The New-York Weekly Magazine;

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.

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.

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 . . .

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!

THE VICTIM OF MAGICAL DELUSION.
OR, INTERESTING MEMOIRS OF MIGUEL, DUKE DE CA*I*A.

“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.”

“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.”

“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”—

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

“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.”

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.

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.

TO TYRUNCULUS.

Your elevated and most distinguished reflections on the grand topic of segar smoaking, affords a charming field for speculation. It appears in the eye of reason to be truly self-partial, and the allusion to bucks alone, leaves an undescribable scope for contemplation, such as must here lay dormant for want of a palatable penetration to its merits or demerits.—---If, friend Tyrunculus, segar smoaking is found such a disagreeable and obnoxious weapon in your presence, does that sanction your divulging its bad effects to exist on the rest of mankind? Has experience, the grand teacher of science, actuated you to a confirmation of its being a poisonous twist? Or is its source derived from your physical knowledge and sound reasoning? If the former, it must be admitted, that your title is good for a public demonstration, if the latter, it must be concluded that you are a professed physician and a man of eminent learning, in which case your annunciation in respect to its bad or good effects might have had some weight, and at the same time would have been considered an act of great charity. There are people, who by nature cannot withstand the powerful effect of smoak, and there are others who, by reason of their faculties being much impaired, are not able to bear it, which of these ought to be attributed to you, is best known to yourself—I say, it is an amusement not altogether so fashionable as beneficial, because it tends to support the constitution, and is a bar against receiving the ill consequences arising from those disagreeable stenches, which reign almost in every part of the city, and therefore, is of immense utility to smoakers at large. “This, the learned doctors and physicians will prove.”---To divert myself any longer on this very interesting subject would only be expending time, too precious for me at present to let glide away, as such I have only to add, that in order to avoid being again incommoded and insulted by segar smoak, it will not be amiss if you take a piece of good council from your friend the subscriber, that is, to refrain from imposing on any society either public or private, as, probably, the consequence may be attended with a piercing stroke of this woeful dagger.

ACCOUNT OF A NEGRO-WOMAN WHO BECAME WHITE.

This woman was cook-maid to colonel Barnes of Maryland; she was born in Virginia, and is about forty years old, remarkably healthy and robust, and originally as black as the blackest African. About fifteen years ago, the skin next adjoining to the nails of the fingers became white, her mouth soon after suffered the same alteration, which gradually extended over the whole body, though not quite in an equal degree; four parts in five of her skin are as white, smooth, and transparent, as in a fair European; the neck and back along the vertebræ, are least changed; her face and neck, in which the change is complete, discover the veins under the skin; and are suffused with blushes, when any accident excites the passions, either of anger or shame.

MARRIED,

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Moore, Mr. Cornelius Kingsland, to Miss Abigail Cock, both of this city.

On Thursday evening the 11th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Totten, Mr. John Fountain, of Maryland, (travelling minister of the Methodist order) to Miss Elizabeth Rickhow, of Staten-Island.

On Saturday evening the 20th inst. by the Rev. Mr. Foster, Mr. Silas B. Hand, Printer, to Miss Rhoda Cook, both of this city.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. William Peacock, jun. of the state of Georgia, to Miss Mary Moore, of this city.

MORNING DAWN.

Days of the Month.	Thermometer observed at 8, A.M. 1, P.M. 6, P.M.	Prevailing winds.	OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
	deg.	100	deg.	100	deg.	100	8.	1.	6.	8.	1.	6.
Aug 21	74		80		78		se.	do.	do.	cloudy,	lt. wind,	clear
22	76		82		78		se.	do.	do.	cloudy,	lt. wind,	clear,
23	71		82		76		se.	do.	do.	cloudy,	lt. wind,	clear.
24	73		80	75	80		se.	do.	do.	clear, lt. wind, do. do.
25	70	50	79		78	50	se.	do.	do.	cloudy,	lt. wind	rain
26	73		77	25	75		n.	e.	do.	cloudy, lt. wd do. do.
27	70		76	75	75		e.	s.	do.	cloudy,	lt. wd.	do.

Along the turfy heath cool blows the gale,

And dewy odours scent the morning air;

No sound I hear, save from the willow’d vale

The tinkle of a brook, that murmurs there.

In lonely silence wrapt, yon little mill

Looks pensive as the moulder’d pile below;

Shades hide the forest, and the misty hill

Still keeps retiring Night upon its brow.

O’er the chill earth all comfortless, I tread;

The Eye of Nature beams in other skies:

I’ll seek yon bending mountain’s lofty head,

And peep upon his beauties ere he rise.

Forbear!—expiring stars proclaim him nigh,

Faintly they wink, and lose their silver light;

The streaky orient wears a deepen’d dye,

Green looks the upland, and the river bright.

O’er the brown wood he sheds a trembling ray,

And with his tresses wipes the tearful thorn;

Shrill soars the lark to greet the early day,

And herald to the world return of Morn.

LINES ON REVISITING A NATIVE PLACE.

Light blows the wavy breeze, and o’er the plain

Pale twilight steals, in sober livery drest;

All nature sinks beneath the pleasing reign

Of silence---and in balmy slumbers rest.

Save where, with plaintive note, the bird of woe

Proclaims approaching fate, while, trembling, near,

Some mournful native wand’ring pensive, slow,

Starts at the voice he oft’ was taught to fear.*

Amid these wilds pale superstition reigns,

Her influence e’en the hardy Indian owns;

And ceaseless still prepares for man new pains,

And, fiend-like, too, delights to hear his groans.

’Tis past——the last faint ray of light is gone,

And darkness now pervades the ambient air;

Here let me wander, pensive and alone,

And sighing, think on fleeting joys that were.

That were—alas! that are no longer mine,

Ah! days of happiness how swift ye flew;

When erst I saw the sun of pleasure mine,

And not a cloud its full effulgence knew.

How sad remembrance thrills my aching heart,

As o’er these scenes so lov’d I fondly stray;

Methinks each object bids me quick depart

And ev’ry sighing gale thus seems to say:

“Retire, fond maid, nor here forever mourn,

Forget thy woes, forget thy useless grief;

Can ceaseless weeping cause the dead’s return,

Or sighs eternal give the heart relief.”

I go, adieu! ye much lov’d shades, adieu!

From your wild beauties far tho’ doom’d to stray,

Still faithful memory shall your charms renew,

And with the semblance cheer my lonely way.

CLARA.

Pearl-Street, August 23, 1796.

* There is a tradition among the Indians, that the cries of the whip-poor-will are ominous of coming evil.

THE HAPPY MAN.

Blest with the joys impassion’d fathers know,

And all that heaven could in a wife bestow:

A wife endear’d to that congenial breast.

In three sweet prattlers most supremely blest.

Blest with enjoyments that on wealth attend,

And blest by heaven with many a social friend;

In calm delight, whose ever-smiling rays,

Spreads a sweet sun-shine o’er thy happy days.

And blest to know, that high enroll’d in fame,

Ages shall love and venerate the name.

To every friend thy memory dear shall be,

And sweet the song be, when they sing of thee——

Oh! read this verse, where blessings all combine,

And view thyself in each descriptive line.

ELIZA IN ANSWER TO * * * *.

And durst thou, then, insulting youth, demand

A second spoil from love’s impov’rish’d store?

Shall strains like thine a second kiss command,

Thankless for one, because I gave no more?

One lamp eradiates all yon azure heav’n,

One polar star directs the pilot’s way;

Yet what bold wretch complains no more are giv’n,

Or doubts the blessing of each friendly ray?

One tim’rous kiss, which multitudes might bode,

At once thy sun and guiding star had prov’d,

If, while thy lips beneath its pressure glow’d,

And thy tongue flatter’d—thou has truly lov’d.

The flame which burns upon the virgin’s cheek,

The rising sigh, half utter’d, half supprest,

To him who fondly loves, will more than speak

What wav’ring thoughts divide th’ impassion’d breast.

Such soft confusion could the Moor disarm,

And his rough heart, like Desdemona’s, move;

But soon her easy weakness broke the charm,

And, ere her life she lost, she lost her love.

No—if I hate thee, wherefore should I press

A treach’rous contract with love’s fav’rite seal?

And, if I wish thy future hours to bless,

Ah! why, too soon, that anxious care reveal?

A ready conquest oft’ the victor scorns;

His laurels fade whose foe ere battle yields;

No shouts attend the warrior who returns

To claim the palm of uncontested fields.

But banish lawless wishes from thy soul,

While yet my hate or love is undeclar’d;

Perhaps, ere many years in circles roll,

Thoul’t think Eliza but a poor reward.

For, oh! my kisses ne’er shall teem with art,

My faithful bosom form but one design—

To study well the wife’s, the mother’s art,

And learn to keep thee, ere I make thee mine.

EPITAPH.

Stop, stranger stop, let one sad tear bedew

That sorrowing face, while this cold stone you view:

Here death in icy arms confines that fair,

Who once was lovely as the angels are;

But think not strange————ever to behold

Transcendent worth on sculptur’d marble told;

Ah no!—suffice it, if one mournful tear

Shall mix with mine in tender sorrow here.

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.

AN EVENING MEDITATION.

Now all is hushed, and nature seems to make a pause; the sun has withdrawn his radiance, yet the gloom from yonder western sky bespeaks him still at hand, promising to return with his reviving warmth, when nature is refreshed with darkness.

The moon borrows her light, and bestows it upon us; she arises in silent majesty, humbly waiting to reign when he resigns his throne. No chorus ushers in his reign, no rays pronounce her approach; gently she steals on the world, and sits in silent majesty to view the good she does. She lights the wandering traveller, she warms the earth with gentle heat, she dazzles not the eye of the philosopher, but invites him to view and to admire.---How still is nature! not a breeze! each tree enjoys its shadow undisturbed, the unruffled rivers glide smoothly on reflecting nature’s face; here thro’ this road, by the side of this fair stream, let me steal gently, step by step, wrapped up in future thoughts.—A time will come when earth, and seas, and sun, and stars will be no more——what then will be my thoughts——Think, oh then now!—Think—that time is nothing to eternity, think,——all nature, sun, and earth, and man, and angels are nothing—to thy God.—Think, that thou art to thyself thy all; thyself once lost, nothing can give thee joy or pain from without, but all will be concentered in thy own misery: if happiness be thy lot, then wilt thou be capable of enjoying also the happiness of others, thus redoubling thy own.

Oh! my soul, behold yon spangled sky---count the number of the stars——No---thy counting fails, then think on that eternity which awaits thee in another world; think too now, how great is the goodness of God, to grace our little world with beauties to attract the eye and captivate the mind. Beauties by day to cheer, to enliven, to call forth thy active powers, to bustle with the busy, beauties and blessings inviting thee to see, to taste, to smell, to hear.---Beauties too, Oh see, by night, beauties transcendant and glorious; such as draw up the eye to yon vast concave, where the mind’s eye follows in silent wonder, quickly passing from star to star, till struck with the beauty of the whole, it feels “the hand that made it is divine.”

Passion, at this silent hour and awful scene, shrinks away unperceived, and every light idea flies off. The mind takes the reins, and the body seems for a while to partake of that spiritual nature it will have hereafter. Listen then, while reason is uninterrupted, to the silent councils of nature;---every shadow whispers, such are you! A breeze may blow you away---to-morrow you may be no more; tread then,---as now---with caution through the slippery paths of life; beware of the briars and thorns that lie athwart your way; mistake not shadow for substance. Brush away, as the dew on the ground, at every step, the little affairs that momentary rise to check your progress towards heaven.

This river too has its lesson to give, she is like the cool hour of reflection, when conscience gives back the actions of our life in legible characters. Oh may they be as smooth! See, says she, how fair is my face! how transparent I am! You see my depth; even the ground whence I spring is open to your view. Let your conscience be ever as smooth, as clear, as open; let your breast need no disguise, so will no troubled waters impede your heavenly voyage.

Now again behold the stars, they have a language; and with a powerful tongue, they call on me to adore the Great King of Heaven and Earth, whose name they write in golden characters legible to all mankind. They proclaim him, Creator of all Worlds, and the Friend of Man.

Let me, then, often read their book and listen to their tale.---Let me, like them, proclaim my maker’s praise, by shining in the orb in which his hand has placed me; nor ever leap the bound, nor strive to rise above, nor dare to sink beneath the sphere wherein I am. So when the sun, and stars, and earth shall be no more; my Creator shall raise me to another world, “to shine like the stars for evermore.”

Earliest source found, with same “gloom” for “gleam” error: The lady’s magazine: entertaining companion, for the fair sex, appropriated solely to their use and amusement (London, Vol. X, September 1779, pg 482), signed “An Old Correspondent”.

Notes: “The bold luminary of day has now withdrawn his radiance, yet the sinking crimson of yonder western sky...” This line was used in The Seasons of Life; With an Introduction on the Creation and Primeval State of Man, by Mary Ashdowne 1839

The phrase “the hand that made it is divine” is from Joseph Addison, “the hand that made us...”

HAPPINESS.

The road to happiness is seldom strewed with flowers, nor perhaps ought it to be so; as we should, in that case, be inclined to take our passage for our port, and while we enjoyed the manna, we might neglect the promised land.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

“The people of the ship had placed about me a young woman extremely amiable;—the tenderness she expressed for the griefs she saw I was involved in, made me conceive a very great friendship for her; and, indeed, as she was the only woman there, it was natural for us to be more than ordinarily pleased with each other. When she found me a little composed, she informed me that we were with Flemish merchants, who were trading to the Levant; that having perceived from deck my extraordinary tomb, the hope of finding something valuable in it, had made them take it aboard; but having opened it, they were surprised to see a woman richly habited: that at first they thought me dead, because I was very much swelled, but having placed me in the open air, a little motion of my heart gave them hope of recovering me; that accordingly, with great difficulty, they effected it; and finding, as they thought, some beauty in me, they resolved, at the expence of my liberty, to make themselves amends for having found nothing but me in the tun. ‘’Tis with this design,’ added she, ‘that we are sailing towards Almeria, where these merchants design to sell you to the Sultan of that place: it is now six months since they took me away from the coast of France, which is my native country, on the same account; but I very well foresee that your beauty will preserve me from being exposed to the Sultan’s desires: yet, as I cannot avoid slavery, I beg, madam, that you will not let me be separated from you. The Sultan will without doubt buy you; contrive it so, that he may think I am a dependant of yours.’ I was very glad to have a French woman with me, so promised her, that whatever was my fate, she should, if she pleased, share it with me; but what she had told me, giving me great uneasiness, I desired to speak with the captain of the ship. I began with thanking him for the succour he had given me, and thinking to have gained him with the hope of a reward, I assured him it should be made even beyond his wishes, if he would land me on the coast of France. He answered me that he doubted not my generosity, nor my being considerable enough to recompense the service he had done me; but that he could not follow his own inclination in doing what I desired him, because he was accountable to his companions, who had resolved to sell me and the other young French woman to the Sultan of Almeria: that they knew would be certain gain to them, without running the risque of what my promises might produce. With these words he returned to his companions, and gave me not leave no answer him; I made several other efforts, but finding it impossible to persuade them to alter their resolutions, I was obliged to submit to my ill destiny. In proportion, as I recovered my reason, my affection to my dear Thibault resumed its empire over my soul.—I was sensible of the whole extent of my misfortunes, and my despair would perhaps have kept no bounds, if it had not been for the prudence and good-nature of my young companion. Yet for all her cares, I fell into such a melancholy, as frighted the merchant, lest I should lose the lustre of my beauty, of which he proposed to himself so great an advantage.

“At length they arrived at Almeria, and we were immediately led to the Sultan. As he was accustomed to traffic with those people, he received them perfectly well, and was so well pleased with their prize, that he gave them their demand both for myself and Sayda. We were placed in the palace of the Sultan’s women, where he soon followed us; and I had the misfortune of affecting him in so extraordinary a manner, that he seemed to make his loving me an affair of state.—I call that a misfortune, which any one but me would have looked on as the highest felicity: for I owe the Sultan the justice to say, that he is full of merit, and adorned with the most heroic virtues; but I was a christian, and prepossessed with a passion, which left no room for any other; I therefore considered his assiduity as my worst of troubles. This prince perceiving my regard for Sayda, gave her to me; (Sayda is a name I made her assume to conceal her own.) He placed me, in an apartment different from those the rest of the women were lodged in, and commanded that I should be served as queen. All these honours added to my uneasiness; yet the submission with which he treated me, gave me sometimes a hope he never would have recourse to force that which I was resolved never to grant; but alas! this prince at last, worn out with his own consuming passion and the continual murmurs of his subjects, who could ill endure he should express so much consideration for a christian, resolved to speak to me in stronger terms than he had hitherto done. My resistance had lasted a whole year, and he thought he had sufficiently testified his respect, in allowing me so long a time: he came to me therefore one day, and finding me extremely melancholy, ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘it is with great regret I find myself obliged to exceed the bounds I have prescribed myself in gaining your heart, but you must now consent either to marry me or publicly abjure your religion; all my power cannot exempt you from the laws which oblige the women of the seraglio to embrace our faith.---I adore you, and though I ought to compel you to a change so beneficial to you, yet I will not, since it is not your desire.—I promise you the free exercise of your religion in private, provided you accept of the crown I offer you;---my subjects, and all my court, will then believe you have changed your religion, without seeking any further proofs, and you will be at liberty to observe your own in secret:---this is the only means to preserve you from the fury of a people, who, when enraged, have no regard even for their sovereign. It would have been more agreeable to me, if my love and attentions had engaged you; but I hope time will inspire your heart with those sentiments, that will be conducive to my felicity, and your repose.’ I could not refrain from tears at this discourse of the Sultan:---the choice appeared terrible to me; ‘Is it possible, my lord!’ replied I, ‘that among the number of beauties who would be proud of the honour you offer me, you cannot find one more worthy than myself? If you had not distinguished me, your subjects would have thought nothing of me.---Consider, my lord, what glory you might gain by subduing your passion, and suffering me to return to my native country.---What felicity can it be, to live with a woman obtained but by fear and force, who will always be regretting her parents and liberty.’

“The Sultan smiled at these words; ‘I see, madam,’ said he, ‘that you are ignorant of your own condition---you are in this place for life---when once a woman has entered within these walls, there is no hope of ever getting out again, law and custom have decreed it so. Therefore you are more obliged to me than you imagined, for the respect I have paid you, being from the first moment the master of your destiny.’ I then intreated he would give me three days to answer him; he granted my request, and I spent them in prayers: but at length seeing myself without any hope of relief, or ever returning to my country, that my death there was thought certain, and that I had no means of letting you know I was living, or if I had, could not promise myself, that, since you had consented to my death, the news would find a welcome: I looked on myself as utterly abandoned; and the facility of following in private my own devotions, determined me, in submitting to the Sultan’s persuasions. The three days being expired, he came to me again, and I then told him, that if he would swear never to force me to alter my religion, I was ready to give him my hand. His joy at my consent was inconceiveable; and though he saw plainly that what I did was out of necessity, he assured me he thought himself the happiest man on earth, and bound himself by an oath sacred in their law, to suffer me to exercise my own religion, provided I took care not to be discovered.

CONTEMPLATION.

To contemplate the Creator of heaven and earth in the magnificence of his works, enlarges and elevates the soul---lifts it above the impertinence of vulgar cares, and gives it a kind of heavenly pre-existence. To consider the benevolent purposes for which he called forth this variety and multitude of being, that comes under our cognizance, must be a perpetual source of comfort. A rational creature, that is conscious of deriving its existence from a being of infinite goodness and power, cannot properly entertain any prospect but of happiness. By the imperfection of its nature it may fall into temporary evils, but these cannot justly be the subject of complaint, when we reflect that this very imperfection was necessary to a probatory life, and that without it, there could neither have been virtue, nor the rewards of virtue. Every degree of excellence depends upon comparison. Were there no deformity in the world, we should have no distinct ideas of beauty: Were there no possibility of vice, there would be no such thing as virtue; and were the life of a man exempt from misery, happiness would be a term of which he could not know the meaning.

CONSCIENCE.