To this woman, Greece would have erected statues; Rome, temples. France may some day insert her name in the calendar of her martyrs;—the ancients would have placed her among their gods!
Translation of a letter from Marie Anne Victoire Charlotte Cordet, to her father, written on the evening before her trial:
“From the prison of the Conciergerie, in the apartment lately occupied by the deputy Brisot,
“July16, 1793.
“My dear respected Father,
“Peace is about to reign in my dear native country, for Marat is no more!
“Be comforted, and bury my memory in eternal oblivion.
“I am to be tried to-morrow, the 17th, at seven o’clock in the morning.
“I have lived long enough, as I have achieved a glorious exploit.
“I put you under the protection of Barbaroux and his colleagues, in case you should be molested.
“Let not my family blush at my fate; for remember, according to Voltaire,
‘That crimes beget disgrace, and not the scaffold.’
‘That crimes beget disgrace, and not the scaffold.’
“Your affectionate daughter,
“Marie Anne Victoire“Charlotte Cordet.”
Superstitionridiculed; tyranny exposed; innocence protected:—a nation, if not prepared for liberty, yet unfitted for bondage. Such were the labours and the triumphs of Voltaire.
The Parisians were always fond of him. Their vanity was, indeed, gratified by his glory, in which they supposed themselves to participate. On his return from banishment, in the time of the monarchy (from what free country would the author of theHenriadehave been banished?) he was presented with a wreath of laurel, in the public theatre, and crowned, like the heroes of the ancient republics, in the presence of the whole people.
On the recovery of liberty, his ashes were claimed by the nation, and on the 10th of July, 1791, conducted into Paris, amidst the shouts of the national guards, and the tears of the citizens. The carriage, containing the corpse, was shaded with green branches, and adorned with appropriate devices. On one side was the following inscription:
“Si l’homme a des tirans, il doit les détrôner.”
On another:
“Si l’homme est créé libre, il doit se gouverner.”
The above mottos were selected from his own immortal works.
“Anecdotes and Remains” (pg.406, 411).This article previously appeared inThe Monthly Magazine and British Register(ed. Richard Phillips), May 1796.Notes: These pieces are listed in the Index under the names of the individual persons.
“Anecdotes and Remains” (pg.406, 411).
This article previously appeared inThe Monthly Magazine and British Register(ed. Richard Phillips), May 1796.
Notes: These pieces are listed in the Index under the names of the individual persons.
Nº. IX.
If we see right, we see our woes,Then, what avails it to have eyes?FromIGNORANCEour comfort flows;The only wretched are the wise.Wearied we should lie down in death;ThisCHEAT OF LIFEwould take no more,If fame were thought an empty breath,OrDELIAbut a purjured whore.PRIOR.
If we see right, we see our woes,
Then, what avails it to have eyes?
FromIGNORANCEour comfort flows;
The only wretched are the wise.
Wearied we should lie down in death;
ThisCHEAT OF LIFEwould take no more,
If fame were thought an empty breath,
OrDELIAbut a purjured whore.
PRIOR.
Happinesshaving been defined, by certain acute wits the art of being adroitly deceived, perhaps, therefore, no order in society merits congratulation more, than that cajoled cluster of “good easy men,” whom knaves call dupes. Amadis de Gaul, or any other knight errant of old romance, must have cordially cursed the malignant enchanter, who, by the touch of a tallisman, caused the gorgeous castle to dwindle to a cot, or the wrinkles of a witch to mar the brow of a peerless damsel. The Dupe, whom the unreflecting “million” too often deride for being gulled, would have equal reason to upbraid that impertinent and pretended friend, who, in the game of human artifice, should stand behind his chair, and incessantly tell him, that he was cheated. Although I cannot agree with that eccentric orator, who harangued in praise of ignorance; although I cannot print paradoxes, likeRousseau’s, pronouncing the arts and sciences useless, and barbarism a blessing; yet I would fervently implore those gamesome genii, who delight in the mockery of mortals, that they would never unbind from my eyes that fillet which conceals from their view the foibles of the friend I respect, and the frailties of the woman I love. In life’s pilgrimage, curiosity must be sparingly indulged: and, lest dejection invade, we should not scarcely see, still less contemplate, the deformities ofZaara, orThe Desart. One of the most amiableweaknesses,as the world calls them, in my uncle Toby’s character, as delineated by Sterne, was that you might cheat him ten times a day, if nine times were not sufficient for your purpose. Ælian, a narrative Greek, records the case of an insane Athenian, who, living in a maritime town, fancied that all the vessels which arrived in the haven were his own. Horace mentions likewise, a nobleman of Argos, a literary enthusiast, a “child of fancy,” who, even in the vacant pit, fancied that he witnessed the representation of sublime tragedies, and “hearkened even to extacy.” Now how unfortunate an officer would uncle Toby have been, had Corporal Trim hinted at the duplicity of Bridget, widow Wadman, or any of the Shandy family; and how unfortunate were the frantic Athenian and the illustrious Argive, from whose minds the “dear deceit” was expelled by the officious friend, and the operative hellebore.
I have read somewhere, I believe in Sir Thomas More’s works, that the world is undone by looking at things at adistance. One would suppose that so wise a Chancellor would have philosophised better than this, and have maintained thereverseof the proposition. Happy would it have been had his practice militated with his principles. If he had surveyed the Romish superstition, and the caprice of the eighth Henryat a distance, if he had kneeled to the saints without questioning their right to be worshipped, and obeyed the king without asking wherefore; the “rays of royal indignation,” would not have confused the Chancellor, and he would not have paid with his head the price oftoo nearan examination.
The inimitableButler, in whose Hudibras we always find much of the good sense and truth of poetry, acknowledges that,
Doubtless the pleasure is as greatOf being cheated, as to cheat.
Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated, as to cheat.
But he might have said more, and affirmed that the satisfaction is greater, and that the dupe is happier, than the knave. It is better to be the gulled spectator of a puppet show, than the master juggler, who comprehends the whole trick. How foolishly conducts that curious impertinent, who swears that the glittering crown of the theatrical monarch is nothing but tinsel, and rallies behind the scenes to view the actors in an undress. For the naked skeleton, even of delight to adopt a happy phrase of Dr. Johnson’s, is loathsome; and those inquisitive beings, who wish to survey every object stripped of its trappings, resemble children who dash their gilded toys to pieces to know what is inside.
In every age inquisitiveness has caused many, eager to take a peep, to go on their way sorrowing. If ourgrand parentEve had been content with innocent ignorance, and nothankeredafter those cursed crab apples which have “set the children’s teeth on edge,” we should all be “jolly fellows;” each, after rising from the feast of life, would have no reckoning but his own to discharge. But since the habit of tearing off the veil from every object has grown inveterate, how manymisshapenmonsters have exhibited to the curious eye, most naked and nauseous disproportion. How many noble, how many ecclesiastical heads, recent from the guillotine, have gasped on the ground becauseTom Painerailed at the mob for their servility to the ruling powers, and taught them the “Rights of Man.” Ifhappyignorance had been our hereditary queen, no persecution, civil or religious, would have urged non-conforming victims to the stake or the scaffold. The bells on St. Bartholomew’s night would not have tolled, Luther would not have defaced so many paintings, nor have mutilated so many statues of the Romish Church. Calvin’s proselytes would have been a visionary band, feeble and insignificant as the madcap shakers.Mother Churchwould never have quarrelled with herdaughtersfor precedency.Lawn sleeveswould not have been rent by one side, norgrey coatssinged threadbare by the other; but all the members of thegreat familywould have sung what ditties they pleased, and perhaps amicably joined in a general chorus of
“SINCE WE ARE MET, LET’S MERRY, MERRY BE,WITH A TINKER, OR A TAILOR.”
AN AFFECTING TALE,
Founded on recent Facts.
Introduced in a Letter of Consolation and Advice to Mrs.Franks, from her Sister.
NEW-YORK.
DEAREST SISTER,
Yourlast, so fraught with genuine distress, arrived at a moment when my whole soul was agitated by a pathetic fact, which has recently occurred in this city.—Alas, my dear girl, it is not you alone whom calamity visits:—the sons and daughters of affliction are as numerous as the votaries of humanity:—Sympathy need never be idle; and the tear of pity may unceasingly trickle from the eye of tenderness, while bigotry, avarice, and vanity violate the susceptive bosom of innocence and love.
Since our establishment in this city, among the acquaintances we have formed, a family of the name of Williams, consisting of a respectable father and mother, and three dutiful sons, has not been the least flattering and agreeable. My earliest observation in it, was the sincere passion which the eldest son constantly avowed for a neighbouring female, whose parents, though not in the habit of intimacy with his, were ever cordial and polite to his addresses. A mutual and unvaried affection had subsisted between them from their infancy, and, “growing with their growth,” the time had now arrived in which they anticipated the unbounded fruition of their juvenile hopes. Their parents, having heretofore tacitly acquiesced in their union, beheld with unutterable pleasure the ceaseless constancy of their children, which could be productive of nothing but the most unmingled happiness to all. The day of festive gladness was appointed, and Mr. Williams, in order to equalize his son’s estate with the expected affluence of his daughter-in-law, purchased an elegant house, and furnished it with every article of grandeur and convenience; besides a handsome donation in cash, which he reserved for the day of celebration. The blissful and expectant hour opened to the warm feelings of the young lovers a thousand scenes of untasted joy—a thousand sources of ineffable delight. Louisa already looked upon Henry as the plighted husband of her soul, and poured into his bosom her unrestrained confidence; while he, with feelings equally elated, made her the supreme mistress of his thoughts!—Thus did the rapturous scene glow in their vivid imaginations, and tantalize expectation, when the sordid parents of Louisa, taking her to their closet, thus addressed her:—“Dear Louisa, your happiness and future comfort being the only hope and object of our lives, we have with pleasure beheld, and cherished with parental indulgence, the virtuous passion you have long felt for Henry Williams. In three days more our period of duty and authority will expire; and before this we earnestly wish, by one dictate of prudence, well to conclude the work ever nighest our hearts.”—The astonished Louisa, unable to discern the tendency of this ambiguous exordium, remained pensively silent; andher father continued:—“You know the disparity of young Williams’ fortune, and the thoughtlessness of men of his profession and years—Let us then beseech you as you regard your future welfare and our solemn request, the last perhaps we shall ever enjoin, previous to your marriage, to call for an attorney and confirm on your children the fortune left you by your uncle: what we are able to bestow will equal, if not exceed the fortune of your husband.”—Louisa was all comprehension, and looking with an eye of affection first at her attentive mother, and then her father, she exclaimed, “Is it possible, father, that he, to whose honour and fidelity I am to commit my person and precious happiness, is deemed unworthy to be trusted with a trifling sum of paltry gold!”—and turning, with a sigh acceded to the proposition of her parents, as the only means of reconciling them to participate in their approaching bliss. An attorney was obtained, and her fortune of five thousand pounds secured to the offspring of her legal marriage, and forever wrested from the touch of her husband.
Their exulting parents beheld the nigh approach of their children’s happiness, with accumulated transport! The enraptured Henry forsook the world; and devoted his time to the retired society of his amiable Louisa;—Louisa disclosed the ungenerous deed she had been obliged to perform.—Its suspicious aspect, and concealed process, enraged the pride of his soul!—He flew to his father, related the insiduous act, and with aggravated frenzy cursed the foul and penurious machination!—His father, naturally of a high and independent spirit, heard his son with mortified ambition, and in flames of vindictive manliness hastened to the presence of the parents of Louisa—They received him with cordiality; but their demeanour was soon changed into coldness and reproach, by his unbridled vehemence; and after a clamorous altercation, in which the agonized Louisa mingled her tears, he left them with a solemn denunciation of the match, and an imprecation on their iniquitous penury. All intercourse between the parties was interdicted; the house, furniture, &c. purchased by Mr. Williams, re-sold, and the intended solemnization annihilated.
—Here, Caroline, pause, and enquire of your soul, if this horrid tale could thus conclude? Say, my sister, is it possible to your conception, that the divine and unadulterated fervor of this young pair, could, by this interposition of avarice, be resolved into apathy and indifference?---Could that celestial passion, whose weakest votary has survived the shocks of fate, become extinct by a mere artifice and parental covetousness?---No, Caroline, it is inconsistent with nature, and nature’s God.
Louisa’s anguish at this disastrous event is not to be described!—After uttering her grief in the agony of tears and lamentation, she drooped into a settled melancholy. Immured in her chamber, and refusing the comfort of the world, her lonely reflections aggravated the deletary influence of her misfortune: She gradually declined; and in a few months, her relentless parents beheld the awful advances of their child’s dissolution; which she viewed with a placed benignity of soul. “Death, like a friend” indeed, seemed to succour her affliction: and by a gradual and mild operation,terminated the bitter pangs of her heart. Yet even at the solemn period of her decline, her mind dwelt on the constancy and love of Henry with delightful extacy; and in departing from her sorrowing friends, forever closed her quivering lips in pronouncing his beloved name! Her fate reached the ears of the frantic Henry, who, until this time, had been kept ignorant even of her indisposition! He flew to the house—but at first was denied this last sad pleasure of beholding his lifeless Louisa!—He was, however, admitted for a few minutes, on cruel conditions. Leaning on the arm of his younger brother as he crossed the aisle which conducted to the solemn apartment, his weakened senses started at the melancholy idea, and for a time an universal agony rendered him unconscious of his real situation.—He entered the darkened room, and approaching the coffin, beheld his lately blooming love beautiful even in the frozen arms of death!—“Oh!” he exclaimed; but his surcharged heart gushing from his eyes, obstructed the farther utterance of his grief. He gazed on the cold eloquence of her face; touched with his hand her palsied cheek; and with a kiss whose ardor seemed to breath his soul to the object, was dragged from the tragic spectacle!
He attended the funeral rites; and since has been continually absorbed in silent sorrow! His soul, at times, seems abstracted from his body, and in relapsing from his reveries, he often fervently exclaims, “I have seen my Louisa! She is with her kindred spirits in bliss; and I shall soon be happy!”—While he thus paces in pursuit of the same grave which incloses his hopes of life and felicity, his loving parents, oppressed with age and affliction, are hourly progressing towards their end. Sorrow has raised her banner in the family; while the parents of Louisa, in performing the pageantry of mourning, forget the cause and object of their grief.
From this interesting narrative, my love, you will perceive, that, although others of your sex endure not the same distresses to which you are destined, they are not wholly exempt from the asperities of fate. Alas, be not covetous of distress: but learn from this reflection, that all are either the Victims of Sentiment or the dupes of passion, desirable it is to acquire a mind patient in suffering, and a soul indignant of complaint.
Excuse the length of the present, and believe me to be
Your affectionate sister,
MARIA HARTLEY.
->The preceding Letter is extracted from an invaluable Novel, entitled “The Victims of Sentiment:” wrote by aYoung Americanof Philadelphia.—It is just published, and, for sale at the office of the Weekly Magazine, No. 358, Pearl-street; (price 6s.)
Whena celebrated eastern traveller’s book was presented to the sovereign, some person asked Lord North if the author of it was not to be made a knight; “Yes, to be sure,” replied his Lordship, “and then you will have some new ArabianKnight’s[Nights] Entertainments you know.”
Superiorexcellence is the general mark for calumny; and envy is usually led to asperse what it cannot imitate. A little mind is scandalized at the pre-eminence of its neighbour, and endeavours to depreciate the virtues which it cannot attain to. Thus the distempered eye is impatient of prevailing brightness; and, by attempting to observe the lucid object, inadvertently betrays its own weakness. Pride is the fruitful parent of Detraction; and it is the unjust estimate which men set upon themselves, that generates in their minds this ridiculous contempt of greater worth. Persons of this unhappy complexion regard all praises conferred upon another as derogatory from their own value. The arrows of the backbiter are generally shot in the night; and the most unspotted innocence is the game of this infernal destroyer. The heads of his darts are imbrued in poison; and it too frequently happens, that a small wound proves mortal to the injured. But to drop for the present these figurative expressions, I would only observe, that it is a pity a well-regulated society cannot more effectually curb this impious licentiousness of those sons of darkness. If a wretch,necessitatedby the cries of a starving family to seek illegal supplies of bread, shall make an open attack upon me, the constitution of the realm consigns such a pitiable malefactor to infamy and death. And shall this miserable object of compassion prove the victim of myresentment; while the backbiter may, with impunity, revel in the excesses of his iniquity, and boast defiance to all laws? As this is a topic, however, which has been descanted on by a variety of pens, I shall endeavour to enliven it with the air of novelty, by throwing my farther sentiments into the form of a vision.
I found myself, during the slumbers of the night, in a very extensive region, which was subject to the jurisdiction of a fury, named Detraction. The fields were wild, and carried not the least appearance of cultivation. The tops of the hills were covered with snow; and the whole country seemed to mourn the inclement severity of one eternal winter. Instead of the verdure of pleasing herbage, there sprang up to sight hemlock, aconite, and other baneful plants. The woods were the retreats of serpents; while on the boughs were perched the birds of night, brooding in doleful silence.
In the middle of the plain was a bleak mountain, where I discovered a groupe of figures, which I presently made up to. The summit presented the fury of the place. There was a peculiar deformity attending her person. Her eyes were galled and inflamed; her visage was swoln and terrible; and from her mouth proceeded a two-edged sword. A blasted oak was the throne which she sat on; her food was the flesh of vipers, and her drink gall and vinegar.
At a little distance from her I observed Ignorance talking loud in his own applause; Pride strutting upon his tiptoes; Conceit practising at a mirror; and Envy, like a vulture, preying upon herself.
The multitudes who paid their addresses to this fury were a composition of all nations and professions, of differentcharacters, and various capacities. There was the mechanic, the tradesman, the scholar; but the most zealous votaries consisted principally of old maids, antiquated batchelors, discarded courtiers, and the like. Each strove to ingratiate himself with the fury, by sacrificing the most valuable of his friends; nor could proximity of blood move compassion, or plead exemption from being victims to her insatiable passion. Some addressed this infernal Moloch with the very fruits of their bodies; while others were triumphantly chanting forth the extent of her power, and expatiating on the numbers of her conquests. At this incident arose in my breast all the tender sentiments of humanity that I had ever cultivated; and I began to blame my criminal curiosity, which had prompted me to ascend the mountain. But in a few minutes the whole scene was very agreeably reversed. For, towards the southern boundaries, I observed the clouds parting, the sky purpling, and the sun breaking forth in all its glory. When immediately there appeared marching towards us Good-nature, in all her pomp and splendor; arrayed like a sylvan nymph, and blooming with unstudied graces. She was of a fair and ruddy complexion, which received additional beauty from the frequent smiles that she threw into her countenance. On her right hand shone Good Sense, with much majesty and diffidence in her mien. She was an essential attendant on the young lady, who never appeared to such advantage, as when she was under her more immediate direction. On her left was Generosity, carrying a heart in her hand. The next that presented, was Modesty, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and her cheeks spread with roses. Then followed a train of beauties, who, by the unaffected charms of their persons, made me desirous of a nearer inspection. Upon a close approach, I discovered that they were a tribe ofAmerican ladies, who were always fond of appearing in the retinue of the Goddess, from whose indulgent smiles they received an accessional lustre to their charms. I then turned my eyes towards the monsters I have above described; the principal of which turned pale, and fell down in a swoon from her throne. Pride sunk into a shade; Envy fell prostrate and bit the ground; while Ignorance vanished like a morning cloud before the rising sun. As the Goddess drew near, the whole collection of fiends disappeared. The basilisk skulked into the glade, and the oak on which the fury was seated budded forth afresh. Wherever the goddess walked, the flowers sprang up spontaneous at her feet. The trees, surprized with new-born life, displayed the enamelled blossom. The tender roe was seen bounding over the mountains, and the little lamb sporting on the hills. Instead of the briar and the thorn, there shot forth the myrtle and every odoriferous shrub. The voice of the turtle was heard in the groves, and the dales resounded with the melodious harmony of the nightingale. In a word, the whole reign confessed the happy influences of the Deity, and charmed in all the genial softness of the spring.
D. C.
Author: (Dr.) Nathaniel Cotton (1705-1788).First known publication, 1746. The piece was not part of the 1751 Visions in Verse.
Author: (Dr.) Nathaniel Cotton (1705-1788).
First known publication, 1746. The piece was not part of the 1751 Visions in Verse.
Someof the papers sport Mr. Thomas Paine as a man of gallantry; they say, since his last trip to Paris, he was caught on his knees at a lady’s feet by her husband.—The Frenchman astonished at what he saw, exclaimed, “Vat the devil be you doing, Citizen Paine?” “Only,” replied Tom, “measuring your lady for a pair of stays.”—The Frenchman quite pleased at Tom’s answer, kissed and thanked him for his politeness.
UP STAIRS BACKWARDS.
AnEnglish servant was sent to an acquaintance of his master’s, who lived at a watch-maker’s in Dame-street. When he came to the shop, he asked if the gentleman was at home; the watch-maker answered in the affirmative, and directed him to go up three pair of stairsbackwards. After a journey of half an hour, and astonishing the whole house with his noise, he arrived at the door and delivered his message. The gentleman gave him a dram, which he took,saying, “Long life to your good-natured heart and to mine, and I should be obliged to you to tell me a better way down, for the man told me I was to come upbackwards; and if, sir, I go down the same way, I am certain I shall break my neck.” The gentleman bursts into a fit of laughing, and explained the watch-maker’s meaning.
NEW-YORK.
At Charleston, (S.C.) CaptainWilliam Earle, to Mrs.I’ans, widow of Mr. Francis I’ans, formerly of this city.
On Sunday evening, 28th ult. at Norwalk, (Connecticut) by the Rev. Mr. Smith, Mr.Stephen White, to MissEsther Wasson, both of that place.
On Sunday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. Rodgers, Mr.Henry C. Southwick, printer, to MissMary Wool, both of this city.
On Monday evening se’nnight, by the Rev. Dr. M’Knight, Mr.Robert Williamson, to MissBarbara Harries, both natives of Scotland.
At New-Rochelle, on Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Kuypers, Dr.Robert G. Merrit, to MissRoosevelt, daughter of Mr. John Roosevelt, both of this city.
If Internet sources can be trusted, “Miss Roosevelt” is Maria Roosevelt, great-granddaughter of Johannes Roosevelt. This puts her in the same branch of the family as Theodore and Eleanor (but not Franklin) Roosevelt.
----METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS.From the 18th to the 24th inst.Thermometorobserved atPrevailingwinds.OBSERVATIONSon theWEATHER.6,A.M.3,P.M.6.3.6.3.deg.100deg.100June 186277e.ne.rn. lt. wd.do. do. t. lg.195469n.w.cloudy lt. wd.clear do.205769e.s.clear lt. wd.do. do.215870e.se.cloudy lt. wd.clear do.226066e.se.cloudy do.do. do. rn.236064se.ne.rain lt. wd.do. do. rn.246371w.s.cloudy lt. wd.do. do.
----
From the 18th to the 24th inst.
WRITTEN TO DISSUADE A YOUNG LADY FROM FREQUENTINGTHE TOMB OF HER DECEASED LOVER.
Now, thro’ the dusky air, on leaden wings,Sails the sad night, in blackest clouds array’d;Hark! in the breeze the gathering tempest sings;How dear it murmurs in the rustling shade!Loud, and more loud, is heard the bursting soundOf thunder, and the peal of distant rain;While lightnings, gliding o’er the wild profound,Fire the broad bosom of the dashing main.Now dies the voice of village mirth; no moreIs seen the friendly lantern’s glimmering light;Safe in his cot, the shepherd bars his doorOn thee, Eliza! and the storm of night.In yon sequester’d grove, whose sullen shadeSighs deeply to the blast, dost thou remain,Still faithful to the spot, where he is laid,For whom the tears ofbeautyflow in vain?Ah, left alone beneath the dreadful gloom,Companion of the tempest! left alone!I see thee, sad-reclining o’er the tomb,A pallid form, and wedded to the stone!Ah! what avails it, Sorrow’s gentlest child,To wet the unfruitful urn with many a tear;To call on Edward’s name, with accents wild,And bid his phantom from the grave appear?No gliding spirit skim the dreary ground,Dress the green turf, or animate the gloom,No soft aerial music swells around,Nor voice of sadness murmurs from the tomb.Cold is the breast that glow’d with love, and paleThe cheek that, like the morning, blush’d before:Mute are the lips that told the flattering tale,And rayless is the eye that flattered more.Deep, deep beneath the dark mysterious grave,Thy tears he sees not, nor can hear thy sighs:Deaf is thine Edward, as the Atlantic wave,Cold as the blast that reads the polar skies.Oh! turn, and seek some sheltering kind retreat;Bleak howls the wind, and deadly is the dew:No pitying star, to guide thy weary feet,Breaks thro’ the void of darkness on thy view.Think on the dangers that attend thy way!The gulf deep-yawning, and the treacherous flood;The midnight ruffian, prowling for his prey,Fiend of despair, and darkness, grim with blood!But oh! if thoughts terrific fail to move,Let Pity win thee back to thine above;Melt at a sister’s tears, a mother’s love,Aw’d by the voice of Reason, and of God!
Now, thro’ the dusky air, on leaden wings,
Sails the sad night, in blackest clouds array’d;
Hark! in the breeze the gathering tempest sings;
How dear it murmurs in the rustling shade!
Loud, and more loud, is heard the bursting sound
Of thunder, and the peal of distant rain;
While lightnings, gliding o’er the wild profound,
Fire the broad bosom of the dashing main.
Now dies the voice of village mirth; no more
Is seen the friendly lantern’s glimmering light;
Safe in his cot, the shepherd bars his door
On thee, Eliza! and the storm of night.
In yon sequester’d grove, whose sullen shade
Sighs deeply to the blast, dost thou remain,
Still faithful to the spot, where he is laid,
For whom the tears ofbeautyflow in vain?
Ah, left alone beneath the dreadful gloom,
Companion of the tempest! left alone!
I see thee, sad-reclining o’er the tomb,
A pallid form, and wedded to the stone!
Ah! what avails it, Sorrow’s gentlest child,
To wet the unfruitful urn with many a tear;
To call on Edward’s name, with accents wild,
And bid his phantom from the grave appear?
No gliding spirit skim the dreary ground,
Dress the green turf, or animate the gloom,
No soft aerial music swells around,
Nor voice of sadness murmurs from the tomb.
Cold is the breast that glow’d with love, and pale
The cheek that, like the morning, blush’d before:
Mute are the lips that told the flattering tale,
And rayless is the eye that flattered more.
Deep, deep beneath the dark mysterious grave,
Thy tears he sees not, nor can hear thy sighs:
Deaf is thine Edward, as the Atlantic wave,
Cold as the blast that reads the polar skies.
Oh! turn, and seek some sheltering kind retreat;
Bleak howls the wind, and deadly is the dew:
No pitying star, to guide thy weary feet,
Breaks thro’ the void of darkness on thy view.
Think on the dangers that attend thy way!
The gulf deep-yawning, and the treacherous flood;
The midnight ruffian, prowling for his prey,
Fiend of despair, and darkness, grim with blood!
But oh! if thoughts terrific fail to move,
Let Pity win thee back to thine above;
Melt at a sister’s tears, a mother’s love,
Aw’d by the voice of Reason, and of God!
N. B.
Health, rosy nymph, the pleasing boonOf happiness thou can’st bestow——Without thee, life’s best journey soonBecomes a pilgrimage of woe.Shunning the palace, did’st thou dwellWith Slav’ry in his gloomy cell,More blest the captive in the mine,Than he for whom the metals shine.But no—thy haunt cannot be thereTh’ abode of pining misery,Where the sad bosom of despairHeaves with unpity’d agony——Nor, wanton, dost thou love to sport,In pleasure’s gay delusive court—Over the gem-imbossed vase,To smile in Bacchus’ ruddy face.Thou fly’st th’ intoxicating bowl,Fountain of madness and disease,Whose wild and absolute controul,The vanquish’d reason sways.Thou shun’st the fragrant myrtle groves,Which the Paphian Venus loves—Where, while Pan pipes a roundelay,Th’ unblushing nymphs and satyrs play.Ah, modest Health, from scenes like these,Thou turn’st thy steps aside, to hasteAnd catch the balmy morning breeze,Its spirit-giving breath to taste;Where bath’d in view some valley lies,Or up a mountain’s woody rise—Whence stretching to the eastern sky,Bright rural prospects greet the eye.Here, a deep forest widely spread,Its variegated foliage shows,——There, rolling thro’ a flowery mead,With rapid course, a river flowsOn to the sea—where meets the viewThro’ opening hills its bosom blue,Save when a white-sail flies the gale before,Or a wave breaks upon the rocky shore.And as thou dart’st thy looks around,O’er the lively landscape smiling,More blythe the ploughman’s carols sound,His tedious furrow’d way beguiling——More sweet the birds their songs renew,—More fresh each blooming flowret’s hue——From every valley springs, without alloy,A general cheerfulness—a burst of joy.
Health, rosy nymph, the pleasing boon
Of happiness thou can’st bestow——
Without thee, life’s best journey soon
Becomes a pilgrimage of woe.
Shunning the palace, did’st thou dwell
With Slav’ry in his gloomy cell,
More blest the captive in the mine,
Than he for whom the metals shine.
But no—thy haunt cannot be there
Th’ abode of pining misery,
Where the sad bosom of despair
Heaves with unpity’d agony——
Nor, wanton, dost thou love to sport,
In pleasure’s gay delusive court—
Over the gem-imbossed vase,
To smile in Bacchus’ ruddy face.
Thou fly’st th’ intoxicating bowl,
Fountain of madness and disease,
Whose wild and absolute controul,
The vanquish’d reason sways.
Thou shun’st the fragrant myrtle groves,
Which the Paphian Venus loves—
Where, while Pan pipes a roundelay,
Th’ unblushing nymphs and satyrs play.
Ah, modest Health, from scenes like these,
Thou turn’st thy steps aside, to haste
And catch the balmy morning breeze,
Its spirit-giving breath to taste;
Where bath’d in view some valley lies,
Or up a mountain’s woody rise—
Whence stretching to the eastern sky,
Bright rural prospects greet the eye.
Here, a deep forest widely spread,
Its variegated foliage shows,——
There, rolling thro’ a flowery mead,
With rapid course, a river flows
On to the sea—where meets the view
Thro’ opening hills its bosom blue,
Save when a white-sail flies the gale before,
Or a wave breaks upon the rocky shore.
And as thou dart’st thy looks around,
O’er the lively landscape smiling,
More blythe the ploughman’s carols sound,
His tedious furrow’d way beguiling——
More sweet the birds their songs renew,—
More fresh each blooming flowret’s hue——
From every valley springs, without alloy,
A general cheerfulness—a burst of joy.
Pair’din wedlock, pair’d in life,Husband, suited to thy wife:Worthless thou, and worthless she;Strange it is ye can’t agree!
Pair’din wedlock, pair’d in life,
Husband, suited to thy wife:
Worthless thou, and worthless she;
Strange it is ye can’t agree!
NEW-YORK:Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. Subscriptionsfor thisMagazine(at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street.
Sources“The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina” (pg.333, 341, 349).Original: Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian (1755-1794), “Célestine, nouvelle Espagnole”, 1784 or earlier. The author’s mother was Spanish.Translations:The Lady’s Magazine (London, Vol. XXII, September 1791 pg 457ff) as “The Constant Lovers” by The Chevalier de Florian, using the names Celestina and Don Pedro;Tales of an Evening “Founded on Facts”ed. Francis Murphy 1815 (Norristown PA) as “The Beautiful Alcade of Gadara”, using the names Celestina and Don Pedro;Walker’s Hibernian Magazine (Sept 1787, 480ff) as “The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina”. This is probably the New-York Weekly’s direct source.Notes:English text:While thus mournfully ruminating, Marina, on a sudden, heard the sound of a rustic flute. Attentively listening, she soon heard an harmonious voice, deploring, in plaintive strains, the infidelity of his mistress, and the miseries of disappointed love.French text:Comme elle disait ces mots, elle entendit au bas de la grotte le son d’une flûte champêtre; elle écoute; et bientôt une voix douce, mais sans culture, chante sur un air rustique ces paroles:Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment...This is the original source of the song. The melody is by Jean-Paul Égide Martini (1741-1816).Links:http://books.google.com/books?id=T7oRAAAAYAAJhttp://lesmontsdureuil.fr/plaisir_d%27amour.php“The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina” is also available from Project Gutenberg ase-text 32527.“Wanderings of the Imagination” (pg.346, 354, 362, 370, 378, 386, 394, 402, 410).Source: book publication, 2 vols., 1796.Author: Elizabeth Gooch (1756-after 1804), born Elizabeth Sarah Villa-Real. Best known forAn Appeal to the Public, on the conduct of Mrs. Gooch, the wife of William Gooch, Esq.1788Notes: Critical Review, February 1796, referring to a passage from pg.386: “One of the licensed abuses which our author animadverts upon—the insolence of servants, to whom it is not immediately convenient for the master or mistress to payexorbitantwages due to them—might be easily obviated, if those, who call themselves their superiors, would have the discretion to confine their expenses within their incomes. We are aware that this is an unfashionable maxim: but the neglect of it necessarily involves consequences still more serious than those which Mrs. Gooch has stated—the insolence ofvulgar tradesmensuperadded to that of servants, and ultimate turpitude, disgrace, and ruin.”“The Farrago” (pg.348, 356, 364, 372, 380, 388, 396, 404, 412).The source is as given in the main text. This seems to be the only piece in the New-York Weekly whose original source is fully credited.Author: Joseph Dennie, 1768-1812.“The Farrago” was written over the period 1792-1802, generally for The Farmer’s Museum. The selections printed in the New-York Weekly originally appeared in the author’s own publication, The Tablet.
“The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina” (pg.333, 341, 349).
Original: Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian (1755-1794), “Célestine, nouvelle Espagnole”, 1784 or earlier. The author’s mother was Spanish.Translations:The Lady’s Magazine (London, Vol. XXII, September 1791 pg 457ff) as “The Constant Lovers” by The Chevalier de Florian, using the names Celestina and Don Pedro;Tales of an Evening “Founded on Facts”ed. Francis Murphy 1815 (Norristown PA) as “The Beautiful Alcade of Gadara”, using the names Celestina and Don Pedro;Walker’s Hibernian Magazine (Sept 1787, 480ff) as “The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina”. This is probably the New-York Weekly’s direct source.
Original: Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian (1755-1794), “Célestine, nouvelle Espagnole”, 1784 or earlier. The author’s mother was Spanish.
Translations:
The Lady’s Magazine (London, Vol. XXII, September 1791 pg 457ff) as “The Constant Lovers” by The Chevalier de Florian, using the names Celestina and Don Pedro;
Tales of an Evening “Founded on Facts”ed. Francis Murphy 1815 (Norristown PA) as “The Beautiful Alcade of Gadara”, using the names Celestina and Don Pedro;
Walker’s Hibernian Magazine (Sept 1787, 480ff) as “The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina”. This is probably the New-York Weekly’s direct source.
Notes:English text:While thus mournfully ruminating, Marina, on a sudden, heard the sound of a rustic flute. Attentively listening, she soon heard an harmonious voice, deploring, in plaintive strains, the infidelity of his mistress, and the miseries of disappointed love.French text:Comme elle disait ces mots, elle entendit au bas de la grotte le son d’une flûte champêtre; elle écoute; et bientôt une voix douce, mais sans culture, chante sur un air rustique ces paroles:Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment...
Notes:
English text:While thus mournfully ruminating, Marina, on a sudden, heard the sound of a rustic flute. Attentively listening, she soon heard an harmonious voice, deploring, in plaintive strains, the infidelity of his mistress, and the miseries of disappointed love.
French text:Comme elle disait ces mots, elle entendit au bas de la grotte le son d’une flûte champêtre; elle écoute; et bientôt une voix douce, mais sans culture, chante sur un air rustique ces paroles:
Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment...
Plaisir d’amour ne dure qu’un moment...
This is the original source of the song. The melody is by Jean-Paul Égide Martini (1741-1816).
Links:http://books.google.com/books?id=T7oRAAAAYAAJhttp://lesmontsdureuil.fr/plaisir_d%27amour.php
“The Adventures of Alphonso and Marina” is also available from Project Gutenberg ase-text 32527.
“Wanderings of the Imagination” (pg.346, 354, 362, 370, 378, 386, 394, 402, 410).
Source: book publication, 2 vols., 1796.Author: Elizabeth Gooch (1756-after 1804), born Elizabeth Sarah Villa-Real. Best known forAn Appeal to the Public, on the conduct of Mrs. Gooch, the wife of William Gooch, Esq.1788
Source: book publication, 2 vols., 1796.
Author: Elizabeth Gooch (1756-after 1804), born Elizabeth Sarah Villa-Real. Best known forAn Appeal to the Public, on the conduct of Mrs. Gooch, the wife of William Gooch, Esq.1788
Notes: Critical Review, February 1796, referring to a passage from pg.386: “One of the licensed abuses which our author animadverts upon—the insolence of servants, to whom it is not immediately convenient for the master or mistress to payexorbitantwages due to them—might be easily obviated, if those, who call themselves their superiors, would have the discretion to confine their expenses within their incomes. We are aware that this is an unfashionable maxim: but the neglect of it necessarily involves consequences still more serious than those which Mrs. Gooch has stated—the insolence ofvulgar tradesmensuperadded to that of servants, and ultimate turpitude, disgrace, and ruin.”
“The Farrago” (pg.348, 356, 364, 372, 380, 388, 396, 404, 412).
The source is as given in the main text. This seems to be the only piece in the New-York Weekly whose original source is fully credited.Author: Joseph Dennie, 1768-1812.“The Farrago” was written over the period 1792-1802, generally for The Farmer’s Museum. The selections printed in the New-York Weekly originally appeared in the author’s own publication, The Tablet.
The source is as given in the main text. This seems to be the only piece in the New-York Weekly whose original source is fully credited.
Author: Joseph Dennie, 1768-1812.
“The Farrago” was written over the period 1792-1802, generally for The Farmer’s Museum. The selections printed in the New-York Weekly originally appeared in the author’s own publication, The Tablet.
SourcesExcept for pieces explicitly labeled “For the New-York Weekly Magazine”, and some of the poetry, the entire content was taken from other published sources. Attribution is haphazard.For shorter pieces—individual articles, and serials complete in a few issues—sources are given in notes at the end of the article. For longer pieces, including all serialized novels, sources are given at the end of each file (about 13 issues each). Sources forThe Victim of Magical Delusion, which spans 41 issues of Volume II, are given below. Except for the serials, these annotations are not intended to be complete.The masthead for Nos. 53-91 (exactly 3/4 of the year) readsUtile Dulci. The phrase is from Horace,Ars Poetica343:omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci(i.e. combine the useful with the pleasant).“The Victim of Magical Delusion”: Nos. 53-95 inclusive, beginning onpg. 4in the first file;pg. 101in the second file;pg. 218in the third file;pg. 321in the fourth file. The final installment of the novel is followed by the “Address of the Translator” in two further installments.The serial began in no. 22 of the New-York Weekly; the first 31 of its 74 segments are in Volume I.Original:Geschichte eines Geistersehers: Aus den Papieren des Mannes mit der eisernen Larve(i.e. “the man in the iron mask”), 1790, by Cajetan Tschink (1763-1813): 3 vols. octavoEnglish Translation: Peter Will, published in 1795 asThe victim of magical delusion: or, The mystery of the revolution of P--l: a magico-political tale, founded on historical facts. Editions include London (3 vols.) and Dublin (2 vols). Only the London edition includes the final “Address of the Translator”.Volume breaks in both editions come at themiddleof New-York Weekly installments (coincidentally at page breaks):Dublin, Vol. 2 begins: As soon as the Countess was gone to bed...London, Vol. 3 begins: I felt like one who is suddenly roused...Background: The dramatic date is 1640-41, around the break-up of the Iberian Union, formed in 1580. The main character is the historical Miguel Luís de Menezes (1614-1641), Duke of Caminha or Camiña, who was executed for treason for supporting a Spanish claimant to the Portuguese throne. He outranks his father because the title was inherited from his maternal uncle, also Miguel Luís de Menezes (1565-1637); the title later passed to Miguel’s sister.The “Queen of Fr**ce” was Anne of Austria who, as her name indicates, was Spanish. During most of 1640—when she appears in this novel—she would have been pregnant with her second child.Links(Dublin edition):Vol. 1: http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde02tschgoogVol. 2: http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde01tschgoogLink(London edition):http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde00tschgoog
Except for pieces explicitly labeled “For the New-York Weekly Magazine”, and some of the poetry, the entire content was taken from other published sources. Attribution is haphazard.
For shorter pieces—individual articles, and serials complete in a few issues—sources are given in notes at the end of the article. For longer pieces, including all serialized novels, sources are given at the end of each file (about 13 issues each). Sources forThe Victim of Magical Delusion, which spans 41 issues of Volume II, are given below. Except for the serials, these annotations are not intended to be complete.
The masthead for Nos. 53-91 (exactly 3/4 of the year) readsUtile Dulci. The phrase is from Horace,Ars Poetica343:
omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci
(i.e. combine the useful with the pleasant).
“The Victim of Magical Delusion”: Nos. 53-95 inclusive, beginning onpg. 4in the first file;pg. 101in the second file;pg. 218in the third file;pg. 321in the fourth file. The final installment of the novel is followed by the “Address of the Translator” in two further installments.The serial began in no. 22 of the New-York Weekly; the first 31 of its 74 segments are in Volume I.
“The Victim of Magical Delusion”: Nos. 53-95 inclusive, beginning onpg. 4in the first file;pg. 101in the second file;pg. 218in the third file;pg. 321in the fourth file. The final installment of the novel is followed by the “Address of the Translator” in two further installments.
The serial began in no. 22 of the New-York Weekly; the first 31 of its 74 segments are in Volume I.
Original:Geschichte eines Geistersehers: Aus den Papieren des Mannes mit der eisernen Larve(i.e. “the man in the iron mask”), 1790, by Cajetan Tschink (1763-1813): 3 vols. octavoEnglish Translation: Peter Will, published in 1795 asThe victim of magical delusion: or, The mystery of the revolution of P--l: a magico-political tale, founded on historical facts. Editions include London (3 vols.) and Dublin (2 vols). Only the London edition includes the final “Address of the Translator”.
Original:Geschichte eines Geistersehers: Aus den Papieren des Mannes mit der eisernen Larve(i.e. “the man in the iron mask”), 1790, by Cajetan Tschink (1763-1813): 3 vols. octavo
English Translation: Peter Will, published in 1795 asThe victim of magical delusion: or, The mystery of the revolution of P--l: a magico-political tale, founded on historical facts. Editions include London (3 vols.) and Dublin (2 vols). Only the London edition includes the final “Address of the Translator”.
Volume breaks in both editions come at themiddleof New-York Weekly installments (coincidentally at page breaks):Dublin, Vol. 2 begins: As soon as the Countess was gone to bed...London, Vol. 3 begins: I felt like one who is suddenly roused...
Volume breaks in both editions come at themiddleof New-York Weekly installments (coincidentally at page breaks):Dublin, Vol. 2 begins: As soon as the Countess was gone to bed...London, Vol. 3 begins: I felt like one who is suddenly roused...
Background: The dramatic date is 1640-41, around the break-up of the Iberian Union, formed in 1580. The main character is the historical Miguel Luís de Menezes (1614-1641), Duke of Caminha or Camiña, who was executed for treason for supporting a Spanish claimant to the Portuguese throne. He outranks his father because the title was inherited from his maternal uncle, also Miguel Luís de Menezes (1565-1637); the title later passed to Miguel’s sister.The “Queen of Fr**ce” was Anne of Austria who, as her name indicates, was Spanish. During most of 1640—when she appears in this novel—she would have been pregnant with her second child.
Background: The dramatic date is 1640-41, around the break-up of the Iberian Union, formed in 1580. The main character is the historical Miguel Luís de Menezes (1614-1641), Duke of Caminha or Camiña, who was executed for treason for supporting a Spanish claimant to the Portuguese throne. He outranks his father because the title was inherited from his maternal uncle, also Miguel Luís de Menezes (1565-1637); the title later passed to Miguel’s sister.
The “Queen of Fr**ce” was Anne of Austria who, as her name indicates, was Spanish. During most of 1640—when she appears in this novel—she would have been pregnant with her second child.
Links(Dublin edition):Vol. 1: http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde02tschgoogVol. 2: http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde01tschgoogLink(London edition):http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde00tschgoog
Links(Dublin edition):Vol. 1: http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde02tschgoogVol. 2: http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde01tschgoog
Link(London edition):http://www.archive.org/details/victimmagicalde00tschgoog