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From the Lady's Book.

THE FATAL COSMETIC.
ETIC.
OR, THE EVILS OF WHITE LIES."

BY MRS. C. L. HENTZ.

Concluded.

Mrs. St. Henry has fainted-Mrs. St. Henry has fainted," was now echoed from mouth to mouth. A lady's fainting, whether in church, ball-room or assembly, always creates a great sensation; but when that lady happens to be the centre of attraction and admiration, when every eye that has a loop-hole to peep through, is gazing on her brilliant features, to behold her suddenly fall, as if smitten by the angel of death pallid and motionless-the effect is inconceivably heightened. When as in the present instance, too, a sad, romantic looking stranger rushes forward to support her, the interest of the scene admits of no increase. At least, Margaret felt so as she saw the beautiful Mrs. St. Henry, borne in the arms of Mr. Hall, through the crowd, that fell back as he passed into an adjoining apartment, speedily followed by Mrs. Astor, all wonder and excitement, and many others all curiosity and expectation, to witness the termination of the scene. Mr. Hall drew back while the usual appliances were administered for her resuscitation. He heeded not the scrutinizing glances bent upon him. His thoughts were bent within himself, and "the soul of other days came rushing in."

The lava that had hardened over the ruin it had created, melted anew, and the greenness and fragrance of new-born hopes were lost under the burning tide. As Mrs. St. Henry opened her eyes, she looked round her in wild alarm, then, shading her brow with her hand, her glance rested where Mr. Hall stood, pale and abstracted, with folded arms, leaning against the wall-"I thought so," said she, "I thought so;"-then covered her eyes and remained silent.

Mr. Hall, the moment he heard the sound of her voice, and was assured of her recovery, precipitately retired, leaving behind him matter of deep speculation.Margaret was sitting in a window of the drawing-room, through which he passed. She was alone, for even the bride was forgotten, in the excitement of the past scene. He paused he felt an explanation was due to her, but that it was impossible to make it. He was softened by the sad and sympathizing expression of her countenance, and seated himself for a moment at her side.

NEW BRIGHTON, JULY 6, 1839.

the changes and conflicts of her spirit in that brief pe- | deadly qualities.
riod?

VOLUME III.-NUMBER XXIII

almost all diseases was calomel, which he recommended to his patient as the most efficient and specdiest remedy. She received the prescription with very ill grace, declaring she had never tasted of any in her life, and had a horror of all medicines. Mrs. Astor told her she had an apothecary's shop at command in her closet, and that she kept doses constantly prepared, for her own use. After the doctor's departure, Mrs. St. Henry seemed much dejected, and her eyes had an anxious, inquiring expression as they turned on Mrs. Astor.

Mrs. St. Henry still continued the invalid guest of Mrs. St. Henry was too ill to be removed, and Mrs. Mrs. Astor, for her indisposition assumed a more serious Astor was unbounded in her attentions. She could aspect, and it was impossible to remove her. She seemhardly regret a circumstance which forced so interesting ed feverish and restless, and a physician was called in to and distinguished a personage upon the acceptance of prescribe for her, greatly in opposition to her wishes.her hospitality. Margaret remained with her during the She could not bear to acknowledge herself ill. It was greatest portion of the night, anxiously apprehensive of the heat of the room that had oppressed her—a transient a renewal of the fainting fits to which she acknowledged cold, which would soon pass away—she would not long she was constitutionally subject. Margaret watched her trespass on Mrs. Astor's hospitality. The doctor was as she lay, her face scarcely to be distinguished from the not much skilled in discases of the heart, although he sheet, it was so exquisitely fair, were it not for the shad-ranked high in his profession. His grand panacea for ing of the dark locks that fell unbound over the pillow, still heavy with the moisture with which they had been saturated, and as she contemplated her marvellous loveliness, she wondered not at the influence she exercised over the destiny of another. Mr. Hall had once spoken of himself as being the victim of falsehood. Could she have been false—and, loving him, how could she have married another? If she had voluntarily broken her troth, why such an agitation at his sight? and, if she were worthy of his love, why such a glaring display of her person, such manifest courting of the free gaze of admiration? These, and a thousand similar interrogations, did Margaret make to herself during the vigils of the night, but they found no answer. Towards morning, the lady slept; but Margaret was incapable of sleep, and her wakeful eyes caught the first grey tint of the dawn, and marked it deepening and kindling till the east was robed in flame, the morning livery of the skies. All was bustle till the bridal party was on its way. Mrs. | St. Henry still slept, under the influence of an opiate, and Margaret saw her no more. Farewells were exchanged, kind wishes breathed, and the travellers commenced their journey. Margaret's thoughts wandered from Mrs. St. Henry to Mr. Hall, and back again, till they were weary of wandering, and would gladly have found rest, but the waters had not subsided, there was no green spot where the dove of peace could fold her drooping wings. Charles and Mary were too much occupied by each other, to notice her silence, and it was not till they paused in their journey, she was recalled to existing realities. Mary regretted something she had left behind--a sudden recollection came over Margaret.

"Oh! Mary," said she, "I hope you have been cautious, and not left any of that dangerous medicine where evil might result from it. I intended to remind you of it before our departure."

"Certainly to be sure; I took especial care of it; I have it with me in my trunk,” replied Mary, but her con"I have been painfully wakened from a dream of science gave her a remorseful twinge, as she uttered the bliss,” said he, “which I foolishly imagined might yet white lie, for she had forgotten it; and where she had be realized. But the heart rudely shattered as mine has left it she could not remember. As Margaret had given been, must never hope to be healed. I cannot command her several warnings, she was ashamed to acknowledge myself sufficiently to say more, only let me make one as her negligence, and took refuge in the shelter she had surance, that whatever misery has been and may yet be too often successfully sought. Had she anticipated the my doom, guilt has no share in my wretchedness-I | fatal consequences of her oblivion, her bridal felicity cannot refuse myself the consolation of your esteem." Margaret made no reply-she could not. Had her existence depended on the utterance of one word, she could not have commanded it. She extended her hand, however, in token of that friendship, she believed was hereafter to be the only bond that was to unite them.-Long after Mr. Hall was gone, she sat in the same attitude, pale and immovable as a statute, but who can tell

would have been converted into agony and despair. She
had left the paper containing the powder, yet undissolv-
ed, on the mantel piece of her chamber. The chamber
maid who arranged the room after her departure, seeing
it, and supposing it to be medicine, put it in the box that
Mrs. Astor devoted to that department, in the midst of
calomel, salts, antimony &c. It was folded in brown
paper, like the rest, and there was no label to indicate its

"You say," said she to her, in a low tone, that my friends have been kind in their inquiries for me? Most of them are strangers, and yet I thank them."

"Mr. Hall has called more than once," replied Mrs. Astor, "he, I believe, is well known to you."

"He is, indeed," said Mrs. St. Henry-" and I wish that I could see him--but it cannot be; no, it would not answer."

Mrs. Astor longed to ask the nature of their former acquaintance, but a conviction that the question would be a painful one, restrained the expression of her curiosity.

"Would you not like to send for some of your friends, your husband?" said Mrs. Astor, "my servants shall be at your disposal."

"You are very kind," answered Mrs. St. Henry, quickly, "but it is not necessary; my husband is too infirm to travel, and believing me well, he will suffer no anxiety on my account-I think I shall be quite well, after taking your sovereign medicine. Give it me now, if you please, while I am in a vein of compliance.

She turned with so lovely a smile, and extended her hand with so much grace that Mrs. Astor stood for a moment thinking what a beautiful picture she would make; then, taking the lamp in her hand, she opened her closet and took down the medicine casket. It happened that the first paper she touched was that which Mary had left, and which the servant had mingled with the others.

"Here is one already prepared," cried she, "I always keep them ready; the exact number of grains usually given, as we often want it suddenly and in the night."

She mixed the fatal powder with some delicious jelly, and, holding to the lips of her patient with a cheering smile said, “Come, it has no disagreeable taste at all.”

Mrs. St. Henry gave a nervous shudder, but took it, unconscious of its deadly properties; and Mrs. Astor, praising her resolution, seated herself in an easy chair by the bedside, and began to read. She became deeply interested in her book, though the occasionally glanced toward her patient to see if she slept. She had placed the lamp so that its light would not shine upon the bed

and the most perfect quietness reigned in the apartment. How long this tranquility lasted it is impossible to tell, for she was so absorbed in her book that time passed unheeded.

"Forgive me," she cried, in hollow and altered accents-" Augustus, you are terribly avenged-I loved you even when I left you for another. O pray for me to that great God who is consuming me, to have mercy on me hereafter."

At length Mrs. St. Henry began to moan, and toss her arms about as if in sudden pain. Mrs. Astor leant He did pray; but it was in spirit-his lips could not over her and took her hand. It was hot and burning; articulate, but his uplifted hands and streaming eyes her cheek had a scarlet flush on it, and when she open-called down blessing and pardon upon the dying penied her eyes she saw they had a wild and alarming ex- tent. The reason that had flashed out for a moment, pression. rekindled by memory and passion, was now gone forever. All the rest was but the striving of mortal pain, the rending asunder of body and soul. In a short time all was over, and the living were left to read one of the most tremendous lessons on the vanity of beauty and the frailty of life, mortality could offer in all its gloomy annals.

"Water," she exclaime, leaning on her elbow, and pushing back her hair hurriedly from her brow, "Give me water, for I die of thirst."

"I dare not," answered Mrs. Astor, terrified by her manner--" any thing but that to quench your thirst." She continued still more frantically to call for water, till Mrs. Astor, excessively alarmed, sent for the doctor, "This is no place for you now," said the doctor, takand called in other attendance. As he was in the neighing Mr. Hall's arm, and drawing him into another aborhood, he came immediately. He looked aghast at partment, where, secure from intrusion, he could be the situation of his patient, for she was in a paroxysm alone with God and his own heart. of agony at his entrance, and his experienced eye saw the danger of the case.

"What have you given to her, madam?" said he, turning to Mrs. Astor with a countenance that made her tremble.

"What have you given me?" exclaimed Mrs. St. Henry, grasping her wrist with frenzied strength, "you have killed me--it was poison-I feel it in my heart and in my brain!”

There was another duty to perform-to investigate the mystery that involved this horrible tragedy. The apothecary was summoned, who, after recovering from his first consternation, recollected that a short time previous he had sold a quantity of corrosive subli.nate to a little black girl, according to her mistress' orders.

these events in a sufficient degree, she wrote to Mary a detailed account, begging her and Margaret to return immediately, and cheer the home which now seemed so desolate. The letter was long in reaching her, for the travellers were taking a devious.course, and could leave behind them no precise directions.

Mary was in one of her gayest, brightest of humors, when she received the epistle. She was putting on some new ornaments, which Charles had presented to her, and he was looking over her shoulder at the fair image reflected in the glass, whose brow was lighted up with the triumph of conscious beauty.

"I look shockingly ugly to-day," said she, with a smile which belied her words.

"You tell stories with such a grace," replied her flattering husband, "I am afraid we shall be in love with falsehood."

"A letter from our dear Mrs. Astor; open it, Charles, while I fasten this bracelet; and read it aloud that Margaret and I can qoth hear it."

Before Charles had read one page, Mary sunk down at his feet, rending the air with hysterical screams.— Her husband, who was totally unaware of the terrible agency she had had in the affair, raised her in indescribable alarm. Her own wild expressions, howevef, revealed the truth, which Margaret's shivering lips confirmed.

The servants were called in for examination, and Dinah, the imputed destroyor of the mirror, whose terror “Oh, had you but told me the truth," said Margaret, was now deemed the result of conscious guilt. Mrs. As-raising her tearful eyes to heaven, "how simple-how Mrs. Astor screamed, and snatched up the paper that tor vehemently protested that she had never sent her, easy had it been!-Charles, Charles," added she, with had fallen on the carpet. that it was the blackest falsehood; and Dinah, though startling energy, "praise not this rash, misguided girl “Look at it, doctor-it was calomel, just as you pre- she told the whole truth, how Mary had forbidden her for the grace with which she lies-I will not recall the scribed-what else could it be?" to tell it was for her, and that she merely used her mis- word. By the worth of your own soul, and of hers, The doctor examined the paper; there was a little tress' name on that account, gained no belief. The teach her that as there is a God above, he requires truth powder still sticking to it. chamber-maid who had found the paper and put it in the in the inward heart." "Good heavens, doctor," cried Mrs. Astor, "why do chest, withheld her testimony, fearing she might be imyou look so ?-what was it?" plicated in the guilt.

"Where did you get this?" said he sternly. "At the apothecary's—I took it from that chest-examine it, pray."

Every thing tended to deepen the evidence against her. The affair of the broken looking-glass was again revived. She had been heard to say, after her memorable flagellation, that she wished her mistress was dead, that she would kill her if she could; and many other expressions, the result of a smarting back and a woun

The doctor turned away with a groan and approached his beautiful patient, now gasping and convulsed. He applied the most powerful antidotes, but without effect. "I am dying," she cried-" I am dying-I am poi-ded spirit, were brought up against her. soned--but oh, doctor, save me-save me-let me see him, if I must die, let me see him again," and she held out her hands imploringly to Mrs. Astor, who was in a state little short of distraction.

"Tell me if you mean Mr. Hall."

It was a piteous thing to see the fright and hear the pleadings of the wretched girl: "Oh don't send me to jail, don't hang ine, send for Miss Mary," she repeated wringing her bands, and rolling her eyes like a poor animal whom the hunters have at bay. But to jail she

Charles trembled at the solemnity of the adjuration, and conscience told him that all the agonies which his wife suffered, and all the remorse which was yet to be her portion, were just. Margaret sought the solitude of her chamber, and there on her knees, she endeavored to find calmness. The image of Mr. Hall, mourning over the death-bed of one once so fondly loved, the witness of her last throes, the receiver of her last repentant sigh, rose between her and the Creator. Then that radiant face, that matchless form, which had so lately excited a feeling of envy even in her pure heart, now, blasted by consuming poison and mouldering in the cold grave; how awful was the thought, and how fearful the retribution! She whose vain heart had by falsehood

"Who should I mean but Augustus?" said she, "in was sent, for who could doubt her guilt, or pity her af- | endangered the very existence of another, was the vicdeath, perhaps, he may forgive me.”

The doctor made a motion signifying that her request should be complied with, and a messenger was despatched.

ter witnessing its dreadful consequences?

tim of the very vice which had blackened her own spirA damp, dreary prison house, where, seated on a pal- | it. Yes, there is retribution even in this world. let of straw, she was left to brood day after day, over Mary returned, but how changed from the gay and her accumulated wrongs, hopeless of sympathy or re- blooming bride! Her check was pale, and her eye headress. Let those who consider a "white lie" a venial vy. She hastened to repair the only wrong now susoffence, who look upon deceit as necessary to the hap- ceptible of any remedy. The prison doors of poor Dipiness and harmony of society, reflect on the consequen- nah were thrown open, and her innocence declared; but ces of Mary Ellis's moral delinquency, and tremble at could the long and lonely days and nights spent in that the view. She had not done more than a thousand oth-weary, gloomy abode be blotted out? Could the pangs

What an awful scene was presented when he entered that chamber of death! Was that the idol of his young heart, the morning star of his manhood? she, who lay livid, writhing and raving there? Her long, dark hair hung in dishevelled masses over her neck and arms, her large black eyes were fearfully dilated, anders have done and are daily doing; and yet, what was of cold, shuddering fear, the dream of the gallows, the full of that unutterable agony which makes the spirit to the result? The soul of the lovely, the erring.and the rope, the hangman's grasp around the gurgling throat, quail before the might of human suffering. Cold sweat unprepared had been sent shuddering into eternity, a the dark coffin seat, the scoffing multitude be forgotten? drops gleamed on her marble brow, and her hands were household made wretched, the innocent condemned, a No!-Dinah's spirit was broken, for though her skin damp with that dew which no morning sunbeam can neighborhood thrown into consternation and gloom.—was black, there was sensibility and delicacy too beneath ever exhale. Had Mary confessed her negligence to Margaret, in- her ebon coloring. "Almighty Father," exclaimed Mr. Hall, "what a stead of telling an unnecessary and untempted falsesight is this!"

Could she bring back the gladness that once pervadhood, a warning message could then have been easily ed the dwelling of Mrs. Astor? Every thing there was The sound of that voice had the power to check the sent back, and the wide-spread ruin prevented. There changed. The room in which Mrs. St. Henry died was ravings of delirium: she shrieked and stretched out her is no such thing on earth as a "white lie;" they are all closed, for it was haunted by too terrible remembrances. arms towards him, and he sunk kneeling by the bed-black as the blackest shades of midnight; and no Fuller Bitterly did Mary mourn over the grave of her victim: side, covering his face with his hands to shut out the can whiten them. but she could not recall her by her tears. No remorse appalling spectacle. When Mrs. Astor had recovered from the shock of could open the tomb, or re-deck its occupant with beauty.

Margaret, the true, pure hearted and upright Marga-of genius; that no person ever appreciated a feeling or ret, was not destined, like Mary, to gather the thorns property of the intellect in another which she did not and briars of existence. Long did the fragrance of her herself possess in a degree at least. A less selfish man, roses last, for she had not plucked them with too rash a instead of requiring mediocrity and a worshipper in the hand. place of a companion, would only wish that the beautiful delicacy which nature has implanted in the female mind to chasten and refine its genius, should be preserved, and that in her pursuits and feelings she should be womanly and true to her sex.

She and Mr. Hall again met. The moral sympathy which had drawn them together, was not weakened by the tragic event that had intervened; it had rather be come stronger in suffering and sorrow. Mr. Hall never could forget the death scene of Laura St. Henry.— The love expressed for him a moment when all earthly dissimulation was over, had inexpressibly affected him. Her unparalleled sufferings seemed an expiation for her broken faith. It was at her grave that he and Margaret first met after their sad separation, when the falling shades of evening deepened the solemnity of the scene. Sorrow, sympathy, devotion and truth, form a most holy groundwork for love, and when once the temple is raised on such a foundation, the winds and waves may beat against it in vain.

Mr. Hall found by his own experience that the bruised heart can be healed, for Margaret's soothing hand poured oil and balm on its wounds. He could repose on her faith as firmly as on the rock which ages have planted. He knew that she loved him, and felt it due to her happiness as well as his own, to ask her to be the companion of his pilgrimage. If they looked back upon the clouds that had darkened their morning, it was without self-reproach, and remembrance gradually lost its sting.

Who will say she was not happier than Mary, who carried in her bosom, through life, that which "biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder?"

'I revere talent in any form," said a young friend in conversation with me the other evening, "but, in selecting a wife, I should never think of choosing a woman of genius?"

"And why not?" I inquired, expecting to hear him advance the usual list of objections to literary womentheir want of domestic habits, their eccentricities, carelessness of fashion, and the thousand unjust charges urged against a class of women as little understood as any on the face of the earth.

My friend was a man of no inconsiderable talent, and from him the sentiment was strange and ungenerous. It was probably the first time that he had ever been called upon to think seriously on the subject. He seemed puzzled how to make a fitting reply.

Why," he said, after a moment's hesitation, my beau ideal is somewhat like that of Byron. My wife should have talent enough to understand and to value mine, but not sufficient to be able to shine herself. I could love a woman who was entirely occupied with literature. I want feeling, affection, devotion to myself; a domestic woman who would think my approbation sufficient for her happiness, and would have no desire for greater admiration. I could never be happy with an ambitious woman."

Upon my return home, the injustice of my friend's speech haunted me. He wanted feeling, affection and domestic qualities in a wife, and, therefore, would not seek one in a woman of genius. Byron's beau ideal is as purely a creature of the imagination as his Haidee or Zuleika. He seems to have forgotten that to understand and value talent is one of the highest attributes

Pen and paper lay convenient, and in fancy, I went on discoursing and questioning as if the culprit had been present in person.

Have you been thoroughly acquainted with a woman of undoubted genius-one who stands high in any department of our literature? Have you been domesticated with one-seen her at all seasons-entered into the sanctuary of her thoughts-have you been the brother, husband, father or even friend of one?

guage and for sympathy, and that ideas gush up from the mind unsought and uncalled for, as waters leap from their fount when the earth is deluged with moisture. I am almost certain that the most beautiful things which enrich our literature, have sprung to life from the sweet, irresistible impulse for creation which pervaded the heart of the author without motive and without aim.

The motives which urge literary women to publish, are probably as various as those which lead persons to any other calling. Many may place themselves before the world from a natural and strictly feminine thirst for sympathy; from the same feeling which prompts a generous boy to call his companions about him when he has found a robin's nest hid away among the blossoming boughs of an old apple-tree, or a bed of ripe strawberries melting in their own ruby light through the grass on a hill-side. The discovery would be almost valueless could he find none to gaze on the blue eggs exposed in the bottom of the nest, or to revel with him in the luscious treasure of the strawberry-bed; so the enjoyment of a mental discovery is enhanced by appreciation.

You say no, and yet, without knowledge, decide that they are not fit objects of domestic affection; that, because certain uncommon powers are granted to them by the Most High for His own good purpose, the common That women sometimes publish, from the impulse of attributes which form the loveliness and beauty of wo- vanity, it were useless to deny; but, in such cases, the manhood are withheld. You would hedge them round effort is usually worthy of the motive; it touches no with respect and reverence, and yet fear to give them heart because it emanates from none; it kindles no pure the affection which is to none more precious, by none imagination-it excites no holy impulses-because, the more thirsted for, or more keenly appreciated. You impulse from which it originated is neither worthy nor would smother the spark which must kindle all which lofty. It may be safely asserted, that no woman who is worthy of love in the genius of woman. You would has written or published, from the promptings of ambibuild to her an altar of marble, cold as the grave, and tion or vanity, alone, was ever successful or ever will be. bow down your intellect before it in the homage which She may gain notoriety, but that is a consequence of mind renders to mind, without one thought that beneath authorship, which must ever be painful to a woman of her mental wealth are affections of proportionate strength true genius, unless is added to it that public respect and which gush up at the call of sympathy, and tinge the private affection which can never be secured by one who mind with the hues of beauty, as the sun forms a rain-writes from a wish to shine, alone. bow by weaving its light among the water-drops of a summer shower. Deep and sensitive feelings can alone give that delicacy and pathos which will ever distinguish the productions of a truly feminine author from those of men. The very word genius comprehends all that makes the loveliness of woman. It signifies but the power to feel, deeply combined with an intellect capable of embodying feelings into language, and of conveying images of truth and beauty from the heart of the writer to the heart of the reader.

Literature is an honorable profession, and that women devote a portion of their time to it, requires neither excuse nor palliation, so long as they preserve the delicacy and gentleness which are the attributes of their sex. It would be folly to assert that there is anything in the nature of genius which incapacitates its possessor for usefulness, or that a literary woman may not be, in the strictest sense of the word, a domestic one.

That the distinguished women of our country are remarkable for domestic qualities, admits of proof, from Why then should you refuse to draw the mantle of many brilliant examples. Most of those who stand foredomestic love about the woman of genius? Ambitious, are they? do they publish?

most in our world of letters, perform the duties of moElse, why do they write, why thers, wives and housekeepers in connexion with the pursuits of mind. It is a mistaken idea that literature must engross the entire time or attention, even of those who make authorship a profession. It is to be doubted if the most industrious female writer among us spends more hours out of the twenty-four at her desk than the fashionable belle devotes to the adornment of her person.

Why do they write? Why does the bird sing, but that its little heart is gushing over with melody? Why does the flower blossom but that it has been drenched with dew and kindled up by the sunshine, till its perfume bursts the petals and lavishes its sweetness on the air? Why does the artist become restless with a yearning want as the creatures of his fancy spring to life beneath his pencil? When his ideal has taken to itself a form of beauty, does he rest until some kindred eye has gazed with his upon the living canvass? His heart is full of a strange joy, and he would impart something of that joy to anothor. Is this vanity? No, it is a beautiful desire for sompathy. The feeling may partake of a love of praise, but it is one which would be degraded by the title of ambition.

There are few American woman, except those who labor for their daily bread, who, by a systematic arrangement of time, cannot command three or four hours each day, without encroaching on her household duties, the claims of society, or the little season of domestic enjoyment, when her household seeks companionship and relaxation at home. These hours, devoted to authorship, at a moderate computation, would produce four duodecimo volumes a year. Thus, by a judicious management of time, she has produced a property more or less valuable, enriched and strengthened her own mind, carried the sunshine of thought to thousands, and all without necessarily sacrificing one domestic duty, without the least degree of personal publicity which need to shock the most fastidious delicacy.

Ask any woman of genius why she writes, and she will tell you it is because she cannot help it, that there are times when a power which she can nsither comprehend nor resist, impels her to the sweet exercise of her intellect, that at such moments there is a happiness in the very exertion-a thrilling excitement which makes Cast not a shadow, even, of implied reproach upon a the action of thought "its own exceeding reward;" that class of women, who are quietly and steadily exerting a her heart is crowded with feelings which pant for lan-healthy influence in domestic life, rather let men of pow

er-and, in this country, there is no power like that of intellect-extend to them such aid and encouragement as will best preserve the purity of female literature. So long as the dignity and delicacy of sex is preserved, there can be no competion between men and women of genius. In literature, as in every thing else, the true woman will feel how much better it is to owe something to the protection, generosity and forbearance of the stronger and sterner sex, than to enter into an unnatural strife in the broad arena which men claim for the trial of masculine intellect.

Open the fountains of domestic love to her, and there is little danger that her genius will stray from the sunny nooks of literature, or that she will forsake the pure wells of affection, to leap into high road of politics-to lose her identity in the smoke of a battle-field, or to gather up popular applause and unsatisfactory admiration, in place of tenderness, and all those home comforts which cling so naturally around the feminine heart.

It has been beautifully said, that the heart is woman's dominion. Cast her not forth, then, from the little kingdom which she may do so much to purify and embellish. Her gentle culture has kept many of those rugged passes green, where sterner laborers might have left them sterile and blossomless.

hours of study were stolen from those of sleep and of which the identity of lightning and electricity was de-
meals or gained by some ingenious contrivance for read-monstrated, were made with a sheet of brown paper, a
ing while the work of his daily calling went on. As- bit of twine, a silk thread, and an iron key.
sisted by none of the helps which affluence tenders to
to the studies of the rich, he had to supply the place of
tutors by redoubled diligence, and of commentaries by
repeated perusals. Nay, the possession of books was to
be obtained by copying what the art which he himself
exercised furnished easily to others.

Next, the circumstances under which others succumb he made to yield, and bent to his own purposes-a successful leader of a revolt that ended in complete triumph after appearing desperate for years; a great discoverer in philosophy without the ordinary help to knowledge; a writer famed for his chaste style without a classical education; a skilful negotiator, though never bred to politics; ending as a favorite, nay, as a pattern of fash- | ion when the guest of frivolous courts, the life which he had begun in garrets and in work-shops.

Lastly, the combinations of faculties, in others deemed impossible, appeared easy and natural in him. The philosopher, delighting in speculation, was also eminently a man of action. Ingenious reasoning, refined and subtle consolation, were in him combined with prompt resolution and inflexible firmness of purpose. To a liveIf you would cultivate genius aright, cherish it amongly fancy, he joined a learned and deep reflection; his the most holy of your household gods. Make it a domestic plant. Let its roots strike deep in your home, nor care that its perfume floats to a thousand casements besides your own, so long as its greenness and its blossoms are for you. Flowers of the sweetest breath give their perfume most lavishly to the breeze, and, yet, without exhausting their own delicate urns.

Character of Franklin.

BY LORD BROUGHAM.

One of the most remarkable men certainly of our time as a politician. or of any age as a philosopher, was Franklin, who also stands alone in combining these two characters, the greatest that men can sustain, and in this, that having borne the first part in enlarging science by one of the greatest discoveries ever made, he bore the second part in founding one of the greatest empires in the world.

In this truly great man every thing seems to concur that goes towards the constitution of exalted merit. First he was the architect of his own fortune. Born in the humblest station, he raised himself by his talents and his industry, first to the place in society which may be attained with the help only of ordinary abilities, great application and good luck; but next to the loftier heights which a daring and happy genius only can scale; and a poor printer's boy, who at one period of his life had no covering to shelter his head from the dews of night, rent in twain the proud dominion of England, and lived to be the ambassador of a Commonwealth which he had formed, at the court of the haughty monarchs of France, who had been his allies.

original and inventive genius stooped to the convenient
alliance of the most ordinary prudence in every day af-
fairs; the mind that soared above the clouds, and was
conversant with the loftiest of human contemplations,
disdained not to make proverbs and feigned parables for
the guidance of apprenticed youths and servile maidens;
and the hands that sketched a free constitution for a
whole continent, or drew down the lightning from hea-
ven, easily and cheerfully lent themselves to simplify the
apparatus by which truths were to be illustrated; or dis-
coveries pursued.

His whole course, both in acting and in speculation, was simple and plain, ever prefering the easiest and shortest road, nor ever having recourse to any but the simplest means to compass his ends. His policy rejected all refinements, and aimed at accomplishing its purposes by the most rational and obvious expedients. His language was unadorned, and used as the medium of communi ating his thoughts, not of raising admiration; but it was pure, expressive, racy. His manner of reasoning was manly and cogent, the address of a rational being to others of the same order; and so concise, that, preferring decision to discussion, he never exceeded a quarter of an hour in any public address. His correspondence upon business, whether private or on State affairs, is a model of clearness and commendious shortness; nor can any State papers surpass in dignity and impression those which he is believed to have been the author in the earlier part of the American Revoluttonary war. His mode of philosophizing was the purest application of the inductive principle, so eminently adapted to his nature, and so clearly dictated by common sense, that we Then he had been tried by prosperity as well as ad- can have little doubt it would have been suggested by verse fortune, and had passed unhurt through the perils Franklin if it had not been unfolded by Bacon, though of both. No ordinary apprentice, no common-place it is as clear that in this case it would have been expoundjourneyman, ever laid the foundation of his indepenpence ed in far more simple terms. But of all this great man's and habits of industry and temperance more deep than scientific excellencies, the most remarkable is the smallhe did, whose genius was afterwards to rank him withness, the simplicity, the apparent inadequacy of the the Galileos and Newtons of the old world. No patri- means which he employed in his experimental researchcian born to shine in courts or assist at the counsels of es. His discoveries were made with hardly any apparamonarchs, ever bore his honors in a lofty station more easily, or was less spoilt by the enjoyment of them, than this common workman did when negotiating with royal representatives, or caressed by all the beauty and fashion of the most brilliant court in Europe.

Again, he was self-taught in all he knew,

tus at all, and if, at any time, he had been led to employ instruments of a somewhat ordinary description, he never rested satisfied until he had as it were, afterwards translated the process, by resolving the problem with such simple machinery that you might say he had done Hisit wholly unarmed by apparatus. The experiments by

Upon the integrity of this great man, whether in public or in private life, there rests no stain. Strictly honest, and even scrupulously punctual, in all his dealings, he preserved in the highest fortune that regularity which he had practised as well as inculcated in the lowest.The phrase which he once used when interrupted in his proceedings upon the most arduous and important affairs by a demand of some petty item in a long account:— "Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treads out the corn," has been cited against him as proving the laxity of his dealings when in trust of public money: it plainly proves the reverse; for he well knew that, in a country abounding in discussion, and full of bitter personal animosities, nothing could be gained if immunity by refusing to produce his vouchers at the fitting time; and his venturing to use such language demonstrates that he knew his conduct to be really above all suspicion.

In his family he was every thing that worth, warm affections, and sound prudence could contribute to make a man both useful and and amiable, respected and beloved. In religion he would by many be reckoned a latitudinarian ; yet it is certain that his mind was imbued with a deep sense of the divine perfections, a constant impression of our accountable nature, and a lively hope of future enjoyment. Accordingly, his death-bed, the test of both faith and works, was easy and placid, resigned and devout; and indicated at once an unflinching retrospect of the past, and comfortable assurance of the future.

The Mirror.

FRANCIS L. HAGADORN, EDITOR AND PROprietor.

The Mirror has been well defined
The emblem of a thinking mind,
For, look upon it when you will,
You'll find it is reflecting still.

NEW BRIGHTON, N. Y. JULY 6, 1839.

FOURTH OF JULY.

This glorious sabbath of our year has passed again upon the round of time. In New York the day was celebrated in the usual manner, by parades during the day and fireworks &c. at night. Major General Sandford's division of Artillery was reviewed in line on the battery at 9 o'clock, when they proceeded up Whitehall street and Broadway to Chambers street, through Chambers and Hudson streets to Canal, through Canal to Broadway and down Broadway to the Park; where they passed the Corporation on review and were dismissed.

Two splendid steamboats, the Utica and the Columbus, left the city in the afternoon and performed a delightful trip around Staten Island. While the various water craft which dotted the bay conspired to pour a continuous stream of visitors upon our shores. At nine o'clock in the morning the Sunday School children left the city in the steamboats Sandusky, New London, United States, Henry Eckford, and Olive Branch, which with nine barges, were placed at their disposal for the day, without money and without price. The whole flotilla was crowded with the swarming little ones and proceeded down the bay to Tompkinsville, on this island where they disembarked under their proper leaders and proceeded to the lawns and hills which had been prepared for them. They there partook of some slight refreshment and commenced their devotional exercises which are described by all who witnessed them as being highly interesting and eloquently impressive.— Their march through the Quarantine gateway resembled the immense caravans of the east returning from