The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 4

The conqu'ror crown'd his conquest with repose, And own'd the laws affection dar'd impose.

With war and with Octavia shar'd his life, Augustus rivalled and ador'd his wife.

What did I say--That Rome which saw thee yield, Was not to shew me a sufficient field, Thou would'st, thy soul's supreme content to prove, Teach all mankind thy happiness and love; T'admire Octavia ev'ry eye must join, And render her more fair and dear to thine.

O days of splendour pa.s.s'd on Athen's plains, Where all things seem'd but to cement our chains, That race by Mars and Pallas jointly crown'd, Who arts diffuse to all the world around.

Witness'd my happiness so pure serene, And press'd each day to ornament the scene.

Mild in my arms repos'd the warrior's art, Thy face expressive of thy tranquil heart; No more proclaim'd a victor's pride you knew, And peaceful virtue gain'd your valour's due; That Athens, Rome, with envy view'd before, A Roman countenance embellish'd more.

(_To be concluded in our next._)

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

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 pa.s.sing 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. MITCh.e.l.l, Bookseller, No. 9, Maiden-Lane._

_UTILE DULCI._

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

+Vol. II.+] +Wednesday, July 13, 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 l.u.s.tre of which is scarce to be imagined. It is a s.p.a.cious 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 s.p.a.ce 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 ma.s.ses 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 s.p.a.cious plain stand the huts of the miners and families, some standing single, and others in cl.u.s.ters 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 ma.s.ses 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 princ.i.p.ally 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 pa.s.ses 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.

[[Sources:

Earlier publication: "The New magazine of knowledge concerning Heaven and h.e.l.l, 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 Pa.s.sIONS, 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 G.o.d! 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 n.o.ble, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sion------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.