The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 57

"Brave man," exclaims their captain, addressing himself to me once more, "had I not reason to say that you behaved well? You left me my life, and I now save yours; it is sometimes right to spare an enemy, and even a robber! Hear me, my friend: in attacking you, I followed my profession, and you did your duty in conquering me. I pardon you, you have already pardoned me; let us therefore embrace."--He then adds: "The day is wasting, and I would not advise you to travel in these cantons during the present night. My people are about to repair each to his respective post, and I cannot answer for their discretion. You perceive a castle on a rising ground, towards the right: it belongs to a certain Pole of the name of Dourlinski, for whom we have a high esteem, because he is very rich. Go, demand an asylum from him; tell him that you have wounded t.i.tsikan, and that t.i.tsikan pursues you. He is acquainted with my name: I have already made him pa.s.s many an uneasy night. As to the rest, you may rely on it, that while you remain with him, his castle shall be sacred; but be careful not to come forth on any account before the end of three days, and not to remain there longer than eight.---Adieu!"

It was with unfeigned pleasure that we took leave of t.i.tsikan and his companions. The advice of the Tartar was a command: I therefore said to Boleslas; "Let us immediately make for the castle that he has now pointed out to us; I am well acquainted with this same Dourlinski by name, Pulaski has sometimes spoken to me concerning him: he perhaps is not ignorant of the place to which the Count has retired; and it is not impossible but that with a little address we may be able to draw the secret from him. I shall say at all events that we are sent by Pulaski, and this recommendation will be of more service to us than that of t.i.tsikan: in the mean time, Boleslas, do not forget that I am your brother, and be sure not to discover me."

(_To be continued._)

REMARK.

There are people, whose conversation or presence always excites languor in others: these are men who, by the void in their minds, communicate weariness; or who are fatiguing by a superabundance of uninteresting conversation; thus want and superfluity are sources of languor.

PERFECT FRIENDSHIP.

Seneca has observed, and justly, that a great man struggling with adversity, and bearing its attacks with fort.i.tude, is a sight worthy of the G.o.ds. But a sight, as interesting, if not more so, is that of a virtuous mind, oppressed by calumny, with the ability to elude its shafts, yet cheerfully opposing itself to their force, for some secret but worthy purpose.

Fouquet, intendant of the finances to Lewis the Fourteenth, after living in the greatest splendor, enjoying the unlimited favour and confidence of his master, and seeing his levees crowded by the first n.o.bles in the land, fell into disgrace, and was sent to the Bastile. He experienced the common fate of all favourites in disgrace; forsaken by his friends, and persecuted by his foes, the courtiers in general viewed his ruin with pleasure, and charitably resolved to complete his destruction. The envious and the disappointed had found means to prejudice his sovereign against him, and his displeasure was the signal of hatred and persecution to the fawning crew that surrounded his throne. Adulation is coeval with monarchy; and no king probably ever deserved implicit obedience from his subjects more than Lewis the Fourteenth*, on whom nature had conferred every quality that could excite awe, or command respect; the majesty of his person seemed one of his first claims to sovereignty. It has been remarked, that but very few of those who were so unfortunate to incur the displeasure of this prince, could survive the loss of his favour. Fouquet is one of the few. He was well aware, however, of the extreme danger to which he was exposed; and among an infinity of motives for serious apprehension, the intendant regarded the examination of his papers as one of the most certain causes of his ruin.

This consideration greatly encreased the anxiety occasioned by his confinement; if he could but have destroyed those unfortunate papers previous to his detention, he should not have so much dreaded the machinations of his enemies, however ingeniously formed, or inveterately pursued.

[* The reader must recollect that these are the sentiments of a Frenchman, before the late revolution! The character of Lewis the Fourteenth, as a promoter of the arts and sciences, is certainly respectable--but as a monarch--who should prefer the welfare and felicity of his subjects to the gratification of his own ambitious views--it is DETESTABLE!]

[ It is certain that the famous painter, Le Brun, having lost the favour of Lewis the Fourteenth, who had been particularly kind to him, died thro' despair, at the Gobelins. The death of Racine, the celebrated dramatic poet, which happened not long after the production of Athalia, one of his best pieces, was owing to the same cause; and the haughty Louvois only survived his disgrace three days.]

In the midst of these alarms for his situation, he received the dreadful news that Pelisson, his secretary, and his friend, had openly declared himself his accuser, and was soon to be confronted with him. Shocked at the intelligence, his courage forsook him, and he gave way to despair.

This action of Pelisson's soon made a noise in the world, and excited the most lively sensations of resentment in the minds of the public, who so seldom interest themselves in the fate of the unfortunate. Every body exclaimed that he was the most base and most criminal of mankind! Loaded with the benefactions of his master, honoured with his particular confidence,--his friend, in short--he stands forward in the infamous light of a public informer, and is about to stab him to the heart.

Pelisson, could not be ignorant of these reports to his prejudice, which encreased every day; at length they attained to such a height, that some worthy members of society took the resolution publicly to reproach him with the baseness of his conduct, wherever they met him. The secretary, though now an object of contempt, preserved his tranquility, and appeared wholly indifferent to every thing that was said to him. The few friends who still remained true to the interests of the unfortunate minister, went to Pelisson's house, and by alternate threats, entreaties, and supplications, endeavoured to deter him from his purpose, but in vain; he remained firm, and persisted in his resolution of speaking the truth, and of accusing Fouquet to his face. It must be observed that the prisoner, during this time, was invisible to every one but his judges, who were his greatest enemies, and many of whom, in violation of every principle of justice, had openly declared their intention of finding him guilty.

At length the day arrived on which Pelisson was to prefer his accusation, and incur the atrocious sin of ingrat.i.tude. The doors of the Bastile are opened to him: he is confronted with his master, who exclaims, "Ah Pelisson, is it you? Are you my enemy, too?--Alas!

I mistook you for my friend!"--The secretary, far from being disconcerted at this exclamation, began to fulfil the task he had undertaken, with all the impudence of the most hardened calumniator; he taxed Fouquet with crimes which were totally dest.i.tute of foundation, and which he hastened to contradict, with the manly firmness of conscious innocence. "That is not true," said he, interrupting Pelisson, "you are an impostor, a detestable lyar! Can you advance falsehoods thus gross, and not blush with shame?"--"Oh," replied Pelisson, whose countenance betrayed the most violent indignation, "you would not dare to contradict me, with so much a.s.surance, if you did not know that your papers were burnt."

These last words flashed conviction on the mind of Fouquet, who immediately perceived the wonderful address of Pelisson, and the generosity of his soul. He perceived that his secretary, firm and unshaken in his friendship, had burned his papers, and had conceived the design--the only one that could be possibly adopted--of becoming the accuser, in order to gain admittance to his inaccessible prison, that he might make him acquainted with the important service he had rendered him. The intendant, ashamed of his unjust suspicions, and anxious to make amends for them, cast a look on Pelisson, which gave him to understand that he had perfectly understood him, and was penetrated with the most lively sensations of grat.i.tude for his conduct.

The secretary, feeling the complete satisfaction at the success of his project, still continued to expose himself to the scorn and indignation of the public. Considered as the basest of mankind, he experienced every species of insult; while conscious integrity insured to him that serenity of soul, which was regarded as the hardened effrontery of a mind wholly callous to shame.

It was not till some time after that the truth came to be known. The scene then changed. Pelisson became the object of general admiration, and of enthusiastic esteem, that bordered on veneration; but he still preserved the same serenity of mind, and displayed the same indifference to merited praise, as he had before shewn to unmerited censure. Whenever his friends expatiated on his unshaken firmness, and extraordinary heroism, the worthy stoic replied--"That man must appear of little consequence in his own eyes, whose moral existence depends merely on the opinion of others! It is our place to fix a just value on ourselves before others attempt to appreciate us. I did but fulfil my duty in serving a man to whom I did not chuse to be an impotent or useless friend: the t.i.tle of friend imposes on those who bear it essential obligations, which I have endeavoured to discharge; I have given more than my life: I have suffered myself to be polluted by the imputation of vice and dishonour; because it was the only means of serving the friend I loved. What made me amends for the mean opinion which the public entertained of me?--The good opinion I entertained of myself. That paid me amply for the effects of prejudice which was founded in injustice.

Virtue is but mental fort.i.tude; and I exerted the whole of mine, to be able to brave the opinion of all mankind. You now see, there are occasions which require a man to raise himself above that _solemn_ judgment to which every human being must generally submit. You must permit me, however, to give you one piece of advice. Another time be less prompt to decide on the merits of a man who enjoys some reputation for probity; and be a.s.sured, that he can never be on a sudden converted into the vilest of rogues. The friend of Fouquet could not act in a manner so contrary to his natural disposition."

Philosophy--adds the relator of this anecdote--will have attained to its highest degree of perfection, when it shall have enforced the conviction. That virtue is infinitely superior to talents. By virtue alone can the duties we owe to society, and to ourselves, be properly discharged.

GLEANINGS.

Man is not more superior to a brute, than one man is to another by the mere force of wisdom. Wisdom is the sole destroyer of equality, the fountain of honour, and the only mark by which one man, for ten minutes together, can be known from another.

Were men always skilful they would never use craft or treachery. That men are so cunning, arises from the littleness of their minds, which, if it can conceal itself in one place, quickly discovers itself in another.

Cunning men, like jugglers, are only versed in two or three little tricks, while wisdom excels in the whole circle of action.

The cunning man and the wise man differ not only in point of honesty, but ability. He that can pack the cards, does not always play well.

I have a right to hold my tongue, and to be silent at all times; but if I speak to another, I have no right to make him answer for me just as I please.

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 110.)

"I will not disappoint your hope; however, I must repeat once more that I can lead you to truth by no other road but that of reason purified from all sensual dregs. You will find it difficult to pursue that road, and it will be no easy task to me to guide you. I shall be obliged to avoid all emblematic language, in order to convey to your mind these supersensible notions in their natural purity, and it will be necessary that you should know how to apply the abstractest and purest notions, although they should contradict your present manner of perception."

"I shall at least not be wanting in attention and good-will."

"First of all it will be necessary to agree in the notion of what is called _spirit_. The best method of fixing that notion will be to examine what the word spirit means according to the general rules of language. If one man says, man consists of body and spirit, by the former a corporeal, and by the latter an incorporeal being is understood. We have, therefore, a common point from which we can proceed in our investigation. _Spirit_ is opposite to body. In this point we agree according to the most general meaning and use of the word."

"I do."

"Let us see what follows thence! Every _body_ is a compounded, extended, impenetrable being, subject to the laws of motion, consequently, every _spirit_ is a simple, unextended and penetrable being, not subject to the laws of motion."

"Exactly so!"

"Bodies are extended, that is they occupy a _room_, and the proportion which one body bears to the other in point of _room_, const.i.tutes its _place_; spirits are not extended, and consequently exist in no _room_, and in no _place_."

"How am I to understand this?"

"Just as I have said.--But let me elucidate my argument. Why cannot two bodies exist at the same time, in the same s.p.a.ce? Because they exclude each other on account of their extension and impenetrability. Two bodies must, of course, occupy two different places, if existing at the same time; that is, every individual body must occupy its own individual place. And why must every body occupy its _own_ place?"

"Because of its expansion and impenetrability."

"Very well! But these two qualities cannot appertain to a spirit, and, consequently, a spirit can occupy no place."

"This seems really to follow."

"This argument can also be stated thus: a spirit has, as a simple being, neither a right nor left, neither a front nor a back side, and consequently can have no relation from _no side_ to any thing that occupies a s.p.a.ce. The conclusion is very palpable."

"Then a spirit could occupy no room in the whole material world?"