a woman without virtue. She loves it as dear to her respectable father and tender mother. These sentiments inspire her with a degree of enthusiasm, that elevates her soul and subdues every irregular appetite.

7. Of the absent she never talks but with circumspection; of her female acquaintance especially. She has remarked, that what renders women prone to detraction, is talking of their own sex; and that they are more equitable with respect to the men. Sophia therefore never talks of women, but to express the good she knows of them: Of others she says nothing.

8. Without much knowledge of the world, she is attentive, obliging and graceful in all she does. A good disposition does more for her than art does for others. She possesses a degree of politeness, which, void of ceremony, proceeds from a desire to please, and which consequently never fails to please.

1.

whose

V. AGATHOCLES and CALISTA.

ALISTA was young and beautiful, endowed with

CALISTA

a great share of wit and solid sense. Agathocles, age very little exceeded hers, was well made, brave, and prudent. He had the good fortune to be introduced at Calista's, where his looks, wandering indifferently over a numerous circle, soon distinguished and fixed upon her.

2. But recovering from the short ecstacy occasioned by the first sight, he immediately reproached himself, as being guilty of rudeness to the rest of the company; a fault which he endeavoured to correct, by looking round on other objects. Vain attempt! They were attracted by a powerful charm, and turned again towards Calista. He blushed as well as she; while a sweet emotion, till then unfelt, produced a kind of fluttering in his heart, and confusion in his countenance.

3. They both became at the same time more timid and more curious. He was pleased with gazing at Calista, which he could not do without trembling; whilst Calista, secretly satisfied with this flattering preference, cast her eyes on him by stealth. They were both under an apprehension, but especially Calista, of being caught by the other in the fact, and yet caught they were almost every moment.

4. The hour of separation came, which to them appeared too sudden: Melancholy were the reflections they made on the rapidity of time. Imagination, however, did not permit them to be entirely absent from each other; for the image of Calista was deeply engraved on the mind of Aga thocles, and his features were strongly impressed on that of Calista. They both appeared less cheerful the rest of the day. A lively sentiment, which they did no well comprehend themselves, entirely employed their minds, in spite of every attempt to divert themselves.

5. Two days passed without seeing one another again; and though this interval of time had been filled up either by business or recreations, yet they both, notwithstanding, experienced a weariness and dissatisfaction in their minds, for which they could no, way account. But the moment which brought them together again explained it to them. The perfect contentment they felt in each other's company, made them sensible of the real source of their melancholy.

6. Agathocles took more courage that day: He addressed Calista, in a most obliging manner, and had the happiness to converse with her for the first time. As yet he had seen only her outward charms; but now he discovered the beauty of her mind, the integrity of her heart, the dignity of her sentiments, and the delicacy of her wit; but what charmed him the most, was the opinion he conceived that she did not judge him unworthy of her esteem.

7. From this time he made her frequent visits; in every one of which he discovered some new perfection in the fair Calista. This is the characteristic of true merit: it gains by being exposed to the eye of a judicious person. A man of sense will soon dislike a coquet, a fool or a giddy woman; but if he falls in love with a woman of merit, time, far from weakening, will only strengthen and augment his passion.

8. The fixed inclination of Agathocles convinced him, now, that what he felt for Calista, was love, and that of the most tender nature. This he knew; but Calista did not as yet know it, or at least had not learnt it from his lips. Love is timorous and diffident. A bold suitor is not the real lover of the lady to whom he addresses: He seeks for nothing but pleasure.

9. Agathocles at last resolved to open his heart to Calista

but he did not do it in the affected language of a romantic passion. "Lovely Calista," said he ingenuously, "it is not mere esteem that binds me to you, but a most passionate and tender love. I feel that I cannot live without you: Can you without violence to your inclinations, consent to make me happy? I may love you without offence; 'tis a tribute due to your merit; but may I flatter myself with the hopes of some small return :”

10. A coquet would have affected to be displeased at such a declaration. But Calista not only listened to her lover without interrupting him, but answered him without ill-nature, and gave him leave to hope. Nor did she put his constancy to a tedious trial: the happiness for which he sighed was no longer delayed than was necessary to prepare for the ceremony.

11. The marriage settlements were easily regulated betwixt the parties; for interest was out of the question: The chief article consisted in the mutual interchange of hearts, which was already fulfilled. What will be the lot of the new married couple? The happiest I may venture to foretel, that mortals can enjoy upon earth.

12. No pleasures are comparable to those that affect the heart, and there are none, as I have observed before, that affect it with such exquisite delight, as loving and being. loved. To this tender union we can never apply the words. of Democritus, that the pleasure of love is but a short epilepsy. He meant without doubt mere sensual pleasure, which has so little in it of the nature of love, that a man may enjoy it without loving, and love without ever enjoying it.

13. They will be constant in their love. This I dare also to predict; and I know the reason. Their affection is not founded on the dazzling charms of beauty; they are both the friends of virtue; they love each other on this account. They will therefore continue to love, as long as they are virtuous-and their union itself is a pledge of their perseverance for nothing so much secures our continuance in the paths of virtue, as to have perpetually before our eyes the example of a person whom we love.

14. Nothing is capable of disturbing their happiness, but those disasters and misfortunes from which their love cannot shelter them. But supposing such a reverse of fortune, would not their fate in this respect be common with that of the rest of mankind? Those who have never tasted the pleasures of

love are not exempt from the like casualities: and the lover is at least a gainer in regard to those pleasures which constitute no small part of the happiness of life.

15. Besides, even love itself will greatly diminish the sense of their misfortunes. For love has the peculiar property of alleviating the sufferings of two fond hearts, and of rendering their pleasures more exquisite. By this communication of distress, they seem to divide its weight; and on the contrary, by participation, their satisfaction is doubled.

16. As a squadron of horse is with greater difficulty broken through by the enemy, in proportion to its closeness so the happy pair resist the attacks of adversity with so much the more strength and success, as they are more closely united.

VI. STORY OF LA ROCHE.

ORE than forty years ago, an English philosopher

1. MORO

whose works have since been read and admired by all Europe, resided at a little town in France. Some disappointments in his native country had first driven him abroad, and he was afterwards induced to remain there, from having found in his retreat, where the connections even of nation and language were avoided, a perfect seclusion and retirement, highly favourable to the developement of abstract subjects, in which he excelled all the writers of his

e.

2. Perhaps in the structure of such a mind, the finer and more delicate sensibilities are seldom known to have place; or, if originally implanted there, are in a great measure extinguished by the exertions of intense study and profound investigation.

3. Hence the idea that philosophy and unfeelingness are united, has become proverbial, and in common language the former word is often used to express the latter. Our philosopher has been censured by some, as deficient in warmth and feeling; but the mildness of his manners has been allowed by all, and it is certain that if he was not easily melted into compassion, it was at least, not difficult to awake his benevolence.

4. One morning, while he sat busied in those speculations which afterwards astonished the world, an old female domestic, who served him for a house-keeper, brought him word that an elderly gentlemen and his daughter had arrived in the village, the preceding evening, on their way to some

distant country; and that the father had been suddenly seized in the night with a dangerous disorder, which the people of the inn where they lodged feared would prove mortal. 5. That she had been sent for as having some knowledge of medicine, the village surgeon being then absent; and that it was truly piteous to see the good old man, who seemed not so much affected by his own distress, as by that which it caused to his daughter.

6. Her master laid aside the volume in his hand, and broke off the chain of ideas it had inspired. His night gown was exchanged for a coat, and he followed his governante. to the sick man's apartment. It was the best in the little inn where they lay, but a paltry one notwithstanding. Our philosopher was obliged to stoop as he entered it. It was floored with earth, and above were the joists not plaistered, and hung with cobwebs.

7. On a flock-bed at one end lay the old man whom he came to visit; at the foot of it sat his daughter. She was dressed in a clean white bed-gown: her dark locks hung loosely over it as she bent forward, watching the languid looks of her father. The philosopher and his house-keeper had stood some moments in the room, without the young lady's being sensible of their entering it.*

8. Mademoiselle! said the old woman at last, in a soft tone. She turned and showed one of the finest faces in the world. It was touched, not spoiled with sorrow; and when she perceived a stranger, whom the old woman now introduced to her, a blush at first, and then the gentle ceremonial of native politeness, which the affliction of the time tempered, but did not extinguish, crossed it for a moment, and changed its expression. It was sweetness all, however, and our philosopher felt it strongly.

9. It was not a time for words; he offered his service in a few sincere ones. "Monsieur lies miserably ill here," said the governante; "if he could possibly be removed any where." 66 If he could be moved to our house," said her master. He had a spare bed for a friend, and there was a great room unoccupied, next to the governante's. It was contrived accordingly.

10. The scruples of the stranger, who could look scruples, though he could not speak them, were overcome, and the bashful reluctance of his daughter gave way to her belie of its