REASONS
WHY MEN OF GENIUS SELDOM RISE ACCORDING TO THEIR MERIT.

Amid the illusions deceiving mankind, which Hope sighs for, or Pleasure grasps at, none are more fallacious than the dreams of success, which Fancy imprints, from the consciousness of her deserts, on the tablet of imagination. When an author boldly pursues the path of fame, when he strikes out into the mazes of intricate disquisition; however his Genius, prompted by her own powers, might at first promise success, yet from circumstances unknown, he too often fails in his attempt: like the bold adventurer who, searching for the diamond in the bowels of the mine, fell a victim to the blasting vapour of contagion and death.

No one will deny, that merit ought to have it’s reward; and, that every encouragement should be given for advancement in the moral or intellectual world. Habits of virtue would then be acquired from necessity; and ambition, in greatness or goodness, meet with universal admiration and applause: but, before human nature can arrive at such a state of primitive excellence, some of the bad passions must be expelled with rankle in the human heart. A barrier must be raised between envy and admiration; and ingratitude banished, as the pest of moral and intellectual happiness. I might farther analyse, and draw a parallel between the powers of the mind and it’s passions, to shew, that what prompts the one to goodness, stimulates the other to greatness; but it would be unnecessary to mention arguments, or canvass hypotheses, which have already been made the subject of frequent discussion. I shall, therefore, confine myself to the reasons why Genius too often sinks into obscurity, even while her breast expands with benevolence---while virtue and greatness animate her heart.

Ambition, while restrained within certain bounds, is highly commendable; when exceeding those limits, it degenerates, and becomes vicious. I shall, therefore, first point out this delicate barrier, perceptible only by the unprejudiced; to be trodden on by those alone who are innately good, and can bid each “passion move at the command of Virtue.” It is necessary that there should be some incitement to noble actions, to rouze the mind from torpidity, and promote the exertion of her powers. This incentive to greatness is called Ambition; and is equally fought for by the workman who excels in mechanism, the general who leads an army, and the statesman who commands the applause of senates. By a fascinating power, it beguiles mankind; and has but one predominant fault---an unbounded satiety. This gigantic precipice, which hides her head amid the clouds, is only to be climbed by the man of genius; and, when he mounts towards the summit, if he can view the prospect around him without a swimming head, and a dizzy eye, he is truly noble.

In our various gradations through life, if we can view and admire the summit of excellence which we have not reached, or look down with pleasure on that which we have passed, while we enjoy the plaudits of a surrounding world, each of us shall feel the secret praise of our own heart, proud in the consciousness of it’s integrity. Ambition, then, is the guide of Genius; it either raises it to perfection, or hurls it, in an unguarded moment, into obscurity. While, therefore, we can admire abilities greater, or perhaps less than our own, this laudable incentive will elevate and ennoble us; if, on the contrary, we despise or envy these powers, it will soon sink us into shame, and our works into oblivion.

I have made this digression, because a certain kind of ambition—for there are many species belonging to the genus---is the most essential cause why men of letters do not rise so well as they have reason to promise themselves, or even as they deserve.

Modesty is the inseparable attendant on Merit; at least, a certain kind of diffidence is felt by every man of genius, which too often hinders him from intruding himself on public notice. Possessing a mind fraught with the dignity of it’s own powers, he scorns those trammels with which an unfeeling world would too often gall his tender neck, and fetter down his lofty spirit. When, therefore, he explores the depths of science, or with unbounded good-nature skims the surface, for the benefit of mankind; he exults in the hope of that success which he had a right to demand, and looks forward to the promised harvest of the well-earned field. Though he may thus snatch his images, in daring enthusiasm: and, with “a phrenzy-rolling eye,” survey the expanse of nature; yet seldom will a harsh world comprehend---or, comprehending, reward---a dignity of mind, which might do honour to a class of beings higher than ourselves in the scale of existence. Every man who labours for the community, even should he fail, ought to be thanked for the pains he has taken; as every attempt to enforce the practice of those qualities which adorn and dignify the human heart, must necessarily merit applause.

There is certainly one excuse alledged by mankind in general, why they do not reward Genius according to it’s merit; and the reason, I will add, cannot fail, if persisted in, to tear the laurel from the brow of infant worth, and trample it in the dust. They assert, in fact; that authors are the enemies of each other, and will not allow their reciprocal fame to live.

To lay the metaphor aside; men of letters are too seldom men of generosity. It is a harsh expression, and I must beg pardon of the world for using it; but still cannot retract, till they disprove my assertion. Instead of cherishing a young author, or admiring a refined and superior genius; the wits of the age, in the one instance crush, and in the other snarl at and depreciate, his merits.

In a word, if authors would be more generous to each other’s productions---for perfection is not the attribute of humanity---if they would pardon the defects, and at the same time extol the beauties they read, merit would no longer linger in obscurity; the embryo fire of genius would again soon burst on the world, fostered in the bosom of Virtue, and fanned by the breath of Fame!

THE FATAL MISTAKE;
Or, the HISTORY of MR. ELLIOT.

[WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.]

(Concluded from our last)

However I was resolved to observe her conduct as well as lord Ashford’s and act accordingly. I therefore assumed an air of tranquility, and, by my tenderness, seemed to have banished every painful sensation from her bosom; when one day as we were talking on family matters, and wondering we had not heard from lord or lady Somerset for two months past, a servant brought me a letter from an intimate friend who was dying, and begged to see me; I would not have complied with his request, disagreeable as it was to refuse, had not my Almena insisted on my going.

In a fatal hour I complied with her entreaties, and left her with the utmost reluctance. When I came to the house of Mr. Warner, I found he had expired two hours before my arrival; I paid a tribute of tears to the memory of honest George, who had been my college familiar; and as I had no further business, I hastened back to my wife. I entered the house unobserved by any one, having delivered my horse to a servant I met in the yard, and was proceeding to Lady Almena’s dressing room, with all the anxiety of love, when, on hearing the sound of voices I stopped, and clearly distinguished my wife, who pronounced these words: “You cannot imagine what I have suffered in this cruel separation. My heart has felt every painful sensation, you have been exposed to: believe me, my lord, my love for you is as violent as before my marriage.” “My love, my dearest Almena, answered a manly voice, I do believe you, and am convinced nothing can abate your affection for me.” I heard no more, but rushing to my apartment I seized my sword, and determined to end my woe, by plunging the weapon deep in the heart of the villain who had dishonoured me, I burst open the door of the dressing room, and, heart-rending sight! beheld my wife locked up in the arms of Lord Ashford, as I imagined.

Transported by my rage, I sprung towards him, and buried my sword in his body! He groaned and fell! But, oh Heavens! what were my feelings when I beheld the face of Lord Somerset! Though it was almost dark, I plainly perceived the features of my friend as he lay extended on the floor, bathed in his blood. My Almena had fainted on seeing her brother fall, and so stupified was I with horror at the rash action I had committed, that I was incapable of giving the least assistance to either.

My faculties at length forsook me, and I fell senseless; the noise of my fall brought the servants crouding to the apartment, there to behold the most horrible sight that ever shocked the eyes of humanity! When I recovered to a sense of my misery, I found my wife had been carried to her apartment during her fit, and Lord Somerset was seated in an armed chair.

Some of the servants were gone for a surgeon, whilst others were endeavouring to stop the effusion of blood.

He faintly opened his eyes, and casting them on me with a look of infinite sweetness, addressed me in the following manner, in a voice hardly audible: “Whatever, my dear Frederick, was your motive for a conduct so precipitate and rash, be assured I heartily forgive you; and am certain, mistake and fatal misapprehension were the cause of my death!” Here he stopped. The horror and distraction of my thoughts were so great, that, had not my servants prevented, I should have plunged the fatal sword in my own breast! By force they wrested it from me; and I was doomed to bear a wretched existence! I threw myself at the feet of Lord Somerset, and entreated his pardon.

My agonies were so great that before I could inform him of the truth, I was again deprived of my senses. I remember no more, than that after having been a long time confined to my chamber, I recovered to endless remorse!

The excess of my grief threw me into a violent fever which continued a month; during which time my wife and lord Somerset breathed their last! The latter lived only three days after the fatal wound he had received from me. He had a paper drawn up in which he solemnly attested my innocence, and acquitted me of his death. I found he had been acquainted with my jealousy of lord Ashford, by the villain who was hired by that scandal to nobility; the servant who had informed me of his lordship’s visit’s to my wife, was the detested creature of this wretch; and these falsities had been invented merely to disturb our domestic harmony; to which the appearance of his comrade in iniquity the day I had been hunting had greatly added, joined also to his evasive conduct. These particulars lord Somerset had been informed of by a letter from the abandoned fellow, who had left the kingdom, as his vile employer soon after did. But though my grief on the death of my Edward was little short of madness, yet the fate of my unhappy wife, rent my heart-strings! that angelic sufferer, on recovering from her fainting, immediately fell into strong labour; and after continuing in the utmost agony for a whole day and night, expired with her unhappy infant ere she had given it birth.

She left her forgiveness for him who had destroyed her and her brother. I am unable to describe the melancholy situation in which I was involved.

Several times I was tempted to end my miserable being; but some remains of conscience being left, I dared not rush into the presence of my Maker, uncalled for. I was greatly assisted in my resolution of enduring life, by the worthy Mr. Harpur, who on hearing of my melancholy situation, left his family and came to my house.

The world by his prudent management remained uninformed of my misfortunes; supposing my wife died of a fever in her lying-in, and Lord Somerset of an apoplectic fit. I wrote to lady Somerset the melancholy account of my folly and rashness, and intreated her pardon, as she valued the peace of my soul. But alas! she lived not to grant it me: her sorrow for the loss of her children, joined to her ill state of health soon brought her to the grave! Thus had the violence of my passions destroyed three persons dearer to me than the whole world. Mr. Harpur would have persuaded me to leave Trout-Hall, as the scene of my wretchedness, only aided the poignancy of my sufferings, but all his arguments were vain: I was resolved to dedicate my life to penitence on that mournful spot. I accordingly built a retreat in the park and never after left it except once a year, when I forsook my humble habitation, to spend a few hours in the house where my greatest misery was compleated. I generally distributed a large sum of money to the poor inhabitants of the neighbourhood on that day, and in the evening returned to my cottage. I hope my sincere repentance and sorrow for my crimes may have atoned for them to that power whose blessings I had so infinitely abused. For twenty years I lived uninterrupted by any mortal save the good Mr. Harpur, who sometimes came and spent half an hour at my solitary residence. Here I lived and enjoyed more content than I ever thought could have fallen to my lot, after the miseries of my former life. As my prayers for mercy and pardon, at the throne of Heaven, have been real and sincere, so I trust I shall be forgiven, and whenever it shall please the deity to call me hence, I shall rejoice to obey his summons, hoping I shall have peace in a better world, and my error totally obliterated.

One thing I should have mentioned, which is, that the twenty-fifth year of my retirement, I made Mr. Harpur a present of thirty thousand pounds, and left my estate to a distant branch of my family, the only surviving relations I had. I begged my worthy friend to have my remains deposited in a tomb that should be erected in my convent, as I was used to call my residence. This, I have no doubt he will see performed, and may the melancholy incidents of my life warn them who shall see this manuscript, against the blameable use of reason. Had I suffered mine to have had its proper influence, I had not been plunged in such uncommon distress.

NEGLIGENCE

IN EPISTOLARY CORRESPONDENCE.

I have no patience with those who apologize for not writing letters to their friends or acquaintances, by saying they have not time enough. Few people are so much pressed for time, as not to be able to spare half an hour, or an hour, in any day, for a particular avocation; a space quite sufficient for writing a letter. Most of those who make this silly excuse, are frequently, during the day, at a loss for filling more time than would suffice for this purpose. The true reason of the neglect seems, therefore, to be want of inclination rather than of leisure; and he who says—“I have not time for writing,” might in general say, with more honesty—“I am too indolent.”

But here it may be alledged, in favour of this neglect of correspondence, that it is not worth while, merely for the sake of amusement, to write letters; that it is irksome to sit down and be obliged to compose an epistle without possessing any subject of real and necessary business; and that the efforts of invention give to this employment the fastidious nature of a task. These objections, strictly taken, are undeniable: but it is most evident, that whoever makes them, must bind himself never to engage in any correspondence, or write a single letter that is not absolutely and indispensably necessary. And if this principle, which flows from the objections, be allowed, then epistolary correspondence must be left entirely to the concerns of business; and the communications of separated friendship, of love, and all other degrees of social affection, are at an end.

Many people sit down to write a letter as to perform a displeasing imposition, which they anticipate with reluctance, and defer as long as they can with decency. I have no objection to that reluctance, provided they would at first---whether requested to correspond, or spontaneously offering---ingenuously confess, that they consider all correspondence, which is not absolutely necessary, to be unworthy of regard: for by this explicit declaration of their sentiments, they would at once rid themselves, and others, of all trouble and expectation on the subject. The people should acquiesce in preserving correspondence, and then attempt to justify the neglect of it, by reasons which should have been offered before it was entered into, is the matter of complaint.

To such as consider that correspondence by letter is but another sort of personal communication, it will appear strange, that to compose an epistle, should be esteemed by those who possess any of the social affections, as a labour and hardship. Every person, it may be supposed, has some intimacy or acquaintance which he would wish to preserve, and if so small a portion of time might be made subservient to that agreeable purpose, is it not astonishing that so much reluctance should accompany the performance? The most indolent scruple not to confess their absent connections in terms of affection or attachment, but yet cannot induce themselves to accomplish that frequent interchange of sentiment, which constitutes the essence of friendship, and the nature of correspondence.

It should seem that those who acknowledge the existence of their absent attachments, but are yet too supine to preserve regular correspondence with them, are either under the dominion of an habitual and inveterate indolence, or else they do not feel the power of those attachments so strongly as they would have us imagine. For will the person who feels a real and undeniable pleasure in correspondence, excuse himself from it by such frivolous objections? Will the affectionate wife, separated from her faithful husband; will the ardent lover, debarred from the object of his adoration; content themselves for omitting this delightful duty, by alledging that they have not time? If the occupation employed ten times the space, they would contrive to accomplish it. And why is this? Because they take an unfeigned pleasure in the employment.

It will not avail to say that the fervour of passion often induces us to sacrifice more time to one object than is reasonable. It is sufficient to deduce, from these instances, that what we really delight in, we can always find means to perform.

Examine employments in which the warmth of passion is by no means concerned, as many there are which interest not the affections, but which by various people are highly esteemed; and you will find that such people contrive, whatever may be their other avocations, to dedicate sufficient time to those esteemed employments. Every man has a partiality for some occupation or amusement, in which, important as his necessary business may be, he can find time to indulge himself. And thus some persons, indolently inclined, can always contrive to devote a great portion of their time to their favourite goddess, Idleness; however loudly the calls of business, and of affection, may strive to detach them from her influence.

The general falshood, therefore, of this apology for neglect of correspondence---“I have not time,” is evident; being nevertheless true, with the change of one word for another, viz. instead of time, say inclination.

I am apt, however, to believe that this aversion to letter-writing is confirmed, if not induced, by the defect of conversance with literary composition. Since those who have been disused to writing, are observed in general to dislike it; and, on the contrary, persons who have had a learned education, and been early accustomed to epistolary communication, are least averse to it. The defect of practice in composition, must undoubtedly occasion a difficulty of collecting the sentiments, and of properly arranging and expressing them, that may render the employment truly irksome, notwithstanding the utmost warmth of affection. But it should be remembered, that little art is necessary to express the sensations of friendship; and that the simple language of sincerity is universally preferable to the most laboured compositions of ingenuity and elegance.

W——.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

THE DUEL.

—“Are you satisfied?” cried Edgar, accompanying his words with a dreadful thrust. The sword entered the breast of Richard, and but just escaped his heart. “Are you satisfied?” repeated he, while drawing the weapon from the wound, reaking with the blood of his friend. Richard would have replied, but his speech failed. He groaned; he gasped for breath; he fainted.

The clashing of swords, and the words of Edgar, arroused the venerable inhabitant of the forest. He slipped on his garments, and hastened to the scene of action: With some herbs, of the nature of which he was acquainted, he staunched the bleeding, and Richard again opened his eyes. When the hermit saw he was so far recovered, he returned to his cottage, to prepare a bed, and get other things in readiness for the reception of the wounded person.

The first object that Richard’s returning sight brought to view was Edgar. “Traitor! Villain!” he feebly uttered, “hence from my sight---life is no longer pleasing to me---you have strewed before me bitterness. My sister you have wronged; in an unguarded moment you took the advantage; you triumphed over her virtue: And do you still suppose I can behold you with tranquility? If you do, know that I detest you.”

“For this I will be revenged!” exclaimed the other. “Take that!---and should our spirits meet in other worlds revenge I’ll still pursue!” Here the wretch, triumphing over a fallen enemy, plunged his sword deep into the heart of Richard; and extinguished the spark of life that still remained.

The hermit was returning from his cottage---horror arrested his steps---“he saw the iron enter his soul.”

L. B.

February 14, ’97.

----

NEW-YORK.

TO CORRESPONDENTS AND PATRONS.

-> While there is an asylum open for registering instruction and depositing the modern progress of genius and literary productions in so large a metropolis as New York, a foreigner, of sentiment and taste, might with propriety remark, how few advocates step forward to eternize their fame, or support, strengthen and establish the infant state of a publication, wholly devoted to seal instruction of a lasting duration on the hearts of a virtuous and enlighten’d people.

The Editors, sensible of the abilities of many individuals who constitute various useful and honourable associations in this city, cordially solicit them (not thro’ selfish motives, but for the public good) to expand and communicate their instructive discussions; by which means, the world and posterity will partake and be entertained by their beneficent solutions. Some there are, who have already been stimulated by the generous impulse of a heart flowing with sensibility, and a desire to transmit their agreeable meditations: These will ever have the grateful thanks of those who are pleas’d with instruction, and particularly the best wishes of the Editors.

A REBUS is received, and will appear in our next.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

ON A LADY WHO DIED AT BRISTOL WELLS:

BY HER HUSBAND.

LIFE.   A POEM.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

SONG.—By Mrs. G——— C——.

THE FIRE SIDE.

To Miss S—— T———.

NEW-YORK: Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.— Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, Wall-Street.

ESSAY ON MARRIAGE.

There is nothing which renders a woman more despicable than her thinking it essential to happiness to be married. Besides the gross indelicacy of the sentiment, it is a false one, as thousands of women have experienced.

But a married state, if entered into from proper motives of esteem and affection, is the happiest, makes women the most respectable in the eyes of the world, and the most useful members of society. Care should be taken not to relinquish the ease, and independence of a single life, to become the slave of a fool, or a tyrant’s caprice.

Love is very seldom produced at first sight; at least, in that case, it must have a very unjustifiable foundation. True love is founded on esteem, in a correspondence of tastes and sentiments, and steals on the heart imperceptibly. Therefore, before the affections come to be in the least engaged to any man, women should examine their tempers, their tastes, and their hearts very severely; and settle in their own minds, what are the requisites to their happiness in a married state; and, as it is almost impossible that they should get every thing they wish, they should come to a steady determination what they are to consider as essential, and what may be sacrificed.

Should they have hearts disposed by nature for love and friendship, and possess those feelings which enable them to enter into all the refinements and delicacies of these attachments, matters should be well considered before they give them any indulgence.

Should they have the misfortune to have such tempers, and such sentiments deeply rooted in them; should they have spirit and resolution to resist the solicitations of vanity, the persecution of friends; and can they support the prospect of the many inconveniences attending the state of an old maid, then they may indulge themselves in that kind of sentimental reading and conversation, which is most correspondent to their feelings.

But if it is found on a strict self-examination, that marriage is absolutely essential to their happiness, the secret should be kept inviolable in their own bosoms; but they should shun, as they would do the most fatal poison, all that species of reading and conversation, which warms the imagination, which engages and softens the heart, and raises the taste above the level of common life. If they do otherwise, let them consider the terrible conflict of passions this may afterwards raise in their breasts.

If this refinement once takes deep root in their minds, and they do not mean to obey its dictates, but marry from vulgar and mercenary views, they may never be able to eradicate it entirely, and then it will embitter all their married days. Instead of meeting with sense,—tenderness—delicacy—a lover—a friend—an equal companion in a husband, they may be tried with insipidity and dulness;—shocked with indelicacy;—and mortified by indifference.

To avoid these complicated evils, joined to others which may arise from the opinion of the infelicity thence arising; women who are determined, at all events to marry, should have all their reading and amusements of such a kind, as do not affect the heart nor the imagination, except in the way of wit and humour.

Whatever are a woman’s views in marrying, she should take every possible precaution to prevent being disappointed. If fortune, and the pleasure it brings be her aims, the principal security she can have for this will depend on her marrying a good-natured, generous man; who despises money, and who will let her live where she can best enjoy that pleasure, that pomp, and parade of life for which she married him.

In order to ensure felicity, it is difficult to point out in the married state the most effectual method, nor can we advise whom a woman should marry, but we may with great confidence advise whom she should not marry.

A companion that may entail any hereditary disease on posterity, particularly madness, should be avoided. Such risque is the height of imprudence, and highly criminal.

A woman should not marry a fool; he is the most intractable of all animals; he is led by his passions and caprices, and is incapable of hearing the voice of reason. Besides it may probably too hurt a woman’s vanity to have a husband, for whom she has reason to blush and tremble every time he opens his lips in company.

But she worst circumstance that attends a fool, is his constant jealousy of his wife’s being thought to govern him. This renders it impossible to lead him; and he is continually doing absurd and disagreeable things, for no other reason but to shew he dare do them.

A rake is always a suspicious husband, because he has only known the most worthless of the sex.

Women, who have a sense of religion, should not think of husbands who have none. If husbands have tolerable understandings, though not actuated by religious principles themselves, they will be glad that their wives have religion, for their own sakes, and for the sake of their families.

If they are weak men, they will be continually shocking and teasing them about their principles.

A sudden sally of passion should never be given way to, and dignified with the name of love.---Genuine love is not founded on caprice; it is founded in nature, or honourable views;—on virtue—on similarity of tastes, and sympathy of soul.

In point of fortune, which is necessary to the happiness of both, a competency is requisite. But what that competency may be, can only be determined by their own tastes. If they have enough between them, as will satisfy all demands, it is sufficient.

Marriage will at once dispel the enchantment raised by external beauty; but the virtues and graces that first warmed the heart, that reserve, and delicacy which always left the lover something further to wish, and often made him doubtful of his mistress’s sensibility and attachment, may and ought ever to remain.

The tumult of passion will naturally subside; but it will be succeeded by an endearment that affects the heart in a more equal, more sensible, and more tender manner.

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 291.)

The fifth of August, in the night of which the plot was to be carried into execution, the King sent orders to all the troops that were quartered in the neighbourhood of Lis*on, to march instantly to the capital under the pretext of a review. On the morning of the same day, he delivered himself sealed instructions to his most faithful officers, ordering them not to be opened before noon, when they were to execute the contents with the greatest dispatch.

These precautions being taken, the king ordered the Great Council of State to assemble at one o’clock. The Bishop of Br*ga and the Marquis of Villa Re*l were arrested as soon as they entered the council chamber, and a captain of the life guard seized the Duke of Ca*ina at the same time in the public street. This was the time when all the officers opened their sealed orders, which contained the names of those whom they were to arrest, and of the prison to which they were to conduct them. Every one of the conspirators was confined in a different prison, and some were arrested by more than one officer. All those that had been ordered to execute the king’s command, arrived at the same time at the places of their destination, and performed their mission almost in one moment. The number of the prisoners amounted to forty-seven.

A committee of Grandees was now appointed to try the conspirators. The letters through which the plot had been discovered were not produced of the beginning of the trial, in order not to betray the Marquis of Aja*onti. Baeza being threatened to be put to the rack confessed first, and the rest confirmed his confession after having been put to the torture. The Marquis of Villa Re*l and the Duke of Ca*ina, and the two prelates confessed voluntarily.

Alumbrado endured the first degree of the torture without confessing any thing; however, at the second he began to be more tractable.

Imagining that my readers will be desirous to learn the particulars of the life of this extraordinary man, I will give a short sketch of what I could learn.

He was born at *a*. If the virtues of parents were as inheritable as their rank and fortune, he would not have been a disgrace to a family as noble as it was respectable. Already in his juvenile age he exhibited marks of a penetrating understanding, of an extraordinary docility and acuteness, but nature had thrown away her gifts upon a villain. The great rigour with which his father watched his conduct, had no other effect but that of making him a hypocrite, for he would commit any crime if he could do it unobserved, although he was generally believed to be a pattern of every virtue. In his ninth year he killed a girl by a stone thrown from a sling, and was capable not only of fathering the crime upon one of his play-fellows, but, at the same time of rendering his accusation more plausible by his solemn protestations, and the tears he shed over the corpse. Progress of time changed his conduct not in the least, he rather improved in wickedness, and in the art of concealing his crimes.

Inheriting from his father an immense fortune, he determined to indemnify himself for his former constraint, by the most licentious manner of life, and abandoned himself to all sorts of debauchery, with a fury that ruined both his health and his fortune. The grief at this conduct broke the heart of his mother, at which he was not very sorry, expecting to improve his fortune by a new inheritance. He was, however, disappointed, for his mother, thinking it sinful to support him in his debaucheries, left her wealth to a cloister. Glowing with thirst for revenge, he set it on fire and ran away.