my friend, which I am going to transcribe faithfully.

“I have had to-day a most important conversation with Alumbrado. The principal subject of it was the old concealed King of P--------l, for whose restoration I had interested myself. ‘Can you seriously believe---’ Alumbrado said, ‘that the person with whom you have conversed at the Hermitage, has really been the old King of P--------l? It seems you did not even suspect that the introduction of the old man was a juggling farce, which was acted with a view similar to those of the other delusions of the Irishman? Although we should suppose that the King had not been killed in the field of battle, and that he himself had been the identical person who was confined at the castle of St. Lukar, which however, has not been proved, yet the whole affair would still bear a very suspicious aspect. Not to mention the great improbability of his escape from a well-guarded Castle, where he was kept in close confinement, and of his having attained an age of 108 years notwithstanding the hardships he suffered in the field of battle, and in his prison. I only beg you to consider who it was that introduced him to you as King of P--------l? Was not the Irishman that person? At the same time, give me leave to recal to your recollection, that Count Clairval has confessed that the pretended King acted in concert with that impostor, and then tell me sincerely, what ground you have to believe such an improbability on the testimony of two cheats? Perhaps you will appeal to his great resemblance to the late King? But have not three persons before him pleaded similar marks as proofs of the identity of their person, and nevertheless been unmasked as impostors? My good Duke, on mature consideration it seems that the Irishman relied very much on your youth and the absence of your tutor, when he imposed upon you by that juggling trick.’

“Ah! what ideas do you recall to my memory! I exclaimed, that letter from the Queen and the answer of the Irishman.”

“Very right! Alumbrado interrupted me, these letters sufficiently prove that you was considered as a young man who promised to be a fit instrument for executing their design. And it is no longer a secret what that design was, and in whose head it has been hatched out. The proud Duchess of B----za had a longing for the crown of P--------l, and it was she who persuaded the Duke to form a plan of seizing it. Your assistance, my dear Duke, was wanted for attaining that aim, but the conspirators foresaw at the same time, that you would refuse it, your antipathy against your illustrious relation being no secret to them. For that reason they pretended that the Duke of B----a had no other view but to replace the old King on the throne of his ancestors. It was necessary you should be made to believe that he was still alive and in safety; for that purpose the hermit was brought on the stage, and acted his part with no common skill.”

“Damned complot!” I exclaimed, with rising indignation. “Compose yourself my Lord,” Alumbrado resumed, “your anger will now avail you very little. Take care not to manifest your indignation too loudly, lest the new King might forget that you are his relation, and have assisted him to ascend the throne. You can do nothing else at present, but to submit humbly to his authority; and I advise you at the same time not to neglect paying due regard to the Queen, for she rules the King and the empire. Do not expect that the present King will yield the sceptre he has usurped to any man living. If you don’t believe me, you may inquire of him after the old King, and he will tell you, that he has resigned the government to him, because he feels himself unequal to the arduous task of ruling a large kingdom, on account of his advanced age, or perhaps that he is dead.”

“My dear Marquis, what do you think of this? I fear Alumbrado is not mistaken, and I am in a state of mind that would render it imprudent for me to appear at court; but as soon as the tempest that ruffles my mind shall be subdued, I will pay a visit to the new King in order to come to the bottom of the truth.

“P.S. You will be so kind to continue to direct your letters to Li*bon, for neither I nor my father shall leave the town this summer.”

Before I could return an answer to this letter, I received a second, the contents of which were as follow:

“Will you believe, my friend, that I desired three times to have an audience, before my royal cousin condescended to admit me to his presence? This utter want of regard and gratitude, re-kindled my indignation, in such a manner, that I entered the royal apartment in a way that was not very consonant with the court etiquette. The King, however, received me very courteously, pretending to be extremely sorry that the accumulated affairs of state had not allowed him to receive my visit sooner, declaring at the same time that he was very glad to see me. ‘I am come, I replied, in order to tell you that I am surprised that the old King has not yet made his appearance, and released you from the heavy burden of state business.’

“Don’t you know that he is dead?”

‘The emotions that I felt at these words are beyond all description; and my astonishment, the paleness that overspread my face, and my silence must have betrayed them to the King.’

“At what are you astonished thus? not at the death of an old man of a hundred and eight years?”

“No,” I replied after a pause, “but I am surprised that he died at so seasonable a period.”

“Will you explain yourself more distinctly?”

“I think it is a very strange accident that the royal hermit should have entered the kingdom of heaven, and left your Majesty the terrestial crown, just when he was to show himself to the people as their lawful King.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *
* * * *

_The Power of Music; or, the History of Belario and Lucetta._

Belario was a youth who had been bred up under his father’s eye, according to the most rigid morals. Old Syphax had, in the early part of his life, been a great dupe to the fair sex; he had fancied himself a _beau garcon_, and imagined he had a right to captivate every female he thought proper to address. In this opinion he was greatly mistaken, and meeting with a variety of coquettes and jilts, he found himself often deceived by his own artifice, and after having squandered considerable sums upon them, discovered he was only laughed at for his vanity and folly. He, however, pursued the career of a general lover for upwards of a dozen years; in the course of which time he had much injured his fortune, in dangling after beauties who despised him, and substituting in their place professed harlots. At length he closed the circle of his amours in marrying, out of mere spight, his own cook-maid, by whom he had Belario.--His consort, though she had approved herself an excellent cook, turned out a dreadful wife. She no sooner attained the summit of her ambition, which she had long aimed at, and which she obtained by the most servile flattery, and the greatest humility imaginable, than she threw off the independant, and soon convinced Syphax, she knew the difference between a servile state and that of a mistress. In a word, she was the modern Zantippe, and probably Socrates never led half so wretched a life, as did poor Syphax, after the connubial knot was tied. He now took an aversion to the whole sex, swore eternal enmity to them, and made a solemn vow, after separating from his wife, soon after the expiration of the honey moon, never to associate or speak to a woman in the course of his future life. Upon the birth of his son he immediately sent for him, and would never let him know who was his mother.

As Belario advanced towards maturity, he had him educated under his own roof, having resolved that he should not be trained at a public school, lest, by associating with the world, he might imbibe their notions in favour of the female sex. He never suffered him to read any books that had the least allusion to the tender passion, and constantly represented women, whenever they were mentioned, as monsters in human forms, and more to be dreaded than wolves and tigers. In this opinion whenever Belario beheld a female at a distance, he fled from her with the greatest swiftness, fearful that even the air might be contaminated with her breath. Yet he thought that there was something enchanting in woman, which he could not account for; but if he hinted such a thought to his father, Syphax depicted them as Syrens, who allured unwary travellers to approach them for their destruction.

Tutored with these extraordinary notions, Belario had attained his eighteenth year, when Syphax paid the great debt of nature, and left his son in possession of an easy fortune. He began now to relax from the severity of those studies, to which he had been confined. He read novels, Ovid’s Art of love, and many other books, that soon made him suspect his father’s doctrine had been fallacious. Belario had not, however, the fortitude to dare approach a female so nearly, as to enjoy the contemplation of her charms, or the enchanting raptures of her conversation; when one day walking in a pensive mood, in a grove adjacent to his abode, his ears were assailed with such harmoneous accents as involuntarily attracted not only his attention, but, by a secret impulse, led him to the spot where the seeming celestial notes proved to issue.

He had scarce reached the hawthorn of melody, before he perceived the lovely Lucetta singing, accompanied by her guittar. Now, in despight of all his father’s tenets so carefully inculcated, he found the impulse of nature, and the power of music, operate far beyond all the sophistry of Syphax’s reasoning against the lovely sex.

He intuitively approached the beauteous maid, and instantly became a captive to her charms---a votary to love and harmony.

Lucetta at first received him with some reserve; but after a fervent declaration of his passion, which soon became sympathetic, she listened to his addresses; when he revealed to her how much he had been imposed upon by Syphax, who represented the most amiable part of the creation as monsters, more dangerous than serpents and crocodiles, and that in this opinion he had shunned them to this very hour; but that he now flattered himself he should make ample amends in paying his devotions to such an angelic being as the divine Lucetta.

This young lady was the only daughter of a gentleman of property in an adjacent village, whom Belario, with the approbation of Lucetta, waited upon to obtain his consent for their nuptials. Her father received the young man with politeness and hospitality, and told him he should have no objection to the match, if he could obtain his daughter’s consent. Happy in such a reply, he flew to his adored Lucetta, and acquainted her with the glad tidings, which she received with as much transport as he communicated them.

To be brief, in a few days their nuptials were solemnized, and they have now enjoyed the most permanent felicity the connubial state can confer, for upwards of two years, in which time the lovely Lucetta has given to the world two pledges of their mutual fondness, in a delightful boy, and a still more beautiful girl. Here we shall leave them, to enjoy that unsullied happiness which ever attends the purest virtue, and the sincerest love.

* * * * *

REMARK.

The enjoyments or misfortunes of men, are to be computed from their different degrees of feeling. What can they mean who speak of the happiness of the insensible? Can there be a greater absurdity, than to envy the enjoyments of such as want the power to enjoy!

* * * * *
* * * *

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

(Continued from our last.)

I resolved to conceal Harland’s visit, but my father heard of it from his servant. He accused me of having concerted it, I declared my innocence. He vowed if I saw Harland my husband should be acquainted with it. How cruel such harshness. Mr. Mordaunt soon left the castle, he brought me to London; he loved dissipation, and I entered into it, I thought it would banish painful reflections. At the expiration of a year Heaven blest me with a lovely infant. My health was now so delicate, the physicians ordered me to Bristol. Mordaunt accompanied me thither, not indeed out of tenderness, but ostentation; he wished the world to think him perfect, and yet counterfeited a love for me, which in reality existed not, as his heart was too depraved to be long susceptible of a virtuous passion. My father accompanied us. We had a house one mile from Bristol. Each morning I went to the rooms, the remainder of the day was spent in weeping, and praying over my child, in lulling her to sleep, and hushing her feeble cries.

I had just entered the room one morning, and was conversing with a young lady, when turning round, I was startled by the figure of Harland. Struck by his appearance, various emotions rushed upon me, I could scarcely stand, trembling I leaned upon my companion--the alteration of his looks too visibly manifested the disorder of his mind; despair tinged every feature, and the lustre of his eyes was totally extinguished. I hurried from the room---I forgot my resolution---we cannot always command our feelings---the power above makes allowances for human frailty. I would have discontinued going to the rooms, only I feared exciting the prying eyes of suspicion. I again went, beheld him, and returned more unhappy. In the afternoon, walking alone in the garden, I saw a bit of paper thrown over the hedge, I snatched it up, and perceiving Harland’s writing, I started, I hesitated whether to open it---imagination pictured his sufferings---I broke the seal, and perused the following lines:

“Julia, the miserable Harland is on the point of eternally quitting his native kingdom, he flies to remote regions, far distant from an object who has banished peace--will she yet be cruel, or will her nature, once gently kind, comply with the last request of one, whose last sigh will be for her. Oh Julia! to leave this kingdom without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support---I sicken at the idea. Refuse me not, I conjure you, one parting interview, to sooth the solitary hours of my life, I have wandered on bewildered with misfortune, marked for affliction from the earliest dawn---nought but the long dark night can efface them. If you comply, as ah! surely you must, leave a note where you received this, and at any hour or place you shall appoint, I will meet you. Adieu, most loved and most lamented object of my soul.”

I could not refuse his last request---I was not proof against such entreaties, I might be censured, but I could not conquer the tender feelings which compelled me to comply. After supper, I stole to a little shady bower, situated in a shrubbery, and seldom frequented by any but myself. Here Harland waited for me---our meeting it is impossible to describe---he began with gentle upbraidings. Unable to bear the idea of his thinking me faithless, I declared the compulsive power which forced me to the precipice of despair. His feelings at this discovery overcame him---he raved at the cruelty of that parent, who, actuated by motives of avarice and ambition, had sacrificed the happiness of his child for ever---he implored my forgiveness for ever thinking me inconstant---he almost wept at my sufferings---he besought the being above to inspire me with fortitude and resignation to sustain them. The time approached for our separation---it was absolutely necessary on my account. Harland attempted to bid me adieu, but his words were inarticulate, he took my hand and prest it to his palpitating heart, I had endeavoured to summon resolution, his distress conquered me, a last interview, an eternal farewell from the dearest object of my love---the dreadful idea overpowered me, and I sunk fainting on his bosom, he claspt me to it, the emotions of our souls could not be restrained, my pallid cheek was wet with tears of misery, I forgot the world, I only remembered the cruelty of my fate. At that instant Mr. Mordaunt and my father rushed into the bower, their frantic rage, I shuddered at the recollection of. The former flew at Harland from whose arms I had sunk, full of the most direful apprehensions. He attempted to remonstrate, but in vain, the sword was at his breast, the instructive impulse of self-preservation prompted his defence, it was too dreadful to behold. I fainted, and in a happy insensibility was conveyed to my chamber. Returning life made me too soon acquainted with the fatal consequences of the combat, they were both wounded---a shocking tale had spread to my dishonour, it was credited, appearances so much against me, infamy branded till then my unspotted character, my father’s proud soul swelled at the ignominy of his daughter, he considered me as an everlasting disgrace to his family, as having sullied that blood, of whose purity he so often boasted---he rushed to the apartment, where I sat stupified with the horrid events of the night, myself the fatal cause---there, there was the arrow which pierced me to the soul, his whole face was distorted with passion---rage flashed from his eyes, in a voice scarce intelligible, he exclaimed, “wretch, cursed be the day on which you were born, you have branded the illustrious names of your ancestors with infamy; from this hour I renounce and curse you in the bitterness of my soul, and swear in the sight of heaven never more to see you.” For a moment I stood transfixed like a statue---a shriek wild and piercing then broke from me, and I fell senseless on the floor. When a little recovered, I called for my cruel father, I implored him to withdraw his curses, but he was gone---reason could not retain the shocks she had received. A violent fever succeeded---for a month my life was despaired of: the Almighty, however, thought fit to prolong existence. The first use I made of returning sense, was to enquire for my cruel connexions. Sir George and Mr. Mordaunt had both left the house with solemn asseverations of never again beholding me. Harland, dear ill-fated Harland, had paid the last sad debt of nature. My husband had stood his trial, but possessed of interest and wealth, he was soon acquitted; my child he had taken with him, and left orders for me to quit the house on my recovery; also a paper wherein I was informed of the settlement made on me, and the person on whom I was to draw for it. Miss Rivers, my faithful friend, neglected me not in the hour of severe calamity; she had me conveyed to a family in Wales, who had just retired there, and had no objection to receive me as a boarder. Heartbroken, I forsook a world where my dearest hopes were blasted, yet I left it with no impious repinings against my destiny. I confessed myself properly punished, humbled to the dust--I felt the impropriety of having ever placed myself in a suspicious situation; but I was thoroughly penitent for having (though I trusted in a slight degree) deviated from the path of rectitude--Heaven, I fancied, accepted my contrition, by placing me in a family of love, such as I shall now describe.

Captain Harley, after a life of activity in the service of his country, retired to a sweet retreat in South Wales, to enjoy the closing evening of a busy day; his family consisted of a wife, the faithful companion of all his sorrows, and one daughter, who being the only survivor of a numerous offspring, was doubly endeared to them. She was the staff of their age, the doating of their hopes, and they bore her continually on their hearts, to that heaven which they knew would alone protect her from those calamitous strokes they had so often experienced in the course of their lives.

The retreat they had chosen, was by its seclusion, calculated for the narrowness of their income, and by its beauty for the promotion of their pleasure.

He rented but as much land as would supply his household wants, this he delighted in cultivating himself, assisted by an old trusty servant who had been a soldier in his regiment. Conrade was the veteran son of calamity, and his misfortunes strengthened the claim his services had given him upon the affections of his master. During a late contest, a brave and only son had fallen by his side in the field of battle; scarcely could he survive the blow, but consolation effected what fortitude had no power to do. Captain Harley was not only a good soldier but a good christian, and by pointing out the path to heaven, gave poor Conrade full assurance, by faithfully discharging the humble duties of his station, he should obtain a passport to rejoin his brave and beloved son.

Louisa at the period of their retirement was fifteen; her mind and form were opening to perfection, and both promised to contain the fairest loveliness of ingenious innocence, and graceful symmetry.

The lilly and the rose gave their most beautiful tints to her complection; her fine black eyes beamed with the sensibility of her soul, never did she hear the tale of sorrow without emotion.

Harley had little to give, of that little he gave abundantly--not the largeness of the gift but real inclination of the donor, he knew was regarded by the power above. Like the benevolent pastor of Auburn village, to him repaired the needy and the wanderer, and found a ready welcome--often too, the weather beaten soldier in journeying to his native home, to lay his bones among those of his forefathers, turned in hither, and cheared by hospitable fare,

“Shoulder’d his crutch, & shew’d how fields were won.”

Harley knew what it was to have the unsheltered head exposed to the chill blast and sharp bitings of the wintry frost.

Such was this little family of love, who retired amidst Welch mountains, enjoyed that content and happiness which the votaries of fashion, misled by dissipation, can never experience.

Louisa was my constant companion--like a ministering seraph she hushed the turbulence of anguish, and whispered peace to my perturbed soul.

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

ANECDOTES.

“My father desired me, Sir, to _ax_ you,” said a physical disciple to a certain eminent pharmacopolist, “that I might attend you to all your patients, as you know, Sir, it is the last year of my time”---“You shall, Bob, you shall,” replied the master; “Come, get your hat.” They entered the sick man’s chamber, and the usual circumstances occurred, such as feeling the pulse, _et cetera_; After assuming an appearance of profound thought, the vender of galenicals told the wife of the sick man, with much gravity, that her husband was in extreme danger, and that she had contributed to his malady by giving him oysters: The woman, in much confusion, at last owned the fact. When they had quitted the house, Bob enquired with much earnestness of his master, how he could possibly know that the patient had eaten oysters. “You foolish boy,” replied the other, “I saw some shells under the bed.” The next time Bob went alone, and returned to his master with a ghastly visage, and told him the patient was dead by eating a horse---“A horse, Bob,” rejoined the esculapian chief, “how do you know that?” “Oh, easy enough, Sir, I looked under the bed, and saw a bridle and saddle!”

A Gentleman of Angiers, who did not trust to his memory, and wrote down all that he was to do; wrote in his pocket-book, “Memorandum, that I must be married when I come to Tours.”

Before the conquest by the Normans, the land in Norfolk was so light and fine, that the farmers usually ploughed it with two rabbits and a case knife.

* * * * *
* * * *

A GRAMMATICAL EPISTLE
To _Miss_ SALLY SYNTAX.

MADAM,