REFLECTIONS ON THE HARMONY OF SENSIBILITY AND REASON.
SINCERITY.
A little judgment, with less sensibility, makes a man cunning; a little more feeling, with even less reason, would make him sincere.
Some have no more knowledge of humanity, than just serves them to put on an appearance of it, to answer their own base and selfish purposes.
He who prefers cunning to sincerity, is insensible to the disgrace and suspicion which attend craft and deceit, and the social satisfaction which the generous mind finds in honesty and plain-dealing.
Men who know not the pleasures of sincerity, and who traffic in deceit, barter an image of kindness for a shadow of joy, and are deceived more than they deceive.
PASSION.
Let us suppose an end of Passion, there must be an end of reasoning. Passion alone can correct Passion. Thus we forego a present pleasure, in hopes that we shall afterwards enjoy a greater pleasure, or of longer duration: or suffer a present pain, to escape a greater; and this is called an act of the judgment. He who gives way to the dictates of present passion, without consulting experience, listens to a partial evidence, and must of course determine wrongfully.
Some, in order to pay a false compliment to sentimental pleasures, attempt altogether to depreciate the pleasures of sense: with as little justice, though with like plausibility, have men endeavoured to decry the natural passions and affections as inconsistent with human felicity. Not from our natural desires and passions do we suffer misery; for, without these, what pleasure can we be supposed to enjoy? But from false desires, or diseased appetites, acting without the aid of experience and understanding.
He who commits an action which debases him in his own mind, besides its other evil consequences, lays up a store of future misery, which will haunt him as long as the memory of the deed remains.
Along with the present effects of any action, in order to judge of it aright, we must put in the balance also its future consequences, and consider, on one side, the satisfaction and honour; on the other, the evil and disgrace that may attend it.
Magnanimity exercises itself in contempt of labours and pains, in order to avoid greater pains, or overtake greater pleasures.
TEMPERANCE.
The great rule of sensual pleasures is to use them so as they may not destroy themselves, or be divorced from the pleasures of sentiment; but rather as they are assisted by, and mutually assisting to, the more refined and exalted sympathy of rational enjoyment.
Men ever refine the meaning of the word pleasure to what pleases themselves: gluttons imagine, that by pleasure is meant gluttony. The only true epicures are such as enjoy the pleasures of temperance. Small pleasures seem great to such as know no greater. The virtuous man is he who has sense enough to enjoy the greatest pleasure.
Superfluity and parade among the vulgar-rich pass for elegance and greatness. To the man of true taste, temperance is luxury, and simplicity grandeur.
Whatever pleasures are immediately derived from the senses, persons of fine internal feelings enjoy besides their other pleasures; while such as place their chief happiness in the former, can have no true taste for the delicious sensations of the soul.
They who divide profit and honesty, mistake the nature of the one or the other. We must make a difference between appearances and truths: the really profitable and the good are the same.
False appearances of profit are the greatest enemies to true interest. Future sorrows present themselves in the disguise of present pleasures, and short-sighted folly eagerly embraces the deceit.
INTERESTING HISTORY OF
THE BARON DE LOVZINSKI.
With a relation of the most remarkable occurrences in the life of the celebrated Count Pulaski, well known as the champion of American Liberty, and who bravely fell in its defence before Savannah, 1779.
Interspersed with Anecdotes of the late unfortunate King of Poland, so recently dethroned.
(Continued from page 115.)
We soon arrived at the ditch of the castle; the servants of Dourlinski demanded who we were; I answered that we were come from Pulaski, and wished to speak to their lord, and that we had been attacked by robbers, who were still in pursuit of us. The drawbridge was accordingly let down; and having entered, we were informed that at present we could not see Dourlinski, but that on the next day at ten o’clock he would give us audience. They then demanded our arms, which we delivered up without any difficulty, and Boleslas soon after took an opportunity of looking at my wound, which was found to be but superficial.
In a short time a frugal repast was served up for us in the kitchen. We were afterwards conducted to a lower chamber, where two beds were prepared for us. The domestics then left us without any light, and immediately locked the door of the apartment.
I could not close my eyes during the whole night. Titsikan had given me but a slight wound, but that which my heart had received was so very deep! At day break, I became impatient in my prison, and wished to open the shutters, but they were nailed up. I attacked them, however, so vigorously, that the fastenings gave way, and I beheld a very fine park. The window being low, I cleared it at a leap, and in a single instant found myself in the gardens of the Polish chieftain.
After having walked about for a few minutes, I sat down on a stone bench, which was placed at the foot of a tower, whose ancient architecture I had been some time considering. I remained for a few seconds enveloped in reflection, when a tile fell at my feet. I thought that it had dropped from the roof of this old building; and, to avoid the effects of a similar accident, I went and placed myself at the other end of the seat. A few moments after, a second tile fell by my side. The circumstance appeared surprising: I arose with some degree of inquietude, and attentively examined the tower. I perceived at about twenty-five or thirty feet from the ground, a narrow opening. On this I picked up the tiles which had been thrown at me, and on the first I discovered the following words, written with a bit of plaister;
“LOVZINSKI, is it you! Do you still live!”
And on the second these:
“Deliver me! save Lodoiska.”
It is impossible to conceive how many different sentiments occupied my mind at one and the same time: my astonishment, my joy, my grief, my embarrassment, cannot be expressed. I examined once more the prison of Lodoiska, and plotted in my own mind how I could procure her liberty. She at length threw down another tile, and I read as follows:
“At midnight, bring me paper, ink, and pens; and to-morrow, an hour after sun-rise, come and receive a letter.————Begone.”—
Having returned towards my chamber, I called to Boleslas, who assisted me in re-entering through the window. I then informed my faithful servant, of the unexpected accident that had put an end to my wanderings, and redoubled my inquietude.
How could I penetrate into this tower? How could we procure arms? By what means were we to deliver Lodoiska from captivity! How could we carry her off under the eye of Dourlinski, in the midst of his people, from a fortified castle? and supposing that so many obstacles were not unsurmountable, could I attempt such an enterprize during the short delay prescribed by Titsikan?
Did not the Tartar enjoin me to stay with Dourlinski three days, but not to remain longer than eight?
Would it not be to expose ourselves to the attacks of the enemy, to leave this castle before the third, or after the expiration of the eighth day? Should I release my dear Lodoiska from a prison, on purpose to deliver her into the hands of robbers, to be forever separated from her either by slavery or death? This would be a horrible idea!
But wherefore was she confined in such a frightful prison? The letter which she had promised would doubtless instruct me: It was therefore necessary to procure paper, pen and ink. I accordingly charged Boleslas with this employment, and began to prepare myself for acting the delicate part of an emissary of Pulaski in the presence of Dourlinski.
It was broad day-light when they came to set us at liberty, and inform us, that Dourlinski was at leisure and wished to see us. We accordingly presented ourselves before him with great confidence; and we were introduced to a man of about sixty years of age, whose reception was blunt, and whose manners were repulsive. He demanded who we were. “My brother and myself,” replied I, “belong to Count Pulaski. My master has entrusted me with a secret commission to you. My brother accompanies me on another account. Before I explain, I must be in private, for I am charged not to speak but to you alone.”
“It is very well,” replies Dourlinski: “your brother may retire, and you also,” addressing himself to his servants; “begone! As to him (pointing to a person who was his confident), he must remain, and you may speak any thing before him.”
“Pulaski has sent me.”————“I see very well that he has sent you,” says the palatine, interrupting me——“to demand of you—” “What?”————“news of his daughter.”—“News of his daughter! Did Pulaski say so?”————“Yes my lord, he said that his daughter was here.”---I perceived that Dourlinski instantly grew pale; he then looked towards his confident, and surveyed me for some time in silence.
“You astonish me,” rejoins he at length. “In confiding a secret of this importance to you, it necessarily follows that your master must have been very imprudent.”
“No more than you, my lord, for have not you also a confident? Grandees would be much to be pitied if they could not rely upon any of their domestics. Pulaski has charged me to inform you, that Lovsinski has already searched through a great part of Poland, and that he will undoubtedly visit these cantons.”
“If he dares to come here,” replies he with great vivacity, “I will provide a lodging for him, which he shall inhabit for some time. Do you know this Lovsinski?”
“I have seen him at my master’s house in Warsaw.”—“They say he is handsome?”
“He is well made, and about my size.”
“His person?---is prepossessing; it is————”
“He is a wretch,” adds he, interrupting me in a great passion———“O that he were but to fall into my hands!”
“My lord, they say that he is brave---”
“He! I will wager any sum of money that he is only calculated to seduce women!---O that he would but fall into my hands!” Then, assuming a less ferocious tone, he continued thus. “It is a long time since Pulaski wrote to me---where is he at present?”
“My lord, I have precise orders not to answer that question: all that I dare to say is, that he has the strongest reasons for neither discovering the place of his retreat, nor writing to any person, and that he will soon come and explain them to you in person.”
Dourlinski appeared exceedingly astonished at this information; I could discover some symptoms of fear in his countenance. At length, looking at his confident, who seemed equally embarrassed with himself, he proceeded: “You say that Pulaski will come here soon?”---“Yes, my lord, in about a fortnight, or a little later.” On this he again turned to his attendant; but in a short time affecting as much calmness as he had before discovered embarrassment; “Return to your master”, added he; “I am sorry to have nothing but bad news to communicate to him————tell him that Lodoiska is no longer here.” I myself became surprised in my turn at this information. “What! my lord, Lodoiska————”
“Is not longer here, I tell you!————To oblige Pulaski, whom I esteem, I undertook, although with great repugnance, the talk of confining his daughter in my castle: nobody but myself and he (pointing to his confident) knew that she was here. It is about a month since we went, as usual, to carry her provisions for the day, but there was nobody in the apartment. I am ignorant how it happened; but what I know well is, that she has escaped, for I have heard nothing of her since.---She must undoubtedly have gone to join Lovsinski at Warsaw, if perchance the Tartars have not intercepted her in her journey.”
My astonishment on this became extreme. How could I reconcile that which I had seen in the garden, with that which Dourlinski now told me? There was some mystery in this business, which I became exceedingly impatient to be acquainted with: I was however extremely careful not to exhibit any appearance of doubt. “My lord,” said I, “this is bad news for my master!”————“Undoubtedly, but it is not my fault.”
“My lord, I have a favour to ask of you.”
“Let me hear it.”———“The Tartars are ravaging the neighbourhood of your castle—they attacked us———we escaped as it were by a miracle. Will you permit my brother and myself to remain here only for the space of two days?”
“For two days only I give my consent.”
“Where do they lodge?” says he to his attendant. “In an apartment below ground,” was the reply.
“Which overlooks my gardens?” rejoins Dourlinski, interrupting him with great agitation.
“The shutters are well fastened,” adds the other.
“No matter————You must put them elsewhere.” These words made me tremble.
“It is not possible, but,”———continues the confident, and then whispered the rest of the sentence in his ear.
“Right,” says the Baron; “and let it be done instantly.” Then, addressing himself to me, “know that your brother and you must depart the day after to-morrow: before you go, you shall see me again, and I will give you a letter for Pulaski.”
I then went to rejoin Boleslas in the kitchen, where he was at breakfast, who soon after presented me with a little bottle full of ink, several pens, and some sheets of paper, which he had procured without difficulty. I panted with desire to write to Lodoiska; and the only difficulty that now remained, was to find a commodious place where I might not be discovered by the curiosity of Dourlinski’s people.
They had already informed Boleslas that we could not again be admitted into the apartment where we had spent the preceding night, until the time should arrive when we were to retire to rest. I soon, however, bethought myself of a stratagem which succeeded to admiration.
The servants were drinking with my pretended brother, and politely invited me to help them to empty a few flasks.
I swallowed, with a good grace, several glasses of bad wine in succession: in a few minutes my legs seemed to totter, my tongue faltered: I related a hundred pleasant and improbable tales to the joyous company; in a word, I acted the drunken man so well, that Boleslas himself became a dupe to my scheme, and actually trembled lest, in a moment when I seemed disposed to communicate every thing, my secret should escape.
(To be continued.)
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.