The New-York Weekly Magazine;

Seneca has observed, and justly, that a great man struggling with adversity, and bearing its attacks with fortitude, is a sight worthy of the gods. But a sight, as interesting, if not more so, is that of a virtuous mind, oppressed by calumny, with the ability to elude its shafts, yet cheerfully opposing itself to their force, for some secret but worthy purpose.

Fouquet, intendant of the finances to Lewis the Fourteenth, after living in the greatest splendor, enjoying the unlimited favour and confidence of his master, and seeing his levees crowded by the first nobles in the land, fell into disgrace, and was sent to the Bastile. He experienced the common fate of all favourites in disgrace; forsaken by his friends, and persecuted by his foes, the courtiers in general viewed his ruin with pleasure, and charitably resolved to complete his destruction. The envious and the disappointed had found means to prejudice his sovereign against him, and his displeasure was the signal of hatred and persecution to the fawning crew that surrounded his throne. Adulation is coeval with monarchy; and no king probably ever deserved implicit obedience from his subjects more than Lewis the Fourteenth*, on whom nature had conferred every quality that could excite awe, or command respect; the majesty of his person seemed one of his first claims to sovereignty. It has been remarked, that but very few of those who were so unfortunate to incur the displeasure of this prince, could survive the loss of his favour†. Fouquet is one of the few. He was well aware, however, of the extreme danger to which he was exposed; and among an infinity of motives for serious apprehension, the intendant regarded the examination of his papers as one of the most certain causes of his ruin. This consideration greatly encreased the anxiety occasioned by his confinement; if he could but have destroyed those unfortunate papers previous to his detention, he should not have so much dreaded the machinations of his enemies, however ingeniously formed, or inveterately pursued.

In the midst of these alarms for his situation, he received the dreadful news that Pélisson, his secretary, and his friend, had openly declared himself his accuser, and was soon to be confronted with him. Shocked at the intelligence, his courage forsook him, and he gave way to despair.

This action of Pélisson’s soon made a noise in the world, and excited the most lively sensations of resentment in the minds of the public, who so seldom interest themselves in the fate of the unfortunate. Every body exclaimed that he was the most base and most criminal of mankind! Loaded with the benefactions of his master, honoured with his particular confidence,—his friend, in short—he stands forward in the infamous light of a public informer, and is about to stab him to the heart.

Pélisson, could not be ignorant of these reports to his prejudice, which encreased every day; at length they attained to such a height, that some worthy members of society took the resolution publicly to reproach him with the baseness of his conduct, wherever they met him. The secretary, though now an object of contempt, preserved his tranquility, and appeared wholly indifferent to every thing that was said to him. The few friends who still remained true to the interests of the unfortunate minister, went to Pélisson’s house, and by alternate threats, entreaties, and supplications, endeavoured to deter him from his purpose, but in vain; he remained firm, and persisted in his resolution of speaking the truth, and of accusing Fouquet to his face. It must be observed that the prisoner, during this time, was invisible to every one but his judges, who were his greatest enemies, and many of whom, in violation of every principle of justice, had openly declared their intention of finding him guilty.

At length the day arrived on which Pélisson was to prefer his accusation, and incur the atrocious sin of ingratitude. The doors of the Bastile are opened to him: he is confronted with his master, who exclaims, “Ah Pélisson, is it you? Are you my enemy, too?—Alas! I mistook you for my friend!”—The secretary, far from being disconcerted at this exclamation, began to fulfil the task he had undertaken, with all the impudence of the most hardened calumniator; he taxed Fouquet with crimes which were totally destitute of foundation, and which he hastened to contradict, with the manly firmness of conscious innocence. “That is not true,” said he, interrupting Pélisson, “you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus gross, and not blush with shame?”—“Oh,” replied Pélisson, whose countenance betrayed the most violent indignation, “you would not dare to contradict me, with so much assurance, if you did not know that your papers were burnt.”

These last words flashed conviction on the mind of Fouquet, who immediately perceived the wonderful address of Pélisson, and the generosity of his soul. He perceived that his secretary, firm and unshaken in his friendship, had burned his papers, and had conceived the design—the only one that could be possibly adopted—of becoming the accuser, in order to gain admittance to his inaccessible prison, that he might make him acquainted with the important service he had rendered him. The intendant, ashamed of his unjust suspicions, and anxious to make amends for them, cast a look on Pélisson, which gave him to understand that he had perfectly understood him, and was penetrated with the most lively sensations of gratitude for his conduct.

The secretary, feeling the complete satisfaction at the success of his project, still continued to expose himself to the scorn and indignation of the public. Considered as the basest of mankind, he experienced every species of insult; while conscious integrity insured to him that serenity of soul, which was regarded as the hardened effrontery of a mind wholly callous to shame.

It was not till some time after that the truth came to be known. The scene then changed. Pélisson became the object of general admiration, and of enthusiastic esteem, that bordered on veneration; but he still preserved the same serenity of mind, and displayed the same indifference to merited praise, as he had before shewn to unmerited censure. Whenever his friends expatiated on his unshaken firmness, and extraordinary heroism, the worthy stoic replied—“That man must appear of little consequence in his own eyes, whose moral existence depends merely on the opinion of others! It is our place to fix a just value on ourselves before others attempt to appreciate us. I did but fulfil my duty in serving a man to whom I did not chuse to be an impotent or useless friend: the title of friend imposes on those who bear it essential obligations, which I have endeavoured to discharge; I have given more than my life: I have suffered myself to be polluted by the imputation of vice and dishonour; because it was the only means of serving the friend I loved. What made me amends for the mean opinion which the public entertained of me?—The good opinion I entertained of myself. That paid me amply for the effects of prejudice which was founded in injustice. Virtue is but mental fortitude; and I exerted the whole of mine, to be able to brave the opinion of all mankind. You now see, there are occasions which require a man to raise himself above that solemn judgment to which every human being must generally submit. You must permit me, however, to give you one piece of advice. Another time be less prompt to decide on the merits of a man who enjoys some reputation for probity; and be assured, that he can never be on a sudden converted into the vilest of rogues. The friend of Fouquet could not act in a manner so contrary to his natural disposition.”

Philosophy—adds the relator of this anecdote—will have attained to its highest degree of perfection, when it shall have enforced the conviction. That virtue is infinitely superior to talents. By virtue alone can the duties we owe to society, and to ourselves, be properly discharged.

GLEANINGS.

Man is not more superior to a brute, than one man is to another by the mere force of wisdom. Wisdom is the sole destroyer of equality, the fountain of honour, and the only mark by which one man, for ten minutes together, can be known from another.

Were men always skilful they would never use craft or treachery. That men are so cunning, arises from the littleness of their minds, which, if it can conceal itself in one place, quickly discovers itself in another.

Cunning men, like jugglers, are only versed in two or three little tricks, while wisdom excels in the whole circle of action.

The cunning man and the wise man differ not only in point of honesty, but ability. He that can pack the cards, does not always play well.

I have a right to hold my tongue, and to be silent at all times; but if I speak to another, I have no right to make him answer for me just as I please.

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

“I will not disappoint your hope; however, I must repeat once more that I can lead you to truth by no other road but that of reason purified from all sensual dregs. You will find it difficult to pursue that road, and it will be no easy task to me to guide you. I shall be obliged to avoid all emblematic language, in order to convey to your mind these supersensible notions in their natural purity, and it will be necessary that you should know how to apply the abstractest and purest notions, although they should contradict your present manner of perception.”

“First of all it will be necessary to agree in the notion of what is called spirit. The best method of fixing that notion will be to examine what the word spirit means according to the general rules of language. If one man says, man consists of body and spirit, by the former a corporeal, and by the latter an incorporeal being is understood. We have, therefore, a common point from which we can proceed in our investigation. Spirit is opposite to body. In this point we agree according to the most general meaning and use of the word.”

“Let us see what follows thence! Every body is a compounded, extended, impenetrable being, subject to the laws of motion, consequently, every spirit is a simple, unextended and penetrable being, not subject to the laws of motion.”

“Bodies are extended, that is they occupy a room, and the proportion which one body bears to the other in point of room, constitutes its place; spirits are not extended, and consequently exist in no room, and in no place.”

“Just as I have said.—But let me elucidate my argument. Why cannot two bodies exist at the same time, in the same space? Because they exclude each other on account of their extension and impenetrability. Two bodies must, of course, occupy two different places, if existing at the same time; that is, every individual body must occupy its own individual place. And why must every body occupy its own place?”

“Very well! But these two qualities cannot appertain to a spirit, and, consequently, a spirit can occupy no place.”

“This argument can also be stated thus: a spirit has, as a simple being, neither a right nor left, neither a front nor a back side, and consequently can have no relation from no side to any thing that occupies a space. The conclusion is very palpable.”

“Would you perhaps assign to spirits a place in the immaterial world? How could you imagine, without contradiction, that space or place can exist in such a world? If one spirit does not occupy a room, then all spirits together can occupy none, how could therefore any proportion exist among them with relation to space or place?”

“I comprehend and do not comprehend you. You want to convince me of the possibility of apparitions of spirits, and deny the existence of spirits; for if they do occupy no place either in the visible or invisible world, where else can they exist?”

“How sensitive and confused your ideas are! Don’t you perceive that your question is equal to this: in which place do spirits exist? and that, of course, you premise in your question what I have just clearly proved to be absurd. Do you not comprehend that room and place are nothing else but external qualities, only relations of material things? and do you believe that the existence of any being depends merely on external qualities and material relations?”

“I have; for I am well aware how difficult it is to abstract from material ideas; however, since they cannot be applicable to spirits we must renounce them, else we cannot pass over the bounds of the material world.”

“From our investigation we have learnt, as yet, nothing farther than what a spirit is not, and what attributes cannot be ascribed to it. We now must endeavour to state what real qualities constitute the nature of spirits. One of them we have already touched upon; I mean, independence of the laws of physical nature, or arbitrary choice. A second quality presses upon us, namely the faculty of perception, which our soul is endowed with like all other spirits. And now we are enabled to form a notion of spirits, which, however imperfect it be, yet is determined: a spirit is a simple being, endowed with arbitrary choice, and the faculty of perception. Don’t you think that this definition answers the common manner of speaking.”

“In the same manner in which the body evinces its existence, by the material effect it produces in the room, the spirit likewise proves its existence by the manifestation of its faculty of perception and of free will. However evident and generally received this proposition is, yet it is misapplied very frequently; for it is, according to my premises, absolutely false, and nothing else but a kind of optic illusion, if we imagine our soul to be inclosed in the human body, nay even in some particular place of it. This illusion may be opposed by another: there are diversions of thought, in which the thinking principle leaves our body so entirely, that only the animal powers are active in the latter, and on the return of our awakening self-consciousness, the soul seems to return from far distant regions. However, this too is mere illusion. We can say nothing farther of the union which subsists between our soul and body, than that our soul is sensible of the existence of a corporeal organ, the mutations of which harmonise exactly with her ideas and resolutions; however, as you never will suppose that your spirit is inclosed by the walls of Amelia’s distant habitation, where your whole soul, with all her sentiments and ideas, is, as it were, translated to; so your spirit can also not be supposed to be inclosed in your body, which seems to be its common residence. No, no, my Lord, that cannot be! the bonds of space can never fetter an immaterial being to a material one.”

“This is indeed the natural conclusion which flows from your premises; but by what bonds should then the communion between body and soul be preserved?”

“Your question refers to a fact, the answer to it, consequently, belongs to the practical part of this philosophy. Yet,” added the Irishman after some reflections, “I can give you a hint upon that head, which will throw some light upon it: Every substance, consequently the body too, must possess an internal activity, that is the invisible cause of its external actions, which are visible in the space. This internal principle of the body, acts upon the spirit in the same manner in which the spirit acts upon this principle. Soul and body, consequently, cannot act upon each other immediately, but only by means of this principle. As all material beings, concretively taken, compose a great totum, which is called the physical world, so the concrete of all immaterial beings composes what we call the immaterial world. It follows from the antecedent, that the order, regularity, and union which are seen in the former world, are entirely different from the order, regularity, and union which prevails in the latter world. All material beings are subject to the sceptre of stern necessity, and kept in order by physical laws; the rank which these beings maintain towards one another, is founded either on innate qualities, or such as have been attributed to them by general agreement; and they are nearer each other, or more distant from one another, according to their relations constituted by space and time. How different is this in the material world! rational beings, endowed with free will, are subject to no other laws but to those of morality; the prerogatives and degrees which subsist among them, depend on the different degrees of their wisdom and virtue, and according to the similarity or difference of their manner of thinking, and of their sentiments, they are nearer each other, or more distant from one another; that is, they harmonize, or disharmonize. Man belongs, by virtue of his body and soul, to both of these worlds, and, consequently, is connected with the material and immaterial world. It may therefore happen, that the same person who acts an important part on earth, in virtue of his physical or political situation, occupies at the same time the lowest degree among the super-terrestrial beings; that the soul of a body whose beauty charms every eye here below, is an indifferent, or a contemptible object in the spiritual world; that the soul of an inhabitant of Saturn, and that of an inhabitant of the earth, with regard to their spiritual communion, are oftentimes, nearer neighbours than the souls of those whose abode is beneath the same roof.”

CHARACTER OF A GOOD MAN.

Agatho makes the interest of mankind, in a manner, his own; and has a tender and affectionate concern for their welfare; he cannot think himself happy, whatever his possessions and his preferments are, while he sees others miserable; his power and wealth delight him chiefly, as the poor and indigent are better for it; and the greatest charm of prosperity is the advantage it affords of relieving his fellow-creatures; and to give assistance and support, according to the various exigencies of those with whom he converses, is his constant endeavour; and that he may practice the more large and generous charity, he retrenches useless pomp and expence, esteeming that a much more sublime and noble gratification than the amusements and gallantries of a vain and luxurious age. In fine, he is unwearied in his endeavours to promote the happiness of others, and he not only takes all opportunities that present themselves of doing good, but seeks all occasions to be useful, though he has frequently met with ungrateful returns——He is good.

ANECDOTE.

Sir William Lilly, a famous painter in the reign of king Charles I. had at a certain agreement drawn the picture of a rich citizen of London to the life, that was not indebted to nature either for face or proportion of body; but when the citizen came to fetch it away, he refused to give Sir William so much money, as they had agreed for, because, as he alleged, if the owner did not buy it, it would lie upon his hands. “That’s your mistake,” says the painter, “for I can sell it for double the price I demand.” “How can that be,” says the citizen, “for ’tis like nobody but myself?” “’Tis true,” says Sir William, “but I will draw a tail to it, and then it will be the best piece for a monkey in England.” Upon which the citizen rather than be exposed, paid down his money and took away his picture.

MAXIMS.

What gold is in the crucible that refines it, the learned man is in his country.

The wise and learned in his own opinion, is but an ignorant person in the eyes of God and men.

It is less difficult to divert a wicked man from his iniquitous schemes, than to dispel the sorrows of a heart that permits grief to prey upon it.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday last, by the Rev. Mr. Beach, Mr. Garland Davies, to Miss Elizabeth Barton, both of this city.

On Thursday evening, the 29th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Woodhull, Mr. William Lawrence, merchant, to Miss Margaret Van Horne, daughter of Mr. James Van Horne, merchant, late of this city, deceased.

On Saturday evening last by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Daniel Paris, Esq. of Montgomery county, to Miss Kitty Irving, daughter of Mr. William Irving of this city.

The same evening, by the Rev. Dr. M‘Knight, Mr. Jonas Mapes, to Miss Elizabeth Tylee, daughter of Mr. James Tylee of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Thomas Ringwood, Printer, to Miss Catharine Herbert, both of this city.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

Days of the Month.	Thermometor observed at	Prevailing winds.	OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
	6, A.M. 3, P.M.	6.	3.	6.	3.
	deg.	100	deg.	100
Oct 2	54		60	75	ne.	do.	cloudy lht. wd.	do.
3	53		54		ne.	do.	rain high wd.	do.
4	51		65		n.	do.	cloudy h. wd.	do. do.
5	53		63	75	sw.	e.	cloudy calm	do. do.
6	52		63		nw.	w.	cloudy lt. wd.	clear do.
7	46		59		nw.	do.	clear, light wind	do.
8	44		57		n.	w.	clear, light wd.	do.

As Sterne’s pathetic tale you hear,

Why rudely check the rising sigh?

Why seek to hide the pitying tear,

Which adds new lustre to the eye?

Tears that lament another’s woe,

Unveil the goodness of the heart:

Uncheck’d, Maria, these should flow—

They please beyond the pow’r of art.

Does not yon crimson-tinted rose,

Whose opening blush delights the view,

More splendid colouring disclose,

When brightly gem’d with morning dew?

So shall Maria’s beauteous face,

Drest in more pleasing charms appear;

When aided by the magic grace

Of pity’s sympathizing tear.

THE REPARTEE.

Cries Sylvia to a reverend Dean,

What reason can be given,

Since Marriage is a holy thing,

That there are none in Heaven?

There are no women he replied.——

She quick returns the jest—

Women there are, but I’m afraid

They cannot find a priest.

TO EMMA.

Charm’d by returning Friendship’s gentle voice,

Each waken’d pulse with new-born rapture beats;

My lonely heart the welcome stranger greets,

And bids each quiv’ring, trembling nerve rejoice.

Emma again shall meet my view,

Still beats her heart to Friendship true,

All the gay scenes by hope pourtray’d,

Late hid by sorrow’s sombre shade,

Revive upon my raptur’d sight,

In glowing colours now more bright

Than when we erst in early Friendship’s bands,

First join’d our hearts and lock’d our infant hands.

Friend of my heart, that time again returns,

Again we’ll taste the joys of Friendship pure;

And tho’ Maria’s loss my Emma mourns,

Time and fond sympathy her grief shall cure.

There she was pity’s mildest form,

Her heart with ev’ry virtue warm,

And well deserv’d affection’s tear,

The tender thought and sigh sincere;

I too her early fate deplore,

And mourn fair Virtue’s child no more:

In tender sympathy with thee I’ll join,

“Give tear for tear, and echo sighs to thine.”

The subject sad my early woes revives;

I too, my friend, have felt misfortune’s dart,

Still in my soul the sad remembrance lives

Of objects dear;—Ah! doom’d how soon to part:

Still in the melancholy hour

Memory exerts her tyrant pow’r;

Recalls thy form, Oh! parent dear,

Still bids the much-lov’d shade appear,

And prompts the deep-drawn sigh sincere,

While down my pale cheek flows the tear:

Deep in the grave my tender parent sleeps,

While o’er the sod each kindred virtue weeps.

Soon too Selina did thy early worth

The blooming beauty heaven its favourite gave,

Seek the dark confines of the chilling earth,

And join our much lov’d parents in the grave:

Ye oft I meet, beloved shades,

When wandering through the moonlight glades;

Pale shadows shoot athwart my view,

I start, I sigh, and think of you,

And oft my wilder’d fancy brings

Your dear lov’d forms, and o’er them flings

Bright robes of heavenly radiance fair,

Anon they vanish into air:

Thus fled my joys, I cry, and tears pursue,

The pleasing phantoms melting from my view.

Have I not cause, my friend, to grieve,

To bid the mournful numbers flow,

In solemn strains of dirge like woe,

And tears the wounded heart relieve:

But resignation, heaven born maid,

Still sooths me with her cheering aid,

She calls my wandering fancy home,

To scenes of bliss beyond the tomb,

And bids my rapt thought soar away,

“In visions of eternal day.”

Emma’s dear friendship too shall calm my woe,

Forbid the sigh to heave, the tear to flow.

Yes, charming maid, thy love returned bestows

A cheering ray my darken’d path to light,

As from the cloud, the sun breaks forth more bright,

And all the sky with borrowed lustre glows:

Again shall please, the sweets of spring,

And fancy ever on the wing,

Assay to cull Pierian flowers,

And spend the chearful smiling hours;

When at the muses’ shrine I bow,

In waving garlands for thy brow:

Nor thou my friend, the humble boon refuse,

Tho’ mean the gift, pure are the giver’s views.

Yet think not, partial friend, thy Clara vain,

Ah! well she knows, she wants the muses fire,

Some abler hand should strike the sounding lyre,

And with my Emma’s praises swell the strain:

Yet though my lay be wild and rude,

By friendship’s partial eye when view’d,

Emma may smile—no more I ask,

I will repay the pleasing task:

More than the applauding world her smile I prize,

Than the morn the mildness of her eyes.

CLARA

New-York, Oct. 3, 1796.

SOLILOQUY TO LOVE.

O thou, or fiend, or angel, by what name

Shall I address thee? how express thy powers?

Strange compound of extremes! of heat and cold,

Of hope and fear, of pleasure and of pain!

Nought can escape thy prying scrutiny;

Wretched, should aught but thwart thine ardent wish;

And oh! how ravish’d if thou mark’st one glance,

Which tells the latent longings of the soul!

In that high fever, the delirious brain

Coins gaudy phantoms of celestial bliss,

Of bliss that never comes—for now, e’en now

From airy joys he wakes to solid pain.

Quick to his sight up springs, in long array,

A tribe of horrid ills—the cold reply;

The unanswer’d question; the assenting nod

Of dull Civility; the careless look

Of blank Indifference; the chilling frown

That freezes at the heart; the stony eye

Of fixt Disdain; or more tormenting gaze

Bent on another. These, with all the train

Of fears and jealousies that wait on Love,

Are no imagin’d griefs; no fancied ills

These; or, if fancied, worse than real woes

Such art thou, Love; then who, that once has known

Thy countless rocks and sands that lurk beneath,

Would ever tempt thy smiling surface more?

Long toss’d on stormy seas of hopes and fears,

How willingly at last my wearied soul

Would seek a shelter in forgetfulness!

Oh! bland Forgetfulness, Love’s sweetest balm,

Through all my veins thy pow’rs infuse; close up

Each avenue to Love; purge off the lime

That clogs his spirit, which fain would wing its flight

To Sense, to Reason, Liberty and Peace.

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.

REFLECTIONS ON THE HARMONY OF SENSIBILITY AND REASON.

A little judgment, with less sensibility, makes a man cunning; a little more feeling, with even less reason, would make him sincere.

Some have no more knowledge of humanity, than just serves them to put on an appearance of it, to answer their own base and selfish purposes.

He who prefers cunning to sincerity, is insensible to the disgrace and suspicion which attend craft and deceit, and the social satisfaction which the generous mind finds in honesty and plain-dealing.

Men who know not the pleasures of sincerity, and who traffic in deceit, barter an image of kindness for a shadow of joy, and are deceived more than they deceive.

Let us suppose an end of Passion, there must be an end of reasoning. Passion alone can correct Passion. Thus we forego a present pleasure, in hopes that we shall afterwards enjoy a greater pleasure, or of longer duration: or suffer a present pain, to escape a greater; and this is called an act of the judgment. He who gives way to the dictates of present passion, without consulting experience, listens to a partial evidence, and must of course determine wrongfully.

Some, in order to pay a false compliment to sentimental pleasures, attempt altogether to depreciate the pleasures of sense: with as little justice, though with like plausibility, have men endeavoured to decry the natural passions and affections as inconsistent with human felicity. Not from our natural desires and passions do we suffer misery; for, without these, what pleasure can we be supposed to enjoy? But from false desires, or diseased appetites, acting without the aid of experience and understanding.

He who commits an action which debases him in his own mind, besides its other evil consequences, lays up a store of future misery, which will haunt him as long as the memory of the deed remains.

Along with the present effects of any action, in order to judge of it aright, we must put in the balance also its future consequences, and consider, on one side, the satisfaction and honour; on the other, the evil and disgrace that may attend it.

Magnanimity exercises itself in contempt of labours and pains, in order to avoid greater pains, or overtake greater pleasures.

The great rule of sensual pleasures is to use them so as they may not destroy themselves, or be divorced from the pleasures of sentiment; but rather as they are assisted by, and mutually assisting to, the more refined and exalted sympathy of rational enjoyment.

Men ever refine the meaning of the word pleasure to what pleases themselves: gluttons imagine, that by pleasure is meant gluttony. The only true epicures are such as enjoy the pleasures of temperance. Small pleasures seem great to such as know no greater. The virtuous man is he who has sense enough to enjoy the greatest pleasure.

Superfluity and parade among the vulgar-rich pass for elegance and greatness. To the man of true taste, temperance is luxury, and simplicity grandeur.

Whatever pleasures are immediately derived from the senses, persons of fine internal feelings enjoy besides their other pleasures; while such as place their chief happiness in the former, can have no true taste for the delicious sensations of the soul.

They who divide profit and honesty, mistake the nature of the one or the other. We must make a difference between appearances and truths: the really profitable and the good are the same.

False appearances of profit are the greatest enemies to true interest. Future sorrows present themselves in the disguise of present pleasures, and short-sighted folly eagerly embraces the deceit.

INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.

With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.

Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.

We soon arrived at the ditch of the castle; the servants of Dourlinski demanded who we were; I answered that we were come from Pulaski, and wished to speak to their lord, and that we had been attacked by robbers, who were still in pursuit of us. The drawbridge was accordingly let down; and having entered, we were informed that at present we could not see Dourlinski, but that on the next day at ten o’clock he would give us audience. They then demanded our arms, which we delivered up without any difficulty, and Boleslas soon after took an opportunity of looking at my wound, which was found to be but superficial.

In a short time a frugal repast was served up for us in the kitchen. We were afterwards conducted to a lower chamber, where two beds were prepared for us. The domestics then left us without any light, and immediately locked the door of the apartment.

I could not close my eyes during the whole night. Titsikan had given me but a slight wound, but that which my heart had received was so very deep! At day break, I became impatient in my prison, and wished to open the shutters, but they were nailed up. I attacked them, however, so vigorously, that the fastenings gave way, and I beheld a very fine park. The window being low, I cleared it at a leap, and in a single instant found myself in the gardens of the Polish chieftain.

After having walked about for a few minutes, I sat down on a stone bench, which was placed at the foot of a tower, whose ancient architecture I had been some time considering. I remained for a few seconds enveloped in reflection, when a tile fell at my feet. I thought that it had dropped from the roof of this old building; and, to avoid the effects of a similar accident, I went and placed myself at the other end of the seat. A few moments after, a second tile fell by my side. The circumstance appeared surprising: I arose with some degree of inquietude, and attentively examined the tower. I perceived at about twenty-five or thirty feet from the ground, a narrow opening. On this I picked up the tiles which had been thrown at me, and on the first I discovered the following words, written with a bit of plaister;

It is impossible to conceive how many different sentiments occupied my mind at one and the same time: my astonishment, my joy, my grief, my embarrassment, cannot be expressed. I examined once more the prison of Lodoiska, and plotted in my own mind how I could procure her liberty. She at length threw down another tile, and I read as follows:

“At midnight, bring me paper, ink, and pens; and to-morrow, an hour after sun-rise, come and receive a letter.————Begone.”—

Having returned towards my chamber, I called to Boleslas, who assisted me in re-entering through the window. I then informed my faithful servant, of the unexpected accident that had put an end to my wanderings, and redoubled my inquietude.

How could I penetrate into this tower? How could we procure arms? By what means were we to deliver Lodoiska from captivity! How could we carry her off under the eye of Dourlinski, in the midst of his people, from a fortified castle? and supposing that so many obstacles were not unsurmountable, could I attempt such an enterprize during the short delay prescribed by Titsikan?

Did not the Tartar enjoin me to stay with Dourlinski three days, but not to remain longer than eight?

Would it not be to expose ourselves to the attacks of the enemy, to leave this castle before the third, or after the expiration of the eighth day? Should I release my dear Lodoiska from a prison, on purpose to deliver her into the hands of robbers, to be forever separated from her either by slavery or death? This would be a horrible idea!

But wherefore was she confined in such a frightful prison? The letter which she had promised would doubtless instruct me: It was therefore necessary to procure paper, pen and ink. I accordingly charged Boleslas with this employment, and began to prepare myself for acting the delicate part of an emissary of Pulaski in the presence of Dourlinski.

It was broad day-light when they came to set us at liberty, and inform us, that Dourlinski was at leisure and wished to see us. We accordingly presented ourselves before him with great confidence; and we were introduced to a man of about sixty years of age, whose reception was blunt, and whose manners were repulsive. He demanded who we were. “My brother and myself,” replied I, “belong to Count Pulaski. My master has entrusted me with a secret commission to you. My brother accompanies me on another account. Before I explain, I must be in private, for I am charged not to speak but to you alone.”

“It is very well,” replies Dourlinski: “your brother may retire, and you also,” addressing himself to his servants; “begone! As to him (pointing to a person who was his confident), he must remain, and you may speak any thing before him.”

“Pulaski has sent me.”————“I see very well that he has sent you,” says the palatine, interrupting me——“to demand of you—” “What?”————“news of his daughter.”—“News of his daughter! Did Pulaski say so?”————“Yes my lord, he said that his daughter was here.”---I perceived that Dourlinski instantly grew pale; he then looked towards his confident, and surveyed me for some time in silence.

“You astonish me,” rejoins he at length. “In confiding a secret of this importance to you, it necessarily follows that your master must have been very imprudent.”

“No more than you, my lord, for have not you also a confident? Grandees would be much to be pitied if they could not rely upon any of their domestics. Pulaski has charged me to inform you, that Lovsinski has already searched through a great part of Poland, and that he will undoubtedly visit these cantons.”

“If he dares to come here,” replies he with great vivacity, “I will provide a lodging for him, which he shall inhabit for some time. Do you know this Lovsinski?”

“I have seen him at my master’s house in Warsaw.”—“They say he is handsome?”

“He is a wretch,” adds he, interrupting me in a great passion———“O that he were but to fall into my hands!”

“He! I will wager any sum of money that he is only calculated to seduce women!---O that he would but fall into my hands!” Then, assuming a less ferocious tone, he continued thus. “It is a long time since Pulaski wrote to me---where is he at present?”

“My lord, I have precise orders not to answer that question: all that I dare to say is, that he has the strongest reasons for neither discovering the place of his retreat, nor writing to any person, and that he will soon come and explain them to you in person.”

Dourlinski appeared exceedingly astonished at this information; I could discover some symptoms of fear in his countenance. At length, looking at his confident, who seemed equally embarrassed with himself, he proceeded: “You say that Pulaski will come here soon?”---“Yes, my lord, in about a fortnight, or a little later.” On this he again turned to his attendant; but in a short time affecting as much calmness as he had before discovered embarrassment; “Return to your master”, added he; “I am sorry to have nothing but bad news to communicate to him————tell him that Lodoiska is no longer here.” I myself became surprised in my turn at this information. “What! my lord, Lodoiska————”

“Is not longer here, I tell you!————To oblige Pulaski, whom I esteem, I undertook, although with great repugnance, the talk of confining his daughter in my castle: nobody but myself and he (pointing to his confident) knew that she was here. It is about a month since we went, as usual, to carry her provisions for the day, but there was nobody in the apartment. I am ignorant how it happened; but what I know well is, that she has escaped, for I have heard nothing of her since.---She must undoubtedly have gone to join Lovsinski at Warsaw, if perchance the Tartars have not intercepted her in her journey.”

My astonishment on this became extreme. How could I reconcile that which I had seen in the garden, with that which Dourlinski now told me? There was some mystery in this business, which I became exceedingly impatient to be acquainted with: I was however extremely careful not to exhibit any appearance of doubt. “My lord,” said I, “this is bad news for my master!”————“Undoubtedly, but it is not my fault.”

“Let me hear it.”———“The Tartars are ravaging the neighbourhood of your castle—they attacked us———we escaped as it were by a miracle. Will you permit my brother and myself to remain here only for the space of two days?”

“Where do they lodge?” says he to his attendant. “In an apartment below ground,” was the reply.

“Which overlooks my gardens?” rejoins Dourlinski, interrupting him with great agitation.

“No matter————You must put them elsewhere.” These words made me tremble.

“It is not possible, but,”———continues the confident, and then whispered the rest of the sentence in his ear.

“Right,” says the Baron; “and let it be done instantly.” Then, addressing himself to me, “know that your brother and you must depart the day after to-morrow: before you go, you shall see me again, and I will give you a letter for Pulaski.”

I then went to rejoin Boleslas in the kitchen, where he was at breakfast, who soon after presented me with a little bottle full of ink, several pens, and some sheets of paper, which he had procured without difficulty. I panted with desire to write to Lodoiska; and the only difficulty that now remained, was to find a commodious place where I might not be discovered by the curiosity of Dourlinski’s people.

They had already informed Boleslas that we could not again be admitted into the apartment where we had spent the preceding night, until the time should arrive when we were to retire to rest. I soon, however, bethought myself of a stratagem which succeeded to admiration.

The servants were drinking with my pretended brother, and politely invited me to help them to empty a few flasks.

I swallowed, with a good grace, several glasses of bad wine in succession: in a few minutes my legs seemed to totter, my tongue faltered: I related a hundred pleasant and improbable tales to the joyous company; in a word, I acted the drunken man so well, that Boleslas himself became a dupe to my scheme, and actually trembled lest, in a moment when I seemed disposed to communicate every thing, my secret should escape.

PERFECT FRIENDSHIP.