Chapter V (2)

After having been pursued all night by tables, from which my utmost efforts hardly enabled me to escape, I arose with a nightmare-feeling of oppression upon me, for which a walk in the bracing air of a cold bright day in February seemed the best remedy.

"I will run over directly after breakfast to Mrs. Atwood's, to get the receipt for that new pudding, which she promised me, and then return and devote the rest of the morning to making calls," thought I.

And, accordingly, a little after nine, I put my head into Mrs. Atwood's sitting-room.

"I won't come in, thank you, this morning," said I, in answer to her invitation. "I cannot stay a minute. I merely came to ask for the receipt for that apple and tapioca pudding. Henrietta isn't as well as usual to-day, and I thought she might like it. Oh, you are trying to move a table! Don't let me disturb you, then. How do you succeed?"

"Not very well this morning," said Mrs. Atwood; "but last night we were very successful. It was our first attempt, too. Jane brought home such wonderful accounts from the sewing society, that we could not rest until we had made a trial of our powers. I think this morning we need a little more assistance, as some of the children have gone to school. I wish you would stay a little while and help us."

"I should be very happy to do so," said I, yielding to her solicitations and my own curiosity, and coming forward; "but I am afraid I should be a hindrance rather than an assistance." And I related my failure of the preceding evening.

I found Mrs. Atwood, her two eldest daughters, and one of her boys sitting anxiously, with outspread hands, round a very small table. A more miserable, distressed-looking child than the little white-headed Charles Atwood I do not think I have ever seen.

"I made Charley come in from his play to help us," said Mrs. Atwood, "because Jane was told that light-haired people possess more of that peculiar electric power, or whatever it is, than any other. Charley is the only member of our family who has light hair. Sit still, my son," she added, as Charley gave the table a little nervous kick.

There was a long silence, broken only once when Charley looked up, with his face full of some deep purpose, and inquired the very lowest price for which wigs could be bought. The question being considered irrelevant, the only answer the poor child received was a shake of the head and a frown from his mother. A peculiar whistle, the familiar signal of one of his favorite companions, threw Charley into such a state of painful suffering that, in commiseration for him, I consented to take his place. He bounded off in an ecstasy of joy, and I took no more note of time till we heard the clock strike eleven. In the mean time, the table had quivered twice, and once moved about an inch. With a sort of Jonah-like feeling, I arose, saying--

"It is useless for me to try longer; I am convinced that I rather retard the movements of the table than assist you." And, bidding her good-morning, I turned my steps homeward.

As I passed the house of one of my acquaintances, my attention was arrested by a tap on the window--a phenomenon that never happened in Westbridge before within my recollection. I obeyed the summons, and found the whole family assembled, gazing in gleeful wonder at the clumsy antics a table was playing under the guidance of three of its members. One of these was a light-haired boy of about thirteen. There was a sober mischief lurking in his face that awoke a slight suspicion in my mind.

"Are you sure that Robert is not using a little muscular force?" asked I.

"Bob? Oh no; he wouldn't do such a thing. He knows how anxious we are to discover the truth that lies at the bottom of these strange developments. And look how lightly his hands rest on the table--the fingers hardly touch it. But Bob has a great deal of electricity about him."

He looked as though he had.

"And I have observed," continued Mrs. Dutton, "that boys and very young men are more successful than any others in moving tables."

If that had not been announced to me as a scientific fact, I should have regarded it as a suspicious circumstance. But manner has a great effect, and Mrs. Dutton's grand emphatic way impressed me so strongly that I listened with the unquestioning reliance of an ignorant, but trusting disciple.

I watched the table as it went reeling and pitching, in a blind and purposeless sort of way, about the room, closely attended by the three who had set it in motion.

"Now take your hands off, and perhaps it will follow you," said I.

That was an unfortunate request of mine, for, with the lifting of the hands, all movement in the table ceased. Bob took the opportunity thus afforded him, and made his escape from the room. We spent a long time in trying to "charge the table," as we called it in our wisdom, again, but were unsuccessful. I was astonished in the midst of our attempts, and just as the table began to make its usual quiver preparatory to a start, to hear the clock strike three. I hastened home to dinner without the receipt, and with the pudding and the calls still unmade, but with my mind so full of perplexed wonder at what I had seen and heard, that I hardly gave a thought to my omissions.

We were discussing the matter in a family circle in the evening, and I presume most of the other households in Westbridge were engaged in the same way, when two young ladies were shown into the parlor.

"We have come to borrow one of your tables--your very smallest, Mrs. Forsyth; and, Pauline, we want you to come back with us. You know how these experiments are tried, I believe. Mrs. Dutton says you were in there this morning, and saw how they did it. We have been trying in vain for the last hour, and at last I came to the conclusion that our tables were all too large, and I told mamma I was sure you would lend us one, and come and see if we omitted anything essential."

"Certainly," said I, "I will do all I can--that is very little. I have not succeeded yet in any attempt I have made. How shall we get the table carried round? Our servants are unfortunately out or engaged."

"Oh, we can carry it ourselves," said Miss Preston, an enthusiast, whom no trifling obstacles daunted; and we passed through the quiet streets of Westbridge carrying the table between us, and amusing ourselves with the curious surprise of the few pedestrians we met, as the full moonlight fell on us and our burden.

At Mrs. Preston's I was successful for the first time. The table quivered, then rocked, then tilted, and at last moved a little this way and that--not much, but just enough to lift from my mind the oppressive feeling of my own inability to do that of which all the men, women, and children in Westbridge seemed to be capable.

When I returned in the evening, I was told that another one of our set of small tea-poys had been borrowed by another neighbor; and for the succeeding fortnight there was little heard or thought of in Westbridge but moving tables. We ran into each other's houses unceremoniously in the evening, and met in little social groups, and our town began to wear another aspect.

But the heresy of involuntary muscular action had arisen in some way. The person who first broached the opinion, abashed perhaps by the indignant disapprobation with which it was received, had shrunk back into silence, but his opinion remained and was gaining ground. The parties began to run high. The people in Westbridge who had performed such wonders with their electric or magnetic force felt called upon to stand their ground and give some convincing proof that they had not all this time been duping themselves.

Those who had lately been devoting themselves to scientific experiments were invited to a _soirée_ at Mrs. Dutton's. A few disbelievers in the science were also asked, that the examination might be carried on fairly and openly.

On entering the drawing-room at Mrs. Dutton's, I found the company already assembled. I saw all the familiar faces I had met so often lately around, not the festive, but the scientific board, and mingled with them were few not so often seen of late. Seated in the place of honor, on the luxurious sofa, were two stout and stately dowagers, guarding between them their niece, Edith Floyd, a lovely, blooming little beauty of sixteen, with brown eyes and fair hair falling in soft curls on either side of her face. Nearly opposite to her, and leaning against a door, stood Reginald Archer, a young Virginian, at that time a student at the college in Westbridge.

It was a rare event to meet a college student in the society of the place, for so many of them had acted the part of the false young knight "who loves and who rides away," that they had been for some time laboring under a kind of polite ostracism. But Mr. Archer had connections in the town, which fact accounted for his exception from the social banishment to which his companions were doomed. The first sight of Edith Floyd had so captivated him, that ever since he had been trying, but trying in vain, to obtain an introduction to her. She was so carefully watched and secluded by her two guardians, that this was the first evening that Mr. Archer had found himself in the same room with her. Even then he did not feel equal to encountering her imposingly dignified aunts, and stood waiting for a more favorable opportunity of forming her acquaintance.

Moving about from one group to another, talking in an excited, earnest way, was Mr. Harrison, the only man in all Westbridge who had expressed an utter disbelief in the whole movement from the first to the last. Even the idea of involuntary or unconscious muscular action was scouted at by him. There had not been a table moved in the town, he said, which had not been done by some person who was perfectly conscious of what he or she was doing. He would not reason nor listen to reason on the subject. It was too purely absurd, he said, for argument. He never entered a room where it was going on without being thrown out of all patience, and yet he haunted the tables and the groups around them, as if he found some strange fascination about them, talking, jesting, and inveighing at our ridiculous credulity, and doing his utmost to stem the tide that was so strong against him. But it was all to no purpose. Mrs. Dutton said, in her oracular way, that "Mr. Harrison had no faith, and faith was the key to knowledge."

Though thus summarily disposed of, he fought on still, not a whit discouraged by his want of success or the little credit he gained for himself.

After selecting with care a suitable table, those of the company who chose to be the experimenters placed themselves around it, and the number and variety of the fingers that were spread on that little surface was quite wonderful to behold. Under such experienced hands, the table performed its part to admiration. Its mode of progression was awkward and angular, to be sure; but what could be expected from the first attempt of a candlestand? It began at last to turn with such rapidity that it was followed with difficulty, and the laughing, confusion, and bustle occasioned by the endeavor to keep pace with its irregular movements created a merry turmoil seldom seen in a decorous assembly in Westbridge. Suddenly, the table made an unexpected tilt nearly to the floor, thus releasing itself from most of the hands laid upon it. The rest, satisfied with the result of the experiment, withdrew their fingers and went to receive the congratulations of the company.

Mrs. Dutton, in a state of high excitement, turned to Mr. Harrison and asked his opinion.

"You have humbugged each other most successfully," said he, too intolerant of the affair to be very choice in his expressions.

Mr. Archer, to whom the whole proceedings were new and strange, and who had had his attention about equally divided between the table and Edith Floyd, said, in a low voice, to Mr. Harrison--

"If I were to find myself seated with hands outspread at a table, waiting for it to move, I should certainly think that my head was a little touched."

"You are the only sensible person in Westbridge--besides myself," said Mr. Harrison, warmly.

Meantime, Ellwood Floyd, Edith's brother, desirous to repeat the experiment, had seated himself at the table, and was endeavoring to obtain assistants. But, satisfied and tired, most of the company were more inclined to talk.

"Come, Edith," said he, impatiently.

She looked beseechingly at her aunts, who, with some reluctance, gave their consent. They evidently regarded her as some precious jewel, which they were afraid to trust for one moment out of their care, for fear they should be rifled of it.

With blushing eagerness, Edith hastened to her brother's side, and two little hands, white and soft as snow-flakes, fell softly on the table. Instantly, two other hands, whose aristocratic beauty of form Lord Byron might have envied, although their color was somewhat of the brownest, were placed beside them.

"Introduce me, if you please," asked Mr. Archer, in a whisper, of a cousin of his, a lady who was standing near; and, the ceremony being performed, Mr. Archer felt inclined to bless the credulity which had thus enabled him to accomplish what had been for many months the desire of his heart.

Mr. Harrison looked on in astonishment.

"Is it possible!" he exclaimed.

"I begin to think there is something in it," said Mr. Archer.

"Is your brain turned too?"

"Perhaps it is a little," said Mr. Archer, with a half smile, while a flush stole over his face. He would not on any account have Mr. Harrison, the greatest tease in Westbridge, suspect the true reason for his sudden change.

All farther attempts at conversation were strictly forbidden by Mr. Floyd, who took upon himself the direction of the experiment. Three other ladies had joined, but he still looked about for more recruits.

"Come, Mr. Lamb," asked he of a large, mild-looking man, who had gathered himself up in a corner, as if he were laboring under a constant apprehension that he took up too much room in the world, "you will help us, I know."

Mr. Lamb begged to be excused, and the effort of speaking before so many brought a faint pink tinge to his face.

"Have you no faith either?" asked Mr. Harrison.

"You would not ask that, if you had seen him as I did yesterday," said Mr. Floyd, "sitting with outstretched hands over a large dining-table. He told me, when I went in, that he had been there all the afternoon, and had not yet produced the slightest effect."

Mr. Lamb's face was by this time a deep crimson, and, feeling it useless to attempt to withdraw any longer from observation, he advanced to the table and placed upon it a pair of hands so large, soft, and yielding that, when they at last stopped spreading, seemed to cover two-thirds of the table.

"Ah, that is something like!" said Mr. Floyd, highly satisfied with his new recruit.

But yet the table did not move as soon as before. Several times I fancied I observed a preparatory quiver in it, and the exclamations of those around it showed that they also were in expectation of some decided result; but we were as often disappointed. Looking closely, I thought that Mr. Archer's hands rested more heavily on the table than was expedient. I suggested this to him, and he thanked me politely, and showed such an evident desire to do nothing out of rule that he quite won my approval.

"My fingers are tingling," said one of the ladies.

"So are mine," said Mr. Archer.

But nothing came of it. After a long waiting, Edith Floyd burst out with, "I am so tired!" in a low, sighing whisper.

Instantly, the table began to move, very slowly and cautiously at first. But soon it increased its velocity, until the excited group around it could hardly keep pace with it. It whirled from one end of the drawing-room to the other with a rapidity never before seen in Westbridge.

"Not so bad a substitute for the waltz," said Mr. Harrison, as he watched the movers running, laughing, and exclaiming, mingled in apparently inextricable confusion. "I would not object to take a turn myself."

That was an unfortunate speech. One by one the movers withdrew their hands, until at last Mr. Lamb was left alone standing by the table in the middle of the room. In great confusion, he retired, and very soon the company dispersed.

That was the climax of the table-moving mania in Westbridge. What might have happened, if we had gone on, cannot be conjectured. We might all have been hearing mysterious rappings, and conversing with those most earthy spirits, whose utter barrenness and poverty of intellect have not hindered them from misleading some of our thoughtful and earnest minds.

The very day after Mrs. Dutton's _soirée_, Professor Faraday's exposition of the whole jugglery came out, and even the "Westbridge Chronicle" had the barbarity to publish it, "for the benefit," it said, "of some of its readers," when everybody in Westbridge knew that the editor had piqued himself on the possession of more electricity than any one else in town. The subject of table-moving is now a forbidden one in Westbridge. I have not heard an allusion to it for the last six month.

Yet, I fancy, it has produced some results; for Edith's two aunts, who were wont to delight in the most severe strictures on the young men of the present day, now make, in their sweeping assertions, a marked exception in favor of Mr. Reginald Archer.

* * * * *

INSTRUCTIONS FOR MAKING ORNAMENTS IN RICE SHELL-WORK.

[THIRD AND CONCLUDING ARTICLE.]

We have hitherto only described those rice-shell ornaments which are adapted for wear. It is time we proceed to describe some of those ornamental articles for the drawing-room which can be manufactured, and which, from their delicacy, lightness, and rarity, are admirably adapted for presents.

Baskets of various kinds and forms may be made, either of the shells only, or of shells and card-board. Perforated card-board is the best when that material is used, as it saves trouble, and forms the pattern more evenly.

If we would make a card-basket or tray, for the reception of visitors' cards, the requisite number of pieces to form the article must be shaped out from the colored perforated card-board, and the pattern or arabesque, which is to be worked on it with the shells, pencilled. Colored card-board should be used, because that throws up the pure white of the shells. Having joined the different pieces together which form the basket, by sewing them with fine chenil, or silk twist, we take about half a yard of the finest silver wire and attach it to the basket at the place we purpose commencing the pattern, and bring it through one of the holes or perforations just there. We then thread a shell on it, and pass the wire through another hole so situated as, when the wire is drawn tight, to cause the shell to lie in that direction which will make it fall into its right position in the pattern. The wire must then be returned to the right side again, and another shell threaded on it, and the same manœuvre gone through; or, if it be intended to work a shell pattern inside and outside the basket, a second shell must be threaded on the wire before it is returned to the right side, and that adjusted into its place by a proceeding similar to the one just described. It is, however, difficult to manage the two patterns at once; one is sure to mar the other to a greater or less extent; therefore, it will always be best either to make the basket very open and tray-shaped, and to work the pattern on the inside, which will then be the only one much seen; or else to make it rather close and upright, so as to show chiefly the outside, and to work the pattern there.

Baskets may be made of unperforated card-board by gumming the pattern with a very thick solution of gum-dragon, and then sticking the shells on in their proper places.

In all kinds of baskets made with rice-shells, the back of the shell is to form the surface, and the opening to be turned inwards.

The basket, of which we have given a cut, is composed of shells, and the coarsest of the three sizes of silver wire. It is made in lattice-work, or squares, and requires some art to mould or shape it into form.

We commence at the bottom, and with the central square. A length of wire, measuring twelve or fourteen inches, must be taken, and the small shells used. Thread four shells on the wire, arranging them so that the point of the first meets the point of the second, and the end of the second meets the end of the third; while the point of the third meets the point of the fourth. Push them along the wire to within about an inch of the end, then bend them into a square, and twist the short end of the wire firmly and neatly with the other, and cut off the superfluous bit. Now thread three shells on the wire, so arranged that the end of the first and the point of the third shall meet the corresponding end and point of that shell of the square already formed, which, when these three are bent into their positions, will constitute the fourth side of this second square. Loop the wire through the corner of the foundation square, and we have the second completed.

A certain firmness, divested, however, of tightness, is requisite in performing these manipulations; for, if the shells are jammed too closely together, the work will have an uneven, stiff appearance, whereas, if they are left too loose, the fabric will never set in form, and will look slovenly. The drawing the wire through the corners of the preceding squares, in order to complete the one which is being worked, too, is a nice operation, which must be gently done, or we may crack the work; and securely and neatly managed, or the squares will not be firm and compact.

Three shells are now again to be symmetrically threaded, and formed into a square, and fastened down to the central one. Two other squares are then to be formed in like manner, and we now have five, or one on each of the four sides of the foundation square. All the sixteen shells used for this should be small, and as nearly as possible of a size.

The wire is now passed up through the inside of the shell nearest to it, and it will be found that the next round of squares will be formed, first, by threading two shells, and bending them into position, and fastening them down at the corner, over the place where the preceding round has left us two sides of a square, and then by threading three shells, and bringing them into shape, where we have only one side ready for us. The two shells, and the three shells, used alternately, will produce another round, consisting of eight squares. Care must be taken to use shells of equal size for a round, although in each fresh round the size of the shells should be in a slight degree increased. The backs of the shells must all lie one way, and the openings the other; the latter constitutes the inside of the basket, as they do not look so uniform and handsome.

The following engraving will give an idea of the appearance of the fabric in an early stage.

When it is necessary to take a fresh length of wire, it must be joined on close to the corner of a completed square, by twisting it firmly and neatly with the end of the length just used up, and cutting up the superfluous point.

The third round is formed as the second, by using alternately the two and the three shells as required to complete the squares.

The number of rounds which are to be worked for the bottom depends entirely upon the size which we design to make the basket. In general, these three, or at any rate four rounds, will be sufficient to make a very pretty sized one.

The next round is to be worked exactly in the same way and with exactly the same sized shells as the last one of the bottom, and, after it is worked, it is to be turned up like a rim all round. This commences the basket itself.

These rounds are now to be added with the small shells, and shaped into form; and then the middle-sized shells, in rounds of gradually increasing size, are to be used for about six rounds; and then the large shells, in gradually increasing size, are to be brought in use and continued until the basket is finished.

It will soon be perceived, while working, that it will occasionally be necessary to miss a square, or to add one or more here and there in order to preserve the raised, and opened, and rounded form requisite for the oval of a basket. The symmetrical arrangement of the points and ends must be carefully attended to, or else the star-like combinations, which add so materially to the appearance of the fabric, will be marred or lost.

A pair of tweezers, or very small nippers, may be used for twisting the wire when fastening on a fresh length, as the fingers will thus be saved, and additional firmness obtained.

Having raised the basket-work to the required height, which, when the bottom consists of four rounds, should be about six inches, a piece of round silk wire, either white or colored, and exactly the size, but not larger than the circle of the top of the basket, must be taken, and firmly attached to the edge of the basket with middle-sized wire; this is to give shape and firmness to the work, and to this another piece of wire is attached, to form the handle.

The basket must now be trimmed, and for this purpose we make two light and graceful wreaths, one long enough to go round the top of the basket, and the other as long as the handle. The single flower, the bud, the spiral group, and leaves of seven or nine shells each, are what will be required for an ordinary-sized basket. When the wreath is made in simple rice shell-work, the stems must be twisted, and the wreath bound together with fine silver wire, and attached to the handle and to the circular wire with the same; the silk wire used must be white.

If, however, the wreath is to be made in the "composite" style, light flower-seeds or small glass beads may be introduced into the centre of the flowers, and the stems may be wound, and the wreaths put together with floss silk, and then they are to be attached to the handle and circular wire with fine chenil. The following combinations are pretty and effective: beads or seeds of pink, or yellow, or coral, or blue, and the stems of the flowers and buds wound with silk to match, the stems of the leaves wound with green, and the wreaths attached in their places with green chenil. There should not be more than two colors, the green and one other, used at a time, and these should be delicate shades; for the shells have so pure and light an appearance, that anything in the least degree showy or gaudy spoils the effect of the whole.

Pendent from below each end of the handle, should be a grape-like bunch of shells, not set on so closely together as in the wheat-ear, or so far apart as in a leaf, and reaching about half way down the basket.

When completed, the article should be placed under a glass case to preserve it from dust and injury, and a few wax or artificial flowers may be tastefully arranged in it with advantage.

A square basket, or a long, straight-sided one, or one in almost any given shape, may be made in this lattice-work, by manufacturing each piece separately, and in the required shape, and then lacing them together with silver wire, chenil, or twist. There is, however, no trimming more graceful, or better adapted for them, than the wreath.

If thought fit, the wreath, however, need only be put round the top of the basket, and the handle made of a succession of squares of the kind we have described.

Light wreaths, either of "simple" or "composite" rice shell-work, may, with very pretty effect, be entwined around alabaster vases or baskets.

For wedding-cakes, rice-shell wreaths and bouquets, with silver bullion in the flowers, are both tasteful and appropriate.

Intermingled with groups of the wax, or artificial, or feather, or paper flowers, the shell-leaves and double and daisy flowers look very pretty.

As the shells never wear out, when any ornament is crushed, or soiled, or tarnished, it can be cut up, the wires picked out, and the shells, when washed and dried, will be ready to be used again and again.

But we are sure that we have suggested quite enough to our readers to enable them to devise for themselves many other pretty and fanciful uses for this work, and we feel convinced that, when once they have overcome the first difficulties of learning it, they will find pleasure in seeing the graceful articles that will, as it were, develop themselves under their busy fingers.

And so we now take our leave of this subject for the present, commending it to the favorable attention of those who may have taken the trouble to peruse what we have written.

ROMAN WOMEN IN THE DAYS OF THE CÆSARS.

BY H. P. HAYNES.

The condition of woman constitutes an important part of the complete history of any age or country. In her own appropriate sphere, she exerts an influence, powerful and enduring, for the political greatness, the moral grandeur, and general prosperity of a state, as well as for its social peace and harmony. In her heart dwell, for the most part, the charity, the virtue, the moral soundness of communities, and, it almost might be said, the patriotism of a people. Her character and condition are the character and condition of the society of which she is a component part. In those countries and climes where the female is made a slave, or treated with unmerited severity, the males are not men, but the most brutal of savages. Where civilization, Christianity, and refinement allow woman her proper level, man is the exponent of real humanity and intelligence. The annals of ages are but an accumulation of evidence establishing these truths.

The graver of the Athenians, in the age of Pericles, attributed the decline of those virtues which, in all ages, have been considered the brightest ornaments of the sex, and the consequent increase of vice in the republic, to the pernicious influence of the beautiful and fascinating Aspasia. To her they imputed the crime of seducing the first orator and statesman of his time. On the other hand, the stern virtue, the heroism, the self-denying patriotism of the sons of Sparta, were legacies from their mothers. They shunned no dangers, feared no enemy, shrank from no hardship, and, when they met an honorable death in combat with the invaders of Grecian soil, the brave-hearted matrons consoled themselves with the idea that for this purpose they had given birth to children.

When Carthage was for the last time besieged by the Romans, the patriotic women of that devoted city imparted to her warrior defenders a portion of their heroism and love of country, and cut off their tresses for bowstrings for the archers.

Roman history has described with great minuteness the extraordinary virtue and the excellent domestic habits of Lucretia, her sad fate, and the sympathy it awakened, and the indignation it aroused in the hearts of all good citizens. Her sacred regard for her own honor--that honor insulted by a corrupt nobleman, an unprincipled monarch--proved a death-blow to kingly power for a season in Rome. Whether the story of Lucretia be a cunningly-devised fable, or veritable, sober history, is not material, since it illustrates a principle well substantiated by all history and observation, that insults to female virtue and honor do not escape unavenged. Cleopatra, the beautiful and accomplished Egyptian queen, subdued successively the hearts of two stern Romans--heroes who had met the wildest shocks of battle undismayed, and who had never quailed with fear, nor scarce melted with pity. In her magic fingers hung, at an important crisis, the fate of the Roman empire. Her influence was as destructive as her presence was potential and commanding. These are marked instances of woman's influence, and of her characteristics.

The reign of Octavius Cæsar was the golden age of Rome. At that period, the almost unlimited control of the civilized world was hers. Her colonies were planted on every shore of the known world--the Roman eagles triumphed in every clime. Three continents paid her tribute. One intervening sea washed their shores and wafted her fleets. Extensive sway and the contributions of wealthy nations had not only rendered her proud and insolent, but corrupt, and, in a measure, cruel. The principal distinctions in her society were those of wealth and power, rather than of talents, sobriety, and virtue. The corrupt and the vile were, for the most part, the esteemed and highly favored.

There were numerous instances, it is true, of patriotism, virtue, and highmindedness among Roman citizens of this period, well worthy of imitation and remembrance. There was a sort of refinement of which the earlier Romans did not boast, and which they openly condemned. Grecian art and learning, combined with the wealth and vices introduced from the East, had wrought a great change in the national character and habits. Republican simplicity had given place to excessive extravagance and prodigality. In this, as in every age, woman acted no indifferent part in the everyday drama of Roman life. She was herself extravagant, and, if the history of that period be truly narrated, not always a discourager of vice and dissipation. Cicero, the greatest intellect Rome ever produced, with the exception, it may be, of Julius Cæsar, lived at this age in Rome, and contributed, in no small degree, to give it the title golden. He was, we are told, not only of the highest order of human intelligences, but a man of wisdom and purity of character. While he united in his own person all the noble qualifications of an able statesman, a brilliant scholar and orator, a learned and ingenious lawyer, and a good citizen, as well as a devoted father and husband, his first wife, Teruntia, was nearly the opposite. That he did not lack in kindness towards her, his known characteristics and disposition, as well as his letters to her when at a distance, fully prove. His social qualities eminently fitted him to discharge the duties of a husband in the most amiable manner. Teruntia, though of a rich and noble family, was of a turbulent and impetuous spirit, negligent, intriguing, and finally became so uncongenial a companion to the illustrious orator that he became divorced from her. He afterwards connected himself by marriage with another Roman lady of great wealth; but from her likewise he separated himself, finding her destitute of social kindness, domestic affection, and humanity.

Tullia, Cicero's daughter, is awarded a high rank among Roman ladies of her time; but she was thrice married, and as many times divorced. The cause may not have been hers so much as her husband's, or it may have been more attributable to the loose morals of the age than to either party in particular. If, however, Tullia was wanting in those domestic qualities so necessary to the permanent calm of married life, she was not destitute of learning and the polite accomplishments of her time. She is said, by Roman historians, to have been an "admirable woman"--affectionate and piously observant of her father--one of the most learned of Roman women.

In the earlier days of Rome, the noblest matrons were noted for nothing more than their excellent domestic habits--industry, frugality, and devotion to and affection for their families. The greatness of that vast empire was founded not more in the devoted patriotism and persevering energy of the Roman citizens, than in the incorruptible virtue, the sacrificing spirits, and noble hearts of Roman matrons. Not so in the declining days of the republic. Not so when the robust and vigorous youth of the nation began to tremble with advancing years, and to wreath its brow with gray hairs--a result not of age and toil and serious care, but of dissipation and inglorious ease, of wealth, and wine, and extravagant feasts. Not so when the humble cottage, the home wherein dwelt domestic peace and content, was exchanged for a marble palace, decorated with statues and paintings, lined with Tyrian couches, bespangled with gold and silver ornaments, and thronged with slaves. Not so when the Cæsars and Mark Antony ruled the imperial city with hordes of mercenary soldiers; nor when the republic was metamorphosed into an empire, and all regard to life, property, and private right had, in a measure, ceased. The social and domestic character of Roman society were so sadly changed, and foreign vice and corruption became naturalized to such an extent, that the decay of the empire is no marvel.

The simplicity and integrity of earlier times were the base on which was reared a magnificent national superstructure. Thereon was based the sure growth, the gradual, healthy expansion of Roman power, till all the tribes and nations of the earth respected and feared it. Therein consisted the peculiar glory of Rome's first estate--of her earlier conquests--that force of character and energy of action that wearied Pyrrhus, conquered Mithridates, and overwhelmed Carthage. No coward dared return from a field which he had dishonored to the bosom of his wife, his sister, or his family; for they scorned and detested cowardice and unmanly and unsoldierly behavior, while they honored bravery and patriotism, whether manifested against the invaded or in an offensive war against a foreign foe. They applauded whatever was noble, generous, and manly; though, to gratify this spirit, husbands, fathers, brothers, and sons were sacrificed on war's grim altar. The inflexible mandates of the immortal gods were to be observed at whatever cost.

The citizens were instruments in the hands of the deities to avenge wrongs, to enforce right, and to glorify the city of their birth. The great dramatic bard, in "Coriolanus," makes Volumnia, the mother of Marcius Coriolanus, say: "Hear me profess sincerely. Had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for his country than one voluptously surfeit out of action." She but spoke the spirit of her time; and her language is but the language of Roman matrons of her age. Thus grew and flourished, as by magic forces and divine ordination, the city of Romulus, the world's hope and dread, at once the saviour and destroyer of civilization, whose porous social system absorbed and quickly dissolved the mysteries of Egypt, the classic beauties of Greece, and the wealth of the "exhaustless East."

But the great distinguishing trait in the Roman woman, in the days of the republic and under the earlier kings, was her attention to household employments. This the Roman expected of his wife--it was enjoined upon her by the marriage rite. Thus, indeed, it was among most of the more enlightened nations of antiquity. The noble born of both sexes did not disdain to toil in their appropriate spheres; the prince of royal blood was proud of holding the plough and of acting the husbandman, and daughters of princes were not ashamed to ply the needle or tend the distaff.

"So it was of old
That woman's hand, amid the elements
Of patient industry and household good,
Reproachless wrought, twining the slender thread
From the light distaff; or, in the skilful loom,
Weaving rich tissues, or, with glowing tints
Of rich embroidery, pleased to decorate
The mantle of her lord. And it was well;
For in such sheltered and congenial sphere
Content with duty dwells."

The great veneration for home, and love for its pursuits and associations, grew weaker and weaker as the state exchanged a popular government for the reign of military dictators and kings. In the Augustan age, though instances of female virtue, nobility, and culture are not few, we find from the scanty records of female history of those times extant, which, indeed, are merely incidental, that woman is less often the ideal of self-sacrificing worth and of retiring modesty, less noted for her attachment to her family, her home, and her domestic pursuits, less careful in the training of her children, than formerly. In earlier times, no Roman matron coveted the infamous character of a masculine conspirator; no Roman woman left her quiet hearth disgracefully to insult the remains of a murdered citizen; no Roman woman had instigated a civil war, or proscribed her victims for assassination.

Fulvia, the ambitious wife of Mark Antony, did all this. After the assassination of Clodius, she raised a sedition. Imitating, or rather out-rivalling the cruelty of her husband, she joined in his proscriptions, that Roman blood might flow by Roman hands still more freely. After the great Cicero had been slain in a spirit of the most relentless and vindictive cruelty, and his head brought to Antony, Fulvia took it on her knees, broke out in a torrent of cowardly and abusive epithets on the character of the deceased, and then, with the most fiendish inhumanity, pierced his tongue with her golden bodkin. During the absence of her husband in the East, she not only endeavored to stir up insurrections, but sold the government of provinces and decreed unmerited triumphs. What an eternity of infamy should be hers for such deeds as these! What an example in the wife of a ruler for the imitation of an empire! When such a spirit actuates the female mind, when coupled with ambition, recommended by beauty and intelligence, and supported by power, it is sadly to be deplored. That ambition which at any time induces woman to step beyond her sphere, to take upon her shoulders masculine responsibilities, to take part in political struggles and sectional wrangles, to usurp the places and duties of those who were created and destined to cherish and protect her, it is, for her own sake, to be regretted. Such attempts are not only pernicious in their influence, but they tend to render those unhappy who make them. Such are the results of our reflection and observation, and such is the lesson taught by impartial history.

In the life of Fulvia, however, we do not get a fair representation of the female character of her time, but merely some of its tendencies. A spirit of insubordination to the laws of place and the rules of decorum; an overweening ambition that steps without household limits; assumption of power far beyond the reach of female duties; arrogance and haughtiness from the high official station of the husband; vindictive cruelty to avenge a fancied or a real wrong; prodigality and masculine pride, oftener perceptible in this age than formerly--were unmistakable indications of its character and tendencies. Yet the picture was not altogether sad, though at various points dark shadows were visible. Here and there the heaviness of the prospect was relieved by the most delightful views and cheering lights. The wife of the second Brutus is portrayed by the great limner of human character, in "Julius Cæsar," as worthy the beautiful tribute bestowed by her husband.

In this play, Portia is made to act the part and display the genuine qualities of a "true wife," understanding her duties as such, and manifesting all due sympathy and affection for her husband, as is shown where she beseeches Brutus to reveal to her why he is heavy in heart, the secrets of his bosom, and what designs he cherishes:--

PORTIA.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted I should know no secrets
But, as it were, in sort or limitation;
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,
And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs
Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus's harlot, not his wife.

BRUTUS.

You are my true and honorable wife!
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sick heart!

PORTIA.

Then should I know this secret.
I grant I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife:
I grant I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman well reputed--Cato's daughter.
Think you I am no stronger than my sex,
Being so fathered, and so husbanded?
Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose them.
I have given strong proof of my constancy,
Giving myself a voluntary wound.
---------------- Can I bear that with patience,
And not my husband's secrets?

BRUTUS.

Oh, ye gods,
Render me worthy of this noble wife!

In the same play, Shakspeare would have us believe that Calpurnia, wife of Cæsar, had quite persuaded her husband not to go to the senate house on the fatal ides of March, though then and there he was to be crowned and clothed with regal power. The apprehensions she had raised in his mind were, however, dispelled by Oceius Brutus.

Antony's second wife, Octavia, was quite the reverse of Fulvia in character and disposition. She was of a gentle and peaceable spirit, doing her strict duty to her husband long after he had ceased to deserve her confidence or respect. The marriage, on the whole, was an unhappy one, being suggested by policy and public expediency, and effected for the purpose of uniting two powerful factions. Octavia was, for a considerable period, instrumental in preventing a rupture between her brother and husband, though that event finally occurred, with the most disastrous consequences to Antony. Though Antony was an able general, a man of capacity and great personal courage, yet he had so involved himself in the dissipations and luxuries of the Egyptian court, whose crowning star was Cleopatra, that he was no match for the graver and more calculating Augustus. The charms of Cleopatra had completely unmanned him, and smothered, in a measure, his ambition.

Time did not serve to rally him from the lethargy, hopeless and fatal, into which her spell had thrown him. The chains which bound him grew stronger and stronger, and his desire to break them weaker and weaker. This he attributed to her unrivalled beauty and the extent and variety of her accomplishment, to depict which requires a poet's pen and limner's art.

"Age cannot wither, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety. Other women clog
The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies."

Happy picture! yet how inadequate to convey a correct impression of her entire character or history! But that portion intended to be depicted, the winning graces, the charming exterior, her manifold accomplishments, and queenly airs, how delicately, perhaps faithfully, touched off! The gifted and happy artist was not at fault here. The usually faithful limner, we have reason to believe, was not here unfaithful. He has portrayed the Egyptian queen, as she walked along the stage with Antony, truly and well.

But Cleopatra completed the ruin of Antony. He had wellnigh ruined himself; but it was hers to give the final stroke. How little he heeded his vow to Octavia at Rome, after he had spent part of his dissolute career in Egypt!

"My Octavia,
Read not my blemishes in the world's report.
I have not kept my square; but that to come
Shall all be done by the rule."

Poor Antony! the sequel of his life, the consummation of his destiny, how just, yet how painful to be observed! Fit retribution to one forsaking a true and faithful wife, to one choosing the paths of vice and dissipation and enervating pleasures. The stern warrior, the experienced general, the able statesman and orator found, at last, in the hand of the Venus he adored, the sword of a Nemesis.

Among the many noticeable women of this age, we would not pass by with seeming indifference the three Cornelias, wives of distinguished men, themselves, "withal, well reputed." Cornelia, the daughter of Cinna, was a very estimable woman, and the wife of Julius Cæsar. The best eulogy that has been pronounced upon her character and worth is the fact related by Plutarch concerning her. It appears that, though it was at that time contrary to custom at Rome to have funeral orations on young women deceased--only on the aged--yet Cæsar, from his high appreciation of the virtues of his wife, himself pronounced hers without regard to the practice of the times. This was her highest praise--the most worthy commendation of her merit. To recommend herself to her husband thus is one of the rarest excellences of a wife.

Pompey's wife, Cornelia, was Metellus Scipio's daughter. Considering the time in which she lived, the condition of society in which she moved, and the many examples of corruption daily exhibited in and about Rome, she certainly must be regarded as a woman of remarkable character and stability of virtue. Her accomplishments were many and various, and she was equally noted for the excellency of her private character, her domestic habits, and the extent and variety of her information.

Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, so celebrated in Roman history, was the daughter of Scipio Africanus Major. She also occupied a high rank among the worthy women of her day. She had a masculine turn of mind, but an irreproachable character. She is said, after the death of her husband, to have trained and educated her children in the most exemplary manner. In illustration of her regard for them, is the anecdote of Valerius Maximus concerning Cornelia, wherein she is represented, after having had displayed to her by a Campanian lady very many beautiful ornaments, and having been requested in turn to display her own, as having said, pointing to her children, "Here are my ornaments."

From the days of the Cæsars, Rome's glory began to depart. The stars that sparkled in her imperial diadem one by one faded, and at last were extinguished, leaving nations long accustomed to bondage and tribute free to grope about in the night of northern barbarism. Her conquerors and destroyers, though stigmatized as cowardly barbarians, without taste, learning, or genius, and destitute of any appreciation of the uses or beauty of art, could at least boast of a higher respect for woman. Ignorant and uncultivated, they yet looked upon the gentler sex with a kindly eye, and in her presence felt a generous sentiment, noble in itself and worthy of men. They looked upon woman as on the face of the calm heavens, to draw thence a kind of holy inspiration. They regarded her as mother, sister, wife, daughter--not as slave, servant, or a temporary toy. A worthy characteristic, though manifest in Goth and Vandal, the destroyers of statues, paintings, and magnificent cities, the dismantlers of queenly Rome, or the ravagers of Tuscany.

One of the disorders of which old Rome died--she had many preying on her vitals--was the rottenness of her social system. The Roman, in the days of Augustus, could not justify himself to his family on any rules of ancient or modern propriety; and too often it happened that his family, his wife, sister, and daughter, could not vindicate their own conduct, much less atone for that of the Roman man.

The history of that age, with what afterwards befel that proud empire, teaches with a plainness that is unmistakable that, when a nation or state loses its self-respect, and the people cease to pay a proper regard to social proprieties, and due respect and deference to female character--when woman is denied the charity she merits, or when she herself is encouraged to step beyond her generously accorded limits, its heart is unsound and its path is descending.

* * * * *

LETTERS LEFT AT THE PASTRY-COOK'S:

BEING THE CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN KITTY CLOVER AT SCHOOL, AND HER "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND" IN TOWN.

EDITED BY HORACE MAYHEW.

THE THIRD LETTER LEFT.

(_Dated March 3d._)

SHOWING WHAT KITTY THOUGHT OF SOME OF HER SCHOOL-FELLOWS.