Chapter I: LOVE not, at peep of day, (3)

It is dark, and a silent gloom pervades the face of Heaven and of Earth, that makes my soul expand to such a magnitude, as if it would burst the very bosom which contains it.--All is silent!--fear takes possession of my mind; when, from an angry cloud, the liquid flames flash forth with terrible sublimity; darting from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, with such repeated swiftness, blazing expansive through the heaven’s high vaults, then on a sudden vanishing! On rolls the distant thunder solemnly sublime, and with the pelting rain and howling wind, approaches nearer: between each peal out flashes the sulphureous flame, illumining the rushing cataract with its light; succeeded by a crash most horrible, which shakes the very earth to its centre! Once more a sombre gloom spreads over the face of nature--again, all is terror and confusion!--

DUDLEY.

* * * * *

_WISDOM._

Lessons of Wisdom have never such power over us as when they were wrought into the heart through the ground work of a story which engages the passions. Is it that we are like iron and must first be heated before we can be wrought upon? or is the heart so in love with deceit, that where a true report will not reach it, we must cheat it with a fable, in order to come at truth?

* * * * *

_LEVITY._

A Devonshire droll has thus burlesqued the lullababy pastoral of Shenstone. “My banks they are furnish’d with bees, &c.”

My beds are all furnish’d with fleas,
Whose bitings invite me to scratch;
Well stock’d are my orchards with jays,
And my pig sties white over with thatch.

I seldom a pimple have met,
Such health does magnecia bestow:
My horsepond is border’d with wet,
Where burdock and marsh-mallows grow.

* * * * *

_ANECDOTES._

A gentleman, reading in one of the public prints, that Mr. _Monday_, of Oxford, was dead, exclaimed,--“Alas! my friends, we now have reason to lament, like _Aurelius_, that we have _lost a day!_”

* * *

A gentleman, reading in one of the daily prints that thirteen hundred of the French had been _drowned_, said, “Thus should the courage of all our enemies be _damped_.”

* * * * *
* * * *

_THE FARRAGO._

* * *

Nº. VIII.

* * *

Hear him but reason in divinity,
And, all admiring, with an inward wish
You would desire that he were made a Prelate.
Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,
You’d say it had been all his study:
List his discourse of war, and you shall hear
A fearful battle, rendered you in music:
Turn him to any cause of policy,
The gordian knot of it he will unloose
Familiar as his garter; when he speaks,
The air, a chartered libertine, is still;
And the mute wonder lurketh in men’s ears
To steal his sweet and honeyed sentences.

SHAKESPEARE.

No character of antiquity is more brilliant and captivating, than that of Alchibiades, the versatile Athenian. Cornelius Nepos, the Roman biographer, has on this occasion, become the very Rubens of character painters, and has happily sketched every flexile feature.--Nature, says he, appears to have exerted her strongest energies in moulding Alchibiades. In the hour of business he was a statesman, a general and an orator. In the hour of revel, the rakes retired from that bagnio at twelve, which the accommodating Alcibiades gladdened at two. Inhabiting a city, studious of magnificence, he surpassed in equipage, the most ostentatious grandees; and, when an exile among the hardy Thebans, he carried heavier burdens than the broadest shouldered porter in Bœtia. At Lacedemon his palate relished the black broth of Sparta; among the dissolute Thracians, those sensual swine of Epicurus’s stye, the greyest veteran of Venus made one sacrifice, less than he; and in all the taverns of Thrace, Bacchus could not recognize a more thirsty toper.

If we deduct from Alchibiades his compliance with vicious customs, no model of conduct, can be mere worthy imitation and praise. Since the æra of Chesterfield, a dissembling nobleman, who possibly pushed the praise of flexibility of manners too far, accommodation has been acrimoniously censured; and the narrow Knox, in his dogmatizing essays has asserted, that the meanest selfishness is the parent of versatility. But, though the Tunbridge teacher, ostentatiously vaunts of his intimacy with the Bible, he forgot that Paul of Tarsus, whose knowledge of the world was as indubitable as his piety, exhorts to “become all things to all men, if by any means we may gain some.” Paul was no less a gentleman than saint; and his knowledge of the world taught him the propriety of varying his means to secure the end, and to become a most accommodating apostle. Hence his compliment to Agrippa, for his skill in the jurisprudence of Judea. Hence his adroitness in persuading the superstitious men of Athens, that the Being they, and he worshipped, were the same. Hence he could charm both the courtly Felix, and the camp-bred centurion.

If the art of pleasing be worth practice in society, then will the praises of versatility be fully justified. He who in conversation, adheres to topics peculiar to himself, or to a profession, is deservedly dubbed pedant; and all unite in frowning upon him, by whom all are equally neglected. Minds of the first energy, may sometimes effect the unyielding quality of the oak, rather than the suppleness of the ozier. A cardinal Ximenes, a chancellor Thurlow, and a secretary Pitt, may be “original and unaccommodating.” But he, whom every circle courts, is that Proteus in demeanour, who can with the same ease that he shifts his shoe, mutilate, or increase his bows, accordingly, as he associates with the cit, or the courrier. The object of our fondest admiration is the man of letters and the man of the world blended, who can sublimely speculate with science in the morning, and agreeably trifle with ladies at night. Of this class is Charles Cameleon. The “omnis homo” of Horace, the “all accomplished” of Pope Charles, when at school, was equally the darling of the scholars, on the first form, and the truants on the lower. He could repeat the five declensions with promptitude, and then drive hoop, or toss balls alertly. With the same facility, could he make correct latin, and high flying kites. Unaided by the “ladder to Parnassus,” he would now ascend to the summit of Virgilian verse, and now grovel in the mire, to win marbles of every sportive schoolfellow. At the university he heard morning prayers with the saddened sedateness of a Pharisee, argued with tutors on personal identity, as if inspired by the very spirit of Locke--and, on syllogistic ground, vanquished every Aristotelean adversary. At noon you might see him sauntering with loungers, and kindling a smile even in vacancy’s face. The declining sun left him deploring, that twilight should snap speculation’s thread; or compel him to leave unfinished the song to _Myra_; and when the college bell tolled twelve, his convivial club chose Charles president, and the room would echo with,

“Since we’ve tarried all day to drink down the Sun,
“Let’s tarry, and drink down the Stars.”

Educated for the bar, Cameleon is now an eloquent and employed advocate. But year-books and entries, cannot preclude the system of Sydenham, and Saurin’s sermons. An apothecary, hearing him harrangue upon the superiority of Brown to Boerhave, mistakes him for a regular bred physician, and asks, when he received a medical degree from Edinburgh. Charles is intimately conversant with all the fathers of the church, repeats whole pages from Justin Martyr, and quotes St. Gregory on good works with more readiness than the parson. As he converses with the grave, or the gay, he is alternately a believer, and a sceptic: and one Sunday, after acknowledging to a devout deacon, that the internal evidence of christianity was its chief corner stone; when afternoon service was over, he agreed, to please a disciple of Voltaire, that the clashing testimony of four evangelists, completely corroded the _root_ of our religion. Among the ladies, he holds most gracefully “’twixt his finger and thumb, a pouncet box,” and chatters on Canterbury-gowns and French millinery, like a fop of France. To a lover of the fine arts, quotes Hogarth’s “analysis of beauty,” and viewing Trumbull’s celebrated painting of the sortie from Gibralter, the artist acknowledged that he talked of lights and shades more rapidly and correctly than himself. In a club of wits, he declaims Shakespeare, in a style of _Garrick_, he repeats original poems, the very gems of fancy, and sets the “table on a roar” with merry tales, and ludicrous combination. The eye of every reveller brightens at his approach, and when he retires, Milton’s invocation to Mirth is unanimously applied:

“Haste thee CHARLES and bring with thee
Joy and youthful jollily,
Sport that wrinkled care derides,
And laughter holding both his sides.”

* * * * *

INTERESTING STORY OF MADELAINE.
By Helen Maria Williams.

[Concluded from page 399.]

Madelaine passed the remaining part of the winter in the convent of ----, during which period she received frequent letters from Auguste; and when spring arrived he conjured her, instead of removing to her own province, to remain a little longer in her present situation; and flattered her with hopes of being able ere long to fulfil those engagements upon which all his happiness depended.

In the summer of this year an event took place which will render that summer forever memorable. The French nation, too enlightened to bear any longer those monstrous oppressions which ignorance of its just rights alone had tolerated, shook off its fetters, and the revolution was accomplished.

Madelaine was a firm friend to the revolution, which she was told had made every Frenchman free. “And if every Frenchman is free,” thought Madelaine, “surely every Frenchman may marry the woman he loves.” It appeared to Madelaine, that, putting all political considerations, points upon which she had not much meditated, out of the question, obtaining liberty of choice in marriage was alone well worth the trouble of a revolution; and she was as warm a patriot from this single idea, as if she had studied the declaration of rights made by the Constituent Assembly, in all its extent and consequences.

The Count de ----, who was informed of the correspondence between the two lovers, and who saw little hopes of his son’s subduing a passion which this intercourse of letters served to cherish, contrived means to have Auguste’s letters intercepted at the convent. In vain Madelaine enquired with all the anxiety of tenderness for letters. In vain she counted the hours till the return of the post-days. Post after post arrived, and brought no tidings of Auguste. Three months passed in the cruel torments of anxiety and suspense, and were at length succeeded by despair. Madelaine believed she was forgotten--forgotten by Auguste!--She consulted her own heart, and it seemed to her impossible; yet, after a silence of three months, she could doubt no longer.

Poor Madelaine now recollected with anguish, instead of pleasure that all Frenchmen were free. She would have found some sad consolation in believing that all Frenchmen were slaves. It would have been some alleviation of her sorrows if Auguste had been forced to abandon her; and she fancied she could have borne to lose him, if she had been sure that he still loved her--it was losing him by his own fault that filled her heart with pangs almost insupportable.

The little pittance which Madelaine, after paying her father’s debts, had left for her own support, was insufficient to defray her expenses as a pensioner in the convent. She had already, by her sweetness and gentleness, gained the affections of some of the nuns, to whom she was also attached, and who incessantly conjured her to take the veil. “And why,” she sometimes exclaimed, “why should I hesitate any longer in so doing? Since Auguste is lost, what have I to regret in renouncing the world? What sacrifice do I make? what happiness do I resign?”

Madelaine had no ties to the world, of which she knew but little: but to separate herself irrecoverably, and for ever, from him to whom her soul was devoted--to see him, to hear his voice no more--to take vows which would make it even a crime to think of him--to banish him even from her thoughts--alas! Madelaine felt like Eloisa--

“All is not Heav’n’s while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart!”

Sometimes, too, the idea occured, that Auguste might love her still--“And am I then,” thought Madelaine, “going to reduce myself to a state in which I shall be forced to wish he were unfaithful, in order to save me from the agonies of remorse!”--She put off all thoughts of entering on her novitiate for some weeks longer--no letters arrived, and again her resolution to take the veil returned. “Why,” cried she, “why should I still continue to lament that inconstant lover who thinks of me no more! Alas, alas, did he not see the anguish of my soul at parting with him?--Does he not know the deserted situation in which I am left?--Oh, yes! he knows I have no other refuge, no other resource, than taking the veil--no doubt he wishes to hear I have done so--he will find in my renunciation of the world some excuse for his infidelity--Oh, heavens! will Auguste hear then that I am separated from him for ever without one sigh?--Ah, why need I deliberate any longer?--My trials will soon be past--I feel that my heart will break--yes, death will come to my relief--and in heaven I shall find my father!”

Madelaine, at length, determined to join the holy sisterhood of the convent. The white veil for her novitiate was prepared. The day was fixed; when, prostrate with her face towards the earth, and with flowers scattered over her, and a part of her long tresses cut off, she was to enter upon that solemn trial preparatory to her eternal renunciation of the world--of Auguste!

A few days before that which was appointed for the ceremony, Madelaine was called to the parlour, where she found her lover, with some of the municipal officers of the town, wearing their national scarfs.

Madeline, at the sight of Auguste, with difficulty reached a chair, in which she fell back senseless; while Auguste could not forbear uttering some imprecations against the iron gate by which they were separated, and which prevented him from flying to her assistance. He, however, procured help, and Madelaine recovered.

One of the municipal officers then informed her, that they had received the day before a decree of the National Assembly, forbidding any nuns to be professed. He added, that the municipality had already given information of this new law to the abbess, who had consented to allow Madelaine to leave the convent immediately. As he pronounced these last words, Madelaine looked at her lover. Auguste hastened to explain to her that his uncle, who loved him, and pitied his sufferings, had at length made a will, leaving him his fortune, upon condition that his father consented to his marriage with Madelaine.

When her lover and the municipal officers departed, Madelaine retired to her apartment, to give way to those delicious tears which were poured from a heart overflowing with wonder, thankfulness, and joy. When her first emotions had subsided, she began to pack up her little wardrobe in preparation for leaving the convent on the following day. “I always loved the revolution,” thought Madelaine, as she laid aside the white gown in which she was to be married the next morning; “and this last decree is surely of all others the best and wisest--but if it had come too late!----” At this idea Madelaine took up the veil for her novitiate, which lay upon her table, and bathed it with a flood of tears.

The next morning Auguste and Madelaine were married in the parish church of ----, and immediately after the ceremony set out for Paris; where they now live, and are, I am told, two of the happiest people, and the best patriots in France.

[[Sources:

Original: _Letters Written in France in the Summer 1790 to a friend
in England ..._, and 1791 and later editions “Containing Many New
Anecdotes”. Letter XXI (1792): Volume II, 156-182.
Author: Helen Maria Williams (1761 or 1762-1827).
Notes: The quoted poem is from “The Enthusiast; or, The Lover of
Nature” (1744) by Joseph Warton.]]

* * * * *

IVAR AND MATILDA.
A Traditional Tale in the Isle of Man.

In the thirteenth century, Ivar, a young and gallant knight, was enamoured of the beauteous Matilda. Her birth and fortune were inferior; but his generous mind disdained such distinctions. He loved, and was most ardently beloved. The sanction of the king was alone wanting to consummate their happiness. To obtain this, Ivar, in obedience to the custom of the island, presented his bride to Reginald, a gay and amorous prince; who, struck with the beauty and innocence of Matilda, heightened by an air of modesty, immediately, for some pretended crimes, banished Ivar from his presence, and by violence detained the virgin. Grief and indignation alternately swelled her bosom; till, from the excess of anguish she sunk into a state of insensibility. On awakening, her virtue was insulted by the approaches of the tyrant. She was, however, deaf to his insinuations, and only smiled at his menaces. Irritated at her contempt, and flattering himself that severity would subdue her truth and chastity, he imprisoned her in the most solitary apartment of the castle; where, for some months, she passed the tedious night and day in tears; far more solicitous for the fate of Ivar, than afflicted by her own misfortunes.

In the mean time, Ivar, failing in an attempt to revenge his injuries, assumed the monastic habit, and retired into Rushen Abbey. Here he dedicated his life to piety; but his heart was still devoted to Matilda. For her he sighed; for her he wept; and, to indulge his sorrows without restraint, would frequently withdraw into the gloomiest solitudes. In one of those solitary rambles he discovered a grotto, which had been long unfrequented. The gloom and silence of this retirement corresponding with the anguish of his mind, he sauntered onward, without reflecting where the subterraneous path might conduct him. His imagination was pourtraying the graces of Matilda, while his heart was bleeding for her sufferings. From this reverie of woe, he was, however, soon awoke, by the shrieks of a female. Advancing eagerly, he heard in a voice nearly exhausted--“Mother of God! save Matilda!” while, through a chink in the barrier that now separated them, he saw the virgin, with dishevelled hair and throbbing bosom, about to be sacrificed to the lust and violence of Reginald. Rage and madness gave new energy to Ivar; who, forcing a passage through the barrier, rushed upon the tyrant; and, seizing his sword, which lay carelessly on the table, plunged it into its master’s bosom.

The tyrant died; and the lovers, through this subterraneous communication, escaped to the sea-side, where they fortunately met with a boat which conveyed them to Ireland: and in that kingdom the remainder of their years was devoted to the most exquisite of all human felicities; the raptures of a generous love, heightened by mutual admiration and gratitude.

This is the substance of the tradition; but, according to some of the Manks records, Reginald was slain by Ivar, not in the castle of Rushen, but in a neighbouring meadow. This variation of the scene, however, does not materially affect the credit of the tradition; as the Manks historians impute Reginald’s death, not so much to Ivar’s ambition, as to his revenge of private injuries.

* * * * *

[[For sources, see the end of the second installment. These pieces
are listed in the Index under the names of the individual persons.]]

+ANECDOTES and REMAINS+
Of Persons Connected with the French Revolution.

* * *

+Madame Lafayette.+

This lady, the wife of a man whose history is blended with two important revolutions, was a marchioness before the late changes in France; the family name of her husband was also both spelled and pronounced differently, being then De la Fayette; but the _de_ being a mark of nobility, as having a feudal allusion (the French term it, a _nomme de terre_) it was, of course, omitted on the extinction of titles.

Madame Lafayette is an eminent instance of the instability of greatness, the mutability of fortune, and the inefficacy of wealth. Descended from an ancient lineage, united to an amiable and illustrious husband, who possessed estates in Europe, America, and the West-Indies; she, nevertheless, has not been exempted from the must bitter calamities that can afflict suffering humanity.

When Lafayette resisted the commands of the sole remaining legitimate power in France, his “widowed wife” was arrested. Under the despotism of Robespierre, she escaped death only by a miracle (part of her family was actually immolated to his vengeance) but what to some will appear more terrible, she experienced an unremitting captivity of fifteen months, during which, she suffered all the horrors of a close confinement, being immured within four walls, subjected to a scanty and precarious diet, secluded from her children, and prohibited even from the light of heaven.

On the death of the tyrant, the voice of humanity was once more heard, and she was liberated, and restored to the arms of her afflicted daughters. But she was a wife as well as a mother! and her beloved husband was still in bondage; for he who had endeavoured to avert the execution of Louis XVI. (such is the gratitude of courts) was languishing in an Austrian prison!

She accordingly repaired to Hamburgh, accompanied by her children only, for she had not wealth sufficient to hire a single domestic, and she possesses a lofty sense of independence, which taught her to reject pecuniary assistance, even from her few remaining friends. As soon as her health was a little restored, she posted to Vienna, and prostrated herself at the feet of the emperor.

Francis III. is in the flower of his youth. The chilling hand of age has not yet rendered him morose; and surely _victory_ cannot have blunted his feelings, and made him at once haughty and insensible! No! no! there is not a prince of his house, from the obscure count de Hapsburg, of a former period, to the late powerful tenant of the Imperial diadem, who has had more occasion to find and to feel that he is a _man_.

Weeping beauty did not supplicate in vain; the German monarch raised her from her lowly posture, and promised better days. With his permission, she flew on the wings of affection, and, strengthened by conjugal love, knocked at the gate of the fortress that confined her dearly beloved husband, whose speedy deliverance (vain idea!) she hoped instantly to announce.

The massive bolts of the dungeon give way, the grating hinges of the iron doors pierce the ears; she and her virgin daughters are eyed, searched, rifled, by an odious and horrible gaoler; and those, who, but a moment before, deemed themselves deliverers, now find themselves captives!

Reclining in the bottom of thy dungeon, these tears cannot be seen, these sighs cannot be heard, nor can the quick decay of youth and beauty, cankered in the bloom, and dissolving amidst the horrors of a German prison, be contemplated. But the heart of sympathy throbs for you, ye lovely mourners; the indignation of mankind is aroused; the present age shudders at your unmerited sufferings; and posterity will shed a generous tear at their recital. Anguish may not yet rend the bosoms of your persecutors, but a dreadful _futurity_ awaits them, and, were it possible to escape the scourge of offended heaven, they will yet experience all the vengeance of indignant history!

* * *

+Champagneaux+

Was the editor of one of the three-score newspapers, that imparted the revolutionary stimulus to France. He is the father of a numerous family; a man of unimpeached morals, and was attached to liberty from principle, at a time, and in a country, when it was not unusual to be so, from mere speculation! He was selected by Roland on account of his industry and talents; and was put by him at the head of the principal division of the home department. In short, during his administration, he became, what is termed in England, _under secretary of state_.

* * *

+Camus+,

This is another of Roland’s _élèves_, and does great credit to his discernment. Soon after the resignation of his friend, he quitted the home department, and was elected a member of the Convention, and is now _Archivist_ to the present legislature. He was one of the deputies delivered over by Dumouriez to, and confined by, the Prince de Cobourg. From an Austrian prison he has been restored to the exercise of his legislative functions, (for he is one of the _two thirds_) and, on the first vacancy, is likely to become a member of the Directory.

* * * * *

NEW-YORK.

* * *

_MARRIED,_

On the evening of the 8th instant at the seat of Colonel Ramsay, Carpenter’s Point, Cæcil county, by the Rev. Mr. Ireland, Mr. SEPTIMUS CLAYPOOLE, of the city of Philadelphia, to the amiable Miss ELIZABETH POLK.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Milldollar, Mr. ELEAZER REID, of this city, to Miss CATHERINE ACKERSON of Orange County.

[[Claypoole’s marriage may be a “professional courtesy” listing.
Claypoole (~1764-1798) published the _American Daily Advertiser_.
After his death it became _Poulson’s_ (1800-1839), and then merged
with the _North American_, surviving in various forms until 1869.
Elizabeth Polk was a niece of Charles Willson Peale.]]

* * * * *

_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 11th to the 17th inst._

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

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3.
100 100
June 11 66 80 nw. do. clear h. wd. do. do.
12 64 81 w. sw. clear lt wd. do. do.
13 70 76 sw. se. rn lt. wd. do. do. t. lg.
14 64 78 nw. do. clear lt. wd. do. do.
15 66 85 sw. w. clear lt. wd. do. do.
16 60 77 e. do. r. t. lg. cl. lt. w. do. do.
17 66 77 w. n. r. t. lg. cr. l. w. do. do. r. hl.

* * * * *
* * * *

ODE TO TRAGEDY.

Hail, sister of the sable stole!
’Tis thine to meliorate the soul,
To draw the tender tear from pity’s eye,
While suff’ring virtue heaves the length’ning sigh,
And groans beneath oppression’s rod;
Or filial duty weeps a parent’s woe;
Pale constancy hangs o’er her urn,
Distracted love laments, from all his wishes torn.
Oh, wise vicissitudes of fate below!
To humble haughty man, and lift the soul to God.

The frantic eye, the hurrying pace,
Th’ impressive horrors of thy face,
For me have more sublime delights
Than all thy laughing sisters airy flights:
When Shakespeare bears the soul along
In all the native majesty of song,
Now fires with rage, now chills with fear,
Now melts the icy breast with pity’s tear:
Alike in all, oh, bard sublime!
Above the rankling rage of death and time.

But ah! what hideous forms around thee throng!
Can these instill the moral song?
See Virtue sinks beneath the villain’s hand!
Successful Murder hails his bloody band!
Lo! wild Despair’s relentless knife
High rais’d against his sacred life!
Blind Jealousy the poisoned drug prepares!
’Till horror’s starting eye-ball glares,
And squallid Terror flies before,
While reckless Fury rushes on,
His poniard red with reeking gore,
Warm from the heart in which he liv’d alone!

’Tis past; still virtue claims thy care,
The fev’rish reign of vice soon melts in air.
For, lo! another train succeeds,
Avengers of atrocious deeds!
See purple Guilt, with look aghast,
By torturing passions vexed sore,
Possess’d his soul with haggard fear,
As conscience still to virtue dear
Holds up a gloomy picture of the past,
And keen remorse still bids him “sleep no more,”
Till tears of forc’d contrition ceaseless flow,
And furies hurl him to the shades below.

Oh goddess of the tear-swoln eye!
Be sacred Justice ever nigh,
In all her grizly horrors clad!
To tell the tyrant trembling on his throne
He lives not for himself alone.
In vain he ’scapes from human law;
Her airy ministers still haunt the bad,
Sink deep into his soul, and keep him still in awe.

Sweet Muse! thy lessons teach the soul
The wayward passions to controul;
By heaven implanted they for noblest ends,
When reason’s sober lamp attends,
Afar from error’s dark and devious way,
To guide our steps to truth’s effulgent day.
Ah foolish man! why quit her cheering ray?
The tranquil pleasure’s her’s that never cloy
With her alone dwells virtue, happiness, and joy.

* * * * *

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Bright eye of pensive eve! resplendent orb
That o’er the misty mountains shinest clear;
Like a rich gem,
Upon an Æthiop’s brow!

Thy lamp serene, my now benighted steps
Directs, to that blest spot where dwells my fair,
Twin rivals who can boast
More pure, more bright than thee.

For not thy lovely light, that kindly cheers
The sullen frown of unpropitious night;
Is half so sweet as truth,
That beams in beauty’s eyes.

Not all the little waking elves, that rise
From out their rosy bow’rs of velvet buds,
Where they had slept the day,
To dance thy rays beneath,

Feel such delight as does this breast, when thou
With radiant lustre shew’st the happy hour,
That leads from scenes of care
To still domestic bliss.

* * * * *

SONNET ON EARLY IMPRESSIONS.

Warm’d with the gen’rous flame that spreads a glow
O’er youth’s gay breast, with boundless joy we view,
The objects to our ravish’d senses new,
And hail the sun, whose glorious rays bestow

Such vary’d beauties on Creation’s form:
So when we wond’ring see a mighty mind,
Sent to delight, instruct, and guide mankind,
Our breasts with rapt’rous praises, kindling warm--

Sudden we see its shade,--and backward start,
Checking the loud applause;--in measur’d pace,
Comes cold Discretion with her doubting face,
And claps her frigid hand upon the heart;

Ah! when shall man his praise unbounded pay?--
When God shall be the theme--and heav’n’s own light the day.

* * * * *

EPIGRAM
Hint To A Poor Author.

_Q._ Why this verbose redundant style,
Think you the more the better?
_A._ Undoubtedly--for know my friend.
I sell it by the LETTER.

_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 Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._

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

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

+Vol. II.+] _Wednesday, June 28, 1797._ [+No. 104.+

+Of the KNOWLEDGE of the WORLD,+
With Respect to the Follies and Vices of It.

The business of education would be very easy, if the world, into which a young man is to be introduced, was such as one would wish it to be. No person could then fail of being well educated; for the world itself would, in general, be his best instructor: every irregularity would then be sufficiently punished and corrected by the natural consequences of it, and sufficient encouragement would be given to every virtue by its own present reward. But the difficulty is to train up a person to act with prudence and virtue in a foolish and vicious age, and to prepare his mind properly for such scenes of vice and folly as he must be witness to. With the best precautions there will be some hazard in this case, but the hazard will certainly be lessened by proper care and attention.

It appears to me that nothing is gained by deceiving a young person in this case. I would not chuse to represent the manners of the world as better than they are: because, upon that plan, it would be impossible that my pupil should be sufficiently upon his guard against their infection. It would be like committing him with an enemy, of whom he had no previous knowledge.

Let a young man, therefore, be faithfully apprized of the great variety of characters of which the world consists; that none are absolutely perfect; that those who approach to perfection are few; that the bulk of mankind are very imperfect, and many, but not the majority, exceedingly profligate, deceitful, and wicked: and if, while he was under the immediate care of his parents, and tutors, the principles of virtue were carefully instilled into him, if he has been shewn the inconveniencies and miseries that men actually bring upon themselves by their vices in this life, and has been taught firmly to believe the much greater miseries that await them hereafter, it may be hoped that the ill example of some may have as favourable an effect upon him as the good example of others.

But though a young person may be _told_ what the world is, and what men are, without disguise, it will be necessary that his actual introduction into the world at large be managed with great caution; because the address and insinuations of many persons into whose company he may fall, and whose morals are very faulty, may be more dangerous than he can possibly have any idea of beforehand; so that no previous admonition will be a sufficient security for him. Let the greatest care, therefore, be taken that the first _company_ into which a young person is introduced, be decent and virtuous, like that of his parents and tutors; and, if it be possible, let him be kept from having any connexion with those who are greatly abandoned and profligate, till his own habits are in some good measure confirmed; and then he will not chuse their society more than the common forms of civility, which are necessary to an intercourse with mankind, and which are unavoidable.

It would be happy if some vices, of a peculiarly unnatural and atrocious kind, could be entirely concealed from the knowledge of young persons; and, with care, it may perhaps be done, till they be too old to be in much danger from temptation to them. In general, however, I would neither conceal from young persons the knowledge of vice, nor deny that temporal advantages and pleasures may attend vicious indulgencies; but let them be always given to understand, that those advantages and pleasures are dearly purchased; and that, though, for a time, no visible inconvenience may attend the career of vice, the time of _recompence_ will surely overtake the votaries of it at last; and that no man will ever violate the rules of temperance, chastity, or any other virtue, without being made sufficiently to repent of it.

With respect to indulgencies which are not vicious, except in excess, as frequenting the theatre, and places of public diversion, &c. there will be less danger of contracting an excessive fondness for them, if they have been made familiar to the eye, and the mind, in early life. The value of every thing of this kind is always greatly enhanced by the rarity and novelty of them, by being considered as fashionable, and allowed as an extraordinary favour. Were these artificial charms removed, and sufficiently manly employment provided for youth, so that they should not be at a loss what to do so kill their time, there would be no great danger of their giving into that excessively dissipated mode of life, in which too many persons of fortune are immersed at present.

A life of _pleasure_, as it is improperly called, never fails to have most dreadful intervals of languor and disappointment, and generally leads to vice and wretchedness. When the common amusements have lost their _stimulus_, so that plays, operas, and assemblies, can hardly keep the men of pleasure awake, and when they have had a surfeit of all sensual indulgence, they have no resource but _gaming_. Without this they have no object that can sufficiently rouse and keep up their attention; and though the practice of gaming, could it be kept within reasonable bounds, might serve to enliven a dull hour, and amuse agreeably, and even usefully, persons who are incapable of active and serious employment, or other persons in the intervals of such employment; yet the progress from _less to more_ is too easy, and too tempting in this business; and _high gaming_ is the greatest enemy to every thing tranquil, gentle, benevolent, and generous, in the human breast. It cherishes every passion that has any thing sordid, dark, and malignant in it; so that when carried to excess, and joined to disappointment, it is no wonder that it ends in riot, distraction, despair, and self-murder.

J. P.

* * * * *

The
_WANDERINGS_
of the
IMAGINATION.

_BY MRS. GOOCH._

[Concluded from page 403.]

“I was one morning expecting her at the usual hour, and for the first time she disappointed me. I waited for her in vain, and toward evening began to grow alarmed at her absence. I borrowed the arm of a servant, and repaired to her lodging. She had not been seen there since the morning; and after leaving a message for her, I returned home, under the certainty of finding her there. But no one had seen her, neither did I hear from her till the following evening, when she entered my apartment, and I could discover, from the trembling agitation of her voice, that something particular had disturbed her. On my questioning her about the disposal of her time during the preceding day, I found that her answers were vague and incoherent, which, on my observing, the native candour of her heart prevailed, and she eagerly asked me if I could forgive her revealing to me a secret that had got the better of her reason, and without too harshly condemning, advise her how to act under the present embarrassing state of her mind?--I was so totally thunderstruck by this preparation, that I could only entreat her instantly to satisfy me--but to my first emotion surprize, terror, every sensation that could proceed from the honesty of my heart succeeded, while she uttered--“Your Julia has dared to aspire to the son of her father’s benefactor.”--I interrupted her, and for a moment all my past affection for her was buried in the most bitter resentment.

“She conjured me to hear her, and I promised to do so. “Yes,” she continued, “your daughter has listened to the most tender professions of honourable love, but she is bold to say that she could despise HIM who has offered it, had he even hinted at the destruction of her innocence. Mr. Williams has privately and frequently met me. He has pledged his honor that he will never give his hand to another; but he expresses himself too well convinced of your integrity, and gratitude to his father, to entrust you with a secret, which it is most essential to his views should never be discovered by him.”

I entreated my daughter to leave me, while I ruminated what measures I could adopt to secure my own esteem, without betraying Mr. Williams. I determined to see him; for how was it possible my Julia should suffer in his esteem by the candid declaration she had made me?--I requested the honour of half an hour’s private conversation with him in my apartment the same evening, and I had no reason to repent my sincerity. He was ingenuous in the extreme, and in a few minutes dispelled the anxiety, (I will not say doubt) that my daughter’s first words had occasioned. He declared to me, in the most solemn manner, his unalterable resolution of uniting himself to her, whenever he should be at liberty to declare his choice, which was restrained for the present, both by his father and his uncle; from the latter he had only to combat with pecuniary considerations; but for his father he had the most tender affection, and the idea of distressing him would have been nearly as terrible as that of forsaking the darling object to whom I perceived, but too plainly, he was forever devoted.

“Mr. Williams’s confidence demanded the fullest return of mine; but my honor was deeply interested, and to his I consigned the care of it.

“After many conferences, and meetings between us, (during which he saw not Julia) he consented to my urgent request, that of unbosoming our situation to Sir Herbert. Mr. Williams, with all the impetuosity of youth, believed what he hoped; and left to me the hardest task for the human heart to perform, that of wilfully risking the displeasure of its first benefactor.

“Sir Herbert heard my recital with more emotion than surprize; and I could discover that the obstacles he held forth to his son’s union with my daughter, were not so entirely on his own account as that of the Lady Williams’s brother, the old Admiral Clayton; who having no children, had declared his nephew his heir, but who possessed too much pride of blood to listen to the proposal of an alliance, that would not be at least adequate to his own.

“To this sentiment he added great inflexibility of temper, and a mind bordering on suspicion. Sir Herbert thought it would, therefore, be prudent to remove my daughter, and was generous enough to propose my going with her, though he deprived himself by it of what afforded his principal delight in the Winter Evenings. He recommended Chepstow, where we have remained ever since, nor have I ever left her, but for six weeks at the return of Christmas, when I regularly go for that time to Sir Herbert’s house.

“Mr. Williams still perseveres in his intention, and Sir Herbert does not oppose a correspondence, that he knows would be in vain to prohibit. Once, indeed, Mr. Williams has visited us here, and has given us every reason to believe, that the death of the Admiral, who is now in his 75th year, is the only barrier to his wishes, and I most candidly acknowledge to my own.”

Here ended the Narrator; and Julia, who had been all the time absent, returned to gladden us with her presence.

She saw that her secret was discovered; and having no farther restraint in my society, soon convinced me that her whole happiness was wound up in her future prospects, a disappointment in which would not fail to embitter, if not actually destroy, it.

In a few months my wandering stars compelled me to leave Chepstow; but, alas, they have never served to light me to happiness! My correspondence with Julia has continued ever since uninterrupted; and the Admiral, though not deprived of existence, is become so far dead to the world by the suspension of his faculties, that Sir Herbert having come to the knowledge of his will being made wholly in favour of Mr. Williams, no longer withheld his happiness, but united him to his long-loved Julia.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams took up their residence in his house, and the latter days of the aged Llewyllin, who lived with them, were crowned with content; while, like Israel’s Monarch, he turned the dulcet strains of his harp to the divinest melody--the praises of his God.

* * * * *

+ANECDOTES and REMAINS+
Of Persons Connected with the French Revolution.

* * *

+Marie Anne Victoire Charlotte Cordet,+

The daughter of a man attached by a place to the court. The _demoiselle_ Cordet was zealous for freedom; rich, young, beautiful--a woman--she was, nevertheless, a republican. An enthusiast, but not a frantic; she possessed the warmth of the one character, without the extravagance of the other. At the place of execution, she uttered not a single word. Her face still possessed an heroic calmness; and she seemed conscious of future glory, and approaching happiness. Although silent, her gesticulations were, however, eloquently impressive; for she frequently placed her hand on her heart, and seemed to say, “I rejoice, in having exterminated a monster!”

Brutus and Cordet both equally struck for liberty, and, alas! neither of them was happy enough to secure it; but the execution of Robespierre seems to have effected for modern France, what the punishment of Antony, and the banishment of Octavius, could not perhaps have produced in degenerate Rome.

To this woman, Greece would have erected statues; Rome, temples. France may some day insert her name in the calendar of her martyrs;--the ancients would have placed her among their gods!

_Translation of a letter from Marie Anne Victoire Charlotte Cordet, to her father, written on the evening before her trial:_

“From the prison of the Conciergerie, in the apartment lately
occupied by the deputy Brisot,

“_July_ 16, 1793.

“My dear respected Father,

“Peace is about to reign in my dear native country, for Marat is no
more!

“Be comforted, and bury my memory in eternal oblivion.

“I am to be tried to-morrow, the 17th, at seven o’clock in the
morning.

“I have lived long enough, as I have achieved a glorious exploit.

“I put you under the protection of Barbaroux and his colleagues,
in case you should be molested.

“Let not my family blush at my fate; for remember, according to
Voltaire,

‘That crimes beget disgrace, and not the scaffold.’

“Your affectionate daughter,

“MARIE ANNE VICTOIRE

“CHARLOTTE CORDET.”

* * * * *

+Voltaire,+

Superstition ridiculed; tyranny exposed; innocence protected:--a nation, if not prepared for liberty, yet unfitted for bondage. Such were the labours and the triumphs of Voltaire.

The Parisians were always fond of him. Their vanity was, indeed, gratified by his glory, in which they supposed themselves to participate. On his return from banishment, in the time of the monarchy (from what free country would the author of the _Henriade_ have been banished?) he was presented with a wreath of laurel, in the public theatre, and crowned, like the heroes of the ancient republics, in the presence of the whole people.

On the recovery of liberty, his ashes were claimed by the nation, and on the 10th of July, 1791, conducted into Paris, amidst the shouts of the national guards, and the tears of the citizens. The carriage, containing the corpse, was shaded with green branches, and adorned with appropriate devices. On one side was the following inscription:

“_Si l’homme a des tirans, il doit les détrôner._”

On another:

“_Si l’homme est créé libre, il doit se gouverner._”

The above mottos were selected from his own immortal works.

[[Source:

This article previously appeared in The Monthly Magazine and British
Register (ed. Richard Phillips), May 1796.
Notes: These pieces are listed in the Index under the names of the
individual persons.]]

* * * * *
* * * *

_THE FARRAGO._

* * *

Nº. IX.

* * *

If we see right, we see our woes,
Then, what avails it to have eyes?
From IGNORANCE our comfort flows;
The only wretched are the wise.
Wearied we should lie down in death;
This CHEAT OF LIFE would take no more,
If fame were thought an empty breath,
Or DELIA but a purjured whore.

PRIOR.

Happiness having been defined, by certain acute wits the art of being adroitly deceived, perhaps, therefore, no order in society merits congratulation more, than that cajoled cluster of “good easy men,” whom knaves call dupes. Amadis de Gaul, or any other knight errant of old romance, must have cordially cursed the malignant enchanter, who, by the touch of a tallisman, caused the gorgeous castle to dwindle to a cot, or the wrinkles of a witch to mar the brow of a peerless damsel. The Dupe, whom the unreflecting “million” too often deride for being gulled, would have equal reason to upbraid that impertinent and pretended friend, who, in the game of human artifice, should stand behind his chair, and incessantly tell him, that he was cheated. Although I cannot agree with that eccentric orator, who harangued in praise of ignorance; although I cannot print paradoxes, like ROUSSEAU’s, pronouncing the arts and sciences useless, and barbarism a blessing; yet I would fervently implore those gamesome genii, who delight in the mockery of mortals, that they would never unbind from my eyes that fillet which conceals from their view the foibles of the friend I respect, and the frailties of the woman I love. In life’s pilgrimage, curiosity must be sparingly indulged: and, lest dejection invade, we should not scarcely see, still less contemplate, the deformities of ZAARA, or _The Desart_. One of the most amiable _weaknesses,_ as the world calls them, in my uncle Toby’s character, as delineated by Sterne, was that you might cheat him ten times a day, if nine times were not sufficient for your purpose. Ælian, a narrative Greek, records the case of an insane Athenian, who, living in a maritime town, fancied that all the vessels which arrived in the haven were his own. Horace mentions likewise, a nobleman of Argos, a literary enthusiast, a “child of fancy,” who, even in the vacant pit, fancied that he witnessed the representation of sublime tragedies, and “hearkened even to extacy.” Now how unfortunate an officer would uncle Toby have been, had Corporal Trim hinted at the duplicity of Bridget, widow Wadman, or any of the Shandy family; and how unfortunate were the frantic Athenian and the illustrious Argive, from whose minds the “dear deceit” was expelled by the officious friend, and the operative hellebore.

I have read somewhere, I believe in Sir Thomas More’s works, that the world is undone by looking at things at a distance. One would suppose that so wise a Chancellor would have philosophised better than this, and have maintained the _reverse_ of the proposition. Happy would it have been had his practice militated with his principles. If he had surveyed the Romish superstition, and the caprice of the eighth Henry _at a distance_, if he had kneeled to the saints without questioning their right to be worshipped, and obeyed the king without asking wherefore; the “rays of royal indignation,” would not have confused the Chancellor, and he would not have paid with his head the price of _too near_ an examination.

The inimitable BUTLER, in whose Hudibras we always find much of the good sense and truth of poetry, acknowledges that,

Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated, as to cheat.

But he might have said more, and affirmed that the satisfaction is greater, and that the dupe is happier, than the knave. It is better to be the gulled spectator of a puppet show, than the master juggler, who comprehends the whole trick. How foolishly conducts that curious impertinent, who swears that the glittering crown of the theatrical monarch is nothing but tinsel, and rallies behind the scenes to view the actors in an undress. For the naked skeleton, even of delight to adopt a happy phrase of Dr. Johnson’s, is loathsome; and those inquisitive beings, who wish to survey every object stripped of its trappings, resemble children who dash their gilded toys to pieces to know what is inside.

In every age inquisitiveness has caused many, eager to take a peep, to go on their way sorrowing. If our grand parent Eve had been content with innocent ignorance, and not _hankered_ after those cursed crab apples which have “set the children’s teeth on edge,” we should all be “jolly fellows;” each, after rising from the feast of life, would have no reckoning but his own to discharge. But since the habit of tearing off the veil from every object has grown inveterate, how many misshapen monsters have exhibited to the curious eye, most naked and nauseous disproportion. How many noble, how many ecclesiastical heads, recent from the guillotine, have gasped on the ground because TOM PAINE railed at the mob for their servility to the ruling powers, and taught them the “Rights of Man.” If _happy_ ignorance had been our hereditary queen, no persecution, civil or religious, would have urged non-conforming victims to the stake or the scaffold. The bells on St. Bartholomew’s night would not have tolled, Luther would not have defaced so many paintings, nor have mutilated so many statues of the Romish Church. Calvin’s proselytes would have been a visionary band, feeble and insignificant as the madcap shakers. _Mother Church_ would never have quarrelled with her _daughters_ for precedency. _Lawn sleeves_ would not have been rent by one side, nor _grey coats_ singed threadbare by the other; but all the members of the _great family_ would have sung what ditties they pleased, and perhaps amicably joined in a general chorus of

“SINCE WE ARE MET, LET’S MERRY, MERRY BE,
WITH A TINKER, OR A TAILOR.”

* * * * *
* * * *

+HENRY and LOUISA+;
An Affecting Tale,
Founded on recent Facts.

_Introduced in a Letter of Consolation and Advice to Mrs. FRANKS,
from her Sister._

* * *

NEW-YORK.

DEAREST SISTER,

Your last, so fraught with genuine distress, arrived at a moment when my whole soul was agitated by a pathetic fact, which has recently occurred in this city.--Alas, my dear girl, it is not you alone whom calamity visits:--the sons and daughters of affliction are as numerous as the votaries of humanity:--Sympathy need never be idle; and the tear of pity may unceasingly trickle from the eye of tenderness, while bigotry, avarice, and vanity violate the susceptive bosom of innocence and love.