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Other documents randomly have
different content
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.
 Sweet Muse, I remember, when first to thy spell
My young heart submitted—how bright was the dream!
How I trembled with joy as thy murmurings fell
On my ear, like the flow of a star-litten stream!

This world is too cold for the spirit of song,

'Tis the child of a purer and holier sphere;
It should live where oppression, nor malice, nor wrong,
Dare wring from the dim eye of misery a tear.

It should dwell where 'twas born—in the deeply blue skies,

When from chaos our world sprang to beauty and light;
When the “stars of the morning” in joyous surprise,
Struck their harp strings of fire so holy and bright.

It should dwell where the Cherubim strike their bold lyres—

It should live where the Seraphim songs find their birth;
It should breathe where the presence of Godhead inspires,
But never, oh never, be dweller on earth.

For the heart where it lives is cold poverty's slave,

And those whom it blesses, are curst by the world;
And its votary unhonored is borne to that grave
At whose mound are the dark shafts of calumny hurl'd.

Then, farewell, dear soother of many an hour!

And, farewell sweet visions indulged in so long,
Like the banish'd bird quitting its favorite bower,
I leave yet lament thee, sweet spirit of song!

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.
Who is poor Richard? people oft inquire
Where lives? what is he—never yet the higher.
Somewhat to ease your curiositie
Take these slight sketches of my dame and me.
Thanks to kind readers and a careful wife,
With plenty blessed I lead an easy life;
My business writing; hers to drain the mead
Or crown the barren hill with useful shade;
In the smooth glebe to see the ploughshare worn
And fill my granary with needful corn;
Press nectarous cider from my loaded trees,
Print the sweet butter, turn the drying cheese.
Some books we read, though few there are that hit
The happy point where wisdom joins with wit,
That set fair virtue naked to our view
And teach us what is decent, what is true.
The friend sincere and honest man with joy,
Treating or treated oft our time employ.
Our table neat, meal temperate, and our door
Opening spontaneous to the bashful poor.
Free from the bitter rage of party zeal
All those we love who seek the public weal,
Nor blindly follow Superstition's lore,
Which cheats deluded mankind o'er and o'er.
Not over righteous, quite beyond the rule,
Conscience-perplexed by every canting tool,
Nor yet where folly hides the dubious line,
Where good and bad their blended colors join,
Rush indiscreetly down the dangerous steep,
And plunge uncertain in the darksome deep.
Cautious if right; if wrong, resolved to part
The innate snake that folds around the heart;
Observe the mean, the motive and the end,
Mending ourselves or striving still to mend.
Our souls sincere, our purpose fair and free
Without vain-glory or hypocrisy:
The preface forThankful
1747 isif well,
as follows.
if ill we kiss the rod,
Resign with hope and put our trust in God.
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