PITY.
Come, gentle pity, sooth my breast,
Pity, thou attribute divine,
Come softly lull my heart to rest,
And with my tears O mingle thine.
How sweet is sympathising grief,
How grateful to the breast of woe,
From sorrow’s pangs we find relief
In tears that from sweet pity flow.
Thus sighing to the passing gale,
Or wand’ring o’er the rugged steep,
Oft have I told my mournful tale,
And wept my sorrows in the deep.
Few are my days, yet full of pain
I sorrowing tread life’s devious way,
No hopes my weary steps sustain,
My grief, alas! finds no allay.
See yonder rose that withering lies,
Lost are the beauties of its form,
Torn from its fost’ring stem it dies,
A victim to the ruthless storm.
How fair it shone at early morn,
How lovely deck’d in verdant pride,
It blush’d luxuriant on the thorn,
And shed its sweets on ev’ry side.
How fair the morning of my day,
Now chang’d, alas! to horrid gloom,
My joys are fled, far, far away,
And buried lie in Anna’s tomb.
C. S. Q.
New-York, June 28, 1796.
NEW-YORK: Printed by JOHN BULL, No. 115, Cherry-Street, where every Kind of Printing work is executed with the utmost Accuracy and Dispatch.—Subscriptions for this Magazine (at 2s. per month) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and by E. MITCHELL, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane.
UTILE DULCI. | ||
The New-York Weekly Magazine;OR, MISCELLANEOUS REPOSITORY. | ||
| Vol. II.] | WEDNESDAY, July13, 1796. | [No. 54. |
Description of the famous SALT MINES at Williska in Poland.
(Concluded from [page 1].)
At the bottom of the last ladder the stranger is received in a small cavern, walled up, perfectly close on all sides. To encrease the terror of the scene, it is usual for the guide to pretend the utmost terror on the apprehension of his lamp going out, declaring they must perish in the mazes of the mine if it did. When arrived in this dreary chamber, he puts out his light as if by accident, and after much cant, catches the stranger by the hand, and drags him through a narrow creek into the body of the mine, when there bursts at once upon his view, a world, the lustre of which is scarce to be imagined. It is a spacious plain, containing a whole people, a kind of subterraneous republic, with houses, carriages, roads, &c. This is wholly scooped out of one vast bed of salt, which is all a hard rock, as bright and glittering as crystal; and the whole space before him is formed of lofty arched vaults, supported by columns of salt, and roofed and floored with the same, so that the columns, and indeed the whole fabric, seem composed of the purest crystal.
They have many public lights in this place continually burning for the general use, and the blaze of those reflected from every part of the mine, gives a more glittering prospect than any thing above ground can possibly exhibit. Were this the whole beauty of the spot, it were sufficient to attract our wonder; but this is but a small part. The salt (though generally clear and bright as crystal) is in some parts tinged with all the colours of precious stones, as blue, yellow, purple, and green; there are numerous columns wholly composed of these kinds, and they look like masses of rubies, emeralds, amethysts, and sapphires, darting a radiance which the eye can hardly bear, and which has given many people occasion to compare it to the supposed magnificence of heaven.
Besides the variegated forms of these vaults, tables, arches, and columns, which are formed as they dig out the salt for the purpose of keeping up the roof, there is a vast variety of others, grotesque and finely figured, the work of nature, and these are generally of the purest and brightest salt.
The roofs of the arches are in many places full of salt, hanging pendant from the top in the form of icicles, and having all the hues and colours of the rainbow; the walks are covered with various congelations of the same kind, and the very floors, when not too much trodden and battered, are covered with globules of the same sort of beautiful materials.
In various parts of this spacious plain stand the huts of the miners and families, some standing single, and others in clusters like villages. They have very little communication with the world above ground, and many hundreds of people are born, and live all their lives here.
Through the midst of this plain lies the great road to the mouth of the mine. This road is always filled with carriages loaded with masses of salt out of the farther part of the mine, and carrying them to the place where the rope belonging to the wheel receives them. The drivers of these carriages are all merry and singing, and the salt looks like a load of gems. The horses kept here are a very great number, and when once let down, they never see the day-light again; but some of the men take frequent occasions of going up and breathing the fresh air. The instruments principally used by the miners are pick-axes, hammers, and chissels: with these they dig out the salt in forms of huge cylinders, each of many hundred weight. This is found the most convenient method of getting them out of the mine, and as soon as got above ground, they are broken into smaller pieces, and sent to the mills, where they are ground to powder. The finest sort of the salt is frequently cut into toys, and often passes for real crystal. This hard kind makes a great part of the floor of the mine, and what is most surprising of all in the whole place is, that there runs constantly over this, and through a large part of the mine, a spring of fresh water, sufficient to supply the inhabitants and their horses, so that they need not have any from above ground. The horses usually grow blind after they have been some little time in the mine, but they do as well for service afterwards as before. After admiring the wonders of this amazing place, it is no very comfortable remembrance to the stranger, that he is to go back again through the same dismal way he came.
Earlier publication: “The New magazine of knowledge concerning Heaven and Hell, and the Universal World of Nature” Vol. I, June 1790
Background: The Polish spelling is Wieliczka. The salt mines are currently a major tourist attraction.
THE FATAL EFFECTS OF INDULGING THE PASSIONS,
EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF M. DE LA PALINIERE.
Translated from the French.
(Continued from [page 3].)
How shall I describe my feelings at reading this letter! Oh, Julia! cried I, lovely, adorable woman! Is it possible! O God! Can it be that I have accused you of perfidy!—have done every thing in my power to dishonour you!---have abandoned you! What! a heart so delicate, so noble, did I once possess, and have I lost it! Oh misery! I might have been the happiest of men; I am the most wretched. And can I, in my present circumstances, accept the generous pardon thou offerest! O, no! Better die than so debase myself! No, Julia, though thou mayest truly accuse me of extravagance and injustice, thou never shalt have reason to suspect me of meanness.
Streams of tears ran down my cheeks, while I reasoned thus. I wrote twenty answers, and tore them all: at last I sent the following:
“I admire the noble manner of your proceeding, the sublimity of your mind; and this excess of generosity is not incomprehensible to me. Yes, I conceive all the self-satisfaction of saying, All which the most tender love can inspire, virtue alone shall make me perform.---But I will not take advantage of its empire over you—Live free, be happy, forget me.——Adieu! Julia---You have indisputably all the superiority of reason over passion———and yet I have a heart, perhaps, not unworthy of yours.”
With this letter I returned the twenty-four thousand livres, ordering it to be told her, that the diamonds having been given at her marriage, were undoubtedly her’s; and having once received, she had no right to force them back upon me.
I had now made a sacrifice the most painful; Julia had offered to consecrate her life to me, and I had renounced a happiness without which there was neither happiness nor peace on earth for me. My grief, however, was rather profound than violent; I had offered up felicity at the altar of honour, and that idea, in some measure, supported me. Besides, I did not doubt but my letter would prove to Julia that, notwithstanding all my errors, I yet was worthy of her esteem. The hope of exciting her pity, and especially her regret at parting from me, again animated my heart: I supposed her relenting, and grieved, and the supposition gave me a little ease.
I had lived about a fortnight retired in my lodging near the Luxembourg, when I received an order to depart immediately, and join my regiment. Peace had been declared near a year, and my regiment was in garrison two hundred leagues from Paris. I was one of the most ignorant Colonels in Europe; besides that I still secretly cherished the fond hope Julia was not lost to me for ever; though I perfectly felt I could not recede, nor could she make any further advances, yet I still flattered myself some unforeseen event would again confer a blessing on me which I had never sincerely renounced.
In fact, I could not resolve to quit Paris, and put the intolerable space of two hundred leagues between me and Julia; I wrote therefore to the minister, to obtain leave of absence, which was refused me, and I instantly threw up my commission.
Thus did I quit the service at five-and-twenty, and thus did passion and folly direct my conduct in all the most important events of life.
This last act of extravagance was the cause of great vexation to me; it increased and completed the difference between me and my Uncle, who was previously very angry with me for rashly separating from my wife: so that I now found myself absolutely forsaken by every person in the world whom most I loved.
At first, indeed, I did not feel the horror of my situation, being solely occupied by one idea, which swallowed up all the rest. I wished to see Julia once more. I imagined, if I could but find any means of appearing suddenly and unexpectedly before her, I should revive some part of the affection she formerly had for me. But I could not ask for her at the convent; for what had I to say? She never went out, and her apartment was in the interior part of the house; how then could I come to the sight of her?
I had a valet, who happened to be acquainted with a cousin of one of the Tourieres[*]. I spoke to this man, and got him to give me a letter for his cousin the Touriere, in which I was announced as one of his friends, and steward to a country lady, who wanted to send her daughter to a convent.
Accordingly, at twilight, I wrapped myself up in a great coat, put on an old slouched hat, and went to the convent. The Touriere was exactly such a person as I wished; that is, she was exceedingly talkative and communicative. At first I put some vague questions to her, and afterwards said, my mistress was not absolutely determined to send her daughter to a convent; whence I took occasion to ask if they had many boarders.
Oh yes, replied she, and married women too, I assure you. Here my heart beat violently, and she, with a whisper, a smile, and an air of secrecy, added——You must know, Sir, it is this very convent that incloses the beautiful Madame de la Paliniere, of whom you have certainly heard so much.
Yes---yes---I have---She is a charming woman.
Charming! Oh beautiful to a degree! It is a great pit!---but it is to be hoped God will grant her the gift of repentance.
Repent! of what?
Sir!——Yes, yes, Sir, it is plain enough you are just come from the country, or you could not ask such a question. So you don’t know!
I have heard she had a capricious unjust husband, but————
Oh yes! That to be sure she had; every body talks of his folly and brutality, but that will not excuse her conduct. I hear every thing, and can assure you she is here much against her inclination; nay, she would not have come, had she not dreaded an order for imprisonment.
Imprisonment! Oh! heavens!
Not for her good behaviour, as you may suppose. Why she is neither suffered to go out, nor see any person whatever, except her nearest relations. Oh! she leads a very melancholy life! You may well think, our Nuns won’t have any communication with a wife false to her husband’s bed. The very Boarders will not look at her; every body avoids her as they would infection. God forgive her! she must do penance yet: but instead of that, she is playing upon the harpsichord all day long; is as fresh as a rose, and looks better every day: she must be stubborn in sin.
And does not she seem sorrowful?
Not at all; her woman says, she never saw her so contented; for my own part, I am charitable, and hope she may yet be reclaimed, for she has not a bad heart; she is generous and charitable; and yet she has insisted upon having all her fortune restored, and has left her husband in absolute want. You will tell me he is mad and foolish, has ruined himself nobody knows how, and has just suffered the disgrace of being degraded in the army. I own they have taken away his commission: yes, he has lost his regiment; but yet, I say, a husband is a husband. The poor man wrote to her about a month since to beg her assistance, but no! she told him plainly, no! ’Tis very hard though!---I have all these things from the best authority; I don’t talk by hearsay; I have been fifteen years in this house, and, I thank my God, nobody could ever say I was a tatler, or a vender of scandal.
The Touriere continued at her own ease praising herself; I had not the power of interruption left. She was loudly called for, kept talking all the way she went, and in a few minutes returned.
It was the relation of a young Novice who takes the veil to-morrow, that wanted me, said she. Ah! now; there; there is a true convert! A call of grace! Gives fifty thousand francs (2083l. sterling) to the convent! You ought to see the ceremony: our Boarders will all be there, and you can take a peep through the church window.
At what o’clock will it begin?
Three in the afternoon. The Novice is as beautiful as an angel, and is only twenty. Had she not lost her lover and her father in the same year, the would never have attended to the blessed inspiration of the Spirit. How good Providence is to us! Her father died first, and her lover, who was imprisoned at Saumur, about five months after, of a broken heart, as it is thought.
What was his name? cried I, in an agony not to be described.
The Marquis of Clainville, replied the Touriere, and our novice is called Mademoiselle d’Elbene.
This last sentence went with inexpressible torture to my heart. I rose suddenly, and ran out with an exclamation that threw the Touriere into astonishment and terror.
Arrived at my lodgings, I threw myself upon the sopha, penetrated, torn, and confounded at all that I had heard. The veil was rent away, the illusion passed, I knew at length the extent of my misery; saw to what a point my extravagant conduct had stained my wife’s reputation; felt how impossible it was for this innocent victim of my destruction truly to pardon the injury I had done her, by destroying the most precious thing a woman possesses; and owned, that the unjust contempt with which the world treated her, ought incessantly to reanimate her resentment against me its author. To her virtue alone could I now attribute her generous manner of acting.
In fact from the account given by the Touriere, it was evident that Julia, consoled by the testimony of a good conscience, was resigned to her fate, and lived at peace; which she could not continue to do, but by burying my memory in eternal oblivion.
(To be continued.)
[*] A kind of female runner or turnkey to a convent.
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.