A SIMPLE ANECDOTE. AMIDST the gaiety of a London winter, || nerosity (for such it was even in a place so and the dissipation of a summer watering-cheap as the Isle of Man, to a man pos-, place, the heart is too often rendered callous to real sufferings; and if it feels, is only affected by some fictitious tale of woe. The following little anecdote is a true one, and has been affectedly recorded by a recent traveller to the Isle of Man, where honour, borne down by misfortune and injustice, is too often obliged to seek shelter amongst those whose depravity and profusion have driven them from their accustomed society. A gentleman whose real name we shall veil over with that of Harcourt, had long fought in the service of his country, in which too he had often bled, without being able to rise higher than the rank of Captain; and although he had often distinguished himself by his cool intrepidity, yet on the half-pay of this rank was he obliged to retire, at a period before the garrison battalions afforded an active retreat for the gallant, though worn out veteran. With his pittance of half-pay, he retired to a cheap situation in the Isle of Mau, where his daughter, young, beautiful, and accomplished attended him. The beauty of the interesting Eliza was softened by a pensive melancholy, arising from the perfidy of a wretch, who, under the most sacred vows, had violated her honour and peace of mind for ever. sessing nothing more than a slender halfpay), soon exhausted his finances, and ere he could receive any advances from his agent, he was arrested and imprisoned. Every frown of fortune the veteran bore with the conscious diguity of virtue; and his beloved daughter's presence irradiated even the gloom of a prison. With the most affecting filial piety she attempted to mitigate his sorrows; and in her tenderness he forgot for a while the injuries of mankind. This, however, was but a deceitful calm, for a very few weeks revealed his daughter's shame, and brought the unhappy father's grey hairs with premature anguish to the grave. The feelings of the soldier and of the man could no longer bear up against dishonour; yet even in the moment when he finally sunk beneath his load of misery, he would not leave the supporting arm of his deluded child, but expired whilst praying for a blessing on the unhappy fair one. With a heart torn with repentant anguish, she accompanied him to the grave; and there too she soon followed him: for her frame was too delicate to support the exquisitely tender and soul-harrowing reflections which alone occupied her mind. On their arrival they attracted general A few days she languished in silent deattention amongst the gay and thought- spair, when the moment of her release apJess refugees of the place; his charac-proached, and she sought in a better world ter was known to many, esteemed by the that happiness which man had denied her good, and respected even by the worth- in this. less. Drop one tear for her sorrows, ye daugh. ters of happiness!-Frown not on her errors, ye daughters of virtue!-Reflect on her misery, ye sons of riot and dissipation !!! LETTERS ON MYTHOLOGY. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF C. A. DEMOUSTIER. LETTER VIH. (Continued from Page 159.) RENOUNCING promiscuous gallantry, Jupiter at last grew faithful to Juno, and for eight whole days burnt for her with all the fire of love. In the evening of the eighth day, he was walking in a lonely wood, admiring his own prodigious virtue, when he encountered two young vestals. These were Latona and - Asteria, daughters of Titan Cœus. Jupiter accosted them: the sisters blushed; but as their characters were different, Asteria ran away and Latona remained. In similar cases it is very difficult to know what to do; for if you take to flight beware of a false step! and if you stay, something worse may happen. In effect, Asteria fell into the sea, and Latona very soon became a mother. pose the isle of Delos re-approached the shore, and the Goddess, after awaking, took the road to her father Ceus. In this painful and solitary journey she carried her two infants; the sweet burthen did not fatigue her, for when you become a mother you are endowed with strength. To avoid the fury of Juno, Latona quickened her steps, and was naturally threatened with a milk-fever. Arrived in Lycia near a lake, she begged some water of the peasants who were labouring on its shores; they refused it to her, and in revenge she changed them into frogs. Escaped at last from the wrath of Juno, Latona peaceably educated her children-Proud of acknowledging in them the blood of the Thunderer, she exalted her offspring above those of the neighbouring princes. This pride was very natural to a mother, and Niobé Outraged beyond all patience, Juno raised against her the serpent Python, who pursued daughter of Tantalus, possessed the same her without relaxation. Latona no where found refuge from the monster: the Earth had promised Juno not to give an asylum to her rival. But while this compact was forming, Asteria, whose corse, wandering in the waves, had been changed into a floating island by Neptune, which he named Delos, heard her sister's complaints. Arrived on the borders of the ocean, Latona could no longer escape from the formidable Python : at that instant the isle of Delos floated towards her, received her in its verdant arms, and glided back, from the shore. Alone in this asylum, Latona made herself a hut of the branches of the palm-tree. Far from faithless men, far from jealous women, she lived there in peace. Solitude is precious to the unhappy; it is for them almost happiness; but at that sad moment in which racking pains warn deceived beauty that she is becoming a mother, in this moment of tenderness and terror, how cruel is it not to have one hand upon earth to wipe away the starting tears! weakness: she preferred her children to those of the Goddess. Her riches and her, power, rendered her, still more insolent, Enraged at her scoru and vanity, Latona armed Apollo and Diana with her arrows. "Go!" said she to them, 66 revenge your mother. My injury is yours." Animated with their mother's fury, they penetrated into the palace of Niobé, and pierced with their fatal darts, even in her presence, her sons, her daughters, and her husband. Sinking under the weight of her grief, Niobé was changed into a statue, from which tears are still seen to flow. Such were the sorrowful consequences of materual blindness. When my Emilia becomes a mother, she need not dread a fate like this. Should her children possess by hereditary right her features, her heart, her mind, she may love them, she may praise them; no. austere censor will then blame her for idolizing in them all those charms which to-day we adore in their mother.—Adieu! LETTER IX. I must now discourse to you of the son of Sach was the distress to which Latona was reduced, but nature assisted her with strength and reflection: she supported herself against the trunk of a tree, and produced Diana. This daughter of Jupiter, being scientific by intui-Latona, who was knowu and adored under the tion, successfully aided her mother in bringing Apollo into the world. Exhausted by bodily anguish, Latona slept: during her reNo. XIX. Vol. III.-N. S. names of Apollo, of Phœbus, and of the Sun. Even in his infancy, Apollo was presented at the celestial court: Jupiter acknowledged him, G g and Juno gave him a gracious reception. The young Deity made the most of this favour, and became the God of Light. It is Apollo, therefore, who guides that car which, till I see you my Emilia, rises tardily from the other hemisphere, and when I am with you, returns there too swiftly. Upon the above-mentioned occasion he took the name of Phoebus; bu like all fortunate courtiers, having abused his power, he was driven away by cabal, recalled by intrigue, and became wise by experience: as I am going to shew you. You know that Apollo is the God of the Fine Arts, and it is for that. reason, Fable represents him under the figure of a young beardless man. Jupiter is somewhat stricken in years; but his son in defiance of time, preserves the charm of youth. In fact, Kings, and even Gods, grow old; but talents never. Apollo had invented medicine: Esculapius, his sou and his scholar, exercised this miraculous art upon the earth. Nevertheless, this Esculapius, in spite of his divine science, would have cut a very bad figure amongst our modern physicians. He neither went his rounds in a carriage, nor spoke a jargon that nobody understands; besides which, he always cured and never killed. Nay, his abilities went still further, for he reanimated the dead ; but these miracles cost him his life. It was whispered to Jupiter that Esculapius usurped his prerogative, and the King of Gods struck him with a thunderbolt.-Desperate with the loss of his son, Apollo flew to the isle of Lemnos, penetrated the inmost caverus of Vulcan, and pierced with his arrows the Cyclops by whom the thunder was forged. Vulcan ran to Olympus, lame as he was, complaining bitterly of this violence: Venus took the side of her husband, persuaded every God to be of her party, and ceding to their importunities, Jupiter cast Apollo down from heaven. || with seven cords, beneath the hand of Apollo emitted the most enchanting harmonies. The alls of Troy were in succeeding times raised by the sound of that divine instrument. Apollo sung, and the stones were seen moving forwards self-impelled, and arranging themselves in proper order. It is said that one stone upon which Apollo had frequently rested his lyre. rendered a melodious sound whenever it was touched. Daphne, alas! was insensible to music; she disdained the sighs and songs of Apollo. Some people say this arose from an excess of virtue; others assert that she was secretly in love with the beautiful shepherd Lencippus. And I honestly confess myself of their opinion. At tander eighteen, when a beauty is deaf to the voice of love, be sure she has always a good reason for her cruelty; and that if she flies one lover, it is for the sake of another. Upon this principle Apollo should have renounced his pretensions; but hoping much from constancy and time, he pursued Daphne for a whole year. Often did he try to arrest her speed by saying, "Ah, cruel beauty! stay, stay in pity; I am regent of Parnassus, I am the son of Jupiter, I am a poet, physician, chemist, botanist, painter, musician, dancer, grammarian, astrologer; I am" Unwise Apollo! when next thou wouldst bend the stubborn heart of beauty, speak not of thyself, but of her charms! Apollo ought not to have been ignorant of this term of rhetoric, since he was the God of orators. But a-lack-a-day! a poor lover says all that he thinks, without sufficiently considering how he says it: disorder is his eloquence; and when the heart speaks, adieu to wit. Thus Daphne was inexorable; but at length exhausted with fatigue, and ready to sink, she implored the aid of the Gods, who changed her into a laurel. Apollo plucked a branch from this tree, made it into a crown for his head, and wears it to this day. He is said to distribute similar wreaths to Genius. The laurel had two peculiar virtues; the one was that of preserving the wearer from the thunderbolt; the other, that of disclosing truth in dreams, to such persons as placed its leaves under their The son of Latona, despoiled of his greatness, was reduced to keep the flocks of Admetus, and found in this sweet and peaceable life, that happiness which he vainly sought in the celestial court. Wandering all day through meadows enamelled with flowers, this ingenious shepherd made the arts flourish in the bosom of study: these brothers of Love are the children of Leisure and Solitude. But the Apollo wept the loss of Daphne. He was talent which soon became most dear to him, seated under the shade of that fatal jaurel was that of music. He saw Daphne; and then which hid her from his view, when Clitia he invented the Lyre, to sing his passion. came thither to walk. Clitia, daughter of When we love truly, oh! how feeble seems the Orchamp, king of Babylon, was not critically expression of sight, speech, music, or postry! beautiful, but she had the delicate grace of a This lyre, composed of a tortoise-shell strung young and languishing flower; she saw ear. flight. Apollo, blushed, and cast down her eyes : || tia, struck with terror and remorse, took to Apollo did the same. By turns they gazed on each other, their eyes met, their emotion increased to agitation. From that instant an avowal was superfluous; their hearts had spoken in a look, and no longer needed the aid of words. The hour of happiness flies rapidly; night approached and they must separate; they exchanged vows to meet again the next day at the same spot near the laurel." What!" you exclaim, "near this very laurel! under those branches through which Daphne yet breathes?"-Yes, my Emilia, so evanescent is that passion which usurps the name of love; it is only a pure and spiritual sentiment, which binds the soul of the lover to the disembodied spirit of his beloved; and perhaps there are as few able to inspire as calculated to feel it. The following day Clitia prepared to keep her promise; but as love's first steps are always timid, she prevailed on her sister, Leucothea, to accompany her; this indiscretion had most fatal consequences. Clitia was more tender, but Leucothea more animated; the one was fair, the other was a brunette. The brunette soon burned for the lover of her sister, and less bashful than she, went one day alone to the place of meeting. At first Apollo evinced surprise, but surprise was shortly succeeded by pleasure, and Daphne, the mute witness of this scene, saw with horror that in every species of infidely it is only the first step which costs any thing. Clitia, in search of her sister, came upon the faithless pair at a very unlucky juncture. Suddenly indignation and fury seized that heart formerly so gentle. At She flew to the palace of her father, revealed to him the crime of Leucothea, and conducted him to the retreat of the lovers. that instant they were exchanging adieus; Leucothea mixed tears with her kisses, and smiles with her tears, as she repeated that they should meet again on the ensuing day. Casting a timid glance around, she at length hastened away with a heart palpitating between fear and pleasure: at the entrance of the wood she met her father. At this sight she remained mute and motionless; and the terrible Orchamp, taking her disorder for the proof of his dishonour, buried her alive under the very laurel her crime had outraged. Cli The next day brought Apollo to the wood. He saw no person; he advanced with a passionate sigh, and darted his eager eyes into the depths of that desert sad silent grove. He called Lepcothea; Echo alone replied to his voice. Hardly had he set his foot on the tomb of Leucothea than lamentable accents ascending from the ground addressed him in these sad words: "Stay! respect the ashes of her who perish. ed because she loved thee too well. Thy feet now press that heart upon which thy head hath rested; they trample upon those charms which but til yesterday knew no other caresses than those of Zephyr. Oh, remember Leucothea! to soften her punishment come sometimes to the spot where she dwells to nourish thy grief; then shall her etherial spirit mix with the air thou inhalest, and descend with thy breath to the bottom of thy heart!" I will not attempt to paint the state of Apollo. He was motionless, like a mortal struck by lightning; but at last his tears found way, and softened the agony of his grief. These tears moistening the earth, penetrated to the body of Leucothea, and restored it to animation. She re-appeared, but under a new form, and her lover saw a tree arise, from which precious balms are extracted. Meanwhile Clitia, tormented by remorse, wandered towards the tomb of her sister: at sight of Apollo she stopped. Sorrow and resentment by turns swayed her bosom; but the God retreated from her with disdain, and by that blow terminated her punishment. A woman endures outrage and fury from a beloved object, but she sinks under contempt. Clitia, in expiring, became a feeble and pliant plant, the flower of which, incessantly turning towards the sun, seems yet to follow and implore her lover. It is from this circumstance that in France we give it the name of tournesol. Adieu, Emilia, thou art my sun, I the fond flower whose leaves flourish or fade as thou recedest or drawest nigh. (To be continued.) Gg9 THE MIRROR OF FASHION. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS FROM A GENTLEMAN OF RANK AND TASTE, TO A LADY OF QUALITY. LETTER IV. (Continued from Page 197.) HAVING detained your Ladyship so long in the East, where the splendour of fashion's most gorgeous courts has put forth all its mag. nificence to attract your stay, what can I advance to induce you to turn your gaze westward? How shall I be able to draw you from the perfumed borders of the Nile, from the musky plains of Arabia, from the rose-crowned heights of Palestine, to tread with me the cold heaths of Anglo-Saxon Britain, to enter the harsh confines of her wintry balls? it is to the land of your ancestors, fair Countess, that I summon you; and let that sacred plea be sufficient to render the soil dear, their customs respected, their fashions interesting. not entirely confined to our Saxon ancestors we find from authentic documents, that Mahomet, the Arabian impostor, by the application of al henna, or Cyprus indigo, and the herb al catam, stained his hair and beard of a shining red, or rather, I should suppose, of a gold colour, that he might seem to have carried off some of the splendours of the heavens he had visited in the changed hue of his locks, This was a very poor substitute for the ce lestial light, which, on bis descent from Sinai, beamed from the face of the Jewish lawgiver. But not to put too great a force on the native delicacy of my fair correspondent, by detaining her long in the dressing-room of the Saxon gentlemen, I will, without farther delay, hand her into the tyring-chambers of the Anglo-Saxon ladies. And it gives me no small satisfaction to assure my Urania, that she will feel no circumstance to excite a wish to retreat. She will find the most engaging indications of modesty in the habits of her fair fore-mothers, without the least tincture of barbarism, and without the proneness to change, which so forcibly characterizes the inconstancy of our present fashionable females. Content with simplicity, which is rarely in ments but what the beautiful foliage of embroidery might yield. Ornaments of this kind depended entirely upon the skill of the ladies; and testify, by the gradual indications of improvement and taste, that the elegant domestic employment of the needle was holden in deserved respect. I shall not put so great a demand on your patience, as to detain you in the wardrobe of the Anglo-Saxon heroes; suffice it to say, that the series of their garments is in this order :A linen shirt; woollen, next the skin, so far from being deemed a winter comfort by our hardy forefathers, was never worn but as a penance enjoined by the canons. The tunic covered the shirt, and its shape was not much unlike it; but its materials were of a rougher texture, and coloured according to the taste of the wearer. Then came the surcoat; a gar-elegant, they sought no variety in their gar ment sometimes reaching to the feet, and ornamented with fringe or embroidered hems. The cloak or antle followed. Young men wore it clasped on the right or left shoulder; and the old generally on the breast. Its folds and management were as capable of extraordinary grace, as the present movement of a theatrical hero's robes on the stage. Headdresses the Anglo-Saxons despised. Nature furnished them with fine hair; and parting it in the middle, like the head of Raphael, they were combed smoothly down, and floated on the shoulders in long, bright, and luxuriant tresses. But strange to tell, these beaux of the eighth century were not always satisfied with the native hues of their redundaut locks. It was not enough for them that, unadulterated with the odious intermixture of powder, they should display hair of nature's own beautiful tints of auburn, flaxen, amber, raven, and all the fine varieties of brown; no, they must emulate sea and sky, and sometimes indulge their fancy by dipping their heads into blue dye, and sometimes into green. This absurd violation of true taste is a whim || As it has been proved that the shirt was au indispensable part of dress with the men, we cannot hesitate to conclude that the women of these primitive ages were equally tenacious of decency in their apparel. I must, however, be constrained to confess, that I no where find in our Anglo-Saxon antiquities any mention of this modern raiment, whether by the name of shift, or the now obsolete appellation of smock; but we have a hint of it in a certain garment which the ladies of this æra denomi nated a tunic, or under-vest. This part of the female apparel bears a near likeness to the long tunic of the men. Its sleeves usually descends to the wrists, and are plaited in delicate folds. It was girdled round the waist, was long and flowing as frequently to cover the feet. It is represented to have |