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About Rural cabinet. (Warrenton, Ga.) 1828-18?? | View Entire Issue (Sept. 20, 1828)
VOL. I. TIJH ; C ABLY a V fe published every Saturday , 6y P. L ROBINSON fVarrenton , Crfo. a# t/iree dollars per annum , w/iic/t twiy ftg discharged by two dollars and fifty , cents if paid within sixty days of the : fimf of subscribing. Miscellaneous. THE MAGICIANS VISIT. BY HENRY NEELE, E*q. It was at the close ol a fine autumnal day, anti the shades of evening wee be ginning to gather over the eity of Klor eace, when a low quick rap was heaid at the door o. Cornelius Agrippa, and shortly afterwards a stranger was intro tluct and into the apaitiuent into which the philosopher was sitting at his studies. The stranger, although finely formed, and of courteous demeanor, had a certain indefinable air of mystery about him. which excited awe, it indeed it had not a repellent effect. His years it was diffi cutt to guess, Hr me marks of youth and age were blended in his featuies in a most extraordinary manner. There was n t a furrow on lus cheek, or a wriukle on his brow, and his laige black eye beam ed with all the brilliancy and vivacity of youths but his stately figure was bent, ap parent ly beneath the weight ot years; his hair, although thick and clustering, was grey; and his voice was feeble and trem ulous, yet its tones were o\the most rav* ishmg and soul searching melody. His costume was that ot a Florentine gentle man; but he held a staff like that of a pal mer >n his hand, and a silken sas'r, inscrib ed with oriental characters, was bound a round his waist. His face was deadlv pale, hut every feature of it vas singular iy beautiful, and its expressed was that of profound wisdom, mingled A’ith poignant sorrow. ‘Paidon me, learned d* said he, ad dressing the philosopher, but your fame has travelled into all lans, and reached &H ears, and I could not save the fair city of Florence without seeing an interview with one who is its greyest boast and or nament.’ ‘You are right welcme, sir,’ returned Agrippa;‘but I fear th; your trouble and curiosity will be but i I repaid. lam sim ply one, who instead * devoting my days, as do the wise, tothe acquirement of wealth and honour,have passed long years in painful an s unprofitable study, in endeavouring to riravel the secrets of H;ture, and imitiUg myself in the mys teries of the occurrences.’ ‘Talkest thou i long years!’ echoed the stranger, at/ a melancholy smile played over hdfeatur-s: —‘thou, who hist scare ly leen fourscore since thou left’s thy efulie, and for whom the quiet grave is no* waiting, eager to clasp thee in her sheering arm-! i was a inoog the tomb-do dav; the still and sol emn tombs: l >fv them smiling in the la-t beams of ie setting sun. When 1 was a bjv, I udd to wish to be iike the tu-i; his career ms -o long, so blight, so glorious. But /> night 1 thought it is bet ter tos!u mong those tombs than to be like him ’ j'o night he sank beneath the hills apm-ently to repose, but to* morrow he mht renew Iris couise, and run tie same /all and unvaried but, toil some and uquiet face. There is no g ave for hi*. and night and morning dews are thefears that he sheds over his tyrannous d/stiny.* Agrippa va? *d deep observer and ad mirer of external nature and of, all her phenomena and had often gazed upon the scene whi/h the strangei had described, but (he feelings and itleas which it awak ened in he mind of the latter were so diff. ren? from any thiug which he had h'mself experienced that he could not h< ip, for a sea-urn, gazing upon him in sp< * chless wonder. His guest, however Speedily resumed the discourse. ‘But I trouble you, 1 trouble you; to tny purpose in making you this visit. 1 have heard strai ge tales of a wonderou* mirror, which your potent art has enab ! ed you to construct, in which w hosoever looks way see the distant or the dead, on whom he is des rO4 .g.i.u i fix g.*z.. u ey< 8 see nothing in this outward visibl* world winch can be pleasing to their sight. Tin* grave has closed over ail I loved.—Time has cat rid down its stream every thing thit once contributed to my enjoyment. I lie world is a vaU- of tears, but among all die teirs who’h wa ter that s;,d valley, not one is shed for me—the fountain in my own heart, to . i* diied up I would n‘e again look up on toe face which 1 loved. 1 would s* that eye more bright and that step more -ti'ely than the antelope’--, that br*w, the broad smooth page on which Hod had in scribed his fairest characters. I would gaze on all I loved a? and all Host. Such a gaze would be dearer to my hea t than all the world has to offer me—-except the grave, except the grav^.’ The passionate pleading of the stranger had such an effect upon Agrippa (who was not used to exhibit his tniricle of art to the eves of all wliodesired to look in it, although he was often tempted by exoibi tant presents and high honors io do so,; that he readily consented to grant the re quest of his extraordinary visiter. ‘Whom wouldst thou see? 1 he inquired. ‘My child, my own sweet Miriam,’ an swered the stranger. Cornelius immediately caused every ray of the light of heaven to be excluded from the chamber, placed the stranger on his right hand; and commenced chanting, in a low soft tone, and in a strange lan guage, some lyrical verses. to whiihthe stranger thought he heard occasionally a response, but it was a sound so faint and indistinct that ho hardly knew whether it existed anywherebut, in his own fancy. As Cornelius continued his chant, the room gradually became illuminated, but whence the light proceeded it was impos sible to discover. At length the stran ger plainly perceived a bug* mirror which covered the whole of the extreme end of the apartment and over the surface of which a dence haze or clcud seemed to be rapidly passing. ‘Died she in wedlock’s holy band ?’ in quired Cornelius. ‘She was a virgin spotless as the snow.’ ‘How many years have passed away since the grave closed over her?’ A cloud gathered ori the strunger‘s brow, and he answered somewhat impa tiently,‘Many, many; more than 1 now have time to number.’ ‘Nay,’said Agrippa, ‘but I mu 4 know. For every ten years that have elapsed since her death once must I wave this wand; and when I have waved it for the last time, you will 9ee her figure in your mir ror.’ ‘Wave on, then,’ said the stranger,and groaned bitterly; ‘wave on, and take heed that thou be not weary.’ Cornelius Agrippa gazed on his strange guest with something of anger, but lie excused his want of courtesy on the, ground of the probable extent of his ca-| lamities.—He then waved his magic wand many times, but, to his consternation, it seemed to have lost its virtue. Turn-, ing again to the stranger he exclaimed: ‘Who, and what act thou, man? Thy 1 presence troubles me. Aciording to all the rules of my art, this wand has already described twice two hundred years; still has tHe .-Ullage of the mirror experi enced no alteration. Say dost thou mock me, and did no such person • ver exist as thou hast described to me?’ ‘Wave on, wave on,’ the stern and only reply which this interrogatory extract ed from the stranger. The curiosity of Agrippa, although he was himself a dealer in wonders, began now to be excited, and a mysterious f cl ing of awe forbade Inin deai-t from wav ing bis wand, rntKh as ne doubted the sincerity of his v i-iter. As his arm grew slai k, he heard fh* deep solemn tones of the stranger exclaiming. ‘Wave on, wave o J d’ and at length, after his wand, accord ing to the calculations of his art, had des cnbed a period of above twelve hundred I years, the ch ud cleared away from the ! surface of the mirror, and the -tranger, with an exclamation offlelight, arose, and 1 gazed rapturou-ly npon the scene which j was theie represented. H orre'ti > I, ornber 20, 1828. An exqu i-iieiy neti and romantic pros- 1 pert was before him. In the distance rose lofty mountains ciowded with coders. a rapid stream* ruled in the middle, and in the fore ground were seen camel? graz ing; a rill trickling by. in which some sheep were quenching their thirst, and r lofty pal mt i ee, beneath whose shad< a voung female of exquisite beaty, and richly habited in the costume of the Ea* was sheltering herself from the rays of th noontide sun. *’l'i* she!’tisshe!*shouted the strangei: and he was rushing towards the mirror but v,ii prt'V'Df’ and by ( oi nehu- who, said Forbear, rash man, to qnt this spin 1 with ear| *tepthat thou advancest toward the mirror, ttie image will become fainlei. and should*! thou uproarh too near, i< will vanishaivay entirely I bus Wo mil he resumed his station lu> In* g/t.it on w is so excessive, that h was oblfgffd to lean on t’ e arm of the philos epiierfir u;ti, t wlme from time to tune he uttered moh rent expressions of won der, delight aid I mentation. *’ I'is slu ! ‘tis she] even as she Loked while living! How beautiful she i ! Miriam, my child, canst tbbu not speak to m ? By heav en, she moves! she emil ?! Oh speak to me i single word! or only breathe, or sigh! A ! las! all‘9 §ilent; dull and desolate as this J heart! Again that smib !—-that smile, | the remembrance of which a thou sand wmteis have not been able to freeze up in my heart! Old man it is u vain to hold mi ! 1 must will clasp h< r!’ As he uttered the last words, he rushed franticly towards the mirror; the scene represented within it faded away; the cloud gathered again over its surface; and the stranger sunk senseless on the earth. When he received his consciousness,[ he found himself in the arms of Agrippa, j who was chafing his temple and gazing on ! him with looks of wonder and leat. He ! immediately rose on his feet with restored strength, and pressing the hand of his host, i he said, ‘Thanks, for thy courtesy and thy kindness, and for the sweet but pain ful sight which thou hast presented to my eyes. Ashe spake these words, he pu a purse into the hand of Cornelius, hut the i latter returned it saying, ‘Nay, nay, keep thy gold, friend. 1 know not in deed, that a Christian man dare take it; but be that ns it may, 1 shall e?ti em my* self sufficiently repaid it thou will tell me who thou art.’ ‘Behold!’said the stranger, pointing to a large historical picture which hung on the left hand of the room. •I see,’ said the philosopher, ‘an ex quisite work of art, the production of one of our best and earliest artists, respecting our Savioyr carrying his cross.’ j ‘But look again!’said the stranger, fix ing his keen eyes intently on hm, and, pointing to a figure on the left hand of the picture. Cornelius gazed, and saw with wonder what he had not observed before; the ex- 1 Iraordiriary resemblance which this fieure | bore to the stronger of whom, indeed, it might be said to be a portrait. ‘That said Corn- lius, with an emotion of horror ‘is intend'd to represent the un happy infidel who smote the divine Suf ferer for foit walk'tig fi-tcr, and was therefore condemned to walk the earth hirnself, until the period of that Sufferer’s second coming.’ ‘Tis I! ’tig ll’ exciaimed the stranger; and rushing out of the house, rapidly disappeared. j ‘Then did Cornelius Agrippa know that he h? and been conversing with ‘1 he Wan- j dering Jew. —Forget Me JYot. I)r. Franklin’s letter to Thomas Paine W hen Paine was writing his attacks on the Christian Heligion, he submitted a part of his manuscript to Dr. Frarklin, for his inspection and opinion. The fol lowing is the answer of that philosopher: Dear Sir: —l have read your manu script with some attention. By the ar gument it contains again?t a particular Providence , though you allow a general Pyoyidence, you strike at the foundation of all religion. ‘ For without the belief of a Providence, that takes cognizance of, i 1 guards and guides, and t'avor3 paitiiutar persons, there is no motive to worship a Deity, to fear its displeasure, or to pray for its protection. 1 will not enter into any discussion cf your principles, though you seem to desire it- At present I shall only give you my opinion, that though jour reasonings are subtle , and may prevail with some readeis, you will not succeed so as to change the gene al sentiments of mankind on thaHubject: nd the consequence of printing this piece will b', a gri at deal of odium draw n up on yourself, mischief to you, and no be* e tb to others He that spilt agdnst ti e wind *pits in hj own face. But were you to succeed, do you imagine any eod vill be done by it? Vuu yourself may fii and n easy to live a virtuous life, without the jssistunce afford and by religion; you hive a • lea* perception of the advantages of vir ue, and the disadvantages of vice, md possess a strength of resolution siiffii iei t •o ressist common temptations.—But think now groat a portion of mankind consists f weak and ignorant men and women, md of inexperienced inconsiderate youth, of both sexes, who have need of the mo tives of religion to restrain them from i ire, to support their virtue, and retain ♦hi m in (tie practice of it, till it becomes habitual, which is the great point ol its ee cu- ity. And perhaps you are indebted to her originally ; this H, to your religious edu cation for the habits of virtue upon which yiHi now value yourself. Yon might easi ly display your excellent talent* of reason ing upon a less hazardous subject, and thereby obtain a rank with our nioxt dis tinguished authors. For among us it is not necessary, as among the Hotten tots, that a youth, to b rais'd in ‘he company of men, should prove hi? man hood beating his mother. I would ad vine you, therefore, not to attempt un chaining the Tiger, but to burn this piece before it \s seen by any other person, whereby you will save yourself a gieat deal of mortifictttion from the enemies it may raise against you, and perhaps a great deal of regiet and repentance. If men are so wicked with religion, what would they be without it? I intend this letter it self as a prool of rny frindship, and there fore add no profession to it; hut simply subscribe. Yours, B FRANKLIN. The Death of the Insidel —When an intelligent and thinking man, who has been accustomed to look into him?elf and to observe his own imperfections and sins, and whose thoughts have expatiated on eternity, can view the approach of death nut only without terror or any misgivings of mind, hut with tiarquil resignation, and cheering and triumphant hope; when he ran depart from thiv life with the fall assurance of living ;igain. and living in a better world; his composure and j y un der the?e circumstances, with a correct view of bis own character, and with a full beleifof the retribution of eternity , b’ ir g ;he highest honor upon the religious sys tem upon which the are founded. in the controversy between ihe ene mies and the friends of the Gospel, the latter can point to many expiring mor tals, and with unan*werable argument say, ‘See how a Christian can die.’ But where are the models of composure and triupmh among those who are not Chris tians? What are the names of the Hebe- ‘who, at ihe hour of death have exh ituti and any enviable elevation of soul? In the faded eye of what dying Infidel ‘has the light of eternity kindled a splen dor, which has brightened and brightened, till the curtain of death has spread over it. It appears that Mr. Paine, like Mr. Gibbon, was unwilling to be left alone, as he drew near to the confines of another , world. Although in conversation he pro-, fessed to be perfectly willing to die, yet if h>s curtains were at any time closed he would literallv scream , till they were opened, and till he could perceive some fellow oiao was nigh him. Was this courageous in a dying Did it appal a bold Infidel to have living beiDgs withdrawn for a moment from hit eye, and to be, a* it were in the sole prw No. 17.
