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then carried to the highest point. Eloquence was in high repute, and there never had been a time when the Greek language was spoken with greater propriety, beauty, fluency, and power. Philosophy, handed down from Thales to Anaxagoras, and from Anaxagoras to Socrates, had just lifted the curtain that envelops the universe, and discovered much of the depth and breadth of creation, revealing in a great degree the Creator to the creature, and the creature to himself, by the light thus let in from the works of nature upon the human mind. With the new life opened to the soul by philosophy, the arts began a career closed up only by the universal admiration of mankind. Poetry led the way, and adorned the earth, air, and waters, with imperishable beauty. Painting, snatching her pencil in high emulation of her sister art, almost surpassed her in the pursuit of fame, by taking down these gorgeous pictures of the imagination, and rendering them visible to the common eye. But sculpture, raging with ambition, and resolved to outdo both, tore the very rocks from their everlasting beds, seized her chisel in a perfect ecstasy of genius, and, dashing off the redundant mass of earth and rock, brought out the forms of glorious beauty, that had for ages slept within. The loftiest creations of fancy she reduced to tangible and undecaying forms, and, as if vieing with the workmanship of nature, gave us a finished model of our kind-a marble man.

With all these grand achievements before them, well might the fanciful Athenians imagine, that Minerva had begun in her chosen city a golden reign, which had already adorned all the public places with the noblest works of art; and well might that pretending stranger tremble, who, with the purpose of making any figure, should come to the great metropolis of philosophy, literature, and taste.

But, in coming into Athens, Aspasia did not tremble. She had learned the strength of her own faculties, and felt a noble reliance upon herself. She knew, it is true, that the administration of Pericles had filled Athens with the learned and ingenious of all lands. She immediately saw the commanding influence of the great Socrates, and that, too, in almost the very department of knowledge to which she had devoted her own powers. She beheld the sophists, and their vast sway in the city, and she might have reasonably quailed before such an array. But she quailed not, and great was the reward of her resolution.

I shall beg of the reader to pass over all of the incipient labors of Aspasia, immediately after her arrival. Whether she gave public lectures, and was thronged with an audience of statesmen, orators, philosophers, literati, and artists, and astonished her hearers by the depth and grandeur of her genius, and by her amazing beauty, and the elegance of her speech; or whether, by virtue of the fame that had preceded her, public assemblies were likely to be too

promiscuous and crowded to suit her purposes and convenience, it is not necessary at this time to inquire. But, to close my hasty sketch, I will present the reader with a little scene, which, as we may imagine from the historians of that period, was for years very frequently repeated.

In a retired section of the city stands a structure, moderate in size, but correct and elegant in its proportions, fitted up for the residence of such as might desire retirement and study. The long hall, passing through the centre of the building, opens, at the farther extremity, into a side room, ample in its dimensions, tastefully furnished, and lighted by lamps of dazzling beauty. Paintings, executed by the greatest masters, representing the glorious deeds of Pericles and of Athens, and displaying the splendor of the republic under his able and patriotic administration, are skillfully arranged against the high walls; white marble statues of the great and good, of naval officers and military commanders, of scholars, orators, and philosophers, the greater part of whom had been or were then the ornaments of the Periclean government, occupy the various niches formed by the peculiarly magnificent architecture of the age. Two statues I must not forget. They are of the whitest marble, and the work of the first artist of the day. They stand in near companionship, in two conspicuous recesses, on the same side of that highly ornamented room. They are the marble representatives of the two most distinguished friends of the occupant of this house.

That occupant, a lady of such transcendant beauty, that she might easily be mistaken for a Venus, with a modesty and grace of carriage, however, unknown to the Cyprian goddess, and with intellect beaming from every feature of her expressive face, sits between the two marble figures, discoursing with great ease and fluency with two persons, who seem to have come in, not so much for mutual conversation, as to spend their leisure in mutely listening to what their hostess may please to offer them.

Directing her conversation to the one, she speaks of the government of cities, of the proper management of revenues and disbursements, of trade and commerce, of the settlement and maintenance of colonies, of armies, of fleets, of walled towns and forts, of every thing, in fine, pertaining to the proper order and prosperity of a republic, either in peace or war. When Athens is named, her whole soul is set on fire. She deems it the centre, and thinks it might be made the head, of civilized nations. With great ardor she proposes a plan for the attainment of this end. Her eloquence now surpasses all bounds. The fire of her genius flashes like lightning from her eyes. Her principal auditor is impressed. Her words have taken hold of his soul. His ambition, his patriotism, his resolution, are roused to their highest point, and when her last

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physical, and gives the spiritual another and a higher state. There is, then, another life. Death is not an eternal steep. As there is a natural so there is a spiritual world; and when the spirit is made free from matter, it goes upward into that higher sphere, where it may range through the vast fields of knowledge, without this material vail between itself and truth. The grave is the resting-place of the body, but the spirit lives a pure and unsullied life above. From the nature of spirit, we know it will, in that higher state, be capable of visiting every portion of the universe; from its expansibility we see the vast improvement it will make in truth; from its immortality we learn to form conceptions, however below the fact, of the vast results included in the ultimate destiny of undying man.

As these last words were uttered, the second of the two listeners rose up, more abruptly than was his custom, and paced the ample room in a perfect transport of admiration, as if he could hardly hold the flood of new light let in upon his mind.

And here both the conversation and the scene must close. Here, also, I will conclude my hasty sketch. The reader, I know well, has seen through my little artifice all the way. The eloquent lady could be no other than Aspasia herself; and the two mute auditors were men, who kept silence nowhere, but when sitting within the charmed circle filled and ruled by her superior genius. One was Pericles, the first man in Athens, and the man to whom princes looked for clemency or favor. The other man was Socrates, whose presence was always the acknowledged sign for silence, to all within the sound of his instructive voice. But Aspasia, by their own confession-a confession confirmed by history-not only instructed them in their favorite pursuits, but held an ascendancy over their minds and conduct, both at that time and in after years. History records that the greatest of the schemes of the noble and patriotic Pericles were planned and pressed by his instructress; and, that Plato ever conceived the sentiments attributed to Socrates, his master, is sufficient evidence that the Athenian sage must have been faithfully disciplined, by one who could properly represent the doctrines of Thales, the great philosopher of Miletus. Aspasia was that happy person; and her influence will be felt while philosophy has a name among the studious and thoughtful of mankind. Her fame is beyond all praise. From a humble station, in a distant colonial city, she rose by the force of her own genius, till, by swaying the two leading intellects of her age, she became the virtual though invisible governess of the world.

But the name of Aspasia has been maligned. The faction opposed to Pericles sought to injure him by aspersing her reputation; and the sophists, who were the avowed enemies of Socrates, scrupled not to sacrifice the fair fame of a noble lady, the benefactress of the world, could they but avenge themselves on

her pupil, who was rapidly casting both them and their influence to the ground.

But, worst of all, men of this age, professing to be scholars-men who have written many books for the instruction of the rising young, have not had the sense to make this simple discrimination between vituperation and truth. Let their folly and their books perish, before the good name of one such being should receive a taint at their hands! Was there ever a person of exalted talents-talents lifting him above his kind, that has not been the mark for every missile that envy and malignity could invent? Besides, it is truly surprising, that the scandal of jealous partisans, and the hired billingsgate of the low comedians, such as Aristophanes and Cratinus, should have had greater weight with our professed scholars and book-makers, than the unanswerable testimony of Plutarch and Plato!

I confess I have written these last words with the more warmth, because the victim was a lady. Whenever woman is traduced, learning itself deserves no mercy. It matters not who the individual may be. Woman's nature is too angelic, too gentle, too confiding, to be treated roughly. The man who is capable of an attempt to set a blot on the reputation of a female, is also capable of any other crime, even of robbery and murder. And what greater robbery can there be, what more heinous murder, than to despoil a lady of her character, and to destroy her credit with mankind?

Long live the memory of Aspasia! Let her name and fame be handed down to the latest generation! Let her virtues, her industry, her perseverance, and her success, be a pattern to every fair lady in the land!

LORD BYRON, at the age of thirty-six, had lost all affection for the human race, but thought the change was in the world, and not in him. Like a genuine misanthrope, which his follies and his excesses of every kind had made him, he had no relish for the ordinary enjoyments of the social state, but fled from society, as if it had been his great enemy. He always maintained, that long life was not desirable, and endeavored to cover up his misanthropy by a show of argument. He said age did not assuage our passions; it only changed them. Suspicion took the place of credulity, and avarice that of love. "No," said the disappointed libertine, "no, let me not live to be old; give me youth, which is the fever of reason, and not age, which is the palsy. I remember my youth, when my heart overflowed with affection toward all who showed any symptom of liking toward me; and now, at thirty-six, no very advanced period of life, I can scarcely, by raking up the dying embers of affection in that same heart, excite even a temporary flame to warm my chilled feelings." Let virtue take warning from this confession, and vice see the end of its fatal windings.

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SATURDAY PENCILINGS.

BY MISS M. E. WENTWORTH.

SATURDAY! thrice welcome, cheerful Saturday! How many grateful associations thrill into being at the mention of this best day-next to the Sabbathof the whole week! Happy holyday of my childhood! no lessons, no fear of ferules, or rods, or dogeared books, unless compelled on this day to retrieve idleness of the school days. I cared little for the amusement of my sisters, and usually passed the day with a book, under a huge elm that shaded my father's door, alternately reading and watching the country people coming to market with their earthattracted plough-horses and high-backed wagons, which contrasted strangely enough with the flaunting vehicles of my town neighbors. O, the yards of yellow ribbons and calicoes that came down weekly from Gotham-the square-toed boots and yellow brass buttons of the Voluntown gentry. I have not quite lost this penchant for the study of customs and dress, but have learned to look beyond the apparel for the graces of the mind, and the honest but unpolished gem of a noble heart.

Saturday! This was our composition day at the academy, and woe to the luckless Miss who fulfilled not the letter and spirit of the law. Saturday! Glorious day for my native village-dear Bean Hill. A spell be on those fashionables who would change thy tasteful name to any of the copper currency in names and titles that fill this mundane sphere! Crisper grows thy pork, and sweeter thy beans, the more thy legendary name is treasured in the hearts of thy inhabitants. Thou hast sent out sons and daughters innumerable, and the good city of Cincinnatus smiles in prosperity on many to whom the dish of beans, crisped and hot from the oven, would come like the breath of elysian flowers on travelers in a dreary waste. Do you know, stranger readers of this delightful magazine, do you know our legend? No. Let me tell you. Seventy-one years ago, a place that lay hid in a copse of green and gold, in the glorious month of June, was alarmed by the yell of savages, and the tramp of a hundred feet that approached through thicket and glade stealthily, but surely, to bring terror and death to its inhabitants. With fearless hearts the men arranged their affairs, prepared the women and children, and noiselessly stole from the colony to their fort, a mile below, and so near to the church that the holy altars threw the defense of their God upon the garrison of a persecuted people. When night came on, they were found supperless, and many were weary and faint with the labor of the day. Mrs. Eliab Hyde, one of the company, generously proposed that if any one would go back to her house, they should bring from her oven, hot and sweet, a kettle of beans and pork, and two loaves of rye and Indian bread. Two

intrepid youths undertook the task, and stealing silently through the forest, achieved their desire, and with their treasure returned to the fort. At midnight, when the savages rushed from thicket and glade, their hideous yell startled only the night owl in his prowlings, and rung on nothing but the summer air; for safe within the shelter of the fort, and beneath the shadow of the holy of holies, the inhabitants of the colony were entering upon the duties of the Sabbath. That place was named Bean Hill from this event; and peace to the apostate who would change its antiquated title!

Saturday to-day! How gorgeously the mellow sunlight falls upon this sheet! Now a clouds flits over it, and hides for a moment its beauty. Far away to the southeast stretches that paragon of wateringplaces that delightful refectory of black fish and lobsters, Watch Hill. Its white buildings, and the spire of its light-house loom up in the distance like an arisen ghost in the sepulchre of the dead. Here gleams the bright Atlantic enshrining the subdued splendors of an autumn sun-a sheet of silver in a mine of burnished gold. Here and there a white sail flutters in the breeze, and a sturdy keel parts the waves, leaving their white crest broken and ruffled as the wings of a dove stricken by the fowler.

Fast by the window of my room stands, or rather totters on its crumbling base, a time-ruined and dustdescending sanctuary-for twenty years the meeting-house of owls and bats-the terror of superstition, and the target of mischief. Its galleries are torn away, and its aisles filled with the decaying dust of its falling desk and pulpit. The altar has moldered from the holy place, and mingles its dust with mother earth. Hallowed memento of other days, “Peace was in all thy gates, and prosperity within thy walls!" Here was diffused a religion that sanctifies us to Christ, and makes us fit temples for the indwelling of his Spirit. Public sentiment had not yet made fashionable apparel an inseparable adjunct from public worship, and the lowly in heart trod reverently thy uncarpeted floors. Days of uncushioned seats, when people came early to church, and slept not in luxuriant ease, when staid and solemn music responded to the melodies of Watts and Wesley from the tremulous voices of the fathers and mothers in Israel-days of primitive purity and piety, where have ye fled affrighted at the pomp and vainglory of this worldly generation? Alas! alas! for modern munificence! We worship in gorgeous temples, and the swelling organ mutters its deep bass, or humors its teachable keys. The eloquence of preaching and the sublimity of prayer fill our temples; but alas! that so few from the millions who come up to "the city of our God," come with hosannas on lowly lips to the Son of David. But molder on, old church. The angel of the covenant has recorded many fervent prayers breathed at your desecrated altar. Many who led your devotions in these

down-trodden seats have joined the innumerable band-the bounding pulse of youth, the vigor of manhood, and the faltering form of age. Ye who, Sabbath after Sabbath, came up to this city of Zion, who presented here your children for an ordinance which time and God's word have sanctified in your household worship, who knelt at this altar in penitence for sin, who ate of that body and drank of that blood, where are ye? and echo answers, where? "your fathers, where are they, and the prophets, do they live for ever?"

O, one by one those gray-haired men
Have dared the strife of death,
The parting pains, the changing pulse,
The last convulsive breath;

But still from trembling lips there came
Soft notes of peace and love,
And broken songs of victory
Swelled on the air above.

And blessings on the fearless few

Who, strong in ardent prayer,

Preserved the faith their fathers loved,

Through error, sin, and care.

Ye who doubted and feared, were you not led by still waters? Ye who saw no light in the dark valley, dawned not the Sun of righteousness upon the coming shadows of the tomb?

Saturday! sweet prelude to a day of rest in the temple of God! While the shades of night gather about the loveliness of this day, send up, my heart, your devout prayers to almighty God, "confessing your manifold sins and wickedness, that on the morrow ye may enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise."

BEREAVEMENT.

BY MRS. E. L. B. COWDERY.

I HAD a sister. Kind and gentle she was, and, O, so loving. Together for eighteen summers, we were permitted to pluck some of the fair flowers which border on life's pathway. Hope's sun shone brightly on the distant future, as we thought, and one clear ray was pointed out, as beaming forth our happiness unsullied. A cloud-a deep, black cloud arose in our sky. We prayed that its darkness might not overshadow us, or if it did, for grace to bear its solemn reality. Sadly and anxiously we watched the rapid movement with which it seemed to advance toward us. On, still on, it came, and at last hovered over us, then broke.

'Twas a dreadful hour for spirits twined as closely as ours had been; it snapped the brittle cord which bound us as earthly sisters; and while one was winging her flight to the bright, upper world, the other was sinking in heart-rending grief. But yet, O, even then, we could rejoice in that Jesus was with her in the sundering hour, and I for the blessed assurance she gave of her victory over death.

I know that my sister's frail form is lying in a cold, damp grave; her dark eye is closed, and raven tress composed for ever; that I have pressed my lips to her pale, icy forehead for the last time; and that now her flesh is moldering away in corruption; yet amid all this, I do not, have not dared to murmur. "His ways are above our ways;" and although I fain would have had her to linger with me, that I might profit by her counsel, and keep warm my heart in the sunshine of her affection, yet it was doubtless in mercy that she was taken, while her heart was pure and warm, and her soul rich in intellectual beauty, and moved by the religion of the blessed Savior.

O, my heavenly Father, grant that when the summons comes to me, to leave this sorrowing world, that I, too, may die in triumph. And if there is a ministering spirit sent to cheer me, while crossing the cold, boisterous waves of death, I would that it might be that self-same sister, Jesus, to steer the helm of my frail bark, to sustain and comfort me in the desolate passage, and her notes of melody to echo my welcome to the world where glorified spirits dwell.

NATURE OF QUININE.

BY A QUACK.

QUININE, as almost everybody knows, is an extract from Peruvian bark. There are only about forty ounces of the alkali quinine, or quínia, in one hundred pounds of the bark, even after its combination with sulphuric acid. The sulphate of quinia, or what is universally called quinine, was once almost wholly imported from France, because the acid was in that country very cheap. Now it is manufactured at home, as well as in many other countries. Its peculiar property is, that it is anti-periodic. It is beginning to be administered to many kinds of periodical diseases, besides the ague and intermittent fevers. An eastern physician has recently asserted, and given many instances in proof, that it is perfectly at war with any thing in the shape of periodical irregularity in the human system. We will only add, that the word, quinine, is almost universally mispronounced, not only here, but in other countries. From its origin, the Latin quinia, the letter i in both syllables is short. The French, following their own idiom, make the first one short and the second like i in machine, placing the accent, however, on the first. In this country the i in both syllables in generally made long, as in the word time. The true pronunciation is, to make both syllables short, pronouncing the word as if it were spelt quinin. For this statement we have the authority of the original word, and the almost infallible sanction of Noah Webster.