But though the foundation of souls may be the same, it is impossible not to see that the two sexes are called to occupy very different stations. Men are destined to the public stage; women to domestic life. Men must force their way by resolution and activity; women win most by modesty and retirement. Man must mingle with the temptations of life, must leave his home, must sometimes cross the seas, must encounter the dangers of foreign enterprise and foreign climes; but, woman must adorn the circle, guide the house, soothe by her polished affability, and instruct by her silent example. The trades and professions of men are various; but women have only to learn the common art of being good daughters, sisters and wives. Laying religion out of the question, which knows no distinction, the objects for which they live are not so various. A virtuous woman is almost the same being in all stations; and, in all the ranks of life, she is called almost precisely to the same duties. If she would be respected, she must be something of an intellectual being; if she would meet with kindness and affection, she must show them in her turn; if she would win that noblest of all rewards, which the wise man has mentioned—her husband also praiseth her ;—if she would win these praises, (seldom won without merit,) she must manage her family with neatness, economy and skill. The object of her life is extremely simple; and the only difficulty I can conceive of, is, in uniting the ornamental and useful parts in one beautiful proportion; in passing from the parlor to the kitchen, without confounding or losing the character suitable to both; and this difficulty is not insuperable, for thousands have overcome it.

Now the object of education must be to draw forth, in the best manner, these native powers to their appropriate and life-assigned objects. Women are not inferior to men in their intellectual structure; but you can never make them feel that their interest, their success, their happiness are combined with the severer sciences, and the most laborious literary efforts. They never will make those desperate struggles to become great scholars, which can only be called forth when a man is contending for all his usefulness and all his fame. But still, let them rise to their proper level; let them keep pace with the improvements of the world; let them become qualified for the best society and the wisest conversation; let them prepare themselves for the sphere in which they are to act, and the compound characters which they are to sustain; and should there be among them some soaring mind, qualified by God for that bold eminence, where all fear, none aid you, and few understand, and willing to make the sacrifice-why, let her climb. No one has a right to forbid her. She must lose much, and she may gain much. She must give up the gentler suavities of life, and she may gain the iron throne of philosophy; but if she has counted the cost, no one has a right to forbid her. If a woman will leave the garden of Eden by plucking the tree of knowledge, she is a free agent, and must be permitted to rise or fall.

But whatever course you pursue, or however high you may fix your standard, you must remember that nothing useful is gained without application and perseverance. All we acquire is the effect of toil, and the powers of youth should not seemingly, but really, be devoted to efforts preparing us to act our part in life. In the cultivation of our minds, false labors will in time be detected. It is not the hours spent in the

school; it is not the name of a study; it is not even the lesson imprinted on the memory, which will raise you above the common level of ignorance, or entitle you to the credit of a good education. You must soar above the levity and conquer the indolence of our natures. must learn the inestimable value of youthful time.

You

These hours roll away with speed, and when they are gone it is impossible to recall them. Our minds never can become susceptible again; our opportunities never can return. Idleness, in this period, is peculiarly criminal, for its effects will remain through life. Let us imagine a young lady, very pretty and very vain, not possessed of any wonderful endowments at the outset. She begins life with small intellect and its usual attendant-much conceit; and her little stock has been still less improved. She has spent her childhood in romping -in roving-in giggling-in vexing her teachers, and in deceiving her parents, until she leaves school with as small a stock as possible without absolute disgrace. But some people say she is handsome; and other some are sure to tell her of it; and she is sure to believe it. We will suppose she had a comely face, and when you have said that you have said all. She is married; and balls and parties must now give place to the sober duties of life. Alas, her days of happiness are gone. The transient ornaments of youth pass away, and no solid attainments remain to supply their place. Neglected time returns to take long years of vengeance for the hours that have been lost. She has learned nothing-she knows nothing-and she is nothing. In the mean time her husband wakes to see the truth: he may not use her ill-he may not reproach her; but he may and must regard her as an insect buzzing over his path-adding nothing to his happiness-sometimes hardly attracting his notice-never admitting her as a counsellor in his plans-often mortified when they go into company-and never amused, or instructed, or interested, in the least degree, when they are left alone. They are paired, not matched; they endure life; they never enjoy it. The parlor of such a woman is as cold and as joyless as the sepulchre. She is dependent wholly on company. She has no home. She passes her days in exile. The only smile she ever wins from her husband is that insulting smile of stifled pity, which makes us feel as if we were less than nothing. Do you fear this? Then be diligent.

It is the misfortune of women that the contrast is far greater between the prospects of their youth and their final experience than it is in our sex. We are both deceived by our hopes; we both of us see life through a false medium. But while men wake by degrees, as they see flower after flower fade along the descending path of life, in the lot of woman it is often but a single step from the garden to the desert. The trials of life come before they are hardened to them. They are often admired and flattered beyond all bounds in youth, only to be neglected and despised ever after. In the distribution of happiness, I cannot persuade myself that an impartial God has so far departed from our conceptions of goodness as to set one sex much above the other. Both have their trials and advantages—their peculiar sorrows and peculiar consolations. But it ought not to be concealed that the life of woman, whilst it knows nothing of the triumphs and defeats of the public stage, is often shaded by those domestic evils, which,

spirits by a conIt is household You must some

though they never startle the imagination, waste the stant wearing. Yours are incommunicable sorrows, unhappiness. You must often feel and suffer alone. times meet the unkindness which you cannot utter, because you are afraid to increase it. You must bear the returning trial with patience, when patience is exhausted. You must summon your fortitude when your strength is gone; and endure the mortification, which drinks up the spirits, with no relief but tears, and no witness but GOD.

Where now is your refuge? and to what sanctuary will you fly for a shelter and a friend? Nothing but the Gospel can support you. So far as the wants of this life are concerned, religion is far more necessary to you, than self-sufficient man. In you it would be not only criminal but impolitic to neglect it. Morality is a part of your reputation; you cannot swerve from it without becoming infamous; and religion you need as an anchor to the soul; as the healing medicine of a wounded heart. This will teach you to look beyond the world-to carry your sins and your sorrows to God-to take shelter under the cross of Christ-to drink deeply into his spirit. It will preserve your tempers from being soured by affliction; it will present one great aim for which you are always to live. It will preserve, in all conditions, a sense of your dignity when you remember Christ died for you as for all sinners; it will keep you humble amidst flattery and success when you remember you are sinners. The Gospel is a great leveler-it levels all things. It levels our privileges and levels our guilt-levels our hopes and levels our fears. The Gospel is woman's ornament and woman's hope; without this, you are on the ocean, you have no anchor; the storm is abroad-the rocks are near.

Then come, my blooming readers, and lay your first foundation in the love and the fear of God. Begin with a knowledge of yourselves, as helpless, dependent, frail, dying creatures. Let the very cornerstone, on which you build your characters, be a humble heart. Be Christians-sincere and thorough Christians. To real religion, add the mild affections and the duties of morality. Cultivate your minds, enenlarge your views, and increase your knowledge, as much as you can. This will put power into your hands, which, if you know how to use it, will make you more useful. But whilst you feel that you are intellectual beings, never forget that you are women. That is your station; there you are to act; there you must be useful; there you must find your happiness, if it ever be found. Every acquirement you make should take a tinge from your sex.

I have heard some ladies of great excellence complain and say— What avail all the studies of woman, and all her youthful hopes, when she must, after all, be crushed down to the dull detail of domestic life? How can she remember her books amidst the cares of a family? Would it not be better for her to read the art of cooking and the seventy-five recipes, and never think of soaring to knowledge, every particle of which she must forget, when she begins her duties and her cares? But these complaints come from not knowing how to use the materials. There is a passage from almost every species of knowledge, to some species of usefulness; and it is for you to find it.

There is a general impression abroad, that a learned woman is an unamiable character. It generally suggests the idea of something

rough, unmanageable, disputative, haughty, vain. But the impression is not correct. It is not the learning which makes the woman unlovely, but the affectation which accompanies it. Remember your duties; remember your stations, and you may be as learned as you please.

And, after all, many of your accomplishments are founded on your virtues. Where there is a humble heart, and modest pretensions, the smallest and the greatest abilities will be respected. It is pride which makes poor human nature ridiculous and contemptible. This is the great enemy of your sex as well as ours. Perhaps I cannot give a more important direction than to say, Beware of the flatterer. G.

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

CHAP. V.

Of bataille and of chevalrie,

Of ladies' love and druerie,

Anon I wol you tell. CHAUCER.

THE sun is high in heaven, and the air almost breathless. There is hardly a person in the garden; and the swans, that sail about with so stately a motion on the still, transparent water of yonder basin, seem to enjoy the deep solitude around them. Let us sit down upon the cool stone bench beneath this tree. The branches above us are motionless; but now and then a breath of wind lifts their heavy mass of foliage, and its tesselated shadow sweeps the hard-beaten walks beneath. I have here a tale of olden time, which I copied from an ancient chronicle, and which will serve to beguile a tedious hour. Listen; thus the story runs.

It was near the close of a sultry day in August, that Isabeau de Bavière, wife of Charles VI. made her entrée into Paris by the Gate of Saint Denis. It was a scene of the greatest pomp and magnificence. All the streets, through which the procession was to pass, from the Porte Saint Denis to the church of Notre Dame, were richly carpeted, and awnings of silk and damask, stretched from roof to roof, excluded the burning rays of the declining sun, and formed a splendid canopy. Little jets of sweet-scented water perfumed the air, and the various fountains in the streets ran with wine, milk, or hypocras. The procession was led by a mounted guard, superbly caparisoned, bearing the Oriflamme of Saint Denis, and accompanied by a band of music. Next, in an open sedan-chair, came the Queen, clothed in robes of state, and sparkling with jewels. The deputies of the various classes of tradesmen, or Corps de Marchands, held over her head the crimson dais, blazoned with the fleurs-de-lis; and, behind her, came the Corps de Métiers, or artisans of the city, superbly mounted, and representing, in various characteristic disguises, Death, Purgatory, Hell, and Paradise; and the seven mortal sins, and the seven cardinal virtues, Faith, Hope, Charity, Justice, Prudence, Strength, and Temperance. At intervals, along the sides of the street, temporary theatres had been erected,

where the scripture histories of the old and new Testaments were performed in pantomime, with choruses of music interspersed. On one stage was exhibited the Sacrifice of Abraham; on another the Combat of David and Goliath; a third exhibited the scene between Balaam and his Ass; and on the fourth were seen the Shepherds of Bethlehem, watching their flocks, and the Angels announcing the advent of the Savior, and singing Gloria in excelcis Deo. But the scene which surpassed all others in splendor and decorations was at the Painters' Gate, the Porte aux Peintres, in the Rue Saint Denis. There a canopy of

blue silk was stretched across the street, thick-studded with stars of gold, representing Heaven. Beneath it sat the images of the Trinity— the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; and little children, in the form of Angels, sang in chorus. When the Queen passed, in her open litter, beneath the gate of Paradise, two Angels descended from above, holding in their hands a rich crown of gold, garnished with precious stones; and, placing it gently upon the brow of the Queen, they sang the following verse:

Dame enclose entre fleurs de lys,

Reine êtes-vous de Paradis,
De France, et de tout le Pays;
Nous remontons en Paradis.

As the procession moved along the thronged streets, the bailiffs and sergeants-at-arms were busy with their long staves in keeping back the crowd, which pressed in from every lane and avenue of the city, to witness the scene that was passing. At the mouth of one of the larger cross streets, which was pouring its living tide into the Rue Saint Denis, the crowd had assembled in so dense a mass as to impede the progress of the procession. Amid the throng were seen two men, mounted together, upon a powerful and high-spirited horse, which they urged forward with reckless indifference to the life and limb of the humble crowd on foot. The foremost of the riders was a tall, handsome person, clad in citizens' garb, with black hair and mustache. His companion, who rode behind, was somewhat younger in appearance, as the down upon his lip and chin had hardly thickened into a beard. In person, he was more athletic and robust than his fellow upon the saddle, and was dressed in the same simple garb. It was impossible for the crowd to make way; they were jostled right and left, and some were trampled upon. A scene of confusion ensued. The sergeants beat the throng back, and the riders urged forward their steed in the rear. Cries and imprecations filled the air, and the nearest of the crowd, on foot, endeavored to dismount the horsemen.

"Hold firm, Bien-aimé !" cried he who held the rein, and who seemed to enjoy the consternation of the multitude; "Hold firm, or by Saint Denis, you'll be unhorsed!" At the same time he seized the cap of a person near him, and dashed it into the face of a sergeant, who, having forced his way through the press, was aiming a blow at the horseman with his staff.

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'Turn, turn, for Heaven's sake," said the second rider, whose countenance exhibited evident marks of alarm as the tumult increased: "turn back, or we shall see the inside of the Bastille before sunset! These bourgeois are too strong for us.' As he spake these words, he grasped the bridle of the horse. The startled animal reared and