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tears in her eyes, that they ought to resolve on an eternal separation; he came incognito in the environs of the Baron's castle, and having bribed one of the servants, he informed his beloved of his secret arrival. At the first moment Mary was exceedingly concerned. She forgot that her father and her governess were in the castle; she .wrapt herself up in her cloak, and notwithstanding the intense cold of the season she went out, and directed her steps towards the place where she expected to meet her friend. All at once the idea of her father struck her, and froze all her members, she fell senseless on the road. She was found and brought home without any one's guessing the reason of her fainting; but next morning she wrote to Markof by the person he had himself employed. The certainty that they should never see the accomplishment of their vows, the order she was going to send him to cease all pur suit, inflamed her imagination. The heart guided the pen, the expression of her love appeared to burn on the paper; but, little able to write with any order, in that letter, which was hardly legible, and wherein she recounted her impotent efforts to meet him, she added in a scrawl which could scarce be decyphered, her commands that he should leave the place without delay; she told him that the whole province was subject to her father, and the hatred he manifested for him

was

more outrageous since he resided in the country; and, lastly, that it would endanger his life as well as that of his love, if he remained any longer. She concluded with saying, in a postscript on the other side of the page, that a secret, foresight warned her that the moment of their interview would, be very soon followed by cruel misfortunes.

As soon as she had sent away her letter, she repented having written it. She reproached herself with having destroyed all Markof's hopes. She had never longed so much to see him, as just after she had forbidden his coming. Her agitation was extreme; whilst moving about her apartment, she loudly exclaimed, "Can he love me, and obey? Will he go without making at least some sign to me; without waving his handkerchief?" Then she approached the window, and casting her eyes round the country which the last rays of the sun continued to enlighten, she sighed, and retiring precipitately: "Imprudent! what dare I desire? what dare I wait for? My ruin and his-An! may he not come!"

At that instant she hears a timid voice from without, calling her by name. She listens, runs to the window, opens it, and in the dress of a peasant she discovers Markof.

He had read Mary's letter with transport, he had covered it with ardent kisses; but in his delirium he had entirely neglected to observe the

postscript, in which he was informed of the dangers of the least attempt. He had placed himself under the windows of the chamber in

habited by his mistress. "My dear Federouna!" said he, in a supplicating voice; "my dearest Mary !" and by the aid of some branches of trees, nailed against the wall he clambered up to the window and entered the room. The young Baroness was so terrified that she could neither speak nor act. He assured her he would depart directly, that he only wished to fold her once in his arms and to touch her mouth with his lips. He supported her, and placed her on a chair.

In this vast castle, the apartment of Mary was very distant from that of the Baron. That of the governess was nearer, but the melancholy of Mary had long kept that governess at a distance,

and she was accustomed to the solitude in which Mary chose to remain for hours. Nothing was attended to; the moments flew, till at last the Baron surprised to find that his daughter did not as usual come to wish him a good night, came to know the reason.

The two lovers heard him; they trembled. Mary, in terror, opened an empty chest which happened to be in a corner of the room; although rather strait, Markof jumped in, laid close, and Mary shut it. The Baron entering his daughter's room, sat down, enquired tenderly after her health, her melancholy state, and having for some time conversed with her, he retired without any suspicion.

As soon as he was gone, Mary ran to the fatal trunk, she opened it-She thought Markof slept. He was indeed asleep, but never to wake!

He was smothered. He might, without doubt, as soon as he found the danger of his situation, have made some motion which would have delivered him; but the dread of exposing to the Baron's resentment a woman whom he loved more than life, had resigned him to death.

We can form no adequate idea of the terrible condition of Mary at such a sight. She at first thought the Count affected to sleep; she even reproached him for so doing; after which lifting him up with some effort, the body fell again. She uttered piercing cries. Alas, had it pleased God the Baron had heard those cries! Mary's situation was dreadful, and the idea of her father's anger, even of the excesses which his fury might make him commit on the body of his enemy, filled her soul with terror. In those delirious moments, she pressed her dead lover's head to her bosom; in calmer instants, she tried all the means she could think of to restore him to life. The whole night was passed in this manner; the break of day added to her anguish; she thought on the scenes which that day would enlighten.

In Russia every considerable house keeps a man, whose business is to watch all night. He is commonly one of the meanest slaves; in the day-time he is employed in the vilest offices, and his lodging is little better than a dog kennel. Mary, in her distress, applied to this wretch. He enters her chamber, prostrates himself, and begs her protection. She raises him, promise it, and likewise promises him a sum of money, if he will do her a piece of service, and faithfully keep the secret. She then discovers her misery, and intreats him to take the body of her lover and bury it in the wood.

The man sullenly listened to her; he immediately perceived the importance of the service which was required, and from that moment affected the insolence of a clown who finds himself necessary. Mary gave him some money, which he received with indifference, and gave her to understand that the Earon would give him more to betray her. This rascal, who a few minutes before dared not lift his eyes to the daughter of his master, and who was accustomed to look on them both as divinities on whom his fate, his life depended, who thought himself happy to sleep in the corner of a stable, and to escape the chastisement which the meanest servant might daily inflict on him for his negligence; this monster dared to wish to possess the person of Mary. He explained himself sufficiently, and begin to behave himself with impudent audacity. The young Baroness, although overwhelmed with grief, found strength to repel him, and with becoming dignity ordered him to get out.

But the villain knew his own advantages too well to obey; he was in possession of her secret and threatened to go to the Baron. Mary cast herself at his feet; promised him his freedom, offered her fortune; all her efforts were in vain; he still persisted in his execrable design. Then Mary pretended she would consent to his desires; she conjured him only to do what she required, and swore she would wait for him in her chamber.

The slave did as she wished. Nobody was yet stirring in the castle. As soon as she saw him beyond the walls, she went and knocked at the door of her governess, commanding her to go to the Baron, and to intreat him to come that instant to his daughter, whose life was concerned. She then returned to her apartment and fastened herself in. Her father arrives, finds the door shut, speaks to his daughter, and asks her the reason of this proceeding. She raises her faint voice as much as. she is able after what she has suffered, and without opening the door, she tells her father the whole story; she reproaches him with having contemned her love, and the irresistible passion she had felt; then, in a more affectionate tone, she swears she has forgiven him all, but that she could no longer live after such horrors.

The terrified father calls his servants, they break open the door; but it was too late; she had stabbed herself, and was no longer living. The Baron, was then sensible how dearly his inveterate cruelty cost him, and the vile slave received the just punishment of his villany; he was on the same day empaled alive.

"THE ROYAL ECLIPSE; OR, DELICATE FACTS." By DIOGENES. THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY READING THE ABOVE PUBLICATION.

virtue, which alone give honour to rationality, and dignity to humanity.

The leading feature which is observable in every publication, is always the most illustrative of its true character and real tendency and de

WHEN a publication of any description is sent into the world, it is the privilege of each individual to examine its contents, and state his opinion of the degree of merit or demerit that ought to be attached to it; and in proportion as he avails himself of this privilege with a view to pro-sign. When therefore we find ourselves disposed mote the true interests of society, the task he performs becomes interesting, useful, and acceptable. In a community celebrated for refined taste, for polished manners, for the endearing felicities of domestic intercourse, and for all the engaging accomplishments and fascinating elegancies of social life, any attempt, consistent with truth and propriety, that can be made to rescue characters of acknowledged eminence from the destructive effects of calumny and detraction, must be highly gratifying to every person who possesses a mind influenced by those solid principles of genuine No. XXIII. Vol. III.

to compare a few publications of a peculiar description, and of a recent date, with each other, we cannot but observe something so much like a systematic design to destroy, in the estimation of the people, that due respect for those who move in the very first circles of life, that we cannot reflect on the tendency of those publications without experiencing sensations of terror arising from a consideration of the consequences to which such diabolical liberties, if countenanced and encouraged, must eventually lead. It is our interest to respect virtue above all things; and it A a

is equally our interest to respect virtuous characters for virtue's sake. It is also highly expedient to respect rank, as a link essentially necessary in the chain of social and political life, without which mankind cannot exist with comfort or security. Rank is a prize which stimulates many a one to the achievement of deeds of heroism, which perhaps nothing but rank would have roused him to perform. At the prospect of honour thousands disregard dangers, and brave the terrors of death with a fortitude that nothing can appal or surpass; of this manly and laudable spirit of rational enterprise, which may be rendered subservient to the noblest purposes of life, nothing can deprive the possessors but a certainty and conviction that the honours they are zealously emulous to deserve and obtain, will never be conferred.

Consistent with the respect in which rank ought ever to be held for its salutary influence on the public mind, a reflecting person cannot but consider every attempt that is made to lessen or destroy such influence, either in public or private life, as derogatory to the true and essential interests and permanent felicity of every enlightened and civilized establishment. Nor is our respect for rank to be confined to characters of our own sex. The female character has equal claim to all the deference and respect to which the rank she may move in entitles her. And he, who by calumny, slander, or defamation of any description, attempts to lessen or destroy that respect which is properly due to any individual, is an enemy to the community to which he belongs. Truth is not defamation. It is the manner in which, and the intention and design with which, or for which truth is circulated, described, and impressed upon the attention of others, that attaches defamation to the publication of it. Crime may be correctly stated without being liable to the imputation of defamation. When it is so stated, it evidently carries with it nothing of that spirit which is calculated to inflame the public mind, to excite resentment, disaffection, disrespect and contempt; a practice which in the present age is not only extremely fashionable, but apparently highly gratifying to the peculiar taste of the day. These refinements of morality can never be introduced as appendages to happiness. Inflammatory publications are no criterions of the sound state of the public body. When those publications are circulated for the purpose of degrading female characters, and when we perceive them to be countenanced or even connived at by men, we are almost induced to ask if the latter can possibly be rational beings! To the weight of truth, whatever that weight may be, the generous mind adds not a single grain of suppoitionary demerit. Beautiful in itself, virtue loves

not to add to the deformity of others. For ob jects and for subjects on which to exercise a malignant disposition, he who is disposed to defame can never be at a loss. From the exercise of a disposition diabolical in its nature, and beyond all calculation dangerous in its tendency, nothing but disaffection, discord and rebellion can well be expected to take place. Detraction is the produce of a soil that is never barren; and in proportion as we weaken, either by this or any other vice, the moral and political influence and salutary operation of public respect, we open the door to public calamity. Every avenue that leads to disrespect leads to disaffection; and if pursued will terminate in batred. When the conduct of mankind is influenced by opinion instead of principle, the greatest villain is likely to obtain the greatest confidence and the greatest patronage. It is a melancholy trait in the cha racter of man that he is much less ready and zealous in defending and protecting a character that report may have loaded with suspicion, than he is to receive and admit suspicion as a proof of guilt. Nor can his pride stoop to the acknowledgment of what is good in others so readily as his meanness can descend to the belief and promulgation of what is not so. This is a defect arising less from mental debility than from mental indolence, gross corruption or conscious depravity. All nature is defective in some point; and all the operations of nature collectively taken are intended to co-operate for the purpose of sup plying such defect, providing a remedy for it, or counteracting its influence. Man is a defective being, and when his defects are multiplied or exaggerated for the purpose of generating mischief, the circumstance becomes too seriously and too conspicuously dangerous to be treated with indifference or impunity. The design of a publication constitutes the character of its author. Either he is a friend to the community before whom he makes his appearance, or he is an enemy. If he is a friend, evident traits of that friendship will be readily recognised and generally acknowledged. If he is an enemy, his cunning, || his sophistry, bis asperity, or his malevolence will form some of the characteristic features of his work.

Of the defects of men, none are more exten sively, none are more universally mischievous than those which are calculated to create a supposition of the certain existence of crime or deformity, where no such supposition existed before; or to heighten the degree and the effect of it where it unfortunately might have existed, although unattended with extensive publicity. To a mind actuated by the principles of goodness, a more painful duty cannot be performed than that of publishing the misconduct of another; and i

a mind awake to the diabolical influence of calumny on the one hand, and to the refined sensibilities arising from a possibility of existing innocence on the other; of a mind influenced by the commiserative operations of sympathy, under a presumptive probability of frail y; and of dignified respect and admiration under the possible inference of malicious and unfounded accusations. A respect due to the public ought to have had, and certainly would have had, some weight with a writer who was not more under the direction of passions not altogether com

calculated to produce regret and reformation rather than contempt and disgust.

then only becomes a duty when it is undertaken for the purpose of preventing a repetition of crime, or an extension or continuation of injury. In both these cases, painful as the duty is, it is neither more nor less than a duty arising from the nature, influence, and operation of the true principles of genuine love and good-will to all mankind. By the influence of these principles it is that I would wish to examine the performance of Diogenes; but in conformity to the influence of these principles it is that I am deprived of giving him any merit for the productions of his pen. Whether the "Royal Eclipse" is a fabrica-mendable, than under the direction of affections tion from newspapers, or whether it is an original production, cannot affect the propriery or impropriety of its publication. If it be asked what One exalted character Diogenes has unequigood can be expected to arise to the community vocally attempted to destroy in the estimation of from a publication of this description? I should the public, without any real or apparent benefit reply, none whatever. It is neither calculated arising to the community from the attempt. He to promote the interests of virtue, nor to prevent has at the same time intruded on our notice the practice of vice. It carries with it all the another exalted character, with a wantonness malignity of unqualified censure, and all the altogether irreconcileable to every known prinmalicious impudence of unblushing exposure. ciple of justice, candour, and consistency.➡➡ Where the succession to the crown is not likely Nothing betrays the influence of malignity in a to be affected, where national harmony and se- writer more forcibly than a decided propensity to curity is not likely to be disturbed, the interference eradicate the very appearance of all existence of of the public can be neither necessary, useful,|| virtue and of excellence in those against whom nor political. It can have no tendency to do the overflowing torrent of abuse is directed. He good, but it may have a very powerful one in who loves truth and sincerity for virtue's sake, producing mischief. The private domestic tran- loves candour and impartiality for truth's sake. sactions of persons in the very highest rank in He who writes for the public good, writes for life, should be held as sacred as the private domes- ages to come. He writes as he feels; and if he tic transactions of persons moving in any of the feels as a rational being ought to feel, the feelinferior stations in society. Where is the family ings that he describes will be recognised with who would willingly have all the whims and ca- || pleasure and acknowledged with gratitude. By prices to which at times, and under peculiar cir- such a one the prevalence of report will never be cumstances, it may occasionally or accidentally considered as a substitute for reality of guilt. be subject, exposed to the eye or the ear of the The value of character will never be diminished public? Where is the family who will not, for|| by the determinations of political expediency, its own peace and security, come forward to re- wherein ration 1 harmony and rational confidence press a writer that should thus insolently trespass are, and ever ought to be, peculiar objects of on a privilege that is interwoven with the very considerative attention. On either side prevalence principles of domestic liberty. The liberty of of opinion is no criterion of guilt or of innocence; the press I would by no means infringe on; but much less is a spirit of vehement condemnation the liberty of publishing malicious and unne- a proof of exemption from error of decision. cessary representations, even of real facts, that do The public accusations of an upright writer are not concern the public as a community, I would founded only on facts that are indisputable. He endeavour to crush with all the firmness of cool, trusts not to the accuracy of report; he listens deliberate and persevering disapprobation. Never not to the levity of humour; his ear is deaf 10 can the hands of the common hangman be better the voice of slander; and his heart, in a case or more usefully employed than on occasions like like the one under consideration, is open to conthese. To sacrifice the fuel of malevolence at viction only on the evidence of his senses. In the footstool of disgrace, must be highly gratify-publishing the crime of another he will not subing to all the votaries of virtue.

It certainly might reasonably have been expected that the discussion of a subject like that of the "Delicate Inquiry," if entered into at all, would, at least, have been entered into with the feelings of a delicate and sympathizing mind;

ject himself to the possibility of a mistake. Nothing less than positive conviction, and that conviction the result of the evidence of his own senses, will induce him to take from another that which he can never repay him, or return him an adequate compensation for. Character

is a jewel of intrinsic value. This value none can diminish or destroy but its owner. Its ex-} trinsic value hay be diminished and ruined by the conduct of thousands. It it is undeservedly dimired, the world at large becomes the sufferer. Oftentimes the energies of virtueperate in proportion to the public estimation of character to the benet and advantage of mankind; and if there energi » operate to the advantage of the community in proportion as characters become conspicuously estimable, much of that influence must necessarily be lost when those energies are enfolded in the strong web of public calumny, from which they can never be wholly rescued after they have been once enviously and maliciously, although unjustly, entangled. This is a

consideration of so serious and of so lamentable a nature, that I have often supposed it to be almost impossible that any person exercising the privilege of a rational being, and possessing the smallest possible degree of sympathy or fellow-feeling for another, could be so despicably depraved as to attempt to ruin, or even to call in question the respectal ility of my character, for any purpose whatever, where the proof of its deformity was not altogether clear, satisfactory and unequivocal. The murderer is far less cruel than a person of this description; and he is far less an enemy to the happiness of his own species. He s'abs, but the pang of regret excited by the effect of his barbarity in the victim of his hatred is healed for

ever.

The other also stabs, but it is with a view to establish a cause of reflection, uneasiness, discord, and disgrace forges to come. The one is soon forgotten, because its effects have, with respect to this world, only a temporary duration, and a temporary operation: the other is remembered for ever; because the attachment of vice to rank, is what too many in all ages of the world refer to with a kind of savage delight and brutal avidity, incompatible with every feelug that can possibly arise from any rational or religious principle. Nothing less than a determined and continued activity of virtue can effectually check or counteract the progress and establishment of this powerfully destructive vice. weaken the influence and the effect of every exertion and of every undertaking and design that is truly commendable, is the undeniable motive of every species of defamation. Persons peculiarly respected for their domestic, their social, and their public virtues, who have obtained something more than a common share of popular y, are always to be found among the number selected as objects of public reprobation. It is the object of calumny to gener te mischief. It was by this destructive engine that the families of the nobility of France were swept away to make room for those whose virtues were not more

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Libels

conspicuous than those of their predecessors. Rank and elevation were the objects against irit of rewhich the very first efforts of th beliion in tha country were dir c.ed. were daily issued from the press in Paris, for the express purpose of destroving public confidence and generating national disfection. The royal family were more particularly the objects agalust which the venom of inveterate and malevolent calumny was directed. The operation was gradual in its progress, but fetsly successfu' in its effect. It eradicated affection and respect; and it produced suspicion and hatred. It effected a change of opinion mimical to virtue and religion; and by this change the kindling sparks of disaffection, disloyalty, and infidelity, were blown into a flame, which devoured and consumed every thing that was before esteemed sacred and respectable. Against this flame the ties of consanguinity and friendship were equally insecure. The toleration of caluminy is the certain forerunner of inevitable destruction. Those who connive at this vice, sleep in danger; but those who encourage it, are roused from their error only by the ruin that awaits them. Of all calumny, political calumny or calumny circulated for the purpose of eff.cting some political views, or of resenting some political measures, is always the most extensively ruinous. Its prevailing object is to dispossess virtue of excellence, goodness of value, honesty of confidence, affability of popularity, dignity of respect, generosity of merit, rank of veneration, and religion of utility. It contributes to annihi late all love of goodness, all deference to greatness, and all subordination to law. It marks no distinction between talents and virtues; it preserves no medium between ability and fidelity; it maintains no precise separation between the cunsolations arising from confidence and the appre hensions resulting from suspicion. To sincerity it pays not the homage of approbation; to deceit it evinces not a disposition to be displeased. Like the whirlwind, in its progress, it involves us in dangers that no mortals can relieve us from. In every direction the effect is felt, but from no quarter can its consequences be avoided. The state is as insecure as the individual. The court as the cottage. Royalty is invested with no talis man by which its direction can be changed, its velocity impeded, or its ruinous consequences prevented. The toleration of calumny is the toleration of universal mischief. To this toleration must be attributed the insecurity of kingdoms, of nations, and of empires. Nothing can withstand that tempest which is suffered to beat down virtue by the admitted and predominant operation of this malignant and destructive vice, which in its birth wears the appearance of weakness and inconsequentiality; it begins its course

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