Chapter L: Le Fevre (17)

Amongst the _numeral propositions_ towards a matrimonial _union_ with your amiable _person_, I hope you’ll not _decline_ the _interjection_ of my preliminary pretences. I should not wish to be a mere _noun adjective_ to you in all _cases_, but I _positively_ declare, that _comparatively_ speaking, I should be _superlatively_ happy to agree with you in the _subjunctive mood_. I trust you’ll not opiniate me singular, for desiring to have the _plural_ in my family; I shall fabricate no _verbal_ oration, to prove how I long to have our affections in _common of two_: but I presume, that in case of a _conjunction copulative_, you’ll use no _indicative_ solicitation to be in the _imperative mood_, as I am determined to be in the _potential active_, while you are in the _future passive_, or in the _supine_: for it is the _optative_ of my soul to become your _relative_, by the _antecedent_ of _regular conjugation_, as this alone can constitute a _lawful concord_ with the _feminine gender_, and afford us a _participle_ of _substantive_ happiness. Every _article possessive_ or _genitive_ shall become a _dative translation_ to you; nothing shall be _accusative_ against your _government_; and your sweet _nominative_ without a _pronoun_ or even _adverb_ shall be my _vocative_, till death the great _ablative_ of all living, by the _gradual declention_ of our corporeal nature, puts a _final termination_ to the _present tense_, and time, thro’ an _infinite progression_ of ages, may render us _preterperfect_ in the _future tense_; in the interim, my _principal part of speech_ in its _primitive_ or _derivative extension_ is, to the end, that you may put the most charitable _construction_ on this _simple proposition_, and that your _definitive resolution_ may be _consonant_ to the wishes of your very _indeclinable_ lover

MICHAEL DE MARIBUS.

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ANECDOTES.

On the first night of the representation of the comedy of the Suspicious Husband, Foote sat by a plain, honest, well meaning citizen, whose imagination was strongly impressed by the incidents of the play. At dropping of the curtain, the wit complained to his neighbour of the impropriety of suffering Ranger to go off as he came on, without being reclaimed. “Could not the author,” said he, “throw this youth, in the course of his nocturnal rambles, into some ridiculous scene of distress, which might have reclaimed him? As he now stands, who knows but the rogue, after all the pleasure he has given us, may spend the night in a round house;” “Then,” says the Citizen, “if it happens in my Ward, I’ll release him, for I’m sure he is too honest a fellow to run away from his bail.”

A young woman lately applied to the manager of a Theatre to be engaged as a vocal performer---When required to give an instance of her ability, she began Mr. Incledon’s celebrated ballad of _Ma chere amie_ my charming fair, thus---“March after me, my charming fair;”---The manager bowed, and the lady became scarce.

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GRACEFULNESS.

He who seeks to know the origin of Gracefulness, must look for it in his own mind; whatever is graceful there, must be so in expression. It is a quality analogous to the most exquisite tenderness of affliction; that sweet enthusiasm of action which goes hand in hand with beauty; or, if we may be allowed the phrase, it is the _soul_ of beauty, the _emphasis_ of pleasing expression.----Grace is the sublimity of beauty; the modest pride of virtue; the gentle dignity of love. An attitude expressive of the pensive and pleasing melancholy, a sentiment peculiar to the finest souls, is ever most graceful. The loveliest of the graces has on her face a cast of sadness mixed with the sweetest joy.

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NEW-YORK.

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MARRIED,

On Monday evening the 31st ult. by the Rev. Dr. Beach, LUCAS ELMENDORF, Esq. of Esopus, to Miss ANN WADDLE, of this city.

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_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 29th ult. to the 4th 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. 29 30 44 e. do. clear, calm, sm. rn. lt. wd.
30 27 35 50 nw. w. clear high wind, do. do.
31 24 50 30 e. do. cloudy lt. wd. sm. rn. & sn.
Feb. 1 30 30 e. do. cloudy high wind, rain do.
2 37 49 w. do. rain cm. clear high wind.
3 32 44 w. do. clear light wind, do. do.
4 31 40 w. do. clear light wind, do. do.

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ON INNOCENCE.

Sweet INNOCENCE, thou child of Peace!
Companion of the infant breast,
Fond parent of domestic ease,
And tranquil rest!

Say, in some solitary cell,
Dost thou with Piety reside,
Far from the sons of Vice, who dwell
With Pomp and Pride?

There dost thou smooth the brow of Care,
Beam hope serene on Virtue’s woes,
And lull the transports of Despair
To soft repose?

Dost thou in some sequester’d grove,
With rural tenderness retire,
There fan the sparks of infant love
And pure desire?

Or with the nymphs in jocund play,
Hide from their swains amid the bowers,
Or with the blooming lasses stray,
To cull sweet flowers?

Where, lovely stranger! hast thou fled,
Since weeping Eden saw thee rove:
Then pensive beauty droop’d her head,
And left the grove?

Return, my once beloved guest!
Bring thy fair friend Content with thee,
Bring back those happy hours, which blest
My infancy.

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THE SEASONS OF SORROW.

When hope, when health, when youth prevail,
How fleet the dancing moments pass;
Ere grief and care the heart assail,
At ebb the sands of Time’s frail glass!

Once, brightly rose my morning ray,
My noon of life serenely shone;
Yet clouds on clouds o’ercast the day,
Ere yet declin’d the setting sun.

Did gentle zephyrs waft the Spring,
How bright each landscape glow’d around!
What sweets could Summer seasons bring,
What beauties Autumn, harvest crown’d!

Not hoary Winter’s dreary form,
Shivering in snowy mantle dress’d,
Could freeze my joys, or raise a storm
To shake the calmness of my breast:

For then my bliss a Brother shar’d,
A Friend his comforts could impart;
If Fortune’s frowns that bliss impair’d,
A gentle Mistress sooth’d my heart.

With these, whilst every care was charm’d,
The choicest gifts of Heaven combin’d,
Higeia’s power my bosom warm’d,
And love spread sunshine o’er my mind.

In yonder vale Philander lies,
Embalm’d with friendship’s choicest tear;
Where those o’er-arching shades arise,
I sorrow’d o’er a brother’s bier.

Yet stream’d my eyes, yet bled each wound,
When Fate another arrow sped;
A timeless grave my Delia found,
My love was number’d with the dead!

My love!--a dearer name she own’d,
Pattern of constancy end truth!
Her image, in my heart enthron’d,
The dear-priz’d consort of my youth!

That heart thus rent--What yet remains,
While still our short-liv’d pleasures die?
While grief in mournful notes complains,
And sorrow heaves the heart-felt sigh?

The glorious sun puts on in vain
His richest robes, and gilds the day;
Sad melancholy’s sable reign,
Prevailing, blots his brightest ray.

With roses crown’d, the blushing spring
To every new-born joy invites;
Delia more balmy sweets could bring,
For her I pine amidst delights.

When Summer radiance paints the skies,
Or Autumn swells the lusty year;
Still flow my tears, still heave my sighs,
Philander--Delia--is not here!

When Winter the gay train employs,
In scenes of social mirth to blend;
Can I forget who shar’d those joys,
My Brother, Mistress, and my Friend?

Unheeded still the seasons roll,
Unmov’d each various change I see;
Can they relieve my troubled soul,
Or smile upon a wretch like me?

Ah, no! To sorrow still a prey,
My few remaining years I waste;
Count by my sighs each passing day,
And wish that each may be my last.

The torch funereal, cypress gloom,
Are now familiar to my sight;
These eyes, long gazing on the tomb,
Now sicken at the morning light,

Does fancy make the shapes well known,
That sudden flit, and disappear?
Does fancy form the solemn tone
Which vibrates on my aching ear?

Howe’er it be---aloud they call---
To quit in haste this mortal coil,
And rise above the earthly ball,
The scene of sorrow, pain, and toil.

Philander, Dorus, Delia bless’d!
I hear the voice, and haste away,
To scenes where Sorrow’s children rest,
In realms of never-ending day.

But Virtue, from the seats on high
Descended, shall assert her reign;
Though worlds in mighty ruin lie,
And still her sacred sway maintain.

Then shall her sons in every age,
In every clime, with lustre rise;
And quit, at once, this mortal stage,
For scenes immortal in the skies.

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SONNET TO PUBLIC VIRTUE.

Is this the land for arts and arms renown’d,
The Saint’s, the Hero’s and the Patriot’s pride?
Is this where Pulaski, Warren, and Montgomery died?
Where Liberty defends her favourite mound?

Here let me kneel, and kiss the hallow’d ground!
Old Earth shall sooner drink this purple tide,
Than faction with impunity shall wound
Thy fame, Columbia! parent! patron! guide!

Unlike th’ aspiring prelate, meanly proud,
The soldier, jealous of a brother’s fame;
The popularian, voluble and loud;
The Christian, martial, patriotic soul,
Disdains the vulgar tribute of acclaim,
Mean Envy, and Ambition’s mad controul!

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 15, 1797.+ [+No. 85.+

PLEASURES OF OLD AGE.

Though, in old age, the circle of pleasure is contracted, yet within its limits many of those enjoyments remain which are most grateful to human nature.

Temperate mirth is not extinguished by advanced years; the mild pleasures of domestic life still cheer the heart. The entertainments of conversation and social intercourse continue unimpaired. The desire of knowledge is not abated by the frailty of the body, and the leisure of old age affords many opportunities for gratifying that desire. The sphere of observation and reflection is so much enlarged by long acquaintance with the world, as to supply, within itself, a wide range of improving thought. Whilst the aged are engaged in such employments as best suit the infirmities of their nature, they are surrounded, perhaps with families, who treat them with attention and respect; they are honoured by their friends; their characters are established, and are placed beyond the reach of clamour and the strife of tongues; and free from distracting cares can calmly attend to their eternal interests.

No age is doomed to total infelicity provided that we attempt not to do violence to nature, by seeking to extort from one age the pleasures of another, and to gather in the winter of life those flowers which were destined to blossom only in its summer or its spring.

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WIT.

Wit is the most dangerous talent we can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and good nature, otherwise it will create many enemies.

Wit is perfectly consistent with softness and delicacy; yet they are seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that they who possess it become intoxicated, and lose all self-command.

Though it is the most captivating, yet it is the most dreaded of all talents: the most dangerous to those who have it, and the most feared by those who have it not. He who is grown rich without it, in safe and sober dulness, shuns it as a disease, and looks upon poverty as its invaluable concomitant.

The moralist declaims against it as the source of irregularity; and the frugal citizen dreads it more than bankruptcy itself: for he considers it as the parent of extravagance and beggary. The Cynic will ask of what use is it? Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet it is allowed, as an object of innocent amusement, and delightful recreation.

A woman who possesses this quality has received a most dangerous present, perhaps not less so than beauty itself; especially if it be not sheathed in a temper peculiarly inoffensive, chastised by a most correct judgment, and restrained by more prudence than falls to the common lot.

This talent is more likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for there is much more danger that folly should arise from the confederation of what is our own, than of what we borrow. But wit, like learning, is not near so common a thing as is imagined. For flippancy, pertness, and impudence are often mistaken for this brilliant quality; and people often imagine they are witty, only because they are indiscreet, and this makes the name of wit so cheap, while its real existence is so rare.

But those who happily possess this talent, cannot be too abstinent in the use of it. It often makes admirers, but never makes friends; and she, who does not desire friends, has a sordid and insensible soul; but she, who is ambitious of making every man her admirer, has an invincible vanity and a cold heart.

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GRATITUDE.

Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The sense of being distinguished by the kindness of another, gladdens the heart, warms it with reciprocal affection, and gives to any profession, which is agreeable in itself, a double relish, from its being the gift of a friend. Favours, though conferred by men, may become burdensome; but nothing of this kind can affect the intercourse of gratitude with heaven. Its favors are wholly disinterested. The Almighty aims at no end but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and who desires to return from them but a devout and thankful heart.

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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 251._)

“It was an accident.”

“And a very fortunate one for your Majesty.”

“What do you call fortunate? My family had a lawful claim to the crown of P--------l, and I have an additional right to the possession of it because I have torn it from the head of the usurper at the risk of my life. I would, however, have resigned it cheerfully to my grand uncle if his death had not destroyed that plan. You are mistaken if you think the lot of a King to be so enviable. The burden of government lies heavy on my shoulders.”

“O! there are means of alleviating that load.”

“Of which I shall make as little use as possible, for it will be the chief object of my cares, and will afford me the greatest pleasure to render my people happy.”

“Who could doubt it? Yet I think one ought to make the death of the deceased King publicly known.”

“If we could but first convince the people that he has been alive lately. The profound incognito behind which he concealed himself, throws an insurmountable bar in our way. No one would believe us.”

“Upon my honour, I almost disbelieve it myself any longer.”

“You are right; one needs not to believe what one is convinced of, for you have seen him with your own eyes. If fate had suffered him to show himself in public, every one would have acknowledged him to have been the person that he really was, the old lawful King of P--------l. Having, however, lived and died in obscurity, the whole matter may remain a secret, and that so much the more because the discovery would be intirely useless. It is therefore my royal pleasure that no mention whatever be made of it. Farewell!” he added after a short pause, “you will always find me your affectionate King.”

‘Thus ended my audience. Do not desire me, my friend, to disclose to you the ideas and sensations which it produced within me. I shall endeavour to obliterate even the recollection of that scene.

‘Alumbrado is very much displeased with the manner in which I have spoken to the King. “Do you imagine,” said he, “that his offended pride ever will forgive you the torments of that self-denial which the patience he has opposed to your galling language has cost him? The sacrifice which he has made to his policy by that painful forbearance, will certainly cost you dear. Henceforward, you must renounce every hope of being promoted; for he will be careful to keep in submission, and at a proper distance, a man of spirit, as you must have appeared to him. This is perhaps the least misfortune that threatens you; your warmth, your ill-timed frankness, may produce consequences of a more serious nature. Alas! why have you not been on your guard? Have I not advised you to appear with humility in his presence?”

‘Alumbrado had certainly the most friendly view in reprimanding me thus: he did not know that every word of his wounded my heart like a two-edged dagger.

‘I have been interrupted by the visit of a Prelate of very high rank. He came to inform my father and myself that the Vice Queen of P--t--l had been imprisoned by the order of the King, because she has had the imprudence to declare that the new King had usurped the throne in a fraudulent manner, and that it was the duty of every inhabitant of P--t--l to acknowledge only the King of Sp--n as his lawful sovereign, because the voluntary oath of allegiance the P--t--se had sworn to the latter, could not be made void by that which the Duke of B- - - a had obtained by artifice and force. “I cannot conceive,” the Prelate added, “what reasonable objection can be alledged against this declaration; but nevertheless, no one dares to affirm it, for fear of sharing the fate of the Vice-Queen.”

‘The Vice-Queen and the Prelate, appear to me to be in the right. However, what can be done? Farewell, my friend, and let it not be long before you favour me with an answer.

‘P.S. This very moment I received an answer to a letter I had wrote to a friend near the place where the hermit lived. He informs me that the old man expired four months since, worn out with age.’

I suspected already from the first letter, but more so from the second, that the Duke was in danger of taking a course from which he could not return too soon. I imagined I had discovered the design which Alumbrado had formed upon him and shuddered at the idea that he might carry his point. Yet my suspicion against Alumbrado was also a mere supposition, which gave me no right to accuse him. After mature consideration I thought, however, it would be best to deliver the Duke, against whom his plan appeared so be chiefly directed, from his clutches, and thus expected to gain two advantages by one stroke: not only to cut the sinews of Alumbrado’s undertaking asunder, but also to guard the Duke against the snare which was laid for him.

With that view I wrote to the latter:

‘Your letters have been very important to me; I must, however, beg you to fetch my answer yourself. Don’t refuse my request, and hasten to the arms of your friend, whose happiness in a place on which nature seems to have lavished all her blessings, would be complete if you were present. Here we will discuss the political concerns which give you so much uneasiness, for I have more than one reason for not doing it by way of letter, and my affairs threaten to detain me here some time longer. The journey will not only improve your health, but it will also ease your mind, which is bent down at present by a gloomy sameness of ideas, and very much wants amusement and diversion. I am convinced that your melancholy will not pursue you to the paradise that blossoms here. And if only your gloominess of mind shall have left you, you will view things that now appear to you in a frightful shape, in a more pleasing light. At the same time you may expect that the commission the King has charged me with, will enable me to explain to you many political objects which I dare not do in writing. Come, my friend, you certainly will not regret your having undertaken this journey, &c. &c. &c.’

My letter produced the desired effect. The Duke returned me a very affectionate answer, and promised, to begin the journey in a fortnight. How joyfully and impatiently did my heart pant for his arrival! but I was disappointed. He did not come, but sent me a letter, which I am going to communicate to the reader.

‘Why am I not yet arrived? Ask Heaven that question, but not me, for I have done every thing in my power to fulfil my promise. In spite of Alumbrado’s remonstrances, I went on board of the ship to convey me to my friend. A favourable breeze that swelled our sails enlivened my hopes of embracing you soon. Evening set in, and the wind and the sky continued to be propitious. The second and the third night stole upon us amid the same favourable auspices.

‘I do not know how it happened, that on the third night the recollection of my sainted Amelia awoke within my mind with additional vivacity. It was not, however, associated with painful, but with bitter-sweet sensations, which frequently afford to feeling minds a more delicious pleasure than joys unmixed. I proceeded insensibly from sensations to the realms of fancy. I looked at the star of love, and imagined I beheld Amelia’s sainted spirit enthroned in its silver lustre. My soul soared above the immense space that separated us, and anticipated the bliss of the celestial spirits. O! why has she so soon been rendered insensible of the limits of her power, which obliged her to return to our sublunary globe?

‘I felt a faintness which invited me to rest, and having bid adieu to the starry firmament and the ocean, I went to my cabin, where the solacing hand of sleep soon closed my eyes.

‘I awoke an hour before the dawn of morn. Finding myself entirely refreshed I left my couch and returned on deck in order to hail the stars once more, before they should be dispelled by the majestic king of day. But what a scene did my gazing eyes behold! The firmament appeared no longer to be over us, but we seemed to ride upon it. I did not know whether I was dreaming or awake, rubbing my eyes repeatedly. In vain, the scene remained unaltered: intense darkness covered the sky, all its stars and galaxies appeared to be on the water.

‘O nature! thy grateful son never will forget the enjoyment which this undescribable spectacle has afforded him! I gazed a long time in silent wonder at the illuminated surface of the ocean, before I could examine the individual beauties of that grand scene. Whithersoever I directed my gazing looks, I beheld fiery streaks. However, all parts were not equally illuminated; some spots emitted quick flashes of light, while others continued some minutes to sparkle. The separated water gushed before us in luminous streams, and the furrow which the vessel drew formed a white bright streak behind us, which was interspersed with sky-blue spots. The multifarious and dazzling light was skipping on the curling waves; the spume which the little bubbles produced on the surface of the water, glittered like silver-coloured snow. I could have plunged in the watery abyss in order to sink down in that heaven.

‘The rising sun put a stop to that enchantment. My fellow travellers began to stir. I hastened to tell them what a scene they had missed. A reverend old man, who was present when I related what I had seen, smiled. “One can see,” said he, “that this is your first voyage; this phenomenon is nothing uncommon in all seasons, and particularly in warmer climes; nevertheless the naturalists still differ in their opinion of its cause, some believing that it proceeds from small luminous insects, and others from an oily substance that separates from rotten animal bodies.--Many pretend this phenomenon to be the forerunner of an impending tempest, but this is false.”

‘The old man may not have been mistaken, yet this time he was refuted by experience. The little clouds which were swimming singly in the sky, united by degrees and overdarkened the sun. A black tempest began to gather in the north. The crew were just going to prepare against the storm, when suddenly a violent gale of wind arose, and hurried the vessel with incredible rapidity over the ruffled surface of the sea. We lost one of our anchors, which fell from the deck with a thundering noise. Some loud peals of thunder gave the signal for the breaking out of the storm. The light of day disappeared, the billows of the swelling sea were rolling one upon another with a roaring noise; the dreadful flashes of lightening seemed to dye the surface of the ocean with blood, and each clap of thunder threatened to shiver the mast to atoms. The foaming of the waves, the rolling of thunder, and the howling of the winds, seemed to announce to that part of the world the return of old chaos.

‘The strong flashes of lightning made us suddenly observe that land was near. How welcome soever such a discovery is in fair weather, yet it was to us the most dreadful incident that could have happened, on account of imminent danger of being wrecked. Our cables seemed not to be able to resist long the fury of the winds and waves which availed the vessel.

‘All these circumstances contributed to recall to my mind the recollection of a similar incident which had robbed me of my Amelia. The wounds of my heart began to bleed afresh, and the melancholy sensations which assailed my mind, deprived me of the power that I, otherwise, should have opposed to the terrors which surrounded me. My heart beat violently against my breast, and nothing but my ambition could have prevented me from joining those who groaned and lamented loudly, wringing their hands and tearing their hair.

(_To be continued._)

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ON THE GENIUS OF WOMEN.

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+To the EDITOR*.+

_Sir,_

Certain persons have for some time past been carrying on a dispute relative to the talents of women, and the dispute I perceive has found its way into your miscellany. I believe, Sir, the question might be soon settled to the satisfaction of all parties, if, we were first to agree in what is meant, or should be meant by the word talents. Hitherto, if I understand the controversy, talents have been understood to mean the power or faculty of publishing in prose and verse; and if we limit it to this, we may easily decide, that women are inferior to men, because there have been probably a thousand male authors for one female.

But, Sir, with submission, I would beg leave to suggest, that we narrow human genius and ability very much, when we confine them to the bookseller’s shop. Are there not many very able Statesmen who never write any thing but Treasury-warrants, and receipts for their salaries? Nay, do we not admire the vast genius of some Representatives, whose _forte_ is entirely in speaking, and who, when compelled to draw up an address to their independent constituents, commit errors that would disgrace a school-boy? In short, Sir, if we have no other way of judging of a man’s talents, but by the quantity he publishes, either from the press or from his mouth, are we not giving all the praise to mere saying; and never reflecting that an accumulation of words, without corresponding actions, is to all necessary purposes useless and unprofitable?

This being premised, and, I hope, allowed, we need dispute no longer about the superiority of the male sex. The talents of the fair sex, as to all the great and important events of human life, and all the leading transactions of kingdoms and states have so far transcended what has been attributed to us, that were I to compile a new Universal History, however I might avail myself of the valuable labours contained in the old, I should certainly entitle it, “A history of the Power and Influence of the Female Sex, from the fall of Adam to the present time.” It is the pitiful jealousy and envy of men which has deprived the sex of the honours due to them in history; and likewise some part of the concealment of their influence, arises from the brevity of histories, their authors taking a superficial view of events, and seldom troubling themselves to investigate the secret springs of human action; whereas, if we will only examine into the minute particulars of great events, the secret intrigues of Courts, Kings and Ministers, or even of Republics, we shall always find that the women have had a great share in bringing about political changes, wars, treaties, negociations, &c. although they, for modesty probably, content themselves with acting unseen and unobserved, and the men, proud of the success of the affair, wish to take all the merit to themselves. Now, Sir, let me ask you a plain question: which of the two is likely to deserve most fame, and to confer greater renown on the party, the publishing a poem, or bringing about a Revolution in a state or nation, perhaps with a few words? Which requires greater abilities, to govern a kingdom, or to cajole a bookseller? To tickle the fancy of love-sick boys and girls by a novel, or to confound and stun half the Cabinets of Europe, by a bold stroke of invasion, a massacre, and a partition? To write a ballad about a man and woman who never existed, or to make the existence of thousands of men and women miserable?

But this is not all. It is not enough to appeal to the history of ancient and modern nations, for proofs of the superiority of women over men. This, perhaps, is not much in their favour, for a superiority of evil influence is not the present contest, and would not be very honourable if it were established. No, Sir, if we wish to ascertain the real and meritorious superiority of female talents, we need not consult the voluminous records of history; we need only bring the question home to ourselves. I shall instance but in one respect, the power of persuasion. This I take to be the great test of genius and talents. He who possesses this, possesses every thing; and yet we know that what a man cannot do by whole treatises and volumes, by a well connected chain of argument, and the most convincing calculations, is generally done by a woman with a smile, a glance of the eye, or a very few words. Sir, we may talk as we please of our vast learning, of our voluminous productions, of our many virtues for which we obtain credit in epithets and funeral sermons. But with what painful efforts do we accomplish the least of our good actions! and to do a great good is the business of a long life. What is all our power compared, or, which is more dangerous, put in competition with a TEAR or a FIT?

I repeat it, Sir, let us bring the question home to ourselves. What is it that constitutes the felicity of domestic life? Is it the wealth we have acquired, the house we live in, the equipage that bespeaks our rank, or the servants that bow at our command? No. Sir, to use an expression of Mr. Burke, it is, “the dignified obedience and proud submission” we owe and pay to the female sex. Our hearts confess that they deserve it, and that we cannot help paying it, and cannot, therefore, help acknowledging their superiority. When we refuse to pay it, when our minds are in a state of rebellion against those lawful sovereigns, where is it that we dare to breathe sentiments of a seditious tendency? Is it in their presence? No; a look, a word, awes us into submission; and when we conceive the thoughts of resistance we fly, like cowards, to some secret place, to some neutral ground, to the desart heath of celibacy.

They may be accounted to possess the greatest talents who accomplish the greatest purposes by few means, which, in my mind, establishes the superiority of the fair sex. I am, Sir, your humble servant,

PHILOGYNES.

[* This article is extracted from the London Monthly Magazine.]

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

(Continued from our last.)

In a ramble one evening with her and her parents through a beautiful valley, our admiration was excited by a cottage extremely small, but exquisitely neat, which lay on the sloping bank of a meandering river, shaded by old luxuriant trees---a bridge composed of planks formed a passage from the vale to the cottage, we crost it in order to have a better opportunity of gratifying our curiosity. We now saw a venerable looking man who had before escaped our notice, sitting in a little sunny glade, we stopt for fear of intruding on his solitude, but perceiving us he instantly approached, and with a pleasing politeness requested we would enter his humble abode. Harley with emotion exclaimed---“Good God! surely that voice is not unknown to me.” “I am certain,” said the stranger, “I have seen you before, though where I cannot immediately recollect.” “If I am not mistaken,” cried Harley, “You are the worthy Hume who was chaplain to the regiment in which I served.” “The same, the same indeed,” replied he, returning his embrace---“the same unfortunate man, whose setting life has been attended with a train of the severest calamities.” The big tear stood trembling on Harley’s cheek---“Friend of my youth,” said he---his voice faultered, but betrayed the sensibility of his feelings. We accompanied Mr. Hume into his cottage, Harley and he appeared delighted with this unexpected interview, both appeared anxious to learn the occurrences which had past, during the long interval of a separation. Harley’s delicacy prevented his enquiring too minutely into those misfortunes Hume hinted at, which he, perceiving with a candour that seemed genuine to his nature, declared he would inform us of those events he had experienced, “a tale,” said he, “adapted for youth---they will find the consequences of illicit passions, and how easily credulity can be imposed on.

“The events of my life are uncommonly calamitous, misfortune has persued me with unremitting vigour, I have lost the sweetest ties of life, I have seen the form of loveliness mouldering away, the shroud of darkness encompassing a mind replete with gentleness and pity, I have beheld the inexorable ruffian rob innocence of its boast and the blossom of beauty withering beneath the blast of affliction. Oh Harley, I have endured all this, and yet I live---live to draw the tear of sympathy by the recital of my fate.”

HISTORY OF HUME.

“Hope, sweetest child of fancy born,
Tho’ transient as the dew of morn;--
Thou who canst charm with sound and light,
The deaf’n’d ear, and dark’n’d sight;
And in dry deserts glad the swains,
With bubbling rills and cultur’d plains.
No more invent thy airy schemes,
Nor mock me with fantastic dreams---
No more thy idle stories tell,
Deceitful prattler--Hope farewell!”

“The evening was uncommonly serene when I wandered from my cottage to enjoy its balmy sweetness, the distant hum of the busy villagers retiring from their various occupations, just stole upon my ear, and made me reflect on the happiness of our English peasants, and that a life of industry was a life of peace, since it kept the mind employed, and prevented the thoughts from wandering beyond the boundaries of virtue.

“I raised my eyes to the bright firmament where joys eternal are treasured for the righteous--I considered that millions of celestial beings might at that moment be hovering over my head, and joining in responsive hallelujahs before the throne of the Almighty, Milton’s beautiful lines occurred to me--

“Then crown’d again their golden harps they took,
Harps ever tun’d that glitt’ring by their side
Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet,
Of charming symphony, they introduce
The sacred song, and waken raptures high,
No one exempt, no voice but well could join,
Melodious part, such concord in heaven.”

“I was roused from my meditations by a piteous voice, demanding the aid of charity, I looked at the object, he was a worn out veteran, the remnant of a shabby scarlet coat hung over his feeble limbs, he carried a wallet, no great load indeed, a mouldy crust of bread, too hard for decaying jaws of age. I felt for his misery, I pitied the misfortunes of that man, whose arm had assisted in defending my country from the rapacity of its enemies. He told me a tale of woe, and his cheek was moistened in relating it. Alas! poor old man, cried I, you have not been exempt from the common lot; but cheer up my soldier, the manly heart, while it trusts in heaven, should never be deprest, but the anguish of poverty has weakened courage. Come, cried I, taking him by the arm, we have both been veterans, though in different ways, labour should now cease, age requires a relaxation from toil, we are both swiftly gliding down the vale of years, let us endeavour to make the passage easy, we will retire to my little cottage, its doors have never yet refused admittance to the stranger, seated by the humble fire-side, we will recount our tales of old, and cheer our hearts with a draught of are, administered by the cherub hands of my Patty. We ascended the hill together which led to my lowly mansion, nature had sweetly decked it with the choicest verdure. As I ascended the hill, I wondered at not beholding my Patty; it was her custom, when prevented to attend my rambles, to watch my return, seated on the little green turf beside the door. As I entered I called her, but received no answer, my surprise increased---I seated my humble guest, and went in search of her, I tapt at her chamber door, still all was silent---melancholy presages rushed upon me, I attempted to open the door, weak and trembling my hand fell by my side, and my heart smote against my breast, I recollected myself, and wondered what had excited such fears in me---they now died away like the shadows of the night, I entered the chamber, but my child was not there, a folded paper lay on her little dressing table, I hastily snatched it up and perused it, a deep groan was wrung from me by agonizing pangs, and I fell senseless on the floor, my fall reached the veteran’s ears, he hurried to my assistance, gratitude inspired his poor unfortunate bosom, and he endeavoured to aid me, he recalled me to life, ah! mistaken kindness, the gloomy recesses of the grave were alone fit for me. I started from his arms, I raved aloud upon the name of Patty. Whither art thou gone, my child? I cried. The paper lay before me, I imagined it all a dream, I strained my glimmering sight to read the words of horror it contained:

“Oh my father, I fly from you, incapable of witnessing the shame and sorrow I have drawn upon you, I fly from you, a stranger to peace and bereft of innocence, the wiles of Mordaunt have undone me, I leave you forever!”

“Perfidious villain, to blast my only comfort! With some degree of resignation I could have consigned my child to death, the idea she was gone spotless to the bosom of her creator, would have calmed the sorrows of my soul, but to have her seduced by a monster, her fair form, her virtue for ever blasted, oh! ’twas agony insupportable, she was consigned to me by the wife on whom I doated; my Emily was an angel before she left this world, prepared for the mandate which called her hence, adorned with every charm of beauty and goodness, with her last sigh, she grieved forth the united names of child and husband, the cypress which shaded her grave was oftener watered by my tears, than by the dews of heaven; Patty was the darling of my eye, the blooming resemblance of her departed mother, she was sincere, artless, and unsuspecting as credulity itself, she became acquainted with her seducer, in our neighborhood he was affluent, young and elegant, beneath the mask of friendship and generosity, he concealed a mind deceitful and vicious, he admired the beauty of my child, he gained her affections, and rendered her forgetful of my early precepts, she fled, afraid to see the person whose hopes she had blasted, fled from the arms which would have sheltered her against the contumely of the world.

“I turned to the soldier, I beheld his tears of sympathy; he had seen troops destroyed, individuals fall beneath the ruthless sword of an enemy, but he had never beheld a lovely daughter, tempted from the arms of an idolizing parent. I will go in search of my child, I exclaimed, he offered his withered arm to support me, we descended the hill together. At the bottom I stopt, my emotions were to be compared to those which our first parents felt when driven from the garden of Eden. The cottage on the hill was once the scene of all my bliss with Emily, it was sacred because she resided in it; I have felt an enthusiasm of pleasure in walking through those paths in which she had trod, I wept, oh earth! I cried, where are thy joys, thy comfort? Alas! How fallible, how fleeting all thy blessings! I hurried on, the soldier followed me. We wandered to various cottages, still the answer was repeated, they had not seen such passengers as we described, travelling shortly exhausted our little stock of money, in a few days shelter was refused us, we crept under a hedge, and the rain wet our grey locks. The soldier murmured his regret, it was hard, he said, he had served his country faithfully, yet its ungrateful inhabitants barred their doors against him. Be comforted, my companion, I cried, consider what the Saviour of mankind has said, “the sparrows have their nests and the beasts their dens, but the son of man has not wherewithal to lay his head.” And shall we after so glorious an example, repine at not receiving shelter from a few miserable wretches.”

(_To be concluded in our next._)

* * * * *

ESSAY on the Conduct of Men toward the FAIR SEX.

Every generous man should view the sentiments and actions of the fair sex in the most favourable light. I can ascribe the contrary practice to nothing but an unmanly spirit, since, in many cases, those guilty of it cannot vindicate themselves confidently with the laws of delicacy. Nature has made man the protector; and the fair sex require his protection: he who should refuse this, when necessary, would be reproached with cowardice; and much more if he should take advantage of their weakness. But is not he who injures a woman’s character, to be esteemed as great a coward as he who assaults her person? Certainly he is: the former is an insult on the modesty, and the latter upon the natural weakness of the sex.

There is but one way in which we can suppose a lady may vindicate herself from a false imputation, and that is by the tenor of her actions. But then, how liable are actions to be misconstrued! When once a slanderous tongue has given the clue, the world will be too apt to ascribe every thing to a wrong principle; even the candid are sometimes misled, and form suspicions which their honour would otherwise have prevented.

The practice of viewing the female conduct in an unfavourable light, subjects the sex to many disadvantages, which I have observed in the course of my acquaintance.

Flattery is a fashionable snare to entangle female vanity; and I know of no method more successful, when a man is disposed to put an unfavourable construction upon every thing he sees. If it is received with applause, with what satisfaction does the base deceiver congratulate himself upon his success! Hence some ladies, to avoid all such appearances, shew themselves displeased when they are attacked in this way; but alas! they succeed no better than the former; for it is easy enough for the confident fellow to console himself with this reflection, that the vain creature takes the compliment almost before it was intended.

* * * * *
* * * *

For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+.

* * *

To Mr. MICHAEL DE MARIBUS,
In answer to his Grammatical Epistle addressed
to _Miss_ SALLY SYNTAX.

SIR,

The charitable construction which has been put upon your _grammatical_ epistle, has _rendered_ me _declinable_ to your complex proposition. As your presumptuous address, wholly precludes the necessity of an apology for this abrupt preface; I shall be thereby relieved from an embarrassment, which the delicacy of the subject would have otherwise occasioned. The various contradictions visible in your letter, argue a defect of sincerity. In the first place, you say you would be _superlatively_ happy to _agree_ with me in the _subjunctive mood_; then you seem disposed, with an assuming air, so throw in a _conjunction disjunctive_, and disunite us into various _moods_ and _tenses_. Again you say that you do not wish to be a _noun adjective_; then, that it is the _optative_ of your soul, to become a _relative_.--What is a _relative_ pray, but a _noun adjective?_ You say also, that you trust I will not opiniate you _singular_: if you are not in the _singular number_, you must necessarily be in the _plural_. If, then, you have already formed the _plural number_, by the _interjection_ of a _copulative conjunction_, connecting you to a _noun substantive_, you cannot expect, or even wish from me, an accession to your _proposition_. I candidly declare to you, that a _noun substantive_ in the _singular number_, is the only _part of speech_ to which I would willingly _subjoin_ a _copulative conjunction_. Lest you should be disposed to charge me with assuming the prerogative of your own sex, I shall pass over many expressions in your letter, which might properly afford a field for criticism. But let me add, Sir, that as it was an impolite, so was it a very impolitic thing for you to make use of such unwarranted freedom, as to make proposals of so immensely great consequence, to a person, with whom you had so slight an acquaintance. If, previous to the exhibition of your bold letter, you had perfectly learned my _disposition_, you must have been sensible, that it would be far from being _consonant_ with my feelings to admit of a _concord_ with you, upon conditions so disagreeable as those you offered. Beside, it would have been by no means a bad plan for you, to have been a little conversant with my sister _analogy_; as she might have been of considerable advantage to you in an attempt of this nature: She might, at least, have supplied you with a _rule_, by which two _noun substantives_ might have _agreed_ with each other, without transforming either into a _noun adjective_.

SALLY SYNTAX.

* * * * *

OBSERVATION.

Sensible objects, which were any way connected with an absent or departed friend, impress their idea more forcibly on our minds, than bare reflections can; and then, like the pressure of the moon on the sea, they create a fulness of sorrow or tenderness, which can only be relieved by flowing from our eyes.

* * * * *
* * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

MARRIED,

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. ROBERT JOHNSTON, to Miss ANN SWITZER, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening the 8th inst. at West Greenwich, (Con.) by the Rev. Dr. Lewis, the Rev. PLATT BUFFETT, of Stanwich, to Miss HANNAH LEWIS, daughter of the Rev. Dr. Lewis, of the former place.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. ALEXANDER COWAN, to Miss MARGARET IVERS, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. PETER SLOTE, Printer, to Miss ANN COOK, both of this city.

* * * * *

_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 5th to the 11th inst._

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

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3.
100 100
Feb. 5 31 42 s. se. clear, calm, do. light wd.
6 40 50 50 50 sw. do. rain, lt. wd. thick fog, do.
7 34 36 w. nw. clear, high wind, do. do.
8 26 38 w. do. clear, light wind, do. do.
9 31 50 42 s. se. clear, calm, do. high wind
10 44 48 se. do. cloudy, h. wd. much rain.
11 40 44 50 n. nw. cloudy, high wind, do. do.

* * *

RESULTS OF METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.
FOR JANUARY 1797.
deg. 100

Mean temperature of the thermometer at sun-rise 24 35
Do. do. of the do. at 3 P.M. 32 78
Do. do. for the whole month 28 56
Greatest monthly range between the 9th and 28th, 46 0
Do. do. in 24 hours, the 10th, 20 75
Coldest day the 9th, 0 0
Warmest do. the 28th, 46 0

6 days it snowed, and about eight inches and a-half has fallen.
5 do. it rained, and a large quantity has fallen.
18 do. it was clear at sunrise, and 3 P.M. or observation hours.
8 do. it was cloudy at do. do. do. do.
2 do. the wind was high at do. do. do. do.
21 do. the wind was light at do. do. do. do.
26 do. the Mercury was at or below the freezing point, at sunrise.
16 do. the do. do. do. at sunrise and 3 P.M.
20 do. the wind was west of north and south at 7 A.M. & 3 do.
21 do. the do. was east of do. and do. at do. do.

* * * * *

SONNET TO ADVERSITY.

Neglected Nymph, that with unpitied sigh
Turn’st thy white cheek to every striking gale,
While the base crew with wounding taunts assail,
And Worthless Wealth averts his wint’ry eye!

Yet the rich virtues follow in thy strain,
Thine is Compassion’s tear, Submission’s calm,
Inspiring Hope, Religion’s healing balm,
And mild Philosophy’s instructive strain.

Thine is the plaintive Poet’s touching song,
That tunes with melody the chords of Care,
To smile forgiveness on the cureless wrong,
And heal the wounded spirit of Despair.

Ah, may I ne’er forget thy voice divine,
But bless the hour, that made its precepts MINE.

* * * * *
* * * *

THE VISION:
AN ELEGY.

What time the moon, in silver robes array’d,
Propt on her lucent throne, majestic sate,
With weary steps, I trod the muse-fraught glade,
And hail’d the sombre glory of her state.

Still was the air, and solemn all the scene;
For there, immers’d in heavenly thought profound,
Deep Wisdom rov’d, whose sable robes were seen
To sweep with awful majesty the ground.

Bent o’er an urn, pale Melancholy stood,
With Pity’s smile soft melting in her eye;
Around her feet, in visionary mood,
The weeping spectres float in sorrow by.

There Contemplation held her awful reign,
And Fear, methought, burst thro’ the low’ring gloom:
While sounds terrific whisper’d in the gale,
And palid visions burst the yawning tomb.

Oppress’d I stood; when lo! from yonder sky;
Where charms celestial to the sight are giv’n,
Some Seraph’s beauties swept in glory by,
Enwrapt in all the radiant blooms of heav’n.

Propt on an amber cloud, one seem’d to stand,
While o’er his breast his radiant pinions fold:
A glitt’ring spear supports his better hand,
His blazing helmet flames with plumy gold!

I hear him say, “Why pour thy mournful strain?
Why feed with bitter grief thy woe-fraught mind,
Why pants thy heart with visionary pain?
Why give thy tresses to the ruffled wind?

No more let strains of hopeless sorrow flow;”--
He spoke, my father burst upon my eyes!
“For me no more unlock the source of woe,”
In strains divine my honour’d parent cries.

“For I am seated in the realms of light,
Where founts of bliss from joys perennial play;
Where suns of glory purify the sight,
And the soul triumphs in eternal day!

Raise thy low thoughts to images above,
And hail the form you ought not to deplore,
Lodg’d in the bosom of your maker’s love;
And learn from heav’nly precept to adore.

Frail child, no more let tears impearl thine eye,
Nor rending groans lament thy glorious fire;
Since wisdom tells you, that we all must die,
Tho’ born to flourish with celestial fire!