The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 24

_UTILE DULCI._

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

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, August 17, 1796.+ [+No. 59.+

+For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+

REASON.

_Q._ Cannot we, by the light of Reason, discover enough of futurity and the attributes of G.o.d, to secure our peace of mind here, and our happiness hereafter, without the aid of a revelation?

_A._ As well might you ask, cannot a merchant freight his vessel for a voyage to a country of which he is entirely ignorant, and the description of which he refuses to examine and believe;---who puts to sea without his charts because they _may_ be false, and would rather trust to his uninformed mind for a safe conduct through shoals and breakers to the desired port.

What is reason, or the exercise of the reasoning faculty, but the comparison of ideas and the exercise of the judgment thereon? And from whence can we acquire ideas, where can we acquire information relating to a subject so important as our future existence? The works of nature are open to our view;---these indeed are a copious source, but their insufficiency for promoting the love of G.o.d and of our fellow-creature, is obvious to any one who will observe man in a state of nature.---If, then, a fund of information is delivered to us, which carries with it all the evidence of a divine revelation, which explains and a.s.sists the language of nature, what should deter us from seizing with avidity the precious deposit, and acc.u.mulating facts on which we may employ our reasoning faculty to our eternal benefit.

ON LANDSCAPE PAINTING.

The poets, of all ages and all languages, have dwelt with particular delight upon the morning scenery, and the epithets of the dappled, the rosy fingered, the saffron, and the blus.h.i.+ng morn, have been not less often quoted, than they have been imitated and read; and to these verbal descriptions have followed those of the pencil; and in these graphic truths no man has succeeded in any degree of comparison with Claude Lorraine. The reason appears to be pretty obvious; he studied nature with so much enthusiasm and perseverance, that he may be almost said to have exhausted her varieties; and we hardly behold a composition from his hand in which the rising or the setting sun does not irradiate or warm his scenes; but the sober impressions of the dawn, those chaste and reserved tints that particularly express the break of day, just awakening from repose; when the curtain of the night seems to be insensibly withdrawn, and the landscape appears to open by degrees, when the colours of the sky are yet doubtful, and the landscape imperfect to the view; in short, when darkness is not entirely fled, nor light distinctly seen; this period of the day I do not recollect to have seen expressed by the fidelity of his magical pencil.

When coolness sits upon the mountains, and freshness delights the plains, when the dews hang trembling upon every leaf, and the insects flutter on every thorn; when the groves begin to resound with the murmurs of the dove, and the vallies to echo with the twitterings from the spray; how delightful is it to see Arachne weave her web upon every bush and the gossamer uplifted by the breeze! how extatic is the twilight hour, which, for a time, hangs balanced between the dispersion of darkness, and the dapplings of the east; and which gives a solemn pleasure to every thing around! When these images of nature arrest our sight, and their charms find a pa.s.sage to the heart, how pleasing at such a time are the feelings of antic.i.p.ation to those who adore in his works, the wonders of the Creator!

Of that period, when the sun begins to diffuse his early rays, to tip the mountains with light, and to project the shadows of the hills, I do not recollect to have seen more than one attempt of imitation; and this effect I think is produced in the landscape of the celebrated picture of Aurora, by the hand of Guido, in the Rospiliosi palace at Rome. The distant sea would be undistinguished, or would rather partake of what Milton calls "the darkness visible," did it not almost seem to be imperceptibly illuminated by the foam of the waves that wash, with breaking murmurs, the silver sands, and pour their drowsy hoa.r.s.eness on the sh.o.r.e. As the eye wanders over this inimitable performance, the chilness of the dawn appears to brood over the scene below; but, as the imagination ascends, it fancies that it meets those breezes in the air that mildly prognosticate, the blushes of the morning; whose curtains the rosy fingered hours have drawn aside, and between which the infant day begins to peep.

Interesting History Of THE PRINCESS DE PONTHIEU.

_Translated from the French._

(Continued from page 43.)

During their journey, and on their arrival, Thibault omitted no act of tenderness, to convince the Princess she was still as dear to him as ever; but finding all his protestations in vain, and that she concealed a dagger in the bed one night with an intent to a.s.sa.s.sinate him, he took a separate apartment, still endeavouring by his behaviour to her, to prevent the public from finding out the cause of their disagreement; and he was the more to be pitied, because he could not help loving her still with the same ardency as ever. In the mean time, the Count de Ponthieu perceived there was something more than ordinary between them, they could not hide it from his penetration; Thibault was overwhelmed with a secret melancholy--the Princess would be seen but rarely; her silence, and when she was obliged to speak, the incoherency of her words, in fine, all her actions implied a strange alteration, and made him resolve to oblige Thibault to a discovery of the cause.---He defended himself a long time, but being too closely pressed by a prince, to whom he owed every thing, he at last revealed all the particulars of his misfortune to him, and painted his love, and the unjust fury of the Princess, in such moving colours, that the Count was so thoroughly affected, that he could scarce contain his anger against her. He pitied Thibault, comforted him, and promised him to speak to the Princess in a manner, which should oblige her to change her conduct. "Yours," said he, "is so prudent and so tender, that I cannot sufficiently admire it; and I hope my daughter will not always be insensible of it, but return to her duty."

He left him, and pa.s.sed to the Princess's apartment, whom he found sitting in an elbow-chair; her head reclined, and in the posture of one buried in thought, her women round her in a profound silence. The Count making a sign for them to withdraw; "What, daughter," said he, "will you never lay aside this gloomy melancholy which so much troubles me, and astonishes my whole court.---I know your misfortune, your generous husband has just discovered it to me---I am very sensible of it, but much more so of his proceeding; who, notwithstanding your blind rage, has preserved so great a regard for you, as never to complain."

At these words, the Princess fixing her eyes full of fury on the face of her father, "How!" cried she, "has Thibault dared to reveal that secret to you?" "Ah Princess," interrupted the Count, "speak with more moderation of a man who adores you----think a moment, remember you have loved this husband----that I did not force you to accept of him, that your misfortune, dreadful as it is, has not impaired his esteem; you, in return, owe him the same affection and confidence; I desire it of you as a friend, and demand it of you as a parent and a sovereign. Make good use of the pity that pleads in my breast in your behalf---and dread irritating me, lest I throw aside the father, and act wholly as a prince." This discourse, so far from softening the Princess, redoubled her distraction, and she discovered so much rage of temper to the Count, that he deferred, till a more favourable opportunity, the reclaiming her. He went out, ordering her to be strictly guarded in her apartment, and that she should not be suffered to have communication with any one but her women; and so returning to Thibault, informed him of the ill success he had met with. Yet he did not despair, but every day for a whole month made fresh attempts on her disordered mind; but every thing proving in vain, and her fury rather increasing than diminis.h.i.+ng, he resolved to free his family of a woman whom he looked on as a monster.---With this intent, on pretence of taking the air, he carried her with him in a shallop, and having got a considerable distance from sh.o.r.e, he ordered her to be seized by some sailors, and put into a tun prepared for that purpose, and closing it up again, thrown into the sea.

After this cruel expedition he landed; but alas! what became of Thibault, when the other, still transported with rage, told him what he had done! how great was his affliction! and what reproaches did he not vent against so barbarous a father! He ran to the fatal place which he heard had been the grave of his unhappy Princess; but finding nothing that could flatter him with any hope of there being a possibility to save her, he returned to court in a condition truly pitiable;---the many charms of his lost Princess dwelt for ever on his mind, and he thought himself the most miserable creature living, because he had it not in his power to revenge her. It was not long before the Count himself repented of the action, and his remorse became so great, that even the miserable Thibault endeavoured to mitigate it. At last it wore off, and he began to think a second marriage, and the hope of an heir, would dissipate his afflictions; and well knowing that his son-in-law would never engage himself again, he married, and was happy enough at the expiration of a year to have a son: yet his grief was not wholly vanished, his daughter came ever fresh into his memory, and the light of Thibault, who continued overwhelmed with the deepest melancholy, added to his despair.

In this manner they pa.s.sed almost nine years, when the Count becoming once more a widower, resolved, together with Thibault, and his little son, to travel to the Holy Land, hoping by devotion to expiate his crime. Thibault, who now thought he had an opportunity of dying gloriously in fighting for the faith, readily embraced the proposal.

Every thing was soon ready for the voyage, and the Count de Ponthieu having entrusted the government of his dominions to persons of confidence, they set out, and arrived safely at Jerusalem. The Count and Thibault engaged themselves for the s.p.a.ce of a year in serving the temple, in which they had frequent opportunities of testifying their zeal and courage. The year finished, and their vows accomplished, they embarked in order to return. The winds were for some days favourable, but a most violent tempest succeeding the calm, they were so shook by the fury of it, that they expected nothing but death; when on a sudden, a contrary gust arising, drove them on the coast of Almeria, a land belonging to the infidels; they were soon surrounded by the barks and brigantines of the Saracens, and as the s.h.i.+p was incapable of putting to sea again, they were much less so in a condition of defence.

The Count de Ponthieu, the young Prince his son, and Thibault, were made prisoners, and thrown into dungeons; all the christians in the s.h.i.+p were served in the same manner, and so loaded with irons, that they immediately found they had been preserved from the rage of the sea, only to perish in a more cruel manner on land. Those heroes prepared themselves for death with a resolution worthy of their courage; but the infidels believing them a n.o.ble sacrifice, permitted them to live till the day on which they celebrated the birth of the Sultan, it being the custom of that country, to offer to their G.o.ds on that day a certain number of criminals, or christians.

(_To be continued._)

ACCOUNT OF THE LAST MOMENTS OF THE CELEBRATED DR. JOHNSON.

(Concluded from page 43.)

Mr. Windham having placed a pillow conveniently to support him, he thanked him for his kindness, and said, "That will do--all that a pillow can do."

As he opened a note which his servant brought him, he said, "An odd thought strikes me---We shall receive no letters in the grave."

He requested three things of Sir Joshua Reynolds:---To forgive him thirty pounds which he had borrowed of him---to read the Bible---and never to use his pencil on a Sunday. Sir Joshua readily acquiesced.

Johnson, with that native fort.i.tude which, amidst all his bodily distress and mental sufferings, never forsook him, asked Dr. Brocklesby, as a man in whom he had confidence, to tell him plainly whether he could recover. "Give me," said he, "a direct answer." The doctor having first asked him if he could bear the truth, which way soever it might lead, and being answered that he could, declared that in his opinion he could not recover without a miracle. "Then," said Johnson, "I will take no more physic not even my opiates, for I have prayed that I may render up my soul to G.o.d unclouded." In this resolution he persevered, and at the same time used only the weakest kind of sustenance.

After being in much agitation, Johnson became quite composed, and continued so till his death.

Dr. Brocklesby, who will not be suspected of fanaticism, obliged Mr. B.

with the following accounts:

"For some time before his death all his fears were calmed and absorbed by the prevalence of his faith, and his trust in the merits and _propitiation_ of Jesus Christ.

"He talked often to me about the necessity of faith in the _sacrifice_ of Jesus, as necessary beyond all good works whatever for the salvation of mankind.

"He pressed me to study Dr. Clarke, and to read his sermons. I asked him why he pressed Dr. Clarke, an Arian. 'Because,' said he, 'he is fullest on the _propitiatory sacrifice_.'

"Johnson having thus in his mind the true Christian scheme at once rational and consolatory, uniting justice and mercy in the Divinity, with the improvement of human nature, while the Holy Sacrament was celebrating in his apartment, fervently uttered this prayer:

"Almighty and most merciful father, I am now, as to human eyes it seems, about to commemorate, for the last time, the death of thy Son Jesus Christ, our Saviour and Redeemer. Grant, O Lord, that my whole hope and confidence may be in his merits, and thy mercy; enforce and accept my imperfect repentance; make this commemoration available to the confirmation of my faith, the establishment of my hope, and the enlargement of my charity; and make the death of thy Son Jesus Christ effectual to my redemption. Have mercy upon me, and pardon the mult.i.tude of my offences. Bless my friends, have mercy upon all men. Support me, by the Holy Spirit, in the days of weakness, and at the hour of death; and receive me, at my death, to everlasting happiness, for the sake of Jesus Christ. Amen."

"The doctor, from the time that he was certain his death was near, appeared to be perfectly resigned, was seldom or never fretful or out of temper, and often said to his faithful servant, 'Attend, Francis, to the salvation of your soul, which is the object of the greatest importance:'

he also explained to him pa.s.sages in the scripture, and seemed to have pleasure in talking upon religious subjects.

"On Monday the 13th of December, the day on which he died, a Miss Morris, daughter to a particular friend of his, called, and said to Francis, that she begged to be permitted to see the doctor, that she might earnestly request of him to give her his blessing. Francis went into the room followed by the young lady, and delivered the message. The doctor turned himself in the bed, and said, 'G.o.d bless you, my dear!'

These were the last words he spoke.---His difficulty of breathing increased, 'till about seven o'clock in the evening, when Mr. Barber, and Mr. Desmoulins, who were sitting in the room, observing that the noise he made in breathing had ceased, went to the bed, and found he was dead.

"A few days before this awful event, he had asked Sir John Hawkins, as one of his executors, where he should be buried; and on being answered, 'Doubtless in Westminster Abbey,' seemed to feel a satisfaction very natural to a poet, and indeed very natural to every man of any imagination, who has no family sepulchre in which he can be laid with his fathers. Accordingly, upon Monday, December 20, his remains were deposited in that n.o.ble and renowned edifice; and over his grave was placed a large blue flag stone, with this inscription:

SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D.

Obiit xiii die Decembris, Anno Domini M. DCC. Lx.x.xIV.

aetatis suae LXXV.

"His funeral was attended by a respectable number of his friends, particularly by many of the members of the Literary Club, who were then in town; and was also honoured by the presence of several of the reverend chapter of Westminster. His school-fellow, Dr. Taylor, performed the mournful office of reading the service."