The New-York Weekly Magazine;

When Guido and Domenichino had each of them painted a picture in the church of Saint Andrew, Annibal Carrache, their master, was pressed to declare, or give his opinion, which of his two pupils had excelled. The picture of Guido represented St. Andrew on his knees before the cross; that of Domenichino represented the flagellation of the same Apostle. Both of them in their different kinds were capital pieces, and were painted in fresco, opposite each other, to eternize, as it were, their rivalship and contention. ‘Guido,’ said Carrache, ‘has performed as a master, and Domenichino as a scholar. But,’ added he, ‘the work of the scholar is more valuable than that of the master.’ In truth, one may perceive faults in the picture of Domenichino that Guido has avoided; but then there are noble strokes, not to be found in that of his rival. It was easy to discern a genius that promised to produce beauties, to which the sweet, the gentle, and the graceful Guido would never aspire.

NEW-YORK.

-> The Subscribers and Public in general are respectfully informed, that John Bull, late Editor and Publisher of this Magazine, has disposed of the establishment to Mr. Thomas Burling, Jun. from the 1st day of January, 1797. In committing this publication to other hands J. Bull feels assured, that the talents which are in future to be employed in conducting it, are such as cannot fail to afford the fullest satisfaction to its patrons, and must ensure an accession of that celebrity which it has hitherto enjoyed.

At the moment of relinquishing so arduous a task, the grateful recollection of the steady support and kindnesses of my numerous friends in this undertaking, demand the warmest thanks. To those who have favoured me with the productions of their pens, I beg leave to recommend my successor; and to entreat for him a continuance of that friendship, the remembrance of which can never be effaced from my mind.

In order fully to close the Accounts to this period, I must intreat, that the bills for the small arrearages due to the 1st of January, 1797, may be punctually honoured—each distinct sum is but trifling, while the aggregate amounts to some hundred pounds; an exact compliance will add to the obligations already heaped on

P.S. Printing as usual executed by me at the Office No. 115, Cherry-street. I have now in the press, publishing by subscription, CAMILLA; or a Picture of Youth: by the author of Evelina and Cecilia.

TO THE PUBLIC, AND PATRONS

In becoming the Editor of so valuable a publication as The New-York Weekly Magazine, I cannot but feel sensations of gratitude to its generous patronizers for the liberal encouragement it has heretofore been favoured with; without which, there would not have been so great a stimulus to my undertaking this arduous task.

Sensibly feeling the duty that is incumbent on me in conducting this Repository of Literary and Useful Knowledge, all the attention and assiduous circumspection which is requisite to make it useful, entertaining and edifying to every capacity, may be relied on by a generous public.

It would be useless for me to enlarge upon the merits of a work which has so long received the approbation of an enlightened people.—Certain it is, that every attentive and candid reader will confess, or at least acknowledge the utility of this production, as the vehicle of refined ideas and engaging principles; contributing to disseminate and establish the most virtuous sentiments, while it stimulates to noble and generous actions.

I humbly solicit the literary abilities of those kind Correspondents who have hitherto come forward in support of this publication; and, shall always gratefully acknowledge the productions of the candid and sentimental writer.

Relying on the liberal support of my friends and a generous public, in prosecuting this my undertaking to their general satisfaction and entertainment,

MARRIED,

On Thursday the 22d ult. by the Rev. Mr. Miller, Mr. Thomas Loutette, to Miss Catharine M‘Kenzie, both of this city.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

-> The new Editor thankfully acknowledges the pieces of CLARA and A. D. He is sorry they arrived too late for this publication, in the next, however, they shall have a place.

WINTER; AN ODE.

No more the morn, with tepid rays,

Unfolds the flower of various hue;

Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,

Nor gentle eve distils the dew.

The lingering hours prolong the night,

Usurping darkness shares the day;

Her mists restrain the force of light,

And Phœbus holds a doubtful sway.

By gloomy twilight half reveal’d,

With sighs we view the hoary hill,

The leafless wood, the naked field,

The snow topt cot, the frozen rill.

No musick warbles thro’ the grove,

No vivid colours paint the plain;

No more with devious steps I rove

Thro’ verdant paths now sought in vain.

Aloud the driving tempest roars,

Congeal’d, impetuous showers descend;

Haste, close the window, bar the doors,

Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.

In nature’s aid let art supply

With light and heat my little sphere;

Rouze, rouze the fire, and pile it high,

Light up a constellation here.

Let musick sound the voice of joy!

Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;

Let love his wanton wiles employ,

And o’er the season wine prevail.

Yet time life’s dreary winter brings,

When mirth’s gay tale shall please no more;

Nor musick charm—tho’ Stella sings;

Nor love, nor wine, the Spring restore.

Catch then, O! catch the transient hour,

Improve each moment as it flies;

Life’s a short summer—man a flower,

He dies—alas! How soon he dies!

DESPAIR.

Condemn’d to nourish hope in vain,

My breast shall never peace regain;

The fair my soul ador’d the most,

Is to my love for ever lost.

Another—yes—and must we part?---

Another triumphs in her heart:

He tastes those humid lips, which I

To taste, would gladly yield to die.

Distraction---she---of all possest,

He sinks upon her snowy breast:

He clasps her in his eager arms;---

He revels in her sweetest charms.

I hear each soft extatic sigh,

I see her rapture closing eye;

She meets---she crowns his fierce desire,

My brain, despair and madness fire!

ODE TO CONTEMPLATION.

Come, contemplation! with celestial fire

Warm the young bard, who drives thy heights to gain;

So shall his muse obsequious strike the lyre,

To sound thy bounty in his ardent strain.

Thou lov’st to dwell where solemn, silent night

Divests the mind of folly’s frantic dream;

Where heaven’s grand canopy attracts the sight,

And whispering breezes keep the soul serene.

Ah! how I feel thy welcome power supreme,

Whene’er I wander aged Humber’s shore,

Pensive beneath the moon’s indulgent beam,

At tir’d creation’s universal snore.

If I extend my views to distant skies,

What sure conviction dawns upon my soul?

Borne on a cherub’s plume, it seems to rise,

Seeking its destin’d reign, unconscious of controul.

And not alone amazement finds employ;

Here, pure devotion lends her awful ray,

Without whose light proves lifeless ev’ry joy

That decks the night, or ornaments the day.

“But when I drop mine eye and look on man,”

I see strong outlines of eternal peace;

A Being form’d of intricate, nice plan,

Spurning the confines or of time or place.

Fain would I now retire from busy life,

Sequester’d in some solitary cell,

Alike unknown to envy and to strife,

And bid all noisy scenes a long farewell.

There no ambition should possess my mind,

Or pleasure’s gilded baits my heart betray;

But, to religion perfectly resign’d,

I’d pass my moments usefully away.

How oft, directed by the friendly care,

Silent, I’d range the church yard’s awful gloom,

Musing the fatal stroke I once must share,

A wither’d victim to the cheerless tomb.

“There weigh my dust:” prepare for that grand scene,

When life’s last blaze shall quiver to decay:

Then I’d exult in thee, my sacred theme,

And sure companion thro’ the trackless way.

E’en now with secret rapture I survey,

When my freed soul shall break her chain, and rise

Up to the regions of eternal day,

From finite being to its native skies:

With thee review with perspicacious eye,

The long, long chain of Providence design;

Conceive the attributes of deity,

And hymn his praise ineffably divine.

But cease my song! I hear the muse complain,

How she has strove, and still may strive in vain,

To tell the heart-felt pleasures of thy reign.

Epigram on a false mistress.

My heart still hovering round about you,

I thought I could not live WITHOUT you;

Now we have been two months asunder,

How I liv’d WITH you—is the wonder!

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, No. 115, Cherry-street—where Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) will be gratefully received—And at No. 33, Oliver-Street.

Sources

“Interesting History of the Baron de Lovzinski” (pg. 98)

Original: The life and adventures of the chevalier de Faublas, 1787, by Jean-Baptiste Louvet de Couvray. The Lovzinski episode covers chapters VIII-XIV (to the end of the first volume in the 4-volume edition, or about 3/4 through the first in the 3-volume edition).

English translation: Exact source unknown. The serialized text is identical to the 1811 edition, except for the spelling of the name Pulaski—Pulauski in the book—and the “translator’s afterword” in the serial.

Notes: The passages with dots and asterisks seem to be decorative, since they also occur in an early French edition.

The novel ends differently than what is implied in the magazine. The daughter of Lovzinski and Lodoiska appears later in the book as a secondary character.

Links:

Volume 1 of 1811 edition:
http://www.archive.org/details/lifeandadventur01couvgoog

Volume 1 of an “unexpurgated” later translation:
http://www.archive.org/details/amoursofchevalie01louv

The 1821 French edition:
http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k2038915.image.f358.pagination.langEN

Background: A footnote in the novel says
The Translator thinks that he can venture to pronounce M. P—— to be the nobleman who was formerly called Count Poniatowski, and who at present so worthily fills the throne of Poland.

Poniatowski abdicated in 1795, after the novel and its translation were published, but before the New-York Weekly serialization. He was kidnapped by the Bar Confederates in 1771, during the dramatic period of the novel. The story conflates two Pulaskis, the father Joseph and the son Casimir (“the” Pulaski to Americans).

ESSAY.

“Variety we still pursue,

“In pleasure seek for something new.”

Swift.

In man there is a natural love of change and variety: the mind is wearied by continual succession of similar objects, those pleasures which at first were capable of inspiring emotions of delight; which once filled the heart with rapture and enthusiasm; as they become familiar, fade by degrees, they lose their brilliancy, the charm of novelty is gone, and soon they please no more. The sublimer works of nature, which have roused the attention of the traveller, excite not similar sensations in the bosoms of those who have been long acquainted with their beauties: the lofty mountain “with its robe of mist,” the stupenduous cliff that overlooks the torrent, and the loud sounding waters of the tremendous cataract, neither strike them with veneration nor with awe. Their eyes wander with languor and indifference, over those scenes in which nature has been most lavish of its beauties. The mind is attracted by diversity, we follow with avidity any object which appears fascinating and pleasing, until some fresh pursuit which fancy has furnished with superior charms captivates the imagination. This love of variety is predominant in the breast of every individual, it alike exists in the lowly cottage and the splendid palace, in the circles of business and in the vortex of pleasure, in the obscure paths of folly and ignorance, and in the exalted walks of literature and science: and although those objects which at a distance appeared dazling and beautiful, may lose their brightness on a nearer approach, still the acquirements which have cost us much labor and pain, have something in them peculiarly grateful. Man has ever been considered as a fickle and inconstant being, rarely content with his present situation, but continually looking out for brighter and fairer prospects. This restlessness of the human mind has been considered by some rigid moralists, as a source of trouble and vexation to those who are under its influence, but it is also a source of our greatest enjoyments: cold must be that heart, which is insensible to all the charms of variety, and but little calculated to partake of present joys, or to anticipate the more sublime and exalted pleasures which are hid behind the impenetrable veil of futurity.

The reference to “the lofty mountain ‘with its robe of mist’,” may be from an article on Ossian in the New-York Magazine, Vol. 5, 1791.

JUSTICE.

Justice may be defined that virtue which impels us to give to every person what is his due. In this extended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reason prescribes, or society should expect. Our duty to our Maker, to each other, and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, is the only virtue, and all the rest have their origin in it.

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generosity, for instance, are not in their own nature virtues: and, if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to justice, which impels and directs them. Without such a moderator, candour might become indiscretion, fortitude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity mistaken profusion.

DEATH of a PHILOSOPHER.

Let others bestrew the hearses of the great with panegyric. When a philosopher dies, I consider myself as losing a patron, an instructor, and a friend; I consider the world as losing one who might serve to console her amidst the desolations of war and ambition. Nature every day produces in abundance men capable of filling all the requisite duties of authority; but she is a niggard in the birth of an exalted mind, scarcely producing in a century a single genius to bless and enlighten a degenerate age. Prodigal in the production of kings, governors, mandarines, chams, and courtiers, she seems to have forgotten, for more than three thousand years, the manner in which she once formed the brain of a Confucius; and well it is she has forgotten, when a bad world gave him so very bad a reception.

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

Alumbrado was of the same opinion, our advice was however neglected, for the next morning when I went to see the Duke, I found the Count had already been liberated. The matter happened in the following manner:

The Duke had paid him one more visit at night, in order to get some explanation of Amelia’s history, asking the Count whether his account of Amelia’s adventures had been strictly true, or intermixed with fiction? The Count confessed frankly that he had not been very conscientious in his relation, but had added to his picture many fictitious strokes; nay, that he had disfigured even the principal incidents by interpolation, in order to encrease by his adventrous tale, the Duke’s propensity to wonderful incidents, and thus to render Amelia more interesting to him. The Duke asked him how he could have risked a fraud which the first meeting with the Countess could have laid open to him. “I was well aware,” the Count replied, “that you as well as Amelia would be prompted by the tender harmony which made your hearts beat in unison, to avoid speaking of incidents which would have introduced Amelia’s late Lord and her love for him.” The Duke asked him whether the Irishman had not acted in concert with Lady Delier? “Only as far as he made use of her to direct the love that had taken place between your Grace and Amelia,” the Count answered; “the conditions and reflections under which the Baroness was to assist in forwarding your mutual union are unknown to me.” The Count being asked, whether that wonderful note by which Amelia had been released from her vow of eternal fidelity to her deceased Lord, had been a contrivance of Hiermanfor’s natural skill, or the effect of supernatural power; the Count replied, the latter had been the case. The Duke had been affected so much by the repeated mention of his Amelia, that he began to melt in tears. The Count thought this state of mind very propitious for regaining his liberty, and obtained it without difficulty. What could the Duke have refused in that situation to Amelia’s brother-in-law?

Alumbrado seemed to be not less displeased with this event than myself. My hope that the Count would entirely destroy, by an ample discovery of the juggling tricks of the Irishman, the Duke’s belief in the supernatural skill of the latter was now utterly destroyed, for he had not unfolded the most important mystery; the apparition of Antonio at the church-yard. Yet I derived some consolation from the papers of Clairval, which were still in the hands of the Duke, and proposed to throw some light on that extraordinary incident. My friend himself seemed to entertain the same hope, and although the papers had been partly consumed by the fire, yet he was not discouraged, and undertook the laborious task of decyphering them. We retired lest we should disturb him.

The next morning Alumbrado came to my palace, informing me that he went to pay a visit to the Duke, but had not been admitted. We concluded from this, that he had not yet finished decyphering of the papers.

The Duke joined us about an hour after with gloomy looks, he gave me some writings and said, “that is all that I could make out; read it and edify yourself.”---

I began to read aloud, “Beloved and trusty---” the Duke interrupted me—“It is a letter to Hiermanfor, written by the Lady of the late Duke of B——a, at a time when he had little hope of ascending the royal throne of P————l.”

“Beloved and trusty! I have read all your letters to our Privy Secretary, along with the note by which you acquaint him with your intention of introducing Miguel to the Hermit. I always read your letters with admiration, yet I cannot but confess that I have great reason to suspect you have it more at heart to be admired, than to gain Miguel over to our party. I should think Miguel could have been secured to us in a safer, easier, and more expeditious manner, and you would have saved yourself a great deal of time and trouble if you had attempted it. Why those superfluous machinations, why those expensive, intricate, artificial, and give me leave to add, those fragile machines which so easily may be destroyed? You could certainly have ensnared Miguel in a more simple and a less precarious manner. Machineries like those which you have made use of are always liable to the danger of being discovered by accident, which may ruin the whole plan.

“You will perhaps reply, that, if he should make such a discovery, it would be of little consequence; that you know this Miguel too well, are too sensible of your superiority, that he cannot do without you, and that you keep him in chains which he will not be able to shake off, though your whole miraculous web should be dissolved in smoke. But, if so, wherefore those needless artifices? What benefit will arise from your miracles and ghosts? The love intrigue with Amelia, and the charm of your eloquence would have been sufficient for gaining Miguel over to our party.

“I may be mistaken, your proceedings are however riddles to me, if I do not suppose that an arrogant activity has prompted you to contrive extraordinary intrigues, and to have recourse to marvellous machineries. People of your genius are wont to do so. You despise the ways of common men, force new roads through insurmountable rocks, entangle your man in numberless magic fetters, with no other view, than to have the pleasure of seeing your prisoner insnare himself deeper and deeper by his attempts to regain his liberty. The simple, artless turn of a play, does not suit a genius like your’s, which delights only in knitting and dissolving intricate knots, and in having recourse to artificial, complicated machines; obstacles and dangers serve only to give additional energy to your activity. Miguel was, perhaps, only an object which was to serve you for trying your skill and art, in order to see how far you could rely on your capacities for more important opportunities.

“But however it be, I am rather bound to thank you for your zeal to serve our cause, than to criticise the choice of the means you have made use of. Accomplish what you have begun, and you may be sure of my favour and active gratitude.”

While I had been reading, the Duke walked up and down the room with hasty strides. He now stopped. “Well, Marquis! well, Alumbrado!” said he, “do I not act a charming part in this letter?”

“How you exaggerate it!” said I. “They ascribe to you want of experience, and that is all.”

“O Marquis, don’t you see in what a tone, and with how much contempt the proud woman speaks of me?”

“Heavens and earth! and I should brook her injuries without taking revenge?”

“My Lord!” Alumbrado said, “in what relation have you been to the Dutchess? I cannot see the connection of the whole affair?”

The Duke explained this connection to him, by discovering the share he had had in the revolution.

Alumbrado was all attention during this account, and when it was finished seemed to be absorbed in profound meditation.

“Friend!” said I to the Duke, “there are some more written leaves”————

“It is with no I small astonishment that I find myself called to an account, in the letter which your Grace did me the honour of writing to me, for a point which I sincerely wish never had been mentioned. The remarks you have made on it redound as much to the honour of your Grace’s penetration and sagacity, as they tend to mortify me by betraying me into a confession, which I would have refused to make to any mortal living, except to so noble a challenger.

“My second letter to your Privy Secretary, explaining sufficiently the motives which have prompted me to gain Miguel over to our party by the arts of natural magic, I think I need not add new arguments to those contained in that letter, if your Grace will take the trouble to re-peruse and to ponder them attentively. Besides the reprehension of your Grace is directed less against the means which I have made use of, than against the manner of their application. You ask in your letter, why I have had recourse to such superfluous machinations, to such expensive, intricate, artificial, and fragile machines? Indeed you think too contemptibly of Miguel. His penetration, as well as his great knowledge, raise him far above the common men of his age; his understanding, which has been improved under the tuition of an Antonio de Galvez, is not to be imposed upon so easily as you think. Besides, you will have the goodness to consider that he was not the only person I had to deal with, and that his tutor, who never stirred from his side, was always ready to cut asunder the magical bonds in which I had entangled him, but why do I hesitate any longer to tell you the plain truth? My design was not directed against Miguel alone, but on his tutor too. It was the most ardent wish of my heart to gain this man to our party by my magical arts, and that it was which forced me to have recourse to so many machinations, and such expensive and complicated machines. If my design upon him had been crowned with success, Miguel too would have been an easy and certain conquest.

“If your Grace should ask what has prompted me to form so daring a plan, and what reasons I had to hope for success? I beg you will condescend to ponder the following points: Count Galvez was an insurmountable obstacle in my way to Miguel, which rendered it necessary either to draw him in our interest, or to remove him from his pupil. It will be obvious to you for what reason I resolved to attempt the former, if you will consider how much advantage our affairs would have derived from so valuable a conquest. If we could have made sure of Antonio, we then should also have drawn the court of Rome in our interest by his intercession. Before the present Pope was raised to the papal throne, he and a number of persons of the highest rank were intimately connected with him. We could, therefore, have expected to interest for our cause by his influence a court, which will become our most dangerous enemy, if it should not take our part; and I apprehend this will be the case.”*

* On the margin of the manuscript, the following note was written by an unknown hand: “The Irishman has not been mistaken, for nine years are now past since the revolution has taken place, and the new king of Port***l has not yet been acknowledged by the court of Rome.”

ANECDOTE OF VOLTAIRE.

This extraordinary genius, in his younger life, wrote a very biting satire against a man of considerable influence in France. The injured gentleman, on meeting the poet one day in a narrow lane where it was impossible to escape, gave him a severe drubbing. The enraged author immediately made his complaint to the Regent, who very shrewdly replied---“What would you have me do? justice certainly has been done already,”

OSMIR.

The predecessors of Osmir were ignoble and obscure. For a race of generations they wept the conflicts of indigence, nor could the toils of application crown their efforts with advantage, nor the utmost frugality secure their labours from distress; the importance of command never owned their authority, and the radiance of splendour never shone on their dwelling. They eat of the bread of industry, they drank the waters of perseverence, they lived unnoticed and undistinguished among the children of poverty, as one atom in the sun-beam is undistinguished from another, and as the ebullitions of a current which float for a moment on its surface and die, even so they disappeared and were remembered no more.

But the tempest of malediction began at length to subside, and the severity of fortune to abate her resentment. Malevolence was wearied with undeserved persecution, and prosperity beheld the cot of wretchedness with an auspicious smile, and determined to lavish upon Osmir what she had withheld from his ancestors. He was addicted to industry, to perseverance and toil; his principles were therefore the surest basis whereon time was to erect the superstructure of gilded affluence. In a few years Osmir contemplated the fruits of his application, which animated his endeavours to advance with more hasty strides in the road of progressive grandeur; riches were accumulated, possessions were established, his habitation surpassed the pomp of oriental magnificence, and the report of his opulence was the talk of every mouth, and wafted through every region on the pinions of fame. In order to subdue the murmurs of repining adversity, and establish a position, which though it was probable was yet untrue, that the bounties of Heaven were bestowed upon deserving virtue alone, he resolved to cover his imperfections with the mantle of devotion, by which more liberty was allowed to the passions which lay lurking in secret within the chambers of his heart. Confirmed in this disposition, he was impartial and correct in his dealings with all men; the venom of slander had no influence on his character; for he trod the paths of moral rectitude with exact scrupulosity. Was propitiation ordained to avert the wrath of omnipotence?—his head was covered with the ashes of Bethulia, and his loins were mortified with the sack-cloth of Ninevah; his piety refused the sustenance which human fragility demands for her functions, and thrice a day he fell prostrate at the shrine of the God of nature. Whenever Osmir walked the streets for the purpose of recreation, he was begirt with attendants who showered gold on the multitude, and whom he exhorted in their liberality to more extensive profusion. The widow and the orphan, the desolate and the indigent, all looked for succour from the bounty of his hand, and all felt the influence of his generous condescension. Not an act that was performed escaped the voice of applause, for if Osmir was liberal, compassionate or just, his merit was instantly registered in the chronicles of fame, who with her trump of seven thunders, blew a blast round the world which was echoed through the universe.

Such was the life of a mortal whom prosperity delighted to elevate; such was his journey through the vales of desolation, uninfested with the thorns of accident or bitterness, and perfumed with the fragrance of the rose-buds fortune scattered in his way. But whilst Osmir thus employed the happy tenor of his days, now feasting on delicacies at the banquet of plenty, now dancing to the song of happiness in the bowers of ease, the iron hand of time laid its pressure on his temples, the frost of old age was expanded through his veins, and the powers of animation hastened quick to decline. It was in vain to bribe with riches the dreaded minister of death; it was in vain to protract a moment the awful period of dissolution. Summoned at the report of sickness his friends assembled in his chamber, where stretched on the bed of sorrows, human nature was to be dignified, and human weakness was to be confirmed by an illustrious portrait of expiring virtue. But how great was the excess of disappointment and surprize, when, instead of the tranquility of hope, and ejaculations of charity, their ears were assaulted with the shrieks of despair, and their eyes were affrighted with terrific wretchedness. Osmir, whose visage was deformed with terrors, as the brow of heaven with a tempest, was long unable to hearken to the remonstrances of his friends; at length, however, collecting the feeble breath, which, like the flame of a midnight taper, sat quivering on his lips, he uttered these last accents with emphatic efforts, whilst every voice was suspended in silence, and every ear was attention.

“Ye, whom vanity has influenced in the operation of good works, and whom earthly approbation has taught to exult in their merit, let the example of dying disquietudes abate the security of your confidence. Like you, I have floated on the ocean of glory, I have felt my senses enraptured with the melody of praise, and suffered my heart to receive plaudits which my conscience condemned. Like you, I was liberal, because to be liberal was to be eminent, and like you also, I estimated the advantages of heaven by terrestial enjoyments. Prosperity shed around me the partial beams of her favour, nor harboured a doubt, nor hesitated to reflect, if the object of her veneration deserved contempt or esteem. Avarice and vain glory were raging passions of my soul, to heat the furnace of these desires was the sole object of my aim; by the one I was rendered odious to the great dispenser of gifts, and by the other detrimental to the sons and daughters of men. This, by the malignity of its turpitude, which withheld what it had received with the rapacious grasp of a vulture, effaced the character of the Deity imprinted by nature in my soul; and the other by a cruelty more inhuman than murder, has awakened passions in the breast of indigence, which had slept for ever undisturbed, and for the mercenary tribute of undeserved approbation has elevated for a moment to magnificence and state, only to plunge with keener anguish into the gulphs of despair, the wretch whose heart had never sickened for the splendours of pomp, and whose days had moved calm in inglorious obscurity. Yet weak-sighted mortals viewed my actions and admired, whilst the piercing eye of the everlasting beheld their motives and abhorred. Happy should I be to amend the past by the present, or to mitigate the fury of the indignation to come. But the scymetar of vengeance hangs suspended in my view, I hear the sentence of malediction which sounds as thunder in my ears, and I feel the last horrors of agonizing despair. Insulting vanities of a faithless world! why was my heart enamoured of the graces of thy deceit? Only to look with pleasure on thy allurements, is to assume the chains of thy bondage; to seek thy gratifications is to follow pain without profit, and to persevere in thy pursuits is reprobation without hope. A few moments space will evince the dreadful truth, for a few moments space and the life of Osmir is no more. Happy shall you be, my friends, whose errors are corrected by my fatal mistake, and whose minds shall be imprinted with this important remembrance, that no action however splendid can secure the favour of the Deity, unless it correspond with good designs, which can alone stamp its value, and that though you mislead the erring judgment of man by fallacious appearances, ’tis impossible to mislead the unerring judgment of God.”

The hand of the omnipotent sealed his lips at these words, and a convulsive agony announced the approach of dissolution; his eyes were averted with horror from the flying javelin of death, and expiring his last groan, he slept the sleep of his fathers in the tomb of Mahaleel.

SELECT REFLECTIONS ON EDUCATION.

A fortune acquired by commerce, when it is discreetly expended in advancing learning, acquires a grace and elegance, which a life devoted to the accumulation of money, for its own sake, can seldom possess.

Few of us are so improved by philosophy, though we study and admire it, as not to feel the influence of interested motives. This insensibly blinds the understanding, and often impels the judgment to decide unjustly, without the guilt of intention.

Not only the taste, but the religion, the virtue, and even the liberties of our country, greatly depend upon that discipline which lays the foundation of improvement in ancient learning. True patriotism and true valour, originate from that enlargement of mind, which the well-regulated study of philosophy, poetry, and history, tends to produce; and if we can recal the ancient discipline we may perhaps recal the generous spirit of ancient virtue. He who is conversant with the best Greek and Roman writers, with a Plato, a Xenophon, and a Cicero, must imbibe, if he be not deficient in the powers of intellect, sentiments no less liberal and enlarged than ingenious and elegant.

A certain enlargement, refinement, and embellishment of the mind, is the best and noblest effect of classical instruction. It is not only desirable, as it qualifies the mind for this or that profession, but as it opens the source of pure pleasures, unknown to the vulgar. Its tendency is to adorn and improve human nature, and to give the ideas a noble elevation.

The possession of an elegant mind is greatly superior to the possession of a fortune, and the enjoyment of a good conscience is far superior to both.

The passions will sometimes ruffle the stream of happiness in every man; but they are least likely to discompose him, who spends his time in letters, and who at the same time studies virtue and innocence, which indeed have a natural connexion with true learning.

He who has caught the spirit of the polite writers of the politest ages and cities, must possess a peculiar degree of polish and comprehension of mind.

The best kind of education is that which endeavours to improve the powers of understanding for their own sake; for the sake of exalting the endowments of human nature, and becoming capable of sublime and refined contemplation. This furnishes a power of finding satisfactory amusement for those hours of solitude, which every man must sometimes know in the busiest walks of life; and it constitutes one of the best supports of old age, as well as the most graceful ornament of manhood. Even in the commercial department it is most desirable; for besides that it gives a grace to the man in the active stage of life, and in the midst of his negociations, it ‘enables him to enjoy his retreat with elegance,’ when his industry has accumulated the object of his endeavours.

If taste, which classical learning immediately tends to produce, have no influence in amending the heart, or in promoting virtuous affections; if it contribute not to render men more humane, and more likely to be disgusted with improper behaviour, as a deformed object, and pleased with rectitude of conduct, as beautiful in itself; if it be merely an ornamental appendage; it must be owned, that life is indeed too short to admit of long attention to mere embellishment. Polite learning, on the contrary, is found to be friendly to all that is amiable and laudible in social intercourse; friendly to morality. It has a secret but powerful influence in softening and meliorating the disposition. True and correct taste directly tends to restrain the extravagancies of passion, by regulating that nurse of passion, a discorded imagination.

To be completely skilled in ancient learning is by no means a work of such insuperable pains. The very progress itself is attended with delight, and resembles a journey through some pleasant country, where every mile we advance new charms arise. It is certainly as easy to be a scholar, as a gamester, or many other characters equally illiberal and low. The same application, the same quantity of habit, will fit us for one as well as for the other. As to those who tell us with an air of seeming wisdom, that it is by men, not books, that we must study to become knowing; repeated experience teaches this to be the common consolation and language of dunces.

The article is a paraphrase of Vicesimus Knox, “Liberal Education”. The phrase ‘enables him to enjoy his retreat with elegance’ is a direct quotation.

ANECDOTE.