I have laugh"d at the jest of a friend; Now they laugh and I know not the cause, Tho" I seem with my looks to attend, How silly! I ask what it was!
They sing the sweet song of the May, They sing it with mirth and with glee; Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay, But now "tis all sadness to me.
Oh! give me the dubious light That gleams thro" the quivering shade; Oh! give me the horrors of night By gloom and by silence array"d!
Let me walk where the soft rising wave Has pictur"d the moon on its breast: Let me walk where the new-cover"d grave Allows the pale lover to rest!
When shall I in its peaceable womb Be laid with my sorrows asleep?
Should LAVINIA but chance on my tomb-- I could die if I thought she would weep.
Perhaps, if the souls of the just Revisit these mansions of care, It may be my favourite trust To watch o"er the fate of the fair.
Perhaps the soft thought of her breast With rapture more favour"d to warm; Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress"d, Her sorrow with patience to arm.
Then! then! in the tenderest part May I whisper, "Poor COLIN was true;"
And mark if a heave of her heart The thought of her COLIN pursue.
A JEU D"ESPRIT.
Quoth Blab--"I would not, for the world, have it known, But Miss FLINT"s with young STEEL in the dark!"-- "Phoo! phoo!" cries old Sly, "pr"ythee leave them alone, They are only producing a Spark."
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+._
_UTILE DULCI._
THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.
+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, February 29, 1797.+ [+No. 87.+
+The ART of HAPPINESS.+
Almost every object that attracts our notice, has its bright and its dark side. He who habituates himself to look at the displeasing side, will sour his disposition, and, consequently, impair his happiness; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensibly meliorates his temper, and, in consequence of it, improves his own happiness, and the happiness of all about him.
Arachne and Melissa are two friends. They are, both of them, women in years, and alike in birth, fortune, education, and accomplishments. They were originally alike in temper too; but, by different management, are grown the reverse of each other. Arachne has accustomed herself to look on the dark side of every object. If a new poem or play makes its appearance with a thousand brilliances and but one or two blemishes, she slightly skims over the pa.s.sages that should give her pleasure, and dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you shew her a very excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery which has been neglected, or to a hand or finger which has been left unfinished.
Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and elegancy: but, if you take a walk with her in it, she talks to you of nothing but blights and storms, of snails and caterpillars, and how impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves and worm-carts. If you sit down in one of her temples, to enjoy a delightful prospect, she observes to you, that there is too much wood, or too little water; that the day is too sunny, or too gloomy: that it is sultry, or windy; and finishes with a long harangue upon the wretchedness of our climate.--When you return with her to the company, in hopes of a little chearful conversation, she casts a gloom over all, by giving you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy accident that has befallen one of her daughter"s children. Thus she insensibly sinks her own spirits, and the spirits of all around her; and, at last, discovers, she knows not why, that her friends are grave.
Melissa is the reverse of all this. By constantly habituating herself to look only on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual chearfulness in herself, which, by a kind of happy contagion, she communicates to all about her. If any misfortune has befallen her, she considers it might have been worse, and is thankful to Providence for an escape. She rejoices in solitude, as it gives her an opportunity of knowing herself; and in society, because she can communicate the happiness she enjoys. She opposes every man"s virtues to his failings, and can find out something to cherish and applaud in the very worst of her acquaintance. She opens every book with a desire to be entertained or instructed, and therefore seldom misses what she looks for. Walk with her, though it be on a heath or a common, and she will discover numberless beauties, un.o.bserved before, in the hills, the dales, the brooms, brakes, and the variegated flowers of weeds and poppies. She enjoys every change of weather, and of season, as bringing with it something of health or convenience. In conversation, it is a rule with her never to start a subject that leads to any thing gloomy or disagreeable. You therefore never hear her repeating her own grievances, or those of her neighbours or, what is worst of all, their faults or imperfections. If any thing of the latter kind be mentioned in her hearing, she has the address to turn it into entertainment, by changing the most odious railing into a pleasant raillery.
Thus Melissa, like the bee, gathers honey from every weed; while Arachne, like the spider, sucks poison from the fairest flowers. The consequence is, that, of two tempers once very nearly allied, the one is ever sour and dissatisfied, the other always gay and chearful; the one spreads an universal gloom, the other a continual sunshine.
There is nothing more worthy of our attention, than this art of happiness. In conversation, as well as life, happiness, very often depends upon the slightest incidents. The taking notice of the badness of the weather, a North-East wind, approach of winter, or any trifling circ.u.mstance of the disagreeable kind, shall infallibly rob a whole company of its good-humour, and fling every member of it into the vapours. If, therefore, we would be happy in ourselves, and are desirous of communicating that happiness to all about us, these minutiae of conversation ought carefully to be attended to. The brightness of the sky, the lengthening of the day, the increasing verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of good news, or whatever carries with it the most distant glimpse of joy, shall frequently be the parent of a social and happy conversation. Good-manners exact from us this regard to our company. The clown may repine at the sunshine that ripens the harvest, because his turnips are burnt up by it; but the man of refinement will extract pleasure from the thunder-storm to which he is exposed, by remarking on the plenty and refreshment which may be expected from the succeeding shower.
Thus does politeness, as well as good sense, direct us to look at every object on the bright side; and, by thus acting, we cherish and improve both. By this practice it is, that Melissa is become the wisest and best-bred woman living; and, by this practice, may every person arrive at that agreeableness of temper, of which the natural and never-failing fruit is Happiness.
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 Tsc.h.i.n.k._
(Continued from page 267.)
The period is however arrived, when men begin to abandon themselves exclusively to the cold speculations of reason, and this fatal maxim manifests itself but too evidently in the practical life. Rarely any thing is undertaken before it is pondered and weighed most anxiously with a pusillanimous minuteness. And this is one of the chief causes of the present scarcity of great and striking actions. The sacred flame of enthusiasm extinguishes, and every energy of soul dies away along with it. While reason wastes her whole strength in barren speculations, the demands and wants of our heart remain unsatisfied, a kind of insensibility deals upon us, the mind grows pusillanimous, and all n.o.ble pa.s.sions are suffocated. No, no! this is no age in which great geniuses can thrive! Reasoning has produced but very few immortal deeds; faith, however, although it should have been only the faith of man in his natural abilities, has frequently rendered impossible possible.--If so, what miracles will faith in the a.s.sistance of an omnipotent being, be able to perform? The first King of Portugal has given us the most glorious proof of the truth of this a.s.sertion: he went, as you know from history, with four thousand men against the infidels, and was opposed by five kings with four hundred thousand Moors. Terror and dismay seized his little army at this sight; however the celebrated apparition through which G.o.d promised him the victory over his enemies, revived the broken spirit of his troops. And what else but faith in this promise could have made him risk and gain a battle, in which one man had to encounter an hundred?"
"My dear Marquis, I have been interrupted again by the visit of a great prelate, and, with your permission, shall communicate to you the substance of what he has told me. The Jews, he said, have, as you will know, offered to the new Regent, on his accession to the throne, to pay a great sum of money to him, if he would grant them liberty to live and to trade in the country as external Christians, without being persecuted by the Inquisition. It would have been highly advantageous to religion, if this liberty had been granted to the Jews; for although they should have visited the Christian churches at first only for form"s sake, and observed only the external rites of worship, yet many would have been edified, and convinced of the truth of Christianity so irresistibly, that they would have seriously embraced the Christian religion. The Inquisitors themselves have intimated this to the King. However the --------, I do not know how to call him, who cares little for the propagation of faith, has refused to grant this pet.i.tion of the Jews.
The Inquisition has informed the Pope of it; and the holy father, who as yet has refused to acknowledge his royal authority, will now have an additional reason for not confirming the usurped dignity of a free thinker, who injures the interest of the church whenever opportunity offers. I have, however, great reason to suspect that our new King foments these dissensions designedly, for some horrid purpose. Not contented with having alienated the nation from their lawful Sovereign, he also endeavours to obtain an opportunity of alienating them from the chief of the church. O Marquis! O Duke! what gloomy prospects for all those who are resolved to live and to die in the religion of their ancestors.
"Stop," the Marquis exclaimed, "he shall not dare to carry matters to that point; by heaven, he shall not." My father had not yet ceased giving vent to his indignation, when the other prelate, whom I mentioned in my last letter, joined us. The two prelates were rejoiced to see each other, and concealed their sentiments so little from each other, that they both avowed their opinions of the new King without the least reserve. "I cannot conceive how you," said he, who had joined us, turning to my father and me, "who are sprung from royal blood, can submit to the humiliation of obeying a usurper, who will do every thing in his power to humble your family as much as possible. Don"t you perceive that he confers the highest dignities on other people, while he, out of a cowardly policy, keeps his nearest relations at a distance, and in profound submission? The King of Spa--n knows your merits, and is capable of rewarding them properly. Who would not rather hold an important office under the greatest Monarch, than live in inactivity and obscurity, under the most insignificant King in Europe? These are the sentiments of many n.o.bles who are still firmly attached to their old lawful Sovereign."
"Dear Marquis, my heart is deeply afflicted, and strange ideas are crossing my head. What must I do? Alumbrado says nothing, but commit every thing to the paternal care of G.o.d.
"To day I received your letter, in which you reproach me for my long silence. I am, however, not sorry that my letter, which I wanted to send eight days ago, has been kept back through negligence, for now I shall be able to conclude it with the relation of a most extraordinary incident.
"I used for some time to visit every evening our favourite spot before the town, which always attracted me very much, partly by its natural charms, and partly by the undisturbed solitude one enjoys there. On the left side, a chain of hills, that form a beautiful group; on the right, a wood, inclosing the extensive plain, and in the middle the prospect of the distant blue mountains. You know what an enchanting effect that spot produces, particularly at sun-set; and thither I took a walk every evening. The way to that charming place is decorated with the ruins of an old chapel, which partly is surrounded with a half decayed wall.
Approaching those ruins last evening, I saw Alumbrado step forth with hasty paces. "Stop!" he exclaimed, "do you know that you will be a dead man if you proceed a step farther?" Alumbrado"s unexpected appearance, his intelligence, and the seriousness of his countenance convulsed my nerves. "A dead man?" I exclaimed. "Yes!" said he, "did I not foretell you that the King would vent his resentment against you? If you go fifty steps farther, you will bleed under the hands of his banditti. You stare at me," he continued. "If you wish to be convinced of it, then follow me into the chapel, and let us change cloaths; I shall pursue this path, wrapt in your cloak, and the hired a.s.sa.s.sins will fall upon me, under the mistaken notion that I am the person whom they have been ordered by the King to a.s.sa.s.sinate. If you will ascend to the top of this turret, you may witness the whole scene." I shuddered with horror, and peremptorily refused to submit to it. "You need not to be under the least apprehension for my life," he replied. "All that I desire of you is to make no noise when you see me fall, but to go quietly home without mentioning to any one what you will have seen. We shall meet again at your house." All my objections availed nothing; we exchanged our dress, he saw me to the top of the turret, and left me. I pursued him with anxious looks and beating heart.
"Alumbrado had scarcely reached the skirts of the wood, when I heard the report of a pistol, and saw him drop down, upon which three ruffians darted forth from the bushes, gave him some stabs, and carried him into the wood. I staggered down the narrow staircase by which I had ascended the turret, and went home, thrilled with emotions that surpa.s.s all power of description. I sat up till after midnight, but no Alumbrado came; however, at six o"clock he entered my apartment. I cannot describe what I felt on seeing him. He was unhurt, but nevertheless I staggered back at the sight of him. "Alumbrado!" said I, after a pause of dumb astonishment, "do I really see you alive after the scene my eyes have witnessed last night?" "Pistols and daggers," he replied, "cannot hurt the man who is under the immediate protection of G.o.d. Come," added he, "let us go to your father."
"I related to my parent the incident of the preceding night. He seemed to be petrified. The cruel villainy of the King, and the supernatural power of Alumbrado, appeared to have carried him beyond himself; the thanks which he wanted to offer to the latter for the preservation of my life, and curses against the King, hovered at the same time on his lips; but he could not speak.
"Let us take a walk in the garden," Alumbrado said. We went; but I shall not repeat the conversation that took place. Yet I do not think that Alumbrado has added fuel to the fire. "The Duke of B----a," said he, "is King and accountable to no other tribunal but that of G.o.d. No mortal dare lift up his hand against him without the express command of G.o.d or his Vicegerent. I have received no such order, and I think you neither.
All that you can do is to be on your guard against the King, and to mention to no one the villainous transaction of last night. Will you promise this? Your own safety requires it." We promised it.
"I could not help manifesting my astonishment at Alumbrado"s wonderful preservation. "Do you then think," said he, "that only those who are leagued with the spirit of darkness are proof against fire-arms and swords, and that the children of light do not enjoy that privilege?
I will give you a proof of it; send for a gun and b.a.l.l.s, here is powder." So saying, he produced the powder horn which I had missed some days. "You have," added he, "either lost it or it has been stolen, for I have found it in the hands of the banditti." "What are you going to do with b.a.l.l.s and a gun?" My father asked with marks of astonishment. "That you shall see instantly," Alumbrado replied, "if you only will send for both." I ordered Pietro to fetch my fowling piece and a couple of b.a.l.l.s out of my apartment. He returned with them, and Alumbrado whispered in my ear to send him out of the room. Having dismissed the servant, Alumbrado begged me to charge the gun, but previously to examine carefully the powder and the b.a.l.l.s. I did as he had desired me, and the gun being charged, Alumbrado said to the Marquis; "Now take the gun, my Lord, and fire it at me." My father was almost petrified at this request, and having gazed at him a good while, with looks of astonishment, exclaimed: "No! I never shall do any thing of that kind!"
"Then you too are dest.i.tute of faith?" Alumbrado said, looking up to heaven. "O G.o.d, how degenerated even the faithful adorers of thy son!"
"I have declined it out of no other motive," the Marquis replied, "but because I will not tempt the omnipotence of G.o.d." "The motive of my request is not temptation, but the glory of G.o.d," Alumbrado replied. If I fall, then I am a daring provoker of the Almighty, and deserve my fate; but if I remain unhurt, you will have reason to conclude that the power of G.o.d has warded off the ball, and know in what light to view me." So saying, he uncovered his breast, retreated three steps, and desired my father to fire.
(_To be continued._)
ANECDOTE.
A French n.o.bleman one day visiting a late famous duke, a favourite little dog bit his lordship"s leg. "Fear nothing, my lord," said the duke, "my dog never bites." On which his lordship, knocking down the little animal with a violent blow of his cane, replied in the same tone of voice, "Fear nothing, my lord, I never beat dogs."