The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 176

By yon still river's verdant side, My friends his breathless body hide, Close to the gentle surge; Light lay the turf upon his breast, And thou sweet Robin from the nest, Sing his funereal dirge.

And when grey night shall check thy note, Ye bull-frogs strain your hoa.r.s.er throat, Grave songsters of the stream: Let Bun--poor Bun--repeated sound; With Bun, the hills and groves resound, A never dying theme.

But thou curst Cat, unsung shalt lie; For thou, vile murderer, too must die, As well as harmless Bun; Thy worthless bones unburied lay, And thy nine lives but poorly pay For his lamented one.

+A very palatable _RECEIPT_, to soften the hardest _FEMALE HEART_.+

Take a youth that's genteel, 'tis no matter for face, And season him well, with an air, and a grace; One grain of sincerity you may bestow, But enough of a.s.surance fail not to allow; With flatteries, sighs, a.s.siduities, tears, Insignificant smiles, and significant leers, With pa.s.sion and rapture to give it a zest, And impudence sprinkled according to taste; Some pieces of songs too, and sc.r.a.ps of old plays, And fustian, and frolics, and whimsical ways; All mix'd well together with care and design, And drest with great nicety, and garnish'd out fine: This medicine warm as the patient can bear, And when taken each day will soon soften the fair.

Sometimes a few days efficacious will prove, Sometimes a few weeks ere the flint will remove; But seldom an instance can any produce, When this golden prescription has fail'd of its use, Yet though often successful, 'twill ne'er reach that heart, Which, hardened by virtue, will baffle all art.

ON A HASTY MARRIAGE.

Marry'd! 'tis well! a mighty blessing!

But poor's the joy, no coin possessing.

In antient times, when folks did wed, 'Twas to be one at "board and bed:"

But hard's his case, who can't afford His charmer either bed or board!

_NEW-YORK: +Printed by JOHN TIEBOUT, No. 358, Pearl-Street, for THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co.+ +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Book-Store of Mr. J. FELLOWS, Pine-Street._

THE NEW-YORK WEEKLY MAGAZINE; or, Miscellaneous Repository.

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, May 24, 1797.+ [+No. 99.+

ON LITERARY PURSUITS.

In every duty, in every science in which we would wish to arrive at perfection, we should propose for the object of our pursuit some certain station even beyond our abilities; some imaginary excellence, which may amuse and seem to animate our enquiry. In deviating from others in following an unbeaten road, though we perhaps may never arrive at the wished-for object, yet it is possible we may meet several discoveries by the way; and the certainty of small advantages, even while we travel with security, is not so amusing as the hopes of great rewards by which the adventurer is inspired.

This enterprising spirit is, however, by no means the character of the present age; every person who should now have received opinions, who should attempt to be more than a commentator upon philosophers, or an imitator in polite learning, might be regarded as a chimerical projector. Hundreds would be ready not only to point out his errors, but to load him with reproach. Our probable opinions are now regarded as certainties; the difficulties. .h.i.therto undiscovered, as utterly inscrutable; and the writers of the last age inimitable, and therefore the properest models for imitation.

One might be almost induced to deplore the philosophic spirit of the age, which, in proportion as it enlightens the mind, increases its timidity, and represses the vigour of every undertaking. Men are more content with being prudently in the right, which, though not the way to make new acquisitions, it must be owned, is the best method of securing what we have. Yet this is certain, that the writer who never deviates, who never hazards a new thought, or a new expression, though his friends may compliment him upon his sagacity, though Criticism lifts her feeble voice in his praise, will seldom arrive at any degree of perfection. The way to acquire lasting esteem, is not by the fewness of a writer's faults, but the greatness of his beauties, and our n.o.blest works are generally most replete with both.

An author, who would be sublime, often runs his thoughts into burlesque; yet I can readily pardon his mistaking sometimes for once succeeding.

True genius walks along a line, and, perhaps, our greatest pleasure is in seeing it often near falling, without being ever actually down.

Every science has its. .h.i.therto undiscovered mysteries, after which men should travel undiscouraged by the failure of former adventurers. Every new attempt serves, perhaps, to facilitate its future invention. We may not find the philosopher's stone, but we shall, probably, hit upon new inventions in pursuing it. We shall, perhaps, never be able to discover the longitude, yet, perhaps, we may arrive at new truths in the investigation.

Were any of these sagacious minds among us, (and surely no nation, no period could ever compare with us in this particular,) were any of these minds, I say, who now sit down contented with exploring the intricacies of another's system, bravely to shake off admiration, and undazzled with the splendor of another's fame, to chalk out a path to renown for themselves, and boldly to cultivate untried experiments, what might not be the result of their enquiries, should the same study that has made them wise, make them enterprizing also? What could not such qualities, united, produce?

Projectors in a state are generally rewarded above their merit; projectors in the republic of letters, never. If they are wrong, every dunce thinks himself ent.i.tled to laugh at their disappointment; if they are right, men of superior talents think their honour engaged to oppose, as every new discovery is a tacit diminution of their own pre-eminence.

To aim at excellence, our reputation, our friends, and our all must be ventured: by aiming only at mediocrity, we run no risque, and we do little when prudence and greatness are ever persuading us to contrary pursuits. The one instructs us to be content with our station, and to find happiness in setting bounds to every wish. The other impels us to superiority, and calls nothing felicity but rapture. The one directs us to follow mankind, and to act and think with the rest of the world; the other drives us from the croud, and exposes us as a mark to all the shafts of envy or ignorance.

The rewards of mediocrity are immediately paid; those attending excellence generally paid in reversion. In a word, the little mind which loves itself, will write and think with the vulgar, but the great mind will be bravely eccentric, and scorn the beaten road, from universal benevolence.

The _WANDERINGS_ of the IMAGINATION.

_BY MRS. GOOCH._

(Continued from page 363.)

Conclusion of the _HISTORY OF CAPTAIN S----._

"Various are the stages of human woe; and long is the catalogue of mental miseries!--A load of grief, so new, so unexpected, burst with the early dawn on my distracted senses, and awakened them to everlasting wretchedness.

"The next morning I went to the Bedford, and enquired for Captain Nesbitt. The waiter told me he was not there, but asked my name, and said he had a letter for me. I opened it, and read as follows.

"SIR,

"As our meeting might be attended with disagreeable consequences to both, you must not be surprized at my declining it. I have but executed the commission with which you intrusted me, and at which you seem highly offended. As I am going to leave town immediately, I must beg leave to postpone till my return any thing you must have to communicate; and remain,

"SIR,

"Your humble servant,

"JAMES NESBITT."

"I pocketed the infamous scrawl, as I shuddered at the depravity of human nature. My wife, (why cannot I blot out the dear, the sacred appellation?) was still wound about my heart, nor could I attempt to slacken, without breaking its every string. Worthless, yet still beloved woman, was it for this that I crossed the seas? for this that I submitted to an odious stigma cast upon my conduct, degrading even in idea to the character of an officer, and a gentleman?--for this that I renounced every hope of future advancement?--Cruel, cruel Isabella!

Better could I behold thee dead; for what can life be to those who have broken every tie of duty, every claim to the purest affections that can enn.o.ble the intellectual being?

"In a fit of frenzy, I flew to her lodgings. A fond, foolish hope to reclaim her, and a wish to see my still innocent child, led me beyond the bounds of prudence. She had quitted the house, and the people could not, or would not, inform me whither she was gone. I found by them, that they knew her only by the name of her seducer; and that my boy, whom they called by the same name, had accompanied his mother. My next enquiry was at the house of her relation; she had also left town, as they said, for some months.

"I returned to the Bedford-Arms, and hastily scrawled an incoherent letter, which I left in charge of the waiter there: he unwillingly took it, under pretence that Captain Nesbitt seldom came to their house, and it was uncertain when he might see him again. It ran as follows.

"SIR,

"If your heart is not callous to every feeling of social humanity, let me implore you to pity as a man, the distresses to which you have reduced me. You are young, but let me hope you are not a determined villain. A time may perhaps arrive, when you will feel, like _me_, WHAT IT IS to be a HUSBAND, and a FATHER!--The opinion of the World is of little import to those, who, blessed with conscious rect.i.tude, can defy its malice.

"Restore my wife--restore my child--I will receive her once more, as the first, best gift of Heaven; and her errors shall be blotted from the tablets of my memory. Let me conjure you, Sir, to be the friend of this unhappy woman; point out to her the path, of duly; and if you have any real affection for her, make the sacrifice of it to her honour, and future peace. As you deal by _her_, may Heaven, in justice, deal by _you!_