his father was conveyed, nearly fifty years since, a wounded soldier. He is himself past the meridian of his life; but he is still happy, with a large family. His father-in-law's portrait hangs in his sitting room, and opposite to it, is the interesting picture, which is so intimately connected with the most touching scenes of his youth. STANZAS. I LOVE to see the blushing cheek I grieve to think a blight may fall Its dewy perfumed leaves may all Be scatter'd in an hour. My heart, unbidden, heaves a sigh, E. L. C. STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING. A LOVELY babe lies gently dying, A light so mild is on the child, So fine the feeble thread of life Death's ruder fingers could not take it, And, fleeing from the peaceful strife, He sends a seraph down to break it. Oh! can a parting spirit smile, Or lest, (as pass'd the tender soul,) The grosser air of earth should wound it, Does its ethereal guardian roll The atmosphere of heaven around it? And this (too pure for care or grief,) The infant's hand is warmly press'd, There is a consolation sent, And holy comfort flows from thence, Its sunny brightness, all the charms a malady of which those only are accused who have some intervals of reason. Aglaé was a long time in discovering how it had been possible for her to please; but she perceived at last, that continual imprudence and want of discretion had been mistaken for an excess of frankness, and she felt that the first of all charms was genuine unaffectedness. Aglaé attempted to unravel the secret thoughts of another, who affected to speak continually of having lost her charms, and to say that she was in her dotage, and only the shadow of her former self. What would have been her despair if she had been taken at her word, and if she had been told that she only spoke so willingly of what she had lost, that she might hear others talk of what she once possessed! Aglaé was no longer deceived. She became modest with the proud, humble with the witty; tart with those who wished to appear gentle: she flattered their faults that she might then laugh at them, praised their tastes, invited them to relate their histories, and furnished them at least with 66 inexhaustible pleasure of talking of themselves. These different anecdotes gave her matter for some reflections that were a little malignant, which she confided to her governess, and gave rise to questions which were followed by interesting conversations, calculated to hasten the education of her mind. Thus, she asked her governess one day, why it cost women SO much to grow old? "Because," replied her governess, nothing can ever replace what they lose. When men give up the happiness of pleasing, they only make an exchange of passions: the love of glory takes the place of the pleasures they are renouncing; the phantom reputation seizes upon all their faculties; and growing old with new passions, they reach the goal without perceiving it, and end in thinking themselves always young. If women would in early life give themselves occupation, if they would consent to forget themselves, to fear praise, to make friends, and not confound the desire to shine with the wish to please, every season of life would be happy. When you return to the |