mistrust themselves on this subject, and to refrain from tightening their laces even as much as they can with ease."

The following remarks on "behavior to gentlemen" are certainly

correct.

"Very young girls are apt to suppose, from what they observe in older ones, that there is some peculiar manner to be put on, in talking to gentlemen, and, not knowing exactly what it is, they are embarrassed and reserved; others observe certain airs and looks, used by their elders in this intercourse, and try to imitate them, as a necessary part of company behavior, and so become affected, and loose that first of charms, simplicity, naturalness. To such I would say, your companions are in error; it requires no peculiar manner, nothing to be put on, in order to converse with gentlemen, any more than with ladies; and the more pure and elevated your sentiments are, and the better cultivated your intellect is, the easier will you find it to converse pleasantly with all. If, however, you happen to have no facility in expressing yourself, and you find it very difficult to converse with persons whom you do not know well, you can still be an intelligent and agreeable listener, and you can show, by your ready smile of sympathy, that you would be sociable if you could. There is no reason in the world why any one who is not unhappy, should sit in the midst of gay companions, with a face so solemn and unmoved, that she seems not to belong to the company; that she should look so glum and forbidding that strangers should feel repulsed, and her best friends disappointed. If you cannot look entertained and pleasant, you had better stay away, for politeness requires some expression of sympathy in the countenance, as much as a civil answer on the tongue."

For the following appropriate observations on the conduct of ladies at public places, the authoress is entitled to our sincerest thanks.

"In no country is it more important to cultivate good manners, than in our own; and yet there is a great deficiency of care and instruction, in this particular. A young girl often grows up, without ever being told, that to laugh audibly in public, or in crowded assemblies, is not good manners; that presenting herself at the end of a crowded bench, and looking for a seat, till some gentleman feels himself obliged to give her his, is very ill-bred; yet all these points should be well settled in a young lady's education; and those who have had the greatest advantages in this way, should be ready to set an example worthy of imitation, to those who look up to them."

"You will be careful not to wear any head-dress that will prevent those behind you from seeing well; you will never, by whispering, hinder those around you from hearing easily; you will never seem to claim any particular seat as your right; you will never attempt to keep seats for those of your party, who come later than you; you will never suffer, much less oblige, a gentleman to relinquish to you the good seat which he has fairly earned, by going very early and sitting long in patience. You will carefully avoid going in late, and disturbing the company, after the lecture has begun; but if you do chance to arrive late, you will step softly and take the first seat you can find, instead of making further interruption, by parading through the room in search of a better."

We should be happy to lavish nothing but praise upon what remains of this work; but there are some observations in the chapter on "dinner parties" so incorrect and ridiculous, that we cannot pass

them by. We are here treated with an entertainment of various delight. Anecdote and champaigne, and brilliant conversation sparkle round the board, aided by the flashing of steel as it ascends to scabbard itself in rosy lips, intended by nature for a much gentler purpose. It seems, however, that the steel blade is an American perquisite; we find no fault. In some parts of our country they prefer fingers. De gustibus, &c. Among some refined people, silver forks are in vogue, but their use is not patriotic; to bleed for one's country must be most sweet and decorous, especially at a dinner party. In this scene the forces are again marshaled, (as in the sick chamber,) and the actors must enter like a "platoon of soldiers,” "with erect carriage and a firm step," in a column of three fileadvance to the front-then defile to the left, and assume your proper positions. We are thus led into the dining room-the company are arranged in due order. "Let the young lady take especial care to spread her napkin in her lap, and place the gloves under it"nothing like a double rampart. Then follows the onslaught-selfpossession is the shield against all disasters. A worthy biped of the species anser' is furiously attacked sword in hand by his generical opponent.

"When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war."

Clad in impenetrable armor, the victim feels the blows which fall upon him, and at one bound flies to the bosom of a lady fair. The poor goose "finds no generous friend, no pitying foe." The rescued prisoner is ungallantly demanded—“ Ma'am, I will thank you for that goose." The lady retains only the spoils of the vanquished, and the shout of victory is raised for the conqueror. The whole scene is worthy of the most attentive perusal, we can quote but a part of it.

"If you happen to meet with an accident at table, endeavor to preserve your composure, and do not add to the discomfort you have created, by making an unnecessary fuss about it. The easier such things are passed over, the better. I remember hearing it told of a very accomplished gentleman, that when carving a tough goose, he had the misfortune to send it entirely out of the dish, and into the lap of the lady next to him; on which he very coolly looked her in the face, and, with admirable gravity and calmness, said, 'Ma'am, I will thank you for that goose." In a case like this, a person must necessarily suffer so much, and be such an object of compassion to the company, that the kindest thing he could do, was to appear as unmoved as possible. This manner of bearing such a mortifying accident gained him more credit, than he lost by his awkward carving.”

We must beg the indulgence of our readers, while we comment upon one other passage, which, as it is broached with something of the air of a general principle, deserves a moment's attention. In speaking of the tender passion, our authoress observes

"Love in the heart of a woman should partake largely of the nature of gratitude; she should love because she is already loved by one deserving her regard." This is indeed teaching the heart

-" to throb by rule,

To love what it abhors, to hate what it adores."

In this sentiment too, our "Friend" has forsaken entirely her standard-Miss Edgeworth-whose characters she is constantly forcing upon us as models of all that woman should be. In "Belinda," the eclaircissement depends on the fact that a protegé of the hero, thought herself compelled to marry him out of gratitude, and he was too grateful to object, while the hearts of both were breaking with love to others. Now this loving out of gratitude' may do well enough for certain ancient maidens, could they but obtain that which has formed the burden of their song and sigh, during a campaign of forty years. One sidelong glance would overpower them one fond gaze would melt the fountains of pity-tears of ' gratitude' would own the "soft impeachment." But on this principle, what will become of some of our fair acquaintance; their love must be, without metaphor, as boundless as the ocean; you must love because, forsooth, "you are already loved by those" who, (in their own estimation, certainly,) " are worthy of your regard." On this principle, ingrate beings! no longer frown on that love-stricken swain* who follows you around the city with sighs-you must incur a debt of gratitude whether or no'-the door you cruelly shut in his face cannot protect you from this Cupid; he shoots his missiles under it. But enough-well might "Young Ladies" exclaim, "save me from such 'Friends,' and I will save myself from my enemies."

We will weary our readers no longer. If many more such books as this are written, and if they contain many such passages as we have quoted, we, that is, we the men, shall not long regard woman as

"it were all one

To love some bright particular star,

And think to woo it."

The spell of romance is broken. We once knew a lover driven from the feet of one mistress by seeing her pick her teeth with her finger; his vow of love to another was interrupted by hearing a boisterous "halloo" escape from her beautiful lips. He would certainly become a maniac if he was possessed with one half of the curious facts which this Young Lady's Friend has disclosed. Who could love after such discoveries? Our authoress is certainly not gifted with that spirit which would raise "a mortal to the skies," but she has admirably succeeded in bringing "an angel down." In conclusion we cannot but say, that we regard this book with a feeling of disapprobation-we had almost said aversion. Woman, and all that belongs to her, are the sacred property of the fireside and

* Allusion has been made, I suppose, to a love-cracked gentleman who has been perambulating the street, fancying every lady he meets is the cruel fair one, and making offers of marriage by thrusting billet-doux under the doors.-Print. Dev.

of home. It is there her duties are to be learned-her influence to be felt-and her virtues to be rewarded. The curious world have nothing to do with her; and she cannot be forced into its service, or exposed to its gaze without that feeling of desecration with which we should witness the sacred ornaments of religion plucked from the altar. Home must lose its sacred charms-the mother must cease to be what God has made her-the child be deserted by the fair angels who invest her with purity and loveliness, ere it will be necessary for a human artificer, to place her unskillful hand on creations which need not the aid of art. The lady who has so kindly volunteered to be the guide of our fair country women, may, for aught we know, be endowed with every accomplishment that belongs to her sex. She may make artificial roses with every splendor of coloring, but the grace-the delicacy-the sweetness, are not within her reach. We do live in a brazen age-an age which is daily withering every romantic vision, and every chivalrous feeling that has escaped from the more ideal world of our ancestors. We have seen the most beautiful landscapes defaced by the sordid spirit of gain— we have seen a factory on the brink of Niagara-we see man, the image of his Maker, daily becoming more madly selfish-more meanly greedy. We did hope that all the utilitarianism which steam could invent or execute, was exhausted on the physical world, or that at most the rougher sex was alone exposed to its action. We were not prepared to behold the last refuge of sentiment-the fondest dream of imagination-the delicate incarnation of spirit, rudely assaulted by its unhallowed approach.

A FRAGMENT.

WE stood upon the mount,-the stars were out,
Their heaven-lit fires were beaming bright: the moon,
In silent loveliness, 'mid floating clouds

So light they seemed the home of spirits blest,
Was gliding on. Beneath us raged the storm;
Far, far below, as from the cliff we gazed,
A dense cloud lay. Over the earth it spread
A sable pall, which in the moon's pale rays
Showed fearfully:-unbroken save by gleams
Of vivid lightning, when its fiery wing
Traversed the darkness: then the thunder's voice
Pealed forth its echoing roar. It was a scene
Fearful, yet beautiful-that evening storm.

Yale College, April 8, 1837.

C. W.

MARY LATIMER! reader, I have a story to tell you about her, that will make your heart ache before I get through with it-a strange story, a bright and black one at the same time-a dark unfathomable providence, which for some purpose or other gives to life a bright spot a moment, only to make blackness blacker by contrast-gives to the heart a thrill and pulse of happiness, and then sends something to roll and riot in it like a blast from the pit of darkness-nurses the flowers and blossoms of a bright hope there, and when we look to them and inhale their sweetness, we find out we have inhaled poison:-But, to the story.

Worn down and rendered haggard by study and sickness, brought into one of those miserable states of mind when one feels like an infernal, hating every body, even my own soul, my study door opened, and my father entered the apartment.

'Good morning to you, Henry, I am glad’—

I had turned from him, and, covering my face with my hands, laid it down on the table, where the tears ran streaming through my fingers.

'Inexplicable boy!'-He sat down by me, he was always tender as a mother; he took me, large as I was, in his arms, and folded me into his heart, saying softly and kindly, 'my unhappy child.'

'O father, speak to me not-speak not, I beg of you. You would say pause-give up this deadly work-throw aside my book -mix with the world-be cheerful. No, I cannot, I cannotspeak not of it. It has become my life, soul, all—I cannot. A respite were only giving me to thought, and that were only substituting one passion for another. It will kill me-I expect it but what matters it that I have my way! Do not speak of it.'

I buried my face in his bosom, and wept worse than before.

Henry, Henry, my boy, my dear boy! you mistake'-my father was kind here, his voice soft. He did not frown-he did not ridicule he knew better-he knew how to deal with the 'mind diseased.' Scolding, or ridicule, had made me desperate-he knew it.