motives, generous sacrifices, various knowledge, and often elegant accomplishments, to that "prime wisdom" which regards more exclusively the duty that "before us lies in daily life." When we read the letters of Lady Rachel Russell, that ornament of British aristocracy, brighter than all the gems of all its coronets, that best of wives, most exemplary of mothers, most devout of christians; when we trace the learning of Thomas Gray, and the wonderful industry of Sir William Jones back to those widowed mothers who turned the first ambition of their children to the last beautiful results of their labors; when we think of that wonderful Frenchwoman, Madam Roland, self-taught in obscurity, and self-sustained even with the bloody axe over her head, we must comprehend that there are for woman a higher lot and a nobler exercise of the understanding, than merely to contrive with her head, and to labor with her hands for what she and those she loves shall eat, and drink and put on; that her cares for tomorrow need not absorb her thoughts for eternity, and that her existence terminates not in herself, but that, by the transmitted and diffused light of mind, her spirit governs when her clay is cold, extends over muititudes, and descends through all ages.

These examples, and many more that might be added to them, and the destiny which Providence has appointed to women, are noble incentives to do all, and to become all that such capacities for virtue will permit, and such a glorious recompense will reward. We do not wish to see women with the genius of Sappho, if it leads them to the promontory of Leucate; nor do we wish to see in them such a passion for learning as distinguished Christina of Sweden, who loved men because they were not women, and left the country she was born to govern, to lay her dust in a land where she had conferred no benefits, and could command no gratitude; but we would desire to see them taught from the oracles of books, and adding to the lessons of experience the fruits of study; we would lead them to the treasures of poetry and into the depths of man's moral frame; would teach them natural theology in the wonders of nature, -the wisdom of God in the works of his hands, and carry them back to antiquity, and forward in the light of philosophy; we would display before them different modes of life in different times and countries, store their memories with maxims of prudence, and enliven their thoughts by the associations that produce wit. We would form them with

"Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;"

yet not without passions, nor yet without will; for passions give ardor to virtue, and an enlightened and powerful will determines our duties, and commands their fulfilment. We would gladly see them incited to industry of the best kind, active in benevolence guided by discernment, purified by religion undebased by fanaticism, rich in true knowledge but lowly in humility-adorned with taste enjoyed in all they see and displayed in all they do, acquainted with all the blessings they possess, and grateful to Him who gives them all, happy in the life that now is, and fitted for that which is to come.

A Few Days in Athens; being the Translation of a Greek Manuscript discovered in Herculaneum. By Frances Wright, author of "Views of Society and Manners in America." New-York. 1825.

We have already (Vol. I. p. 365,) given a brief sketch of the design and general merits of this charming little book. Since that time, we are very glad to find that it has been republished in this city, and we shall therefore seize the opportunity to recommend it once more to the notice of our readers.

It has always been considered a desideratum, to devise some more inviting method of acquiring a knowledge of the great men and great events of antiquity than the study of the formal historian or chronologist. Accordingly, fictitious travels, novels, narratives and letters have been written, in order to beguile the languid reader into an acquaintance with ancient government, philosophy and manners. With this view, the "Athenian Letters," a work admirably illustrative and explanatory of the history of Thucydides, was written, and a few copies published in four volumes octavo, 1741, by several classical scholars of the University of Cambridge; and purported to be a correspondence between some of the cotemporaries of Pericles, Socrates and Plato. On the same plan, the Abbé Barthelemi composed his Travels of Anacharsis, the Younger, into Greece; and Lantier, his Travels of Antenor. The author of Valerius, by resorting to a similar expedient, and by combining with his narrative a well contrived and interesting plot, deludes the unsuspecting novel-reader into sudden familiarity with the habits and affections of the ancient Romans, and the primitive christian converts. The Viaggi delle Scimie" seem to have been suggested by the

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same considerations; and it is, no doubt, from a kind regard to the indolence of modern readers, that the dead are compelled to leave their graves and hold discourse for the benefit of the living; that we are permitted by the enchanter Fontenelle, to hear "les Dialogues des Morts," and are conducted by the wiser and severer Verri into the sepulchre of the Scipios, to be instructed in the maxims of ancient policy and the lessons of ancient virtue, by the spirits of departed heroes, statesmen, and philosophers. With the same objects, and with quite as much success as many of her predecessors, Miss Wright adopts a fiction extremely well adapted to the end she has in view. The work feigns to be the translation of a Greek manuscript found in Herculaneum, recording the adventures, and unfolding the philosophical experience of Theon, a young Corinthian, who had been sent to Athens by his father, with injunctions to attend all the schools, and fix on that which gave the highest views of virtue. Theon had imbibed from the conversation of his father, who had been a pupil of Xenocrates, a prepossession in favor of the doctrines of the Academy. On hearing Crates, therefore, (the successor of Polemon, we presume, and not the Cynic,) he regards his object as accomplished, and continues to believe that flame and fuel are tied together by numbers, until, by chance, he is persuaded that it is unbecoming a lover of truth errare cum Platone; and is finally convinced, by a young Pythagorean, that he who eats no beans, and practices self-catechism, has the highest "views of virtue." From this heretical persuasion he is converted to the Peripatetic philosophy, out of which misbelief he is fortunately plucked, like a firebrand from the fire, by the eloquent and orthodox Cleanthes. By this zealous and thoroughgoing stoic he is brought safely within the pale of the Portico, and is taught the precious truth, that the highest of all enjoyments consists in being indifferent or insensible to them all. Yet, although a faithful follower of Zeno, he shows an edifying example of liberality and toleration; visits the Lyceum and Academy, and keeps up his acquaintance with the young Pythagorean. This latitudinarianism, however, has its limits, and the story opens with a spirited description of young Theon's holy horror of the blasphemies of Epicurus. Timocrates, it seems, a young Athenian, had fled from the pollutions of the Garden to the purity of the Stoa, and had revealed to the followers of Zeno the "secrets of those midnight orgies, where, in the midst of his pupils, the philosopher of Gargettium officiated as master of the execrable ceremoBies of riot and impiety." Struck with horror and dismay

at the recital, Theon rushes from the Porch, and traversing with hasty steps the streets of Athens, takes the road to the Piræus. Seating himself upon the banks of the Cephisus, he falls into a revery, from which he is aroused by the sound of approaching footsteps. He turns around, and sees standing behind him a majestic and venerable figure, the beautiful serenity and calm dignity of whose features fill the young stoic with unspeakable awe and admiration. He is gradually reassured by the gentleness and kindness of the stranger, and a dialogue ensues, very beautifully written, but so connected as scarcely to admit of extract. Theon expresses his despair of equalling his master, and asks who can gaze on Zeno and ever hope to rival him. The stranger answers,

"You, my young friend: Why should you not! You have innocence; you have sensibility; you have enthusiasm; you have ambition-With what better promise could Zeno begin his career. Courage! Courage! my son!" stopping, for they had insensibly walked towards the city during the dialogue, and laying his hand on Theon's head, "We want but the will to be as great as Zeno."

The young philosopher regrets that the stranger is not Teacher in the Garden, in place of Epicurus.

"Do you know the son of Neocles?" asked the sage.

"The gods forbid that I should know him more than by report! No, venerable stranger; wrong me not so much as to think I have entered the gardens of Epicurus. It is not long that I have been in Athens; but I hope, if I should henceforth live my life here, I shall never be seduced by the advocate of vice. Ye gods, what horrors has Timocrates revealed!" "Horrors, in truth, somewhat appalling, my young friend; but I should apprehend Timocrates to be a little mistaken. That the laws of virtue were ever confounded and denied, or vice advocated and panegyrized, by any professed teacher, I incline to doubt. And were I really to hear such things, I should simply conclude the speaker mad, or otherwise that he was amusing himself by shifting the meaning of words, and that by the term virtue he understood vice, and so by the contrary. As to the inculcating of impiety and atheism, this may be exaggerated or misunderstood. Many are called impious, for not having a worse, but a different religion from their neighbors; and many atheistical, not for the denying of God, but for thinking somewhat peculiarly concerning him. Upon the nocturnal orgies of vice and debauchery I can say nothing; I am too profoundly ignorant of these matters, either to exculpate or condemn them. Such things may be, and I never hear of them. All things are possible. Yes," turning his benignant face full upon the youth, even that Timocrates

should lie."

The stranger urges Theon to enter the Garden of Epicurus, and judge for himself of that philosopher's midnight orgies. Theon yields, and declares with a smile, that he can feel no fear where he has such a conductor.

"I do not think it quite so impossible, however, as you seem to do," said the sage, laughing in his turn, with much humor, and entering a house as he spoke, then throwing open with one arm a door, and with the other gently drawing the youth along with him, added “I am Epicurus !”

The astonished youth staggers backward in affright, but is led on by his conductor towards his pupils, who rise and rece ve him with the tenderest and most affectionate embraces. We have not room for any extract from the beautiful and touching passages in which the author recounts the scenes and conversations which ensue; and we must refer the reader to the book itself, for the fine portrait of Leontium, the calumniated female pupil of Epicurus; the well-discriminated characters of several of the followers of this philosopher, and the gradual and perspicuous development of the real opinions of the son of Neocles. Convinced by every thing he sees, that the doctrines of the virtuous Gargettian had been shamefully misrepresented; delighted with the aspect of the tranquil and substantial happiness around him, and instructed in the true principles of the philosophy of the Garden, Theon prepares to take his leave.

"The orgies are concluded," said Epicurus, rising, and turning with affected gravity to the young Corinthian. "You have seen the horrors of the night; if they have left any curiosity for the mysteries of the day, seek our garden to-morrow at sunrise, and you shall be initiated."

The next morning, the young stoic repairs to the place of invitation, of which the following fine poetical description is introduced with great propriety and effect:

"The steeds of the sun had not mounted the horizon, when Theon took the road to the gardens. The path he entered on was broad and even, and shaded on either side by rows of cork, lime, oak, and other the finest trees of the forest: pursuing this for some way, he suddenly opened on a fair and varied lawn, through which the Illissus, now of the whitest silver in the pale twilight, stole with a gentle and noiseless course. Crossing the lawn, he struck into a close thicket: the orange, the laurel, and the myrtle, hung over his head, whose flowers, slowly opening to the breeze and light of morning, dropt dews and perfumes. A luxurious indolence crept over his soul; he breathed the airs, and felt the bliss of Elysium. With slow and measured steps he threaded the maze, till he entered suddenly on a small open plot of verdure in face of a beautiful temple. The place was three parts encircled with a wood of flowering shrubs, the rest was girded by the winding Illissus, over which the eye wandered to glades and softly swelling hills, whose bosons now glowed beneath the dyes of Aurora. The building was small and circular; Doric, and of the marble of Paros: an open portico, supported by twenty pillars, ran round the edifice the roof rose in a dome. The roseate tints of the east fell on the polished columns, like the blush of love on the cheek of Diana, when she stood before her Endymeon."

There he meets Epicurus, and the subject of the preceding