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LETTERS ON MYTHOLOGY.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF C. A. DEMOUSTIER.

LETTER X.

(Continued from Page 235.)

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cause and the witness, Apollo flew to repose his sadness in the bosom of his friend, when be found him expiring at the entrance of his hut. Cyparis had tenderly loved a young stag which he had reared: towards evening wishing to chace from his friend's flock some wild beasts that threatened it, he took his bow and quiver; the fatal arrow flew, and struck the young stag wandering through the forest. Cyparis on seeing him fall, uttered a doleful cry, and sunk himself, overcome with grief. His soul already on the wing, hovered upon his fading lips, when Apollo returned; Cyparis opened his eyes for the last time, and with gasping accents bade his friend farewel : Apollo pressed him in his arms, received his last sigh, and changed him into a cypress.

Devoured with sorrow, the son of Latona

with his immortality; but Love once more offered him consolation. The Sybil of Cumea sought out his retreat, and with the voice of persuasion, said to him:-"Wilt thou desert our meadows and our shepherds for ever? Wilt thou never again sing on these flowery shores, our sports, our feasts, our loves?"

The blood which flowed from the fatal wound produced that flower which bears his name, and which appears at the end of winter. Disgusted with friendship,Apollo returned to love, and sighed for the nymph Perscis. She was a daughter of the Ocean; that is to say, nobody knew who was her father. The genealo-called upon death, and reproached the Gods gists of these times made all those heroes and nymphs whose origin was doubtful descended from the Sea or the Rivers, if this pedigree were admitted in our days, in Paris, where human beings swarm unclaimed, what a fine family would be forced upon the Seine ! The nymph of the Ocean, like ours of the Seine, was not very cruel, and became soon the mother of the celebrated Circe; that Circe who delivered Oracles, and who by her enchantments turned several worthy gentlemen into asses, and many worthless ones into swine. Each evening when Apollo went to visit his nursery, he left the care of his flock to the boy Cyparis. This amiable youth held that place in his heart which the unhappy Hyacinthus had formerly occupied. One night after a confidential discourse with his friend, Apollo hastened to visit Perseis; unluckily the nymph Bolina crossed his path, and the God was inmediately seized with a desire to please her.

"Never," replied Apollo; "I have now no other pleasure than solitude."

The Sybil tenderly replied, "I approve your regret, and my heart partakes in it; but had I your cause for lamentation, far from shunning all my friends, I should go often to weep under those shades where you were to be found." At these words she was silent and cast down her eyes.

The shepherd's hand encountered hers; she resumed:-" Should he detest life and light, who has received from Love, a soul to love, and a form to charm. Alas! if our shepherds lose you without return; if our nymphs see you wither and vanish like a flower, their sighs and mine, perhaps, may make you regret the day."-While she spoke thus tears bathed her cheeks, and for the sole purpose of

He addressed her in the soft language of looks and sighs, but an innocent girl of fifteen years, does not easily comprehend this mute eloquence. Reduced to plainer discourse, Apollo tried to make himself be fully under-mixing his tears with those of his fair consoler, stood by pursuing her so briskly along the seashore, that the unfortunate nymph rushed into the waves to escape from his power. Touched with her misfortune and her virtue, Amphitrite received her amongst her nymphs, and bestowed on her the gift of immortality. Frantic with a calamity of which he had been the No. XX. Vol. III.-N. S.

the God clasped her in his arms. After a long but expressive silence, the Sybil said to him with sweet languor:-" Do you still renounce the brightness of heaven?"-"No," replied the God; "since I adore thee, I feel the full value of immortality." The Sybil then taking up a handful of sand, while suffering him to

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steal a passionate kiss, continued thus:-"] ask not the honour of being immortal, but I would willingly have the power to console thee for ever."-" Alas!" replied Apollo, "I cannot render the duration of thy days eternal, but I may prolong their course."-" Well then, let your heart regulate my destiny. See this sand; pronounce but the word, and each grain will add a year to my life."

The lover deemed it his duty to consent, convinced by experience, that a moment of true delight is worth an age of existence.

But alas! the future convinced the Sybil, that she had acquired a fatal possession. The loves flew away upon the wings of time, old age arrived and her charms disappeared: the generation of those she loved passed into the land of death; in fine, after a thousand years of anguish, alone and miserable, she said to the Gods: "Grant me now to reach the last grain of sand, or give me some pitying friend to close my eyes."

The first of her pains was the ingratitude of Apollo, who abandoned her for Cassandra, the daughter of Priam. This Princess, after a respectable resistance, entered into a provisional arrangement, and promised to conclude a definitive treaty with her lover, if he would endow her with the gift of divination. The son of Latona swore by Styx to grant her request. Hardly had he pronounced the irrevocable oath, than Cassandra laughed at his credulity. As a punishment for her bad faith, the God added to his divine gift, the curse of her predictions never being credited. The celestial dupe, shortly after consoled himself with the nymph Climeua; in whose embraces let him rest till to-morrow. -Adieu, for to night.

LETTER XI.

Climena had every grace of shape and feature, but Apollo became familiar with them, and Castalia was his neighbour. He sighed, she feigned not to understand him, he supplicated, she was inexorable: he persecuted her, she flew even to the foot of Mount Parnassus, where the Gods changed her into a fountain.

Her lover, stretched upon its brink, mixed his tears with its water, when he was drawn from his reverie by an enchanting melody which proceeded from the summit of a mountain. Suddenly he rises, and ascends by a path bordered with myrtles and palm trees. The nearer he draws, the more ravishing is the harmony. He stops at length at the corner of a thicket, beneath whose shade he perceives a

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groupe of nymphs seated amid an amphitheatre of verdure.

The divine concert had been formed by the sweet accord of the voices and instruments of these damsels. At the sight of the God armed with his bow and arrows, the timid bane took to flight and hid themselves in the depth of the wood. Apollo threw aside his bow, and tuning his lyre, accompanied it with his voice in such celestial accents, that the nymphs stopped their flight, and listened to the song. Before it was concluded the whole party had surrounded the musician."I am the son of Jupiter and Latona,” said he “And we," replied they, "are the daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne."-"I am then your brother? Is it permitted me to embrace my sisters?"_ The nymphs blushed, and granted the frater

nai kiss.

Apollo then made the ladies several very well turned compliments upon their musicai skill, and the fair artists of course repaid him in the same agreeable coin. The same sympathy of talent, joined to the tie of blood, soon produced a sweet intimacy between the son and daughters of Jupiter; and I can assure you, that in spite of their different sex, their friendship was sincere. They resolved to live together, and form an academy. Apollo gave the plan; he established the law of concord for its basis, and gave to his sisters the name of Muses. According to Cassiodorus, the word from which Muses is derived, in the Greek, signifies cquals.

His plan being finished, the God divided between his sisters all the arts and sciences, adapting the distribution to their several tastes and tempers. He named a day for the first sitting of their academy, and this is what passed there.

Calliope opened the assembly by a discourse full of noble figures; the sad Melpomene, veiled from head to foot, bewailed the death of heroes, lamented the sorrows of love, and the fragility of human happiness; Thalia, with an arch glance, threw about her arrows dipped in the poignant caustic of satire, she threw them with so light a hand and so smiling a grace, that they struck without wounding, and made the receiver laugh: Polybymuia exalted the deeds, the virtues, the memory of Turennes and Bayards; Clio bore them on the wings of glory even to the throne of the Gods; Urania pointed with radiant finger to the starry heavens, and read aloud the vast system of the universe; the pastoral Erato, sung the loves of shepherds in a rustic ballad; Euterpe accompanied her on the flageolet; while

Terpsichore gaily terminated the mɛeting, by a mutually agreed, that he who should be vanpas seul.

In a short time these assemblies became celebrated; the reputation of the Muses extended beyond the Grecian states, aud the son of Latona, degraded from the throne of Light, mounted the throne of Genius. There were now no fashionable party at which this brilliant association did not assist; but in order to transport them comfortably from place to place, it was necessary to think of inventing some suitable carriage. While they were vainly deliberating upon the most commodious manner of travelling, they perceived a winged horse in the air. It was the famous Pegasus. This thundering courser, born from the blood of Medusa, directed his flight to war's Mount Parnassus. There he alighted upon a rock, and with one blow of his hoof, made the poetic fountain of Hippocrene gush forth.

At the voice of Apollo, Pegasus stopped; the God vaulted on his back, placed the Muses behind him, (whether on one pillion, or nine, is uncertain) and commanded the horse to bear them to the coast of Bacchus. Pegasus spread his wings, and soon the mountain disappeared; rapid as fight, he landed his scientific load at the palace of Baychus.

Bacchus, by whom the Muses were received, was a prince illustrious by his victories, and by his love for the fine arts. He reigned at Nisus with Ariadne whom he had married in the isle of Naxos: his court was the focus of

all the celebrated characters of the age. The ball opened immediately after the arrival of the Muses. Terpsichore danced, and all the courtiers were in ecstacies. Suffice it, she made the women desperate with envy. The ball was followed by a concert. Euterpe and the youthful Erato were the most distinguished; but a shout of joy rent the palace when Marsyas appeared.

This incomparable musician had found the flute of Minerva which that Goddess had formerly thrown into a fountain, and having exercised himself upon the divine instrument with unwearied assiduity, he now drew from it the most melodious sounds. At the repeated acclamations of the assembly, Apollo shewed some uneasiness; but he consoled himself with the prospect of future victory. In fact, the flute of Marsyas charmed the audience; the lyre of Apollo transported them.

Picqued at this superiority, the Phrygian arose, and with an arrogant tone challenged his rival before all the court. The brother of the Muses accepted the challenge; and it was

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quished should submit to the discretion of the conqueror. Marsyas then invoked Minerva, and retook his flute.

His exquisite breath represented the early melody of spring, the first desire of a lover, the last sigh of melancholy; then its gentle cadences imitated the murmuring of streams; now with gay caprice he precipitated the movement, and in rapid divisions made all the echoes tremble. The next instant returning to a softer measure, he led the entranced imagination to wander among flowers and groves, and painted nymphs and shepherds dancing with rosy garlands around their rustic altars. He stopped, then suddenly with a single note the audience thought they heard the voice of a fugitive Dryad, which from the depths of a dismal wood uttered a feeble cry! fear, incertitude, hope, palpitated in every bosom; the flute of Marsyas ceased its tuneful breath, and after an instant of profound silence, the listeners awoke from their sweet delusion with a sigh of delight. Marsyas bowed to the assembly, and was instantly surrounded by a burst of enthusiasm.

During the noise, baving tuned his voice and his lyre, Apollo imposed silence by a divine prelude; then delivering himself up to the delirium of his art, made the delicious intoxication of voluptuousness flow into every heart, Marsyas turned pale, and discovered then the superiority of the voice over every instrument, When Apollo had thus ably disposed the assembly in his favour, he turned towards Ariadne and sung an ode in praise of beauty. The Venus of Praxiteles, then adored at Guidus, and the Galatea of Pygmalion, whom Love had animated, were at this period celebrated throughout Greece; Apollo made a double allusion to these masterpieces of art, and suffering his eyes to wander over all the female part of the audience, contrived to impress each individual with the belief that his panegyric was secretly devoted to her.

I cannot paint, therefore, the fury of ap plause which followed his ode; each beauty imputed his eloquent music to her own charms, and each lover saw in it a mirror reflecting the graces of her he loved: thus every one was interested and pleased, and the natural consequence was universal approbation. Marsys imprudently trusted solely to taste and his own genius; Apollo, better instructed in the human heart, called in the aid of vanity and partiality. He gained the prize; victory was decreed to him without a dissenting

voice.

than to conquer; and as you every day extend the empire of love, leave us to ac`nowledge your victory at your feet, while at the same time we read in your gracious eyes pity and forgiveness.-Adieu.

The barbarity with which he used his tri- || then, that it is yet more glorious to pardon umph tarnished its lustre. Having fastened Marsyas to a pine-tree, he flayed him alive. The blood and the tears of this unhappy man formed a river which still bears his name. You see, my Emilia, that it is often much easier to vanquish than to pardon: remember

(To be continued.)

THE MIRROR OF FASHION.

IN A SERIES OF LETTERS FROM A GENTLEMAN OF RANK AND TASTE, TO A LADY OF QUALITY.

LETTER V.

(Continued from Page 237.)

LIKE you, my fair Countess, the AngloSaxons were great admirers of fine linen; it was indiscriminately worn by every class of that people in the garment next their skin. Of course, its fabric was delicate or rough according to the rank of the wearer. The dress of the ladies, in summer, was chiefly of linen; the clergy also made their sacred vestments of it; and, indeed, so highly was it prized by all orders, that the venerable Bede mentions, as an instance of self-denial and humility of Etheldrida, abbess of Ely, that she never would wear linen garments, but contented herself with raiment made of wool.

This nortifying of her fair flesh, must be understood of the interior garments being composed of so rough a material; the most dainty of her sex, in that age, wore woollen as exterior habits. Silk was also used, but only on great occasions, such as for coronation robes, the vestments of dignified clergy, and the mantles of Quecus and Princesses. How surprised would be our royal Elgivas and Ethelredas, if they could look from their marble tombs at this time, and behold not merely the decent tradesman's wife, but the lowest damsel of the kitchen, walking out on a Sunday arrayed in silk stockings and satin or velvet pelisse! There is, literally, no difference between the ordinary appearance of a Countess and her maid, except what the dignified and polished air of the former may effect. This remark, therefore, ought to induce our women of qua. lity to attend to the mental adornment of themselves, since all outward ornaments are now rendered accessible to the meanest of their attendants. Were every Peeress in this land as simple in apparel, and as elegant in mien, as my Urania, this observation might have been spared.

Hair cloth (which answers to the sackcloth of the ancients) was manufactured by the Anglo-Saxons, and was used either as a garment of penance or of mourning. I cannot affirm that, as an insignia of the latter temper of mind, it was so becoming an apparel as the crapes and cypress gauzes of our modern fair; but certainly it better expressed the season of sorrow; aud, what is more to the purpose, by its desolate and unbecoming appearance, was an indisputable assurance that the mourner did not intend, and in fact could not enter into scenes of gaiety until the proper time of decent grief were past. Then, the widow was not seen sporting her fashionably devised weeds in a friend's card-assembly a month after the interment of her lord. Our AngloSaxon matrons, instead of bewailing the deceased partner of their hearts, seated ou a superb sofa, between two rival candidates for her hand and dowry, would be found prostrate on his tomb, cloathed in hair-cloth, and bestrewn with dust and ashes, devoting all the beauties of her youth to lamentation and his memory.

The Anglo-Saxon ladies of the first quality employed much of their time in carding wool, spinuing, and working with the needle; and some of them also emulated the dames of Greece in the labours of the loom. These graceful feminine occupations do not appear to have been in so general a practice with the fair of the Continent as with those of England; however, we find that due honour was paid to them by some of their foreign sisters; and Eginhart informs us that the daughters of Charlemagne were no strangers to the use of the distaff. Four Princesses, daughters of Edward the Elder, of our own country, are highly celebrated for their skill in spinning, weaving and brocading or embroidery; and

Edgitha, the Queen of Edward the Confessor, was perfectly mistress of the needle.

The praises bestowed upon our fair countrywomen, ou this subject, are not confined to our own authors, who, as lovers, and of the same nation, might be suspected of partiality; I can lay before your Ladyship the corroborating testimony of foreign eulogists - -"The French and Normans," says one, "admired the beautiful dresses of the English nobility; for," continues this ancient writer, "the English women excel all others in needle-work, and in embroidering with gold." Another

author tells us that "the Anglo-Saxon ladies were so famous for their skill mn embroidery or brocading, that the most elegant productions of the needle were called, by way of eminence, The English work."

In those days of female industry, the operations of the needle were not confined to one sort of pattern or stitch; they extended to the representation of flowers, foliages, birds, beasts, men, and buildings. Even historical designs were attempted, and the victories of heroes and the triumphs of saints, were seen embroidered upon cloth with threads of gold and silver, intermixed with silk, cotton, and worsted, dyed to the requisite colours. The destruction of Troy was worked upon the stole of Wiglaf, King of Mercia; and the ceJebrated martyr, Dunstan, when a young man, assisted a lady in designing the embellishments she was to embroider on a sacerdotal robe. The vestment which Canute, the Dane, presented to the Abbey of Croyland, was made

of silk, brocaded with cagles of gold. The coronation mantle of Harold Harefoot, which he gave to the same Abbey, was composed of the like costly stuff, and overlaid with flowers wrought in gold. Besides these, we find from William of Malmesbury, that the royal robes of Edward the Confessor were sumptuously embroidered in curious and rich devices by the hand of his Queen and her maidens.

Devotion produced many splendid works of this kind, which the fair manufacturers dedicated to the service of the church. These beautiful daughters of beauty and taste, not only plied their golden needles to embellish their own persons, and to decorate their busbands, but, with a holy consecration of their time and their talents to adorn the temples of their land, they enriched the altars with palls of superb embroidery, and laid at the feet of the priesthood garments of the finest needle work. Many of these I have seen extant in the sacristies of our old cathedrals; and, I confoss, I could not but feel a peculiar homage for the Queens and Princesses, and ladies of high rank, who thus devoted their blameless and happy hours.

And, that I may not longer at this time intrude on yours, I shall defer any account of the jewellery of these beauteous and meritori. ous dames to another epistle; meanwhile, forget not that a fairer haud than ever AngloSaxon Britain could produce, has woven the image of Urania into the heart of her devoted

(To be continued.)

PARIS.

THE CHATEAU OF ROUSSILLON. (Continued from Page 242.)

THE addition of some neighbours to their dinner party, prevented Julie from the em barrassment of dining with Bertolini; his invalid state rendered the society of strangers too great an exertion, therefore Francois shared bis otherwise solitary meal, and towards evening, as the ladies sat in a covered arbour into which one of the lower apartments opened, he appeared with his Italian friend. So uncxpected a visitor created much agreeable confusion: Julie started from her seat, sat down again as hastily, and rose again without saying any thing; her cheeks were covered with blushes, for she had met the eyes of Bertolini, and their unusual expression convinced her that Francois had kept his word.

'

"The night is so fine," exclaimed Francois, "the shrubs smell so sweet, and the nightingales are singing so divinely, that I could not resist Signor Bertolini's intreaty to bring him hither; so if he dies in consequence, Julie, the guilt be upon my head."

"We shall not perform as mourners at the funeral then," observed Madame rather playfully, "since the Signor has only been tempted to join us for the sake of bearing the birds and breathing the flowers."

"Oh how you wrong me!" exclaimed Bertolini; "I did not once think of them."-He stopped, coloured, and instantly averted the ardent glauce he had almost unconsciously directed towards Julic. While Madame and

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