The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 113

From those fears I was relieved by a man springing from behind a hedge, who catching the bridle, stopt my rapid career--but what were my emotions on perceiving he was the generous deliverer who had before saved me? More overcome by my sensations than fright, I sunk half fainting in his arms, he appeared equally affected. "Great Heaven!"

cried he, "what transport! twice to have saved this precious life!" My friend here arrived--she congratulated me on my escape---our horses were given to the servants; she asked the charming stranger to accompany us to her house. I would have prest him to accept her invitation, but shame withheld my faultering accents. My conversation now wholly ran on this adventure. Miss Rivers, (the name of my friend) frequently rallied me upon it; I would blush, perhaps be silent, but quickly again begin the pleasing topic. A mandate now arrived from Sir George for me to return home. I obeyed, though with pain. As usual he received me with haughty coldness.---At night, my maid whom I had left at home, began to relate the occurrences which happened during my absence, and at length ended her narrative by saying the old gardener was discharged, and a new one hired in his place, the sweetest prettiest fellow she ever beheld.

Indeed he was a little melancholy, but certainly it was owing to his situation which he appeared not designed for. I laughed and said I fancied he had made a conquest of her, she foolishly t.i.ttered, as if the idea was very pleasant. The next morning, as was my usual custom, I rose early and entered the garden. I directed my steps to a little walk shaded by poplars. At a distance I discerned a man busily employed, whom I conjectured to be the new accomplished gardener. As I approached nearer I perceived him start, and with precipitation hurry from the spot in his eagerness to avoid me. His foot stumbled and he fell. I was just beginning an involuntary exclamation of are you hurt? when raising his head, I perceived my preserver. Amazement seized me, I had not power to move, the deepest confusion tinged his cheek, he could not raise his eyes, he attempted to speak, but his tremulous voice was unintelligible.

I could not stir till the appearance of my father roused me; I started and hurried from the spot.

(To be continued.)

An Essay ON PITY AND BENEVOLENCE.

Pity has been generally considered as the pa.s.sion of gentle, benevolent, and virtuous minds; although it is acknowledged to produce only such a partic.i.p.ation of the calamity of others, as upon the whole is pleasing to ourselves.

As a tender partic.i.p.ation of foreign distress, it has been urged to prove, that man is endowed with social affections, which, however forcible, are wholly disinterested: and as a pleasing sensation, it has been deemed an example of unmixed selfishness and malignity. It has been resolved into that power of imagination by which we apply the misfortunes of others to ourselves: we have been said to pity, no longer than we fancy ourselves to suffer; and to be pleased, only by reflecting that our sufferings are not real; thus indulging a dream of distress from which we can awake whenever we please, to exult in our security, and enjoy the comparison of the fiction with truth.

Pity is generally understood to be that pa.s.sion, which is excited by the sufferings of persons with whom we have no tender connection, and with whose welfare the stronger pa.s.sions have not united our felicity; for no man would call the anguish of a mother, whose infant was torn from her breast and left to be devoured in a desart, by the name of pity; although the sentiments of a stranger, who should drop a silent tear at the relation, which yet might the next hour be forgotten, could not otherwise be justly denominated.

If pity, therefore, is absorbed in another pa.s.sion, when our love of those that suffer is strong; pity is rather an evidence of the weakness than the strength of that general philanthropy for which some have so eagerly contended, with which they have flattered the pride and veiled the vices of mankind, and which they have affirmed to be alone sufficient to recommend them to the favour of Heaven, to atone for the indulgence of every appet.i.te, and the neglect of every duty.

If human benevolence was absolutely pure and social, it would not be necessary to relate the ravages of a pestilence or a famine with minute and discriminating circ.u.mstances to rouse our sensibility: we should certainly deplore irremediable calamity, and partic.i.p.ate temporary distress, without any mixture of delight. That deceitful sorrow, in which pleasure is so well known to be predominant, that invention has been busied for ages in contriving tales of fict.i.tious sufferings for no other end than to excite it, would be changed into honest commiseration in which pain would be unmixed, and which, therefore, we should wish to lose.

Soon after the fatal battle of Fontenoy, a young gentleman, who came over with the officer that brought the express, being expected at the house of a friend, a numerous company of gentlemen and ladies were a.s.sembled to hear an account of the action from an eye-witness.

The gentleman, as every man is flattered by commanding attention, was easily prevailed upon to gratify the company, as soon as they were seated, and the first ceremonies past. He described the march of many thousands of their countrymen into the field, where batteries had been concealed on each side, which in a moment strewed the ground with mangled limbs and carca.s.ses that almost floated in blood, and obstructed the path of those who followed to the slaughter. He related, how often the decreasing mult.i.tude returned to the cannon; how suddenly they were rallied, and how suddenly broken; he repeated the list of officers who had fallen undistinguished in the carnage, men whose eminence rendered their names universally known, their influence extensive, and their attachments numerous; and he hinted the fatal effects which this defeat might produce to the nation, by turning the success of the war against us. But the company, however amused by the relation, appeared not to be affected by the event: they were still attentive to every trifling punctilio of ceremony, usual among well bred persons; they bowed with a graceful simper to a lady who sneezed, mutually presented each other with snuff, shook their heads and changed their posture at proper intervals, asked some questions which tended to produce a more minute detail of such circ.u.mstances of horror as had been lightly touched, and having at last remarked that the Roman patriot regretted the brave could die but once, the conversation soon became general, and a motion was made to divide into parties at whist. But just as they were about to comply, the gentleman again engaged their attention. I forgot (said he) to relate one particular; which, however, deserves to be remembered. The captain of a company, whose name I cannot now recollect, had, just before his corps was ordered to embark, married a young lady to whom he had been long tenderly attached, and who, contrary to the advice of friends, and the expostulations, persuasion and entreaty of her husband, insisted to go abroad with him, and share his fortune at all events. If he should be wounded, she said, that she might hasten his recovery, and alleviate his pain, by such attendance as strangers cannot be hired to pay; if he should be taken prisoner, she might, perhaps, be permitted to shorten the tedious hours of captivity, which solitude would protract; and if he should die, that it would be better for her to know it with certainty and speed, than to wait at a distance in anxiety and suspense, tormented by doubtful and contradictory reports, and at last believing it possible, that if she had been present, her a.s.siduity and tenderness might have preserved his life. The captain, though he was not convinced by her reasoning, was yet overcome by the importunate eloquence of her love: he consented to her request, and they embarked together.

The head quarters of the duke of c.u.mberland were at Brussoel, from whence they removed the evening before the battle to Monbray, a village within musket shot of the enemy's lines, where the captain who commanded in the left wing, was encamped.

Their parting in the morning was short. She looked after him, till he could no longer be distinguished from others; and as soon as the firing began she went back pale and trembling, and sat down expecting the event in an agony of impatience, anxiety and terror. She soon learned from stragglers and fugitives, that the slaughter was dreadful, and the victory hopeless. She did not, however, yet despair; she hoped that the captain might return among the few that should remain: But soon after the retreat, this hope was cut off, and she was informed that he fell in the first charge, and was left among the dead. She was restrained by those about her, from rushing in the phrenzy of desperation to the field of battle, of which the enemy was still possessed; but the tumult of her mind having abated, and her grief become more calm during the night, she ordered a servant to attend her at break of day; and as leave had been given to bury the dead, she went herself to seek the remains of her husband, that she might honour them with the last rites, and pour the tears of conjugal affection upon his grave. They wandered about among the dying and the dead, gazing on every distorted countenance, and looked round with irresolution and amazement on a scene, which those who stripped had left tenfold more a sight of horror than those who had slain. From this sight she was at last turning with confusion and despair, but was stopped by the cries of a favourite spaniel, who had followed her without being perceived. He was standing at some distance in the field; and the moment she saw him, she conceived the strongest a.s.surance that he had found his master. She hasted instantly to the place without regarding any other object; and stooping over the corps by which he stood, she found it so disfigured with wounds and besmeared with blood, that the features were not to be known: But, as she was weeping in the anguish of suspence, she discovered hanging on the wrist the remains of a ruffle, round which there was a slight border of her own work. Thus suddenly to have discovered, and in such dreadful circ.u.mstances, that which she had sought, quite overwhelmed her, and she sunk down on the body. By the a.s.sistance of the servant, she was recovered to sensibility, but not to reason; she was seized at once with convulsions and madness; and a few hours after she was carried back to the village she expired.

Those who had heard the fate of whole battalions without pity, and the loss of a battle, by which their country would probably suffer irreparable damage, without concern, listened to a tale of private distress with uninterrupted attention. All regard to each other was for a while suspended; tears by degrees overflowed every eye, and every bosom became susceptible of pity: But the whole circle paused with evident regret, when the narrative was at an end: and would have been glad that such another could have been told, to continue their entertainment.--Such was the benevolence of pity! But a lady who had taken the opportunity of a very slight acquaintance to satisfy her curiosity, was touched with much deeper distress; and fainting in the struggle to conceal the emotions of her mind, fell back in her chair. An accident which was not sooner discovered, because every eye had been fixed upon the speaker, and all attention monopolized by the story.

Every one, however, was ready to afford her a.s.sistance; and it was soon discovered, that she was mother to the lady whose distress had afforded so much virtuous pleasure to the company. It was not possible to tell her another story, which would revive the same sensations; and if it had, the world could not have bribed her to have heard it. Her affection to the sufferer was too strong to permit her, on this occasion, to enjoy the luxury of pity, and applaud her benevolence for sensations which shewed its defects. It would, indeed, be happy for us, if we were to exist only in this state of imperfection, that a greater share of sensibility is not allowed us; but if the mole, in the kindness of unerring Wisdom, is permitted scarce to distinguish light from darkness, the mole should not surely, be praised for the perspicuity of its sight.

Let us distinguish that malignity, which others confound with benevolence, and applaud as virtue, let the imperfection of nature, which is adapted to this imperfect state, teach us humility; and fix our dependence upon Him, who has promised to "create in us a new heart and a right spirit," and to receive us to that place, where our love of others, however ardent, can only increase our felicity; because, in that place, there will be no object, but such as perfect benevolence can contemplate with delight.

REMARKABLE OCCURRENCE.

Mr. Cecil, a.s.suming the name of Jones, some years since, purchased a small piece of land, and built on it a neat house on the edge of a common in Wiltshire. Here he long resided, unknowing, and almost unknown, by the neighbourhood. Various conjectures were formed respecting this solitary and singular stranger; at length a clergyman took some notice of him, and occasionally inviting him to his house, he found him possessed of intelligence and manners, which evidently indicated his origin to have been in the higher stations of life.

Returning one day from a visit at this clergyman's, he pa.s.sed the house of a farmer, at the door of which was the daughter employed at the washing-tub. He looked at the girl a moment, and thus accosted her.--"My girl, would you like to be married?" "Sir!" exclaimed the girl.---"I asked you, young woman, whether you would wish to be married; because, if you would, I will marry you," "Lord, Sir! these are strange questions from a man I never saw in my life before." "Very likely," replied Mr.

Jones; "but, however, I am serious, and will leave you till ten o'clock to-morrow to consider of it; I will then call on you again, and if I have your and your father's consent, we will be married the following day."

He kept his appointment, and meeting with the father, he thus addressed him: "Sir, I have seen your daughter; I should like her for a wife; and I am come to ask your consent." "This proposal," answered the old man, "is very extraordinary from a perfect stranger: Pray, sir, who are you?

and what are you?" "Sir," replied Mr. J. "you have a right to ask these questions: my name is Jones; the new house on the edge of the common is mine, and if it be necessary, I can purchase your house and farm, and half the neighbourhood."

Another hour's conversation, brought all parties into one mind, and the friendly clergyman aforementioned united the happy pair. Three or four years they lived in this retirement, and were blessed with two children.

Mr. J. employed great part of his time in improving his wife's mind, but never disclosing his own origin. At length, upon taking a journey of pleasure with her, while remarking the beauties of the country, he noticed and named the different gentlemen's seats as they pa.s.sed; and coming to a very magnificent one, "This, my dear," said he, "is Burleigh house, the seat of the earl of Exeter, and, if you please, we will go in and ask leave to look at it: it is an elegant house, and probably will amuse you."

The n.o.bleman who possessed this mansion was lately dead. He once had a nephew, who, in the gaities of his youth, had incurred some debts, on account of which he had retired from fashionable life on about 200l. per annum, and had not been heard of for some years. This nephew was the identical Mr. Jones, the hero of our story, who now took possession of the house, t.i.tle, and estate, and is the present earl of Exeter!

A PLEASING REVERIE.

Conducted by Contemplation, I found myself in the fertile regions of Imagination; Genius and Education had dispersed those mists which are the offspring of Prejudice. My soul, seized with the fire of Enthusiasm, took her flight to scenes which mortals have not yet dared to explore.

I penetrated the inmost recesses of the temple of that Virtue, by the exercise of whose attributes mortals are almost elevated to the mighty inhabitants of heaven. At the porch of this edifice stood blooming Temperance, and meek Religion with uplifted eye. At the feet of Temperance laid grovelling Austerity, accompanied with the meagre crowd of penitential Fasts. Cloathed in black, at the feet of Religion, appeared Superst.i.tion, with her attendants, Folly, Enthusiasm, and Hypocrisy. In vain they endeavoured to enter the temple of Virtue; Temperance and Religion united, stood the shock of their numberless hosts! Having pa.s.sed the porch, my divine guide left me to the care of Liberality of Mind: "You heed not my advice; follow her dictates and they will a.s.suredly conduct thee to Virtue." As we proceeded, Liberality of Mind made me acquainted with the names of these moral virtues by whose aid the throne of the G.o.ddess is ascended. "He who perpetually points to the divine throne, is Philosophy. He unfolds the various secrets of nature, which are hid from the ignorant. Before him is Contemplation; and behind him, Imagination, who has given birth to so many hypotheses. See Fort.i.tude, with her eye of fire, disdaining every allurement the earth affords: after whom follows Resignation to the will of Providence; and here, behold----" I now saw Virtue enthroned; with Benevolence one side, and on the other that celestial power who teaches men to controul their mortal pa.s.sions. Virtue's glory did not blaze forth; her fire was that which burnt continually the same equal flame; unlike the glare of vice, which greatly blazes forth for the moment, but soon leaves us in eternal darkness!

SATIRE.

General satyrists are usually tinctured with a degree of misanthropy; they dislike the species for the faults of individuals, and they attribute to the whole, what is due only to a small portion of mankind.

This talent of prying into the infirmities of human nature, is frequently useful to the public; it is always inconvenient to the possessor; it corrects the vanity, the affectation, and the vices of other men, but it breeds conceit, pride, obstinacy and peevishness in the mind of the owner. Though it maybe founded on good sense, it destroys the best fruits of that invaluable blessing---self-happiness.

One cannot declaim against the world without dreading some retribution; the satirist in the full career of triumph, trembles at the thoughts of being hated by those he pretends to despise, and he commonly meets with that contempt which he so liberally bestows.

NEW-YORK.

MARRIED,

On Tuesday the 27th ult. at Huntington (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Hart, Mr.

PHENEAS SILLS, of Cow-Harbour, to Mrs. REBECCA WHITE, of Crab-Meadow.

On Thursday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Beach, Mr. CHARLES CORNELL, of Long Island, to Miss SALLY BUXTON, of this city.

On Sunday evening last, by the Rev. Dr. Nesbit, Mr. HENRY DAWSON, jun.

of Brooklyn (L.I.) to Miss MARIAH HICKS, daughter of Mr. Jacob Hicks of that place.

_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._ _From the 8th to the 14th inst._

_Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._ _Prevailing winds._ _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3.

100 100 Jan. 8 3 50 15 n. ne. clear, light wind.

9 0 16 n. do. clear high wd. clear lt. wd.

10 3 50 24 25 nw. sw. frost, clear lt. wd. clear do.

11 23 36 e. se. cloudy lt. wd. much rain.