CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 10 (continued 4)

I enjoyed my rambles about the island very much at first, but soon began to learn the old lesson of the thorn under the rose, the bitter mingled with the sweet, the drop of poison in the cooling cup, &c. Throughout New Grenada, there are thousands of snakes, the bite of almost all of which is fatal. That of the black snake, the species so common and so innocent in the United States, is as poisonous here as the rattlesnake is there. So I soon began to confine myself to the coast, and gave up rambling. I remember one occasion, upon which I got a deuse of a fright. I had been bathing, and had left the water but about five minutes, when a gentleman, who was undressing to go into the same bath, perceived and pointed out to me a small snake swimming about in it, very much at his ease. We took the reptile out and killed it on the margin of the basin. It was a small red snake, marked with black rings, and its bite is instant death. It is a common opinion that island snakes are harmless. It may be so—but I had rather take the theory for granted without a practical illustration of it in my own person.

We returned to Panama in time to witness the bull fights, which last three or four days, in August, the anniversary of the revolution which resulted in the independence of New Grenada. I must sharpen my pencil, and nib my pen afresh to tell you of my amusement during those three or four days.

* * * * *

SACRED SONG.

“Where are now the blooming bowers.”

THE TWO SISTERS.

BY MADAME JULIE DELAFAYE-BRÉHIER. [Translated from the French.]

In a parlor furnished with much taste, and from the half-opened windows of which were seen the winding walks, and “alleys green,” of a park, filled with magnificent and shady trees, two young ladies were employing themselves in those delicate works, which have become the portion of our sex, and which, whilst they appear to occupy the fingers only, serve also to divert the mind in a pleasant manner, and even to give a greater facility to the current of thought. One of the females, either by chance or design, had placed herself opposite a mirror, where she could not lift her eyes from her work, without seeing herself reflected therein, adorned in all the brightness of a beauty of seventeen years, who might have served as a model to the sculptor, as a study to the painter. A rich profusion of black hair, in the tasteful adjustment of which, Art had so nicely seconded the gift of Nature, that it was scarcely possible to say to which its elegance was owing, set off the snowy whiteness of the neck and face; and I would add, (if I may once more be permitted to avail myself of the superannuated comparison,) that the freshest rose could alone compare its beauty with the carnation of her cheek and lip; to these charms were added, a form of the most graceful proportions; and, all that the youthful may borrow, with discernment, from the art of the toilette, had been employed to increase, still farther, beauty already so attractive.

Half concealed beneath the draperies of the window, near which she had placed herself to obtain a more favorable light, the other female pursued her occupation with undistracted attention; a certain gravity appeared in her dress, in her countenance, and in her physiognomy altogether. Her eyes were beautiful, but calmness was their chief expression; her smile was obliging, but momentary; the brilliant hues of youth, now evidently fading on her cheeks, less rounded than once they were, appeared but as the lightest shadings of a picture; sometimes, indeed, deepened by sudden and as transient emotion, like the colors which meteors throw on the clouds of the heavens in the evening storms of summer. The gauzes, the rubies, the jewels, with which the young adorn themselves, were not by her employed merely as ornaments; she availed herself of them, to conceal with taste, the outrages of years; for the weight of more than thirty years was already upon her; and the ingenious head dress with which she had surmounted her hair, served to hide, at the same time, some silvery tell-tales, which had dared thus prematurely, to mingle with her long tresses of blond.

“There's broken again! look at that detestable silk!” said the younger female, throwing her work on to a sofa; “I will not do another stitch to day.”

She rose, and approaching the mirror before her, amused herself by putting up afresh the curls of her hair.

“You want patience, Leopoldine,” answered her sister, looking on her affectionately, “and without that will accomplish nothing. You will require patience as well to conduct you through the world, as to enable you to finish a purse.”

“I know the rest, my sister,” replied the younger, smiling. “Do you forget that a certain person has charged himself with the duty of teaching me the lesson? Ten purses, like that which I am embroidering, would not put me out of patience so much as this silence of M. de Berville. Can you conceive what detains him thus?” added she, seating herself near her sister, “for, in fact, he loves me, that is certain, and nothing remains but for him to avow the fact to my aunt Dorothée.”

“This looks very like presumption,” my dear Leopoldine, pursued the elder sister, “and that is not good; what can it signify to you what he thinks! I hope your happiness does not depend on him.”

“My happiness? oh! doubtless not, but, in a word, Stephanie, he is a suitable person, and if he will explain himself——”

“It will then be time to think of him; until then, my sister, I beg of you to see in M. de Berville but an estimable friend of our family, an amiable man whose society we honor. A young person should never hasten to give up her heart—above all, to one who has not asked it.”

“Be easy on that subject, sister; I mean to keep a good watch over mine; the venture of your heroine of romance will never tempt me; but this is the fact, sister, I do not wish to remain an old maid.”

At these words, which Leopoldine spoke inconsiderately, the countenance of Stephanie was flushed with a sudden crimson, and for a moment shone with as beautiful a brightness as that of her young sister.

“There is a condition worse than that,” answered the former, with lively emotion; “it is, to have formed an ill-assorted union.”

“Indeed, my sister, I did not dream I should give you offence,” replied the young female, much embarrassed, “but the world is so strange! you know this yourself. Thus I cannot conceive how it is that you have remained single.”

“If no one has wished to espouse me,” added Stephanie, smiling.

“What! In reality? Can such a thing be possible?”

“Assuredly, although I believe it is a case which rarely happens, and I grant did not happen to me, for I found many opportunities of entering the married state, but not one which was suitable.”

“You were, perhaps, difficult to please?”

“I think not. Whilst yet young, about your age, my hand was sought by one who lacked nothing but a fortune, or at least, an estate, capable of supporting him in respectable society. Our parents, at that time, deprived of the rich heritage which they have recovered since your birth, refused him my hand, for a motive, which I have since, though by slow degrees, learnt to appreciate, but which then rent my heart. My thwarted inclination left me with an indifference as to marriage; it was the way in which my youth resented its injury. I would have none but a husband after my own heart; not finding such a one, I resigned myself to be no more than an old maid, finding it more easy to bear the unjust scorn and ridicule of frivolous people, than to drag on to my tomb under a yoke, troublesome and oppressively heavy.”

“Do you not sometimes feel regret?”

“No, Leopoldine; that condition, which appears to you so frightful, has its happinesses, as well as the other states of life. I have shaped my resolution with a regard to the wounds of self-love, which I have had to endure; I have called into my aid the arts and letters, which it is so difficult for married females to cultivate with constancy, without prejudice to their domestic duties; and lastly, when by the death of our dear parents, I found myself in charge of your childhood, in concert with our worthy aunt, my liberty became doubly dear to me. Had I been a wife and mother, I should not have been able to devote myself to you as I have done. Have I not had reason, then, to remain unmarried?”

“Well, if I should tell the truth, Stephanie, after all you have said, I should better like to be ill matched, than not matched at all.”

“This perverseness gives me pain, my child,” replied the elder sister, “but I will believe that it is for want of reflecting on the matter that you talk thus.”

An aged lady, the aunt of the two sisters, came in at this moment, holding in her hand a closed parasol, which she used as a support. She seated herself in an arm chair, resting her feet on a footstool, which Leopoldine placed for her. After regarding for a while both her nieces, with a look of complacency, she thus addressed them.

“They tell me that M. de Berville is at the entrance of the avenue. For which of your sakes is it he honors us with so frequent visits? For my own part, I am quite at a loss to say. The more I observe him, the less I can divine his intentions.”

“You would be jocular with us, aunt,” answered Stephanie, “there can be no doubt as to his choice; it is as if any one could hesitate between a mother and her daughter.”

“But he has not explained his views,” rejoined the aunt, “and it is very fine for you to make out you are old, my niece; I find you still very young, compared with me.”

“You forget too, aunt,” added Leopoldine, in a lively tone, “that M. de Berville is, to the full, as old as my sister. If merit alone was sufficient, I should have reason to fear in her a dangerous rival; but my amiable sister is without pretensions; she knows that youth is an all-powerful advantage, although in reality a very frivolous one, perhaps——”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the aunt, “take heed, my child; reckon not too much upon that youth, nor even on the beauty which accompanies it; I have seen strange things in my time; and a man capable of holding himself neutral so long, is not one of those who may be subjugated with a ruby, or caught by a well-disposed bouquet of flowers.”

A smile of incredulity passed upon the lips of Leopoldine, who was about to make an answer in accordance with that smile, when M. de Berville was announced. Although of an age somewhat too mature for a very young man, his dignified and elegant manners, his fine figure, his distinguished intellect, his reputation as a man of honor, together with his fortune, made him “a match” which no young lady could deem unworthy; and I have made the reader already acquainted with the favorable sentiments entertained towards him by the beautiful Leopoldine. Stephanie entertained full as high an opinion of his merits as her younger sister; it may be even, that being best able to appreciate the estimable character of M. de Berville, she rendered to it the most justice; but she received him simply as a mother who believes she has met the future protector of her daughter, and endeavored, by innocent means, to bring to a successful issue the plan of happiness which she had secretly conceived. The aunt, piquing herself on her skill in finesse, sat observant of the actors in that scene, hoping to penetrate from their behavior, into their most secret thoughts. As to Leopoldine, the veil of modesty, beneath which she sought to conceal her real feeling, was not sufficient entirely to conceal the joy of the coquette, rejoicing in the triumph of her charms. Yet that joy and that triumph received some checks; for she did not appear, even during that visit, to occupy exclusively the attention of M. de Berville, as though she alone was the object he came to visit. The conversation took a serious and instructive turn—one little suited to the taste of the young and frivolous. They discoursed of the sciences, the arts, and of literature: I have said that Stephanie had made these things a source of comfort and recreation—that she had occupied her mind in such pursuits, not for the purpose of display, but as a charm to her leisure hours; such a companion as M. de Berville was well adapted to value rightly the mind and the knowledge of Stephanie. She suffered herself to be drawn into the current of the various topics of conversation with a pleasure very natural; and Madame Dorothée plainly perceived that de Berville was even more pleased than her amiable niece.

Proud of her youth and beauty, Leopoldine had disdained instruction—neglecting, for childish gaiety, the lessons of her masters and the recommendations of her sister; music and dancing were the only arts that she would consent to cultivate; those, because they might serve to make her shine in the world. Incapable of taking part in the interesting conversation which was going on before her, ennui began to show its effects on her charming figure—moodiness took possession of her spirits, and fits of yawning, ill suppressed, threatened each moment to betray her. M. de Berville, altogether occupied in the pleasure he was enjoying, perceived it not, but Stephanie, guessing the misery of her sister, contrived adroitly to introduce the subject of music; and, thereupon, begged of her sister to sit down to the piano. She knew that her sister's voice was considered remarkably fine by M. de Berville, and hoped by this means to recall his attention to her, but the old aunt thought she could perceive that M. de Berville found need to task all his politeness to hide the disagreement he felt to the proposition; and Stephanie herself discerned much of coldness in the compliments which he addressed to the pretty songstress.

Botany is a science peculiarly suitable to females who reside in the country; it is a source of ingenious discoveries, and of pleasures equally elevated and delightful. Under the shade of trees, or the fresh greensward, on the banks of the river and the brook, and on the sides of the rock, are its charming lessons inscribed. M. de Berville loved the science, and offered to teach it to the two sisters; they accepted the offer, the elder from taste, the young Leopoldine from coquetry, seeing no more in it than an opportunity of displaying her lightness and her gracefulness, in running here and there over the grass, to gather the flowers. She insisted upon one condition, however, which was, that they should only go out in the mornings and evenings, so as not to expose their complexions to the heat of the sun. Stephanie approved of these precautions. The care taken by a female to preserve her personal advantages has in it nothing blameable, and Stephanie was the first in setting the example of this to her sister; but on more than one occasion, the desire to possess herself of some flower, rare or curious, carried her above the fear of darkening her skin a little; whilst Leopoldine, the miserable slave of her own beauty, could not enjoy any of the pleasure freely and without fear. One circumstance—and it is of a grave character—will show to what an extent she was capable of sacrificing every thing to her frivolous vanity.

A burning state of the atmosphere was scorching up all nature; the sun at its highest point of splendor, presented the image of that celestial glory, before which the angels themselves bow down and worship; the withered plants bent beneath the solar ray; the birds were silent in the depth of the wood; the locust alone, interrupted by his shrill cry, the silence of creation. Bathed in sweat, the reaper slept extended on the sheaf, whilst the traveller, in a like repose by the side of some shaded fountain, awaited the hour when the sun, drawing nearer to the horizon, should permit him to continue his journey.

In an apartment, from which the light and heat were half excluded, surrounding a table covered with plants, Stephanie and Leopoldine were listening to M. de Berville, whilst he explained to them the ingenious system of Linnæus, or the more easy system, the “great families” of Tournefort, when a letter was brought in for Madame Dorothée, who was engaged in reading.

“Sad news! sad news!” she exclaimed, addressing her nieces. “Our excellent neighbor, Madame Rével, has met with a horrible accident; it is feared that her leg is broken.”

“Good heavens! can such an accident have happened?” cried Leopoldine. “And yesterday she was so well! We will go to see her to-morrow morning. Shall we not, Stephanie?”

“To-day rather, Leopoldine, to-day. Let us not defer for an instant the consolation which it may depend on us to impart to her.”

“Well, then, this evening, after the sun has set.”

“No, no, let us set out immediately, and we will pass, beside her, the rest of the day; M. de Berville will, I know, excuse us.”

“Impossible!” answered Leopoldine, “go out, so hot as it is! it would be wilfully to seek a coup de soleil, which would make us perfect blacks for the rest of the summer.”

“We can shield ourselves with a veil—with our parasols——”

“I should not feel myself safe in a sack; and for nothing in this world would I leave this house till the day is over.”

“You forget, Leopoldine, with what courage Madame Rével came from her house alone, on foot, in the middle of a December night, in spite of the frost and the snow, to attend you when you had the measles, because they told her you had expressed a wish to see her instantly.”

“Well, sister, I would sooner confront a cold north wind than the sun.”

“The heat can no more be stopped than the cold, Leopoldine.”

“Nothing is so frightful as a black skin.”

“Sister, though I knew I should become as black as an African, I would not leave our friend without consolation at such a time; I will go with our servant girl; believe me, you will hereafter be sorry you did not follow my example.”

“Permit me to accompany you, Miss,” said M. de Berville, taking his hat.

“Really,” answered Stephanie, “I do not know that I ought to consent to it; an hour's walk beneath a burning sun——”

“I fear not the sun any more than yourself,” interrupted de Berville, “and perhaps the support of my arm may not be altogether unserviceable to you.”

Leopoldine permitted them to depart, in spite of the reproaches with which her conscience now addressed her. She remained at home, sad and humiliated, arguing within herself, that M. de Berville ought to have joined her in endeavoring to prevent Stephanie from going, whom, for the first time, she secretly accused of wishing to appear virtuous at her expense. Madame Dorothée very shortly added to her discontent, by reflections which her niece was far from wishing to hear.

“Don't reckon, Leopoldine, upon having made any impression on M. de Berville,” said she; “decidedly, the more I observe him, the more I am assured he does not dream of marrying you.”

“With all the respect which I owe to your sagacity, aunt,” responded Leopoldine, in a peevish tone, “permit me to be of a different opinion: it is impossible but that the assiduities of M. de Berville must have some object, and as to that object there cannot be any doubt. If he delays to make it known, it is because he wishes to study me, as my sister says. I do not think I have any cause for alarm on the subject.”

“Suppose it should be of your sister he thinks——”

“She would be nearly the last he would think of,” exclaimed the young maiden, breaking out into a fit of immoderate laughter. “What! a young damsel of thirty-two, who has gray hairs, wrinkles, (for she has wrinkles round the eyes—I have seen them plain enough;) a young lady in fact, whom people take to be my mother! what an idea! But I see what has suggested it; it is that promenade at noonday—a mere act of politeness, at which M. de Berville was, I doubt not, enraged at heart.”

“Not so; that circumstance has only weight from that which preceded it. I grant, my dear niece, that there is between you and your sister a difference of fifteen years; and that certainly is a great difference; you dazzle at first sight; but only whilst they regard her not. M. de Berville was in the beginning charmed by your graces; but if I am not deceived, it is not those which retain him here. You have been to him as the flambeau which conducts into the well illuminated hall, which instantly makes pale, by outshining, the light of the flambeau. Pardon me for the comparison.”

“That is to say, it is by me he has been drawn to my sister, and now she has eclipsed me.”

“She cannot eclipse you in beauty, nor youthfulness; but her mind, her knowledge, the qualities of her heart, appear perhaps advantages sufficiently precious to cause to be forgotten those which she lacks; and I shall not be astonished to hear that M. de Berville had taken a liking to, and had actually espoused her, in spite of her thirty-two years.”

“If he is fool enough to prefer my sister to me, I——Away with such an absurd thought; it is impossible,” added Leopoldine, casting at the same time, a glance towards a mirror.

In spite, however, of the very flattering opinion which she entertained of herself, a jealous inquietude had crept into her heart, and she examined more attentively her sister and M. de Berville when they returned together. The accident which had befallen Madame Rével was found to be less serious than it was at first thought to be; the limb was not broken; but through the satisfaction which she felt on this account, Stephanie exhibited in her countenance an expression of uneasiness which was not usual with her. The two sisters were at length alone together, when Leopoldine questioned Stephanie as to the cause of her apparent agitation.

“I feel, I confess, a surprise, mixed with chagrin,” she replied. “M. de Berville, whom I so sincerely desired to see you accept as a husband—who appeared to come here only on your account——”

“Well, sister!”

“He has offered me his hand.”

“I don't see any thing that there is so very sad in all this,” responded Leopoldine, dissimulating, (for she was choaking with rage) “if M. de Berville likes old maids, it is not me, certainly, that he should choose.”

“This it is, which is to me a matter of sadness,” continued Stephanie, “that rivalry, which was as little wished for as foreseen, will, I fear, alienate your affection from your sister, since you can already address me in words of such bitterness.” And the tears suddenly inundated her face.

At sight of this, Leopoldine, more frivolous than insensible, convinced of her injustice, threw herself into the arms of Stephanie.

“Pardon me, my kind sister, I see well that it is not your fault, but you must also agree that this event is humiliating to me; for, in truth, I was the first object of his vows: that man is inconstant and deceitful.”

“No, Leopoldine, that is unreasonable. Attracted by the advantages which you have received from Nature, he had hoped to have found in you, those also which you would have acquired, if my counsels could have had power to persuade you. Your want of information, your coquetry, the ridiculous importance you attach to your beauty, have convinced him that you could not be happy together. What do I say? You never can be happy with any one, unless you come to the resolution to count as nothing those charms so little durable, which sickness may destroy at once, and which time, in its default, is causing every instant to disappear. To adorn her mind, mature her reason, form her heart, are all things which the young female should not neglect to do, whether homely or handsome. That beauty, on which you have reckoned with so much confidence—to which you have sacrificed the sacred duties of friendship—in what way has it benefitted you? One who is neither young nor beautiful has carried away your conquest, although she, perhaps precisely, because she dreamed not of doing it. Profit by this lesson, so as, during the beautiful years which remain to you, to instruct and correct yourself. Another Berville will, I hope, present himself, who, won like the first, by your external graces, shall recognize, on viewing you more nearly, those good qualities, more surpassingly beautiful.”

Leopoldine opened her soul to her sister's persuasions; she followed her counsels with docility, and soon reaped the benefits. Stephanie became Madame de Berville, and continued to act as a mother to her sister till she too was married. The sufferings and the fatigues of maternity were not slow, when they came, in effacing the remarkable beauty of Leopoldine; but there remained to her so many precious qualities, so much of solid virtue—of the graces of the mind, that the loss of personal charms were scarcely perceived, and the young wife was neither less cherished by her family, nor less courted by the world, than if her beauty had been an abiding charm.

THE BARD'S FAREWELL.

BY JOHN C. MCCABE.

Richmond, Va. 1836.

MY BOOKS.

On the south side of my house, and communicating with my chamber, is a little room about twelve feet square. The two windows in its southern wall open a pleasant prospect to the eye. Immediately below lies my little garden; beyond are the grounds of my richer neighbors, presenting an agreeable medley of woods and meadows; about half a mile farther, a small river meanders through a fertile valley, beyond which a beautiful stretch of rich and thickly settled country is bounded at the distance of three or four miles by a range of low hills. This little apartment, which is one of the most cheerful in the house, is my favorite resort. Here are my books, and it passes by the various names of the Library, the Study, and the Book Room. The greater part of three sides of the room is hidden by the shelves containing my literary treasures; and perhaps I rather underrate their number when I say that I own two thousand volumes. This is a great number for a man of my limited means to possess, but upwards of forty years have been spent in their collection. About fifty or sixty of the most valuable I am indebted for to several departed friends, who have thus remembered me. These which I have placed upon three shelves in a corner, are amongst those I prize most highly. Many of them I have picked up at auctions at sundry times, for sometimes not a tenth of their value, and the stalls which are to be found in the streets of some of our principal cities have supplied not a few. They are of all sizes, shapes, and ages, and a regiment of Fantasticals has more pretensions to the title of an uniformed body than they have. I have not attempted classifying them according to their subject matter, thinking their numbers too few to need it. They are rather grouped, as indeed the shelves require, according to their sizes. There are, however, few of them upon which I could not lay my hands as readily as if assisted by a formal arrangement. Sundry gaps here and there, which have existed for many long months, and some of them for years, show that my acquaintances (I will not call them my friends,) have been equally expert in laying their hands upon them. Who has the first volume of my Knox's Essays? Why does he not call for the second? I can assure him that I at least do not think, to borrow the auctioneer's phrase, that “each volume is complete in itself.”

Whilst I am proud of calling myself master of many rare and curious tomes, on the other hand, I must confess, that many works of what are entitled the British Classic Authors are not to be found upon my shelves. I do not possess a single volume of Sterne's works, looking upon him as a disgrace to his cloth, and a hypocritical whiner concerning a sensibility which his life testified that he was far from really feeling; nor do I think that there is enough Attic salt in his writings to preserve his grossnesses from being offensive. For the same reason I have not a complete copy of Swift. Of those selections from the works of popular authors commonly styled their “Beauties,” I have not, I think, half a dozen volumes; and I have very few of the works of the minor poets, being somewhat of Horace's opinion concerning middling poets. But such as it is, my little stock of books is dear to me, and I purpose in the present paper to say something of a few of the volumes.

That quarto standing in the corner of one of the lower shelves, which time has deprived of half its cover and the greater part of a frontispiece representing the Council of Trent, is a work published in the year 1692, and entitled the “Young Student's Library, containing extracts and abridgements of the most valuable books published in England, and in the foreign journals, from the year sixty-five to this time; to which is added, a new essay upon All Sorts of Learning, wherein the use of the Sciences is distinctly treated on—by the Athenian Society. Also, a large Alphabetical Table, comprehending the contents of this volume, and of all the Athenian Mercuries and Supplements, &c. Printed in the year 1691. London: printed for John Dunton, at the Raven in the Poultry.” This may be looked upon as one of the oldest specimens of the periodical review. The essay upon All Sorts of Learning, is divided into sections treating of Divinity, History, Philosophy, Law, Physic and Surgery, Arithmetic, Poetry, Painting, Geometry, Astronomy, Navigation, &c. &c.—each section followed by a copious list of the most approved works upon the subject more particularly treated of. An arrangement somewhat similar to that of the subjects above enumerated, appears to have been followed in the Young Student's Library, which opens with reviews of the works of Dr. Lightfoot, Dr. Barrow, and Bishop Usher. Near the beginning of the volume, is a notice of a work published in Rotterdam, and entitled “The Accomplishment of Prophecies, or the Deliverance of the Church Near at Hand,” by a Mr. Jurieu, the first sentences of which will give us an idea of the paucity of readers one hundred and fifty years ago compared with their number at present. “This work has made such a noise, that there are two thousand copies disposed of in four or five months, and yet there are but a very few gone into France, which would have taken off a great many if it were suffered that it might be disposed of there, this considerable part of Europe being almost nothing, by report, in respect of the bookseller's trade: one would think that the first edition should have sufficed—nevertheless, there was soon occasion for the second, and it is that which occasioned Mr. Jurieu to add to this work the additions which are to be marked.” If we suppose that only one hundred copies went to France, there remain nineteen hundred copies for the readers of the rest of Europe, and the disposal of these in four or five months is evidently looked upon as a great sale, and one which was likely to suffice. How would the Athenian Society have stared, to learn that in a century and a half a book would not be considered popular if two thousand copies were not sold in a week in the city where it was published. There is an interesting paper near the close of the book, concerning a work entitled “The Education of Daughters, by Mr. Feuelon, Abbot, according to the copy printed at Paris. Md. by Peter Alouin, 1687, in twelves.” The Abbot seems to have been a man of much good sense, as will appear from a few extracts from the review. “This is a matter of one of the most grave and important concerns of life. Mr. Abbot Feuelon concerned at the negligence wherewith virgins are educated, thought he could not better consecrate his cares than to the instruction of this fair sex. Fathers, in reference to public good, or by a blind inclination to young men, abandon their daughters almost without giving them any education—notwithstanding, saith he, they are destined to fulfil the duties which are the foundations of human life, and which decide that which most nearly concerneth mankind. There is then nothing more important than the precepts that are given us here. And indeed the source of men cannot be too pure. But the difficulty of succeeding is greater than is imagined. For if to give a good education to young women be to be removed entirely from the world, to apply them to what concerneth housewifery and house-government, it is to be feared that their restlessness and natural curiosity will push them upon other impertinent accomplishments.... Some pretend also that it is not less dangerous to let maids take pleasure in reading and frequent conversation, fearing they should fall into the extremities of the learned and knowing women, who never come down from heroism and refined wit.” Blue-stocking ladies were not more popular formerly than now. Mr. Feuelon recommends the suaviter in modo as follows. “After that, coming to a more advanced age, he saith, that nothing backwards young women so much as the bad humors of those mothers who make perpetual lessons, and render virtue odious by too much preaching on't: Wisdom ought not to be shewn to this age but under a smiling countenance, and under a pleasant image. The most serious occupation ought to be seasoned with some honest pastimes; and a familiar and open conduct makes more progress than a more severe education, and a dry and absolute authority. Notwithstanding it's the common injustice of mothers, who taking always an austere and imperious countenance, judge not of pleasures but by the sorrow and care of their age, instead of judging thereof by the joy and sportings they had in times past. It falleth out often, that they cry out against pleasures because they themselves cannot taste of them. Howbeit, we cannot be old as soon as we come into the world; and Mr. Abbot Feuelon condemneth these constraining formalities, and these dim ideas of virtue, which render it sad and tedious to young women. Notwithstanding, continueth our author, as they are destined to moderate exercises, it is good to give them a slight imploy, for idleness is an unfathomable source of troublesomeness; and besides, the wandering imagination of a young woman turns itself easily towards dangerous objects. Therefore also he will not have them to accustom themselves so much to sleep, because that mollifies the body, and exposes the mind to the rebellion of the senses.

“Mr. Abbot Feuelon condemns utterly romances, because, according to him, young women fall into passions for chimerical intrigues and adventures. Being charmed with what they find tender and marvellous in them, what a distaste is it to them to abase themselves unto the lowest part of housewifery, and to this ordinary life we lead? He is not yet altogether against their learning some languages, but he rejects the Italian, because its only proper to read dangerous books, and he prefers the Latin tongue by reason of the DIVINE OFFICE. But without mentioning other inconveniences, he forgot that Ovid and Martial are poisoners far more pernicious than Amintas and Pastor Fido; for besides the obscenity of Martial, there is in Ovid all that love can inspire most tender, most ingenious, and most delicate. In truth, it were a thing to be wished for, that the modesty of a young woman should make her ignorant of all things that concern love; but it is convenient enough to know it in order to prevent it as much as possible. At least it was the advice of Madame de Chartres, a grave authoress in these matters, and which well may be opposed to Mr. Abbot Feuelon. The greatest part of mothers imagine (saith the author of the Princess of Cleves) that it is sufficient not to speak of gallantry before young persons, to make them keep from it. On the contrary, Madame de Chartres often depainted love to her daughter. She would tell her what there was pleasing in it, the more easily to persuade her of the misfortunes whereinto engagements lead us.

“This conduct hath something in it very acute. For nothing is more dangerous than to expose a young woman to know love by an interested person's mouth, who far from making her observe the troubles that follow this passion, hath no greater care than to hide them from her. So that it is very hard that a young person should resist love, whilst never hearing mention made of it, she begins to know it by that which is taking in it: and how shall she defend herself from a passion which only promisseth sweetnesses, and which offers such pleasing baits!”

It appears that there is a chapter devoted to the faults of young women. “Mr. Abbot Feuelon says that they must be corrected for those tears they shed so cheap,” and that “they have always been reproached with a marvellous talent of speaking;” but he endangers the cure of the first offence, by admitting that “a handsome woman, when she is in tears, is by the half more handsome.” The reviewer states that the Abbot does not spare them for those “precipitate decisions of the curious ladies, which so much displease men of good judgment. A poor man of a Province, saith he, will be the ridicule of five or six a-la-mode ladies, because his peruke is not of the best make, or because he wants a good grace, though he hath an upright heart, and a mind just and solid: when a courtier is preferred, whose whole deserts consist in fashions and cooks, and who hideth a low heart and false mind under an exterior politeness.

“Finally, he inveighs mightily against the vanity of women, their violent desire of pleasing, and the passion of dressing themselves, which they make their most important business. He pretends that this haughtiness draws after it the ruin of families, and the corruption of manners; and he neatly decides that Beauty is noisome, if it doth not advantageously serve, to marry a young woman”—which sentence the reviewer pronounces to be a little rigorous, and refutes at considerable length.

Farther on is a notice of a work entitled “A Treatise of the Excellency of Marriage; of its Necessity, and the Means of Living happily therein: where is an Apology made for Women against the Calumnies of Men. By James Chausse, Master of the Court Rolls. Printed at Paris—1685,” a work which might be advantageously republished at the present day. Mr. Chausse appears to have had a very exalted opinion of the married state, as the following passage must testify. He says, that “the most favorable judgment of the wisest about a single life is, that 'tis a virtue neither good nor bad, and that being without action, it is a kind of vice. He maintains that God made two sexes in nature, to shew they cannot subsist without being joined together; he sends us to learn of the animals, amongst which the mutual love of males for females, and females for males, is common to every individual. After this he considers men as men in a state, in a family, and in a church, and he says that in all these regards they are obliged to marry—because, adds he, 'tis necessary to endeavor to preserve their own kind, as they are citizens to the republic, successors to their families, and servants to the church; he speaks very large upon these three duties, and considering the beauty and perfections of man, he is wrapped up in admiration, and says, can there be any thing more noble than the ambition of producing creatures so perfect? He asks, if it is possible that we should be so much moved with the glory of making a fine book, drawing a beautiful picture, or a handsome statue, and should not be sensible of the glory of making a man? This appears so noble and admirable, that all men that we read of in Scriptures have thought themselves very happy in it, as Ibstan and Abdan, of which the first had thirty sons and thirty daughters, and as many sons and daughters in law; and the second had forty sons, and thirty grandsons, whom he saw altogether on horseback. ‘O God, (cries he out) can any thing be added more to the happiness of a father—can any thing be seen more memorable in the life of man!’ In my opinion, it exceeds all the acts of Cæsar and Alexander—such an increase is more noble than any act that can be found in history. Hence he supposes that Augustine had acquired more glory, if instead of leaving so many books, he had furnished the world with thirty children; and he would persuade us that the invention of Archimedes and Des Cartes are trifles in comparison of the exploits of a simple country fellow, who helps to people the world by lawful means; I say lawfully, for the author thinks no offspring good that is not from marriage. He fortifies his proofs as much as possible, and goes back to the ancient Jews, observing that marriage being one of these things that generally happen sooner or later, it is better to engage ourselves in happy time, than after a thousand declamations against it, whilst we are hurrying on to old age, when marriage can produce nothing but vexatious consequences.”—Then follows a dissertation upon the second marriages of widows, too long for me to quote.

The work of Mr. Chausse was written to persuade a gentleman, for whom he had a high regard, to marry; and he takes up all the possible objections he could think of in the following order. First, all those founded upon the conduct of women; second, those upon the nature of marriage itself; and third, the objection that marriage is an unsupportable yoke. Under the last head, the author gives the following directions for making a good marriage. “First, after having recommended ourselves to God, who presides in a more particular manner over that state, we make a choice of such a person as pleases us, and who has an agreeable temper. It would not be unpleasing to have her handsome; but since 'tis not very common to find such a one, we ought to be contented if she please us, whether she does others or no; and that 'tis not always advantageous for the wife to please all the world: but 'tis not sufficient to be pleased with her beauty, except there be a sympathy in humors. The author advises us to study the genius of those we design to marry, that we may the better succeed, in spite of the address that some make use of to hide their weakness; he adds, for the better security, that we may choose one that is young, and resides near our own habitation. In the first place, he advises to a choice in a well ordered family, and to observe the equality of condition and fortune, and to take care that she has no such pre-engagements as may make her marry him by constraint.” (This latter matter the young ladies now take care of themselves.)

The following is the conclusion of the review. “'Tis a good observation that the author, who in his book exhorted men to marry, says not a word to persuade virgins to the same. He well foresaw that this silence would surprise some of his readers—therefore he has put them out of pain in the preface, by acquainting them that virgins are sufficiently convinced of the necessity of marriage, therefore want no exhortations thereto; 'tis certain, says he, that though a virgin never proposes marriage, because of her modesty, there is nothing she so passionately wishes for; her heart often gives her mouth the lie; she often says I will not, when sometimes she dies for desire.”

My limits will not permit my quoting from any other reviews in the work, though much instructive and entertaining matter might be culled therefrom. I must, however, give a few specimens of the Alphabetical Table at the end of the work, which will give us some idea of the questions which “the wisdom of our ancestors” was occupied with:

Adam and Eve, whether they had navels? Apprentice, whether loses his gentility? Angels, why painted in petticoats? Adam and Eve, where had they needles? Ark, what became of it after the flood? Babel Tower, &c. what was the height of it? Bugs, why bite one more than another? Born with Cawls, what signifies it? Brothers born two in one, had they two souls? Balaam a Moabite, how could he understand his Ass? Clergy's Wives and Children, why unhappy? Females, if went a courting more marriages than now? Hairs, an equal number on any two men's head? Husband, whether lawful to pray for one? Kings of England, can they cure the evil? Lion, whether it won't prey upon a virgin? Mermen and Mermaids, have they reason? Marriage of a young man and an old woman wholesome? Marry, which best a good temper or a shrew? Negroes, shall they rise so at the last day? Phœnix, why but one? Peter and Paul, did they use notes? Queen of Sheba, had she a child by Solomon? Queen of Sheba, if now alive, whither she? Salamander, whether it lives in the fire? Swoon, where is the soul then? Wife, whether she may beat her husband? Women, if mere machines? Women, whether not bantered into a belief of being angels? Women, whether they have souls? Women, when bad, why worse than men?

Here is a volume of Almanacs—poor Richard's Almanacs, published by Dr. Franklin for so many years, and enriched with his moral and economical maxims. Many of the prefaces are amusing, and I shall give you three or four. Here is that to the Almanac for 1744.

“Courteous Reader—This is the twelfth year that I have in this way labored for the benefit—of whom?—of the public, if you'll be so good natured as to believe it; if not, e'en take the naked truth—'twas for the benefit of my own dear self—not forgetting in the meantime our gracious consort and dutchess, the peaceful, quiet, silent lady Bridget. But whether my labors have been of any service to the publick or not, the publick I acknowledge has been of service to me. I have lived comfortably by its benevolent encouragement, and I hope I shall always bear a grateful sense of its continued favor.

“My adversary, J——n J——n, has indeed made an attempt to outshine me by pretending to penetrate a year deeper into futurity, and giving his readers gratis in his Almanack for 1743, an eclipse of the year 1744, to be beforehand with me. His words are, ‘The first day of April next year, 1744, there will be a GREAT ECLIPSE of the sun; it begins about an hour before sunset. It being in the sign Aries, the House of Mars, and in the Seventh, shows heat, difference, and animosities between persons of the highest rank and quality,’ &c. I am very glad, for the sake of those persons of rank and quality, that there is no manner of truth in this prediction: they may, if they please, live in love and peace; and I caution his readers (they are but few indeed, and so the matter's the less) not to give themselves any trouble about observing this imaginary great eclipse; for they may stare till they are blind without seeing the least sign of it. I might on this occasion return Mr. J——n the name of Baal's false prophet he gave me some years ago in his wrath, on account of my predicting his reconciliation with the Church of Rome, (though he seems now to have given up that point) but I think such language between old men and scholars unbecoming; and I leave him to settle the affair with the buyers of his Almanack as well as he can, who perhaps will not take it very kindly that he has done what in him lay, (by sending them out to gaze at an invisible eclipse on the first of April) to make April fools of them all. His old threadbare excuse, which he repeats year after year about the weather, ‘that no man can be infallible therein, by reason of the many contrary causes happening at or near the same time, and the unconstancy of the summer showers and gusts,’ &c. will hardly serve him in the affair of eclipses, and I know not where he'll get another.

“I have made no alteration in my usual method, except adding the rising and setting of the planets, and the lunar conjunctions. Those who are so disposed, may thereby very readily learn to know the planets and distinguish them from each other.

“I am, dear reader, thy obliged friend, R. SAUNDERS.”

The Almanack for 1746 opens with the following poetical preface.

The preface for 1747 is as follows.

Courteous Reader,—This is the fifteenth time I have entertained thee with my annual productions; I hope to thy profit as well as mine. For besides the astronomical calculations and other things usually contained in Almanacks, which have their daily use indeed while the year continues, but then become of no value, I have constantly interspersed moral sentences, prudent maxims, and wise sayings, many of them containing much good sense in very few words, and therefore apt to leave strong and lasting impressions on the memory of young persons, whereby they may receive benefit as long as they live, when the Almanack and Almanack maker have been long thrown by and forgotten. If I now and then insert a joke or two that seem to have little in them, my apology is, that such may have their use, since perhaps for their sake light airy minds peruse the rest and so are struck by somewhat of more weight and moment. The verses on the heads of the months are also generally designed to have the same tendency. I need not tell thee, that not many of them are of my own making. If thou hast any judgment in poetry, thou wilt easily discern the workman from the bungler. I know as well as thou, I am no poet born, and indeed it is a trade I never learnt nor indeed could learn. If I make verses, 'tis in spite of nature and my stars I write. Why then should I give my readers bad lines of my own, when good ones of other people are so plenty? 'Tis, methinks, a poor excuse for the bad entertainment of guests, that the food we set before them, though coarse and ordinary, is of one's own raising, off one's own plantation, etc. when there is plenty of what is ten times better to be had in the market. On the contrary, I assure ye, my friends, that I have procured the best I could for ye, and much good may't do ye.

I cannot omit this opportunity of making honorable mention of the late deceased ornament and head of our profession, MR. JACOB TAYLOR, who, for upwards of forty years, (with some few intermissions only) supplied the good people of this and the neighboring colonies with the most complete Ephemeris and most accurate calculations that have hitherto appeared in America. He was an ingenious mathematician, as well as an expert and skilful astronomer, and moreover no mean philosopher, but what is more than all, he was a PIOUS and HONEST man. Requiescat in pace.

I am thy poor friend to serve thee, R. SAUNDERS.”

The science of astrology is very happily ridiculed in an ironical commendation of it in the Almanack for 1751.

“Courteous Reader,—Astrology is one of the most ancient sciences, held in high esteem of old by the wise and great. Formerly no prince would make war or peace, nor any general fight a battle; in short, no important affair was undertaken without first consulting an Astrologer, who examined the aspects and configurations of the heavenly bodies, and marked the lucky hour. Now the noble art (more shame to the age we live in) is dwindled into contempt; the great neglect us; empires make leagues and parliament laws without advising with us; and scarce any other use is made of our learned labors, than to find out the best time of cutting corns and gelding pigs. This mischief we owe in a great measure to ourselves; the ignorant herd of mankind, had they not been encouraged to it by some of us, would never have dared to depreciate our sacred dictates; but Urania has been betrayed by her own sons; those whom she had favored with the greatest skill in her divine art, the most eminent Astronomers among the moderns, the Newtons, Halleys and Whistons, have wantonly contemned and abused her contrary to the light of their own consciences. Of these, only the last named, Whiston, has lived to repent and speak his mind honestly. In his former works he had treated judicial astrology as a chimera, and asserted that not only the fixed stars, but the planets (sun and moon excepted) were at so immense a distance as to be incapable of any influence on this earth, and consequently nothing could be foretold from their positions; but now, in the memoirs of his life, published 1749, in the eighty-second of his age, he foretells, page 607, the sudden destruction of the Turkish Empire and of the House of Austria, German Emperors, &c. and Popes of Rome; the Restoration of the Jews and commencement of the Millenium, all by the year 1766, and this not only from Scriptural prophecies, but (take his own words) ‘from the remarkable Astronomical signals that are to alarm mankind of what is coming, viz. the Northern Lights since 1715, the six comets at the Protestant Reformation in four years, 1530, 1531, 1533, 1534, compared with the seven comets already seen in these last eleven years, 1737, 1739, 1742, 1744, 1746, and 1748—from the great annular eclipse of the sun July 14, 1748, whose centre passed through all the four monarchies from Scotland to the East Indies—from the occultation of the Pleiades by the moon each periodical month after the eclipse last July, for above three years visible to the whole Roman Empire—from the comet of A.D. 1456, 1531, 1607 and 1682, which will appear again about 1757 ending, or 1758 beginning, and will also be visible through that Empire—from the Transit of Venus over the Sun May 26, 1761, which will be visible over the same Empire: and lastly, from the annular eclipse of the sun March 11, 1764, which will be visible over the same Empire.’ From these Astronomical signs he foretold those great events—that within sixteen years from this time, ‘the Millenium or 1000 years reign of Christ shall begin; there shall be a new heaven and a new earth; there shall be no more an infidel in Christendom, nor a gaming table at Tunbridge!’ When these predictions are accomplished, what glorious proofs will they be of the truth of our art! And if they happen to fail there is no doubt that so profound an Astronomer as Mr. Whiston, will be able to see other signs in the heavens, foreshowing that the conversion of the infidels was to be postponed and the Millenium adjourned. After these great things, can any man doubt our being capable of predicting a little rain or sunshine? Reader, farewell, and make the best use of your years and your Almanacks, for you see that according to Whiston, you may have at most but sixteen more of them.

R. SAUNDERS.

Patowmack, July 30, 1750.”

“Great Events from Little Causes,” is the title of a translation from a French work, published in Dublin in 1768. We may easily imagine how interesting such a work well executed must prove. It contains between fifty and sixty anecdotes from ancient and modern history. Had I room, I could copy nearly half the book without fearing to tire my readers, so true is it that “truth is strange, stranger than fiction.” From Roman history, we have the overthrow of the regal government of Tarquin traced back to Collatinus' praise of his wife Lucretia, the abolition of the Decemvirate to the passion of Appius Claudius for Virginia, and the raising of the Plebeians to the Consular Dignity to the jealousy of a woman against her sister. We are reminded that the discovery of Cataline's conspiracy was owing to the disgust of Fulvia towards her lover, and that the ugliness of another Fulvia occasioned a civil war between Antony and Octavius. Among the passages from modern history are the following.

“A quarrel which arose between two men of mean condition, the one a Genoese and the other a Venitian, occasions a terrible war between the Republics of Venice and Genoa, about the year 1258.

“Genoa withdrew itself from the dominion of the successors of Charlemagne, and in spite of all the troubles and divisions with which she was agitated, as well as intestine civil wars, she preserved her liberty. Europe, then peopled by Barbarians, was ignorant of the advantages of commerce; Genoa built ships and brought into Europe the productions of Asia and Africa; she amassed immense riches and became one of the most flourishing cities of the world. Venice followed her example and became her rival.

“These two republics, whom commerce made known to all nations, soon had establishments in all parts of the known world. They had a considerable one in the city of Acre, which, on account of its situation and largeness of its harbor, was very commodious to those who traded along the coast of Syria. The Genoese and Venitians had between them more than one-third of the city, where they lived subject to the laws of their respective countries.

“Neither the difference of customs nor even interest itself, which among merchants is an astonishing circumstance, occasioned any discord between them. They lived many years in as perfect an union as if they had been of the same nation and of joint interests. But if the ordinary motives of division among men were not capable of disturbing these two nations, we shall see them in arms against each other from a trifling and at the same time a very singular cause. Two men of the very lowest condition, the one a Genoese and the other a Venitian, who were no other than porters to the merchants fell out about a bale of goods which were to be carried. From words they came to blows. The merchants who at first gathered round them only by way of amusement to see the battle, at length took part in the quarrel, each assisting their countrymen. They grew warm and fought together; so that much blood was spilt and a deal of damage done on both sides. Complaints were soon carried to Genoa and Venice. The magistrates of each republic agreed that satisfaction should be made for the damage, according to the estimation of several arbitrators appointed for that purpose. The Genoese being condemned to make a more considerable reparation than the Venitians, delayed to furnish what was demanded of them. The Venitians piqued at the unfaithfulness of the Genoese, resolved to do themselves justice; and having surprised all the Genoese vessels which were in the port of Acre, set them on fire. The Genoese would have retaliated this injury on the Venitians, but the latter were on their guard and prevented them; a battle however ensued much more bloody than the first. Genoa and Venice resolved to support their merchants; they each fitted out a considerable fleet; that of the former was beaten, and the Genoese were obliged to abandon their settlements at Acre: the Venitians razed their houses and forts and destroyed their magazines. The Genoese irritated at this defeat, used their utmost efforts to put their fleet again into a condition to attack the Venitians. Every citizen offered to venture his person and fortune to revenge the outrage committed against his country. The Venitians informed of these preparations neglected no precautions to oppose them. The sea was covered with ships, an engagement ensued, much blood was spilt, and many brave citizens lost on both sides. In short, after a long and cruel war, in which the two republics reaped nothing but shame for having entered into it, they made peace.”

“The boldness with which wine inspired a shoemaker at Genoa, occasioned the government of that republic to be changed.

“All republics have been torn by civil wars: ambition hath ever kindled discord therein. In the history of those states we see continually the nobles assuming more than their rights, and by their injustice exhausting the patience of the people, who arming themselves at the instigation of an ambitious person and guided by rage alone, brave the laws and commit the most terrible disorders.

“Genoa was not exempt from these evils; we meet with nothing in the writers who have transmitted its history, but troubles and calamities: it is a chain of revolutions. Towards the middle of the fourteenth century, the people, impatient under the tyranny of the nobility, murmured. There were some among them who sacrificed the welfare and tranquillity of the public to their ambition and to their interest: they took advantage of the discontent of the people, and irritated them by seditious discourses; they took up arms, and the nobility, to avoid the blows with which they were threatened, promised to grant whatever should be demanded of them.

“The populace were desirous that an Abbé of the People should be elected. His office was to sustain the interests and liberties of the people, and to counterbalance, in a great measure, the authority of the captains, who were then the magistrates of the republic.

“An assembly was accordingly held for the election of an Abbé of the People. Vast numbers went to the place of meeting, and every one gave his voice; but as they all spoke at once nobody was understood. The tumult increased, the people began to grow warm, and were ready to proceed to blows; when a shoemaker, who at that instant was just come from a drinking house, passing by the assembly, mixed among the crowd, and getting upon a little eminence that fell in his way, being emboldened by the fumes of the wine, he bawled out as loud as he was able, ‘Fellow citizens, will you hearken to me?’ This invocation struck their ears, and immediately all eyes were fixed upon him; and the Genoese who were about to tear each other to pieces, all joined in a hearty laugh. Some bade him hold his peace, others encouraged him to speak on, and others again threw dirt at him; all laughed. This orator, without being in the least disconcerted, said, ‘I think myself obliged to tell you that you ought to nominate to the dignity of Abbé of the People, an honest man; and I know of none more so than Simon Boccanegra. You ought to appoint him.’

“Simon Boccanegra was a perfectly honest man; the amiableness of his character, his generosity and many other virtues had procured him the love and esteem, both of the nobility and commonalty. He was one of the principal families among the citizens, and his relations had filled with universal applause the dignities of the republic. The person who first occupied the place of Captain of the People was one of his ancestors.

“In short, his merit occasioned them to pay attention to the shoemaker's harangue. The name of Boccanegra became the general cry; every one insisted upon his being elected Abbé of the People, and they presented him with the sword, which was the mark of his dignity: but he returned it, saying, that he thanked the people for the good will they had shown him, and that as none of his ancestors had been Abbé of the People, he would not be the first who should introduce that office into his family. He was willing to avail himself of the humor into which he found the speech of the shoemaker had thrown the people to attain the lead in the republic.

“The people who are seldom moderate in their affection any more than in their hatred, immediately cried out, ‘Boccanegra, Lord of Genoa.’ This artful ambitious man said he was ready to submit to the will of the people, to be Abbé or Lord according as they should ordain. This feigned humility pleased the people, as he expected; they repeated Lord Boccanegra! and he was proclaimed perpetual Doge. So that the speech of a drunken shoemaker occasioned the government of Genoa to be transmitted from nobles to the people, and a single man to become sole master in the state.”

With the headings of a few other examples I shall conclude.

“The severity of an Empress to her daughter was the occasion of Attila's ravaging Gaul and Italy, and of the foundation of the city of Venice.”

“The inability of a person who had lost a considerable sum at dice to pay the same immediately, was the cause that the Vandals settled in Africa, went to ravage Italy and sack Rome.”

“The assassination of Chilperic, king of France, was occasioned by his giving Fredegonde his wife, a blow with a switch in play.”

“A repartee of the Empress Sophia, consort of Justinian II, is the cause of the Lombards invading Italy and establishing themselves there.”

“The kingdoms of Naples and Sicily were established in consequence of a duel fought by two Norman barons.”

“The beauty of a young Turk who lived at Antioch is the occasion of cruel wars between England and France.”

“A yellow goat occasions the death of three Khans of the Tartars, and the destruction of several cities.”

“Francis I, king of France, having promised a lady, of whom he was enamored, to meet her at Lyons in the month of March, occasions him to lose the battle of Pavia, himself to be made prisoner and reduces France to the brink of ruin.”

“The love of Margaret, duchess dowager of Burgundy, for a young Jew, occasions Brittany to be re-united to France, and England to be rent by civil wars.”

“A blow with a cane, being given by a German to a Genoese, who was looking at the carriage of a mortar-piece, which was broken in one of the streets of Genoa, occasions the Austrians to be driven from that city, and the republic of Genoa to recover its liberty.”

In view of such things, may we not say with a poet whose name I have forgotten—

Editorial.¹

¹ Some misapprehensions having arrisen, it may be as well to state that all after this word “Editorial,” is strictly what it professes to be.

To the Editor of the Southern Literary Messenger.

Sir,—In your August number (page 573) is a quotation from Mr. Burke's speech to the Electors of Bristol, upon the subject of instructions from constituents to their representatives. Will you oblige me by giving another passage or two from that speech, which will show how inapplicable Mr. Burke's remarks are to our country. Immediately after the word “arguments,” at the end of your last quotation, Mr. Burke proceeds thus:

“To deliver an opinion is the right of all men; that of constituents is a weighty and respectable opinion, which a representative ought always to rejoice to hear, and which he ought always most seriously to consider. But authoritative instructions, mandates issued, which the member is bound blindly and implicitly to obey, to vote and to argue for, though contrary to the clearest conviction of his judgment and conscience, these are things utterly unknown to the laws of THIS LAND, and which arise from a fundamental mistake of the whole order and tenor of our CONSTITUTION.

“Parliament is not a congress of ambassadors from different and hostile interests, which interests each must maintain as an agent, and advocate against the other agents and advocates; but Parliament is a deliberative assembly of one nation, with one interest, that of the whole; where, not local purposes, not local prejudices ought to guide, but the general good, resulting from the general reason of the whole. You choose a member indeed, but when you have chosen him, he is not a member of Bristol, but he is a member of Parliament.”

This theory of each member's representing not those who chose him, but the whole nation, gave rise to what was called virtual representation, when the people of America complained that they had no representatives in Parliament. Is it not evident, that under our CONSTITUTION, if every member represents his own constituents, all will be represented? It was different indeed under the rotten borough system of England, now happily exploded. Mr. Burke was elected to Parliament, but having voted, under pretence of consulting the general good, for many measures obnoxious to the people of Bristol, he was defeated when he attempted to be re-elected. The making of loud professions of interest in the public welfare, and desire for the general good, accompanied by a neglect of immediate duties, reminds one of professions of universal philanthropy from the lips of a bad husband and a bad father.

Yours respectfully, Q. V. Z.

[Our correspondent, in supposing Mr. Burke's remarks “inapplicable to this country,” seems to be misled by the word “congress.” Had not this term been appropriated to our National Assembly the paragraph would have escaped attention. The whole is applicable, we think, fully, even to “Congress” itself. Write “our General Legislature” in place of “Parliament,” “assembly” instead of “congress,” for “Bristol” read “Virginia,” and we see no difficulty whatever.

Our general legislature is not an assembly of ambassadors from different and hostile interests, which interests each must maintain as an agent, and advocate against the other agents and advocates; but our general legislature is a deliberative [Mr. B. has italicized deliberative] assembly of one nation, with one interest, that of the whole. You choose a member indeed, but when you have chosen him, he is not a member of Virginia, but a member of our general legislature.

We can see no inapplicability here, nor is a word of the paragraph to be denied, when made referrible to us. Mr. Burke, we apprehend, wished simply to place a representative and deliberative assembly, consisting of delegates from various sections of one nation, in contradistinction to a meeting of ambassadors from a number of distinct and totally hostile powers. In the former case, supposing the judgment, rather than the will of the people, to be represented, he allows of no “authoritative mandates” from the constituent to the representative—in the latter instance, and in such instance alone, he can imagine the binding power of letters of instruction from home, upon the ambassadors assembled.

In regard to the “making of loud professions of interest in the public welfare, and desire for the general good, accompanied by a neglect of immediate duties”—we conceive that, in the case of Burke, or in any similar case, if the passage of a law is to operate for the general good, yet for the individual harm of the Senator's constituents, then the Senator has but one “immediate duty”—to vote for it.]

CRITICAL NOTICES.

PHILOTHEA.

Philothea: A Romance. By Mrs. Child, Author of the Mother's Book, &c. Boston: Otis, Broaders & Co. New York: George Dearborn.

Mrs. Child is well known as the author of “Hobomok,” “The American Frugal Housewife,” and the “Mother's Book.” She is also the editor of a “Juvenile Miscellany.” The work before us is of a character very distinct from that of any of these publications, and places the fair writer in a new and most favorable light. Philothea is of that class of works of which the Telemachus of Fenelon, and the Anarcharsis of Barthelemi, are the most favorable specimens. Overwhelmed in a long-continued inundation of second-hand airs and ignorance, done up in green muslin, we turn to these pure and quiet pages with that species of gasping satisfaction with which a drowning man clutches the shore.

The plot of Philothea is simple. The scene is principally in ancient Athens, during the administration of Pericles; and some of the chief personages of his time are brought, with himself, upon the stage. Among these are Aspasia, Alcibiades, Hippocrates, Anaxagoras of Clazomenœ, Plato, Hermippus the comic writer, Phidias the Sculptor, Artaxerxes of Persia, and Xerxes his son. Philothea, the heroine of the tale, and the grand-daughter of Anaxagoras, is of a majestic beauty, of great purity and elevation of mind. Her friend, Eudora, of a more delicate loveliness, and more flexile disposition, is the adopted daughter of Phidias, who bought her, when an infant, of a goat-herd in Phelle—herself and nurse having been stolen from the Ionian coast by Greek pirates, the nurse sold into slavery, and the child delivered to the care of the goat-herd. The ladies, of course, have lovers. Eudora is betrothed to Philæmon. This Athenian, the son of the wealthy Cherilaus, but whose mother was born in Corinth, has incurred the dislike of Aspasia, the wife of Pericles. She procures the revival of an ancient law subjecting to a heavy fine all citizens who married foreigners, and declaring all persons, whose parents were not both Athenians, incapable of voting in the public assemblies, or of inheriting the estates of their fathers. Philæmon, thus deprived of citizenship, prevented from holding office, and without hope of any patrimony, is obliged to postpone, indefinitely, his union with Eudora. The revival of the obnoxious law has also a disastrous effect upon the interests of Philothea. She is beloved of Paralus, the son of Pericles, and returns his affection. But in marrying, she will bring upon him losses and degradation. Pericles, too, looks with an evil eye upon her poverty, and the idea of marriage is therefore finally abandoned.

Matters are thus situated, when Philothea, being appointed one of the Canephoræ, (whose duty it is to embroider the sacred peplus, and to carry baskets in the procession of the Panathenaia,) is rigidly secluded by law, for six months, within the walls of the Acropolis. During this time, Eudora, deprived of the good counsel and example of her friend, becomes a frequent visitor at the house of Aspasia, by whose pernicious influence she is insensibly affected. It is at the return of Philothea from the Acropolis that the story commences. At the urgent solicitation of Aspasia, who is desirous of strengthening her influence in Athens by the countenance of the virtuous, Anaxagoras is induced to attend, with his grand-daughter, a symposium at the house of Pericles. Eudora accompanies them. The other guests are Hermippus, Phidias, the Persian Artaphernes, Tithonus a learned Ethiopian, Plato, Hipparete the wife of Alcibiades, and Alcibiades himself. At this symposium Eudora is dazzled by the graces of Alcibiades, and listens to his seductive flattery—forgetful of the claims of Hipparete, the wife of Alcibiades, and of Philæmon, her own lover. The poison of this illicit feeling now affects all the action of the drama. Philothea discovers the danger of her friend, but is sternly repulsed upon the proffer of good advice. Alcibiades is appointed a secret interview by Eudora, which is interrupted by Philothea—not however before it is observed by Philæmon, who, in consequence, abandons his mistress, and departs, broken-hearted, from Athens. The eyes of Eudora are now opened, too late, to the perfidy of Alcibiades, who had deceived her with the promise of marriage, and of obtaining a divorce from Hipparete. It is Hipparete who appeals to the Archons for a divorce from Alcibiades, on the score of his notorious profligacy; and, in the investigations which ensue, it appears that a snare has been laid by Aspasia and himself, to entrap Eudora, and that, with a similar end in view, he has also promised marriage to Electra, the Corinthian.

Pericles seeks to please the populace by diminishing the power of the Areopagus. He causes a decree to be passed, that those who denied the existence of the Gods, or introduced new opinions about celestial things, should be tried by the people. This, however, proves injurious to some of his own personal friends. Hermippus lays before the Thesmothetæ Archons an accusation of blasphemy against Anaxagoras, Phidias, and Aspasia; and the case is tried before the fourth assembly of the people. Anaxagoras is charged with not having offered victims to the Gods, and with having blasphemed the divine Phœbus, by saying the sun was only a huge ball of fire,—and is condemned to die. Phidias is accused of blasphemy, in having carved the likeness of himself and Pericles on the shield of heaven-born Pallas, of having said that he approved the worship of the Gods merely because he wished to have his own works adored, and of decoying to his own house the maids and matrons of Athens, under the pretence of seeing sculpture, but in fact, to administer to the profligacy of Pericles. He is also adjudged to death. Aspasia is accused of saying that the sacred baskets of Demeter contained nothing of so much importance as the beautiful maidens who carried them; and that the temple of Poseidon was enriched with no offerings from those who had been wrecked, notwithstanding their supplications—thereby implying irreverent doubts of the power of Ocean's God. Her sentence is exile. Pericles, however, succeeds in getting the execution of the decrees suspended until the oracle of Amphiaraus can be consulted. Antiphon, a celebrated diviner, is appointed to consult it. He is absent for many days, and in the meantime Pericles has an opportunity of tampering with the people, as he has already done with Antiphon. The response of the oracle opportunely declares that the sentences be reconsidered. It is done—Phidias and Anaxagoras are merely banished, while Aspasia is acquitted. These trials form perhaps the most interesting portion of the book.

Chapter XI introduces us to Anaxagoras, the contented resident of a small village near Lampsacus in Ionia. He is old, feeble, and in poverty. Philothea watches by his side, and supports him with the labor of her hands. Plato visits the sage of Clazomenæ in his retreat, and brings news of the still-beloved Athens. The pestilence is raging—the Piræus is heaped with unburied dead. Hipparete has fallen a victim. Pericles was one of the first sufferers, but has recovered through the skill of Hippocrates. Phidias who, after his sentence of exile, departed with Eudora to Elis, and grew in honor among the Eleans—is dead. Eudora still remains at his house, Elis having bestowed upon her the yearly revenues of a farm, in consideration of the affectionate care bestowed upon her illustrious benefactor. Philæmon is in Persia instructing the sons of the wealthy Satrap Megabyzus. Alcibiades is living in unbridled license at Athens. But the visiter has not yet spoken of Paralus, the lover of Philothea. “Daughter of Alcimenes,” he at length says, (we copy here half a page of the volume, as a specimen of the grace of the narrative)—

“Daughter of Alcimenes, your heart reproaches me that I forbear to speak of Paralus. That I have done so, has not been from forgetfulness, but because I have with vain and self-defeating prudence sought for cheerful words to convey sad thoughts. Paralus breathes and moves, but is apparently unconscious of existence in this world. He is silent and abstracted, like one just returned from the cave of Trophonius. Yet beautiful forms are ever with him in infinite variety; for his quiescent soul has now undisturbed recollection of the divine archetypes in the ideal world, of which all earthly beauty is the shadow.”

“He is happy, then, though living in the midst of death,” answered Philothea. “But does his memory retain no traces of his friends?”

“One—and one only,” he replied. “The name of Philothea was too deeply engraven to be washed away by the waters of oblivion. He seldom speaks; but when he does you are ever in his visions. The sound of a female voice accompanying the lyre is the only thing that makes him smile; and nothing moves him to tears save the farewell song of Orpheus to Eurydice. In his drawings there is more of majesty and beauty than Phydias or Myron ever conceived; and one figure is always there—the Pythia, the Muse, the Grace, or something combining all these, more spiritual than either.”

The most special object of Plato's visit to Anaxagoras is the bearing of a message from Pericles. Hippocrates has expressed a hope that the presence of Philothea may restore, in some measure, the health and understanding of Paralus, and the once ambitious father has sent to beg the maiden's consent to a union with his now deeply afflicted son.

“Philothea would not leave me even if I urged it with tears,” replied Anaxagoras, “and I am forbidden to return to Athens.”

“Pericles has provided an asylum for you, on the borders of Attica,” answered Plato, “and the young people would soon join you after their marriage. He did not suppose that his former proud opposition to their loves would be forgotten; but he said hearts like yours would forgive it all, the more readily because he was now a man deprived of power, and his son suffering under a visitation of the gods. Alcibiades laughed aloud when he heard of this proposition; and said his uncle would never think of making it to any but a maiden who sees the zephyrs run, and hears the stars sing. He spoke truth in his profane merriment. Pericles knows that she who obediently listens to the inward voice, will be most likely to seek the happiness of others, forgetful of her own wrongs.”

“I do not believe the tender hearted maiden ever cherished resentment against any living thing,” replied Anaxagoras. “She often reminds me of Hesiod's description of Leto:

She has indeed been a precious gift to my old age. Simple and loving as she is, there are times when her looks and words fill me with awe, as if I stood in the presence of divinity.”

“It is a most lovely union when the Muses and the Charities inhabit the same temple,” said Plato. “I think she learned of you to be a constant worshipper of the innocent and graceful nymphs, who preside over kind and gentle actions. But tell me, Anaxagoras, if this marriage is declined, who will protect the daughter of Alcimenes when you are gone?”

The philosopher replied, “I have a sister Heliodora, the youngest of my father's flock, who is Priestess of the Sun, at Ephesus. Of all my family, she has least despised me for preferring philosophy to gold; and report bespeaks her wise and virtuous. I have asked and obtained from her a promise to protect Philothea when I am gone; but I will tell my child the wishes of Pericles, and leave her to the guidance of her own heart. If she enters the home of Paralus, she will be to him, as she has been to me, a bounty like the sunshine.”

Philothea assents joyfully to the union, although Chrysippus, the wealthy prince of Clazomenæ, has made her an offer of his hand. Anaxagoras dies. His grand-daughter, accompanied by Plato, and some female acquaintances, takes her departure for Athens, and arrives safely in the harbor of Phalerum. No important change has occurred in Paralus, who still shows a total unconsciousness of past events. The lovers are, however, united. Many long passages about this portion of the narrative are of a lofty and original beauty. The dreamy, distraught, yet unembittered existence of the husband, revelling in the visions of the Platonic philosophy—the anxiety of the father and his friends—the ardent, the pure and chivalric love, with the uncompromising devotion and soothing attentions of the wife—are pictures whose merit will not fail to be appreciated by all whose good opinion is of value.

Hippocrates has been informed that Tithonus, the Ethiopian, possesses the power of leading the soul from the body, “by means of a soul-directing wand,” and the idea arises that the process may produce a salutary effect upon Paralus. Tithonus will be present at the Olympian Games, and thither the patient is conveyed, under charge of Pericles, Plato and his wife. On the route, at Corinth, a letter from Philæmon, addressed to Anaxagoras, is handed by Artaphernes, the Persian, to Philothea. At the close of the epistle, the writer expresses a wish to be informed of Eudora's fate, and an earnest hope that she is not beyond the reach of Philothea's influence. The travellers finally stop at a small town in the neighborhood of Olympia, and at the residence of Proclus and his wife Melissa, “worthy simple-hearted people with whom Phidias had died, and under whose protection he had placed his adopted daughter.” The meeting between this maiden and Philothea is full of interest. The giddy heart of Eudora is chastened by sorrow. Phidias had desired her marriage with his nephew Pandœnus—but her first love is not yet forgotten. A letter is secretly written by Philothea to Philæmon, acquainting him with the change in the character of Eudora, and with her unabated affection for himself. “Sometimes,” she writes, “a stream is polluted in the fountain, and its waters are tainted through all its wanderings; and sometimes the traveller throws into a pure rivulet some unclean thing, which floats awhile and is then rejected from its bosom. Eudora is the pure rivulet. A foreign strain floated on the surface, but never mingled with its waters.”

The efforts of Tithonus are inadequate to the effectual relief of Paralus. We quote in full the account of the Ethiopian's attempt. Mrs. Child is here, however, partially indebted to a statement by Clearchus, of an operation somewhat similar to that of Tithonus, performed either by the aid, or in the presence of Aristotle. It will be seen that even the chimeras of animal magnetism were, in some measure, known to the ancients. The relation of Clearchus mentions a diviner with a spirit-drawing wand, and a youth whose soul was thereby taken from the body, leaving it inanimate. The soul being replaced by the aid of the magician, the youth enters into a wild account of the events which befell him during the trance. The passage in “Philothea” runs thus.

Tithonus stood behind the invalid and remained perfectly quiet for many minutes. He then gently touched the back part of his head with a small wand, and leaning over him, whispered in his ear. An unpleasant change immediately passed over the countenance of Paralus. He endeavored to place his hand on his head, and a cold shivering seized him. Philothea shuddered, and Pericles grew pale, as they watched these symptoms; but the silence remained unbroken. A second and a third time the Ethiopian touched him with his wand, and spoke in whispers. The expression of pain deepened; insomuch that his friends could not look upon him without anguish of heart. Finally his limbs straightened, and became perfectly rigid and motionless.

Tithonus, perceiving the terror he had excited, said soothingly, “O Athenians, be not afraid. I have never seen the soul withdrawn without a struggle with the body. Believe me it will return. The words I whispered, were those I once heard from the lips of Plato. ‘The human soul is guided by two horses—one white with a flowing mane, earnest eyes, and wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the other is black, heavy, and sleepy-eyed—ever prone to lie down upon the earth.’ The second time I whispered, ‘Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!’ And the third time I said, ‘Behold, the winged separates from that which has no wings.’ When life returns, Paralus will have remembrance of these words.”

“Oh, restore him! restore him!” exclaimed Philothea, in tones of agonized intreaty.

Tithonus answered with respectful tenderness, and again stood in profound silence several minutes, before he raised the wand. At the first touch, a feeble shivering gave indication of returning life. As it was repeated a second and a third time, with a brief interval between each movement, the countenance of the sufferer grew more dark and troubled, until it became fearful to look upon. But the heavy shadow gradually passed away, and a dreamy smile returned, like a gleam of sunshine after storms. The moment Philothea perceived an expression familiar to her heart, she knelt by the couch, seized the hand of Paralus, and bathed it with her tears.

When the first gush of emotion had subsided, she said in a soft low voice, “Where have you been, dear Paralus?” The invalid answered, “A thick vapor enveloped me, as with a dark cloud; and a stunning noise pained my head with its violence. A voice said to me, ‘The human soul is guided by two horses; one white, with a flowing mane, earnest eyes, and wings like a swan, whereby he seeks to fly; but the other is black, heavy, and sleepy-eyed—ever prone to lie down upon the earth.’ Then the darkness began to clear away. But there was strange confusion. All things seemed rapidly to interchange their colors and their forms—the sound of a storm was in mine ears—the elements and the stars seemed to crowd upon me—and my breath was taken away. Then I heard a voice saying, ‘Lo, the soul seeketh to ascend!’ And I looked and saw the chariot and horses, of which the voice had spoken. The beautiful white horse gazed upward, and tossed his mane, and spread his wings impatiently; but the black horse slept upon the ground. The voice again said, ‘Behold, the winged separates from that which hath no wings!’ And suddenly the chariot ascended, and I saw the white horse on light, fleecy clouds, in a far blue sky. Then I heard a pleasing silent sound—as if dew-drops made music as they fell. I breathed freely, and my form seemed to expand itself with buoyant life. All at once I was floating in the air, above a quiet lake, where reposed seven beautiful islands, full of the sound of harps; and Philothea slept at my side, with a garland on her head. I asked, ‘Is this the divine home whence I departed into the body?’ And a voice above my head answered, ‘It is the divine home. Man never leaves it. He ceases to perceive.’ Afterward, I looked downward, and saw my dead body lying on a couch. Then again there came strange confusion—and a painful clashing of sounds—and all things rushing together. But Philothea took my hand, and spoke to me in gentle tones, and the discord ceased.”