The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 152

"That absurd dress, which does not surprise you more than any other stranger, is a wonderful proof of the obsequious servility of those who would be thought _in the fas.h.i.+on_. Lord C. Spencer, from whom the dress takes its name, bet with some friends that he would support a fas.h.i.+on, the most useless and ridiculous that could be conceived; and that it should, within a given time, be universally adopted. The bet being laid he produced a pattern of this fas.h.i.+on, which excited so much laughter, that his opponents were pretty confident he would lose his bet. Lord C.'s opinion of mankind, was, however, better founded. The fas.h.i.+on soon became general, and, to complete the _humbug_, the wearers of this _half coat_ have found out a thousand conveniencies and advantages in it, such as saving of cloth, impossibility of being draggled, easier put on, &c.

not one of which the author ever thought of. Such is the origin of the Spencers! I need not remind you that the bottle-conjuror affair was likewise a wager, to see what lengths credulity would lead the public, and the present fas.h.i.+on is no bad Second Part to that memorable take in."

Are these things so, Mr. Editor? Are we really such fools as to adopt a dress, the chief merit of which is its being ridiculous, and injurious to trade? All I shall say is, Quis vult decipi decipitur!

Your's,

OLD SKIRTS.

A DIGRESSION.

Many of those authors, who have largely contributed to the amus.e.m.e.nt and instruction of readers, have considered episodes of digressions, a very essential part of their labours. These writers seem apprehensive lest the greedy reader should be surfeited with a repletion of highly seasoned wit; and therefore occasionally serve up a course of more homely fare. This practice, when the main subject of the work is interesting and the writer sprightly, I always disapprove; but, if the subject and writer are dull, I am constantly impatient for digressions.

The true style of digressing however has not frequently been attained.

Sterne attempted it with some success; but his marble page, his crooked lines, and his seven castles are dull system, are dry method, compared with the narrative of our modern peasantry. Having some skill in stenography, I have been able to preserve one of those diverting stories, which was not long since related in my hearing, and which, for the improvement of speakers, as well as writers, I now carefully transcribe.

"On the seventh day of last October, I will not however be positive it was the seventh; it might possibly, for aught I know, be the eighth. It could not be later than the eight nor earlier than the seventh. The month if I mistake not, came in of a Sat.u.r.day, and it must have been very near the close of the first week; but the particular day is not material. So, be that as it may, it is of no consequence; but, I am pretty certain it was the seventh. I would not undertake for to go for to swear to it; because I may possibly be mistaken; and, as I said before, it is not material. If it was necessary, I should not be much afraid to swear it was either the seventh or eighth. Indeed, the more I think on it, the more I am convinced, in my own mind, that it was the seventh. But, though I should not wish to swear to it, unless it was necessary, I am as well persuaded of it, in my own mind, as I am of any thing, that I do not know for certain. Well, as I was saying, on the seventh of October last, for I am very sure it must be the seventh, one of my neighbours; I call him a neighbour, though, it is true, he does not live very near to me; perhaps seventy-five or eighty rods distance.

I do not know but it may be more. I very often travel it, and possibly it appears to me shorter than it really is. Indeed, I have not been used to have _near_ neighbours. Before he came, the nearest was at least half a mile from me; and, when this one came, I told my wife, it seemed but a step to his house. But that is neither here nor there. We are but new yet, and cannot expect to have very near neighbours; but I had rather be as I be than have a hundred such people for neighbours as I have sometimes been acquainted with. But that is neither here nor there. But as I was saying, one of my neighbours came to my house. I had as lief tell who it was as not. The matter I am certain will be known. It was Noah Dougla.s.s. I was sitting before the fire. Before it? I can't say I was _exactly_ before it. Perhaps I was a little nearer one side than the other. But that is neither here nor there. When he came in, I asked him to sit down, not thinking nor mistrusting the least thing in the world.

I had no more suspicion of any difficulty with him than the farthest person upon earth. There had always been a good correspond between us.

He had always been sociable with me, and I with him. We never had any quarrelling pro nor con. We had had a good deal of deal together; but we were always very authentic, and settled peaceably and quietly. But he had not been in the house long, before I could see there was something that laboured. Well, it was not longer than I have been telling the story, before he began. Says Dougla.s.s, says he, don't you think, says he, you have used me like a rascal, says he. Why, Mr. Dougla.s.s, says I, if I was as stout a man as you--And what if you _was_, says he."

From this last reply of Dougla.s.s, I am persuaded he must be a lineal descendant of the celebrated GAWIN DOUGLa.s.s, a very ancient English author, frequently quoted by some of our modern grammarians, and considered as the true standard of the colloquial and familiar style.

THE MEDDLER.

MIRANDA.

A Moral Tale.

"Come, gentle hope, in flow'ry vest, Pour thy sweet balm o'er all my sense; Lull each anxiety to rest, And chear the-mind of Innocence.

"Shroud from my sight this urgent gloom, And paint the morrow's chearful ray; Or soon this corpse shall meet the tomb, Fall'n, like a rose, ere noon of day."

Such were the plaintive accents that smote my ear, as I wandered, musing, by the banks of the Mersey. The words had something in them which arrested my attention; but the melancholy cadence with which they were sighed forth, elicited the sympathetic tear of sorrow. I could not discover from whom the ditty proceeded; I advanced, therefore, cautiously, to the place whence the sounds issued, that I might view the distressed mourner, who had already so powerfully engaged my commiseration.

She sat on the cold ground, under a shade of willows; distress spoke in her countenance; the fountain of her tears appeared exhausted; and her grief, unable to overflow and vent itself at her eyes, convulsed her throbbing breast. Her form contained every thing that elegance and beauty can combine; her features were regular, and expressive; her eyes large and black, but sorrow had robbed them of their vivid flashes; and her dress was the remains of gentility.

I stood awhile in silent admiration; and was so enwrapt in the contemplation of the fair distressed, that I had not hitherto noticed a little dog, which she had in her lap, and viewed with all the tender languishment of love. I was about to address her, when she again began to sing--

"Fair truth and constancy shall prove The pillars of Miranda's love; The main shall sooner float in air----"

Here an involuntary sneeze, on my part, caused the unhappy maid, to espy me, and break off her strains of woe.

She arose, and clasped her little care in her arms, tenderly but deliciously exclaiming--"They shall not hurt thee, my Henry! these murderers shall not come near thee! Rest on thy Miranda's bosom, and forget thy fears in her love!"

I approached nearer. She looked at me with earnestness; and saw the big drop rolling down my cheeks, and my whole frame almost motionless with grief. The delirium which she had just experienced immediately left her: she advanced near me--"And do you pity me and my love?"

"Thou lovely fair one," said I, "though I am unacquainted with thy miseries, and the source from whence they flow; yet, let my tears witness my heart felt commiseration."

"Is there, then, one soul left," said she, "that feels for poor Miranda; that feels for her father, and her lover?"

Here she sighed, and cast a tender look on her little companion.

A paleness overshadowed her cheeks, her lips quivered, and she seemed about to relapse into her former delirium; when I diverted her attention, by turning it to the beauty of the landscape, and the serpentine windings of the river.

I offered my arm; which she accepted with that unsuspicious modesty, that a heart pure and conscious of it's innocence inspires. "Where do you live Miranda?" said I. She started at hearing her name from a stranger, having forgot that she had mentioned it; but, quickly recollecting herself--"At the foot of yon farthest hill, you see several clumps of trees around an humble cottage; at present," replied she, sighing, "I live, or rather die, there!" I desired leave, to see her home: she thanked me for my kindness, and consented.

"Miranda," said a grief-worn personage, whom, at our entrance into the cot, I perceived laid on a poor but cleanly couch--"Miranda, you shall not add to my heap of miseries by staying in the fields so late; I am alarmed, at such times, for your safety."

At the sound of the voice, and at the appearance of the old lady, I felt a tumultuous palpitation of the heart, and a more deeply sympathizing sorrow, than I could account for. She had not discovered me before: she now perceived me motionless at the sight of this little mansion of sorrow. She alledged, in excuse for her inattention to me, her solicitude for her daughter. A youth of about twelve years old raised her up from the couch; a girl some years older sat languidly at her feet. A little wood composed their fire, which was at present their only light: it's inconstant glimmerings served only to exaggerate sights of woe.

Such were my presentments on this occasion, that I involuntarily conceived there must exist some unknown connection of destiny or consanguinity between myself and the sufferers. I therefore desired with eagerness, to be made acquainted with their history.

On turning from Miranda, to whom I made this request, I beheld the mother's eyes fastened on me: a glistening tear impearled them: she shook her head, as if disappointed, and poured forth a rending sigh.

Again my heart throbbed within my breast; but I recollected the desire I had expressed to Miranda, whom I perceived now composed, and ready to satisfy my curiosity.

"The zeal, Sir, with which you appear to interest yourself in our afflictions, ent.i.tles your request to attention. By complying, however, I shall again pourtray in lively colours, to my own and my wretched parent's sight, those miseries which have by time acquired a mellower tint. Hard is the fate of the inferior order of clergymen! How many are the difficulties that surround them! The labourer, who by his toil is able to support his family, enjoys comparatively the happiness of a prince. The scanty pittance allowed them by the church, will oft times scarcely procure food for themselves and their family. You will join with us, no doubt, in lamenting, that in England, in this most happy and heaven-favoured isle, there should exist so intolerable and just a ground of complaint. Nay, even policy, one might imagine, would direct them to abolish such a neglect of Christ's ministers: for, as no government can flourish, so it cannot long stand, without religion for its basis. The common people chiefly respect externals, and fancy themselves at liberty to deride the thread-bare coat, how great and how many virtues soever its wearer may possess. When the expounders of religion fall into disesteem, religion itself does not long escape; till, at length, all laws, divine and human, are totally neglected and despised. But, whither am I carried on? Excuse my wandering, Sir: such considerations ever arise, when I reflect on our condition."

"The justness of your remarks, Miss," said I, "precludes the necessity of an apology."

"You, no doubt," continued she, "conjecture, from what I have said, that my father was a clergyman; your conjecture, Sir, is right. That good man is one of the best and most neglected of the clerical profession. He was thirty years curate of the neighbouring village; where his name was ever heard with raptures, so long as he retained the capacity of supplying their wants. But--O this ungrateful world!--when he was no longer able to a.s.sist them, they thought themselves freed from former obligations, and at liberty to laugh him to scorn, and insult his misery!"

The old lady sighed; a tear started into her eye; she looked towards Heaven, and was again calm.

"The widow, to whom he was a husband; the orphan, who had found in him the tenderness of a father; were the first to aggravate his sorrows, by that blackest of all vices, ingrat.i.tude. One only poor widow exhibited a grateful heart----But again I wander! His yearly income was forty pounds, allowed him for doing the whole duty of the church, by a rector whose laziness procured near two thousand. With this small income we lived in happy frugality, many years: but the good man's heart overflowed with the milk of human kindness; and this scanty pittance, though sufficient for our expences, and for small beneficences, was very inadequate to the demands of wretchedness. He borrowed, therefore, a sum of money, from a tradesman, to liberate from prison one who craved his a.s.sistance. About this time, the son of the rector returned from the university; a youth--Good Heavens!--a youth whose form, whose mind, whose heart, were----"

[To be continued.]

+Mrs. RADCLIFFE.+

This lady's novels have a bewitching interest. The power of painting the terrible and the mysterious is hers, in an eminent degree, but her sketches of landscape, though always indicating a skilful painter, are too numerous and minute. They may be called the miniature pictures of nature. Whether in the vales of Arno, or among the craggs of the Appennines, unsatisfied with general description, she chooses to note every spire of gra.s.s, and every shrub of the rocks. In the labyrinthian scenes of her castles and her forests, the attentive critic may discern a degree of finesse and stage trick, which, often repeated, offends, rather than surprises. When curiosity pants to discover the secrets of a desolate chamber, or a ruinated abbey, some, perhaps many, impediments may be judiciously thrown in Fancy's way. But the rusty and b.l.o.o.d.y key, the glimpse of fancied apparitions, the perplexed path and the impracticable stair case, occur so often in Mrs. Radcliffe's midnight rambles, that they soon lose their power of deception. But let pruning criticism lop what it may, the laurels of this lady cannot be injured.

Her style pure, harmonious and forcible, might be a model, even to masculine writers. In the exhibition of the nicer, and less obvious shades of character, she has caught the strength and the spirit of TACITUS and SHAKESPEARE. The family of La Lue is an enchanting group, not less agreeable from its resemblance to the La Roche of Mackenzie; and the fierceness of Montoni, and the fears of Emily St. Aubert, are admirably contrasted.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

REFLECTIONS.