The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 161

May fortune smile on the man of my wishes.

A free thinker in every thing, except in matters of religion.

These, with Mr. Pope's definition of wit, are the only qualifications I require in the man I intend to honour with my hand and heart.

NEW-YORK.

_MARRIED,_

On Thursday the 6th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Moore, SAMUEL ALDWILL SMITH, Esq. to Mrs. ANN WOOD, both pa.s.sengers in the Belvidere, from London.

On Sat.u.r.day evening the 8th inst. by the Rev. Dr. Kunzie, Mr. JOHN HARKEY, of Albany, to Miss HANNAH ADAMSON, of this city.

On Thursday evening the 13th inst. by the Rev. Dr. M'Knight, Captain MOSES TAYLOR, to Miss MARGARET TOWT, both of this city.

_TO READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS._

[->] The Patrons of the WEEKLY MAGAZINE, who are not apprised of its place of publication being removed, and at any time have commands for the Editors, will please to call at No. 358, Pearl-street, near the Friends meeting house:--where every attention will be paid to their favors. A Letter Box is prepared for the reception of the productions of our Literary Friends, through whose a.s.sistance we hope to communicate the modern progress of Literature in this city; the remarks of the ingenious, and the epistles of the pertinent, are always admissible, when within the bounds of modest reserve. The "Verses addressed to Miss A---- B----" shall be punctually honored in our next.

Those Subscribers who have it in contemplation to change their place of residence the 1st of May, are requested to leave their address at the office, or with the carrier of this MAGAZINE.

_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._ _From the 9th to the 15th inst._

THERMOMETOR observed at 6, _A.M._ 3, _P.M._ Prevailing winds.

OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER.

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

100 100 April 9 42 54 nw. do. clear do. h. w. l. do.

10 36 48 nw. do. clear do. h. wd. do.

11 38 56 w. do. clear do. h. wd. do.

12 44 48 nw. se. clear cloudy l. w. do.

13 41 38 e. do. ra. do. h. wd. do. p. r.

14 35 58 n. w. clear do. l. wd. do.

15 47 58 sw. s. clr. cloudy l. wd. do.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

A RECEIPT FOR WRITING NOVELS.

Take a heroine, free from the tincture of vice, Renown'd for fine feeling, in sentiment nice; No matter what country her birth may be found in, But be sure that her name is quite grand and high-sounding; Make a peevish old crab, that at nothing would faulter, And who fully deserves for to swing from a halter; Let him mark all the letters that she will deposit, And find her, and the hero, lock'd up in a closet: Then quote Hamlet's Ghost, but don't tire yourself much, Only make old Curmudgeon as stiff as a crutch: Then such kneeling, and praying, together you jumble, And you bring off your lovers so meek and so humble.

If you can attempt it--why bring in a poem, And if you have talents, the rhyming will show 'em; Thus, subscribers will croud in the bard-chearing roll, And each critic shall think it quite fine on his soul.

A Confidant too, you must introduce, Her name must be sprightly, her character spruce; And if you should want for to lengthen the _action_, Let the maid court with John, for your own satisfaction; Let the reader be drown'd in a reverie deep, But I hope o'er your book he won't quite fall asleep: Then rouse him at once with soniferous thunder, But when on the high horse, have a care, don't fall under.

Let a messenger enter as pale as a ghost!

With a letter of woe, that would soften a post-- The heroine reads, all her colour is fled, John, the drops! or Belinda is certainly dead!

For her lover, quite wearied, and sick of his life, Had determin'd to end all this trouble and strife; You may say that he took a pestiferous _vorax_, Or planted a bullet just under his thorax!

But don't, for your life, let the fame to go loose, That your hero would tie up his neck in a noose; That death is too common, beside, 'tis quite wrong, For pois'ning, or shooting, is now quite the _ton_: Tho' ev'ry man dies when he loses his breath, Yet there ought to be some small decorum in death; 'Tis so rude for to step in a trice to your grave, And not have the politeness to come take your leave; For some are so brutish, such cormorants quite, They don't think it worth while for to bid us _good night_.

SONNET.

By Holcroft.

Though pale and wan my cheeks appear, Though dead to joy and hope I live, Though the deep sigh and trickling tear, Are all the signs of life I give;

The blood will blushing spread my face, Again my languid pulse will beat, If, in some unexpected place, I cruel Laura chance to meet.

Thus will the touch of homicide, As we in ancient legends read, Recal the flowing purple tide, And make the lifeless body bleed

TO A HOG--ON HIS BIRTH-DAY

Never as yet the unjust muse (As if by those old precepts bound Which tie the superst.i.tious Jews,) One line to praise a HOG has found.

Never till now, as I remember, Has any poet sung a swine, O, Hog! this twentieth of November, I celebrate--the day is thine.

Three years ago thy little eyes Peep'd on the day with optics weak; Three years ago thy infant cries, By mortal men were call'd a squeak.

Ev'n then the muse prophetic saw Thy youthful days, thy latter state, And sigh'd at the relentless law, That doom'd thee to an early fate.

Yes, the fond muse has anxious look'd, While thou a roaster, careless play'dst, Thoughtless how soon thou might'st be cook'd, (A fine appearance then thou mad'st.)

The dangers of a roasting past, She saw thee rear'd a handsome shoat; Saw thee a full-grown hog at last, And heard thee grunt a deeper note.

Thy charms mature with joy she view'd, As waddling on short legs about, Or rolling in delicious mud, Or rooting with sagacious snout.

But thy last hour is near at hand; Before a year, a month, a week, Is past, 'tis Fate's severe command, That death shall claim thy latest squeak.