alment, to banish sorrow;
for, even though you weep not openly, tears of blood will
flow from your heart. So wept that simple doctor, who,
according to the poet, would venture to make a trial of the
cup which the more prudent Rinaldo wisely declined doing;
and although this be a poetical fiction, there is a
concealed moral in it worthy to be observed and followed.

There is no jewel in the world so valuable as a chaste and
virtuous woman. The honor of women consists in the good
opinion of the world; and since that of your wife is
eminently good, why would you have it questioned? Woman, my
friend, is an imperfect creature; and, instead of laying
stumbling-blocks in her way, we should clear the path before
her, that she may readily attain that virtue which is
essential in her. Naturalists inform us that the ermine is a
little creature with extremely white fur, and that when the
hunters are in pursuit of it, they spread with mire all the
passes leading to its haunts, to which they then drive it,
knowing that it will submit to be taken rather than defile
itself. The virtuous and modest woman is an ermine, and her
character whiter than snow; and in order to preserve it, a
very different method must be taken from that which is used
with the ermine.

The reputation of a woman may also be compared to a mirror
of crystal, shining and bright, but liable to be sullied by
every breath that comes near it. The virtuous woman must be
treated like a relic--adored but not handled; she should be
guarded and prized, like a fine flower-garden, the beauty
and fragrance of which the owner allows others to enjoy only
at a distance, and through iron rails.

The devil, when he would entrap a cautious person, assumes
an angel form till he carries his point, when the cloven
foot appears.

He who builds on impossibilities should be denied the
privilege of any other foundation.

Hope is ever born with love.

Castles should not be left without governors, nor armies
without generals.

The passion of love is to be conquered by flight alone; it
is vain to contend with a power which, though human,
requires more than human strength to subdue.

SONNET.

In the dead silence of the peaceful night,
When others' cares are hushed in soft repose,
The sad account of my neglected woes
To conscious Heaven and Chloris I recite.
And when the sun, with