“When Count Galvez removed the bandage from his eyes, he found himself in a spacious apartment, lighted with lamps; two smaller rooms were on each side, but none of them had windows. Some time after his arrival, two masked men brought him victuals and drink, which afterwards was repeated every noon and evening. He was in want of nothing, liberty excepted. He could not leave his apartments, which were bolted on the outside, and having not been able to persuade his masked attendants to answer to his questions, he could not learn where he was imprisoned. The frequent chiming of bells, the singing of hymns, which seemed to be very near him, and several other circumstances, made him, however, suppose that he was confined in a cloister.

“It is remarkable, that during his confinement, he was obliged to sit to a sculptor, who executed his statue so masterly, that it resembled him in the most striking manner. The artist too was masked and nothing could persuade him to tell for what purpose the statue was designed.

“At length the wished for hour of enlargement arrived. The prisoner was called up between one and two o’clock in the morning, and ordered to prepare for his departure. He was blindfolded and conducted to the street, where he was placed in a coach, and threatened with instant death if he should dare to utter a syllable. After half an hour’s ride he was taken out of the coach, upon which, his conductors drove away at a furious rate. As soon as he perceived that he was alone, he removed the bandage from his eyes, and found himself in a lonely part of the suburbs, and with the first dawn of day called at my house.

“As soon as Count Galvez had finished his extraordinary tale, I summoned my servants, in order to clear myself from a suspicion which afflicted me severely, and examined them rigorously in his presence. It was, however, proved that my horses and carriages, as well as my servants, had been at home at the hour when the Count was carried off, which rendered it very probable that the Unknown must have imitated my equipage and livery, in order to ensnare the Count with greater ease.

“Your tutor enquired much, and with great affection after you: I told him as much as I knew, but he was not satisfied with it. The following morning he departed for Lisb*n, in hopes of meeting you there, after a long and painful separation. I rode on horseback by his carriage in order to accompany him a few miles; the impatient desire of seeing you soon made your tutor urge the postillion to press his horses onward; the fellow was offended at the incessant solicitations of the Count, and drove slower, which vexed our friend to such a degree, that he exhorted the postillion rather warmly to proceed faster, adding some menaces. The postillion being provoked by your tutor’s threats, whipped his horses furiously, without taking proper notice of the neighbourhood of the precipice, which you will recollect; the animals grew wild, and the carriage was precipitated into the abyss. The Count scarcely breathed, when he received assistance, and the postillion was dashed to pieces against the rocks.

“I ordered instantly all possible care to be taken of our friend; however, a violent vomiting of blood, the consequence of a contusion on his breast, put an end to his life the subsequent day. A few minutes before his death, he wrote the following note, but was soon interrupted by a fainting fit.

“‘Ere while we were separated by men, but now we are going to be disunited by God. I do not murmur; yet I should have been happy to see you once more. On the brink of eternity I am expanding my hands, blessing thee, excellent young man! Weep not at my death; we shall meet again in yon blissful mansions, where all good men shall be reunited for ever. Honour my memory by keeping firm to my principles, which from my soul, flowed over in your mind.’”

Two mortal wounds like those which the ill-fated love affair, and the death of Count Galvez inflicted on the heart of my friend, confined him to a sick bed. Now happened what I had dreaded, without my having been able to prevent it. Alumbrado, who was returned from his journey, intruded on my friend, and soon traced out the safest road to his heart. My friend was weak enough to communicate to him the situation in which he was with regard to Amelia; and Alumbrado hesitated not a moment to procure him the consent of his father. The power exercised by that man over the Marquis was so great, that the latter suffered himself to be persuaded to write to the Countess, and to invite her in the most honourable and flattering manner, to render his son happy by giving him her hand.

(To be continued.)

ON HYPOCRISY.

Mr. Addison somewhere observes, that hypocrisy at the fashionable end of the town, is very different from hypocrisy in the city. The fashionable hypocrite endeavours to appear more vicious than he really is; the other kind of hypocrite more virtuous. The former is afraid of every thing that has a shew of religion in it, and would be thought engaged in any criminal gallantries and amours, of which he is not guilty. The latter assumes a face of sanctity, and covers a multitude of vices, under a seemingly religious deportment. There is a third sort of hypocrites, who not only deceive the world, but very often impose upon themselves. These different kinds of hypocrisy cannot be too much detested. The first is a flagrant depravity of mind, which induces a man to prefer the appearance of vice to virtue, and despicable to an amiable character. The second disgraces and abuses virtue by assuming her resemblance; the last, though not more criminal, is more dangerous than either of the former, as it is accompanied with mental blindness, and self deception.

NATURE.

Nature only is lovely, and nothing unnatural can ever be amiable. The genuine expressions of truth and nature are happily calculated to impress the heart with pleasure.

VIRTUE REWARDED:

A PASTORAL TALE:

[From the German of Gesner.]

Glicera was beautiful and poor. Scarce had she numbered sixteen springs, when she lost the mother who had brought her up. Reduced to servitude, she kept the flocks of Lamon, who cultivated the lands of a rich citizen of Mitylene.

One day, her eyes flowing with tears, she went to visit her mother’s solitary tomb. She poured upon her grave a cup of pure water, and suspended crowns of flowers to the branches of the bushes she had planted round it. Seated beneath the mournful shade, and drying up her tears, she said, ‘O thou most tender of mothers, how dear to my heart is the remembrance of thy virtues! If ever I forget the instructions thou gavest me, with such a tranquil smile, in that fatal moment, when inclining thy head upon my bosom, I saw thee expire; if ever I forget them! may the propitious Gods forsake me, and may thy sacred shade forever fly me! It is thou that hast just preserved my innocence. I come to tell thy manes all. Wretch that I am! Is there any one on earth to whom I dare open my heart?

‘Nicias, the Lord of this country, came hither to enjoy the pleasures of the autumn. He saw me; he regarded me with a soft and gracious air. He praised my flocks, and the care I took of them: he often told me that I was genteel, and made me presents. Gods! how was I deceived! but in the country who mistrusts? I said to myself, how kind our master is! may the Gods reward him! all my vows shall be for him; ’tis all that I can do; but I will forever do it. The rich are happy, and favoured by the immortals. When bountiful, like Nicias, they deserve to be happy. This to myself I said, and let him take my hand, and press it in his. The other day I blushed, and dared not look up, when he put a gold ring upon my finger. See, he said, what is engraved on this stone? A winged child, who smiles like thee; and ’tis he that must make thee happy. As he spoke these words, he stroaked my cheeks, that were redder than the fire. He loves me; he has the tenderness of a father for me; how have I deserved so much kindness from a Lord, and so rich and powerful? O, my mother, that was all thy poor child thought. Heavens! how was I deceived! this morning he found me in the orchard; he chuck’d me familiarly under the chin. Come, he said, bring me some new-blown flowers to the myrtle bower, that I may there enjoy their sweet perfumes. With haste I chose the finest flowers; and, full of joy, I ran to the bower. Thou art, he said, more nimble than the Zephyrs, and more beautiful than the Goddess of flowers. Then, immortal Gods! I yet tremble at the thought; then he catch’d me in his arms, and pressed me to his bosom, and all that love can promise, all that is soft and seducing, flow’d from his lips. I wept; I trembled. Unable to resist such arts, I had been forever lost. No, thou wou’dst no longer have had a child, if thy remembrance had not watch’d over my heart. Ah! if thy worthy mother had even seen thee suffer such disgraceful caresses! that thought alone gave me power to force myself from the arms of the seducer and fly.

‘Now I come; O with what comfort is it that I still dare! I come to weep over thy grave. Alas! poor and unfortunate as I am, why did I lose thee when so young. I droop like a flower, deprived of the support that sustain’d its feeble stalk. This cup of pure water I pour to the honour of thy manes. Accept this garland! receive my tears! may they penetrate even to thy ashes! Hear, O my mother, hear; ’tis to thy dear remains, that repose beneath those flowers, which my eyes have so often bedewed: ’tis to thy sacred shade I here renew the vows of my heart. Virtue, innocence, and the fear of the Gods, shall make the happiness of my days. Therefore poverty shall never disturb the serenity of my mind. May I do nothing that thou wou’dst not have approv’d with a smile of tenderness, and I shall surely be, as thou wast, belov’d of Gods and men: For I shall be gentle, modest, and industrious, O my mother, by living thus, I hope to die like thee, with smiles and tears of joy.’

Glicera, on quitting the place, felt all the powerful charms of virtue. The gentle warmth that was diffused over her mind, sparkled in her eyes, still wet with tears. She was beautiful as those days of spring, when the sun shines through a transient shower.

With a mind quite tranquil, she was hastening back to her labour, when Nicias ran to meet her. ‘O Glicera!’ he said, and tears flowed down his cheeks, ‘I have heard thee at thy mother’s tomb. Fear nothing, virtuous maid! I thank the immortal Gods! I thank that virtue, which hath preserved me from the crime of seducing thy innocence. Forgive me, chaste Glicera! forgive, nor dread in me a fresh offence. My virtue triumphs through thine. Be wise, be virtuous, and be ever happy. That meadow surrounded with trees, near to thy mother’s tomb, and half the flock thou keepest, are thine.

‘May a man of equal virtue complete the happiness of thy days! weep not, virtuous maid! but accept the present I offer thee with a sincere heart, and suffer me from henceforth to watch over thy happiness. If thou refusest me, a remorse for offending thy virtue will be the torment of all my days. Forget, O vouchsafe to forget my crime, and I will revere thee as a propitious power that hath defended me against myself.’

THE MISER AND PRODIGAL.

The hoarding miser torments himself, and the spendthrift punishes the innocent. The hoarder heaps up for others; and the prodigal scatters what others had heaped. The hoarder thinks so much of the time to come, as to forget the present; the squanderer has his thoughts so much taken up with the present, as to forget the future. The first lives as if he were never to die, and the last as if he had but a day to enjoy. Both are unprofitable members of society; the one occasioning a stoppage in the circulation, and the other an hæmorrhage. The hoarding miser is like a fog that infests the air; the prodigal resembles an outrageous storm that overturns all in its way. The hoarding miser is a ridiculous creature, and the prodigal a noxious animal.

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 166.)

Pulaski pressed me, but in vain, for I was unable to consent. As soon as Lodoiska knew that I should depart alone, and perceived that we were resolved not to inform her whither, she shed torrents of tears, and strove to detain me. I began to hesitate.

Lovzinski, cries my father-in-law at this critical moment, Lovzinski, depart! Wife, children, relations, all ought to be sacrificed, when it is necessary for the salvation of your country.

I instantly mount my horse, and make such haste, that I arrive by the middle of next day at Czenstachow. I here found forty brave men waiting for me, and determined for the most hazardous enterprise.

“Gentlemen,” said I to them, “we are now met on purpose to carry a king out of the midst of his own capital. Those capable of attempting such a bold enterprise, are alone capable of effecting it: either success or death awaits on us!”

After this short harangue we prepare to depart. Kaluvski, forewarned of our design, had already procured twelve waggons, loaded with hay and straw, each of which was drawn by four good horses.

We instantly disguise ourselves as peasants; we hide our clothes, our sabres, our pistols, and the saddles of our horses, in the hay with which our waggons were partly filled; we agree upon certain signs, and I give them a watch-word, to be used according to circumstances.—Twelve of the conspirators, commanded by Kaluvski, enter into Warsaw, accompanied by as many waggons, which they themselves conduct. I divide the rest of my little troop into several brigades, on purpose to avert suspicion: each is ordered to march at some distance from the other, and to gain the capital by different gates.

We depart, and on Saturday the 2d of November, 1771, arrive at Warsaw, and lodge together at a convent belonging to the Dominicans.

On the next day, which was Sunday, and which will for ever form a memorable epoch in the annals of Poland, one of my people of the name of Stravinski, being covered with rags, places himself near the collegiate church, and soon after proceeds demanding charity even at the gates of the royal palace, where he observes every thing that passed. Several of the conspirators walked up and down the six narrow streets, in the neighbourhood of the great square, where Kaluvski and myself were posted. We remain in ambuscade during the whole day, and part of the afternoon.

At six o’clock at night the king leaves the palace; he is followed, and is seen to enter the hotel of his uncle, the grand chancellor of Lithuania.

All our followers receive notice of this event, and assemble instantly: they throw off their miserable clothes, saddle their horses, and prepare their arms, in the large square belonging to the convent, where their movements are entirely concealed. They then sally forth, one after the other, under favour of the night. Too well known in Warsaw to hazard appearing there, without disguising my self, I still wear my peasant’s dress, and I mount an excellent horse, caparisoned, however, after the common manner.

I then point out my followers the different posts in the suburbs, which I had assigned them before our departure from the convent, and they were dispersed in such a manner, that all the avenues to the palace of the grand chancellor were carefully and strictly guarded.

Between nine and ten o’clock at night, the king comes forth on purpose to return home; and we remark, with joy, that his attendants were far from being numerous.

The carriage was preceded by two men, who carried flambeaux, some officers of his suit, two gentlemen and an esquire followed. I know not what was the name of the grandee in the coach along with the king. There were two pages, one to each door, two haydukes running by the side of the equipage, and three footmen, in the royal livery behind.

The king proceeds slowly: part of my people assemble at some distance; twelve of the most determined spring forward: I put myself at their head, and we advance at a good pace.

As there was a Russian garrison at that very moment in Warsaw, we affect to speak the language of those foreigners, so that our petty troop might be mistaken for one of their patroles.

We overtake the carriage at about a hundred and fifty paces from the grand chancellor’s palace, and exactly between those of the bishop of Cracow and of the late grand general of Poland.

All of a sudden we pass the heads of the foremost horses, so that those who preceded, found themselves separated from those who surrounded the royal equipage.

I instantly give the signal agreed upon. Kaluvski gallops up, with the remainder of the conspirators: I present a pistol to the postillion, who instantly stops; the coachman is fired upon, and precipitated beneath the wheels. Of the two haydukes who endeavoured to defend their prince, one drops, pierced with two balls; the other is overturned by means of a backhanded stroke from a sabre, which he receives on the head; the steed belonging to the esquire falls down covered with wounds; one of the pages is dismounted, and his horse taken; pistol-balls fly about in all directions—in short, the attack was so hot, and the fire so violent, that I trembled for the king’s life.

He himself, however, preserving the utmost coolness in the midst of the danger, had now descended from his carriage, and was striving to regain his uncle’s palace on foot. Kaluvski arrests and seizes him by the hair; seven or eight of the conspirators surround, disarm, overpower him, and, pressing him between their horses, make off at a full gallop towards the end of the street.

During this moment, I confess that I thought Pulaski had basely deceived me; that the death of the monarch was resolved upon, and that a plot had been formed to assassinate him.

All of a sudden I form my resolves; I clap spurs to my horse, overtake the little band, cry out to them to stop, and threaten to kill the first person who should dare to disobey me.

That God who is the protector of good kings, watched over the safety of M. de P***! Kaluvski and his followers stop at the sound of my well-known voice. We mount the king on horseback, make off at full speed, and regain the ditch that surrounded the city, which the monarch is constrained to leap, in company with us.

At that moment a panic terror takes possession of my troop; at fifty paces distant from the ramparts, there were no more than seven who surrounded the person of the king.

The night was dark and rainy, and it was necessary to dismount every instant, on purpose to sound the morass with which we were surrounded.

The horse on which the monarch rode fell twice, and broke his leg at the second fall: during these violent movements, his majesty lost his pelisse, and the shoe belonging to his left foot.

“If you wish that I should follow you,” says he to us, you must furnish me with another horse and a pair of boots.

We remount him once more, and, on purpose to gain the road by which Pulaski had promised me to advance, we resolve to pass through a village called Burakow; but the king exclaims, “Do not go that way; there are Russians there!”

I immediately change our route; but in proportion as we advance through the wood of Beliany, our number continues to diminish. In a short time, I perceive nobody around me but Kaluvski and Stravinski: a few minutes after, we are challenged by a Russian sentinel on horseback, at whose voice we instantly stop, greatly alarmed for our safety.

“Let us kill him!” cries the ferocious Kaluvski, pointing to the king. I instantly avow to him, without disguise, the horror which such a proposition inspired me with. “Very well, you may then take upon you the task of conducting him,” adds this cruel hearted man, who immediately after precipitates himself into the woods. Stravinski follows him, and I alone remain with the king.

“Lovzinski,” says he, addressing himself to me, as soon as they were out of sight; “it is you, I can no longer doubt it; it is you, for I will remember your voice!” I utter not a single word in reply. He then mildly adds, “It is certainly you Lovzinski! Who would have thought this ten years ago?”

We find ourselves at that moment near to the convent of Beliany, distant no more than a single league from Warsaw.

“Lovzinski,” continues the king, “permit me to enter this convent, and save yourself.”

“You must follow me,” was my only answer.

“It is in vain,” rejoins the monarch, “that you are disguised; it is in vain that you endeavour to assume a feigned voice: I know you well, I am fully assured that you are Lovzinski: ah, who would have said so ten years since? You would then have lost your life, on condition of preserving that of your friend.”

His majesty now ceases to speak; we advance some time, in profound silence, which he again breaking, exclaims. “I am overcome with fatigue—if you wish to carry me alive, permit me to repose myself for a single moment.”

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE OF CÆSARE ARETHUSI.

Cæsare Arethusi, was invited by the duke of Ferrara, to visit his court, and received there with extraordinary respect. That prince sat to him for his portrait, admired the performance highly, gave him evident proofs not only of his favour, but of his friendship and esteem; and having, at last, concluded that his generous treatment must inevitably have secured his gratitude (if not his affection) he freely acquainted him with his real inducement for inviting him to Ferrara. Confiding in the integrity of the painter, he told him there was a lady in the city whose portrait he wished to possess; but that it was to be procured in a manner so secret, as neither to be suspected by the lady herself, nor any of her friends. He promised an immense reward to Arethusi, if he was successful and retentive; he threatened him with the utmost severity of his resentment, if ever he suffered the secret to transpire.

The artist watched a proper opportunity to sketch the likeness of the lady, unnoticed by any; and having shewn it to the duke, he seemed exceedingly struck with the resemblance, as well as the graceful air of the figure, and ordered Arethusi to paint a portrait from that sketch, as delicately as he possibly could, but, above all things, recommended it to him, to keep it from every eye except his own.

When the picture was finished, the painter himself beheld it with admiration, and thought it would be injurious to his fame to conceal from the world, a performance which he accounted perfect; and through an excess of pride and vanity shewed it privately to several of his friends, who could not avoid commending the work, while they detested the folly and ingratitude of the artist.

The secret thus divulged, circulated expeditiously; it soon reached the ears of the lady, and her family, who were exceedingly irritated; and the duke appeared so highly enraged at the treachery of Arethusi, that he was almost provoked to put him to death; but he only banished him for ever from his dominions.

ADVICE.

When you come or find yourself coming full bat, it is called, against another person, you endeavour to get out of the way. Let an old man advise you not to do so. Stand still. He will endeavour to get out of your way, and, by your standing still, he will effect it. If you both endeavour to get by at the same time, as there are but two sides, it is an even wager you run against each other.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON THE ORIGIN OF LOVE.

Helvetius, who has scrutinised the effects of first impressions, with an acuteness which few of our moral philosophers can boast, led me, the other day, to consider on his theory, the origin of those refined and delicate sensations, which, in the mutual attachment of the sexes, give birth to the choicest blessings of humanity. According to his way of reasoning, I should suppose our ideas of beauty, and those expressions of the countenance which captivate the heart, should be ascribed to the earliest impressions on the mind. Every one’s experience will suggest to him the proof of this assertion. The first impression I can recollect when my eyes opened upon this world, was the sight of a beautiful mother, who hung over me with looks of the most fervent love. A face like hers, to me therefore, naturally became the most agreeable object in nature: And it must be to some secret analogy of feature that I owe that delirium of love, which I have since experienced from the charms of a mistress, whose countenance bore all those striking expressions of tenderness which characterised hers.

So much for the definition.---I cannot but add, how truly deplorable it is, that a passion which constitutes almost the only honourable trait in human nature, should now be every where trampled upon by avarice. For my part, altho’ I have suffered more from the fancied than ever I shall probably again from the real preference of a wealthy rival, yet, I trust I shall not witness, as our country advances, the same instances of legal prostitution as I have done in some other parts of the world. With us it is still more unpardonable; as the means of bettering our fortunes are so much more easy or certain. If there are those who are so far insensible to the refinements of sentiment as to give a preference to those enjoyments which are to be purchased, let them recollect, that by renouncing an union of the same taste and disposition, they abandon the only hope they can confidently entertain of nuptial constancy and domestic sunshine. If any one objects to me, that I may frequently be mistaken in this result of sincere love, I should still exclaim

Yours, &c.

PETRARCH.

POLITICS.

“Politics,” says the elegant and ingenious Mr. Grenville, in his Maxims, “are the food of sense exposed to the hunger of folly.” And indeed they seem to be devoured with so voracious an appetite, that no good assimilation or chylification of them takes place in the body politic in consequence of it. The appetite is great, the digestion imperfect.

ANECDOTE.

No object can be more pleasing to a virtuous mind, than to behold a well-directed benevolence, productive of a grateful and happy heart; while the smiling scenes of cultivation and society succeed to the solitary wastes of savage nature. Mr. Wood, a free merchant of Decca, coming thence to Calcutta, where the Ganges flows thro’ vast tracks of uncultivated and marshy woods, which render the navigation peculiarly difficult and dangerous, happened to fall in with a poor native wood-cutter. In the course of conversation, the latter said, that if he had but fifty rupees (5l.) he could make a comfortable settlement. The fifty rupees Mr. Wood lent him. When this worthy man, after staying some time at Calcutta, returned to Decca, he saw the pleasing effects of his bounty in an advanced settlement, on a small eminence newly cleared from standing trees. Unsolicited, he lent the wood-cutter fifty rupees more. The next voyage, Mr. Wood was delighted to behold the rapid progress of the settlement, and astonished to meet the wood-cutter offering to pay half the small, but generous loan. Mr. Wood refused to receive it at that time, and lent him 100 rupees more. About eighteen months after the commencement of the settlement, he had the inexpressible satisfaction of seeing his industrious wood-cutter at the head of five populous villages, and a spacious tract of fine land under cultivation, drained and cleared of swamps and woods. The woodcutter now repaid the principal he had borrowed, and tendered the interest, while tears of gratitude and humble affection stole down his venerable, his happy and expressive countenance. But how inexpressible the feelings of the benevolent merchant! Let those plunderers, who return with the wealth of nations sinking under their cruelty and oppression, while they wanton in all the luxuries of life---let them still

To sensations like his they must ever be strangers. An enjoyment so exquisite, so pure, so permanent, not all the riches of the East can purchase.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Saturday the 12th inst. at Schenectady, by the Rev. Dr. Smith, Mr. Jeremiah Van Rensselaer, son of Gen. Robert Van Rensselaer, of Claverack, to Miss Sibella A. Kane, daughter of Mr. John Kane of that place.

On Thursday evening the 17th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Foster, George Simpson, Esq. to Miss Mary Penn, both of this city.

On Sunday evening the 20th inst. Mr. Thomas Mahan, to Miss Hannah Curtis, both of this place.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

The reader will easily recollect the addresses to Winter published in our two last numbers. The following forms

ANOTHER WINTRY PROSPECT.

THE SEASON OF DELIGHT,

A SONG.

RECITATIVE.

AIR.

SONNET

TO HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

TO MARIA.

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.

Extraordinary Intrepidity of the Jomsburgians.

History informs us, that Harold, surnamed Blaatand, or Blue Tooth, (a king of Denmark, who reigned in the middle of the tenth century) had founded on the coast of Pomerania, which he had subdued, a city named Julin or Jomsburg; where he sent a colony of young Danes, and bestowed the government on a celebrated warrior named Palnatoko. This new Lycurgus had made of that city a second Sparta, and every thing was directed to this single end, to form complete soldiers. The author who has left us the history of this colony, assures us, that “it was forbidden them so much as to mention the name of fear, even in the most imminent dangers.” No citizen of Jomsburg was to yield to any number, however great, but to fight intrepidly without flying, even from a very superior force. The sight of present and inevitable death would have been no excuse with them for making any the least complaint, or for shewing the slightest apprehension. And this legislator really appears to have eradicated from the minds of most of the youths bred up under him, all traces of that sentiment so natural and so universal, which makes men think on their destruction with horror. Nothing can shew this better than a single fact in their history, which deserves to have place here for its singularity. Some of them having made an irruption into the territories of a powerful Norwegian lord, named Haquin, were overcome in spite of the obstinacy of their resistance; and the most distinguished among them being made prisoners, were, according to the custom of those times, condemned to death. The news of this, far from afflicting them, was, on the contrary, received with joy. The first who was led to punishment was content to say, without changing countenance, “why should not the same happen to me as did to my father? he died, and so must I.” A warrior named Thorchill, who was to cut off the head of the second, having asked him what he felt at the sight of death, he answered, “that he remembered too well the laws of Jomsburg to utter any words that denoted fear.” The third, in reply to the same question, said, “he rejoiced to die in glory, and that he preferred such a death to an infamous life like that of Thorchill’s.” The fourth made an answer much longer and more extraordinary. “I suffer with a good heart; and the present hour is to me very agreeable. I only beg of you,” added he, addressing himself to Thorchill, “to be very quick in cutting off my head; for it is a question often debated by us at Jomsburg, whether one retains any sense after being beheaded. I will therefore grasp this knife in my hand; if, after my head is cut off, I strike it towards you, it will shew I have not lost all sense; if I let it drop, it will be a proof to the contrary. Make haste, therefore, and decide the dispute.” ‘Thorchill, adds the historian, cut off his head in the most expeditious manner, but the knife, as might be expected, dropped from his hand.’ The fifth shewed the same tranquility, and died rallying and jeering his enemies. The sixth begged of Thorchill that he might not be led to punishment like a sheep; “strike the blow in my face,” said he, “I will sit still without shrinking; and take notice whether I once wink my eyes or betray one sign of fear in my countenance. For we inhabitants of Jomsburg are used to exercise ourselves in trials of this sort, so as to meet the stroke of death without once moving.” He kept his promise before all the spectators, and received the blow without the least sign of fear, or so much as winking his eyes. The seventh, says the historian, was a very beautiful young man, in the flower of his age. His long fair hair, as fine as silk, floated in curls and ringlets on his shoulders. Thorchill asked him what he thought of death? “I receive it willingly,” said he, “since I have fulfilled the greatest duty of life, and have seen all those put to death whom I would not survive. I only beg of you one favour, not to let my hair be touched by a slave, or stained with my blood.”

COMMUNION WITH OUR OWN HEARTS.

If we could but learn to commune with our own hearts, and know what noble company we can make them, we should little regard the elegance and the splendors of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the travellers. The similitude still may be improved, when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile.