These are blemishes upon a work that is, at least, well intentioned, and which might have been more successful had our author been inclined to give his hero credit for more acumen. When he represents _Don Quixote_ as running tilt at windmills under the impression that they are armed knights, and when he pictures him charging a flock of sheep in the belief that it is an ordered army, we think he too grossly trifles with the assumed credulity of his readers. Exaggeration is, indeed, the bane of a work that, from first page to last, bears evidence of the drawback of extreme youth on the part of the author. We have been pleased to notice some indications of humour in the conversation of _Sancho Panza_. But it is the pennyworth of sack to an intolerably large quantity of bread. What we have written has been without desire to discourage Mr. CERVANTES, whom we shall be glad to meet with again, bringing with him the fruits of unremitted practice and of maturer views of life. * * * * * TO ARAMINTA. (_AFTER HEARING MR. SAMSON'S LECTURE._) ["To keep the family true, refined, affectionate, faithful, is the woman's task--a task that needs the entire energies and life of woman; and to mix up this sacred duty with the grosser occupation of politics and trade, is to unfit her for it as much as if a priest were to embark in the business of money-lender."--FREDERIC HARRISON.] [Illustration] I Prithee, ARAMINTA, hear What FREDERIC HARRISON has said: Don't read for College honours, dear, And put a towel round your head. Don't sully what should surely be An unstained soul, with tricks of trade; Leave stern official work to me, While you remain a simple maid. Don't prate of woman's function, sweet, Your only duty is to charm; Leave platform spouting, as is meet, To men; it cannot do them harm. Your influence comes from gracious ways, Your glory in the home doth lie; The guardian angel of our days, Until you bless us when we die. Don't enter on ignoble strife With man, 'tis yours to soar above-- To all the higher things of life, Divine compassion, and pure love. 'Tis yours to stimulate, refine, To win men by a kindly heart; Not grovel with us where the sign Of Mammon hangs above the mart. Thine is the task to reign supreme Within the sacred sphere of home; To make our life one happy dream, Thine own as spotless as the foam. To trade, to toil, to head the feast, To seek the politician's gain, Were hateful:--ay, as though the priest Took usury, within the fane! * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. [Illustration]