text, is painted on many a psalm. The thus illustrate; there are Bibles coming first verse of the Twenty-second is sha- home from India, from Delhi, with welldowed with his cross. Could any hand marked texts; from Cawnpore, from the draw that portrait? And all these sketch- ramparts of Lucknow, where the Highes that we have attempted, all that any landers of Havelock stood like tigers at man can collect, are but as a grain of bay; from many a station, where English sand to the countless grains upon the and Irish ladies passed in the gentle glory shore. There are histories that no man of believing womanhood to the land has written or can write; there are bio- where there are no more tears. What graphies beautiful in the book of life Christian home has not some such, with which no human eye can read; there are favorite passages italicized by the pencil calendars of home whose rubrics are of a departed saint? Thus are painted, colored by our hearts; there are texts in and will be painted to the end of time, every grave-yard which have faltered those countless figures that we have spokfrom many a dying lip, and been spoken en of, on the margin of the illustrated from many a pulpit that we might well book of God. From the London Critic. DELIRIUM OF LOVE AND CONVALESCENCE OF MARRIAGE.* WE quite concur with the author, or editor, of this volume when, in his preface, he terms the generality of love letters "ridiculous;" but we are not, therefore, persuaded that any amendment in that respect is desirable. A great philosopher has compressed the result of his examination into the profound subject of love into this remarkable saying: that "to love and be wise is scarce possible even for the gods." We may assume, therefore, that for some reason or other-perhaps because they are stunned by their fall into love; perhaps because it is a sweet intoxication of the senses-it is at any rate certain that when two persons fall into the category of lovers, they usually take leave of that habit of calm judgment which is commonly called common-sense. Even Solomon himself confessed that this was one of the four problems which baffled his wisdom; and shall we pretend to be wiser than he? Let us simply take it for a fact, reverently believing that there is some good reason for it, that true lovers talk, and write, and think nonsense, until the delirium has been calmed into the convalescence of marriage, and that common-sense and logic are to be found in a lover's brain in an inverse ratio with the fervor of his affections. The most famous collections of love effusions with which the literature of the world has been enriched have always appeared to us to be very suspicious-to be, after all, mere distortions, or at best pale calotypes of the original passion. Generally speaking, where a love affair has become famous through the eloquence of either party, it will be found that the reciprocity of the passion is at least doubtful, and that one or other of the parties, finding no satisfactory response in the bosom of the other, has had recourse to pen and paper rather than let all the fine frenzy be wasted in the air. It is clear that a love affair can be only half sincere when one of the persons engaged in it is indifferent or unintelligent; and it is for this reason that the poet who indulges in an unrequited love preserves his mental powers sufficiently to be able to compose good verses on the subject. When once his love is rewarded, his senses forsake him, and away flies the Muse. Take Petrarch and Laura for instance. The affection was entirely on his side: she appears to have been a particularly cool, self-possessed, and proper young person, not at all unwilling to receive the homage of the poet so long as it contributed to her celebrity, but perfectly aware of the imprudence of early marriages with gentlemen of literary tastes, and perfectly capable of keeping the poor fellow at arm's length without the aid of a duenna. She appears indeed to have been the most common-place person possible; and all that the biographer can find to tell us of her is, that she married a husband who was not Petrarch, and "had a large family by him." Who can believe that Petrarch's passion for such an individual was any thing but a convenient hook whereon to hang the splendid work of art-glorious though a counterfeit which so many have taken for the reflection of real passion? Had Laura responded to Petrarch's passion, he would have had something better to do than write sonnets to her. indeed to write letters clever enough to be taken for the compositions of a man whom this clever creature was content to look upon as a superior being. But, in truth, (assuming for a moment the business to be genuine,) the gentleman must, after all, have afforded but a very pale reflection of the lady's passion; for he appears to have been the pursued and not the pursuer. We know a philosopher who maintains that in every match it is the lady who invariably proposes; by which he means that it is she who first intimates, in some unmistakable manner, to the timid swain that his advances will not be repelled. With such ungallant philosophy we shall have nothing to do; but in the case of which these letters pretend to give the diagnosis it certainly is the lady who proposes. We appeal to a jury of ladies. What would any of them think if she were to see such a letter as this? "DEAR MR. M- : My brother being obliged to go to town to-day on business, and your note requiring an immediate answer, he desires me and bids me ask if you will come in our boat? to say we shall be delighted to join the pic-nic; There is plenty of room; and indeed he thinks you will be very comfortable-more so than in the W.'s boat, as there are only he and I, beside the boatman. "Believe me, dear Mr. M "Very truly yours, We could multiply these cases to infinity, and dissect them with the same result. Sappho was desperately in love, no doubt; but was Phaon? Considering the red hair of the lady, and the unfeminine importance with which she forced her passion upon him, we are not surprised that he was not. No one, we presume, will care to call the letters of Abelard and Heloise pictures of true love. They never began to write until they recovered their senses, and then what was it? As like Now what is the plain English of this the natural flower as a dried specimen in epistle of N. to M.? It is almost an insult an herbarium. No, no; we may be sure to the common-sense of the experienced of this, that whenever a collection of love reader to attempt to explain such an letters is any thing else but the silliest obvious challenge as this; but can any one farrago of nonsense possible, there may entertain a reasonable doubt that the be a great deal of good sense, and elo-writer of this letter had desperately made quence, and learning on one side or the other, but of true love there is very little indeed. Having made up our minds to this, we are the more satisfied to believe that the collection in this volume is not genuine and, although the letters pretend to be from the lady's side, we do not believe that any feminine brain has been engaged in the composition of them. The idea which a perusal of them calls up in the mind is that of the most unfeminine of all created beings-a strong-minded woman, who believes that fine writing is the only medium for expressing the heart's best affections. The letters from the gentleman are not given, and here we think the editor was wise; for it would be difficult up her mind to have Mr. Mall to (she "Forgive me, [writes the artless damsel.] Indeed, indeed, I did not mean to do so; you must have misunderstood me, and must have mistaken what I meant. I hardly remember what I said; but I know it must have been something very stupid, and very different from the idea I intended to convey. It was such a happy day, and then, all by my silliness, to end so ill!" What! ye defenders of woman's rights, is this to be believed that a young lady, standing upon the vantage-ground of courtship, should be so forgetful of her sex's privilege to tyrannize at that time as to apologise, to confess that she didn't know what she was talking about, to accuse herself of saying "something very stupid," and to admit the possibility of having been guilty of silliness? It is not credible. At any rate, this letter seems to have rather brusqué the affair, for the next note from the lady begins, " And so you really love me?" and ends: 66 Well, I love you, I feel how much, but I can not say itnor how exquisitely and intensely happy your letter has made me." After this, all merges into fine writing; the object of the lady being evidently to give her intended a taste of her quality in that respect. Here, for example, is as fine a specimen of amour en bergamotte as need be desired: all mild, and balmy, and virginal; with fresh, "Such a May and June as we have had! May, glittering, pearly mornings; warm, bland noons, and still, sweet evenings; the golden day gradually and almost imperceptibly merging into the silver night. From day to day you could trace her steps in the woods, the gardens, the lanes, the meadows, as she touched into leaf and and gave wings to millions of insects, voice to blossom each tree, and shrub, and hedge-row, millions of birds." Now here we fall into a difficulty. If, as the editor of this collection seems to suggest, the country damsel ought to select topics like these, and draw the sources of her inspiration from the material objects which surround her, what is the town damsel to do? From the Leisure Hour. STUDIES IN HISTORY. HERODOTUS. THE summer sun beats down on the towers and domes of Peloponnesian Elis, and from that city heralds have gone forth to proclaim a sacred truce throughout Greece during the celebration of the Olympic games. Soon every approach to the capital is thronged with men eager for the spectacle. The warlike Macedonian, the rugged Thessalian, the dull Bootian, the stately Athenian, the peaceful Arcadian, and the keen-witted Spartan, have alike one common object. The Ægean and Ionian seas are covered with gayly-decked vessels from the many islands of Greece. Lemnos, darkened by the huge shadow of Mount Athos, sends up its representatives, on whose false hearts a still darker shadow rests. Chios, not unmindful of that blind old man who, more than four hundred years before, had left its rocky shores to sing of the siege of Troy and the wanderings of Ulysses, appoints deputies well skilled in commemorating the noble deeds of noble men. Naxos, whose purple grapes the rich Athenian loves, and whose strength the Persian felt at the battle of Platæa, has trained a study race who can as easily win a chaplet as tread a wine-press. Paros has bidden its sculptors make ready their blocks and chisels, for the victors will have their statues of no other marble than that which is hewn from their quarries, which is of so white a hue and so close a grain. Whilst the bowmen and slingers of Crete, the dyers of Cythera, the inhospitable Ithacan, and the sea-faring Corcyrian, bend their sails to the sacred city of Olympia. But among the number of the journeyers are those that have made themselves a name for all time-generals, statesmen, philosophers, poets. There is the brave and handsome Cimon, whom his impulsive still lives. The lover of liberty can not breathe the same air as the oppressor; so he turns aside to the friendly isle of Samos, and carries on a secret communication with his adherents. At length the tyrant is dethroned, and the blood of Panyasis is avenged. Yet Halicarnassus is not free. The nobles, fonder of power than justice, seize the helm of government; and, finding that he can not prove a second time the deliverer of his country, he leaves it forever, and now seeks, at the Olympian festival, the honor which he is denied at home. countrymen have just recalled from that wanderer's life, and his heart yearns tobanishment to which their ingratitude wards his native place. But Lygdamis had hurried him. He is tall and majestic, and his hair falls in clustering curls upon his shoulders. By his side, and no longer at enmity with him, is Pericles, distinguished by a vigorous frame, grave aspect, and simple costume. His head, carefully covered, is of unusual length, and the comic poets, in allusion to this defect, style him onion-headed. That venerablelooking man, a few paces from him, is Anaxagoras, who, poor and friendless, has had to remind his former pupil that those who have need of a lamp must take care to supply it with oil. Near the philosopher is a sculptor whom Pericles has befriended, and whose works are of wonderful merit; for all Greece has admired the ivory and gold statue of Jupiter which stands in the temple of that deity at Olympia; and to compare this with his last masterpiece is the chief object of Phidias in that city. There, too, is one of noble bearing, in the prime of manhood, the greatest tragic poet then living, the wise and accomplished Sophocles. He is in eager conversation with a young man about a manuscript which he carries in his hand, and which the latter intends to read at the approaching festival. That manuscript is the first famous Grecian history which has been written, and that young man is Herodotus. He is about twenty-eight years of age, and was born at Halicarnassus, in Asia Minor, B.C. 484. The name of his father is Lyxes; of his mother, Dyro; and he had an uncle who possessed considerable poetical powers, named Panyasis, but who was cruelly put to death by Lygdamis, the tyrant of Halicarnassus. At the age of twenty-five, Herodotus leaves the home of his fathers and the study of his favorite authors, Homer, Hesiod, Simonides, and Eschylus, for the observation of men and manners in other countries. He travels into Scythia, where he hears strange stories of goat-footed men, of men who slept six months at a time, who fed on serpents and screeched like bats; into Egypt, and measures two of the pyramids, inquires concerning the source of the Nile, and sees the sacred crocodiles, with their crystal and gold ear-rings and bracelets on their fore-paws. He also visits Syria and Palestine, the northern parts of Africa, Ecbatana, and Babylon. After a while, however, he gets tired of a The games have commenced when that goodly company arrives at the scene of their celebration. The wrestler has thrice thrown his hardy foe. The rapid runner has reached the appointed goal. The boxer has dealt his antagonist a final blow. High into the air has hissed the heavy quoit. The javelin has sped a wondrous length. Twelve times has the chariot circled the course. Already the victor wears the crown of sacred olive, and hears his name proclaimed aloud by the herald. Already he sees the triumphal car which is to bear him to his native city, the banquets given in his honor, the statue raised in the market-place, and his name handed down to a remote posterity by the immortal verse of the hoary-headed Pindar himself. And now begin the contests in eloquence, in poetry, and music. The Arcadian pipers meet not their fellows in the soothing strain. The harpers of Æolia win the guerdon from the cunning players of Rhodes. The rhapsodists of Corinth bear the palm from the minstrels of Argos. The poets of Athens find in those of Lesbos and Teos not unworthy successors to Sappho and Anacreon. Anon Sophocles motions to Herodotus to rise. And the young man, roused by the greatness of the occasion, recites in stirring tones the history of his researches-the river Alphæus, which flows at his feet, presenting an emblem of his career, awhile running on in obscurity, but at length emerging into light, life, and liberty. He tells how, after the Athenians had burnt Sardis, Darius took bow and arrows, and, like Israel's monarch, shot towards heaven, saying: "So may I be åvenged on my enemies." How he commanded one of his attendants, every time answered: "We will then fight in the shade." He tells of the intrepid Spartans at Thermopyla, performing their exercise and combing their hair, according to their custom when about to fight for life and home. He tells of one of their heroes who, being dismissed from his post on account of sudden blindness, ordered his slave to lead him to the battle, and, rushing headlong on the foe, perished on the field of conflict. He tells of the fall of Leonidas and the Three Hundred, of the stone lion raised to his memory at the entrance to the pass, and of the inscription placed over all: "Stranger, go tell the Lacedæmonians that we lie here, obedient to their commands." dinner was set before him, to repeat thrice: | hearted ally declared that the number of "Sire, remember the Athenians." How, the Median arrows would darken the sun, when he sent heralds into Greece to demand earth and water, in token of subjection, the men of Athens cast them into a deep pit, and the Spartans threw them into a well, and bade them carry earth and water to the king from thence. How Xerxes, his son and successor, in a vision of the night saw himself crowned with the sprig of an olive tree, the branches of which covered the whole earth; and how, in supposed obedience to the vision, he prepared to invade Greece, with an immense army gathered from many nations and tribes. How bravely the Persians were equipped, with their tiaras, breastplates, and bucklers; the Indians with their colored tunics, bows of cane, and iron-tipped arrows; the Caspians with their goat-skin mantles and bright flashing cimeters; the Ethiopians with their panthers' and lions' skins, and bows four cubits long; the Paphlagonians with their plaited helmets, the Colchians with their shields of raw hides, the Thracians with their cloaks of many colors. How, seated on a lofty throne of white marble, Xerxes beheld the whole host, and how he wept at the thought that not one of that countless number would survive to the hundredth year. Then the historian tells of Grecian courage, and his eye glistens and his voice trembles. He tells of the reply of the Spartan ambassadors to the Persian general who advised them to submit to his sovereign: "You know well," said they, "what it is to be a slave, but you know not what it is to be free; for had you tried liberty, you would advise us to fight for it, not with spears but with hatchets." He tells of the saying of the Lacedæmonian soldier, who, when a faint When he pronounced these words, there went up a shout from the assembled multitude, which rent the air. The mariners in charge of the vessels catch up the cheer. The neighboring islanders echo it back. The Ionian sea rings again. Herodotus' fame is won. But of the succeeding years of his lifewhat other triumphs he achieved, what other countries he visited-little is recorded. We know, however, that he traveled through the Grecian provinces for the purpose of improving his great work; that he again recited it at one of the Athenian festivals; that he was presented by the assembly with ten talents of the public money; that he at length settled in Italy, and died, full of days, some time subsequent to the year 408 B.C. His monument, placed outside one of the gates of Athens, soon fell into decay; but there is one, raised in the heart of every lover of heroism, liberty, and learning, which still endures. |