“Certainly; when man was yet in his unpolished state, and ignorant of the laws of nature and of thinking, the uncivilized mortals could not but observe many external phenomena which they could not explain, their stock of experimental knowledge not being equal to that task. Necessitated by the law of reason to search for the cause of every effect, they substituted unknown causes, when unable to find out any that were known to them, and mistook these powers for spirits, because they were invisible to them, though they perceived their effects.”

“I do not deny, my friend, that the original source of the belief in apparitions, and the influence of spirits, has taken its rise from an evidently false conclusion. It has however been frequently the fate of truth, that its discovery was founded on erroneous premises; consequently the manner in which an idea is generated cannot render its internal truth suspected, provided it be supported by other valid arguments.”

“Your remark is very just and true, yet it cannot be applied to the present case, for I have already proved that we possess neither an external nor an internal criterion by which we could discern the influence and apparition of those invisible beings, and that we consequently have no sufficient reason to believe in their existence. This too I will not contest. You have, however, proved only the impossibility of finding out a criterion by which we could discern the real influence of spirits, but not the impossibility of that influence itself. It may yet be supposed that these beings can produce apparitions without, and effects within ourselves, and that we are connected with them in an effectual and secret manner. While this internal impossibility is not proved, it will not be absurd to imagine that men who mortify their sensuality, who are entirely absorbed in meditation, and fix their looks merely on super-terrestial things, may be favoured more frequently with the influence of spiritual beings, and a more intimate connection with them.”

(To be continued.)

ANECDOTE OF MR. FERGUSON.

The following story Mr. Ferguson used frequently to repeat: He had finished the picture of a handsome young lady, whose numerous friends, though they commended the piece, found each some small faults, they thought might be corrected, which would render the likeness complete. Mr. Ferguson, when informed of it, desired they all might meet him at a certain hour, and being properly placed, with his pallet and brushes in his hand, the picture before him, and the lady sitting in a just light, he begged to be favoured with the opinions and objections of the company present, one by one; he acquiesced with them all, and put himself in a posture to remedy the defects, pointed out. When he had gone through the whole he turned the picture towards them, and every one pronounced it so finished a piece, and so perfect a likeness, that it could not be improved. He then requested them to examine both the pencils and canvass, which had been all along perfectly dry, and left them to draw their own conclusions.

The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.

[WRITTEN BY HERSELF.]

(Continued from our last.)

As I mean to banish prolixity from my narrative, I shall not mention the emotions this tale excited when next we met. I could not help lamenting my utter inability to aid his distress. A glow of grateful feelings brightened his countenance. He caught my hand. Angelic sweetness, he cried---your face, how true an index of your mind. In short, both strangers to dissimulation, we soon perceived a passion, ardent, sincere, and reciprocal. We loved with all the romantic enthusiasm of youth, forgetting the insuperable barriers between us. We indulged our tenderness till it grew too great to be subdued. Sitting together one afternoon, planning future days of bliss, my hand locked in his, my soul beaming from my eyes, we suddenly heard a rustling among some trees behind us, and my father instantly rushed out, rage flashing from every glance. Frantic, he tore me from Harland, and bid him begone, as he durst not answer for what he might be tempted to do. Harland hesitated. I saw passion kindling in his eyes. Terrified at the consequences which might ensue, I had just power to articulate, obey him, oh obey him. My father loaded me with every violent invective rage could suggest. To exculpate myself from the meanness he accused me of, I divulged Harland’s history, but he believed it not. He said it was a vile, artful tale, calculated to deceive my unsuspecting youth, and lead me into a connection which he would eternally have cursed me for. Good heaven! how my soul shuddered at these words. For three days I gave myself up to immoderate grief; the fourth, walking in an avenue cut through the wood, I saw a little boy playing before me, I heeded him not, till I perceived him drop a piece of paper, give me a significant sign, and run off. I flew forward hastily, snatched it up, and retired to a chamber, where I read the following lines from my unfortunate Harland:

“Oh, my Julia! what a cruel separation! Thus torn from thee, it fills me with anguish—my only comfort thy society, deprived of that too---merciless fortune! I am incoherent---I hardly know what I write. Julia, to quit this spot, without bidding you adieu, is more than I can support. Meet me if possible I beseech you at night, in the wood. One parting interview---to meet perhaps; I can’t go on---Oh Julia! grant my last request.”

I determined to comply, but could not without my maid’s assistance. I entrusted her, and she promised to assist me. When the family were retired to rest, she conducted me down stairs, and opening a little door which led into the wood, said she would there watch my return.

Harland was impatiently waiting for me; at my approach he sprung forward, oh my Julia, he cried, what goodness, what condescension, but you are all complying sweetness. He regretted his separation; lamented his want of fortune; now bid me for ever forget him; then assured me, without the chearing idea of my love, life would be unsupportable. I wept, assured him it was unalterable, that only with existence it would cease. The moment arrived to separate. He sunk upon his knees, besought eternal blessings on my head, tenderly embraced me, while his voice was stifled with the emotions of his soul, and tore himself away. I tottered home, and leaning on my maid, retired to my chamber, where I past the remainder of the night in tears, and all the pangs of hopeless love. Shortly after this, a gentleman arrived at the castle who was son to a deceased friend of my father’s, his birth and fortune noble, but his manners tainted with arrogance and ill-nature. He conceived a partiality for me. Just powers, what has it not caused me! Sir George still dreading the unfortunate Harland, encouraged it. He was also really desirous of having me advantageously married. He compelled me to listen to Mordaunt; and in short, not to dwell longer on this painful subject, notwithstanding my prayers, my tears, my declaration of passion for another, I was forced the altar. The horror of that moment I can’t express; the image of Harland was continually before me; my broken vows; his sufferings; his love; they almost bereft me of reason. Three days after the fatal ceremony, sitting alone in my dressing-room, as the gentlemen were out, I heard a carriage drive hastily to the door. I imagined it was some obtrusive visitors who came to pay their unwelcome compliments, when in an instant the door was thrown open, and Harland entered, the smile of anticipating pleasure on his face. He attempted to clasp me in his arms, but shrinking from them, I endeavoured to fly from the room; he caught my hand and forcibly withheld me; he looked amazed at my agitation. Speak to me, my adored Julia, he cried, Oh why this distress?---heaven has at length removed my sufferings---Mr. T. has at last done justice to me. I am come to claim your hand. Sir George cannot deny me now. What bliss! what happiness in store for us. I could hear no more; I broke from him, and in agony of soul rending misery, wrung my hands together. We are ruined, exclaimed I, for ever wretched. Oh Harland! forgive me. I am miserable, compulsive power has undone me. I am, oh detest me not, already married. I might have gone on for ever---his senses seemed annihilated, a deadly paleness overspread his face; I was terrified; I flew to him; I attempted to take his hand; my touch revived him. He started from me; base faithless woman; his lips quivered, and in a phrenzy of disappointed passion he rushed out of the house. He left me on the verge of distraction, but when a little composed, I revolved my conduct: I considered it improper; I was now married; those tender sensations for another man were criminal; my virtue was strong, I determined to exert it; the lessons of my beloved mother recurred to me. She often said, affliction was the purifier of our passions, it refined the soul, and lifted to that infinite Almighty power in whose hands the balm was held for healing the wounds received on this spot.

(To be continued.)

The SCHOOL for LIBERTINES,

A STORY, FOUNDED ON FACTS.

(Continued from our last.)

As the family of his late consort were rich and powerful Mr. Freeman checked his libertine pursuits for a time; but the strength of habit soon overcame the dictates of prudence, and again he listened to the powerful calls of vice and dissipation.

A few months after Mrs. Freeman’s death he informed his friend Easton that he would introduce him to a young creature, lovely as imagination could form. He owned that the connection between them, being only that of sentiment, became rather troublesome; that she had denied him the most distant favour, and, in tears, regretted her ever giving way to a hopeless passion which had driven her from home, and subjected her to dangers of every kind.

“I first saw,” he continued, “this foolish girl at the neighbouring convent---Her beauty charmed me; I gained her attention, and held many conversations at the grate, in the course of which she informed me that, disappointed in a love affair, and to avoid a forced marriage, she had fled from her guardian, and sought refuge in the convent.

“I need not tell you, Easton, how love-sick girls are wrought upon. I found more sensibility than prudence—her sorrows subsided as I artfully dropped an answering tear, accompanied with a well-feigned emotion. I used every means which is common with us fellows of intrigue, and at length gained her consent to suffer me to procure her enlargement, on my promise of protection and friendship.

“Her remove from the convent was, with some difficulty and no small degree of danger, effected; when, expecting my reward and urging her to be kind, she wept, said I had deceived her, and thus addressed me:——‘Cease, Sir, to alarm, with professions of love, a poor young creature that knows not where to fly. Ask me for my friendship and esteem, and honour me with your’s, and I shall be as happy as my fortunes will permit. I wished to cast myself on your protection, from a confidence in your honour—I have done it—betray not then, oh! betray not the trust reposed in you. If you take a violent and cruel advantage of my situation, short will be your pleasure—but lasting your pain. You will at once lose all the respect I now bear you, and render me completely wretched: it is too true I am in your power, but do not, oh! do not abuse that power, by plunging a wretch, already almost lost, into infamy and perdition.’

“I give you her own words, Easton, for you will find her romantic in the extreme, with all the airs of dignity and virtue about her. I endeavoured all I could to comfort and compose her spirits, and offered to write home to her guardian; but to this she would not consent, as in such a case her name would be exposed. ‘If,’ said she, ‘imputed guilt is to be my portion, let me, with life, lament the effects of my imprudent flight—but there are, whom, my folly might disgrace, should an unfeeling world cast a stigma upon me—know me, therefore, only as—the wretched Julia!’

“Upon this I left her, fool enough to be somewhat affected, and what she means to do I cannot tell; I had procured her an apartment in a private part of the city, with a servant to attend her; but not finding in me the father she expected, I have a strong idea that she means to play me the slip and steal away without my knowledge, which would prove a disappointment to both of us.

“For, Easton, as you are a fine fellow, and withal somewhat younger than myself, as I cannot succeed, I think you might venture a trial upon your own account.”

“A friendly proposal,” exclaimed Easton, “convey me to her, and what love, gallantry, and fine speeches can effect, depend on.”

The agreement made, they proceeded to pay a visit to the unfortunate young lady.

The servant having given in Mr. Freeman’s name, they were conducted to her apartment. But oh! heaven! what horror seized the heart of Easton on beholding—his sister! He had left her during his travels, which had detained him two years, under the protection of her guardian, a man of sordid ideas, little principle, and still less humanity---but who had cunning sufficient to carry the appearance of every good quality, and, by the deepest dissimulation, had prevailed on the worthy Mr. Easton, the gentleman who had given these unhappy children his name and fortune, in his last moments to submit to him the management of the estate bequeathed them till the youth became of age, and his sister was disposed of in marriage.

How he had performed the will of his dying friend, respecting the young lady, the reader has, in part, been made acquainted with---it remains only to say, that, by his forbidding the addresses of Mr. Harcourt, a young soldier, whose heart was as honourable as his profession, and who sincerely loved her, and encouraging the hopes of a wretch, worn out with infirmities and a diseased mind, he forced the unhappy Julia to determine on flight. Her Harcourt had been called to the field, where, by protecting his country at the hazard of his life, it was not then in his power to defend her he held dearer than his own existence.

For a time, overcome with mutual astonishment, they both remained silent! At length Easton, relieved by tears, embracing the sister of his heart, exclaiming, “And have bad principles and bad men brought me to the brink of such perdition? But Heaven is just, and at the same moment converts my erring heart, and restores me to an almost-lost sister, whom my future care and affection shall protect from every snare of deep-laid villany.”

Then turning to the confounded and abashed Freeman, he uttered, “As for you, be warned by this interposition of Providence in favour of your undeserving friend.--- Your years and your principles do not correspond. I had a father, gay and volatile like yourself, whose wretched story I have heard, but whose guilt has divided his children and him—perhaps---forever! Mournful, no doubt, has been his existence, and, if no more, miserable his end.---But wherever he may wander, if yet alive, oh! my sister! would not you rejoice with me in comforting his suffering heart, and in return receive the blessings of our nameless and interdicted parent?”

Hearing, with trembling limbs, this passionate address, Mr. Freeman exclaims, “Who, who was your father?”

“Oh!” returned Easton, “he has lost his name in his crimes, which drove him from his family and country---an outlawed murderer!”

For the first time, powerful conviction rushed on the heart of Freeman! “Oh!” he exclaimed, “be more explicit, surely my children are now before me---nor fear nor fate shall longer hide my name---’Tis Alton! the miserable Alton, now casts his wretched load of existence before you.”————They both ran towards him, and owning an interposing providence with tears of joy and gratitude, raised their long-lost parent! who at once reclaimed, at once thankful to mysterious Heaven, embraced his children!

It only remains to inform the reader, that the father, with his son and daughter, took shipping for England. An honourable peace soon brought home to love and fortune the generous Harcourt, who was at length united to his faithful Julia.

The old guardian had paid the debt of nature, and, struck with a check of conscience, he not only left the whole estate of the late Mr. Easton, unimpaired, to the brother and sister, but added thereto a large portion of his own. Application was made to an earthly throne for mercy to the repentant father; it was extended towards him, and being now a sincere penitent, it is to be wished and hoped that he may experience the same mercy from a still higher power.

THE TEMPLE OF HOPE,

A VISION.

Reading one summer’s eve in a grove, by which ran a most beautiful translucent rivulet, I was, by its murmurs, mingled with the sighs of Zephyr, lulled into an agreeable slumber. Somnus had no sooner laid me on his couch of poppies, than I thought myself transported to a dreary waste, where Nature sits on her heath-blossom’d throne, dispensing the seeds of furze, broom, brambles, and thistles around her.

The sight of this barren scene would have awakened me with dismay, had not my sight been immediately charmed, and my mind astonished with the rising of a most superb Temple. Multitudes were repairing thither. Misery sat on their wan cheek---but I was pleased to see, at the same time, expectation glisten in their eye. Around the Temple spontaneously rose, in their most perfect, fragrant, and variegated bloom, the most beautiful parterres. Amidst the flowering shrubs and ever-greens, were playing charming infants of both sexes, whose talk was as melodious as the vesper of the nightingale, and as gay as the matin of the lark. Their countenances were as blithe and as beauteous as Flora, blushing with the kiss of Spring. I was informed, that they were the children of Arts, Sciences, Peace, Plenty, and Pleasure. Rills murmured through the walks. Fountains scattered over the beds of perennial blossoms, their pearls of liquid crystal, and Zephyrs, with Æolian harps, caused every leaf to dance to their delightful harmony.

The style of the Temple itself united every order of architecture to denote that it was free to the access and devotion of every country. The Gothic, Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite were there displayed. The walls were supported by a foundation, that, I learned, was dug from the sand-pit of Expectation and the quarry of Enterprise. The walls themselves were formed of one entire crystal, taken from the mountain of promise. I presume the goddess chose them to be formed of this material, to denote that her various devotees might here be delighted with the most charming prospects which the magic of fancy could create for their allurement and entertainment. It had no roof, that nothing might impede their incessant view of the etherial throne of Providence. Instead of pillars, the portico was supported with anchors, which had been formerly the salvation of thousands sailing in the bark of human misery, from being shipwrecked against the rocks of despair. In varied festoons, hung around every apartment, cables in the style of the most exquisite and elegant fancy. They were likewise, wreathed with flowers of various sorts, which appeared to be always changing, but never losing their bloom.

The innumerable persons of all ages, ranks, and descriptions, which were going to this Fane, having gained admittance, the Temple rose most majestically to the regions of bliss. Every votary knelt around the shrine, and sung hallelujahs whilst it ascended.

I followed it with admiration, satisfaction, and astonishment, until it disappeared; and the chorusses of the happy mortals, thus transported, left my listening sense to taste in silence that ecstasy in which so delightful a scene of human enjoyment had enwrapped my sensibility.

I awoke, and was sorry to find the happiness of so many of my fellow creatures, was only the delusive prospect of a vision.

EXTRACT.

Nature gives us talents, it is education that applies them right or wrong. Nature bestows propensities and affections, which may be directed to good, either public or private. It is culture that improves or prevents them.

ON WEALTH.

Among the many advantages of wealth, that of being able to relieve the necessaries and indigencies of others is of the greatest value, and most to be prized. In what class of men shall we place the hard-hearted, ungenerous rich man? Upon examination of human nature, avarice is no part of it; and so we shall be forced to list the covetous man among the monsters of this world.

Let the rich man indulge his appetites, and pursue his expences and superfluities, if he will; and let him enable his family to indulge themselves in the same way, if they are so inclined. But surely, then, he ought to make as many other people easy and comfortable as he can.

I am not, it is certain, obliged to pinch myself to remove other peoples pinchings; but if a ring on my little finger has charms enough in and about it to keep half a hundred families from starving, can I hesitate a single moment, whether or no I shall part with this useless bauble for that end? If a hundred or five hundred pounds will not make me retrench in any thing, nor interfere with the figure and circumstances of life that are proper for my family now, or when I am dead and gone, what can I do better than give it to some other person or family, who are obliged to live entirely below those circumstances they are born or bred to? How can I better employ it, than in raising the spirits, and rejoicing the heart of some melancholy, depressed poor man? I am mistaken, if the application of a few hundred pounds this way, would not give a truer sensation of joy and pleasure than fifty other things, which are often purchased at a very dear rate.

Be persuaded, then, ye rich and powerful, ye honourable and great, to do honourable things with the superfluity of your wealth.

Search after ingenious persons, root them out of obscurity, and obscurity out of them, and call the long-banished muses back to their antient habitation.

This article will be repeated on pg. 339 in No. 95.

TRUE MEEKNESS.

Meekness, like most other virtues, has certain limits, which it no sooner exceeds than it becomes criminal. She who hears innocence maligned without vindicating it---falsehood asserted without contradicting it,—or religion profaned without resenting it, is not gentle, but wicked.

Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active and passive; if it will not enable us to subdue our own passions and resentments, as well as qualify us to bear patiently the passions and resentments of others. If it were only for mere human reasons, it would turn to a profitable account to be patient; nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like the spirit of forbearance; the return of rage for rage cannot be so effectually provoking.

True gentleness, like an impenetrable armour, repels the most pointed shafts of malice: they cannot pierce through this invulnerable shield, but either fall hurtless to the ground, or return to wound the hand that shot them.

A meek spirit will not look out of itself for happiness, because it finds a constant banquet at home; yet, by a sort of divine alchemy, it will convert all external events to its own profit; and be able to deduce some good, even from the most unpromising; it will extract comfort and satisfaction, from the most barren circumstances; “it will suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock.”

Meekness may be called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels every obstruction, and smooths every difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their progress. Honours and dignities are transient;---beauty and riches frail and fugacious;---but this amiable virtue, is permanent. And surely the truly wise would wish to have some one possession, which they might call their own in the severest exigencies. This can only be accomplished by acquiring and maintaining that calm and absolute self-possession, which, as the world had no hand in giving, so it cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power, take away.

----

NEW-YORK.

TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Editor thankfully acknowledges the receipt of the third excellent Essay of A. D.

The Acrostic of V. E. displays some merit, but the author cannot, with propriety, expect its insertion without some correction: The effusions of the Muse will ever find a hearty welcome attending their reception, when indiscriminately adapted for instruction, or not too pointedly addressed with extatic strains to an individual.

----

FRIENDSHIP.

TO A LADY,

On her too great Affectation of Ornament.

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.

ODE TO HAPPINESS.

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

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ESSAYIST.   No. III.

In man there appears to be a natural affection for his fellow creatures, this as a general remark is evident, when the whole bulk of mankind is considered; but if we descend to particulars and examine how his affection exists, with regard to individuals, how often do we find him defective. Some under the smiling aspect of friendship conceal the envenomed sting of hatred, while others openly declare their enmity. But philanthropy extends its kindness to all whether friend or foe. It encircles in the arms of love, alike the rich and poor—the bondman and the free. Anger, revenge, and all the rougher passions which divest the mind of its serenity, and immerse it in gloom and despondence, as if driven by supernatural power, fly at its approach. It delights to assist the distressed and infuse hope and comfort into the heart almost broken by misfortune. The soul that is warmed by the genial sparks of philanthropy and benevolence, looks with pleasure on his companions, feels himself interested in all their transactions, and participates in their prosperity. The persecuted are ever sure to find in him a protector, and the wretched a friend. He exposes himself to the breath of contagion, that he may bring assistance to those who are sinking under the accumulated load of poverty and disease. He explores the gloomy dungeon and softens the bonds of the captive: his whole life presents a series of benevolent and worthy actions. Such is the philanthropist; justly admired by the world at large, and sincerely beloved by the small circle of his friends.

And such was Howard---the benevolent, the philanthropic Howard—more worthy of our admiration and more deserving of our envy, while imbibing the deadly vapours of the lazaretto, or exposing his constitution to the chill damps of the subterranean dungeon, than pompous royalty clothed with the ensigns of power and encircled with all the splendors of a court.

A. D.

January 26.

ON AMBITION.

The best of all good things, says M. Retz, is repose. All the pleasures which nature can bestow, become insipid to him who is agitated by ambition, who is tormented by vanity, or torn by envy. You shall see a man on whom fortune has been prodigal of her choicest favours, to whom nature has given a sound and vigorous body; who is beloved by his wife and his children, whom he cherishes; whose presence spreads pleasure and joy in his family, where he is only an apparition; who, if he lived on his own domains, would enjoy the pleasure of doing good to a set of vassals, but he there makes his appearance only three or four times in a year; and is then scarcely seen till he is gone again. This man does not feel the value of health; he does not enjoy his fortune. His life which might flow on in that kind of animated leisure, which results from the exercise of acts of beneficence, is consumed in agitation and in fear. Independent by his riches, he devotes himself to servitude, and is tormented by chagrin. His sleep, which ought to be pleasing, is troubled by envy and disquietude. He writes, he cringes, he solicits, he tears himself from pleasures, and gives himself up to occupations that are not suited to his taste; he in a measure refuses to live during forty years of his life, in order that he may obtain employment, dignities, marks of distinction, which, when he obtains them, he cannot enjoy.

TRUE VIRTUE AND HONOUR.

Men possessed of these, value not themselves upon any regard to inferior obligations, and yet violate that which is the most sacred and ancient of all---religion.

They should consider such violation as a severe reproach in the most enlightened state of human nature; and under the purest dispensation of religion, it appears to have extinguished the sense of gratitude to Heaven, and to slight all acknowledgment of the great and true God. Such conduct implies either an entire want, or a wilful suppression of some of the best and most generous affections belonging to human nature.

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

UNFOLDING MANY CURIOUS UNKNOWN HISTORICAL FACTS.

Translated from the German of Tschink.

(Continued from page 243.)

“I will not pretend to say that this class of men qualify themselves for ghost-seers by the mortifications you have been mentioning; it is however certain, that they are in a fair way of becoming fanatics and madmen. At the same time, I think it very imprudent to sacrifice every earthly pleasure, to neglect the duties we owe to human society, on account of the possibility of a matter, the reality of which is founded on no arguments whatever. It is no absolute impossibility that I should one time be made a Mandarin of China, yet the bare possibility of it will certainly not induce me to trouble my head with the study of the Chinese state-politics in order to qualify myself for that dignity. Moreover, it is not only possible, nay, it is probable that the moon is inhabited by rational beings, I shall nevertheless certainly not be anxious to give any offence to the man in the moon by my actions. But to be serious, my friend, the point of your question is not, whether it be possible spirits should have an influence on us and external objects, but whether we really do possess a certain and decisive criterion whereby we can ascertain the reality of that influence; and I think I have sufficiently proved that we possess none. Nay I even maintain, that if something should not only be possible, but also really exist, yet its existence is no concern of mine, while I cannot ascertain its existence by a sufficient ground, while it does not manifest its existence to my knowledge by certain and indubitable criterions.”

“But your objection,” I resumed after a short silence, “may be pursued still further. You maintain that I could not prove the internal impossibility of the influence of spirits on human beings, and thus far you are right; but I have an equal right to maintain that you also cannot prove their real possibility; for in that case it would be requisite to know not only what a spirit is according to our idea, but also what it is in itself; and that only the Author of spirits can know. We know our own soul only by its effects, and no mortal can explain the essential nature of this first cause of all our ideas and actions. For that very reason it ever will be concealed from us whether it is related at all to spirits here below, and what the nature of that relation is? Here, my friend, are the limits of human reason, beyond which we cannot proceed without falling in with the empty space of sophistical phantoms. While you shall remain within the lawful boundaries, you never will have reason to complain of the insufficiency of human reason, as you have done just now. It is criminal arrogance to overleap the sacred limits, to which Providence has confined it; for the eternal wisdom of God is equally entitled to our regard by what it has denied, as by what it has granted us. Descend, therefore, my friend, descend from the empty space to which the Irishman had seduced you, to the firm ground of experience and common sense! Happy is he who looks upon this ground as a post allotted to him, which we can never transgress without being punished, and which implies every thing that can afford us satisfaction while we keep firm to what is useful.”

About six weeks after this conversation, I happened one night to sup with the Marquis in the company of his son and Alumbrado. Our discourse on the new government was growing very warm, when the clock in the room struck ten. Alumbrado suddenly grew deadly wan, and seemed to be struck dumb; his eyes stared at one spot, and he resembled a lifeless statue. We looked at each other with astonishment; the old Marquis was the first who called to him, but received no answer, and started up seized with terror. The Duke and myself followed his example; our endeavours to restore Alumbrado to recollection were, however, fruitless; he remained in profound stupefaction. Not knowing what had happened to him, we were going to send for a physician, when he rose from his chair like a person to whom nothing uncommon has happened, and told us with the greatest unconcern, “This very moment a strange accident has happened 300 miles from hence. At *li*, at the Sun Tavern, the picture of the new king which was hung up in the dining room, give occasion to a discourse concerning him. One of the guests said a great deal to his praise, manifesting, at the same time, a strong apprehension that the King of S————n might not submit so quietly to the loss of the crown of P————l, and perhaps, reclaim it by force of arms. Another guest declared this to be a vain idea, maintaining that the new King was as firmly fixed on his throne as his picture opposite him on the wall: but no sooner had he pronounced these words, when the picture suddenly fell to the ground with a tremendous noise.”

Here Alumbrado stopped. While we were standing around him in dumb astonishment, he eyed us with the firm look of a person who has related an incident of which he has been an eye witness. Astonishment and horror seized me, and I did not know what to say. The Duke recovered first from his surprise, asking him by what means he had got that intelligence. “I must beg you,” Alumbrado replied in a low accent, “to suppress a question to which I can give no satisfactory answer. However,” he added with emphasis, “you may rely on the truth of my intelligence.”

He had not deceived us. On the sixth day after this extraordinary incident, letters from *li* arrived confirming the same event, and nine days after, it was reported in the foreign newspapers. It really happened on the same evening, and the same night when Alumbrado had informed us of it.

Being unexpectedly honoured by the new King with a commission that obliged me to leave the kingdom of P——l, soon after this extraordinary incident had happened, I was not at leisure to investigate the source of Alumbrado’s prophecy; nor could I learn the Duke’s opinion of it; my deluded friend beginning to grow very close and reserved in my presence. It grieved me to be obliged to leave him in Alumbrado’s power, under such critical circumstances, I could however, not delay my departure. The Duke tore himself from my embraces with weeping eyes, and promised to write frequently to me.

A week after my arrival at the place of my destination, I received a letter from my friend, which I am going to transcribe faithfully.

“I have had to-day a most important conversation with Alumbrado. The principal subject of it was the old concealed King of P————l, for whose restoration I had interested myself. ‘Can you seriously believe---’ Alumbrado said, ‘that the person with whom you have conversed at the Hermitage, has really been the old King of P————l? It seems you did not even suspect that the introduction of the old man was a juggling farce, which was acted with a view similar to those of the other delusions of the Irishman? Although we should suppose that the King had not been killed in the field of battle, and that he himself had been the identical person who was confined at the castle of St. Lukar, which however, has not been proved, yet the whole affair would still bear a very suspicious aspect. Not to mention the great improbability of his escape from a well-guarded Castle, where he was kept in close confinement, and of his having attained an age of 108 years notwithstanding the hardships he suffered in the field of battle, and in his prison. I only beg you to consider who it was that introduced him to you as King of P————l? Was not the Irishman that person? At the same time, give me leave to recal to your recollection, that Count Clairval has confessed that the pretended King acted in concert with that impostor, and then tell me sincerely, what ground you have to believe such an improbability on the testimony of two cheats? Perhaps you will appeal to his great resemblance to the late King? But have not three persons before him pleaded similar marks as proofs of the identity of their person, and nevertheless been unmasked as impostors? My good Duke, on mature consideration it seems that the Irishman relied very much on your youth and the absence of your tutor, when he imposed upon you by that juggling trick.’ 

“Ah! what ideas do you recall to my memory! I exclaimed, that letter from the Queen and the answer of the Irishman.”

“Very right! Alumbrado interrupted me, these letters sufficiently prove that you was considered as a young man who promised to be a fit instrument for executing their design. And it is no longer a secret what that design was, and in whose head it has been hatched out. The proud Duchess of B——za had a longing for the crown of P————l, and it was she who persuaded the Duke to form a plan of seizing it. Your assistance, my dear Duke, was wanted for attaining that aim, but the conspirators foresaw at the same time, that you would refuse it, your antipathy against your illustrious relation being no secret to them. For that reason they pretended that the Duke of B——a had no other view but to replace the old King on the throne of his ancestors. It was necessary you should be made to believe that he was still alive and in safety; for that purpose the hermit was brought on the stage, and acted his part with no common skill.”

“Damned complot!” I exclaimed, with rising indignation. “Compose yourself my Lord,” Alumbrado resumed, “your anger will now avail you very little. Take care not to manifest your indignation too loudly, lest the new King might forget that you are his relation, and have assisted him to ascend the throne. You can do nothing else at present, but to submit humbly to his authority; and I advise you at the same time not to neglect paying due regard to the Queen, for she rules the King and the empire. Do not expect that the present King will yield the sceptre he has usurped to any man living. If you don’t believe me, you may inquire of him after the old King, and he will tell you, that he has resigned the government to him, because he feels himself unequal to the arduous task of ruling a large kingdom, on account of his advanced age, or perhaps that he is dead.”

“My dear Marquis, what do you think of this? I fear Alumbrado is not mistaken, and I am in a state of mind that would render it imprudent for me to appear at court; but as soon as the tempest that ruffles my mind shall be subdued, I will pay a visit to the new King in order to come to the bottom of the truth.

“P.S. You will be so kind to continue to direct your letters to Li*bon, for neither I nor my father shall leave the town this summer.”

Before I could return an answer to this letter, I received a second, the contents of which were as follow:

“Will you believe, my friend, that I desired three times to have an audience, before my royal cousin condescended to admit me to his presence? This utter want of regard and gratitude, re-kindled my indignation, in such a manner, that I entered the royal apartment in a way that was not very consonant with the court etiquette. The King, however, received me very courteously, pretending to be extremely sorry that the accumulated affairs of state had not allowed him to receive my visit sooner, declaring at the same time that he was very glad to see me. ‘I am come, I replied, in order to tell you that I am surprised that the old King has not yet made his appearance, and released you from the heavy burden of state business.’ 

“Don’t you know that he is dead?”

‘The emotions that I felt at these words are beyond all description; and my astonishment, the paleness that overspread my face, and my silence must have betrayed them to the King.’

“At what are you astonished thus? not at the death of an old man of a hundred and eight years?”

“No,” I replied after a pause, “but I am surprised that he died at so seasonable a period.”

“Will you explain yourself more distinctly?”

“I think it is a very strange accident that the royal hermit should have entered the kingdom of heaven, and left your Majesty the terrestial crown, just when he was to show himself to the people as their lawful King.”

(To be continued.)