despair." "Oh no," replied she, "all the world are happy at Quimper-Corentin; Mademoiselle Gabrielle is here on her return from Spain with her dear Du Courcy, at present her husband. Of the two nieces, one of them is come back from Calabria with St Leon, who has not turned capuchin, and Mademoiselle Aline is just returned from India with the amiable Sainval." "By Heavens," cried Kerenflute, "I believe you are all determined to make me more mad than ever; how can what you say be true, after what I have heard ?" "You shall have no farther doubts on their account, if you will but listen to me," said one of the company. If the uneasiness that was suffered for Mademoiselle Balzamie was owing to a dream, what was felt for Mademoiselle Gabrielle was merely founded on the representation of a tragedy. On her arrival at Cadiz, the relations she had there formed a plan to marry her to an old merchant, who had lately brought immense wealth from Peru. She was afraid of opposing their will, feeling, on the one hand, that this alliance would make her very rich, and, on the other, that, from the age and infirmities of her future spouse, she might soon hope for the enjoy ment of all his wealth in uncontrolled liberty. She married, therefore, the Peruvian, and her marriage was scarcely concluded when Du Courci arrived. In spite of the jealousy of the merchant, he found means to see Gabrielle, and make her some tender reproaches. The amiable Bretonne was not displeased at hearing them, but advised him not to risk again entering her house. "Be on your guard,' said she, "especially as to husbands of this nation, for the presumptuous French have often felt the effects of their revenge. I am interested in your days; be careful of them, for my sake, in times more fortunate." She would have continued, but a noise she heard made her retire. Gabrielle was confirmed in her fears from the representation of a Spanish play, said to be a translation from the French, but which the mistress of Sainval believed to have been originally Spanish; for the savage character there drawn of a jealous husband was more analogous to that nation, than to the manners, thinking, and acting of French lovers or husbands. The heroine of this drama was called Gabrielle, like herself; and, as the catastrophe of this revolting tragedy, she was forced to eat the heart of her lover, named Conci, but which was translated into Spanish, Da Courci. Du Courci was present also at this play, seated on the opposite side of the house to Gabrielle, who was with her husband and another lady in a side box; and she no sooner heard from the stage those names that were so dear to her heart, than she became affected and uneasy, which increased as the interest of the piece advanced. It was superiorly well acted, for it costs little to a Spanish actress to play empassioned parts, and an actor of that nation can easily perform a jealous husband. Gabrielle burst into tears, and as, towards the conclusion, the name of Da Courci was often repeated, she was quite overpowered, and after sobbing aloud, fainted, and was carried home senseless. It was on the morrow that she had written to Quimper, and her letter had met with the same accident as that of Balzamie, and caused a similar mistake, which had given such uneasiness to the family of the Lokrenans. But this scene was not productive of such melancholy effects in Spain; some of the gossips made malicious reflections respecting Frenchmen and French manners, especially such as had heard of the prior attachment of Du Courci to Gabrielle. The husband, however, was not any way jealous, and had no thoughts of punishing it, or perhaps he had not time, as he very shortly after fell dangerously ill, and died. The young widow, now amazingly rich, settled her affairs, in which she was assisted by Du Courci; and, having sent her most valuable effects to France, followed them thither herself. Du Courci was not long behind her, and on the expiration of her year of mourning, they were married at the time when Kerenflute had returned to his native town. The adventures of Mademoiselle Adelaide were not near so simple as those of her two cousins, for what had happened to her was indeed extraordinary.-She had been forced by her father to accompany him into Calabria, where he had married her by menaces and violence, omitting some essential forms, to a very rich but very disgusting Calabrese of Reggio. Her father returned to Leghorn as soon as he had accomplished this fatal establishment, and left her a prey to her stupid husband. She fell ill with chagrin, and not daring to explain the cause of her affliction, complained bitterly that she was not allowed a confessor to whom she might open her heart. She would readily have obtained this satisfaction, had there been any French monks in the country, but for a long time none had been in these parts. Unexpectedly, they learnt that a Capuchin from Lower Britanny was arrived at Reggio, to remain some time before he continued his journey to the missionaries in the Levant. The husband, penetrated with all the esteem and confidence the monks of that austere order obtain in catholic countries, instantly introduced to his wife Father Guignolet de Concarnean, by whom he was politely received. some days in this sacred and inviolable asylum, the Breton missionary announced his intention of departing for Sicily, on his road to the Levant. A vessel conveyed them speedily to Russina, attended by a youth to serve him as a lay-brother; and it may be easily guessed who this companion was. Instead of crossing from Sicily to Turkey, they sailed from Messina to Naples, and from Naples to Rome, under the same disguises. In this capital of the christian world Saint Leon found protectors, and employed them to obtain two considerable favours, but both founded in justice, when the situations of himselr and Adelaide were considered. Adelaide retired to a convent of nuns, and demanded that her marriage with the Calabrese should be set aside, because she had been married by force-some of the most essential ceremonies had been omitted. Saint Leon solicited to have the excommunication taken off, which he had incurred for having put on the dress of Saint François, without having a right to wear it; and for having forged a false order from the General of the Capuchins to go to Reggio, and for having, under this disguise, assisted in the evasion of his fair countrywoman. It was the enamoured Saint Leon, who, under the disguise of a beard and hood, had come to offer her proofs of his zeal and tenderness. She did not discern him until they were left alone, and Heaven knows with what joy and sensibility she reproached him for his imprudence, and for thus risking his life. Saint Leon assured her, that he had employed certain means to prevent any suspicion or jealousy, and soon The cause of the lady appeared to their whole conversation turned on the courts more just than that of the how she could be withdrawn from the gentleman; her reasons seemed pertyranny of such a husband. The two fectly sound, and as it was only neceslovers agreed that nothing could be sary to have a verification of facts, more difficult; and the plan they at letters were sent to Reggio for inforlast adopted was certainly most singu- mation. The affair of Saint Leon was lar. It was settled that Adelaide should considered as more serious, they were counterfeit being dead, and measures for having him remain a Capuchin, were taken accordingly. The wife of since he had counterfeited one so well the Calabrese, although more content--but that was not his intention, and ed, and in excellent health, since she had met again Saint Leon, made believe that her disorder was increased; a physician, gained over by the presents of the false Capuchin, certified her danger, and soon the pretended Father Guignolet no longer quitted her chamber, and every thing was so well managed, that she seemed to expire before their face. The funeral was arranged by Saint Leon, as he said, according to the last wishes of the defunct, who had desired to be buried in the convent of the Capuchins at Reggio, and on the night following the burial, she was taken out of the vault and transported to the cell of Father Guignolet. After she had reposed it was necessary for him to press every friend to exert himself, that such a rigorous sentence should not be put into execution. It was while this matter was pending, that, passing through a village in Lombardy, he met with the thread-merchant from Quimper, whom those who have commenced this history have spoken of. As he continued to wear the Franciscan dress, he was obliged, through a singular circumstance, to preach a sermon in honour of the patron of the parish. He had arrived at this village exactly as the rector was sitting down to dinner, for, as it was the feast of the patron, he was regaling his brethren of the cloth; the pretended Father Guignolet was handsomely entertained, and after dinner the rector was to preach the panegyric of his patron; unluckily he had made himself unfit for this brilliant function; and the travelling Capuchin was intreated to perform it for him. He felt that it would be unhandsome to refuse, having been so kindly treated; but not being well acquainted with the character of their saint whom he was to praise, he bawled loudly and so inarticulately, that his words could not well be understood, accompanied by gesticulations of such vehemence, that he fulfilled his task to the great satisfaction of the clergy, and even to the edification of the parishioners. At length Saint Leon succeeded in obtaining his pardon, and liberty to lay aside the dress of Saint Francis during this time, news was brought of the death of the Calabres, husband to Adelaide her father was also dead, and his daughter having succeeded to his wealth, and at liberty, gave her hand to Saint Leon, who, renouncing alms and the hood, brought back triumphantly to Quimper-Corentin her who had given him such extraordinary proofs of her love. There now only remained to satisfy the unhappy Kerenflute, as to the fate of the fair Aline and her lorn Sainval. They assured him they were returned from Pondicherry to Quimper as happy as kings, but without having otherwise reigned than in the hearts of each other. Hence it may be readily concluded, that the history which had been made of their adventures, was a pure fiction, and only a romance. But how could it have happened that, in this spirited history, the names of Aline and of Sainval, the description of the country-house of M. de Lokrenan, and other circumstances, should have squared so exactly with the truth, that the writer must have been a sorcerer from Quimper-Corentin, to have done it so marvellously well. I will explain the riddle a young officer of dragoons, full of wit and vivacity, had passed two years in quarters with his troop at Quimper; during so long a residence he became acquainted with the best company in that town and neighbourhood, and of course had frequented the house of M. de Lokrenan; he had even paid his court to Aline, and had often accompanied her to the country-house where she had made butter, and assisted her in this rural employment, and the idea of it had remained strongly fixed in his memory. He quitted Britanny about the same time that Aline embarked for India, and when at Paris, admitted to the society of some pretty women, who desired him to compose to them an agreeable and interesting tale, he therefore imagined that of the Queen of Golconda. The names of Aline and Sainval, and the details of the country-house, being ever in his mind, he introduced them into the tale, and what was considered at Paris as a novel, was at Quimper believed as authentic news; which, if it wanted confirmation as to some of the circumstances, had a strong foundation of probability. There was not, however, one word of truth in it; Aline had safely arrived at her uncle's in Pondicherry, and Sainval had likewise made the same fortunate voyage to that town. The niece had captivated the heart of an old merchant who had settled all he was worth on marrying her. Sainval had offered himself when she was freed by death from her old husband, and had met with her uncle's approbation, as he was young and agreeable. A year afterward, they had embarked to enjoy their fortune at Quimper.— And you will agree with me, that no story can be more simple and less romantic than theirs. Fortunate inhabitants of Quimper-Corentin, what a happy lot is yours! You only suffer from false alarms, whilst others endure real evils. I sincerely congratulate you on your happiness, and wish the same to all who hear me. Thus did M. de Verbois conclude the history of the lovers of QuimperCorentin-Madame de Marcel and the company applauded this denouement; and should any critics dare to say that there is very little probability in the manner these heroes and heroines of this history were extricated from their embarrassments, the more just will allow that the restrictions imposed were very hard and difficult to execute, and that, from the exclusion of magic and poison, they could scarcely have been otherwise brought home again safely and happily. ON THE WORLD'S OLIO. By the Lady MARGARET NEWCASTLE. From this enumeration it will appear, that what your correspondent calls her "earliest work, the World's Olio," was not the first of her publications, and I am mistaken if it was the first of her writings. She says, indeed, in one of her epistles to the reader (it is not uncommon for her to have eight or ten prefaces to the same volume), that most of the book was written five years before it was printed, " and was lockt up in trunk, as if it had been buried in a grave;" and, after all, instead of being corrected, was sent into the world with all its defects. If this be true, she must have been known as an author for some time; for she often refers to her former books, which she says people would not allow to be her own writing, alleging that she had gathered her opinions from several philosophers. "The World's Olio" is a folio of 216 pages, dedicated first to "Fortune," secondly" to her Lord," and, thirdly, to her brother-in-law, "Sir Charles Cavendish." Her second "Preface to the Reader," begins thus: wisely or wittily as men, being of the effeminate sex, whose brains nature hath mix'd with the coldest and softest elements; and to give my reason why we cannot be so wise as men, I take leave, and ask pardon of my own sex, and present my reasons to the judgment of truth." in some respects, but in others very far Her reasons are whimsical enough from foolish, and they have the merit of being distinguished by their humility. After ascribing the inferiority of women to the delicacy of their frame, which prevents them from engaging in those enterprises, which, if they do not always lead to discovery, serve at least to enlarge and invigorate the faculties, she proceeds thus: "What woman ever made such laws as Moses, Lycurgus, or Solon, did? What woman was ever so wise as Solomon or Ari stotle? so politick as Achitophel? (here the lady was probably mistaken) so eloquent as Tully? so demonstrative as Euclid? so inventive as Seth or Archimedes? It was not a woman that found out the card and needle, and the use of the loadstone; it was not a woman that invented perspective glasses to pierce into the moon; it was not a woman that found out the invention of writing letters (Pope's Eloisa thought otherwise), and the art of printing; it was not a woman that found out the invention of gunpowder, and the art of guns." Then follows a long string of names, to prove that women were never such poets, physicians, painters, architects, musicians, as Homer, Hippocrates, Apelles, Vitruvius, and Orpheus. winding up her speculations on this subject, she says, In "Thus we see, by the weakness of our actions, the constitution of our bodies, and by our knowledge, the temper of our brains; by our unsettled resolutions, unconstant of our promises, the perverseness of our wills; by our facile natures, violent in our passions, superstitious in our devotions, you may know our humours; we have more wit than judgthan strength, more curiosity than secrecy, ment, more courage than conduct, more will more vanity than good houswifery, more complaints than pains, more jealousie than love, more tears than sorrow, more stupidity than patience, more pride than affability, more beauty than constancy, more ill-nature than good." In another preface she insinuates, "It cannot be expected I should write so that those who dislike her writings, are chiefly such persons as, from defects in their voices, are unable to read clearly; from which it may be inferred, that Mr Pope, and Lord Orford, and S. K. C., may have laboured under some vocal infirmity. "The very sound of the voice (says she), will seem to alter the sense of the theme; though the sense will be there in despight of the ill voice or reader; but it will be concealed or discovered to its disadvantage. Some, in reading, wind up their voices to such a passionate scrue, that they whine or squeal rather than speak or read; others fold up their voices with that distinction, that they make that narrow that should be broad, and high that should be low. And some, again, so fast, that the sense is lost in the race; so that writings, though they are not so, yet they sound good or bad, according to the readers, and not according to their authors." To say the truth, it is not every reader that can do justice to this fair writer's periods. Sometimes an essay is comprehended in half a line, and very often a single sentence occupies two or three folio pages. It is exceedingly probable, that the writings of the Duchess of Newcastle attracted considerable attention in her own lifetime, otherwise it is impossible to account for the number of editions through which some of them passed, and for the spiteful surmise that she had stolen many of her thoughts from great authors. In "the World's Olio," she often gives her opinion of the various kinds of writings, and she never fails to testify her contempt for book-learning-thus, "Scholars are never good poets, for they incorporate too much into other men, which makes them become less themselves, in which great scholars are metamorphosed or transmigrated into as many several shapes as they read authors, which makes them monstrous, and their head is nothing but a lumber, stuft with old commodities, so it is worse to be a learned poet than a poet unlearned, but that which makes a good poet is that which makes a good privie counsellor, which is observation and experience, got by time and company." Her own productions, whether poetical or not, seem generally to have been either the results of observation, or the recollections of what she had heard in conversation. She is rarely unintelligible, except when she dips into physiology or physics. In the knowledge of human nature she was no tyro, and it is not a little strange that her harshest remarks are levelled at her own sex. Here are one or two of her thoughts on loquacity: "Those that speak little, are either wise men or crafty men, either to observe what was spoken by others, or not to discover themselves too suddenly; and those that speak much, are either fools, or els very witty men; fools, because they have little to entertain them in their thoughts, and therefore imploy the tongue to speak like a parof words helps to fill up the vacant places of rote, by roat; and fools think the number sense; but those that have wit, their brains are so full of fancy, that if their tongue, like issue of the brain, it would be overpowered, a midwife, should not deliver some of the and lost in painful throws. "And the reason why women are so apt to talk too much, is an overwening opinion of themselves, in thinking they speak well, and striving to take off that blemish from their sex, of knowing little by speaking much, as thinking many words have the same weight of much knowledge; but my best friend says, he is not of my opinion, for, he saies, women talk because they cannot hold their tongues." the She has some curious, and, by no means nonsensical, ideas, on breeding of children," and on sending young gentlewomen to boardingschools, which must have been furnished by her own experience; as was also what she says "of a second wife," a subject on which she was qualified to speak feelingly, having been in that predicament herself. "It is to be observed, that when a second wife comes into a family, all the former tious, and do foment suspicions against her, children, or old servants, are apt to be facmaking ill constructions of all her actions, were they never so well and innocently meant, yet they shall be ill taken; and all that they hinder her of, although it do them no good, they think themselves enriched, not so much by what they get, but by what she loseth." Many of the opinions which she expresses, particularly with regard to the accomplishments of a gentleman, were evidently intended to be complimentary to her husband, who, when this book was published, had reached his grand climacteric, but was still noted as a first rate horseman, and an adept in all manly exercises. One of her aphorisms is: horses and weapons, than to fiddle and dance; "It becomes a gentleman rather to love and he is not worthy the name of a gentleman, that had rather come sweating from a tennis-court, than bleeding from a battle." In another passage she says, "But in this age, although it be the iron age, those men that have effeminate bodies, |