youth prevailed at last, and the first use I made of my recovery, was to seek for this fatal letter, in order to read it again. I then wept for the first time, and wept incessantly. I wrote to Sophia, but she returned my letter unopened, with this answer on the back of it; I will never open any of your letters. Your reproaches may awaken my sensibility, but can never excite repentance. If you have any friendship for me, you will carefully avoid every opportunity of seeing me. Adieu. Forget me.'

"I have attempted a variety of means to see her again, but without effect. In the mean time I led a lingering life. My mother, who was apprehensive that I should pine away, often urged me to marry. For a long time I combated her views. They recommended you in the warmest terms. They dwelt on your excellencies. In your character I fancied a similarity to that of Sophia; and I hoped that you would be the means of diverting my chagrin. They dragged me to the altar. My tenderness, however, answered your fondest hopes, but you divided it with Sophia. Heaven is my witness, that you are dearer to me than life; that in you I find again a mistress and a friend; that there is not a sacrifice I would not make to your happiness, and every effort will I exert to forget Sophia."

"But why should you forget her?" interrupted the Countess. "This would be an ingratitude, and I require it not. I love, I revere this uncommon woman, and I would fain know her, that I might demand her friendship. Put no longer this constraint upon yourself. Speak to me often of Sophia. Pour your regrets into my bosom. I shall be the first to applaud a love so pure, and so worthy of a better fate."

Love dictated this discourse to the Countess, and the most refined philosophy could not have advised a discreeter conduct. The passions rankle in concealment. Like a fire, that keeps alive under the ashes that cover it, it is necessary to give the passions vent in order to weaken them. To persecute a rival is not the the way to banish her image from the fond recollections of the lover. It only leads him to defend her, and to attach himself to her with invincible perseverance. But to speak in her favour, to interest one's self in whatever relates to her, is to win the regards of the patient we could cure. It is to inspire him with confidence in his physician, with friendship, with gratitude, and in a word, to triumph over an enemy without a combat.

The Countess soon experienced this. She perceived a livelier ardour in the tenderness of her husband. His complaisance was more endearing every day, and he often adverted to the conversation in which the excellent Matilda had at first opened her sentiments on the subject of Sophia. When she had attained this point, she formed a plan that was to effect a total change.

The Countess procured secret information of the situation of Sophia. She discovered, that during the illness of Marlines,

the Marchioness his mother had found the letter of this unfortunate woman, and that, treating even her virtue as a crime, she had not blushed to solicit her to become the mistress of her son, hoping that enjoyment would cure her passion and the miseries she had occasioned; that, having found her inflexible, she had compelled her through persecution to retire to an obscure place in the extremity of one of the suburbs; that her parents were dead; that her husband, from an excess of confidence in others, had become a bankrupt, and was in the power of merciless creditors, who threatened him every moment with a prison: that, overwhelmed with his misfortunes, he was seized with a slow fever, which was leading him to the grave; that his young wife never quitted him; that, occupied in her endeavours to sooth him, and unable to provide for the subsistence of two children, she had sold the little necessary furniture their creditors had left them; and, in time, that the whole family was involved in the deepest misery.

Matilda melted into tears at this melancholy recital. She sent every kind of relief to Sophia, by a trusty friend, who concealed the name of the benefactress. She did more. She called all the creditors together, took the debts upon herself, fixed the proper periods of payment, and when every thing was arranged, unknown to Sophia, she embraced the first moment of mentioning this virtuous woman to her husband. She expressed an impatience to know her. "More than three years have elapsed since you have lost her. How is it that you have made no efforts to see her again?"-" Alas! all my endeavours have been ineffectual. Do you think, my dear Matilda, that I have not attempted every thing, not so much from desire to see her, as from I know not what anxiety inseparable from my situation?'—“ I will assist your endeavours to discover her. Who knows what events may have happened? Perhaps she is not happy."-" Heaven would then be unjust: Sophia is too virtuous not to draw a blessing on all around her."- "" 'Yes, Heaven is just, but men are not so ; and Virtue, which is its own reward suffers not less from them." "These reflections distress me; but would you wish me to expose myself to the hazard of seeing her again?" Why not?" I confess I am apprehensive that the sight of her would revive my first impressions. Alas! who can answer for his virtue ?""He who can mistrust himself. But leave every thing to me. Give me a carte blanche. I will not abuse your confidence; and we shall have news of her." The Count obeyed her without hesitation.

Matilda had no sooner obtained the signature of Marlines, than she caused a letter to be written in a strange hand to Sophia, as if dictated by the Count himself. He was made to reproach her with having suffered him to remain ignorant of her distresses; she was assured that her happiness should now be re

stored; and the papers which the Countess had obtained from the creditors were enclosed in the letter, in which moreover some passionate expressions were designedly inserted. Marlines was made to protest, that neither time, nor the tenderness of a wife, who adored him, had been able to efface the ardent sentiments he entertained, and that he would never cease to hope.

Sophia wept over this letter; but she was exasperated at the price which the Count appeared to fix upon his generosity; and, embracing her children, said, "Oh! my poor babes, you would not have me receive these bounties on conditions that would dishonour your mother, and render your father wretched." Then taking what remained of the money she had received by the hands of an unknown person, and the creditors papers, that had just been sent to her, she flew to the house of Marlines, whom she no longer dreaded, and who could not expect such a visit. What was his surprize in seeing Sophia before him. "Alas! could I ever have foreseen that the Count de Marlines would take advantage of my misfortunes, to persuade me to sell to him, what the most ardent love could not obtain! Take back your odious bounties. Carry these notes again to our creditors, and when they have dragged us to a prison, if extreme misery, and loss of liberty, can induce me to comply with your guilty desires. Chains,—death itself—the death of my husband, and of my babes, will be far more supportable than the infamy you propose."

see,

The Count was quite at a loss to understand these reproaches: "What mean you, Sophia, by odious bounties, creditors' notes, and infamous proposals? Explain a mystery I am unable to comprehend." "For these eight days past, I have received the most seasonable relief. There are generous minds, whose delight it is to enjoy in secrecy the unspeakable happiness of consoling the wretched. I had been desired to suppress my curiosity, when I received these bounties; but I confess that I sometimes thought they could come from no one but you; and as I believed them to be tendered by a pure and noble mind, I received them with gratitude; but your letter, while it discovers the benefactor, but too well explains his guilty views. It has contributed more to deliver me from an unhappy passion, than all the efforts I have been able to make. I can at length see you without danger,—I can despise you, and I can tell you so." Sophia, Sophia, suspend your anger. I have not written to you. For three years I have been unable to discover your retreat. I thought you happy, and were very far from thinking that you could want any assistance."

"

The Count, on opening Heavens !" he exclaimed, What can have been her

Sophia put the letter into his hands. it, recollected his signature. "Oh "this is the contrivance of my wife. views?" He sent to request the presence of Matilda. He told

Sophia with what an interest this excellent woman had entered into her concerns, the respect and friendship which she had conceived for her, the earnest desire she had so often expressed to see her, and, finally, he mentioned the carte blanche, which she had requested him to give her, and which had led Sophia into this error. " See

The moment Matilda appeared, the Count exclaimed : the consequences of your letter: Sophia believes me to be a monster, and returns all your presents."-"I expected this," answered the Countess, embracing them: "Yon will each forgive me for having thus deceived you.' She then related the various steps she had taken in order to discover Sophia's retreat; the persecutions which she had discovered this virtuous woman to have suffered from the Count's mother, and, in a word, all that she had learned of the misfortunes of Sophia and her husband. "Reduced to such extreme misery," added Maltilda, “I was desirous of knowing to what an exalted height a woman might carry virtue. She has not deceived my hopes. Vanquished by her misfortunes, by your favours, and by your constancy, perhaps, without a crime, she might have amused you with hopes. But, in the very depth of misfortune her triumph is complete— her disinterestedness unexampled. Do not imagine, Madam, that I have been influenced by any motive of jealousy. No. My views are of a nobler kind. Receive me into the number of your friends, and strengthen for me the endearing ties that unite me to my husband."

The Countess then desired them to accompany her to the husband of Sophia, whom they fouud in the midst of his children, impatient for the return of their mother. Having provided every thing, she took them away from their wretched dwelling, and conducted them to a decent house in the neighbourhood of her own. "I have received from you," said she to the Count, “a great proof of confidence indeed in the carte blanche which you have given me. You see the use I have made of it. Will you indulge me with a second, by signing this contract?" Marlines instantly signed before he read it. But what emotions he felt, when, on reading it, he found it to be a deed of gift of an estate of one hundred louis d'ors a year, which Matilda had purchased near Paris, but which she could not alienate without his consent. "O my adorable wife," said he, embracing her, " what heart would you not conquer? How delightful is it to be overcome by you!"

The grateful sentiments which Maltilda inspired in the hearts of Sophia and Marlines, extinguished their passion for ever, and changed it into a sweet and tender friendship. But the Count now became as much in love with his wife as he had been with Sophia. That charming union subsisted between the happy parties, which no difference of rank or situation could disturb, and

which was ever after supported by that virtue by which it had been formed.

SIMONIDES'S SATIRE ON WOMEN.

(From the Spectator.)

Of earthly goods, the best is a good wife;
A bad, the bitterest curse of human life.

There are no authors I am more pleased with than those who show human nature in a variety of views, and describe the several ages of the world in their different manners. A reader cannot be more rationally entertained, than by comparing the virtues and vices of his own times with those which prevailed in the times of his forefathers; and drawing a parallel in his mind between his own private character, and that of other persons, whether of his own age, or of the ages that went before him. The contemplation of mankind under these changeable colours is apt to shame us out of any particular vice, or animate us to any particular virtue; to make us pleased or displeased with ourselves in the most proper points, and to clear our minds of prejudice and prepossession, and rectify that narrowness of temper which inclines us to think amiss of those who differ from us.

If we look into the manners of the most remote ages of the world, we discover human nature in her simplicity; and the more we come downward towards our own times, may observe her hiding herself in artifices and refinements, polished insensibly out of her original plainness, and at length entirely lost under form and ceremony, and (what we call) good-breeding. Read the accounts of men and women as they are given us by the most ancient writers, both sacred and profane, and you would think you were reading the history of another species.

Among the writers of antiquity, there are none who instruct us more openly in the manners of their respective times in which they lived, than those who have employed themselves in satire,