Pandrofos, the faithful daughter of Cecrops. To her and her two sisters, Herse and Aglauros, Minerva entrusted a chest which contained the infant Erectheus guarded by a serpent, with strict and solemn injunction not to examine its contents. The curiosity of the two elder prevailed over every other consideration, and induced them to open it, when they were immediately rendered frantic, and threw themselves over a precipice. Pandrofos was true to her charge, and therefore worshipped jointly with Minerva: so that when a heifer was sacrificed to the goddess, it was accompanied with a sheep to her. The order of architecture in this temple is (I believe) no where to be found but here; its entablature being supported by five female figures (originally six) called Cariatides instead of columns. As this building was constructed about fifty years after the sack of Athens by the Persians, it is conjectured, and with all probability, that the order was designed as a satire upon Arthemisia queen of Halicarnassus in Caria; who, though in origin a Greek, assisted the Persian with a fleet against her mother country. The Cariatides are admirably finished, and their robes extremely graceful, as is also their head-dress. These figures have been spelled Caryatides from a supposition that they were intended to represent women of Carya in Peloponnesus, a city in league with the Persians; but this is a weak conjec ture, as their Asiatic dress alone will prove the contrary. The Pandrosium contained Minerva's olive tree, called Pagcophos from its branches bending downwards when they had grown up to the roof. These are the only remains of the Acropolis, the foundations of the walls excepted. I visit the divine Erectheum every day, and am only fearful that the barbarian mussulmans who garrison the citadel will suspect me of some design against it, and, by exclusion, debar me of the most exquisite pleasure I can receive at Athens.

For the Literary Magazine. THE OLIO.

NO. VI.

Advice to a young lady, who receiv ed the addresses of a gay and profligate young man, in opposition to her friends: exemplified in the story of Almeria.

My dear Serina,

YOU are now arrived at that period when the unexperienced heart most requires a guide, to point out the many dangers that attend our feeble sex through life: the smoothest path of which, however flattering it may appear to the youthful eye, though adorned, as it were, with flowers perfumed with the fragrance of Arabia, is too often strewed with thorns, which harass the feet of those who step most cautiously, from the sceptred monarch on the throne, to the sorrowworn object who begs for alms from door to door: ways beset with snares and wiles unseen, in which the unwary are too often precipitated, and, if a female, they "fall to rise no more." How necessary, then, for the gay and thoughtless, as well as the daughter of sensibility, to listen to the dictates of Prudence; how necessary for you, my dear girl, whose bosom glows with that painful and dangerous sensation, to grant her a conspicuous place in your bosom. She will guard, Serina, each avenue there; and prevent your deviating from rules long since prescribed for the sex, a deviation that would most assuredly bring on you the reproaches of your own heart; a deviation which the too partial world makes a point never to forgive. Too partial I say, for how often are the profligate, the gay and fashionable libertines of the age, encouraged and caressed by our sex, even perhaps at the moment when their cowardly hearts may be flushed with a victory over some poor ruined female, who, for

saken by him in whom her soul confided, is left to bemoan her own credulity and his broken faith.

Woman, my dear Serina, is never so lovely, never so resembling what Milton, that first of poets, so beautifully fancied our first mother, as when acting with a dignity becoming the sex: a dignity which when wanting degrades us at once to a level with the vicious of the other. How greatly then do we disparage ourselves, by not spurning those destroyers of innocence and associates of infamy from our private assemblies, by not convincing them, by a frown of indignation, that our souls are of a texture too pure to countenance those who even seek not to hide the enormity of their conduct. Why it is that the world has established such customs? customs that must inevitably encourage vice.

Yet dare, Serina, to be singular, dare to prefer the man of principle to him who knows it not; so will you live in the estimation of men possessing sense and integrity of heart, be esteemed by the amiable of your own sex, and convince even the libertine that the innate principles of your heart are those of rectitude. Shun the vicious, as you wish for happiness; you cannot love Virtue, and at the same time smile approbation on the contemners of her laws. Rely not on your own strength; it may deceive, for, with no propensity to act unworthily, you may be drawn aside from propriety by countenancing, if not the votaries of vice, yet those who act, in respect to woman, with no principle. A melancholy example is engraved on my mind, written there as with a pen of adamant.

Almeria, the lovely Almeria, was the sprightly daughter of viva city. The graces sported around her beauteous form, while her animated countenance charmed the eye of every beholder; nor did even the envious dare to intimate that her internal beauties were exceed ed by external charms. Why thus, Almeria, said her sister Emily,

why, when we were taught to reverence virtue, the love of which we equally alike imbibed in nourishment from our mother's bosom, thus countenance the unprincipled Philario? Is he not infinitely more culpable than the poor desolate Matilda, who, forsaken by a partial and ill-judging world, nourishes her infant, the infant of her betrayer, at he hapless bosom, a bosom pure as the unsullied snow, ere made a prey to his perfidious wiles. Nay, smile not, Almeria, the comparison was a just one. Did she not resemble the lily of the valley, adorned with her own innocence? Have we not seen her cheerful as the first dawn of May, while bestowing her unwearied attention on a beloved, aged, and infirm parent? Have we not seen his furrowed cheek wet with her tears, while she supported his venerable form? Behold her now in her solitary retirement; your favourite jasmine is not more pale than her once vermilion cheek, while her downcast eye has totally lost its former brilliancy, and acquired the settled look of despair. How can my sister think on her fall from virtue, and smile on her destroyer, the perfidious Philario?

I confess, answered Almeria, Philario to be somewhat dissipated at present, but a reformed rake, says the proverb, makes the best husband; nor do I like him the worse for a trifling wildness. He dare not insult one deserving his esteem; rely upon it, Emily, it is the levity of our sex that induces the other to treat us indignantly.

But, my dear Serina, mark the sequel, and profit by the lost Almeria's fate; for Almeria, the self-confident Almeria, hitherto admired for propriety of conduct, gay, yet modest in her demeanour, ere many months had flown, became a victim to the wretch Philario. Humbled, degraded in her own estimation, experiencing the bitter poignancy of self reflection, the very luminaries of heaven became painful to her sight, every eye that met hers, she fanci ed, wore the lock of contempt, and

reproachingly seemed to inquire for her once boasted virtue.

Philario appeared and offered his hand, but she spurned him from her, with the contempt he merited. Wretch, she cried, would you tyrannize over me for years yet to come? will marriage restore innocence? will it obliterate memory ? can I, or will you forget my shame? Away, I want not your pity! away, my love flew with my innocence! The grave shall shelter me, there I will take refuge.

To Emily she said, Forbear, my sister, speak not of life, speak not of forgiveness; though the world should never know my shame, or, what is of far more consequence, should my infamy never wound the bosom that cherished my happy infancy, or raise a blush on the cheek of my sister, never, never could I be at peace with myself, or wish to live the polluted wretch I I am.

Nor did she long exist for the finger of scorn to point to, or to war with her own frailty. A fever, the effect of an agonized mind, seized unrelenting on her tender frame, nor loosed its hold until the vital stream forgot to flow. Soon came the morn that saw her numbered with the unthinking dead, that freed her spirit from the loathed clay. Pure in itself, it sought its native skies, refusing, as it were, to inhabit a tenement, however lovely, contaminated by vice.

Oh may this mournful instance of female error, of the danger of countenancing the dissipated, serve as a memento to my dear Serina, and induce you to prefer the man of virtue to those boasters of their own shame. A smile bestowed on a libertine, those starers who put innocence to the blush, ill becomes the lips of a modest woman. Love is a dangerous guest to the heart of sensibility; when permitted in bosoms such as yours to gain admittance,

In vain will Prudence, lovely matron, plead,

And deaf to her dictates you'll be lost indeed.

AT the castle of Schindelingen, in one of the wildest districts of Switzerland, two sisters lived, and were brought up together. Born on the same day, they were nurtured at the breast of the same mother, with the same care, and the same tenderness. Nature had formed them after precisely the same model. Never did two living beings appear more exactly alike. They had the same features, the same tone of voice, and to the exact conformity of their exterior corresponded their character and inclinations. They delighted in the same sports and the

same amusements, as they charmed by the same graces; and, that no distinction might be made between those whom nature had chosen to render so similar, the same name was given to them. Savinia was the name of each, and seemed to blend in one the persons of those whose sentiments, habits, and lively affection for each other, exhibited no difference.

Antonia, their mother, had long been the victim of the prejudices of her parents, and the preference they gave to an elder sister; and had vowed, before she became a mother, to tear from her heart every sentiment which might produce the slightest inequality between the children that might be born of her. On the day when she gave birth to her daughters, she therefore thanked Heaven for having thus, beyond her expectation, facilitated the accomplishment of her resolution. She threw away the tokens that had been fastened to them in order to distinguish them, and wished, by renouncing the power of recognising a diffe rence between them, to destroy even the possibility of injustice, and deprive the objects of her affection

If

of all pretext for jealousy. the maternal eye could discover in them some slight shade of difference, which by it alone could be discerned, she never betrayed the secret of the discovery. No person could perceive but that the two Savinias were to Antonia one and the same person. Never did the one receive a caress which the other might not believe was equally intended for herself. If one had committed any fault, the mother reprimanded or enjoined a penance to her who first presented herself, who, if she were not guilty, never complained, since she had been accustomed to believe that herself and her sister were the same. Neither ever thought of saying-It was not I; for had the penance been inflicted on her sister, she would have suffered equally: in fact, perhaps, still more, for we suffer less when we suffer for those we love. But how much must each resolve no more to be guilty of a similar fault, since the punishment of her offence might fall upon her sister! It is rarely that those who love nothing can be corrected of any thing: it is only when we live for another, that we know the true value of our own virtues.

There was no particular quality in either from which a common advantage did not result to both. The very slight difference which existed in their external appearance, was somewhat more sensible in their intellectual faculties. One had the stronger memory, and occasionally displayed the most acuteness and wit. But it was never intimated to them that this was perceptible. Frequently she who could learn with most facility recited the lesson of her sister; and this without artifice; for she would say, with great simplicity, my sister could not learn her task: I have learnt it for her besides my own that is all the same, you know.' This was accepted; and Antonia only said to the other take care to apply yourself to your lessons, that you may be able to render the same

service to your sister when she may want it.' Ought any other emulation to be permitted between the children of the same father?

Never did one of the two Savinias imagine it possible that she could enjoy a pleasure of which her sister did not partake, till the moment when

They were sixteen years old. A young stranger arrived at Schindelingen. He was most agreeable and interesting in his person and manners: they were amiable and charming. Both felt an equal emotion at the sight of him. But one of these pleasing females having first displayed for him the sensibility of dawning affection, fixed that love which it appeared otherwise impossible should be guided by choice. For the first time, one of the Savinias was told that she was preferred to her sister, and for the first time she felt a pleasure in the thought of such a preference. For the first time she was gratified by being loved alone, or rather she did not advert that love was bestowed on her to the exclusion of her sister. Perfectly happy herself, could she imagine that the companion of her life suffered any pain? Yet, while preparations were making for her union with her lover, her unfortunate but involuntary rival, the prey of love and regret, reproached herself with suffering while her sister was happy. At length her secret escaped her she revealed her love, and confessed her shame and her sorrow to her sister. From that time was her sister, before so happy, a stranger to repose: her happiness was odious to her, since it cost her that of her sister. Determined each to sacrifice herself to the other, they no longer confided their real intentions to each other, but bore their sufferings in silence, and pined away, and at length sank to the grave one after the other. Their parents did not long survive them. The castle of Schindelingen was deserted; and nothing now remains but the rock on which it was built, the tomb,

and the remembrance of the two Savinias.

For the Literary Magazine.

EXTRACT FROM THE WILL OF AN

From the German.

LOVE, hope, and even fear, ought by turns to agitate the human breast, to prevent our days from passing over in an insipid uniformity. It is to escape this insipidity, so insupportable to man, that he employs himself in a thousand trifles, a thousand follies: one plays at chess, another builds houses; one learns to warble like the birds, another to decypher music; this man learns to cultivate flowers, the other to write books, &c.

These various means of escaping ennui had nothing in them to captivate my fancy. In examining the different interests which arose in my view, I found that which alone had power to attach me to life, and make it valuable, were the extatic ties of husband and father: celibacy never made a part in my schemes of happiness; I loved in good earnest; my vows were always sincere and honourable, as I only aspired to become a good husband and a good father of a family. I have been in love seven times, is not that enough? and is it not unfortunate that I have not found a wife? Ah! my friend, my first affections alone have power to make my tears flow! A gentle innocent girl, who was to me most truly a first love, and who returned my passion as tenderly, death snatched from me, and I was near following her to the grave. Never shall I forget that amiable creature!

After some years of grief and indifference, a very pretty fair-one animated my heart; I exerted all my assiduities with kindness, she

dence, that she had a long time been strongly attached to a young man, and never would marry any other than him. In thus renouncing my tender and pretty fair-one, I did not renounce the hope of being one day happy in marriage. I offered my vows to a third, a young lady who was beautiful as an angel; she received my declarations with expressions of esteem, but she received them as the homage due to her charms. Amelia (for that was her name) was proud of her beauty and wit, and only thought of multiplying her conquests, considering it beneath her to sacrifice those to the happiness of one man only. When I merely talked of love, she willingly heard me; but when I pronounced the word marriage, I was repulsed. I left her, and went home much mortified by her refusal; but as I had been more dazzled by her charms than touched by her character, I felt more resentment than grief.

Nothing is more suffocating than anger and vexation; I opened my window to get air, and my eyes were mechanically cast upon the street. In that moment, a young brunette, neat and smart, crossed it; I recollected to have seen her before, but she had never drawn my attention; the general elegance of her air struck me, and, as a flash of lightning, it occurred to my mind to avenge myself on the haughty Amelia, by paying my court to this young person. This suggestion quickly ripened into a settled project, and, as usual was combined with the idea of marriage, which still more em'bellished in my eyes the object of my new flame. I found means to introduce myself at her house; I followed her with assiduity; I suffered no