AN ADDRESS TO THE VOTARIES OF POESY.

By James De-La-Cour.

(Continued.)

LOVE, HONOUR, AND TRUTH.

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.

The design of the masthead changed slightly with this issue. The printer’s information (end of last page) is also new.

----

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

EXTRACT from a LETTER to Miss ****.

—Since we both fancy ourselves unhappy, permit me, in this place, to make a few serious reflections on the extreme mutableness and instability of all terrestrial felicity; and the long duration and permanency of misfortune and disappointment. Those halcyon days I oft remember, when I enjoyed the pleasure of your society. Then, indeed, I tasted for a moment, something like unmixed happiness: not a wave of sorrow rolled across my breast; nor was corroding care an inmate of my bosom. The loveliness of the season, in union with the serenity of the atmosphere, conspired to increase my tranquility, and to render every thing delightful. When we sailed gently down the harbour, the clear cerulean of the sky added a softer beauty to the adjacent landscapes, and rendered the prospect enchanting. When we strayed over the flowery fields, or penetrated the leafy grove, the flocks grazing the green herbage, the zephyrs rustling through the trees, and the birds warbling on the branches, exhibited a resemblance of the pristine happiness of ancient Eden. And when listlessly wandering on the rocky beach, the idle murmuring of the waves upon the sandy shore, the confused gabbling of the sea fowl, and the distant view of the “full spread vessel majestically advancing over the white capp’d billows,” tended to sooth the sorrows of humanity, and lull the mind to quietude. The day ended, and still evening drew on. Then did nature appear in silent magnificence; while the silver rays of the full orbed moon shed a majesty on each surrounding object. The lofty summit of the cloud-topt mountain appeared in solemn grandeur; the dusky forest reflected a yellow radiance; and the rolling wonders of the skies glittered over our heads: while the awful stillness that reigned, interrupted only by the lonely strains of the whip-poor-will, served to exalt the soul, and distend the heart.

These were beatific seasons of bliss—golden moments indeed, while they lasted, but, alas! where are they fled? They have vanished like the fading glories of the west, when the illustrious monarch of day resigns our hemisphere to the sable goddess of darkness. Or like the gay delusions of a morning dream, which only tantalize the mind with the prospect of unsubstantial happiness, and render the real evils of life more intolerable. A true, but melancholy picture of unhappy man. Joy, for a moment, expands his countenance with smiles; but it is suddenly overclouded with a gloom of sadness, and misery and woe become his inseparable companions. Youth and beauty just open into bloom; and then are succeeded by the solicitudes of manhood, and the dull unjoyous season of old age. Humiliating reflections are these to the sorrowing child of humanity: yet, where virtue has a residence in the heart, she quickly calms the throbbing breast, and allays the gathering storm of affliction. ’Tis virtue alone that can enable the soul to bear up cheerfully against the calamities of life, and give her a joyful assurance of happiness in a future state. Virtue will command respect among men, adorn the wrinkles of age with dignity, and crown the hoary head with respect. It will shine forth in the evening of life, like the refulgent glories of a setting sun, and glow with increasing splendor in never-ending worlds.

This invaluable jewel, I admit not the least doubt, dear madam, but you possess; and it is the great object of my pursuit. Then let life’s tempestuous ocean roar, and fortune inauspiciously frown upon us; we shall surely outride the stormy gale, and ere long make the blessed port of an happy immortality.

PROSPERITY.

A single disappointment is sufficient to embitter all the pleasures of worldly prosperity. Though it might be expected, one in possession of high power and station should disregard slight injuries. But prosperity debilitates instead of strengthening the mind.—Its common effect is, to create an extreme sensibility to the slightest wound.---It foments impatient desires; and raises expectations which no success can satisfy.---It fosters a false delicacy, which sickens in the midst of indulgence; by repeated gratification, it blunts the feelings of men to what is pleasing; and leaves them unhappily acute to whatever is uneasy.

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 307.)

Grief, horror, pity, hope, and despair assailed my heart alternately, after I had read this letter. I moistened it with burning tears. When this violent agitation of my mind began to abate so much that I could reflect again, I considered what could be done for the preservation of this hapless man, and regardless of my indisposition, hastened to the archbishop of Lis*on, who always had been very partial to the Duke, and was much respected by the Queen. I entreated this worthy prelate to intercede with the latter for my hapless friend. “Alas!” he replied, “I have attempted it already without success.” “How, my Lord?” her reply was, “how can you intercede for a traitor who has meditated our destruction and the ruin of our kingdom. All that you can expect is, that I shall forget what you have asked.”

This account of the archbishop rent my heart; however, I entertained still some hope that the King, whose generous disposition I knew, would not prove callous against my tears and prayers. I went without delay to the palace, and was admitted. I supplicated him on my knees, to grant his royal mercy to the unfortunate deluded young man, and exerted every power of eloquence to excite his pity. “Rise, Marquis,” the King replied, “there is no occasion for your intercession; I have determined already to pardon the Duke and the rest of the conspirators; yet their fate does not depend on myself alone, but also from the decision of the Council of State.” With that resolution I was dismissed.

The following day, the gaoler brought me a second letter from the Duke, which I shall transcribe literally:

“My Dearest Friend,

“I am allowed to converse with you once more. The 200 dobras have gained the gaoler, and the promise of a like sum has prompted him to engage to deliver this letter to you. I must inform you of an important incident, that happened last night, within the walls of my dungeon. The door of my prison was suddenly flung open, and Hiermanfor entered. Although I have great reason to be angry with him, yet he appeared to me an angel of light, in comparison with Alumbrado. The sight of him roused my heart from its state of despondency; however, my former gloominess of mind soon returned, when after a long and solemn silence, he exclaimed: “must we meet again in this place?”

“I could return no answer; the consciousness of my guilt lay heavy on my mind, and the looks of the Irishman confounded me. Without being affected by my perplexity, he resumed, after a short silence: “you was a noble, deserving young man when I left you, and now I find you a rebel.” I do not know whether it was the accent in which he pronounced these words, or the truth they implied, that made my blood ferment on a sudden—in short, I exclaimed: “if you had fulfilled your promise as an honest man, I should then perhaps not have been in this situation.” The Irishman seemed to be affected vehemently. “By heaven! my Lord!” he exclaimed, “it was no fault of mine, a journey, and business of great importance, prevented me from seeing you sooner. But I do not comprehend you sufficiently, will you be so kind as to explain the meaning of your words?”

“I will, as soon as you shall have given me an explanation of an incident which you have promised to clear up.”

“What incident do you mean?” the Irishman said.

“The apparition of Antonio, at the church-yard. Was it a natural contrivance of your invention?”

“It was.”

“Merciful God!”

“What is the matter with you?”

“Don’t ask me, the explanation—the explanation—”

“The apparition was effected by means of a convex mirror; the vision which you wanted to embrace, was nothing else but the image of a statue of your tutor, which was reflected on the spot where it appeared by a mirror placed before that statue.”

“But how did it happen that the mirror escaped my observation?”

“You will recollect that the vision appeared not far from the chapel, behind the wall of which the mirror was placed in such a manner that it could not be perceived by you.”

“And Antonio’s statue?”

“You would have observed it if the sight of the apparition had not engrossed your whole attention; however, its having been painted white like the rest of the statues in the church-yard, probably would have induced you to mistake it for the statue of some saint or other, and thus it would not have attracted your attention.”

“But how could the apparition disappear and re-appear at my desire?”

“That was not difficult. One of my people, who directed the mirror through one of the church windows, removed it when the vision disappeared, and replaced it again in its proper situation when you desired the phantom to appear once more.”

“But if I had discovered the artifice?—”

“Don’t you believe that I had taken the necessary precaution? Even if you had seen the mirror, yet you would not have discovered its effect. I was, however, pretty sure that you would not enter into an examination, being well aware that you would have no inclination of doing it, because I had desired you to make every investigation you should wish, and thus prompted you to believe that I apprehended no discovery.”

“However, the phantom spoke, how could that be?”

“Not the phantom, but Count Clairval, who was in the gallery of the chapel, spoke through a speaking trumpet. The direction of the trumpet, and the striking resemblance the phantom bore to your tutor, induced you to attribute the words which he pronounced to the vision.”

“Hiermanfor,” said I after a pause, “then your last miracle too was a delusion?”

“You have my confession.”

“And nevertheless you assured me so solemnly that it was the work of super-natural power!”

“I did so; but I intended to recant after the end which I had in view should have been attained. Unforeseen incidents prevented me from doing it sooner.”

“Why did not Count Clairval recant in your name, when I entreated him so solemnly and so pressing to confess the fraud?”

“He had received no orders to that purpose.”

“You promised me, one time, to initiate me in a new philosophy, and to introduce me to an happiness that is concealed from other mortals.”

“Then I promised you what I am not able to perform. Without circumlocution, I imposed upon you!”

“And you have the courage to tell me this to my face?”

“I have spoken the truth, and hope you will forgive me. Yes, I have deceived you, and the success of the revolution depended chiefly upon that innocent fraud. I deceived you because—forgive me my frankness—because you would be deceived.”

“Your morality agrees pretty well with your policy.”

“I am astonished,” the Irishman replied with a contemptuous smile, “that you presume to call my morality in question; the clangor of these fetters contrasts very much with your moral speeches.”

“Scarcely able to retain my rising indignation, I replied, “But if I could prove that this innocent fraud, as you please to call it, has been the chief cause of my crime, of these fetters, and of my impending execution!”

“Heaven forbid it!” the Irishman exclaimed, seized with terror.

“You have excited by your delusions my propensity to miraculous events. The explanation of your deceptions did not at all destroy the dangerous effect they produced on my mind, because I never was able to recover entirely from the erroneous opinion that the apparition of the church-yard had been the effect of supernatural power. An infernal impostor took advantage of the situation of my mind, and incited me through new delusions to engage in the undertaking that has been the cause of these fetters. Are you now sensible of the injury I have suffered through you?”

“The Irishman grew pale, and seemed deprived of the power of utterance. At once he recovered from his sudden terror, and started up. “Whither are you going?” I exclaimed. “To the King!” he replied. “What business have you with the King?” I enquired. “I am going to implore him to spare your life, and to set you at liberty. Forgive me, unfortunate young man! (he added) forgive me! I will exert every power of persuasion for the preservation of your life.” So saying, he left me, and I have not seen him since. I must patiently await the effect of his application. Farewell! my friend, farewell! I am not afraid of leaving this world, for Amelia is dead, Antonio is no more, and alas! my father too will be condemned to die. However, the idea of dying branded with ignominy, thrills me with terror and desponding agony. Gracious Heaven, ward off this dreadful blow, if it be possible!”

Hesitating between hope and fear, I awaited the day which was to decide the fate of my hapless friend. It arrived.

My melancholy tale draws nearer towards its conclusion! why does my hand tremble thus? why do these tears start from my eyes? what means this dreadful agony that almost breaks my heart? Alas! thy doom is fixed, ill-fated victim of delusion!

The judges who were to decide the fate of the conspirators met, and decreed that the Marquis of Villa Re*l and the Duke of Ca*ina, should be beheaded as rebels against the King, whose authority they had acknowledged with the rest of the states of the empire, and the other conspirators hanged and quartered. The punishment of the Primate and the Grand Inquisitor was left to the decision of the King.

(To be concluded in our next.)

ANECDOTES.

A wild young fellow was going abroad: His mother took him up into her closet, telling him she had a precious treasure to deposit in his hands, and after many grave admonitions produced the Bible, handsomely bound in two volumes; and, to crown all, advised him to consult and search the scriptures. Little did the youth know how precious the volumes were; but you shall hear. On his return from sea, the old lady one day took him aside, and hoped he had remembered the last injunction she had given him: “Yes, he could very honestly say he had taken care of the Bible.” To prove his respect and obedience, he runs up stairs to his own room, and returns instantly, with the two volumes safe and sound.

The good lady pulls off one cover: “Rather too clean, my dear.” “O madam, I took great care of them: the second volume is equally fair.” She shakes her head; intimating her suspicions that they had not been read so often as she wished: Then opens the first volume, and, lo! a ten pound bank note is found: the second volume displays a second note, and of twice the value. She was confounded; and so was her son: And I know no man, of my acquaintance, who more sincerely regrets that he did not search the scriptures.

A man having hurt his forehead, was advised to rub it with brandy. Some days after being asked if he had done so? answered, “I have tried several times, but can never get the glass higher than my mouth.”

From an English Magazine.

ORIGIN OF THE SPENCER.

BEING A SEQUEL TO THE STORY OF THE BOTTLE-CONJUROR.

On my arrival in town for the season, my eyes every where in the streets encountered a phenomenon which I could not account for: namely, men walking in great coats, the TAILS of which were CUT OFF close to the body!—The first person I met in this garb being rather of a mean appearance otherwise, I set it down to the account of convenience, and recollected the proverb of, half a loaf being better than no bread. But when I saw numbers of gentlemen decorated with this ABRIDGMENT of a coat, many of whom to my personal knowledge, could afford a whole coat, once a week if they chose, I was totally at a loss to account for the grotesque appearance they made. Surely, thought I, this cannot be voluntary.

On consulting, however, a friend, who always resides in the metropolis and is a close observer of modes and manners, he solved all my doubts.

“That absurd dress, which does not surprise you more than any other stranger, is a wonderful proof of the obsequious servility of those who would be thought in the fashion. Lord C. Spencer, from whom the dress takes its name, bet with some friends that he would support a fashion, the most useless and ridiculous that could be conceived; and that it should, within a given time, be universally adopted. The bet being laid he produced a pattern of this fashion, which excited so much laughter, that his opponents were pretty confident he would lose his bet. Lord C.’s opinion of mankind, was, however, better founded. The fashion soon became general, and, to complete the humbug, the wearers of this half coat have found out a thousand conveniencies and advantages in it, such as saving of cloth, impossibility of being draggled, easier put on, &c. not one of which the author ever thought of. Such is the origin of the Spencers! I need not remind you that the bottle-conjuror affair was likewise a wager, to see what lengths credulity would lead the public, and the present fashion is no bad Second Part to that memorable take in.”

Are these things so, Mr. Editor? Are we really such fools as to adopt a dress, the chief merit of which is its being ridiculous, and injurious to trade? All I shall say is, Quis vult decipi decipitur!

Your’s,

OLD SKIRTS.

A DIGRESSION.

Many of those authors, who have largely contributed to the amusement and instruction of readers, have considered episodes of digressions, a very essential part of their labours. These writers seem apprehensive lest the greedy reader should be surfeited with a repletion of highly seasoned wit; and therefore occasionally serve up a course of more homely fare. This practice, when the main subject of the work is interesting and the writer sprightly, I always disapprove; but, if the subject and writer are dull, I am constantly impatient for digressions. The true style of digressing however has not frequently been attained. Sterne attempted it with some success; but his marble page, his crooked lines, and his seven castles are dull system, are dry method, compared with the narrative of our modern peasantry. Having some skill in stenography, I have been able to preserve one of those diverting stories, which was not long since related in my hearing, and which, for the improvement of speakers, as well as writers, I now carefully transcribe.

“On the seventh day of last October, I will not however be positive it was the seventh; it might possibly, for aught I know, be the eighth. It could not be later than the eight nor earlier than the seventh. The month if I mistake not, came in of a Saturday, and it must have been very near the close of the first week; but the particular day is not material. So, be that as it may, it is of no consequence; but, I am pretty certain it was the seventh. I would not undertake for to go for to swear to it; because I may possibly be mistaken; and, as I said before, it is not material. If it was necessary, I should not be much afraid to swear it was either the seventh or eighth. Indeed, the more I think on it, the more I am convinced, in my own mind, that it was the seventh. But, though I should not wish to swear to it, unless it was necessary, I am as well persuaded of it, in my own mind, as I am of any thing, that I do not know for certain. Well, as I was saying, on the seventh of October last, for I am very sure it must be the seventh, one of my neighbours; I call him a neighbour, though, it is true, he does not live very near to me; perhaps seventy-five or eighty rods distance. I do not know but it may be more. I very often travel it, and possibly it appears to me shorter than it really is. Indeed, I have not been used to have near neighbours. Before he came, the nearest was at least half a mile from me; and, when this one came, I told my wife, it seemed but a step to his house. But that is neither here nor there. We are but new yet, and cannot expect to have very near neighbours; but I had rather be as I be than have a hundred such people for neighbours as I have sometimes been acquainted with. But that is neither here nor there. But as I was saying, one of my neighbours came to my house. I had as lief tell who it was as not. The matter I am certain will be known. It was Noah Douglass. I was sitting before the fire. Before it? I can’t say I was exactly before it. Perhaps I was a little nearer one side than the other. But that is neither here nor there. When he came in, I asked him to sit down, not thinking nor mistrusting the least thing in the world. I had no more suspicion of any difficulty with him than the farthest person upon earth. There had always been a good correspond between us. He had always been sociable with me, and I with him. We never had any quarrelling pro nor con. We had had a good deal of deal together; but we were always very authentic, and settled peaceably and quietly. But he had not been in the house long, before I could see there was something that laboured. Well, it was not longer than I have been telling the story, before he began. Says Douglass, says he, don’t you think, says he, you have used me like a rascal, says he. Why, Mr. Douglass, says I, if I was as stout a man as you—And what if you was, says he.”

From this last reply of Douglass, I am persuaded he must be a lineal descendant of the celebrated Gawin Douglass, a very ancient English author, frequently quoted by some of our modern grammarians, and considered as the true standard of the colloquial and familiar style.

THE MEDDLER.

MIRANDA.

A MORAL TALE.

Such were the plaintive accents that smote my ear, as I wandered, musing, by the banks of the Mersey. The words had something in them which arrested my attention; but the melancholy cadence with which they were sighed forth, elicited the sympathetic tear of sorrow. I could not discover from whom the ditty proceeded; I advanced, therefore, cautiously, to the place whence the sounds issued, that I might view the distressed mourner, who had already so powerfully engaged my commiseration.

She sat on the cold ground, under a shade of willows; distress spoke in her countenance; the fountain of her tears appeared exhausted; and her grief, unable to overflow and vent itself at her eyes, convulsed her throbbing breast. Her form contained every thing that elegance and beauty can combine; her features were regular, and expressive; her eyes large and black, but sorrow had robbed them of their vivid flashes; and her dress was the remains of gentility.

I stood awhile in silent admiration; and was so enwrapt in the contemplation of the fair distressed, that I had not hitherto noticed a little dog, which she had in her lap, and viewed with all the tender languishment of love. I was about to address her, when she again began to sing—

Here an involuntary sneeze, on my part, caused the unhappy maid, to espy me, and break off her strains of woe.

She arose, and clasped her little care in her arms, tenderly but deliciously exclaiming—“They shall not hurt thee, my Henry! these murderers shall not come near thee! Rest on thy Miranda’s bosom, and forget thy fears in her love!”

I approached nearer. She looked at me with earnestness; and saw the big drop rolling down my cheeks, and my whole frame almost motionless with grief. The delirium which she had just experienced immediately left her: she advanced near me—“And do you pity me and my love?”

“Thou lovely fair one,” said I, “though I am unacquainted with thy miseries, and the source from whence they flow; yet, let my tears witness my heart felt commiseration.” 

“Is there, then, one soul left,” said she, “that feels for poor Miranda; that feels for her father, and her lover?”

Here she sighed, and cast a tender look on her little companion. A paleness overshadowed her cheeks, her lips quivered, and she seemed about to relapse into her former delirium; when I diverted her attention, by turning it to the beauty of the landscape, and the serpentine windings of the river.

I offered my arm; which she accepted with that unsuspicious modesty, that a heart pure and conscious of it’s innocence inspires. “Where do you live Miranda?” said I. She started at hearing her name from a stranger, having forgot that she had mentioned it; but, quickly recollecting herself—“At the foot of yon farthest hill, you see several clumps of trees around an humble cottage; at present,” replied she, sighing, “I live, or rather die, there!” I desired leave, to see her home: she thanked me for my kindness, and consented.

“Miranda,” said a grief-worn personage, whom, at our entrance into the cot, I perceived laid on a poor but cleanly couch—“Miranda, you shall not add to my heap of miseries by staying in the fields so late; I am alarmed, at such times, for your safety.”

At the sound of the voice, and at the appearance of the old lady, I felt a tumultuous palpitation of the heart, and a more deeply sympathizing sorrow, than I could account for. She had not discovered me before: she now perceived me motionless at the sight of this little mansion of sorrow. She alledged, in excuse for her inattention to me, her solicitude for her daughter. A youth of about twelve years old raised her up from the couch; a girl some years older sat languidly at her feet. A little wood composed their fire, which was at present their only light: it’s inconstant glimmerings served only to exaggerate sights of woe.

Such were my presentments on this occasion, that I involuntarily conceived there must exist some unknown connection of destiny or consanguinity between myself and the sufferers. I therefore desired with eagerness, to be made acquainted with their history.

On turning from Miranda, to whom I made this request, I beheld the mother’s eyes fastened on me: a glistening tear impearled them: she shook her head, as if disappointed, and poured forth a rending sigh. Again my heart throbbed within my breast; but I recollected the desire I had expressed to Miranda, whom I perceived now composed, and ready to satisfy my curiosity.

“The zeal, Sir, with which you appear to interest yourself in our afflictions, entitles your request to attention. By complying, however, I shall again pourtray in lively colours, to my own and my wretched parent’s sight, those miseries which have by time acquired a mellower tint. Hard is the fate of the inferior order of clergymen! How many are the difficulties that surround them! The labourer, who by his toil is able to support his family, enjoys comparatively the happiness of a prince. The scanty pittance allowed them by the church, will oft times scarcely procure food for themselves and their family. You will join with us, no doubt, in lamenting, that in England, in this most happy and heaven-favoured isle, there should exist so intolerable and just a ground of complaint. Nay, even policy, one might imagine, would direct them to abolish such a neglect of Christ’s ministers: for, as no government can flourish, so it cannot long stand, without religion for its basis. The common people chiefly respect externals, and fancy themselves at liberty to deride the thread-bare coat, how great and how many virtues soever its wearer may possess. When the expounders of religion fall into disesteem, religion itself does not long escape; till, at length, all laws, divine and human, are totally neglected and despised. But, whither am I carried on? Excuse my wandering, Sir: such considerations ever arise, when I reflect on our condition.”

“The justness of your remarks, Miss,” said I, “precludes the necessity of an apology.”

“You, no doubt,” continued she, “conjecture, from what I have said, that my father was a clergyman; your conjecture, Sir, is right. That good man is one of the best and most neglected of the clerical profession. He was thirty years curate of the neighbouring village; where his name was ever heard with raptures, so long as he retained the capacity of supplying their wants. But—O this ungrateful world!—when he was no longer able to assist them, they thought themselves freed from former obligations, and at liberty to laugh him to scorn, and insult his misery!”

The old lady sighed; a tear started into her eye; she looked towards Heaven, and was again calm.

“The widow, to whom he was a husband; the orphan, who had found in him the tenderness of a father; were the first to aggravate his sorrows, by that blackest of all vices, ingratitude. One only poor widow exhibited a grateful heart——But again I wander! His yearly income was forty pounds, allowed him for doing the whole duty of the church, by a rector whose laziness procured near two thousand. With this small income we lived in happy frugality, many years: but the good man’s heart overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and this scanty pittance, though sufficient for our expences, and for small beneficences, was very inadequate to the demands of wretchedness. He borrowed, therefore, a sum of money, from a tradesman, to liberate from prison one who craved his assistance. About this time, the son of the rector returned from the university; a youth—Good Heavens!—a youth whose form, whose mind, whose heart, were——”

[To be continued.]

Mrs. RADCLIFFE.

This lady’s novels have a bewitching interest. The power of painting the terrible and the mysterious is hers, in an eminent degree, but her sketches of landscape, though always indicating a skilful painter, are too numerous and minute. They may be called the miniature pictures of nature. Whether in the vales of Arno, or among the craggs of the Appennines, unsatisfied with general description, she chooses to note every spire of grass, and every shrub of the rocks. In the labyrinthian scenes of her castles and her forests, the attentive critic may discern a degree of finesse and stage trick, which, often repeated, offends, rather than surprises. When curiosity pants to discover the secrets of a desolate chamber, or a ruinated abbey, some, perhaps many, impediments may be judiciously thrown in Fancy’s way. But the rusty and bloody key, the glimpse of fancied apparitions, the perplexed path and the impracticable stair case, occur so often in Mrs. Radcliffe’s midnight rambles, that they soon lose their power of deception. But let pruning criticism lop what it may, the laurels of this lady cannot be injured. Her style pure, harmonious and forcible, might be a model, even to masculine writers. In the exhibition of the nicer, and less obvious shades of character, she has caught the strength and the spirit of Tacitus and Shakespeare. The family of La Lue is an enchanting group, not less agreeable from its resemblance to the La Roche of Mackenzie; and the fierceness of Montoni, and the fears of Emily St. Aubert, are admirably contrasted.

For the New-York Weekly Magazine.

REFLECTIONS.

Step aside, vain mortal!—cast thine eyes on this emaciated figure, and then reflect on thy transitory life. Look yet closer—See! the smile is no longer seated here. In how short a time has this change happened! A few hours since and he sported in the sunshine of health: his gaiety was equal to thine. He had measured full twenty years; and many more appeared in readiness to swell the lump.

Dost thou shrink back?—Nay, start not! ’tis thine own picture thou art viewing!—Ere long and thou wilt be likened unto this odious mass. Perhaps thou mayest not again behold that bright luminary which constitutes the day.

Ah! ’twas but yesterday that this now inanimate substance was in the full exercise of every living faculty!—He had laid down a plan for future life, but lived not to put it in practice. While he was figuring to himself the many days of uninterrupted pleasure that seemed within his grasp, the dread summons arrived; and scarcely was the awful packet opened, before the victim was made sure.

L. B.

March 25, 1797.

DUTY OF PARENTS TO THEIR CHILDREN.

By all the nameless sensations of tenderness, which ye whom heaven hath blessed with children feel towards them, be entreated, then, to make their improvement in piety and virtue their chief concern. That you should provide as far as you are able for their comfortable support and happy settlement in life, is undoubtedly your duty. Nor is it less your duty to afford them every opportunity in your power for improving their understandings, and laying up stores of useful and ornamental knowledge in their minds. But, let it never be forgotten, that the principal part of education, is the education of the heart. Endeavour by every method in your power, to inspire them with a reverence for the Supreme Being, with gratitude for his innumerable mercies; with a sence of honour and love of virtue; with sentiments of generosity and compassion towards their fellow creatures; with regard to truth; and with a consciousness of the dignity and excellence of their rational nature. On this foundation assist them in raising the superstructure of a manly, virtuous and useful character. In a word, imitate the example of the pious patriarch; and so command your children and houshold after you, “that they may keep the way of the Lord, to do justice and judgment.”

PITY.

When I hear one say to his neighbour in adversity, “I am sorry for your misfortunes,” it sounds very much, in my ear like, “bring me my slippers.”

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Wednesday evening the 22d ult. at Fish-Kill, by the Rev. Mr. Van Vankin, Mr. Jacob P. Roome, of this city, to Miss Nelly Hoogland, of that place.

On Sunday evening sen’ight, by the Rev. Dr. Foster, Mr. Isaac Seymour, to Miss Sally Wilson, both of this city.

Same evening, by the Rev. Mr. Milledolar, Mr. James P. Allen, to Miss Mary Gordon, daughter of Charles Gordon, Esq. of Middle-town, New-Jersey.