“But suppose,” I replied, “I should acquit myself of my charge to your satisfaction, how am I to conceal the matter from my father?”

The Irishman replied after a momentary consideration: “If the minister should approve your proposals, you must request him frankly not to mention any thing to the Marquis, pretending to intend to surprise him in an agreeable manner, by an oral account, when the whole affair shall be happily concluded.”

Before he took leave, he enjoined me to be circumspect, courageous, and active.

I cannot say whether it was owing to the execution of this advice, to the facility of the task, or to favourable accidents, that I carried my point without difficulty. The minister approved my plan; the Duke of B——a received the above mentioned order along with 40,000 ducats, and the edict concerning the nobility was renewed. However, the Duke of B——a again escaped the snare. He did, indeed, execute the orders of the Sp***sh court, travelled all over P****l, and observed every where how the people were devoted to him; the money he had received, and the power that was entrusted to him, enabled him to gain many friends, and he entered the fortified towns so well escorted, that none of the Sp***sh governors dared seize him.

The Irishman who gave me this information, provided me at the same time with instructions how to act if the minister should complain of the miscarriage of my plan, which soon happened. Oliva*ez acquainted me very peevishly, with the bad success of our undertaking. “We may yet carry our point,” I replied, after some reflection, with seeming unconcern. “If you wish to pursue your plan, you may easily lay a new snare for him, from which the Duke will not be able to extricate himself. You have the best opportunity of sending him an order to repair to Mad**d, and to make to his Majesty an oral report of the state of Port**l.”

The minister approved of this advice, and carried it into execution without delay. The Duke of B——a, who was well aware that the order from the Sp***sh court could not be declined any longer, sent his Chamberlain to Mad**d in order to hire a palace, to engage a number of servants, and to make every preparation for his pretended arrival, but nevertheless did not come. One time he pleaded ill health, at another time want of money; and at last, wished to know what rank he was to hold at Mad**d. However, I was so fortunate as to guide the minister in such a manner that every obstacle was removed at last, and the Duke received 6000 ducats for defraying the expences of his journey.

“Now,” said the Irishman to me, “the Duke will find it impossible to shift any longer, and either must repair to Mad**d, which he will take care not to do, or give the signal for the revolution. Your business, my Lord, is finished, and nothing further will be required of you than the strictest secrecy. When your country will be free, we shall meet again, and then you may expect to see all my promises accomplished.”

(To be continued.)

* This emissary will soon be introduced to the reader.

CURIOUS OBSERVATIONS ON MAKING LOVE.

From The Tatler.

I fell in the other evening with a party who were engaged in examining which was the handsomest style of addressing the Fair, and writing Letters of Gallantry.—Many were the opinions immediately declared on this subject: Some were for a certain softness; some for I know not what of delicacy; others for something inexpressibly tender: When it came to me, I said there was no rule in the world to be made for writing Letters, but that of being as near what you speak face to face as you can; which is so great a truth, that I am of opinion, writing has lost more Mistresses than any one mistake in the whole legend of Love. For when you write to a Lady for whom you have a solid and honourable Love, the great idea you have of her, joined to a quick sense of her absence, fills your mind with a sort of tenderness, that gives your language too much the air of complaint, which is seldom successful. For a man may flatter himself as he pleases, but he will find, that the women have more understanding in their own affairs than we have, and women of spirit are not to be won by mourners.—Therefore he that can keep handsomely within rules, and support the carriage of a companion to his mistress, is much more likely to prevail, than he who lets her see the whole relish of his life depends upon her. If possible therefore, divert your mistress, rather than sigh to her. The pleasant man she will desire for her own sake; but the languishing lover has nothing to hope for but her pity. To shew the difference I produced two Letters a Lady gave me, which had been writ to her by two gentlemen who made love to her, but were both killed the day after the date at the battle of Almanza. One of them was a mercurial gay-humoured man; the other a man of a serious but a great and gallant spirit. Poor Jack Careless! This is his letter: You see how it is folded: The air of it is so negligent, one might have read half of it by peeping into it, without breaking it open. He had no exactness.

MADAM,

‘It is a very pleasant circumstance I am in, that while I should be thinking of the good company we are to meet within a day or two, where we shall go to loggerheads, my thoughts are running upon a Fair Enemy in England. I was in hopes I had left you there; but you follow the camp, tho’ I have endeavoured to make some of our leaguer Ladies drive you out of the Field. All my comfort is, you are more troublesome to my Colonel than myself: I permit you to visit me only now and then; but he downright keeps you. I laugh at his honour as far as his gravity will allow me; But I know him to be a man of too much merit to succeed with a woman. Therefore defend your heart as well as you can, I shall come home this winter irresistibly dressed, and with quite a new foreign air. And so, I had like to say, I rest, but alas! I remain, Madam,

Your most Obedient, Most Humble Servant,

John Careless.

Now for Colonel Constant’s Epistle; you see it is folded and directed with the utmost care.

MADAM,

‘I do myself the honour to write to you this evening because I believe to-morrow will be a day of battle, and something forebodes in my breast that I shall fall in it. If it proves so, I hope you will hear I have done nothing below a man who had a love of his country, quickened by a passion for a woman of honour. If there be any thing noble in going to a certain death; if there be any merit, I meet it with pleasure, by promising myself a place in your esteem; if your applause, when I am no more, is preferable to the most glorious life without you; I say, Madam, if any of these considerations can have weight with you, you will give me a kind place in your memory, which I prefer to the glory of Cæsar. I hope, this will be read, as it is writ, with tears.’

The beloved Lady is a woman of a sensible mind; but she has confessed to me, that after all her true and solid value for Constant, she had much more concern for the loss of Careless. Those great and serious spirits have something equal to the adversities they meet with, and consequently lessen the objects of pity. Great accidents seem not cut out so much for men of familiar characters, which makes them more easily pitied, and soon after beloved. Add to this, that the sort of love which generally succeeds, is a stranger to awe and distance. I asked Romana, whether of the two she should have chosen had they survived? She said, She knew she ought to have taken Constant; but believed, she should have chosen Careless.

ARABIAN MAXIMS.

The monument which a wise man is ambitious to leave behind him, is not a numerous posterity, but the lasting honours of a virtuous fame.

In learning to know yourself, you learn to know God.

Do good; and your reward shall be, if not the plaudits of men, the approbation of God.

It is lost labour to endeavour to give understanding to him that has none; especially, if he thinks himself more sensible than you.

Nobility does not consist in magnificence of dress or eminence of rank. Art thou virtuous? Thou art sufficiently noble.

The life of man is a journal: good actions only should be written in it.

He who sows duplicity will reap calamity.

Whatever is not God, is nothing.

There are three things of which we cannot be certain but in three circumstances; courage can be conspicuous only in the combat; wisdom, when you are offended; and friendship, in adversity.

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.

(Continued from page 142.)

Titsikan was listening to the story of our misfortunes, with which he appeared to be deeply affected, when one of his centinels approached, and sounded an alarm. He immediately left us in great haste, on purpose to run to the drawbridge. We heard a great tumult, and began already to presage some inauspicious event.

While we remained plunged in consternation,---“Lovzinski, Lodoiska, cowardly and perfidious pair!” exclaims Dourlinski, unable to contain his joy---“you have hoped to be able to elude my vengeance, and escape my chastisement. Tremble! you are once more about to fall into my hands. At the noise of my captivity and misfortunes, the neighbouring nobility are undoubtedly assembled, and have now come to succour me.”

“---They can only revenge you, villain!” cries Boleslas, interrupting him in the midst of his threats, and seizing, at the same time, an iron bar, with which he prepared to knock him down; I, however, instantly interposed and prevented him from executing this act of justice.

Titsikan returned in a few minutes: “It is only a false alarm,” said he to us; “it is nothing more than a small detachment which I dispatched yesterday, on purpose to scour the country---they had orders to rejoin me here; and they have brought me some prisoners: every thing is quiet, and the neighbourhood does not appear to be in the least commotion.”

While Titsikan yet spoke to me, a number of unfortunates, whose luckless fate had delivered them into the hands of the enemy, were dragged before him. We first beheld five, who, being unbound, walked by the side of their conquerors, with a downcast and melancholy aspect. The Tartars told us, that one of their companions had been overcome with great difficulty, and that was the reason why he was bound hand and foot!

The sixth now appeared: “O Heavens! it is my father!” exclaims Lodoiska, running at the same time towards him.---I, too, threw myself at the feet of Pulaski. “Are you Pulaski?” says the Tartar chieftain, “’tis well; the event is lucky! Believe me, my friend, it is not more than a quarter of an hour since I first heard of you. I know however, that you are proud and hot-headed, but no matter! I esteem you; you possess both courage and abilities; your daughter is beautiful, and does not want for understanding; Lovzinski is brave---braver than myself, as I have already experienced. Attend to what I am about to say——”

Pulaski, motionless with astonishment, scarcely heard the sound of the Tartar’s voice; and struck, at the same time, with the strange spectacle that offered itself to his view, he began to conceive the most horrible suspicions.

He repulsed my caresses with the most significant disgust: “Wretch!” exclaims he at length, “you have betrayed your country, a woman who loved you, a man who prided himself in calling you his son-in-law; it was only wanting to fill up the measure of your crimes, that you should league with robbers!”

“With robbers!” cries Titsikan---“with robbers indeed, if it so please you to call us: but you yourself must acknowledge that description of people to be good for something; for without me, perhaps, your daughter, by to-morrow’s sun, would no longer have been a maiden! Be not alarmed,” said he, addressing himself to me: “but I know that he is proud, and I therefore am not angry.”

We had by this time placed Pulaski in a chair; his daughter and myself bathed his manacles with our tears; but he still continued to frown at and to overwhelm me with reproaches.

“What can you wish for?” cries the Tartar, once more addressing his captive: “I tell you that Lovzinski is a brave man, whom I intend to see married; and as for your Dourlinski, he is a rogue, whom I am about to order to be hanged.

“I repeat to you once more, that you alone are more hot-headed than us three put together. But hear me, and let us finish this business, for it is necessary that I should depart. You belong to me by the most incontestible right, that of the sword. But if you promise me, upon your honour, that you will be sincerely reconciled to Lovzinski, and give your daughter to him for a wife, I will restore you to your liberty.”

“He who can brave death,” replies the haughty Pulaski, “can support slavery. My daughter shall never be the wife of a traitor.”

“Do you love better that she should be a Tartar’s mistress?---If you do not promise to give her, within the space of eight days, to this brave man, I myself shall espouse her this very night! When I am weary of you and of her, I will sell you to the Turks. Your daughter is handsome enough to find admittance into the haram of a bashaw: and you yourself may perhaps superintend the kitchen of some janissary.”

“My life is in your hands; do with it whatsoever you please. If Pulaski falls beneath the sword of a Tartar, he will be lamented, and even his enemies will agree that he merits a more glorious destiny: but if he were to consent: No! no! I rather choose---I prefer death!”

“I do not desire your death! I wish only that Lovzinski should espouse Lodoiska. What!---Shall my prisoner give the law to me? By my sabre!---this dog of a Christian---but I am in the wrong---he is furious, and is assuredly deprived of his reason.”

I now beheld the Tartar’s eyes sparkle with fury, and therefore recalled to his memory the promise he had made me, that he would not give way to his passion.

“Undoubtedly! but this man wearies out the patience of a favourite of our prophet! I am but a robber!---Yet Pulaski, I repeat it to you again, that it is my command that Lovzinski espouse your daughter. By my sabre, he has fairly gained her; but for him she had been burnt last night.”

“But for him!”

“Yes! Behold those ruins; there stood a tower in that place; it was on fire, and no person dared to ascend it: he, however, mounted the stair-case, attended by Boleslas---and they saved your daughter!”

“Was my daughter in that tower?”

“Yes! that hoary villain had confined her there; that hoary villain, who attempted to violate her!---Some of you must relate the whole to him; but make haste, as it is necessary that he should decide instantly; I have business elsewhere, for I do not intend that your militia* shall surprise me here: it is otherwise in the plains; there I should laugh at them.”

While Titsikan ordered the rich booty which he had taken, to be stowed in little covered waggons, Lodoiska informed her father of the crimes of Dourlinski, and mingled the recital of our affection so artfully with the history of her misfortunes, that nature and gratitude at one and the same time began to besiege the heart of Pulaski.

Affected in the most lively manner with the misfortunes of his daughter, and sensible of the important services which I had rendered her, he embraces Lodoiska, and at length beholding me without resentment, he seemed to wait impatiently for an opportunity to be reconciled to me.

“O Pulaski!” I exclaim, “you whom Heaven hath left me, on purpose to console me for the loss of the best of fathers; you for whom I have an equal friendship and veneration; why hast thou condemned thy children unheard? Why hast thou supposed a man who adores thy daughter, guilty of the most horrible treason?

“When my vows were offered up in favour of that prince who now fills the throne, I swear to you, Pulaski, by her whom I love so tenderly, that I looked upon his elevation to be an event highly auspicious to the happiness, the safety, and the prosperity of my country.

“The misfortunes which my youth did not foresee, thy experience had anticipated: but because I have been wanting in prudence, ought you to accuse me of perfidy? Ought you to have reproached me for loving my friend? Can you now look upon it as a crime, that I still give him my esteem? For the three last months, I have beheld the misfortunes of my country in the same point of view as yourself: like you, I have mourned over them; but I am sure that the king is still ignorant of their extent, and I shall go to Warsaw on purpose to inform him of all that I have seen.”

Pulaski here interrupts me:---“It is not there that you ought to repair: you tell me that M. de P*** is not informed of the wrongs done to his native country, and I believe you: but whether he is acquainted with, or whether he is entirely ignorant of them, is now but of little consequence. Insolent foreigners, cantoned throughout our provinces, strive to maintain themselves in the republic, even against the king, whom they have caused to be elected. It is no longer in the power of an impotent or a mal-content king, to chase the Russians from my country!

“Let us trust only to ourselves, Lovzinski; and let us either avenge our country, or die in her defence. I have assembled 4000 noble Poles in the palatinate of Lublin, who wait but for the return of their general, to march against the Russians: follow me to my camp——on this condition I am your friend, and my daughter shall be your wife!”

(To be continued.)

* The troops stationed on purpose to watch over the safety of the frontiers of Podolia and Volhnia, and preserve them from the incursions of the Tartars, are called Quartuaires.

CONJUGAL AFFECTION.

Lady Fanshaw, whose husband was Clerk of the Council to Charles the First and Second, and translator of the Pastor Fido, relates the following extraordinary circumstance in some MSS memoirs of herself, addressed to her son. The transaction took place during a voyage that Lady Fanshaw made from Galway to Malaga, in the spring of the year 1649.

“We pursued our voyage with prosperous winds.—When we had just passed the Straits, we saw coming towards us, with full sails, a Turkish galley well manned, and we believed we should be carried away slaves; for the captain had so laden his ship with goods for Spain, that his guns were useless, though the ship carried 60 guns. He called for brandy, and after he had well drunken and all his men, which were near 200, he called for arms, and cleared the deck as well as he could, resolving to fight rather than lose his ship, which was worth 30,000l. This was sad for us passengers, but my husband bid us be sure to keep in the cabin, and not appear, which would make the Turks think we were a man of war, but if they saw women, they would take us for merchants and detain us. He went upon deck, and took a gun, a bandelier, and sword, expecting the arrival of the Turkish man of war. The beast of a Captain had locked me up in the cabin---I knocked and called to no purpose, until the cabin-boy came and opened the door. I, all in tears, desired him to be so good as to give me his thrum cap and his tarred coat, which he did, and I gave him half a crown, and putting them on, and flinging away my night-clothes, I crept up softly, and stood upon the deck by my husband’s side, as free from sickness and fear as, I confess, of discretion, but it was the effect of that passion which I could never master. By this time the two vessels were engaged in parley, and so well satisfied with speech and sight of each other’s force, that the Turks men tacked about, and we continued our course. But when your father saw it convenient to retreat, looking upon me, he blessed himself, and snatched me up in his arms, saying, “Good God, that love can make this change!” and though he seemingly chid me, he would laugh at it as often as he remembered that voyage.”

ANECDOTE
OF MRS. D’ARBLAY (LATE MISS BURNEY),

The much admired Authoress of Evelina, Cecilia, and a work of still greater merit, entitled CAMILLA; or, a picture of youth: the latter has but just appeared in London, is now in the press, and will shortly be published by the Editor.

Miss Burney, who has lately married M. D’Arblay, a French Emigrant, is daughter to the late Dr. Burney, so well known in the annals of music. At an early age she was passionately fond of reading novels, which drew on her the censure of her father, who looked on those then extant, as but ill calculated to afford any solid improvement or rational amusement. Soon after, Miss Burney, without the knowledge of her parent, wrote the much admired history of Evelina---, which was immediately published in London, without disclosing the name of the author, as she dreaded incurring her father’s displeasure.

Dr. Burney, soon after the publication of Evelina, having accidentally entered a bookseller’s shop, was presented with this work, and strongly recommended to purchase it; his general dislike to novels, prevented his compliance, till strongly urged by the bookseller to give it even a cursory review: but no sooner had he perused a few pages, than he made his bargain, and having gone through the whole performance, he called his daughter, and recommended it to her as the only production of the kind that merited her attention; observing, that “the other books she so much read, were entirely beneath her notice, but that he was now happy in being able to present her with a novel, possessed of such intrinsic merit, as to render it well worthy her most attentive perusal.”

How great was Miss Burney’s surprize, on being presented with the work of her own pen, produced during many a stolen hour snatched from pleasures or from sleep! yet how flattering and how grateful to her sensible mind must the eulogium of so excellent a judge have proved!

Encouraged by his approbation, she disclosed the secret to the joy of a doating parent, who felt proud at having a daughter possessed of a genius capable of producing a piece which he deemed inimitable. Evelina went through four editions in the course of the first year, and Cecilia met with the most unbounded applause. The Queen, hearing so much in favour of our heroine, gave her the appointment of reader to her Majesty, with a large salary annexed, but interdicted her from publishing any thing, as derogatory to the dignity of her station.

Her marriage with Mr. D’Arblay, a gentleman suited to so amiable a partner, occasioned the loss of her place at court. This circumstance may be considered as a very considerable advantage to the republic of letters.

As the sun after a long concealment behind the darkening cloud, breaks forth with redoubled lustre, to the joy and exhilaration of mankind---so does this amiable writer appear to the votaries of taste and literature, holding in her hand the interesting history of Camilla---depicting in the most striking and variegated colours the feelings and propensities of the youthful mind, whether actuated by the celestial principles inspired by heaven, or stimulated by the bias of evil examples or vicious inclinations. Nor does she here omit the opportunity of displaying virtue in the most fascinating garb, while vice is depicted in the most forbidding and hateful dress. The sentiments she here inculcates, are of the most noble, refined and exalted nature---such as if generally diffused, would contribute to instil in the heart of man, the divine attributes of his maker, and render him as happy as would be consistent with the frailty of his probationary state. In fine, we may pronounce Camilla a chef d’œuvre, worthy the perusal of all who are desirous of rational entertainment, or anxious to have the feelings of the heart awakened to impressions of the most delightful and charming nature.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday last, by the Right Rev. Bishop Provost, Capt. Alexander Don, to the amiable Miss Maria Berrimen, both of this city.

On Saturday evening last, by the Rev. Mr. Pilmore, Mr. William Shatzel, to Miss Elsie Hall, both of this city.

LINES FROM THE REV. MR. BISHOP TO HIS WIFE,
WITH A PRESENT OF A PENKNIFE

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONNET.

EXTRACTED FROM A NOVEL IN MANUSCRIPT.

THE EVE OF HYMEN.

TO A VIOLET.

THE SNOW-DROP AND PRIMROSE.

AN APPEAL.

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.

ON CONVERSATION.

That conversation may answer the ends for which it was designed, the parties who are to join in it must come together with a determined resolution to please, and to be pleased. If a man feels that an east wind has rendered him dull and sulky, he should by all means stay at home till the wind changes, and not be troublesome to his friends; for dulness is infectious, and one sour face will make many, as one cheerful countenance is soon productive of others. If two gentlemen desire to quarrel, it should not be done in a company met to enjoy the pleasures of conversation. It is obvious, for these reasons, that he who is about to form a conversation party should be careful to invite men of congenial minds, and of similar ideas respecting the entertainment of which they are to partake, and to which they must contribute.

With gloomy persons, gloomy topics likewise should be (as indeed they will be) excluded, such as ill health, bad weather, bad news, or forebodings of such, &c. To preserve the temper calm and pleasant, it is of unspeakable importance that we always accustom ourselves thro’ life to make the best of things, to view them on their bright side, and to represent them to others, for our mutual comfort and encouragement. Few things (especially if, as christians, we take the other world into account) but have a bright side; diligence and practice will easily find it. Perhaps there is no circumstance better calculated than this to render conversation equally pleasing and profitable.

In the conduct of it, be not eager to interrupt others, or uneasy at being yourself interrupted; since you speak either to amuse or instruct the company, or to receive those benefits from it. Give all, therefore, leave to speak. Hear with patience, and answer with precision. Inattention is ill manners; it shews contempt; contempt is never forgiven.

Trouble not the company with your own private concerns, as you do not love to be troubled with those of others. Yours are as little to them, as theirs are to you. You will need no other rule whereby to judge of this matter.

Contrive, but with dexterity and propriety, that each person may have an opportunity of discoursing on the subject with which he is best acquainted. He will be pleased, and you will be informed. By observing this rule, every one has it in his power to assist in rendering conversation agreeable; since, though he may not choose or be qualified, to say much himself, he can propose questions to those who are able to answer them.

Avoid stories, unless short, pointed, and quite a-propos. He who deals in them, says Swift, must either have a very large stock, or a good memory, or must often change his company. Some have a set of them strung together like onions; they take possession of the conversation by an early introduction of one; and then you must have the whole rope; and there is an end of every thing else, perhaps, for that meeting, though you may have heard all twenty times before.

Talk often but not long. The talent of haranguing in private company is insupportable. Senators and barristers are apt to be guilty of this fault; and members, who never harangue in the house, will often do it out of the house. If the majority of the company be naturally silent, or cautious, the conversation will flag, unless it be often renewed by one among them who can start new subjects. Forbear, however, if possible, to broach a second before the first is out, lest your stock should not last, and you should be obliged to come back to the old barrel. There are those who will repeatedly cross upon, and break into the conversation with a fresh topic, till they have touched upon all, and exhausted none. Œconomy here is necessary for most people.

Laugh not at your own wit and humour; leave that to the company.

When the conversation is flowing in a serious and useful channel, never interrupt it by an ill-timed jest. The stream is scattered, and cannot be again collected.

Discourse not in a whisper, or half voice, to your next neighbour. It is ill breeding, and, in some degree, a fraud; conversation-stock being, as one has well observed, a joint and common property.

In reflexions on absent people, go no farther than you would go if they were present. ‘I resolve,’ says bishop Beveridge, ‘never to speak of a man’s virtues to his face, nor of his faults behind his back;’ a golden rule! the observation of which would, at one stroke, banish flattery and defamation from the earth.

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 147.)

I thanked him, and when he was going to leave me, asked him, “how does our royal hermit do?”

“He——is well, and you shall hear from him as soon as the Duke of B——a shall have dispossessed the King of Sp---n of the throne of P---t------.”

“But my old friend------”

“Will soon press you again to his bosom.”

“And Amelia?”

“Considering the terms on which you already are with her, you will not be in want of the assistance of my power.” So saying, he took, a friendly leave of me.

It was indeed high time that the Irishman released me from my engagement, for my stay at Mad---d began so grow extremely irksome to me. An irresistible power urged me to return to her who had inthralled me with magic bonds. My separation from her, and the letters I received from the dear woman, had heated my passion to the highest degree. Her letters, breathing nothing but tenderness and affection, were indeed entirely destitute of that fiery impetuosity of love which characterised mine; however, this was just adding fuel to the flame, which consumed me. I felt that I could not live without her. She did not indeed encourage my hope of getting possession of her hand, yet she did not repel it entirely, and several hints which Lady Delier had given me, served to support it. I was already computing with rapture the effect which my unexpected arrival would produce on Amelia, and made the necessary preparation, for my return to her without apprising her of it; however, my soul preceded these preparations, and only the lesser part of it was remaining at Mad---d; no wonder therefore, that the letters of my father, and the Marquis of Ferei*a, which recalled me to Port——l, had no effect upon me.

“I cannot divine,” the Marquis wrote to me, “what may have induced your father to return this year to the capital much earlier than usual. However, I can tell you that you will scarcely know him again when you shall see him. Ever since he pretends to have seen the ghost of Count Santeval, he is changed most wonderfully. He is in a state of utter apathy, gloomy and reserved, and I may truly say, superstitious. He avoids, since his late illness, as much as decency will permit, all conversation, even mine. There is but one person who has free access to him, and seems to have possessed himself entirely of his confidence. Let me give you a description of that man.

“Imagine to yourself an elderly man above the middle size, with a long, thin face, a yellow complexion, a strongly-furrowed brow, hollow, small, and red eyes, and staring, almost deadened features, which, when he smiles, changes into a kind of grinning. This physiognomy, of which no faithful verbal description can be given, and which has been stamped in a most unfavourable manner by nature’s forming hand, is softened by an affected air of piety; however, if examined minutely and narrowly, peeps with increased horrors through the borrowed veil. This countenance appears to me like a dreadful mystery, and I cannot behold it without secret terror. The tout ensemble of that man exactly fits this head---a sneaking gait—a stooping neck—a grey coat---but you must and will see him yourself. I hate him from the bottom of my soul, and think that he is not capable of a good action, and that his mere presence must be sufficient to dispel even from the hearts of others every noble sentiment. It would be a mystery to me, how your father can converse with him, if I did not know that he has been blinded by his hypocrisy and devout discourses. That man (he calls himself Alumbrado) pretends to be regenerated, and talks a great deal of the gifts of supernatural light. Your father, who takes for sterling truth whatever comes from his lips, seems to be more charmed with him every day. O hasten, my friend, to deliver your father from this ignoble, and, as I fear, dangerous enchantment. I think that an emotion like that which the sight of you after so long a separation, must cause in the mind of your father will be necessary to rouse from his apathy, &c. &c. &c.”

My situation rendered this letter, as I have already mentioned, ineffectual. The apprehensions of the Marquis appeared to me exaggerated; his unfavourable judgment of Alumbrado, originating from physiognomical reasons, unjust, and uncharitable, and my father old and sensible enough to see and avoid the danger, if any should be existing. I deemed the return to the Countess much more pressing than the journey to P————l, took leave of Oliva*z and Suma*ez, assuring them that the affair concerning the Duke of B——a had been pushed to a point where it soon would come to a crisis without our assistance. They were of the same opinion, and dismissed me in a very obliging manner.

I had already made every preparation for setting out the next morning, when a letter from Amelia and Lady Delier defeated my design. The former informed me that a pressing letter from her uncle, who was on the brink of eternity, and desired to see her once more before his death, rendered it necessary for her to hasten to Cadiz. In the letter of the Baroness, which, amongst others, contained the direction of the Countess at Cadiz, the portrait of Amelia was enclosed.

Amelia’s portrait! the image of those heavenly charms, the contemplation of which would afford delight even to angels, and the lifeless imitation of which filled my soul with rapture. O! with what an unspeakable delight did my entranced eyes imbibe them! how did the sight of him recall to my enraptured bosom all those sweet emotions which the presence of the original had formerly excited in my breast.

This softened the blow which repelled me so suddenly from the port of happiness which I fancied I had almost reached. Alas! this blow inflicted a deep wound on my heart, which at once found all the sweet presentments of meeting again changed into the nameless throes of a new separation. However, the sight of the picture representing to me the absent darling of my heart, and the secret meaning of that gift gave me some comfort, and inspired me with new hopes. Who else but my Amelia could have sent me that present? Her letter did, indeed contain only a few distant hints, and the picture was enclosed in that of Lady Delier; yet this did not misguide me, for I was too well acquainted with Amelia’s delicacy. I resolved now to return to my father, and to prepare him for my union with the Countess.

I acted wisely in surprising him by my sudden arrival, for otherwise he would, probably, not have received me with that kindness to which my unexpected appearance impelled him. No sooner were the first moments of mutual fondness past, when he said, with apparent coldness, “the world must have had very irresistible charms for you?”

“The charms of novelty, my dear father.”

“It must have been very painful to you to return to your paternal house; for it seems you had almost forgot your way homeward.”

“I had much to see, and have experienced a great deal!”

“I do not doubt it; you have had very little leisure for thinking of your father.”

I endeavoured to refute his reproach which I had expected, and succeeded pretty well. The Marquis grew warmer and more affectionate; he enquired after my tutor and Count Clairval. It seemed to wound him deeply that I could give no satisfactory account of the former. With regard to the latter, I told him that important family affairs had called him from me unexpectedly.

My father appeared then not to be in a favourable disposition for listening to an account of my connection with the Countess, and how strongly soever the impulse of my heart pressed me to speak on that subject, yet prudence advised me to wait for a more favourable opportunity. The following morning appeared to me propitious for that purpose. My father was very cheerful, and I contrived being surprised by him with Amelia’s picture in my hand.

“What have you there?” he asked me.

“The picture of the Dowager Countess of Clairval.”

“How far is she related to your travelling companion?”

“She was married to his brother.”

“So young, and already a widow?” said he, looking at the picture; “I should have mistaken it for the picture of a girl of seventeen years. However, the painters are used to flatter.”

“I assure you, the original possesses numberless charms which have escaped the artist.”

“Then the Countess must be extremely handsome.”

“She is an angel.”

“The face is more interesting than handsome.”

“Handsome and interesting to a high degree.”

“You are in love with her.”

“My father—”

“I should be very sorry at it.”

“For what reason?” I asked, thunderstruck.

“The young Princess of L**** —what do you think of her?”

“I don’t like her at all.”

“This would grieve me extremely, for I have chosen her for your wife”. 

“My heart has already chosen. Your consent, my father—”

“The Countess of Clairval? Never!”

“You don’t know her. Her family and fortune are very considerable.”

“I hope you will not liken her, in that respect, to the Princess of L****?”

“Not at all! but the amiable character of the Countess—”

“The character of the Princess is without blame. My dear son, consider the splendor and the honour which our family would derive from that alliance. Consider that you will render me happy by that union. When you, by my desire, broke off your connection with a certain Darbis, you revived my hope of seeing you allied to the family of L****; do not thwart my plan by a new love, do not cross my fondest wishes. You are, indeed, your own master, and may chuse for yourself; you must, however, not expect my consent and a father’s blessing, if you do not marry the Princess of L****. I am sensible that it will give you pain to renounce the Countess, and for that reason will not press you farther at present. I shall not desire you to come to a resolution before the end of seven weeks. Till then, do not mention a word about the matter.”

Seeing that I was going to reply, he took me by the hand. “Be a man,” said he, “who knows how to conquer juvenile passions. Gain my regard as you have gained my affection. My life is joyless, do not make me hate it. My dear son, I have sacrificed much for you, sacrifice now in return a little for your father!” So saying, he left me.

(To be continued.)

MAXIM.

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.