THE LITERARY WOMAN.*

A LETTER FROM ONE HUSBAND TO ANOTHER.

[Translated from the German of Schiller.]

AND I should pity you! Is Hymen's band
With tears of bitter sorrow by you curs'd?
Wherefore? Because your faithless spouse doth seek
That in another's arms which you refuse

To grant her? Friend, unto a stranger's woes
Give ear, and learn to bear your own more lightly.

You smart, because one other doth enjoy
Your own peculiar rights-Enviable man!
My wife to the whole human race belongs.
From Baltic straits unto the Mosel strand,
Unto the walls of lofty Appenine,
Unto the fashions' father-city, she,
In ev'ry book-stall stands expos'd for sale;
In coaches, packet-boats, by ev'ry fop
And ev'ry pedant, she must fain submit
To be review'd, with proper criticism:
Endure the townsman's spectacles, and then,

As any greasy critic may command,

On flow'rs or burning coals, to glory's temple
Or the pillory go.

A Leipzic villain,-may Heaven curse him!—
Of late survey'd her topographically,

Like a fortress, and offer'd, for a price,
Some portions to the public,-parts
Whereof I only have just right to speak.

Your wife, thanks to the laws canonical,-
Is wise enough to call herself your spouse.
She has, perhaps, good reasons for her acts,
And doth conduct herself accordingly.t
But I am only known as NINON's man.
Complain you that all tongues are whispering,

When at the faro-table you appear,

Or at the theatre? O man of luck!

That hath the chance to boast of such good fortune:

Literally-The celebrated Woman.

↑ It is impossible to translate this passage literally. In the original it has great force, and is comprehended in a single line;

"Sie weiss warum, und thut sehr wohl daran.

On me, my brother, me, a watering-place*
At last bestows this mighty happiness ;—

The place on her left hand; no eye marks me,
But every countenance is fixed upon
My lofty better half.

Scarce is the morning gray, ere creak the stairs
With blue and yellow-coated messengers,

With packets, bundles, letters un-post-paid,
Addressed-to the literary woman.

She sleeps so sweet!—and yet I dare not spare her,-
"The papers, Madam-Jena and Berlin ;".

At once the eyes of the dear sleeper open;

Her first glance falls upon-the last review.
That sweet blue eye,-on me not e'en a look,-
She hurries through the abominable sheet,
(Loud crying in the nursery mean while.)
She lays it by at last, and makes inquiry
For her little ones.

The toilet waits already;
Her luckless mirror gets but half a glance.
A threatening, impatient, peevish face,
Gives wings to the affrighted waiting-maid.
From that toilet the graces long since fled,
And there, instead of sweetly-smiling loves,
Are to be seen the furies in attendance.

Next, carriages are rattling at the door,
And servants springing from their steps, to ask
An audience with the literary one

For the perfum'd Abbe,-the wealthy Count,-
The Englishman-who reads no German though,—
Grossing and Co.,t or for Herr Wundermann.

A thing, which meekly to the corner shrinks,
And sometimes is call'd husband, is scarce glanc'd at.
Here dares will your house-friend venture so far?—

The dullest blockhead e'en, the poorest wight,

To tell how very much he doth admire her,
And dares to do 't before my very face.

I wait near by, and but to be polite
Must ask the dunce to stay to dinner.

At table, friend, my woes begin anew;
There, for my bottles, inwardly I groan.

In the original, "Molkenkur," a word signifying a place of resort by invalids, for the drinking of milk. It is used much as we use the expression," the Springs."

† A celebrated publishing establishment in Germany.

VOL. IX.

With wine of Burgundy, to me forbidden
By the Doctor, I must wash the gullets
Of her flatt'rers; my hard-earned livelihood
Becomes the prey of hungry parasites.
O! this detestable, this thrice-accursed
Immortality will prove the ruin

Of my stout old Nierensteiner,*

And plant the whitloe on my every finger.

What, think you, are the thanks I get? A shrug,

A mocking glance, unmannerly compassion-
Do you not take? I understand full well?

Pity, that such an uncouth dunce as I
Should bear away this jewel of a woman.

The Spring-time comes. On fields and meadows wide,
Nature her variegated carpet spreads;

The herbage clothes itself in living green,

The birds in ev'ry budding grove are warbling.

To her, the Spring has not a charm. The songster

Of the sweetest note, the pleasant wood,

The witness of our early happiness—

Speaks to her heart no more. The nightingales
Have never read,-the lilies ne'er admir'd.

The universal jubilee of Nature

Inspires her to an epigram.

Yet, no!

The season is so fair,-to travel.

How crowded it must be in Pyrmont now.

Yet ev'rywhere one hears them praising Carlsbad.
Quick she's there-in each honorable rank

Where puppet scholars intermixed with sages-
Celebrated men of ev'ry stamp,

Familiarly, like as in Charon's boat,

Pair'd off, together from one platter eat.

Where, gather'd from afar, tatter'd virtues

Of their wounds are heal'd, while others yet

With honor to resist, right earnestly

Seek out temptation. There, my friend,-O learn
To prize your destiny!-wanders my wife,
And seven children leaves at home,-with me.

O! thou first happy year of my young love!

How quick-alas! how quick art thou flown by!
A woman, like no other woman, past
Or present, with the graces of a goddess

* A superior kind of wine.

32

Deck'd,-with spirit pure, with heart ingenuous,—
And gentle, quick-mov'd sensibilities;-
Thus saw I her, the dear heart-fetterer,-

To me a May-day, shining round my path.

The sweet words,-I love you! spake from her eyes;—
Thus I led her to the bridal-altar.

O who was happier than I!

A flower-field of happy years, unclouded,
From out that mirror smiling on me looked.
My heaven was open'd to me.

Already

I could see my children sport around me ;
The fairest in their circle, she,—of all

The group, the happiest, she. And she was mine,
Mine, through the harmony of souls, and through
The ever-during bond of loving hearts.

And now appears-may he obtain his meed !-
A great man—an extraordinary genius.
The great man did a deed, and overthrew
At once my heaven-reaching paper-castle.

Whom have I now? most pitiful exchange!
Waked from my dream of bliss, what is left me
Of this angel? What is left? A strong mind,
In a body weak; a mongrel being,

Betwixt man and woman, for rule unfitted
As for love; a child in giant's armor;
A thing but half philosopher-half ape!
With trouble having gained a place among
The stronger sex, abandoning the fairer,—
Precipitated from the throne of love,-
Driven from beauty's holy mysteries,-
Stricken from Cytherea's golden book*
For a newspaper notoriety.

Golden Book: in a certain Italian state, a book is thus called in which the names of the noble families are enrolled.

THE WITCH.

A TALE OF THE LAST CENTURY.

BY CUJUS.

"The earth hath bubbles, as the water hath."-MACBETH.

(Concluded.)

CHAPTER XII.

Ir was one of those magnificent days in the latter part of April, when the sky has assumed the deep hue which it wears in May, while the landscape still retains the delicate tints of the earlier season. The sun, already fast approaching the western horizon, was gleaming through a mass of broken clouds, whose dark masses, fringed with a silvery lacing, presaged a coming storm. Immediately overhead, and to the east and south, the heavens were unobscured by even a passing vapor, and as the eye turned toward them, it seemed to pierce far into their blue depths, till sight became almost painful. There was a slight breeze, which rippled the surface of Rapaug pond, and breathed through the surrounding forest, bearing to the ear the sound of singing birds and murmuring brooks. The old woods, clothed in their spring garments, looked young again, and at times tossed their huge arms, as if in juvenile sportfulness. A faint smoke was curling lazily upward from the chimney of Mrs. Stanfield's dwelling, and it seemed as if, in that sequestered spot, the spirit of peace and innocent repose had taken its abode.

Of this scene but one human spectator was visible. The reader may remember the rock, which we have described, as, in one place, reaching to the verge of the water on the western side of the little lake. On this rock sat Orra Stanfield. A small basket of mountain plants stood near her, and she held in her hands some unknown flowers, whose purple-spotted petals she was examining. Her cheek was flushed, and her bosom heaving with exercise, and as her wild sunbonnet fell back upon her shoulders, disclosing the graceful contour of her neck, and giving freedom to a profusion of glossy curls, which shaded her temples, and half-concealed the animated expression of her eyes, her extreme loveliness might have warmed the coldest heart, and bewildered the strongest head. For some time she continued her occupation, but at length she dropped the blossoms, and sat gazing thoughtfully at the water, whose tiny waves were beating against the rock a little below and beyond her. Suddenly she started, as she thought she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. She listened attentively for a moment, and a smile played on her lips, and a faint blush tinged her countenance, as she exclaimed, in a low tone,

"It must be Hugh;" but the smile and the flush vanished, as she recollected herself, and saying, "no, it cannot be; he always comes