Chapter C: S. Q (7)

I was already arrived at *ubia, and accommodated with a lodging at the inn which the Count had pointed out to me, when I finished the decyphering of this letter. Night had set in, and I was musing on the important visit which the Count had promised me, when I heard the rolling of a coach, which stopped under my window. A few moments after my servant came to inform me that an Irish captain, whose name was Dromley, wanted to speak to me. The word Irish chilled the very marrow of my bones--“Let him come in!” said I, turning my face from the servant, to conceal from him the emotions which must have been painted in every feature. I stepped to the window in order to recover myself a little; the door was flung open, and an officer in a blue uniform entered the room----I advanced two steps to meet him, and saw the _Unknown_ standing before me. The sight of him made me speechless. “You will be surprised, my Lord! to see me here,” said he, “however the concerns of your heart are of so much importance to me, that nothing could deter me from paying you a visit.” Here he stopped. Not one syllable escaped my lips. He looked at me with seeming unconcern, advanced a step nearer, and resumed in a soft winning accent, “My Lord! you love the beautiful Countess Clairval! however, you would love her in vain, if my power had not removed every obstacle, and ensured you her reciprocal love.”

Now I had recovered the power of utterance. “Then you have informed her,” I exclaimed, “that her Lord has not been assassinated by my real father?”

The Irishman seemed to be struck with surprise, examining inquisitively my looks, and after a short pause, continued in a firmer accent: “It was my duty to make this discovery to Amelia; however, it would never have been sufficient to procure you her reciprocal love, if I had not done something which was not my duty.”

“_What_ have you done? My notions of your actions have been confounded so much, that I cannot thank you beforehand.”

“Thank!” he replied haughtily, “as if I had ever done any thing for the sake of thanks! In order to save you that trouble, I will not tell you what I have done for you.”

The strain in which he spoke confounded me. I returned no answer.

“However, I must caution you,” he continued, “not to represent me to the Countess as an impostor, if you do not wish to destroy the effect of the service which I have done you. You will be convinced at some future period how necessary it is for your own happiness not to slight this advice.”

“If I am to enjoy the happiness you have prepared for me, I must first know the residence of Amelia.”

“Not before you have pledged your honour to follow my advice.”

“Should I suffer Amelia to be imposed upon like myself; I should owe her love to a delusion?”

“Who has told you that I have imposed upon the Countess? You do not know as yet what I have done; it would therefore be just not to condemn me before-hand, as you refuse to thank me before-hand for. what I have done!”

“I judge of an action of yours which I do not know, from your former actions, which I know very well, at present. Can you call this unjust?”

“This conclusion is at least premature. Every plan ought to be adapted to the existing circumstances, and every action fitted to the plan; therefore, as soon as the circumstances and the plan are changed, one ought not to judge of the present actions from the preceding ones.”

“I do not comprehend you completely.”

“You have been tried by delusions; however the time of probation is past; the delusions have made room for the dawn of truth, which is rising in your mind.”

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

* * *

AN ACCOUNT OF A MELANCHOLY TRANSACTION,
WHICH TOOK PLACE IN THIS CITY, MANY YEARS AGO.

It was in the commencement of autumn that Orlando, the only son of a respectable merchant of this place, prevailed upon the amiable Arria, to whom he had long been engaged, to fix upon a day for the celebration of their nuptials; and he had the happiness to see that morning ushered in with the warmest benedictions and wishes for his future felicity that pure friendship can bestow. Arria’s relations and his own, together with a numerous acquaintance, attended at the house of her parents, whose only child she was, and whose very existence seemed to hang upon hers.--Unaffected satisfaction presided in the assembly, light-hearted wit broke forth in a thousand brilliant sallies, while joy heightened the flush on the cheek of youth, and smoothed the furrows on the brow of age: nor did the sprightly fair one, who was just verging upon sixteen, fail to exert herself to enhance the hilarity of the company.--When a convenient time had elapsed, the priest arose in order to begin the ceremony, but, upon looking round, observed that the young lady was not present; one of the bride’s maids was therefore dispatched to inform her that the company were in waiting for her, but she returned with much disorder, and told them that Arria was not to be found:--her mother, offended at this seeming want of respect for their guests, went in quest of her herself, as did several of the family; but they all, after absenting themselves for a long time, returned with the surprising account that none knew where she was.--The alarmed assembly then separated to search for her, some supposing that a false delicacy might have prevailed upon her to conceal herself, and others were apprehensive that some fearful accident had befallen her; every apartment, therefore, of the house in which they were, and likewise the neighbours, together with the wells and cisterns were examined, but all to no purpose; for when night spread her shadows upon the earth, there still appeared no trace of her they sought.

For several succeeding days strict enquiries were made concerning her, but all proving fruitless, Orlando and her parents gave her up for lost, abandoning themselves to all the agonies of grief:---Sometimes, in frantic anguish, they would accuse her of being false to Orlando, and being with some more favoured lover; and again they would melt in the tenderness of affection and bewail the unknown chance which had wrested her from their bosoms; but suspence barbed the shafts of sorrow,--the susceptible heart of Orlando sunk beneath its weight, and before the next May opened upon the smiling year, he had sought

“The dreary regions of the dead,
“Where _all things_ are forgot.”

It was in that month that the mother of Arria, having occasion to put away some winter apparel, ascended to the garret, where in a remote corner was placed a large sea-chest with a _spring-lock_;---believing it to be empty, she attempted to open it, when finding that the spring had catched, she had recourse to the key which lay by it---it unlocked---and she partly raised the lid---but such a horrid smell of putridity burst through the aperture, that the lid fell from her hand!----a frightful idea flushed through her brain, and, uttering a death-like shriek, she fell upon the floor!---Some of the family who were in the apartment below, heard her and hasted to her assistance.---As soon as she was capable of motion, she raised her hand, and pointing to the chest, they instantly opened it, and beheld the ghastly skeleton of the once lovely Arria!!! who, it seems, in a fit of frolic had thrown herself therein, expecting every moment to be sought for! but, no doubt, she fainted as soon as she heard the lock shut, and as the chest was too close to admit any air, she must have suffocated before she had a full sense of her deplorable situation!

ANNA.

NEW-YORK _Aug. 18, 1796_.

* * * * *

ANECDOTE OF DR. JOHNSON.

You knew Mr. Capel, Dr. Johnson?---“Yes, Sir; I have seen him at Garrick’s.” And what think you of his abilities? “They are just sufficient, Sir, to enable him to select the black hairs from the white ones, for the use of the periwig-makers. Were he and I to count the grains in a bushel of wheat for a wager, he would certainly prove the winner.”

* * * * *
* * * *

UNACCOUNTABLE THIRST FOR FAME.

A Grecian named Erostratus being ambitious of a name, and finding he could not obtain it by any laudable enterprize, resolved to do it by an act of the highest villainy, and therefore destroyed by fire the famous temple of Diana at Ephesus, in the year 398, from the foundation of Rome. A pile of building that for the excellency of it, was reckoned among the wonders of the universe. His confessing his design in being the incendiary, was to render his name immortal: The Ephesians, by a law forbid the citizens from ever naming him, to disappoint him of the glory he sought after; but were mistaken in their politics, for the record continued what they endeavoured to abolish.

* * * * *

_NEW-YORK._

* * *

MARRIED,

A few days since in this city, Mr. H. DE BERNARD, jun. late of the island of St. Lucie, in the West-Indies, to the widow TRONSON, of this city.

* * * * *

_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._
_From the 14th to the 20th inst._

_Days of the Month._
_Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M._
_Prevailing winds._
_OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

deg. deg. deg. 8. 1. 6. 8. 1. 6.
100 100
Aug 14 75 83 75 80 sw. w. do. clear, lt. wind, do. do.
15 67 73 68 w. do. se. cloudy, lt. wind, clear,
16 67 74 68 se. do. do. clear, lt. wind, do. do.
17 64 70 67 se. do. do. clear, lt. wind, do. do.
18 67 73 70 se. do. do. cloudy, lt. wind, clear.
19 73 78 75 se. do. do. cloudy, lt. wind, rain
20 73 79 78 se. do. do. cloudy, lt. wind, clear

* * * * *

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

* * *

ANTICIPATION.

Man’s restless spirit, always on the wing,
Insatiate, ever striving to be blest,
With eager grasp lays hold on time to come,
And fondly, with the future moment joins
Some fancied pleasure, some expected bliss.
In vain experience shews the grand mistake,
And melts our air-built castles into nought;
Hope beckons on, and man obsequious runs
The same wild race, and with the same result;
While tasteless creeps the present tiresome hour.--
--Say, Moralist, with philosophic eye,
From hence what useful lesson may be learn’d,
And what inferr’d to cheer the hopeless heart;
Has not th’ all-wise Director of events
Implanted deep within the human breast
A hope of happiness, not here attain’d,
To lead us on to seek some greater good,
The bliss of Heav’n, the gift of Love divine?--
And will he disappoint this ardent hope?

VIATOR.

NEW-YORK _Aug. 19, 1796_.

* * * * *
* * * *

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

* * *

THE SETTING SUN.

(_Written at the request of a young Lady._)

Behold yon brilliant orb, whose matchless light
O’er heaven’s capacious arch its rays diffuse;
Atchiev’d his constant round, he shews less bright,
And half his splendor’s wrapt in western dews.

The lightly passing clouds, with gold array’d,
Steal from their august Monarch as he dies;
And ting’d with brightest hues they fly pourtray’d;
And give a glow to circumambient skies.

The Night too soon her darksome curtain drops,
And, deep with mourning look, drives day away;
But lo! the radiant moon with lustre stops,
And adds new glory, though she shines less gay.

In such a scene as this we learn, that man,
Although he dies and moulders in the tomb,
His fame and virtues shall complete the plan;
And while he sleeps in death his name shall bloom.

The seeds of well spent days shall rise apace,
And like the moon of night on growth will shine,
Although his body is despoil’d of grace,
And mix’d with ashes, as was Heav’n’s design.

LUCIUS.

Pine-Street, _Aug. 19, 1796_.

* * * * *

LINES ON THE CELEBRATED SHAKESPEARE.

On a biforked hill, with Fame’s ever-green crown’d,
Encircled with azure serene,
Whilst the Sylphs of his fancy play’d wantonly round,
Willy Shakespeare enliven’d the scene.

As all pensive he sat, keen-ey’d Wisdom drew near,
Just sent from the regions above;
And smiling she whisper’d this truth in his ear,
Thy lays breathe the spirit of Jove.

To his side came the Muse of the bowl and the blade,
To hail him great Prince of her art;
Whilst Comedy near, all those dimples display’d
That gave a brisk pulse to the heart.

Bright Genius approach’d him with pleasing respect,
In her arms a young eagle she bore,
To shew, if unshackl’d by icy neglect,
To what wonderful heights she could soar.

Recumbent before him, straight dropt the sweet maid,
And expanding the wings of her bird
“Take the Quill of Sublimity, Shakespeare,” she said,
“And go fashion the tear-starting word.”

To Genius he bow’d, as she pluckt forth the Quill,
To the breeze were his vestments unfurl’d,
Like a sun-beam, with Fancy he fled from the hill,
To charm and illumine the world.

For the good of mankind, he rare precepts convey’d,
And his strains had such pow’r o’er the ear,
That, whenever he pleas’d, from the concourse that stray’d,
He could call forth a smile or a tear.

Old Time knew his worth, with the sigh of esteem,
From the earth bid sweet Willy arise;
With his genius he fled, but has left us his theme,
Which shall ever be dear to the wise.

* * * * *
* * * *

TO ELIZA.

I ask’d a kiss, and scarce those lips comply’d,
For instant fled the momentary joy;--
Would thou hadst still the fatal bliss deny’d,
And then, as now, been more severely coy!

Can one slight show’r refresh the thirsty field?
One single plant with verdure clothe the plain?--
One star to yon wide arch its radiance yield?--
Or one small rill supply the boundless main?

The skies, unnumber’d, all their bounties pour;--
In such profusion are their blessings given,
Ev’n thankless man must own the wond’rous store
Becomes the rich munificence of heaven.

While you one kiss, and one alone, resign’d,
Though fav’ring night enwrapp’d th’unconscious grove,
Though well you knew not crowded millions join’d
Could sate th’ unrival’d avarice of love.

Yet, once again the dang’rous gift renew;
With kinder looks prolong the fleeting bliss!
Let me too try, while all thy charms I view,
Like Shakespeare’s Moor, _to die upon a kiss_.

Yet no such kiss as some cold sister grants,
And colder brother carelessly receives;--
Be mine the kiss for which the lover pants,
And the dear soft, consenting mistress gives!

’Tis else as well with ardent vows to press
Th’ unyielding bosom of the sculptur’d fair,
Or court the walls whose pictur’d forms confess
That _West_ or graceful _Reynolds_ has been there.

In thy sweet kiss, oh! blend such fond desires
As conquer youth, and palsied age can warm;
Those arts which cherish love, like vestal fires,
And bid, in virtue’s cause, our passions arm.

Such if thou giv’st--though closing air and sea
Efface the arrow’s path, and vessel’s road,
More faithful to their trust my lips shall be,
And bear th’impression to their last abode.

* * * * *

ON VICISSITUDE.

In life what various scenes appear;
How differs every day,
We _now_, the face of comfort wear,
To-morrow of dismay.

As light and darkness each success,
So pleasure follows pain;
Our spirits, drooping while we bleed,
They brisker flow again.

Winter and summer have their turns,
Each vale its rising hills:
One hour the raging fever burnt,
The next an ague chills.

A mind at ease and free from care,
Can paradise excel:
But when in trouble and despair,
A palace then is hell.

NEW-YORK: _+Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street+, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.--+Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._

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

_UTILE DULCI._

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

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, August 31, 1796.+ [+No. 61.+

+Rules for judging the beauties of painting, music, and poetry;
founded on a new examination of the word thought, as applied to
the fine arts.+

Thoughts are, generally speaking, all ideas sufficiently distinct to be conveyed by signs. When speaking with a particular reference to the belles lettres and polite arts, we mean, by thoughts, the ideas which the artist attempts to raise by his performance, in contradistinction to the manner in which they are raised or expressed.

In works of art, thoughts are what remain of a performance, when stripped of its embellishments. Thus, a poet’s thoughts are what remains of his poems, independently of the verification and of some ideas, merely serving for its decoration and improvement.

Thoughts, therefore, are the materials proposed and applied by art to its purposes. The dress in which they appear, or the form into which they are moulded by the artist, is merely accidental; consequently, they are the first object of attention in every work of art; the spirit, the soul of a performance, which, if its thoughts are indifferent, is but of little value, and may be compared to a palace of ice, raised in the most regular form of an habitable structure, but, from the nature of its materials, totally useless.

While, therefore, you are contemplating an historical picture, try to forget that it is a picture; forget the painter, whose magic art has, by lights and shades, created bodies where there are none. Fancy to yourself that you are looking at men, and then attend to their actions. Observe whether they are interesting; whether the persons express thoughts and sentiments in their faces, attitudes, and motions; whether you may understand the language of their airs and gestures; and whether they tell you something remarkable. If you find it not worth your while to attend to the persons thus realised by your fancy, the painter has thought to little purpose.

Whilst listening to a musical performance, try to forget that you are hearing sounds of an inanimate instrument, produced only by great and habitual dexterity of lips or fingers. Fancy to yourself, that you hear a man speaking some unknown language, and observe whether his sounds express some sentiments; whether they denote tranquility or disturbance of mind, soft or violent, joyful or grievous affections; whether they express any character of the speaker; and whether the dialect be noble or mean. If you cannot discover any of these requisites, then pity the virtuoso for having left so much ingenuity destitute of thought.

In the same manner we must judge of poems, especially of the lyric kind. That ode is valuable, which, when deprived of its poetical dress, still affords pleasing thoughts or images to the mind. Its real merit may be best discovered by transposing it into simple prose, and depriving it of its poetical colouring. If nothing remains, that a man of sense and reflection would approve, the ode, with the most charming harmony, and the most splendid colouring, is but a fine dress hung round a man of straw. How greatly then are those mistaken, who consider an exuberant fancy, and a delicate ear, as sufficient qualifications for a lyric poet!

It is only, after having examined the thoughts of a performance in their unadorned state, that we can pronounce whether the attire, in which they have been dressed by art, fits, and becomes well or ill. A thought whose value and merit cannot be estimated, but from its dress, is, in effect, as futile and insignificant as a man who affects to display his merit by external pomp.

[[Source:

Original (English translation): A General Theory of the Polite Arts,
delivered in single Articles, and digested according to the
Alphabetical Order of their technical Terms. By John George Sulzer,
Fellow of the Royal Academy of Sciences at Berlin.
Possible sources:
1774: _The Critical review: or, Annals of literature_, Volume 38,
ed. Tobias George Smollett
1774: The Monthly Miscellany, 1774.
1790: _The New magazine of knowledge concerning Heaven and Hell_,
Vol. I. This seems the most likely direct source.]]

* * * * *

ACTIVITY.

An ACTIVE life increases not only the powers of the body, but also those of the mind; while indolence is the destruction of both. If a man love his neighbour in a certain degree, and take the first opportunity of putting that love into ACTION, he will then love his neighbour better than he did before, or in a higher degree; and will therefore be more ready to serve him on a future occasion, than if he had omitted the first ACT of benevolence. This is an invariable truth, provided the ACT proceed from disinterested motives; the reason of which is grounded in this immutable law, that all influx is proportioned to efflux; or in other words, That in proportion as man puts forth himself into ACTUAL uses, in the same proportion the life which flows into him from the Lord, becomes fixed within him, and forms a plane for the reception of more life. A life of ACTIVITY, therefore, when under the direction of genuine wisdom, enlarges every faculty of the human soul, and at the same time capacitates man for the most noble and exquisite enjoyments.

* * * * *
* * * *

Interesting History Of
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

_Translated from the French._

(Continued from page 59.)

These assurances entirely satisfied the Queen, and they consulted together on measures by which they might be at liberty to entertain the illustrious slaves the next day. The Sultan’s coming in, put an end to their conversation for this time. This Prince, who had no other defect than his being a Saracen, accosted her with that joy, which his having had it in his power to oblige her, gave him---“Well madam,” said he, “can you doubt of my love!---may I flatter myself, that what I have done will dispel the grief and melancholy that has so long possessed you?”---“I owe you every thing, my lord,” said she, “and my whole endeavours shall be to express my gratitude.” The Sultan, charmed to find her in so good a humour, entertained her a little longer, and then told her (for he was just come from council) that it was resolved to oppose vigorously an irruption that a neighbouring prince had made into his dominions, and that war was going to be declared immediately.

This news inspired the Queen with a thought, which succeeded to her wish; and being willing to take advantage of the disposition she found the Sultan in, of granting her every thing; “Heaven,” said she, “favours me in an extraordinary manner, in giving me an opportunity of acknowledging your goodness. One of the captives, my lord, whom you have given me, is the most valiant man of his time, nor is his conduct in war inferior to his courage, which the wonders he has done evinces. I am almost assured you will have the victory, if you permit him to combat the enemy.” The Sultan remonstrated to her the difference of their religions, and the little assurance he could have in the faith of a Christian. “I’ll be the pledge of his fidelity; and the better to assure you, I’ll keep the two other captives, who are, I know, very dear to him, as hostages.” The Sultan seemed satisfied with these words, and granted her request, leaving her absolute mistress to act in this affair as she pleased; and retired to his apartment, much more affected with the joy of obliging her, than disturbed at the success of the war.

The beautiful Queen passed the night in very different emotions; love had renewed his forces in her soul, nature that did for a while revolt at the remembrance of the cruelty inflicted on her, returned to its obedience, and was wholly taken up with the fear of not being loved, and remembered enough to be acknowledged, when discovered, with the joy she wished.----The Counts of Ponthieu and St. Paul spent not their hours more quietly. Thibault found himself agitated with the perturbations of a dawning passion; he accused himself of it as a crime. The Count was no less embarrassed about his, tho’ he was very well assured they proceeded not from love, but the prodigious resemblance he found between his daughter and this lovely Queen, reminded him of the barbarity he had been guilty of.----He could not imagine there had been a possibility of saving that unhappy princess; but the tenderness with which the Sultaness had inspired him, was so near that he felt for his daughter, that it gave him an astonishment not to be conceived.

Day appearing, they rose, and set themselves about preparing the fruit, as Sayda had ordered them; which done, they were not long before they received a command to bring it to the Queen. Nothing could be more pleasing than this commission; both found an undescribable impatience to see her again, and followed the faithful slave ’till they came into her presence. They found her dressed with an incredible magnificence, resplendent with an infinite number of diamonds; she was reclined on a sofa, and after having looked a moment on them, “Well,” said she, “are you ready to satisfy me?---I will not give you the pains of relating your names and qualities, neither are unknown to me; only tell me by what strange adventure you arrived at this place.---Count de Ponthieu, it is to you in particular I address.”

The Count was in a surprize which cannot be expressed, to hear himself named, and finding there was indeed no room for dissimulation, told his story with sincerity; but when he came to that part which concerned his daughter, his sighs made many interruptions in his discourse, yet did he forget no circumstance, but confessed the crime he had been guilty of, in putting her to death: “But alas!” added he, “with what remorse has my soul been torn since that fatal day!---my tenderness for her revived with fresh vigour, and the torments I have endured, have been such, that if her spirit has any knowledge of what is transacted in this lower world, she must believe my punishment at least equal to my guilt.”---Then he told her of their vow, their voyage to Jerusalem, the tempest, and their slavery and condemnation.---“This, madam,” said he, “is a faithful account of our misfortunes; and though they are of a nature beyond the common rank of woes, yet they receive no inconsiderable alleviation, by the concern your excessive goodness makes you take in them.”---And, indeed, the fair Sultaness, during the latter part of his relation, had seemed drowned in tears, and was some time before she could recover herself enough to speak; but at last---“I own,” said she, “that what you have told me, very much touches me.--I extremely pity the Princess of Ponthieu, she was young, her reason might have returned to her; the generous proceeding of her husband, would doubtless have reclaimed her in time: but Heaven has punished you for your cruelty, you must not therefore be any more reproached with it. But to prove your penitence sincere, what reception would you give that Princess if by any miracle, which I cannot at present conceive, she should have escaped that destiny your rashness exposed her to?” “Ah madam!” cried the Count, “were there a possibility of such a blessing, my whole life should be employed in rendering hers fortunate!” “And you,” said she to Thibault, who she saw overwhelmed in tears, “would your wife be dear to you? Could you forgive her distracted behaviour? Could you restore her to your heart, as fond, as tender as ever?--in short, could you still love her?”--“Question it not, madam,” answered he, with a voice interrupted with sighs, “nothing but her presence can ever make me happy.”--“Receive her, then,” cried she, casting aside her veil, and throwing herself into his arms, “I am that unfortunate wife--I am that daughter,” added she, running to her father, “that has cost you so many melancholy hours. Own her, my lord; take her to your breast, my dear Thibault, nor let the sight of her dissipate the tenderness you expressed for her when unknown.”

Who can describe the joy and astonishment of these illustrious persons! their eyes were now opened, the secret emotions they had felt, were now easy to be accounted for.---She was acknowledged for the wife, blessed as the daughter, with a torrent of inexpressible delight. Thibault threw himself at her feet, bathing her hands in tears of joy; while the Count held her in his arms, without being able to utter more than---my daughter---my dear---my long lost daughter.---The young Prince kissed her robe; and Sayda, only witness of this moving scene, dissolved in tears of tenderness and joy.---At length the first surprise being over, this mute language was succeeded by all the fond endearing things that nature, wit, and love had the power of inspiring. The beautiful Queen had now time to return the caresses of the young Prince her brother, who, though she knew no otherwise than by her father’s account, his youth and beauty had very much affected her from the first time she saw him.---After having a little indulged their transports, “It is time,” said she, “to inform you of my adventures. The Sultan is taken up with making preparations for a war he is obliged to enter into, so that we may have the liberty of conversing, without the apprehension of being interrupted.”----Then having seated themselves, and Sayda being placed on the outside of the cabinet, to give them notice if any suspicious person should appear, the charming Sultaness addressing herself to the Count, began her discourse in this manner:

“I will not repeat,” said she, “the cause of your designing my death, you are but too sensible of it, and the loss of my reason is too well known to you for me to go about to renew the affliction it occasioned you: I shall only say, that it was excess of love which caused my distraction, and being prepossessed with an idea of being no longer worthy of my husband’s affection, imagining that I saw him reproaching me with my misfortune, and endeavouring to get rid of me; I was so abandoned by my senses, as to wish his death, as the only thing that could restore me to my repose. This thought so wholly engrossed my soul, that I looked on the sentence you inflicted on me, as caused by him; my frenzy prevented the horror of my fate from making any impression on me; and you may remember, Sir, that I neither endeavoured by intreaties or strugglings to avert it, being rather in a state of insensibility than any thing else. Which course my little vessel steered, or how long I continued in it, I know not---all I can tell, is, that I found myself in a real ship, in the midst of a great many unknown persons, busily employed in bringing me to myself; but what is most surprising, I recovered my sight, memory and reason, at the same instant; whether it was owing to the common effect which the fear of death has, or to the property of the sea, or, to judge better, the work of heaven: but all I had said, or done, or thought, came into my mind, and I found myself so guilty against you and my husband, that the first sign of life that my deliverers perceived in me, was by shedding an excessive shower of tears; which was the more violent, because I had never wept since that fatal adventure in the forest: and indeed I thought, as did all about me, that they would have suffocated me; but so much care was taken of me, that without putting an end to my affliction, my life was out of danger.

(_To be continued._)

* * * * *

ANECDOTES OF DR. GOLDSMITH.

As Goldsmith wrote for the book-sellers, he was looked on by many of them as a literary drudge equal to the task of compiling and translating, but little capable of original, and still less of poetical composition: he nevertheless wrote one of the finest poems of the lyric kind that our language has to boast of; the ballad, “Turn gentle Hermit of the Dale;” and surprised his friends with “The Traveller,” a poem that contains some particulars of his own history. Johnson was supposed to have assisted him; but he contributed to the perfection of it only four lines; his opinion of it was, that it was the best written poem since the time of Pope. The favourable reception which the essay of his poetical talent met with, soon after tempted Goldsmith to the publication of his “Deserted Village,” the merits whereof, consist in beautiful descriptions of rural manners; are sufficiently known.

His poems are replete with fine moral sentiments, and bespeak a great dignity of mind; yet he had no sense of the shame, nor dread of the evils of poverty.

He was buried in the Poet’s Corner, in Westminster Abbey, and the inscription on his monument was written by Johnson.

The Doctor used to say he could play on the German flute as well as most men; at other times, as well as any man living: but, in truth, he understood not the character in which music is written, and played on that instrument, as many of the vulgar do, merely by air. Roubiliac, the sculptor, a merry fellow, once heard him play; and minding to put a trick on him, pretended to be charmed with his performance; as, also, that himself was skilled in the art, and entreated him to repeat the air, that he might write it down. Goldsmith readily consenting, Roubiliac called for paper, and scored thereon a few five-lined staves, which having done, Goldsmith proceeded to play, and Roubiliac to write; but his writing was only such random notes on the lines and spaces, as any one might set down who had ever inspected a page of music. When they had both done, Roubiliac shewed the paper to Goldsmith, who looking it over with great seeming attention, said it was very correct, and that if he had not seen him do it, he never could have believed his friend capable of writing music after him.

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_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

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CONSCIENCE.

“Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it,
“The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder,
“That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d
“The name of prosper.”

TEMPEST.

The loss of fortune, dignity, glory, and all the pageantry of earthly grandeur, is comparatively trifling when put in competition to that of virtue: when the human mind first stoops to debasement, and wanders in the paths of impiety, its progress to misery, although gradual, is too fatally inevitable, the smallest crimes by becoming habitual increase in time to the crimson tints of attrocity; then O conscience! thou most incessant and excruciating torturer, thou never failing monitor, ’tis then thine admonitions wound with remorse the breast of conscious vice; thou establishest thine awful tribunal on the ruins of neglected virtue, there to inflict a punishment far more severe than aught invented by the ingenuity of man.

When lulled in apparent security, and revelling in the round of transitory pleasure, thine awful presence intrudes itself upon the harrassed imagination, and bids the lofty sinner reflect on the acts of injustice of which he has been guilty. The veil of oblivion, which with all the precaution of vice, he has endeavoured to cast over his crimes, thou canst in one unguarded moment cause himself to remove; his deeds of darkness, so cautiously enveloped with the specious garb of dissimulation and hypocrisy, are frequently by thee laid open to the scrutinizing eye of justice. His most secret recesses thou canst penetrate, his every joy embitter, and render him who was once hardened in iniquity, susceptible to the slightest emotions of fear. The man who once was callous to the tender plaints of misery and injured innocence, will, when under thy powerful influence, start at a shadow, tremble at an “unreal mockery,” and imagine the most trivial sound a solemn summons of retribution.--Such, O conscience! is the form in which thou visitest the child of iniquity; such the shape in which thou approachest the votary of vice; how happy then the man, who void of guile, dreads not thy reproaches: who, supported by the consciousness of unspotted innocence, enjoys uninterrupted serenity and peace of mind; whose slumbers are undisturbed by the phantoms of a disordered imagination, and who looks forward with the ardour of hope and expectation to the time when the virtues and vices of mankind shall receive their just reward.

ALEXIS.

NEW-YORK _Aug. 22, 1796_.

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EXTRAORDINARY EFFECT OF JEALOUSY.

Justina was esteemed the finest woman in Rome, but had the misfortune to marry a jealous headed husband, who had no other cause of suspicion, but that she was very beautiful. His disease increasing, for want of prudence he grew desperate, and seeing her stoop at a certain time to pull off her shoe, showed her wonderful white neck, and a fit of jealousy seizing him, he drew his sword and at one blow cut off her head from her body.

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+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

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CHARACTER OF A RICH MAN.

Gito has a florid complexion, full-blown cheeks, a fixed bold eye, is high-chested, and his gait is steady and deliberate; he speaks with confidence, and pays but little regard to what others say; he spits at a great distance from him, and sneezes very loud; at table and when walking, he takes up more room than another man; when taking a walk with his equals, he places himself in the center of them, he interrupts and corrects those who are speaking, but he himself will not be interrupted, and all listen to him so long as he thinks proper to talk; when seating himself, he sinks into a large easy chair, and then knits his brows, afterwards pulls his hat over his eyes, that he may not see any one, then pushes back again his hat, in order to discover his haughty and audacious front. He is sometimes jocose, laughs aloud, is impatient, presumptuous, choleric, loose; he is of a political turn, and mysterious with regard to the present times; he fancies himself possessed of talents and genius----he is rich . . .

NEW-YORK _Aug. 26, 1796_.

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THE COURT OF LOVE.

This was a society formed by those high-priests of gallantry, the early poets, or Troubadours of Provence. It was shortly imitated by similar establishments in Gascony, Languedoc, Poictou, and Dauphiny. Picardy, the constant rival of Provence, had also its Plaids et Gieux sous l’Ormel, an institution differing from the former only in name.

These establishments consisted of knights and ladies of the highest rank, exercised and approved in courtesy, who assumed an absolute judicial power in matters of the most delicate nature; trying, with the most consummate ceremony, all cases in love brought before their tribunals. Nor did their decrees receive effect from the voluntary submission only of their members; the general courtesy of the times stamped them with unquestionable authority, nor did the legislature itself disdain to sanction their decisions.

Of this a remarkable instance is recorded, which took place in France in the year 1206; when application was made to the queen to reverse a sentence deemed unjust by the party, and which had been pronounced in the love pleas of one of these courts, in which the Countess of Champagne presided. It was deemed, however, that decrees of this nature admitted of no appeal; and her majesty declared, that she did not choose to interpose in a matter of such consequence, nor to scrutinize the decrees of a court whose power was absolute, and whose decisions were final; adding, “God forbid that I should presume to contradict the sentence of the Countess of Champagne.”--So far may the manners, and even prejudices, of an age, sometimes have a tendency to correct the haughtiness even of despotic power!

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THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION.
_OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A._
Unfolding Many Curious Unknown Historical Facts.

_Translated from the German of Tschink._

(Continued from page 62.)

“Who has authorised you to try me?”

“Who has authorised me to save you from the waves?”

“Why this question instead of an answer?”

“To tell you that every body is authorised to be useful to another person, without his knowledge and permission.”

“I hope you will not make me believe that you have deceived me in order to promote my happiness!”

“If delusions are leading to truth, then they are undoubtedly means of promoting happiness.”

“Indeed! According to my notions, _real_ happiness never can be founded upon delusion, as truth can never originate from error. Delusions and errors are obstacles on the road to happiness and truth, but never will be the means of promoting them.”

“Then you must blame nature for acting after a plan entirely opposite to your notions. Has she not made imagination, that mother of illusion, the source of unspeakable pleasures. It is imagination alone that can afford what reality never can give---never satiated enjoyment. Imagination preserves, renews and improves every pleasure of the senses--What else but imagination is the source of the purest and most sublime raptures of love? Or do you perhaps think, that the perceptions which we receive through our senses are free of illusion, that we are never deceived by the organs which nature has given us? Your ideas would be just if we could know by means of our senses, the objects themselves and not merely their appearances; the essential substance, and not merely the superficies of things; however, as our senses never shew us the thing itself, but only its exterior appearance, the reality of sensible perceptions is always very suspicious. And since, from our sensible perceptions, even our plainest notions are abstracted, one must either doubt the certainly of logical arguments, or allow that illusions are the path leading to truth. Common experience teaches us, that one improves in knowledge by committing errors. It is as incontrovertible that error precedes truth, as it cannot be denied that darkness precedes light. If therefore nature herself leads a man to truth and happiness by way of delusions and errors, then you cannot blame me for having endeavoured to lead you to that mark by the same road.”

“But to what sort of happiness and truth? for no real happiness, and no pure truth can exist if all our perceptions and notions are founded on illusions.”

“You are mistaken, my Lord, they really exist; however they differ widely from what men generally believe to be truth and happiness.”

“Then you are going to make me acquainted with a new kind of happiness and truth, and to lead me to uncommon light by the common road of illusion?”

“Man must be treated in a human manner, and improve by degrees. A sudden transition from twilight to the radiant glare of the noon-tide sun, from the land of sweet fancies to pure paradisiacal bliss, would transport the son of dust beyond himself. For that reason, it was requisite you should experience all the intermediate degrees of illusion, but not of an ordinary one, in order to obtain possession of an extraordinary treasure. That spot, where you will find the talisman which breaks the magic charm whereby the treasure is withheld from you as yet, is the highest pinnacle of illusion, and for that very reason the last degree of it. He who has happily arrived at it, emerges from the mazy labyrinth of enchantments, beholds a new heaven and a new earth, and, as if new created, strides over into the kingdom of unadulterated truth and bliss; where he enters the sacred porch of that eternal temple from which only the grave separates him.”

“I do not entirely comprehend your emblematical language; will you explain yourself more at large?” So saying, I offered him a chair; we sat down, and he began:

“The history of all ages and nations convinces us that all men strive to be happy: but only the better and nobler part of mankind are in pursuit of truth; not as if the latter sort did not also contend for happiness, but because they find it in the contemplation of truth, and do not believe that happiness can exist, without being founded on the base of truth. The former class pursue happiness on different and opposite roads, and when they fancy they have found it, embrace an airy phantom; the latter class also go in pursuit of truth on different and opposite roads, and when they fancy they have discovered it, are enraptured at an _ignis fatuus_. Some of them perceive at last that they are deceived by illusions, and others do not. The former continue their pursuit by the road which they have once fallen in with, and finding nothing but new phantoms and new illusions, spread at length the rumour, that no real happiness and truth could be met with here below. But suppose a man of an extraordinary genius, who had been firmly convinced that this treasure can be found here below, should have attempted to go in search of it through uncommon and never trodden paths, and at length, after enormous deviations, which on the unbeaten paths he pursued could not be avoided, should have found truth and happiness in their natural purity and sisterly union, and entrusted the secret to his friends under the condition to communicate it only to a few, and not even to them till they should have been tried by uncommon delusions of different kinds, like himself; would you then forgive me, my Lord, if I had deceived you with that view?”

“Then I should not owe you forgiveness, but gratitude. But as the time of probation (according to your own declaration) is past, will you not be so good as to let me see only a few rays of that light, the full splendor of which I am going to behold.”

“I have orders not to disclose the secret to you before the liberation of your country should be accomplished.”

“Then my probationary time is not yet finished?”

“The time of delusion is past, and you are now to begin the epocha of acting for which the former was designed to prepare you. Strain every nerve to deliver your country, and the last trial will be finished.”

“How can I save my country?”

“At M***d you shall be informed of it.”

“I am going to depart for that town to-morrow morning.”

“At ****, twelve miles from hence, you may stop for a short time--but mark well, only for a short time. You will meet Amelia there”--

“Amelia?”

“And will find her differently disposed from what she would have been without my interference.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The Countess has vowed to be faithful unto death to the man of her heart. She has frequently renewed this rigorous vow at the tomb which she has devoted to his memory, and thus promised to the dear departed object of her love a sacrifice, which has driven to despair all those whom her uncommon charms have enchanted. You would have shared the same fate, my Lord, if my power had not dissolved the dreadful covenant which Amelia has made with the departed spirit of her Lord.”

I started up like a maniac--“_That_ you have done? _You_ have done that?”

The Irishman rose coolly from his seat: “Moderate your joy,” said he, “for you don’t know whether I have not deceived the Countess!”

“O forget what I have said in the heat of passion. Beings like you are above slander. Forgive what I have said!”

“When you come to **** stop at the inn of St. James’s, and then you shall be convinced by my actions that I have forgiven you.” So saying, he shook hands with me and left my apartment.

“Who is that incomprehensible man?” said I to myself, “Have I not been his mortal enemy half an hour ago, and now am again become his friend and admirer, am again enchained with fetters of which I fancied I had rid myself entirely? Is my weakness the source of this unaccountable change, or is he in possession of a magic charm by which he rules with secret power every heart?” O thou who once shall read this history, whoever thou art, do not look scornfully upon my relapse. Thou hast not seen the countenance of that man, hast not heard him speak: I have been less enthralled by what he said, than by the manner in which he spoke. The magic power which his looks, his mien, his accent, and every gesture gave to his words, rendered credible even what was improbable, and raised the latter to certainty. While he was speaking I little thought to interrupt him, dwelling with secret pleasure upon the contemplation of the seducing pictures which he placed before me, and only when in cooler blood, I began to anatomize and to scan the train of his arguments. I discovered defects, gaps, and improbabilities which shook the very base of my belief, and overclouded the charming prospects which he displayed before my enraptured eyes. How ever, there was one idea on which I dwelled with joyful confidence. ‘It will be accomplished,’ I exclaimed, ‘although every other promise of the Irishman should prove airy phantoms. I shall see Amelia, and be happy!’

But this hope too began to dwindle away, after I had waited the next day at the inn to which I had been directed by the Irishman, from eight o’clock in the morning till seven o’clock at night without having received tidings from Amelia. I was just going to take up my guitar in order to give vent to my melancholy sensations, when my servant came to tell me that a girl wanted to speak to me. I ordered him to shew her to my apartment. After many courtisies and circumlocutions, the unknown fair one begged me at length to have the kindness to honour her lady with a wish. Asking her who her lady was, she replied that she durst not tell me her name, but would shew me the way to the castle. “Then _your lady_ has sent you to me?” “God forbid,” she replied, “my lady knows not a syllable of my errand; and your Lordship must tell the servant to announce you by the name of the Marchese Albertini.” “Who was it then that gave you that order?” “An officer in a blue uniform,” she replied, “who has paid a visit to my lady some time ago. He told me where I should find your Lordship; but, for heaven’s sake do not tell my lady of it; for he has given me a louis d’or to conceal that circumstance from her!” Now I knew what to think of the matter. I could have kissed the little garrulous messenger. “There, take this;” said I, emptying my purse in her apron, “shew me instantly to the house of your lady!” The girl was enraptured with joy, hurried down stairs, and I followed her with impatient steps.

(_To be continued._)

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OBSERVATIONS ON THE BOILING POINT OF WATER.

Water when exposed to a sufficient degree of heat, is gradually heated till it arrives at the 212th degree of Fahrenheit’s thermometer, after which it resolves itself into vapour, and becomes incapable of growing hotter; supposing, however, that the gravity of the atmosphere remaining the same; for upon high mountains it will boil, or assume the form of vapour in a lower degree of heat; hence in a mean heat of the barometer, the heat of boiling water has been always considered as a fixed and invariable point, namely, equal to the 212th degree of the thermometer; but Mr. Achard, willing to examine the truth of this position, or, in other words, willing to observe whether the heat of boiling water was subject to be altered by any other circumstance, besides the variable pressure of the atmosphere, made many experiments, the summary of which is, that the aperture of the vessel in which the water is boiled, occasions a variation, amounting to nearly one degree; the heat being greater when the aperture is narrower; and the substance of the vessel is also the cause of considerable variation; for if the vessel be made of glass, porcelain or other substance, which is a bad conductor of heat, the boiling point of water will be a constant degree, but if the vessel be of metal, all other circumstances being alike, then the heat of boiling water will be fluctuating.