a cold, cruel, callous mind, possessed by aspiring to a glory it can never attain. Critics, at first silent, grow tired and bite; they rudely signify to your astonished friends that after all you are no Eagle, but only a Swallow. This dawn of opposition irritates you, and self-love seeks consolation in the rapid flatteries of supporters whose pride prompts them to sustain you at all hazards, and the clever head, which might have been a reasonable one, is turned and lost! I will, with your leave, now pass on to the third point in my observations, glancing for a moment at the picture of a daughter, wife, or mother who, in addition to all the other virtues, cultivates literature. She must indeed be an amiable authoress who with one hand rocks the babe to sleep, while with the other she wields the pen that is to wake the world. During periods of inspiration the children tear her manuscripts, and add to her finest pages a sort of illumination on which she had not reckoned. Here you have a faithful description of this fantastic being whose infants are reared on a mixture of milk and ink. It is not, however, into the ridiculous that I fear to see you fall. I know your tastes too well, and hope they will shield you from such depths of depravity. What I dread most is the vanity which has led you to adopt a course so ridiculous as advocating the right of females. It may lead you into many grievous mistakes unless common sense comes to the rescue. I have spoken thus freely in order that my advice may be of service to you. Had I loved you less, my letter would have been milder and more pleasant to read. You may find it a bitter pill to swallow, but it will cure your malady! {335} THIRD LETTER FROM THE SWALLOW. A NEST OF ROBINS. I have by the merest chance fallen in with a friend, a most obliging creature, who will wait for this letter and deliver it to you. He is the bearer of important despatches, and appears worthy of the trust placed in him. While he explores the environs of my present halting-place, I hastily take up the pen to let you know my whereabouts, and to recount the events of my journey. Happily they are few and far between. As you do not seem to approve of female genius, I must make an effort to suppress the poetry that flows naturally from my pen. When I have finished a volume of inspired writing, you shall have a copy to study at leisure. Then, and not till then, shall I expect justice at your hands. I should have delayed writing, had circumstances not forced me to remind you of my existence. [Illustration]