Chapter XL: Preface (2)

“I was received in Jamaica with much kindness by my brother officers; and my letters procured me many distinguished attentions from the principal families there. My intercourse with many gay young men, and the life of amusement (not to say dissipation) which I led, might, in a heart less tender than mine, have dispelled the gloom that had hung over me since my departure from England. But I did not find it so; my mind perpetually wandered over the past scenes of domestic delight; and my heart inwardly sighed, as I reflected on the expanse of ocean that divided me far from them. My wife was young, and ignorant of the world; and though the letters which she wrote me were filled with love, and regret, I suffered myself to dread a change in her affections, and gave way to the most dismal forebodings, which, instead of being diminished, were augmented by time.

“A captain in our regiment, whose name was _Nesbitt_, was on the point of returning on leave of absence to England. The death of his mother had put him in possession of considerable property, and it was necessary that he should settle his affairs. My heart prompted me to make particular overtures of intimacy to Captain Nesbitt, that I might influence him to see, and give me a particular account of my family. At that time too, I had unfortunately lost to him a sum of money at play; which, though not very considerable, was more than I could command, previous to his departure. On my mentioning it to him, he treated it lightly, and assured me he had not at that time any occasion for it. I received from him the most consolatory promises, and we parted with all the reciprocal good wishes that can be supposed to arise from a concluded friendship, and an assurance that I should hear from him frequently on the subject which alone interested my heart.

“Captain Nesbitt was punctual to his word; he wrote me an account of his safe arrival in London, and that he was going to pass five or six weeks with a party of his friends at Swansea, from whence he should make it his first business to wait on Mrs. S----. The next ship brought me a packet from herself, in which she mentioned having seen him, and at a time when a visit from a friend of mine was particularly welcome, as she had just lost her father, and retired to a small farm-house near Glamorgan, till she should hear from me in what manner she should dispose of herself. She solicited my permission to join me in Jamaica, and that I would negociate her voyage with one of the first returning Captains, that he might settle in my name for every suitable accommodation. This was the project I ardently sighed for, but I wished it to come from herself; and the silence I had observed on it during her father’s lifetime, being no longer necessary, I answered her in the effusions of a heart filled with love and gratitude, and gave, as she desired, all proper directions to forward her approaching departure.

“Nothing but witnessing her safe arrival, could convey such transport to my mind, as seeing the ship get under weigh, that bore my letter, and was charged with the commission to bring her once more to my arms. I watched the wind and weather with anxiety, and in idea followed the vessel to her destined port. I passed the intervening time in fondly anticipating the arrival of the welcome stranger, and in preparing every thing for her reception.

“I had particularly attached myself to a Black, of the name of _Scipio_. He was the servant of a gentleman whom I visited, who bought him in his infancy, and treated him more as a favoured inmate, than a slave. Scipio was possessed of a noble mind, and a heart susceptible of affection, and gratitude. He loved his master, and lamented the destiny of those of his countrymen who were less fortunate than himself. Often would he wonder why they were so; comparing their labours with his own, and acknowledging their superiority. I frequently observed him to follow me at a distance in those hours when, oppressed by thought, I sought the plantain’s friendly shade, and shunned the converse of mankind; and oft would sorrow overspread his sable countenance while he watched me, as if fearful of my destruction.

“I was one day ruminating on my situation, anticipating the pleasure, yet at the same time dreading the frustration of _all_ my hopes, when Scipio ran eagerly towards me, and announced the approach of a ship from England. I climbed the highest point, as if to bring her nearer to me. It was too soon for me to expect my wife; all I could hope was a letter from her, and to that I looked with eager joy, as from the shore I espied the gaily painted vessel, gliding gently over the smooth surface of the deep, as the welcome harbinger of peace. With a palpitating heart I hailed her, as she majestically came towards us, but the flattering dream soon vanished, as I heard her pronounced to be from _Bristol_.

“The keen edge of expectation was quickly blunted by the stroke of disappointment; yet was the selfish idea soon restrained by the surrounding multitude, as I observed the busy countenances near me, and reflected that the disappointment of _my_ hopes might be the completion of _theirs_. I was inwardly vexed that I had suffered myself, like a child, to be hurried away by my passions, the ardour of which had proved so constantly fatal to my peace.

“In a few weeks, several ships from different ports arrived, but none that brought tidings to me. The only account I heard from England, in which I could be interested, was a letter received by Lord G---- from Captain Nesbitt, inclosing the resignation of his commission, for reasons which he did not assign.”

(To be continued.)

* * * * *

ANECDOTE.

An Hon. Member of the Senate, some years past, inquired of a brother Statesman, if they had made a House? No, sir, says he, there are but nine; we want one to make a quorum. Aye, (replies the other) I knew you could do nothing till I arrived. Very true, retorts the wit, a _cypher_ completes the ten.

* * * * *
* * * *

_THE FARRAGO._

* * *

Nº. II.

* * *

“ONE OF THOSE CLOSE STUDENTS, WHO READ PLAYS
FOR THEIR IMPROVEMENT IN LAW.”

TATLER.

Every grave author, who apothegmatizes for the advancement of learning, vehemently insists on the propriety of superadding application to genius. Much has been written to invigorate the lassitude of indolence, to expose the inefficacy of desultory studies, to lash the absurdity of procrastination, and to journalize the wanderings of the mind. But, deaf to the warning voice, there still exists a class of students respectable for talents and taste, who, whenever fickleness waves her wand, fly mercurially from a stated task, glance on many subjects, and improve none. Their judgment, pronouncing sentence against themselves, acknowledges the utility of fixation of thought, and marks, with mathematical precision, the point on which attention should rest; but their wayward imagination is eternally making curves. These literary, like other hypochondriacs, have their lucid intervals; and, at times, are fully apprized of the _flitting_ nature of their application. They write many a penitential annotation upon the chapter of their conduct, and frame many a goodly plan to be executed--_to-morrow_. The paroxysm soon returns; and every shackle, which sturdy resolution has imposed, their ingenious indolence will undo.

It is unpleasant to see those, whom nature and fortune have conspired to befriend, unqualified to gain the eminence of distinction, by a habit of turning out of the path. With this censurable volatility are commonly united, brilliant talents, a feeling heart, and a social temper. If their possessors would even _occasionally_ adopt and practice those plodding precepts, which dissipation prompts them to deride, they would discharge with applause every honorable duty of business and of life. But, instead of turning the meanders of fancy into a regular channel, they are perpetually _roaming_, in quest of pleasure. They employ morning moments, not over learned tomes, but at ladies’ toilets. After a night of revelry, amid the votaries of wine and loo, they will tell you of Charles Fox, who, like a man of _spunk_, at brothels and at Brookes’s, wenches, gambles, and drinks all night, and, like a man of genius, harrangues in the house all day. They talk of their privileges, and swear by the tails of the comets, which are the greatest ramblers in the universe, that they will be eccentric. The, style of _their_ legislation is, “be it enacted, by Fancy and her favourites, that whenever Genius chooses to cut capers, they be, and hereby are, allowable.”

As I have a cordial aversion to the abstract modes of speculation, and choose, with Dr. Johnson, to _embody_ opinions, I proceed to illustrate by two examples; one from the annals of literature, and one from real life.

The poet Shenstone was an officer of distinguished rank, in the regiment of careless bards. Every reader of his works will acknowledge that they bear “the image and superscription” of genius. But, still, he was an indolent, uneconomical, volatile character, who, lolling in the bowers of the Leasowes, wrote pastorals and the school-mistress, when, by a more vigorous exertion of his talents, he might perhaps have eloquently charmed the coifed sergeants of Westminster-Hall, or dictated new maxims of polity to an applauding House of Commons. At the very moment he was wasting his time and his patrimony, in the erection of rural altars to Pan and the Dryads, he wrote “Economy,” a poem, in which he chaunts the praise of the _cittish_ virtues, and gravely advises his friends to devote at least a _rainy_ day to worldly prudence. In this production are some thoughts suggested, one may venture to affirm, by Shenstone’s experience, pertinent to the subject of this essay. The tolerating reader will pardon their insertion. Travellers over a dusty desart rejoice at the sight of verdure; and, disgusted by the insipidity of a meagre Farrago, its readers may exult to view a quotation.

“When Fancy’s vivid spark impels the soul
To scorn _quotidian scenes_, to spurn the bliss
Of vulgar minds, what nostrum shall compose
This fatal frenzy? In what lonely vale
Of balmy medicine’s various field aspires
The blest refrigerant? vain, most vain the hope
Of future fame, this _orgasm_ uncontrol’d.”

Who, but the acquaintance of genius and its inconsistencies could suppose that one, who knew so well the road to fame, should linger at “caravansaries of rest” by the way? That he, who advises “to collect the dissipated mind, to shorten the train of wild ideas and to indulge no expence, but what is legitimated by economy,” should be desultory in his application and prodigal of his estate?

I had collected thus much of my weekly oblation to the public, when, instead of proceeding, as in duty bound, I forgot my own sermon, and--sauntered away. Indolence, deriding my efforts, snatched my pen, overturned my ink-stand, and bade me go and “clip the wings of time” with a friend. I obeyed, and visited Meander. He is a juvenile neighbour of mine, placed by his friends with a view to the profession of the law, in the office of an eminent advocate. The character of Meander is so various, that it almost precludes delineation. Were Sterne summoned to describe him, the eccentric wit would quote his Tristram Shandy, and affirm that Meander was a mercurial sublimated creature; heteroclite in all his declensions. He has so much of the wildness of the fifth Henry in his composition, that were I not versed in his pedigree, I should suppose he descended in a right line from that prince. His ambitious projects, like the birds of Milton, tower up to Heaven’s gate, and he starts as many schemes as a visionary projector. So entirely devoted is he to the cultivation of the Belles Lettres, that his graver moments, instead of being dedicated to Blackstone and Buller, are given to Shakespeare and Sterne. He reads plays, when he should be filling writs; and, the other day, attempting to draw a deed, instead of “know all men by these presents,” he scribbled a simile from Spenser. Notwithstanding his enthusiastic fondness for the study of polite literature, even from that, he frequently flies off in a tangent; and the charms of the ladies and of loo, full often cause him to forget that there is a poet or novelist in our language. The _ignis fatuus_ of his fervid imagination is continually dancing before him, and leads him many a fantastic, weary step “over hog and through briar.” Nothing can be more sanguine than his plans of study and of steadiness; and nothing more languid than their execution. When I entered his lodgings, a domestic informed me that Meander was still in bed, having sate up all night, with a tavern party of friends. The servant continuing his narration, added, “that his master talked much of one Churchill, and at the hour of retiring, suddenly exclaimed,

“Wound up at twelve at noon, your clock goes right,
Mine better goes, wound up at twelve at night.”

I smiled at these traits of my friend’s character, and, as I well knew that his slender frame was exhausted by the labors of the night, plying the pasteboard play, vociferating drunken anthems and swallowing bumpers, in rapid succession, I therefore suffered him to remain undisturbed. Unwilling, however, to lose that amusement, which was the object of my visit, I consoled myself for the absence of my friend, by surveying his apartment, the furniture of which would give one an idea of Meander’s character, without a personal acquaintance. On a small table, lay several of his favourite authors, in all the confusion of carelessness. Among others I noted Shakespeare, Congreve’s comedies, letters of the younger Lyttleton, Mrs. Behn’s novels, Fielding’s Tom Jones, and a mountain of pamphlets, composed of magazines and plays. In the pigeon holes of a desk, I saw a number of loose bits of paper. These puzzled me sadly. I thought, at first, they contained arcana of importance; and compared them to the Sybilline leaves of antiquity. But, I must own that I was a little chagrined, when I discovered that they were only that species of gambling composition, which I should call _loo assignats_, but which, in plainer phrase, are denominated _due bills_. On a low window seat, in a dark corner, lay a most ponderous folio, over which a diligent spider had woven a web of such size and intricacy, that the insect must of necessity have been months in spinning it. Curiosity prompted me to brush away this cobweb covering, and examine the book it concealed. The reader may easily imagine the state of my risibles, when I found the volume entitled “An abridgement of the Law, by Matthew Bacon.” A drawer left partly open, revealed to view a bundle of manuscripts, among which, I found a diary kept by my friend, some parts of which so completely illustrated his character, that I proposed, with a few transcripts from it, to terminate this essay. But, the narrowness of my limits forbids, and the journal of Meander, the annals of volatility must be postponed. They shall form the subject of our next lucubration.

* * * * *
* * * *

THE GENEROUS RIVAL.

I have always been of opinion, that those harmless delusions which have a tendency to promote happiness, ought, in some measure to be cherished. The airy visions of creative Fancy serve to divert the mind from grief, and render less poignant the bitter stings of misfortune. Hope was given to man, to enable him to struggle with adversity; and, without her chearing smile, the most trifling distress would cut his thread of life. It was this fascinating deity that eased the love-lorn Edwin’s fears; her gentle whispers soothed each froward care, and extended his view to scenes of fancied bliss--to that happy moment when propitious Fortune should present him with the hand of Laura. Pleasing delusion! delightful thought! that made the moment of separation less painful, that soothed the rugged front of peril, and softened the rude aspect of terrific war.

Edwin was the son of a merchant of some repute in the metropolis; at the commencement of the present war, he received an appointment in the army, and was soon after sent with his regiment to the continent.

Laura was the daughter of a banker of considerable eminence, a member of the British senate, and possessed of a very extensive fortune. The attachment that subsisted between these young people was unknown to Laura’s father, the proud, imperious Mr. Dalby, who expected to marry her to some person of distinction; or, at least, with one who was equal in point of wealth to himself. For this purpose, he invited the most wealthy part of the senate, peers and commoners, to his splendid mansion at the west end of the town; having totally deserted that which had for many generations been the residence of his ancestors, in the east.

Miss Dalby possessed in an eminent degree, the beauties of the mind, as well as those of the person; which, exclusive of her fortune, were sufficiently attractive to a man of sense and discernment. Many of these visitors became candidates for her election: most of them, however, were rejected by her father, to whom she was enjoined to report the name and rank of each person who addressed her on the score of love. Some, the most wealthy, she was instructed to flatter with hopes of being the happy man; reserving her affections for him whom the venal parent should select to be her husband. It was some time before Dalby could fix his choice, which long hung suspended between an earl and a viscount, of nearly equal fortune: at length the appearance of a ducal coronet banished from his mind both the one and the other; and he vainly flattered himself, in future, to address his daughter by the high sounding title of--_Your Grace_.

The young Duke Delancy, led by curiosity to behold the lady who was thus exposed to sale--for, it seems, the intention of Dalby was generally known--became enamoured of her person; and, on conversing with her, found her every thing he could wish. He instantly made proposals to Mr. Dalby; which, it is almost needless to say, were as instantly accepted. His grace, knowing that the consent of the daughter would avail him but little, without possessing that of the father, had not discovered to Laura the partiality he entertained for her; but having, as he imagined, secured the main chance, made a formal declaration of his love.

Laura listened with profound attention to the impassioned assurances of affection of the noble duke; and when he paused, in expectation of receiving a confirmation of his hopes, she raised her blushing eyes, wet with the tears of anguish, from the ground; and, thanking him for the honour he intended her, candidly acknowledged the pre-engagement she was under to the absent Edwin.

Charmed with her candour; and interested by her artless tale, he determined to resign his pretensions, and support the cause of the young soldier.

Laura had preserved a regular correspondence with her lover; and he was, therefore, but too well informed of the desperate situation of his suit. He longed to fly to the arms of his mistress, but scorned to desert his post. At length, fortune gave him an opportunity of realizing his wishes, at a moment when he least expected it. The Republican army suddenly attacked, in great force, the allied troops: an obstinate battle ensued, in which Edwin particularly distinguished himself; the enemy were completely routed; and the young soldier, for the courage he displayed in the action, was sent to England with the gladsome tidings of victory. Having delivered the dispatches with which he had been charged, he hastened to the house of Mr. Dalby; and, gaining admittance, ran up stairs in the drawing room, where he discovered his noble rival with the mistress of his heart. His sudden and unexpected appearance threw the lovely Laura into some disorder; and it was with much difficulty she retained spirits sufficient to meet her lover’s fond embrace.

At this critical moment, Mr. Dalby entered the room; having from his study seen an officer cross the hall; and ascend the staircase. The words--“My dear, dear Laura! and do I once more behold thee in my arms?” from the enraptured Edwin, caught the ears of the astonished Dalby, who stood fixed and motionless, mute, and almost discrediting the organs both of sight and hearing.

“Had I known, Sir,” said his grace, who beheld with as much delight the agitation of Dalby, as the happiness of the youthful pair, “that the affections of your daughter had been placed on another object, I should not have offered the smallest violence to her inclination.”

“My Lord--my Lord!” stammered out the enraged parent, “she is under no such engagement as you suppose.” Then stepping up to Edwin--“And, pray, who the devil are you, Sir? Some fortune-hunter, I suppose! But you have missed your mark, young man: be pleased, therefore, to leave my house; and, if ever you venture here again, I shall find means--------”

“My dear father!” said Laura, interrupting him, “you surely forget yourself! The gentleman, whom you thus rudely threaten, is our neighbour’s son, Mr. Langley, the West-India merchant, in Lombard-street.”

“Mr. Langley’s son!”

“Yes, Sir,” returned Edwin; “and though not blessed with equal fortune with yourself, I have yet sufficient to support the rank of a gentleman. I love your daughter; I long have loved her; and she has taught me to believe that she returns my affection. I ask no fortune; give me my Laura, and dispose of your wealth in whatever manner you please!”

“Very romantic, faith!--And pray, fellow, do you know who you speak so freely to?”

“O, very well, Sir!”

“That I am George Dalby, Esq. a member of the House of Commons?” Edwin bowed. “And that I have an estate free and unincumbered--look you, Sir, free and unincumbered--that netts 10,000l. a year?”

“To none of these acquisitions am I a stranger, Sir,” returned Edwin.

“And you, Laura, will you so far disgrace yourself and me, to throw yourself away on a dry-salter’s son?--A fortune-hunter!--A beggar!”

“A what, Sir?” interrupted Edwin, with much warmth. “But I forget myself--you are my Laura’s father!”

“Sir,” said Laura, “I confess that I entertain a partiality for Edwin. I know his worth; and will renounce all titles, rank and distinction, wealth and pleasure, to live the partner of his life!”

“Then, by Heaven! as I know my worth. I will renounce you for ever! and, therefore, hence with your paramour!--you shall nevermore enter my doors!”

“Be it so,” said the Duke; “mine are open to receive them! My house, my home, my fortune, all are theirs; they shall use them at their pleasure; they shall live in ease, in competence, and enjoy the pleasures of their loves: while mad ambition, insatiate avarice, and increasing pride, shall torture you with never-ceasing pangs, and embitter every future moment of your life!”

The disappointed, mercenary parent, flew, with bitter imprecations, from his tormentors: the lovers retired with their noble patron; and, after having spent several days in a fruitless attempt to gain the consent of Dalby, were united in the holy bands of wedlock. Edwin has since, from his professional merit, and the interest of his grace, attained a distinguished rank in the army; and the dislike of Mr. Dalby to his daughter’s choice has decreased, in proportion as he has risen to distinction. Several interviews have taken place, through the medium of their noble friend, and it is believed that time will root from the mind of Mr. Dalby every unfavourable impression the want of fortune in his son-in-law occasioned; and that Edwin and Laura will, at last, become the heirs of his immense property.

The union of this amiable pair has been blessed with two fine boys; and this increase of family has enlarged their happiness: they still continue to receive the notice of his grace, whom they consider as the author of their felicity, and invariably distinguished him by the appellation of _The Generous Rival_.

[[Possible sources:

Caledonian Bee, 1795, “A Select Collection of Interesting Extracts
from Modern Publications”, story labeled “By Mr. Bacon”;
_Interesting anecdotes, memoirs, allegories, essays, and poetical...,
“by Mr. Addison”_ Volume 5, 1797, (originally 1794), sometimes
misattributed to Joseph Addison (1672-1719).]]

* * * * *

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

* * *

_THE PRISON._

* * *

(A continuation of the CRIMINAL, from page 351.)

* * *

Within the gloomy walls of a prison, far excluded from the glance of man, was immured, him that once had basked in the sunshine of prosperity, him that had been the darling pride of a doating father, and him, reader, that was the next heir to a peerage. But he had woefully broken through the laws of his country; Despair, that haggard fiend, had sent him, like the beast of prey, to obtain assistance unlawfully; and wholly guided by her dictates, he had unknowingly murdered his parent.------

----Spare your anathemas, ye advocates for monarchy, ye who think sanguinary laws are as necessary as the glittering baubles of a crown; who imagine the life of the offender is requisite to expiate his crime--and consider whether solitary imprisonment is not far more just. Common humanity would urge you to reply in the affirmative. Then throw aside the tyranny of custom, and for once let your bosoms swell with philanthropy.

Him, who is the subject of this tale, lived in an age when no breast was actuated by these considerations, when man paid the most implicit obedience to the gilded trappings of royalty, when no such thing as civil or religious liberty existed.

No ray of light found entrance into his dismal cell: the wisdom of the contriver had situated it many yards beneath the surface of the earth. In one corner there had originally been placed a bundle of straw, which had served the purpose of a bed to many whom fate had singled out to pay with their lives the forfeit of their crimes; but nought now remained save here and there a scattering one. On his legs were bound enormous shackles, under the weight of which a Sampson would have groaned: nor were his hands exempt from the galling fetters--and as for his body, it was nearly cased in iron.--Unhappy victim of despotic cruelty!--

In this dungeon, until he had the “_inestimable privilege of a trial by jury_,” he was doomed to receive an earnest of what he was to expect. With a soul undaunted he patiently bore it all. Now and then his wife and helpless children would call for a tear of pity, which was all he could bestow. He would reflect on the crime he had committed; and discovered to what lengths misery would lead a man--to the commission of what in his cooler moments he would spurn from him with horror.

L. B.

* * * * *
* * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

_MARRIED,_

On Thursday evening the 20th ult. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, MR. FRANCIS M‘DOLE, of Brunswick, (N.J.) to Miss DIANA DEAS, of Princeton.

On Saturday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Strebeck, Mr. JOHN WILLIAMS, to Miss SUSAN BOWDEN, both of this city.

On Sunday se’nnight, at Oyster Bay, (L.I.) by Stephen Frost, Esquire, Mr. JOHN MERRITT, formerly of Limerick, Ireland, to Miss ELIZABETH HAWXHURST, daughter to Mr. Joseph Hawxhurst, of that place.

On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Rogers, Mr. JAMES CONCKLIN, to Mrs. JANE STRATTON, both of this city.

On Wednesday evening last, by the Rev. Uzal Ogden, Mr. CHARLES GOBERT, Merchant, of this city, to Miss CHARLOTTE OGDEN, eldest daughter of Mr. Lewis Ogden.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. ARCHIBALD M‘WILLIAMS, Grocer, late of the Albany Pier, to the amiable Miss NANCY GOOLDSMITH, a native of the Isle of Man.

* * * * *

_TO CORRESPONDENTS._

[->] THE EDITORS acknowledge the receipt of “ZULINDUS;” which shall appear in our next. We court the favors of those Correspondents who have heretofore expanded their hearts, expressive, by a love for supporting and promoting the assiduous endeavors of the proprietors of this useful and entertaining vehicle; and we rest in hope, that the warm rays of Aurora will have such an happy effect upon the intellectual mind, that we may witness, not only the fertile verdure of reviving nature, but the growing state of Literature, and the happy profusions of the Muse.

* * * * *

_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 30th ult. to the 6th inst._

* * *

THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._
Prevailing winds.
OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3.
100 100
April 30 52 59 e. ne. cly. lt. wd. do. do. ra.
May 1 56 70 s. do. cloudy calm cl. lt. wd.
2 51 58 e. do. cloudy h. wd. ra. l. w.
3 42 47 nw. se. cloudy lt. w. do. do.
4 50 68 sw. nw. cloudy lt wd. clr do.
5 50 51 se. do. clr. calm cly. h. wd. ra.
6 51 68 nw. sw. clear lt. wd. do. do.

* * * * *
* * * *

NEW MAY.
A Pastoral.

As down by the wood-land I stray’d,
Where daisies enamell’d the way,
Where Flora her frolics had play’d,
Unveiling her charms to the day;
The warblers awaken’d the song,
The dew-drops hung down on the thorn,
The Zephyrs went gently along,
And Phœbus embellish’d the morn.

In rapture I went through the grove,
Delighted with richest perfume,
Saw nature devoted to love,
And the birds their fond labours resume;
The lark had its ditty re-told,
The blackbird was heard from the vine,
The herdsman was driving from fold,
And sung, “’Tis a shame to repine.”

With gratitude musing I view’d
The landskip, so splendidly dress’d;
Gay Fancy her magic renew’d,
Imprinting her scenes on my breast:
When lo! from an op’ning I saw
A damsel come tripping the glade;
I trembled with transport and awe,
Afraid to offend the sweet maid.

No language her charms could unfold,
No pencil her beauties display,
Her hair hung like ringlets of gold,
Her eye was the di’mond’s bright ray;
Her bosom the lily out-vy’d,
Her lips which I panted to view,
In the blush of the rose-bud were dy’d,
And her fingers all glitter’d with dew.

Her head with a chaplet was dress’d,
Of May-flow’rs and cowslips combin’d,
A garland hung over her breast,
With blue-bells and vi’lets entwin’d;
Her garment, in negligent flow,
Her graces all artless display’d--
’Twas dipp’d in the tint of the bow
That Iris in April had made.

New flowrets her footsteps bestrew’d,
For all was enchantment around,
The cuckow her ballad renew’d,
And mix’d with the music her sound--
Forgive me ye pow’rs! if I bow’d
To worship a form so divine,
A mortal might sure be allow’d
To bend at a goddess’s shrine.

I gaz’d as each look were my last;
With rapture I think on her now--
And said as she carelessly pass’d,
‘Thy name to thy vot’ry avow--
Say, nymph, so delightful and gay,
Art thou from the mansions above?’
She smil’d and she answer’d--‘NEW MAY,
AND MINE ARE THE MANSIONS OF LOVE.’

* * * * *
* * * *

LOVE.

Cold blows the wind upon the mountain’s brow,
In murmuring cadence wave the silv’ry woods,
The feather’d tribes mope on the leafless bough,
And icy fetters hold the silent floods;
But endless spring, the POET’s breast shall prove,
Whose GENIUS kindles at the torch of LOVE.

For him, unfading blooms the fertile mind,
The current of the heart for ever flows;
Fearless, his bosom braves the wintry wind,
While thro’ each nerve eternal summer glows;
In vain would chilling APATHY controul
The lambent fires that warm the lib’ral soul.

To me, the limpid brook the painted mead,
The crimson dawn, the twilight’s purple close,
The mirthful dance, the SHEPHERD’s tuneful reed,
The musky fragrance of the opening ROSE;
To me, alas! all pleasures senseless prove,
Save, the sweet converse of the FRIEND I LOVE.

* * * * *

LIFE.

Love, thou sportive, fickle boy,
Source of anguish, child of joy;
Ever wounding, ever smiling,
Soothing still, and still beguiling;
What are all thy boasted treasures?
Tender sorrows, transient pleasures;
Anxious hopes, and jealous fears,
LAUGHING HOURS, AND MOURNING YEARS.

What is FRIENDSHIP’s soothing name?
But a shadowy, vap’rish flame;
Fancy’s balm, for ev’ry wound,
Ever sought, but rarely found.
What is BEAUTY? but a flow’r,
Blooming, fading, in an hour;
Deck’d with brightest tints at morn,
At twilight, with’ring on a thorn;
Like the gentle ROSE of spring;
Chill’d by ev’ry Zephyr’s wing;
Ah! how soon its colour flies,
Blushes, trembles, falls, and DIES.

What is YOUTH? in smiling sorrow,
Blithe to-day, and sad to-morrow:
Never fix’d, for ever ranging,
Laughing, weeping, doating, changing;
Wild, capricious, giddy, vain,
Cloy’d with pleasure, nurs’d with pain;
Ev’ry moment LIFE’s decaying,
BLISS expires, while TIME’s delaying;
AGE steals on with wintry face,
Ev’ry rapt’rous HOPE to chase;
Like a wither’d sapless tree
Bow’d to chilling FATE’s decree;
Stripp’d of all its foliage gay,
Drooping at the close of day.
What of tedious LIFE remains?
Keen regrets, and cureless pains;
Till DEATH appears a welcome FRIEND,
And bid the scene of SORROW end.

_NEW-YORK: PRINTED BY JOHN TIEBOUT, NO. 358, PEARL-STREET, FOR THOMAS BURLING, JUN. & CO. +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street._

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

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

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, May 17, 1797.+ [+No. 98.+

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

* * *

It has often been made a question on my mind, Whether the multiplicity of books in circulation are an advantage or disadvantage to the morals of youth?--That every book ought to be investigated, and that with an impartial eye before we condemn it, is a fact incontestible. None but the prejudiced, the weak and the ignorant, will ever attempt to persuade youth from the pursuit of wisdom. A man possessed of the least spark of knowledge, would blush to advise others from the investigation of truth. That book has never yet been printed, which, when examined by the eye of reason and candor, did not contain something by which we may be profited. Yet, how numerous are they who will discard the writings of an author, merely because they have heard it was an improper book. How forcible is such reasonings! What will be the opinion of the rational part of the creation concerning such persons, if they argue with such inconsistency? Will they not justly conclude that a _weak_ head, and _unprincipled_ heart, guides their opinion? And while they continue thus to argue, they ought to reflect, if capable of reflection, that by condemning them without investigating one single principle whereby they may substantiate their charge, they expose themselves to censure and contempt. Thus we behold books too often branded with detestation, and consigned to oblivion, by those pests of society. For such they truly are, in my opinion, who have the audacity to persuade youth from a search after knowledge. Consider, O youth, that while you are obeying the dictates of these _all-knowing men_, you are sacrificing your own opinion at the shrine of _ignorance_. It is ignorance, united with impudence and conceit, that prompts them to trespass on your judgment. If they were duly to consider from what source their knowledge arises--if they would give themselves more time to reflect, and that with candor, they would find that all their profound search and erudition is nothing more than a “sounding brass or tinkling symbol.” And that as long as they suffer themselves to be led by the wrong principles which some of our ancestors imbibed, they will be considered as a mere BLANK in society.

I will readily admit, that there are books which, by a constant application to them, will corrupt and lead astray the minds of youth, whose principles are not fully established. Yet, are they to be prohibited from a perusal of those books? No!--But guard them well against the danger, and then let them examine such authors with attention and candor. Let their youthful minds bestow on them their just sentence. By being thus accustomed to judge for themselves, they will be able with clearness and precision to detect impostors, if any of that description should attempt to impose on their understandings. That they will have to combat with such characters at some period of their lives, is beyond a doubt, then being unprepared to answer them, will they not expose THEIR folly in obeying the dictates of men who were guided by self-conceited, superstitious, and bigotted principles. They are self-conceited, because THEIR knowledge is deemed by them to be _superior_ to the rest of mankind; superstitious, because they worship as their gods a select number of books by which their rule of life is formed, and from which they dare not deviate, least they should by transgression seal their ruin; bigotted, because they are _callous_ to the voice of reason, and determined to adhere to their own principles, however unfounded.--Such are the men to whose care the instruction of youth has been too often committed; and who, instead of expanding and cultivating their juvenile minds with useful knowledge, by a thorough investigation of every book, have bred them up in superstitious ignorance, preparing them for the reception of every vice, which finally proves their ruin.

ZULINDUS.

_May 5_, 1797

* * * * *

AFFABILITY.

In order to render ourselves amiable in society, we should correct every appearance of harshness in our behaviour. That courtesy should distinguish our demeanor, which springs, not so much from studied politeness, as from a mild and gentle heart. We should follow the customs of the world in matters indifferent; but stop when they become sinful. Our manners ought to be simple and natural, and of course they will be engaging. Affectation is certain deformity--By forming themselves on fantastic models, and vying with one mother in every reigning folly, the young begin with being ridiculous, and end in being vicious and immoral.

* * * * *
* * * *

The
_WANDERINGS_
of the
IMAGINATION.

_BY MRS. GOOCH._

(Continued from page 355.)

“The last expected vessels now arrived, and Scipio one morning, hastily entering my room, with a joyful countenance put a packet into my hands. It was from England, but the hand-writing, and seal, were unknown to me. I found it to be from a female distant relation of my wife’s who assured me that she wrote it at her desire, as she had not courage to expatiate on a subject, that she knew would be so contrary to my wishes. She proceeded to inform me, that the health of Mrs. S---- was very seriously affected; owing, in great measure, to the depression of her mind since my departure; that my little boy was recovering from the small-pox; and that these considerations rendered it impossible for her, with safety either to herself, or the child, to undertake the long voyage she had projected. She said she had found it necessary to remove to London, for the benefit of better advice than could be obtained in the country; and she mentioned a temporary lodging she had taken in the neighbourhood of Islington, till she should hear farther from me how to dispose of herself. Mrs. S---- added a few lines, by way of postscript, as a confirmation of the above, and desired I would write to her under cover to her relation, in whose neighbourhood she resided.

“I read--I paused over the letter; and every time my wild ideas hurried me beyond myself. At one moment, I believed her affections were estranged from me; that she no longer wished our re-union, but that indifference had taken place of that affection which it was the study of my life to cherish and improve. At another, I reproved myself for the ungrateful, the illiberal idea; and to that thought a still more poignant one succeeded. The knowledge I had of her tender mind next convinced me, that her condition was worse than it was described so me. I fancied her sinking under a load of grief, and on the point of death, while I, her friend, her natural protector, was far from her; and to this reflection Reason herself gave way. “Ah,” thought I, “how fatal has been my desertion of her; and what recompence could promotion, or wealth itself bestow on me, if purchased by the loss of a wife so tenderly beloved? She is at this moment suffering under the accumulated horrors of indigence and slighted affection; and shall I, on whom she has every claim of love and duty, suffer her to believe that the scorching sun of this unhealthy climate has had power to dry up in my heart the pure stream of unadulterated affection? Shall I contemplate her misery, and allow her to endure it? Ah, no! let me rather return to her as I am, unpatronized and unexpected;--share with her the scanty pittance acquired by honest integrity, and trust for the rest to _that_ Providence, which will never forsake _the pure in heart!_”

“Full of these ideas, which were hardly formed before they were unalterably fixed, I waited on lord G---- and told him that letters I had just received demanded my quick return to England. I solicited him to accept my dismission. The perturbation of my mind was visible on my countenance. He looked attentively at me, expostulated on the folly of my conduct; but was soon convinced that advice and expostulation were equally thrown away on a man who sought no interest but his affections, and consulted no monitor but his heart. Finding at length that I was deaf to his remonstrances, he settled matters in due form; and wishing me a pleasant voyage politely, yet coolly, bade me adieu. I returned to my lodgings, which but a few days since I had taken delight in adorning for the reception of my Isabella. How sad, how solitary every object now appeared! The sight of numberless little ornaments, peculiar to the country, and which I had selected as from their novelty the most pleasing to her, now lost every charm, and to the affectionate, the grateful Scipio, I bequeathed them. I went, accompanied by him, to the house frequented by the English Captains, and soon settled an agreement with one of them. As I spoke to him, I observed the honest tear of sensibility steal down the polished cheek of the noble Ethiopian, which he wiped off with his hand, as if to upbraid it with divulging the secret of his heart. A few loose dollars remained in my possession, after I had settled my different accounts: I gave them to Scipio; but he disdainfully rejected them, and told me I robbed him of more than my money could purchase, when I robbed him of his _friend!_ These were the sentiments of an untutored negro; a soul unpractised in the wiles of art. Alas, poor Scipio! Though many a year has revolved, since we parted: though many a moon has risen to renew the almost extinguished lamp of nature, since I witnessed in thee that purity of heart which nought but Heaven can bestow, still are thy virtues present to my mind, and still shall remembrance, sickening at the past, reflect on thee, with prayers for thy transition to those mansions, where innocence like thine can alone meet with its reward!”

The clocks from the neighbouring churches struck three; and vain were my solicitations to my unhappy friend, he could not be prevailed on to share my solitary meal: he abruptly left me, with a promise that he would continue his narrative of the following day.

* * * * *

Continuation
of the
_HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S----._

“In a short time I embarked for England. The weather for some time favoured us; at length the winds, as if conscious they were wafting me to misery, often swelled the reluctantly yielding waves, and hurried us back from our progression. In those hours when sorrow and vexation clouded the brows of the labouring mariners, impatient to reach their native shore, a heavy indifference to our destiny clung round my heart; a presentment of I knew not what blasted each rising hope; and I pondered on the easy transition from human woe, as I surveyed the fathomless gulph below me. Often did I rejoice, while the rough swell lifted us on high, that my Isabella was not exposed to those many dangers of the deep, which we feel but during the time we experience them. Among my few books, was Falconer’s immortal poem of “_The Shipwreck_.” I knew the superstition commonly attendant on sea-faring people, and I carefully concealed it from their observation. Often in the dead of night, when all were sleeping round me as if insensible to fear, I stole from my cabin, impressed by a far different impulse, and shared the midnight watch, while its appointed guardian sunk into the arms of happy, but forbidden rest.

At length we quietly reclined on the peaceful bosom of the venerable Thames. There, where no fears of faithless seas assailed us, my torpid mind roused itself into action, and awakening every restless faculty of my soul, suspended me between despair and hope. I eagerly jumped into the first boat that came near to us, and leaving every thing belonging to me on board. I took a post-chaise from Gravesend, where I landed, and ordering the driver to set me down at the direction I gave him to Islington, soon reached the abode of my new female correspondent. This person had seen me but once, and would then have scarcely recollected me, had not the wildness of my manner in enquiring for Mrs. S---- informed her who I was. She surveyed me with surprize and as I thought, embarrassment. I requested she would immediately conduct me to my wife’s lodgings, which she at first seemingly consented to; and then, as if recollecting herself, observed, that my sudden appearance might perhaps be too powerful for her newly-recovered health, and proposed my waiting there till she went herself and apprized her of it. I impatiently brooked this delay, yet submitted to it in consideration to my Isabella. She told me it was not more than ten minutes walk from her house; yet I passed near two hours alone in anxious expectation. It was at this time the latter end of September; and it was past eight in the evening when I had reached the house. The night was dark and gloomy; and as I stood immoveable at the little gate which bounded the small garden allotted to the habitation, I fancied that every hollow murmur of the wind responsively echoed to my heart, and sigh’d forth, “_Isabella_.” At length they came together; the sound of her voice still vibrates in my ear, as she faintly pronounced “_Is it you?_” The darkness of night prevented me from seeing her: I clasped her in my arms, and rushed with her into the house. I placed her on a chair, and by the light of the candle observed her features. Her person was much altered. She was become thin, and her countenance was overspread with a livid paleness. She burst into tears as she exclaimed, “_Ah, Frederick, why, why did you leave me?_” I intreated her to be composed under the certainty that we were met to part no more. I enquired for my boy, who was now in his eighth year. She told me he was placed at a boarding-school, but avoided making any farther mention of him. It grew late, and a small supper was set before us, after which I proposed our going home to her lodgings. To my unspeakable astonishment, she requested that I would not accompany her; and gave for reason that the people where she lodged, not knowing she expected me, might be alarmed at the appearance of a stranger being with her in the night-time. I however insisted, and she consented. Her house was indeed but a few paces from the one we had just quitted. Its first appearance struck me. It was fitted up in a style of expensive elegance; and on the side-board, on which was displayed a quantity of plate, were two salvers, engraved large enough to be perceived without very accurate observation, with the initials of her maiden name. I looked at her with speechless horror, as I stood transfixed to the spot. The powers of utterance were denied me, I gasped for breath. A loud rapping at the street door awakened my recollection, and Captain Nesbitt entered the room. He was in a state of inebriety, and the sight of me staggered him. “S------,” said he, as he impudently advanced to take my hand, “I have taken damn’d good care of your wife in your absence;” and then turning to his guilty partner, continued, “Isabella, hav’nt I?” At these words, affection, resentment, all seemed at the moment to die within my breast; I recollected only that I was in the presence of a woman--(and oh, Heaven, WHAT a woman)--I hastily turned to Captain Nesbitt, and enquired where on the following morning I could speak with him. He appointed the Bedford-arms, Covent-Garden, at two o’clock. I looked at Isabella, who did not attempt to speak, but seemed anxious only about her infamous lover.

“I hurried out of the house, scarcely knowing whither I went, and my steps almost involuntarily conducted me to the one we had left not an hour before. The little gate was locked, and I repeatedly, and in vain, called for admittance. At length an unknown female voice answered me from an upper window, and somewhat rudely requested my retreat. On my expostulating, and begging only three minutes conversation with the person I had supped with, she answered me that she was not to be disturbed; and that if I persisted in alarming the neighbourhood, she should put me in charge of the watch. With these words she shut the window, and I walked wherever chance directed me. I came to the door of a tavern, which stood half open, seeming to invite the weary traveller. Here I fixed my abode for the night; nor was it long before my excessive fatigue of mind and body threw me into a state of wished-for insensibility.”

[To be continued.]

* * * * *

ANECDOTE.

An Irish officer of dragoons, on the continent, on hearing that his mother had been married since he quitted Ireland, exclaimed--“By St. Patrick, there is that mother of mine married again, I hope she wont have a son older than me, for if she has I shall be cut out of my estate!”

* * * * *
* * * *

_THE FARRAGO._

* * *

Nº. III.

* * *

----“FULL MANY A PRANK
HE PLAYED, AND TRICKS MOST FANCIFUL AND STRANGE.”

MASSINGER.

Men of tenacious memory, who retain information a week old, may recollect, in my last number, a portrait of Meander.--

“A man so various, that he seem’d to be
“Not one, but all mankind’s epitome:
“Who, in the course of one revolving moon,
“Was poet, painter, lover, and buffoon;
“Then all for wenching, gambling, rhyming, drinking,
“Besides ten thousand freaks, that dy’d in thinking.”

Agreeably to a promissory note, given in a preceding essay, I now publish, from the diary of this fantastic wight, a selection, which, if judiciously improved, may sober giddy genius, may fix the volatile, and stimulate even Loungers.

* * * * *

_MEANDER’s JOURNAL._

April 8, Monday.----Having lately quaffed plenteous draughts, of the dream of dissipation, I determine to bridle my fancy, to practice self-denial, to live soberly, and to study with ardor. That I may with ease discharge the various duties of the day, I propose, that “Strutting Chanticleer” and myself, should unroost at the same hour. With this resolve, I couple a determination, to study law with plodding diligence, and to make my profession, and a course of history, my capital objects.

Memorandum. Belles lettres must be considered a subaltern pursuit. If I rise at the dawn, and study jurisprudence till noon, I shall have the satisfaction to reflect, that I have discharged my _legal_ duty for the day. This course, duly persisted in, will probably make me something more than a Tyro, in the language of the law. If I pour over my folios with the diligence I propose, I shall acquire, in Blackstone’s phrase, such a legal apprehension, that the obscurities, which at present confound me, will vanish, and my journey through the _wilderness_ of law, will, paradventure become delectable.