possess?' or, 'On how many and how great dishes does he feast? Alas!

"Quantum quisque sua nummorum servat in arca,
Tantum habet et fidei.'

(As much of gold as each man hoards

So much of worth he has.)

The

The unhappy condition of a society in which wealth is the only standard of excellence, and fortune the only road to preferment, is clearly depicted in these severe but just reflections of Umbritius. With a lively indignation he beheld the natural prerogatives of the Roman assailed, and the inherited privileges of the citizen usurped, by those whose fathers still bore the marks of Roman bondage. fair Persian, the dark-browed Syrian, and the swarthy Grecian, now supplanted in wealth and in influence the unworthy descendants of the conquerors of them all; while the necessary evils incident to this mutation of society were doubly aggravated by the reckless depravity which invariably attends the loss of national virtue.

The remainder of this satire enumerates the various inconveniences of a crowded capital, and contrasts with these the tranquillity and retirement of a country life. Umbritius then reverts again to the sufferings of the lower classes, and to the rigid simplicity of olden time,' and, concluding with an affectionate farewell to his friend and fellowsatirist, turns his back on the scene of so much unhappiness, and wends his way toward the quiet shore of secluded Cumæ.

But, by far the most complete and masterly production of Juvenal is the sixth satire. The poet has expended upon it the full force of his genius, and embodied in it the full measure of his wrath. The abandoned profligacy of the women of his time is most powerfully displayed. And what a picture does it present to us! We, who are accustomed to regard the sanctity of the female character with feelings of the highest and the holiest reverence, can hardly conceive of the existence of a society where every social obligation was so openly and so wantonly violated. The Augustan age, in this respect, appears in a hardly more favorable light. Those restraining influences of woman's affection; those refining tendencies of woman's society; and, above all, those hallowed joys of the domestic circle, which are the inestimable blessings, as well as the invariable indices of exalted refinement, do not appear in a community where female loveliness was sacrificed to the lowest and the vilest passions of man's nature.

We have thus far considered separately the prominent features in the intellectual characters of Horace and Juvenal; the different periods in which they flourished; and the modifying influences which the opposite tempers of the two poets exerted upon the character of their writings. We are now prepared to institute a more immediate comparison, and to decide with more certainty upon their relative excellences.

It is almost unnecessary to repeat what in the course of this paper has been so often implied: that of the two weapons which the satirist

is compelled to employ ridicule or invective, Horace selected the former, and Juvenal the latter; the one laughed at the foibles, the other lashed the vices of human nature. Horace is the amiable and the eloquent adviser, Juvenal is the stern, the upbraiding censor. In his philosophy Horace appears in as many shapes as the Proteus, and assumes as many colors as the chameleon; Juvenal, on the contrary, embraced none of the absurd theories of his age, but framed a system of morality for himself on the instinctive teachings of a highly virtuous nature. The former was more like the laughing Democritus; the latter like the weeping philosopher of Ephesus.

We love Horace as the amiable philanthropist; we fear Juvenal as the unsympathizing misanthrope. Both have truly painted the weaknesses of human nature; but the one in the varied tints of Rubens, the other in the solemn shades of Rembrandt. The fine raillery of Horace would have called forth only a contemptuous sneer from the senseless court of Domitian; and the cutting reproof of Juvenal would have fallen too harshly on the fastidious ears of Augustus.

He who delights in wit brilliant, but not envenomed; in elegance without affectation; in splendor without bombast; will yield the palm of excellence to the Venusian poet; but he who prefers that withering sarcasm which paralyzes vice; that exuberant diction, which dazzles while it convinces; and, above all, that moral grandeur which gives dignity to the man and eloquence to the poet, will pronounce Juvenal the paragon of satirists.

In fine, to the arbitration of individual taste must the long-contested question of their relative superiority be ever referred. The scholar who can find in either so much worthy of admiration; the poet who can derive from both so many inspiring conceptions; and the philosopher who, in the perusal of either, can glean so much valuable instruction, will shrink from the task of elevating one at the expense of the reputation of the other. In vain do we scrutinize each beauty; in vain do we magnify each imperfection. Like the enraptured beholder of some exquisite painting, we insensibly exchange the coldness of the measured critic for the ardor of the enthusiastic admirer. Such were the relative merits of these two satirists, who appeared at the two most interesting eras in the decline of the Roman power. The promptings of virtue, and the teachings of morality, were their only guides; yet thus earnestly did the one, and thus fearlessly did the other combat the errors and the vices of a thoughtless and an enervated people. If we consider merely the self-sacrificing generosity, the unwavering integrity, or the exalted virtue which characterized these heathen reformers, we must rank them among the greatest benefactors of mankind; but with what sentiments shall we regard them, when we reflect that they were sustained and encouraged by none of those animating influences which nerve the heart and inspire the soul of the zealous Christian. Had a single ray of that brighter and purer faith, which was already appearing above the sacred hills of Palestine, penetrated the darkness and superstition which overhung the ill-fated mistress of the world; could they have beheld the meekness and submission of the Saviour, or have witnessed

the agonizing scene at Calvary, with what different effects might their philanthropic efforts have been attended? But the fulness of time was not yet come. The Roman was destined to drink still deeper from the poisoned chalice of Circe; to pass unheeded the prophetic voice of warning; and entranced by the sweet song of the Syren, perish a victim to his own unlicensed passion

How soon does Earth claim all those golden hours!
Our hopes still eager, but alas! not true:
World-wise, we scorn our earlier, nobler powers,
While meaner efforts task the strength anew:
And now the Future seems within our grasp;
The Past, a dream; the Present, vain we clasp.

The years steal on; to us the World hath been;
Its whilome lustre charms no more the eye;
Hushed is the whirling throng; not now the din
Of the great earth-god, heed we, sweeping by:
The Past
a pang; the Present - an abyss;
The Future-dare we ask for happiness?

AN EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR.

BY AN OLD CONTRIBUTOR.

R B. K

These were

MON CHER AMI LOUIS GAYLORD: 'Let me have a prose sketch, not a serial; something complete in one number.' your very words, as you took my hand the other morning, and pressed a peremptory confirmation of your wishes, As though an article can be served up to order, like a beef-steak at Downing's or a fricandeau at Delmonico's! But why not? Why should not your author obey orders as well as his betters? Forgive this momentary impulse of rebellion. Already it doth repent me. While your words are still in my ears, I cry: Coming-coming, Sir!'

You and I have had before now a good many discussions together, upon a good many different subjects. Sometimes they have assumed a serious phase, sometimes they were lively, sometimes sentimental, sometimes matter-of-fact; but, to me, always agreeable.

You will bear me witness how invariably I have defended our sex (I take it for granted your readers will understand me as speaking in the masculine gender,) against that sickening sentimental cant which is forever crying up the wrongs and silent endurance of 'injured woman,' and the inconstancy and selfishness of 'tyrant man.' There is too a class of poets and romancers, among whom, by the way, are many distinguished names, who invariably use for a stock in trade'

such profound watch-words as the following: With man, love is a pastime; with woman, her very existence;" 'Man gives to woman his leisure, woman gives to man her life;' Man is inconstant; woman is true.'

When I hear such apothegms daily repeated, and the changes rung upon them over and over again, (all this being predicated of man because he is man, and of woman because she is woman,) I am ready to exclaim, with the clear-hearted Burchell, 'Fudge!'

Now I believe that the DEITY made man as true of heart, as earnest in his love, as devoted in his attachment, as woman. The scripture records that in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them;' and surely that work must have been well done which God himself pronounced very good!'

That man has more to occupy and distract his attention; that he is, in a majority of cases, continually engaged in a struggle with need, and in consequence, that his affections are less seldom fixed than those of woman, is true enough. On the contrary, the life of woman, as society is constituted, is calculated to give to her impulses a hot-house growth, (I say nothing of the direction;) so that love with her becomes neither a healthful passion nor a refined friendship, but simply a feverish longing, derived from that strange heart-vacancy which every young girl, after reaching a certain period, is sure to experience.

If at this period some natural and agreeable occupation could be provided, which should serve to keep both the mind and the heart in a healthful tone; if man could be less engrossed with cares and woman less with-nothing, I believe broken hearts would be nearly equally divided between the two sexes.

The following brief story presents a case of devotion on the part of man worthy of record. I was an eye-witness of what I relate, and Methinks I hear you interrupting with: Why don't you hurry up that'-when at once I clap my article on the table-'prose sketch, Sir-not a serial, something complete in one number-hot!'

In the year 183- I was attending medical lectures in Paris. The revolution which made Louis Philippe King of the French had subsided. The city was quiet, except when disturbed by occasional plots against the king's life, manifested by the letting off of pistols, blunderbusses and 'infernal machines,' in a way that none but Frenchmen know how to appreciate.

There were at that time in Paris an unusual number of students; I suppose between twenty and twenty-five thousand. These were made up from almost every country upon the face of the globe. Nearly all of them had apartments sur l'autre côté du Seine,' in the part denominated The Students' Quarter.' Although they formed in a measure a community of their own, still it must not be supposed that it was precisely similar to a community of German students; far from it. For while the size and immense resources of Paris presented continual and varied temptations for the idler and the pleasure-seeker, and the excitement of politics (your student is always a true republican) gave a zest to the life even of the most