must be confined to manual labor, entirely for the same reasons as we should object to be tied to associate with none but self-educated men. Anything is better than dependence on others, either for man or woman. But are we to allow our ideal of womanhood to be exclusively shaped on the ideals of the workshop and the counter? Is the taint of money-making, uncounteracted by ideas, to cover over and blot out all that is fair and beautiful in the minds of women? Are the attributes of the merchant and the travelling agent to be the exclusive models of women who work for their living? Will these employments, better than intellectual ones, fit them to be the companions of our best men and the teachers of our most hopeful children? Is man, who devotes his life to art, thought, or scientific discovery, to be satisfied with a wife who is either a frivolous society doll, or a sweet and patient drudge, or a woman with the ideas of the shopman with whom he would find no pleasure in associating? Are the great men who are to be born in the future, if only women will refrain from study, to be guided by the remembrance of their mother's face, as she appeared in powder and paint in some stupid vaudeville before a cheering theatre; are they to gaze admiringly on the trade gesticulation, or to listen lovingly to tales of sharp bargains and skilful adulteration?

Women whose characters have been formed by mechanical labor, unmitigated by higher education, are, according to these thinkers, to be the mothers of the Bacons and Goethes of the future. They object to over-pressure. So do we; but we object to it in any direction, and if in one direction more than another it would be in the direction

from which comes least general profit, that of the mechanical and the material. Our fiery leveller would abolish all grades of rank and breeding and reduce women to one dead level of unintellectual pursuit. Men would alone be in possession of thought and knowledge, and would form an aristocracy of culture. This is rank anarchy and demoralization. How under such a system could a philosopher of the Lower System obtain a hearing even for criticism of her own sex? We maintain, on the contrary, that the effort for higher education is simply an effort to secure in the case of women what has always been the case with men. Women's ideals should be formed, as men's have been, by those who have lived out of the roar of traffic, out of the glare of politics, far from the influence of mobs, away from the contamination of commerce and the drudgery of manual labor. The women we want to form women's ideal of education are women with calm, well-balanced minds and hallowed hearts, equal to men in ideas and mental prowess, if inferior to them in mental, because in physical, endurance, and perhaps making up in spiritual insight for their lack of physical strength. This is the goal toward which we invite all women to strive whose position is fortunate enough to enable them to do


Happily, in spite of the Lower plan of Education for women, the road is plain and the gates are already open; and it requires no gift of prophecy to foresee the time when highly educated women may be taught to study some stranded philosopher of the Lower System, long reduced to a fossilized condition, as we now study the extinct creatures of the mud period of the earth's history.-Contemporary Review.



WHEN she is gone, the loved, the best, the one
Whose smile hath gladdened though perchance undone ;
Whose name, too dearly cherished to impart,

Dies on the lip, but trembles in the heart;

From the posthumous papers of Lord Byron, published for the first time in Murray's Magazine.

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RAVENNA, August 4, 1821.

IT has been intimated to me from Paris, that the Chevalier-Professor William Augustus Schlegel (I cannot add "Von" till I see his quarterings), meditates a fierce and thorough criticism of me and mine. To this my reply shall be a simple and sincere narrative of my acquaintance with him and his late mistress-I mean in the hospitable-not the amatory sense-in justification of her personal-whatever it may be-and of her literary taste. In the year 1813, I had the honor of being among the earliest of my countrymen presented to Mde. de Staël on the very night of her arrival in London. She arrived, was dressed, and came "with her Glory" to Lady Jersey's, where, in common with many others, I bowed-not the knee, but the head and heart-in homage to an extraordinary and able woman driven from her own country by the most extraordinary of men. They are both dead and buried, so we may speak without offence; she may then

* These " Recollections," which form a portion of the papers bequeathed by Lord Byron to Sir John Hobhouse, are published by the kind permission of Lady Dorchester.


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'Embowelled we may see her by and by."

Mr. Schlegel, of all men, may excuse an application from Shakespeare-the idol of which he would fain be the high priest.

If I mis

On the day after her arrival I dined in her company at Sir Humphry Davy's, being the least of one of a legion of honor" invited to greet her. take not-and can memory be treacherous to such men ?-there were present Sheridan, Whitbread, Grattan, the Marquis of Lansdowne, without counting our illustrious host. The first experimental philosopher of his own (or perhaps any other preceding time) was there, to receive the most celebrated of women, surrounded by the flower of our wits, the foremost of our remaining orators and statesmen, and condescending even to invite the then youngest and, it may be, still least of our living poets.

Of these guests, it would be melancholy to relate, even in common life, that three of the foremost are in their graves, with her who met them and with him who was the great cause of their meeting (at least in England), in the short space of seven years or a little


better, and none of them aged; but when we utter their names, it is something more it is awful-it shows us how frail they were in their very greatness, and we who remain shrink, as it were, into nothing.

Of this" Symposium, "graced by these now Immortals, I recollect less than ought to have been remembered. But who can carry away the remembrance of his pleasures unimpaired and unmutilated? The grand impression remains, but the tints are faded. Besides, I was then too young and too passionate to do full justice to those around me.

Time, absence and death mellow and sanctify all things. I then saw around me but the men whom I heard daily in the Senate, and met nightly in the London assemblies. I revered, I respected them but I saw them; and neither Beauty nor Glory can stand this daily test. I saw the woman of whom I had heard marvels; she justified what I had heard, but she was still a mortal, and

made long speeches! nay, the very day

of this philosophical feast in her honor, she made very long speeches to those who had been accustomed to hear such only in the two Houses. She interrupted Whitbread; she declaimed to Lord L.; she misunderstood Sheridan's jokes for assent; she harangued, she lectured, she preached English politics to the first of our English Whig politicians, the day after her arrival in England; and (if I am not much misinformed) preached politics no less to our Tory politicians the day after. The Sovereign himself, if I am not in error, was not exempt from this flow of eloquence. As Napoleon had been lectured on the destinies of France, the Prince Regent of England was asked what he meant to do with America ?" At present I might, with all humility, ask, "what America means to do with him?" In twenty or thirty years more, which he cannot (and I in all human chances shall not) live to see, this will be to his successor a serious question. Who will be his successor? The Dukes, all of them half a century old, cannot last forever; and who will be their successors? The little Princesses ! This is a grand peut-être!" In the meantime, his Majesty is crowned; and long may he reign! His father was crowned at twenty and reigned sixty

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years; he is crowned at sixty, and may reign twenty years: 'tis a long time, as reigns usually go. But he is not a bad King, and he was a fine fellow; it is a great pity he did not come to his crown thirty years before. I cannot help thinking that, if he had done so, all this outcry about morals and wives and frivolities might have been prevented. But

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Hope delayed maketh the heart sick ;' and it is to be feared that out of a sick heart there never came a sound body nor a temperate soul. Let it not be forgotten that he was one of the most persecuted of princes; and the fruit of persecution has been in all ages the same. I shall not presume to be so treasonable as to say that he is bad, but if he were, with the provocation with the provocation he has had, I should only wonder that he is not worse. But I prate about kings, and forget my learned Mandarine, and his great Umbrella-Madame de Staël's petticoat.


The following extract from a letter by

Miss CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE is of especial interest, as giving a description of another dinner party at Sir H. Davy's at which Lord Byron and Madame de Staël met again.

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1 have just stayed in London long enough to get a sight of the last-imported lion, Mde. de Staël; but it was a sight worth twenty peeps through ordinary show boxes.

Eloquence is a great word, but not too big for her. She speaks as she writes; and, upon this occasion, she was inspired by indignation, finding herself between two opposition spirits, who gave full play to all her energies. She was astonished to hear that this pure and perfect constitution was in need of radical reform; that the only safety for Ireland was to open wide the doors which had been locked and barred by the glorious revolution; and that Great Britain, the Bulwark of the World, the Rock which alone had withstood the sweeping flood, the ebbs and flows of Democracy and Tyranny, was herself feeble, disjointed, and almost on the eve of ruin. So, at least, was it represented by her antagonist in argument, Childe Harold, whose sentiments,

partly, perhaps, for the sake of argument,-grew deeper and darker in pro

portion to her enthusiasm. The wit was his. He is a mixture of gloom and sarcasm, chastened, however, by good breeding, and with a vein of original genius that makes some atonement for

the unheroic and ungenial cast of his whole mind. It is a mind that never conveys the idea of sunshine. It is a dark night upon which the lightning flashes."-Murray's Magazine.


HAPPY is he who hears, with brow elate,
Above the tumult of th' unheeding throng,
The plaudits of the Future clear and strong,
Down the long centuries reverberate,
Though unremembered be his common fate;
Content to leave a heritage of song.
To after-ages who can do no wrong;
Content, though never gained, Fame's crown to wait.
Dupe of his dreams, what matter if not his,

Dim in the crimson gold and purple gloom
Of some cathedral vast, that honored tomb
Whose stones the pilgrim nations kneeling kiss?
Slumbers he not less sound though overhead
On a forgotten mound the grasses spread.

-Cornhill Magazine.


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A RICH tint of russet deepened on the Forest top and seemed to sink day by day deeper into the foliage like a stain; riper and riper it grew, as an apple colors. Broad acres these of the last crop, the crop of leaves; a thousand, thousand quarters, the broad earth will be their barn. A warm red lies on the hillside above the woods, as if the red dawn stayed there through the day; it is the heath and heather seeds; and higher still, a pale yellow fills the larches. The whole of the great hill glows with color under the short hours of the October sun; and overhead, where the pine-cones hang, the sky is of the deepest azure. The conflagration of the woods burning luminously crowds into those short hours a brilliance the slow summer does not know.

The frosts and mists and battering rains that follow in quick succession after the equinox, the chill winds that creep about the fields, have ceased a little while, and there is a pleasant sound in the fir-trees. Everything is not gone yet. In the lanes that lead down to the

"shaws" in the dells, the "gills," as these wooded depths are called, buckler ferns, green, fresh, and elegantly fashioned, remain under the shelter of the hazel-lined banks. From the tops of the ash-wands, where the linnets so lately sang, coming up from the stubble, the darkened leaves have been blown, and their much-divided branches stand bare like outstretched fingers. Blackspotted sycamore leaves are down, but the moss grows thick and deeply green; and the trumpets of the lichen seem to be larger now they are moist, than when they were dry under the summer heat. Here is herb-Robert in flower-its leaves are scarlet; a leaf of St. John's wort, too, has become scarlet; the bramble leaves are many shades of crimson; one plant of tormentil has turned yellow. Furze bushes, grown taller since the spring, bear a second bloom, but not perhaps so golden as the first. It is the true furze, and not the lesser gorse; it is covered with half-opened buds; and it is clear, if the short hours of sun would but lengthen, the whole gorse

hedge would become aglow again.

Our trees, too, that roll up their buds so tightly, like a dragoon's cloak, would open them again at Christmas; and the sticky horse-chestnut would send forth its long ears of leaves for New-year's Day. They would all come out in leaf again if we had but a little more sun; they are quite ready for a second sum


Brown lie the acorns, yellow where they were fixed in their cups; two of these cups seem almost as large as the great acorns from abroad. A red dead nettle, a mauve thistle, white and pink bramble-flowers, a white strawberry, a little yellow tormentil, a broad yellow dandelion, narrow hawkweeds, and blue scabious, are all in flower in the lane. Others are scattered on the mounds and in the meads adjoining, where may be collected some heath still in bloom, prunella, hypernicum, white yarrow, some heads of red clover, some beautiful buttercups, three bits of blue veronica, wild chamomile, tall yellow weed, pink centaury, succory dock cress, daisies, fleabane, knapweed, and delicate blue harebells. Two York roses flower on the hedge: altogether, twenty-six flowers, a large bouquet for the 19th of October, gathered, too, in a hilly country. Besides these, note the broad hedgeparsley leaves, tunnelled by leaf-miners; bright masses of haws gleaming in the sun; scarlet hips; great brown cones fallen from the spruce-firs; black heartshaped bindweed leaves here, and buff bryony leaves yonder; green and scarlet berries of white bryony hanging thickly on bines from which the leaves have withered; and bunches of grass, half yellow and half green, along the mound. Now that the leaves have been brushed from the beech saplings, you may see how the leading stem rises in a curious wavy line; some of the leaves lie at the foot, washed in white dew, that stays in the shade all day; the wetness of the dew makes the brownish red of the leaf show clear and bright. One leaf falls in the stillness of the air slowly, as if let down by a cord of gossamer gently, and not as a stone falls fate delayed to the last. A moth adheres to a bough, his wings half open, like a short brown cloak flung over his shoulders. Pointed leaves, some droop

ing, some horizontal, some fluttering slightly, still stay on the tall willowwands, like bannerets on the knights' lances, much torn in the late battle of the winds. There is a shower from a clear sky under the trees in the forest; brown acorns rattling as they fall, and rich colored Spanish chestnuts thumping the sward, and sometimes striking you as you pass under; they lie on the ground in pocketfuls. Specks of brilliant scarlet dot the grass like some bright berries blown from the bushes; but on stooping to pick them, they are found to be the heads of a fungus. Near by lies a black magpie's feather, spotted with round dots of white.

At the edge of the trees stands an old timbered farmstead, whose gables and dark lines of wood have not been painted in the memory of man, dull and weather-beaten, but very homely; and by it rises the delicate cone of a new oasthouse, the tiles on which are of the brightest red. Lines of bluish smoke ascend from among the bracken of the wild open ground, where a tribe of gypsies have pitched their camp. Three of the vans are time-stained and travelworn, with dull red roofs; the fourth is brightly picked out with fresh yellow paint, and stands a marked object at the side. Orange-red beeches rise beyond them on the slope; two hooptents, or kibitkas, just large enough to creep into, are near the fires, where the women are cooking the gypsy's bouillon, that savory stew of all things good: vegetables, meat, and scraps, and savories, collected as it were in the stockpot from twenty miles round. Hodge, the stay-at-home, sturdy carter, eats bread and cheese and poor bacon sometimes; he looks with true British scorn on all scraps and soups, and stockpots and bouillons-not for him, not he; he would rather munch dry bread and cheese for every meal all the year round, though he could get bits as easy as the other and without begging. The gypsy is a cook. The man with a gold ring in his ear; the woman with a silver ring on her finger, coarse black snaky hair like a horse's mane; the boy with naked olive feet; dark eyes all of them, and an Oriental, sidelong look, and a strange inflection of tone that turns our common English words into a foreign

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