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world! J abhor a witty woman!" I heard no more; my head whirled; I turned sick, giddy and faint.

Sir Charles never renewed his attentions, but left the Hall soon after; I saw him no more. Disappointed and grieved at my folly, I left a spot where I had been only too happy, to mourn over hopes that my unfortunate propensity had blighted.

And now, on the verge of fifty, I find myself with a narrow income, shunned and feared by a limited circle of acquaintance, that unfortunate person, a poor satirical old maid. The only reparation I can make to society, is by publishing this short memoir, as a warning example to my sex to shun that too common error, a sarcastic temper, and flee from the reputation of being thought a wit.

FICTITIOUS HISTORY.

LOSS OF BEAUTY.-MRS. GILMAN.

For many days I saw not the face of my dear Arthur. I retired with mamma while the physicians dressed his wounds, and returned again to sit by his side. Gradually he began to utter words, and called my name. I wept with joy at the blessed sound; then one poor hand could press mine faintly, and bear the soft language I reciprocated. Slowly the light was admitted, and I saw him; but-oh, my heart—how changed! The beauty of which I was so proud was gone! The rich hair no longer lay on his noble brow; and that brow, once so serene, was furrowed by deeper lines than age or sorrow can engrave. I should not have known him! God forgive me, but I thought him hideous. I felt my blood curdle, and my head swim with an indefinite terror. The poor sufferer did not heed me, for his eyes were closed to the light. I thought my heart would have burst, and rushed to my own apartment. I traversed it with rapid steps; I crushed my hands upon my bosom to stop its beatings, and pressed my forehead to the wainscot to cool its burnings. I stamped in a kind of vindictive wrath, and uttered words of impious fury. I think I was going mad, but I grew faint; slow tears came to me; I was not left to blaspheme; I was softened; they fell like rain, and my spiritual triumph prevailed.

What, I thought, is this perishing clay to an immortal? His frail beauty would at best have lasted but a few years. Who knows but I should have loved too fondly those dark eyes, whose intellectual brightness struggled with their mellow tenderness; that mouth, chiseled to the most perfect turn of manly symmetry? My poor Arthur! I have sometimes feared that your grasping intellect and exquisite person united, placed you too much above me, that I must worship you like a bright, distant star; it is not so now. I shall not fear to lay your aching head against my heart, to smooth the lingering curl on your fevered brow, and call you mine only.

With these thoughts I kneeled in prayer. Earth seemed a vain thing to me; duty and christian hope my birthright.

"Arthur," said I, cheerfully, as I sat by his bedside a week after, with his hand in mine, parting the scanty hair on his scarred forehead, "you are not aware how much you are altered by this sad accident. You asked yesterday for a glass, you must be prepared for a change."

He started, hesitated a moment, and said, in a low tone, "I feared this. Can you endure me?"

"If I had loved your beauty only," I replied, "I might not have borne its loss so well as I do; but while God spares your intellect and heart, I have still enough to be proud of."

He looked thoughtful, and said, "Is it really come to this? I have had fearful suspicions of it." His hand shook in mine with sudden tremor. "I have frequently desired to introduce the subject," he continued, mournfully, "but had not courage. You are not aware that vanity has been my besetting sin. I can recollect the earliest praise of my beauty. I remember ladies taking me in their arms when I was a child, and bestowing on me extravagant expressions of endearment and praise; I remember my power over young girls, who flattered me with their eyes, when their lips were too modest to speak; my quick ear has caught voices in public, even of rude boys in the street, pronouncing me beautiful; and, yes, I will confess all, I have lingered over my own miniature with a kind of idol-worship. I struggled with this weakness, and thought it mastered; God's will be done if this dispensation is sent to punish me."

"Not to punish you, Arthur," said I, fondly, as I perceived the nervous irritability of his feelings, "but it may be to try you, to perfect you, and to reveal to you my true love, which asks for nothing in return but yours. Oh, if you knew the warm and brooding tenderness that has settled on my heart

since your misfortune, you too would say, it is enough for m it is worth more than external charms can buy."

Arthur improved in his appearance and health. I kept t mirror from him, telling him that every day diminished his di figurement; and he cheerfully assented to my wishes, whi his mind appeared to be regaining its tone.

"You will be almost what you were, dear Arthur,” I said him one day when he began to despond; "indeed, I forget th you are not the same. Judge me by yourself, would you lo at me with less of true love's preference, if I were to be alter by misfortune?"

He shuddered, and exclaimed, "Do not mention it; I ca not bear to think of it." (I repeat his language, not with va ity, but to show his intense love of what he thought beautiful "Let me gaze on you;" and he fixed his melancholy eyes fu on mine, "lest some awful power should change you.

So lon as those fringed orbs beam in their speaking sweetness; long as I can trace the rose-tints on your cheeks, and the dee brilliancy of your lips; while your braided hair lies thus in it glossy folds; while these soft hands are white as sun-tinge ivory; while your step glides around me, and I can catch th fine proportions of your modest form; while your voice falls i sweet modulations on my ears, stirring up love's echoes, I wi bear God's dispensations on myself; but, pray, pray that the may stop before they reach you."

Arthur was at length able to walk a few steps, though i great weakness, about his apartment. In my earnestness t assist him one day, I forgot that he might approach the look ing-glass; he did so inadvertently, glanced at himself, exclaim ed, "My God!" and fell senseless.

He was removed to his bed, requested his room to be darkened and the curtains drawn around it, while, without repulsing my attentions, he seemed to prefer communing with himself in silence. I saw that a violent struggle was going on, rendered more overwhelming by his physical weakness. This lasted some days.

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Cornelia," said he to me at length, in a tone of bitterness, "I intended to have surprised you with a gift from my poor Ellen a likeness of Arthur Marion; do you remember him? Look in my writing-desk and bring it to me."

I went and presented it with a trembling hand, not daring to glance at it. He told me to open a shutter; I did, and the bright light burst in on the miniature and on him.

"Come here," said he, sternly; "come and look." I obeyed; the likeness was perfect. The girl who dreams of Endymion never pictured anything more beautiful. I glanced at Arthur's face, it was disfigured with conflicting passions. I perceived that this was his last great trial, and braced myself for the result. He sat up in the bed, to which he had been confined since his fall, gazed long and earnestly on the picture, then, clinching it with upraised arm, dashed it against the ceiling. He watched it as it was shivered to atoms; then, drawing the bed-clothes over his face, wept and sobbed aloud.

I kneeled beside him, clasped his hands in mine, laid my head on his pillow, and moaned as a mother with her suffering child. I prayed to God to comfort him, and the prayer was accepted. It was his last great struggle, and he rose from it like a man and a christian.

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.-MAD. DE STAEL.

Oswald walked the streets of Rome, awaiting the arrival of Corinne he heard her named at every instant; every one related some new trait, proving that she united all the talents most captivating to the imagination. One asserted that her voice was the most touching in Italy; another, that, in tragic acting, she had no peer: a third, that she danced like a nymph, and drew with equal grace and invention: all said that no one had ever written or extemporized verses so sweet; and that, in daily conversation, she displayed alternately an ease and an eloquence which fascinated all who heard her. They disputed as to which part of Italy had given her birth; some earnestly contending that she must be a Roman, or she could not speak the language with such purity. Her family name was unknown. Her first work, which had appeared five years since, bore but that of Corinne. No one could tell where she had lived, nor what she had been, before that period; and she was now nearly six and twenty. Such mystery and publicity, united in the fate of a female of whom every one spoke, yet whose real name no one knew, appeared to Nelvil as among the wonders of the land he came to see. He would have judged such a woman very severely in England; but he applied not her social etiquettes of Italy; and the crowning of Corinne awoke in his breast the same sensation which he would have felt on reading an adventure of Ariosto's.

A burst of exquisite melody preceded the approach of the triumphal procession. How thrilling is each event that is heralded by music! A great number of Roman nobles, and not a few foreigners, came first. "Behold her retinue of admirers!" said one. "Yes," replied another; "she receives a whole world's homage, but accords her preference to none. She is rich, independent; it is even believed, from her noble air, that she is a lady of high birth, who wishes to remain unknown.”— "A divinity veiled in clouds," concluded a third. Oswald looked on the man who spoke thus: every thing betokened him a person of the humblest class; but the natives of the South converse as naturally in poetic phrases as if they imbibed them with the air, or were inspired by the sun.

At last four spotless steeds appeared in the midst of the crowd, drawing an antiquely shaped car, beside which walked a band of maidens in snowy vestments. Wherever Corinne passed, perfumes were thrown upon the air; the windows, decked with flowers and scarlet hangings, were peopled by gazers, who shouted, "Long live Corinne! Glory to beauty and to genius!"

This emotion was general; but, to partake it, one must lay aside English reserve and French raillery; Nelvil could not yield to the spirit of the scene, till he beheld Corinne.

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Attired like Domenichino's Sibyl, an Indian shawl was twined among her lustrous black curls, a blue drapery fell over her robe of virgin white, and her whole costume was picturesque, without sufficiently varying from modern usage to appear ed by affectation. Her attitude was noble and modest: it might, indeed, be perceived that she was content to be admired; yet a timid air blended with her joy, and seemed to ask pardon for her triumph. The expression of her features, her eyes, smile, created a solicitude in her favor, and made Lord Nelvil her friend even before any more ardent sentiment subdued him. Her arms were transcendently beautiful; her figure tall, and, as we frequently see among the Grecian statues, rather robust -energetically characteristic of youth and happiness. There was something inspired in her air; yet the very manner in which she bowed her thanks for the applause she received, betrayed a natural disposition, sweetly contrasting with the pomp of her extraordinary situation. She gave you, at the same instant, the idea of a priestess of Apollo advancing towards his temple, and of a woman born to fulfil the usual duties of life with perfect simplicity; in truth, her every gesture not more

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