The New-York Weekly Magazine;

On Saturday se’nnight, by the Rev. Mr. Phœbus, Mr. Philip Gorrall, late of Dublin, to the very agreeable Miss Eliza Shreeve, daughter of the Rev. Thomas Shreeve, late of this city.

On the 27th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, the Rev. Abel Roe, of Woodbridge, N.J. to Mrs. Barrett, relict of Nathaniel Barrett, Esq. of Boston, late American Consul, at Rouen, in France.

On Wednesday evening, the 14th inst. at Aurora, in the county of Onondaga, Glen Cuyler, Esq. Attorney at Law, to Miss Mary F. Ledyard, daughter of Benjamin Ledyard, Esq. Clerk of that County.

A few weeks since, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. Alexander P. Waldron, to Miss Hannah Robertson, both of this city.

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

From the 11th to the 24th inst.

	Thermometor observed at				Prevailing winds.		OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.
	6, A.M. 3, P.M.				6.	3.	6.	3.
	deg.	100	deg.	100
Dec. 11	29	75	35		w.	do.	clear do.	high wind do.
12	31		38	50	w.	do.	cloudy clear,	lt. wind do.
13	30	50	39	50	w.	e.	clear cloudy,	lt. wind do.
14	36		38	50	n.	w.	cloudy sm. rn.	lt. wd. do.
15	35	25	39		w.	sw.	clear do.	lt. wind do.
16	33		39	50	w.	se.	clear cloudy,	lt. wd. h. wd.
17	35	25	40		nw.	n.	sm. rn. at ni.	cr. do. h. wd.
18	36		40		ne.	do.	rain do.	high wind do.
19	36	75	43	50	ne.	nw.	rain clear,	high wind do.
20	22	25	27		nw.	do.	clear do.	high wind do.
21	25		31		nw.	w.	cloudy do.	light wind do.
22	21		22		w.	nw.	snow cloudy,	lt. wd. h. wd.
23	11		15	75	w.	do.	clear do.	high wind do.
24	10	50	16	75	w.	do.	cr. very sm. sn.	h. wd. do.

SONNET.

Woman, thou sweet urbanity to guile

Life’s tedious course away—I love thy smile,

Thy brow soft animated sweet to please,

Thy full-bright-eye at vestal fire so chaste,

Thy cheek like Hebe’s bloom, and littling waist,

With native movement, elegance and ease.

Of these, the fair, from nature genuine boast,

Whose charms replete with wonder strike the host,

Yet when she meets my gaze, to sigh I’m prone,

That peerless beauty, in a Paphian form,

Like summer rose is tribute to the worm,

Short boast that once inimitably shone.

But truth predominating points the meed

All here is short, whilst endless scenes succeed.

SONG.

How shall the simple-hearted maid

Escape the treacherous wiles,

By vain unfaithful man outspread,

How shun the fatal toils?

When ev’ry guile and ev’ry art

Stand forth in readiness,

T’ ensnare the unsuspecting heart,

And leave it to distress.

Coldness or scorn ensures their love

They sigh---they are undone;

But oh, what pangs that heart must prove,

Which owns it has been won!

Then cease, ye gentle beings cease

The insidious sex to trust,

For ah, ye sacrifice your peace,

When you believe them just.

ANNA.

New-York, Dec. 22, 1796.

ON LOSING A FRIEND.

The pangs I felt at parting thee my friend,

May be conceiv’d but cannot well be penn’d;

On this deceitful world’s precarious stage,

You stood my friend from youth to hoary age;

Upright, and firm, steady to thy trust,

The actions keen, but still correctly just;

The critic’s malice, peace has oft destroy’d,

But you well tempered, could not be annoy’d;

Within thy mansion, peace and plenty dwelt,

Your guests when pleas’d, what pleasure then you felt;

A friend so rare to meet with now a days,

All wish to know to whom is due such praise;

’Tis due to one whose loss I’ll long deplore,

My friend’s a TOOTH, alas just gone before.

SONNET.

Man stalks gigantic, lord in proud extreme,

O’er all creations wond’rous scope can give,

Bow’d by no yoke, scarce to the great supreme,

Whose sanction bad mortality to live.

Yet what pursues he? Lucre’s molten pelf,

Or pleaure’s silken chain of visions dear,

Of knowledge boasting, while unknown himself

And loudly cavils at existence here.

To be, and yet to be, is but the small demand,

Seek then religion’s purifying glow,

It tranquilizes time, with stubborn hand,

Whilst hoary age hopes endless life to know.

Our utmost here fills but a requiem page,

Poor, frail memorial of the passing age.

The Bachelor’s Soliloquy. In imitation of a celebrated Speech.

To wed, or not to wed—That is the question;

Whether ’tis happier in the mind to stifle

The heats and tumults of outrageous passion,

Or with some prudent fair in solemn contract

Of matrimony join---to have---to hold---

No more---and by that have to say we end

The heart-ach, and the thousand love-sick pangs

Of celibacy---’twere a consummation

Devoutly to be wish’d.——In nuptial band

To join till death dissolves;---Ay, there’s the rub;

For in that space what dull remorse may come,

When we have taken our solemn leave of liberty,

Must give us pause.——There’s the respect

That slacks our speed in suing for a change.

Else---who would bear the scorns and sneers which bachelors

When aged feel, the pains and flatt’ring fevers

Which each new face must give to roving fancy,

When he might rid himself at once of all

By a bare Yes. Who would with patience bear

To fret and linger out a single life,

But that the dread of something yet untry’d,

Some hazard in a state from whose strict bond

Death only can release, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather chuse those ills we have,

Than fly to others which we fancy greater!

This last reflection makes us slow and wary,

Filling the dubious mind with dreadful thoughts

Of curtain-lectures, jealousies, and cares

Extravagantly great, entail’d on wedlock,

Which to avoid the lover checks his passion,

And, miserable, dies a BACHELOR.

EPITAPH.

Entomb’d beneath this lofty tree

A mortal lies of low degree.

A strict observer from his youth

Of that important virtue, truth.

He never with a selfish view

Was known to speak a word untrue.

His temper lively, yet as mild

And harmless as a new-born child.

He never slandered friend or foe,

Nor triumph’d in another’s woe;

And tho’, when young, he us’d to roam,

For years he lov’d his little home:

Securely there he laid him down,

Nor fear’d the world’s ill-natur’d frown;

No wild ambitious thoughts possest

His quiet, unaspiring breast.

He envied neither wealth nor power,

Enjoying still the present hour;

Contented with his daily bread,

Each night he sought his peaceful bed:

Stranger to vice he knew no fear,

As life’s important end drew near;

He breath’d his last without a sigh,

And shew’d how Innocence shou’d die

Blush, reader, while these lines you scan

Here lies a Monkey, not a man.

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.

THE NETTLE AND THE ROSE:

Our bane and physic the same earth bestows,

And near the noisome nettle blooms the rose.

We may consider human life as a garden, in which Roses and Nettles are promiscuously scattered, and in which we as often feel the sting of the wounding Nettle, as we enjoy the fragrance of the blooming Rose. Those bowers of delight, entwined with the woodbine and jessamine, under whose friendly umbrage we seek shelter from the noon-day sun, sometimes are the abode of snakes, adders, and other venomous creatures, which wound us in those unguarded scenes of delight. As the year has its seasons, and winter and summer are constantly in pursuit of each other, so changeable likewise is the condition of mortals; and as the elements are frequently disturbed by storms, hurricanes, and tempests, so is the mind of man frequently ruffled and discomposed, till the sunshine of reason and philosophy bursts forth and dispels the gloom. Murmering brooks, purling streams, and sequestered groves, whatever the fictions of a poetical imagination may have advanced, are not always the seat of unmingled pleasure, nor the abode of uninterrupted happiness.

The hapless Florio pined away some months on the delightful banks of the Severn: he complained of the cruelty of the lovely Annabella, and told his fond tale to the waters of that impetuous stream, which hurried along regardless of his plaints. He gathered the lilies of the field: but the lilies were not so fair as his Annabella, nor the fragrance of the blushing rose so sweet as her breath; the lambs were not so innocent, nor the sound of the tabour on the green half so melodious as her voice. Time, however, has joined Florio and Annabella in the fetters of wedlock, and the plaints of the swain are now changed. The delusion of the enchantment is now vanished, and what he but lately considered as the only object worthy of his sublunary pursuit, he now contemplates with coolness, indifference, and disgust: enjoyment has metamorphosed the Rose into a Nettle.

Ernestus, contrary to his inclination, was compelled by his parents to marry the amiable Clara, whose sense, tenderness, and virtues, soon fixed the heart of the roving Ernestus; and what at first gave him pain and disgust, by degrees became familiar, pleasing, and delightful: the Nettle was here changed to the Rose.

The wandering libertine, who pursues the Rose thro’ the unlawful paths of love, who tramples under foot every tender plant that comes within his reach, and who roves from flower to flower, like the bee, only to rob it of its sweets, will at last lose his way, and, when benighted, be compelled to repose on the restless bed of wounding Nettles.

The blooming Rose is an utter stranger to the wilds of ambition, where gloomy clouds perpetually obscure the beams of the joyful sun, where the gentle zephyrs never waft thro’ the groves, but discordant blasts are perpetually howling, and where the climate produces only Thorns and Nettles.

The Rose reaches its highest perfection in the garden of industry, where the soil is neither too luxuriant, nor too much impoverished. Temperance fans it with the gentlest zephyrs, and health and contentment sport around it. Here the Nettle no sooner makes its appearance, than the watchful eye of prudence espies it, and, though it may not be possible totally to eradicate it, it is never suffered to reach to any height of perfection.

Since then human life is but a garden, in which weeds and flowers promiscuously shoot up and thrive, let us do what we can to encourage the culture of the Rose, and guard against the spreading Nettle. However barren may be the soil that falls to our lot, yet a careful and assiduous culture will contribute not a little to make the garden, at least, pleasing and cheerful.

DISINTERESTED ACTION.

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by justice, is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The expences of society, of presents, of entertainments, and the other helps to chearfulness, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of disposing of our superfluities; but they become vicious when they obstruct or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous disposition of our circumstances.

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

“And yet it has been affected in a very simple manner. A moveable board, which could be pushed to and fro without the least noise, was concealed among those of which the cell was composed. Hiermanfor stole through that hidden avenue as soon as he saw from without, through a small hole, the lamp extinguished. He could enter without the least danger of detection, because you have turned your back towards him, and fixed your attention entirely on the altar.”

“Then every thing had been previously prepared and pre-concerted with the King?”

“The incident,” the Duke replied, after a pause, “now ceases, indeed, to appear miraculous to me; however, the behaviour of the king seems to me so much the more mysterious. How is it possible that this reverend old man could consent to deceive me in so degrading a manner?”

“It was no easy task to perswade him to it. However, after Hiermanfor had exhorted his eloquence in vain, he declared at length proudly, that no other choice was left him, than either leaving his crown forever in the possession of an usurper, or to consent to that innocent artifice. The King thought he was bound to choose the latter, for the benefit of the empire and his private happiness.”

A long silence on both sides. At length the Duke resumed: “Hiermanfor showed me the ghost of my tutor at the church-yard; by what means has that been effected?”

“Why do you think so? the explanations which you have given me, as yet, have been very satisfactory to me.”

“My Lord, do not misunderstand me, you have been telling me a little while ago, that you have not yet been initiated by Hiermanfor in the last mysteries of his philosophy!”

“That you are still in want of the knowledge which will be requisite, if you are to be capable of comprehending the appearance of your tutor.”

“Don’t pretend to persuade me that this apparition has been effected by supernatural means.”

“And I tell you only what I do not believe. All the other incidents should have been effected by delusive arts, and Antonio’s appearance only be excepted?”

The Duke was silent, viewing the Count attentively. The latter resumed: “Besides, it is very indifferent to me what you think of the matter. Hiermanfor may set you right.”

“Very much like you. He has made himself my master, and I am subservient to him.”

“Even that little which you know of him would be remarkable to me, if authentic.”

“I should tire your patience if I were to repeat to you all the improbable stories which are related of him. There are, however, very few credible accounts of him.”

“Even the true family name of Hiermanfor is not known to me. He is said to have been born in Ireland, of plebeian parents. A near relation who professed astrology, had observed the stars on his birth, and prophesied great things of him. The same man persuaded his parents to give him a learned education, which they afterwards repented so much the less, when they perceived the astonishing progress in learning which he made. When he had attained the years of adolescence, his relation instructed him in mathematics and astronomy. The fame of Hiermanfor’s great learning procured him the place of governor in a noble family. The eldest daughter fell in love with him, and the language of her eyes soon betrayed to him the impression he had made on her heart. She was a blooming beauty, who had attracted by her uncommon charms, and rejected many woers of high rank. It had been reserved for Hiermanfor to kindle in her heart the first spark of love, and yet he appeared insensible of his good fortune. But he was not. He entertained a high sense of the preference given to him: honesty and prudence commanded him, however, to conceal his sentiments for a person who was so far superior to him in point of rank. Yet youthful age is not always capable of maintaining the rigorous dictates of reason against the seducing voice of the passions, and thus Hiermanfor betrayed, in an unguarded moment, the secret of his heart, which was received with rapture by the young lady, and carefully concealed in her bosom. But from that moment he resolved to endeavour to rise to a situation which would permit him to woo the hand of his mistress without blushing. This bold idea had no sooner taken place in the soul of the resolute youth, than he began to delineate a plan for the execution of it. Hiermanfor thought the naval service would be the shortest way of attaining a splendid fortune, and instantly navigation became the chief object of his study. He found very soon an opportunity of putting his acquired knowledge in practice, which he chiefly owed to the support of the family in which he had been tutor. The proofs of uncommon skill which he gave in naval matters, soon raised him to the rank of a captain, when his mistress died. Hiermanfor resigned his place in the navy, and was received as lay brother in the order of the Carmelites. Having performed his vow he was sent to Rome, where he got acquainted with a priest of the same order, whose name was Father Gabriel, and who was famed for his great skill in physic and natural knowledge. Instructed by that learned man, he improved rapidly, and acquired at the same time great knowledge in natural magic, in which his relation had already instructed him.

“A genius like his could not, however, confine himself for a length of time to cloistered retirement and a speculative life. His superiors sent a mission to the Indies, and Hiermanfor got leave to make that journey with the missionaries. There he is said to have acquired among the Bramins the knowledge of the occult sciences, in the mysteries of which he has promised to initiate your Grace. I do not know what prompted him to leave the order afterwards. His superiors parting with him reluctantly, rendered it very difficult for him to procure dispensation from his vows. At length he got leave to retire, under the condition never to be inimical to the order.---This is all that I know of his life.”

“Then every thing the Magistrate and the hermit have related of him is a fictition?” the Duke enquired after a short silence.

“Not at all!” the Count replied, “almost all those accounts are founded on facts, though they have been embellished by fictitious episodes. The surprising feats of Hiermanfor, of which you have been informed, were however effected merely by means of natural magic.”

“For instance, the delivery of the old King from the castle of St. Lukar---how has it been effected?”

“It certainly has been performed by Hiermanfor’s accuteness, though not through him alone.”

“Count! by all that is dear to you, by Hiermanfor’s friendship, by our reconciliation, what is your real opinion of that apparition?”

The Duke rose and pressed the Count’s hand. “Have you any secret wish which I could satisfy? speak freely, and I will satisfy it, cost it what it will, only make a frank and candid confession.”

“If you, perhaps, hesitate to discover your real sentiments here, you may fix some other place, and I pledge my honour, that no man living shall be made acquainted with your secret.”

“Count, I conjure you, by every thing sacred, by the horrors of eternity!” here the Duke encircled him with his arms, “by Amelia’s spirit, tell we what do you think of that apparition?”

“I believe that apparition to have been effected by Hiermanfor’s supernatural power,” replied the Count after a short silence.

The Duke stepped a few paces back, and having viewed him some time with a stern look, said, “You are my prisoner, do you know that I can send you to the dungeon?”

“Come,” said the Duke, after he had walked up and down the room in silent meditation; “Come, I will give you some time for consideration.”---So saying, he led the Count into another room where he locked him up.

“What shall I do with that fellow?” he said to me when he returned to us, “believe what he has said and set him at liberty; or mistrust and retain him?”

“Retain him,” my reply was: “if he sees that you are in earnest, he certainly will confess.”

DIGNITY OF MAN.

Strength and majesty belong to the man; grace and softness are the peculiar embellishments of the other sex. In both, every part of their form declares their sovereignity over other creatures. Man supports his body erect; his attitude is that of command; and his face, which is turned towards the heavens, displays the dignity of his station. The image of his soul is painted in his vissage; and the excellence of his nature penetrates through the material form in which it is inclosed. His majestic port, his sedate and resolute step, announce the nobleness of his rank. He touches the earth only with his extremity, and beholds it as if at a disdainful distance. His arms are not given him, as to other creatures, for pillars of support; nor does he lose, by rendering them callous against the ground, that delicacy of touch which furnishes him with so many of his enjoyments.

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.

Pulaski, consumed with a black melancholy, exposes his life like a man to whom life had become insupportable, is always to be found at the most dangerous posts, and, towards the end of the fourth campaign, is mortally wounded by my side. Being carried to his tent, I instantly repair thither to console him.

“I find that my end approaches,” says he, addressing himself to me. “Ah! it is but too true, that I shall never see my native country again!

“Cruel, fantastical destiny! Pulaski falls a martyr to American liberty, and the Poles still continue slaves!
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
My friend, my death would be indeed horrible, if a ray of hope did not remain to cheer me! Ah! I hope I do not deceive myself——No, I am not mistaken,” adds he in a firmer accent.

“A consoling Deity discloses in my last thoughts a futurity, a happier futurity which approaches!

“I behold one of the first nations in the world awakening from a long and deep slumber, and re-demanding of its proud oppressors its violated honours, and its ancient rights; its sacred, imprescriptible rights, the rights of humanity.

“I behold in an immense capital, long dishonoured by every species of servility, a crowd of soldiers discovering themselves to be citizens, and millions of citizens becoming soldiers.

“Beneath their redoubled blows, the Bastille shall be overturned; the signal is already given from one extremity of the empire to another;---the reign of tyrants is no more!

“A neighbouring people, sometimes an enemy, but always generous, always worthy of deciding upon great actions, shall applaud those unexpected efforts, crowned with such a speedy success!

“Ah, may a reciprocal esteem commence and strengthen between these two nations an unalterable friendship! May that horrible science of trick, imposture, and treason, which courts denominate politics, hold out no obstacle to prevent this fraternal re-union!

“Noble rivals, in talents and philosophy, Frenchmen! Englishmen! suspend at length, and suspend for ever, those bloody discords, the fury of which has but too often extended over the two hemispheres;---no longer decide between you the empire of the universe, but by the force of your example, and the ascendancy of your genius. Instead of the cruel advantage of affrighting and subduing the nations around you, dispute between yourselves the more solid glory of enlightening their ignorance, and breaking their chains.

“Approach,” adds Pulaski, “behold at a little distance from, and in the midst of the carnage that surrounds us, among such a crowd of famous warriors, a warrior celebrated even in the midst of them, by his masculine courage, his early talents, and his virtues truly republican. He is the heir of a name long illustrious; but he had no occasion for the glory of his ancestors, to render himself celebrated.

“It is young Fayette, already an honour to France, and a scourge to tyrants: but he has scarce begun his immortal labours!

“Envy his fate, Lovzinski; endeavour to imitate his virtues, and follow as near as possible the steps of so great a man. He, the worthy pupil of a Washington, shall soon be the Washington of his own country. It is almost at the same time, my friend, it is at that memorable epoch of the regeneration of nations, that the eternal justice shall also present to our fellow-citizens, the days of vengeance and of liberty.

“Then Lovzinski, in whatever place thou mayest be, let thy hate re-kindle! Again combat gloriously on the side of Poland.

“Let the remembrance of our injuries, and of our successes, call forth thy courage! May thy sword, so many times empurpled with the blood of our enemies, be still turned against those oppressors. May they tremble while thinking on thy exploits! May they tremble in recalling the name of Pulaski!

“They have ravished from us our property; they have assassinated thy wife; they have robbed thee of thy daughter; they have dishonoured my memory!

“The barbarians! They have dismembered our provinces! Lovzinski, these are injuries which you ought never to forget.

“When our persecutors are those also of our country, vengeance becomes at once sacred and indispensible.

“You owe to the Russians an eternal hatred! You owe to Poland the last drop of your blood!”

I fought for the United States of America, until the happy peace which ensured their independence. M. de C***, who had served along with me, and who was attached to the corps commanded by the Marquis de la Fayette--- M. de C*** gave me letters of recommendation, to his friends in Paris, and this capital I have chosen for my retreat in the meridian of life, from the bustle of politics, and the clangor of arms.

Having informed my sisters, of the place of my residence, they collected the small remains of my fortune, formerly immense, and hastened to solace me after the distressing scenes I had unfortunately witnessed.

The affecting history of the Baron Lovzinski, which he relates to a friend, breaks off, without giving any account of Dorliska, his darling daughter, whom the Russians carried off, in one of their engagements with Pulaski. It appears, from more recent accounts, given by an acquaintance of the Baron’s, that she fell into the hands of Count Gorlitz, a German Nobleman, who placed her in a suitable seminary, where she acquired every necessary accomplishment, and was by accident restored to her father, and united to a branch of a very distinguished family.

The candid acknowledgment of an Old Batchelor.

I am that insulated being called an Old Batchelor. A creature wearisome to myself and beloved by no one, I have spent the noon of my days in a single state, from the dread of incurring the expences incident to a married life with a woman who had nothing, and now surely do I repent that I had not generosity enough to overlook this consideration in favour of a charming girl that I truly loved, and who wanted nothing but fortune to recommend her. I was formerly clerk to her father, then a mechanic of great respectability, but some years after greatly reduced by the unfortunate turn of affairs in his business, incidents to many. When he failed, I was settled in the world, and might have saved his amiable girl from many a year of fatigue and distress into which their poverty immersed them. But with sang froid, for which I now detest myself, I then stood aloof, tore my thoughts from the sweet Eliza, and driving forward into the heart of the city, determined to lose myself in the recesses of counting-houses, and the accumulation of money. Thus avoiding all the plagues and expences of a family, for which I deemed the society of an elegant and affectionate woman by no means an equivalent. Alas! I now see how I miscalculated; how much such a partnership would have been for my advantage in the long run. I now put the mutual participation of pleasure and pain, the endearments of our children, that flattering interest which Eliza would have taken in me (for whom by the way nobody now cares a straw,) I put all these on the credit side of the ledger, and find in the opposite page, only such a portion of expences as I have actually brought upon myself, by being drawn in to give tavern dinners, and a thousand other extravagancies that young men know not how to avoid. You will easily see, when a just account is made out, what I have gained, or rather what I have lost. Instead of the bright hearth and smiling faces of my family, instead of sitting down in the midst of beings who owe life to me, and portioning out their little meal with the delicious sensations of a father, I take my solitary chop at a coffee-house and afterwards saunter to the theatre, where venal beauty spreads her net and I am caught! Alas! here is no mind, here is no modesty to make sentiment interesting. After having seen a public entertainment with Eliza, with what delight might we have passed the remainder of the evening. Her taste and sensibility would have made us live the hours over again with additional pleasure. Her bosom would have been my harbour in the storms of life, and there I should have found resources from ennui in the calm season of prosperity. In the day of sickness her voice could have whispered comfort, and in my dying hour the pure invocations of my children might have availed me at the throne of grace. What a sad reckoner have I been, I am now as grey as a badger, and have not a single relative in the world. I have long retired from business, but my fortune brings me no enjoyment, my dog leads nearly as rational a life: I eat and drink and sleep alternately as he does, for I now fear to become the prey of some indigent dame, who would overlook my grey hairs and infirmities in consideration of coming in for a third of my wealth, and therefore avoid much commerce with the sex, from which, though I might once have derived happiness, I can now only expect trick, or at best ridicule. But what can a man do who has let avarice run away with him in his youth, when all the social affections should have been at their out-posts to prevent it? All that remains for such a man (after the example of a culprit going to execution) is to warn the multitude how they fall into this error. To assure them that the good which is not participated is not half enjoyed, and that those who abandon a young woman from motives like mine, as they do not deserve happiness so they never will obtain it. And moreover, if you print this, pause to add, that an equal mixture of love and prudence forms the only, and most delicious conserve they will have the faculty of relishing all their life long. Either, taken separately, is prejudicial; one being too austere, and the other too sweet. They must be blended to render them happily effective, and if any persons have skill enough to make up the composition after my recipe, I shall not have bemoaned myself, nor you have inserted this in vain.

REMARKS.

Custom regulates our ideas of shame. In China, the emperor orders the bastinado to be given to a minister or a mandarin; and afterward these persons continue in their employments, without thinking themselves dishonoured or degraded. They are like scholars who return to their places after having been whipped.

The idea of virtue is become so effaced, that scarcely do we hear the name of it pronounced. The usual expression now is, an honest man, which contains but negative qualities; or sometimes qualities are mentioned, as bravery, fidelity, &c. but a collective word which expresses them all is seldom made use of.

CANDIDUS.

In an age when supernatural influence was universally acknowledged, in a country where temples innumerable rose to the fancied deities of every department of nature and of art; where even the different and opposite combinations of accident and exertion were reverenced as the decrees of a being divine and irresistable; convinced no less perhaps by self experience than observation on others, discarding the prejudices of his nation and his times, an historian published to the world and to posterity, the opinion: “Fabrum esse suæ quemque fortunæ.” Whatever then might have been the case, it would now perhaps be impossible to extend universally this proposition, and denying at once the influence of accident and chance, to prove the power of man to accomplish his wishes in every circumstance of situation and in every sphere of action. The partiality of favours and the crash of unforeseen misfortune too often expose neglected merit and ruined industry, as warning monitors in the road to honour and to riches. While sudden unlooked for prosperity not unfrequently demonstrates the best grounded fears of men unjustified by events. But, however incompetent may be our power at all times to acquire and confirm extraneous and adventitious greatness, or however limited and erroneous our views of distant consequences in the common affairs of life, as it respects the endowments of mind, it may with no little propriety be averred, Fabrum else suæ quemque fortunæ. By the great philosophers of nature, Newton and Buffon, genius was defined only a superior degree of patience and perseverence, and at the present day the advocates of this doctrine are not inconsiderable either in numbers or in talents. True indeed it is, that they incur no disgrace by entering the lists with many of their opponents. On the subject of genius three distinct opinions appear to be entertained. By some it is held to be an innate superiority of aptitude to knowledge, independent of the labours of its possessor and unsubjected to the influence of circumstance or situation. Others rejecting altogether the idea of original difference in capacity, ascribe it to the co-operation of accident and tuition confirming after years of infancy a greater or less degree of comprehension. A third set denying at once innate distinction and the agency of chance, give all the credit to assiduity and allow to the mind no other wealth than the requisitions of its industry. Of these opinions the first has long been upon the decline, and the sentiments of the generality of speculative men, are now divided between the second and the last. But on which ever side of this question we enlist our conviction, we shall find an investigation, that so much is owing to their own exertions as to afford to the present demonstration sufficient for a moral proposition. Pity that a truth so grateful to the friend of humanity, so encouraging to the aspiring mind, should be so seldom and so feebly inculcated. Ardent in pursuit, sanguine in expectation, with this impression what obstacles would obstruct what difficulties dishearten the youthful devotee of science. On the improvement of mind much has been written to enlarge its stores and strengthen its capacity, many and different methods have been recommended; but if want of attention to rules of acknowledged necessity can warrant a repetition, a few hints on this subject will need no excuse. In nothing probably are the generality of men more deceived than in the opinion they form of the mental progress of different individuals. To the lifeless soul whose diseased eyes bespeak his labours over the midnight lamp—who, secluded from society in the solitude of a study, loses his vivacity beneath a ponderous load of immethodized undigested matter; duped by specious appearance they give without examination the palm of learning. But in the hour of exigence, when the intellectual host is summoned to the field; when profit to ourselves and benefit to mankind stand the criterions of useful acquisitions, then will it uniformly be proved that reading well is infinitely better than reading much. In many who have formed a taste for reading, that taste so productive of benefit and delight; curiosity active and aspiring, still urging on even to flights beyond its sketch, hurries attention over the field of view. The different objects are but transiently inspected, and a mass of faint and indistinct impressions are mixed in the brain, of which each in succession makes the last less clear. With far less rapidity must he travel who would explore with advantage the land of knowledge. Selecting from the multitude of objects those most worthy of examination, he should with persevering care investigate their principles and structure and leave them not till satisfied he possesses all the information they can give. To read as we ought, we must read with attention and with thought. Many there are who read with attention, but few with thought. Simply to comprehend the meaning and keep in mind the connection of an author’s arguments is not sufficient, we must see and feel their force. Never to take upon trust the sentiments of another, to examine with minuteness his principles and his deductions, and to be assured of the justness of the former and the accuracy of the latter, before he adopts them as his own, should be the constant practice of him who would read with real and permanent utility. In order to this, it is necessary to form in youth a habit of deep severe persevering thought. To form this habit is at first indeed difficult, nay painful. Inclined to ease, the mind especially in early life, averts from the labour of reflection; but when confirmed, it finds in it a never ending treasure: every surrounding object affords it employment; the man who possesses it discovers in the worlds of sentiment, of manners, of science and of art, sources of continual unbounded improvement. An eminent instance of this was the celebrated Gibbon, “I have been led by a novel (says that elegant historian) into a deep and instructive train of thinking.”

MARRIED,

METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.

SONNET.

SONG.

ON LOSING A FRIEND.

SONNET.

The Bachelor’s Soliloquy. In imitation of a celebrated Speech.

EPITAPH.