and become greatly dependent upon it, without serious harm to either sex; but in the day of moral forces it is quite otherwise. This day has come upon us, however, so silently, so gradually, that we ourselves have scarcely recognized that we are now near its noontide: how then can our fathers, brothers, and husbands be expected to feel its quickening glow and inspiration? It may seem to them a consuming heat, though to me it is delicious warmth, pure air, God's own blue sky, and His benignant smile over all.

But I must stop here and wait your reply, since on your acceptance of my views thus far stated will depend the courage and enthusiasm with which I shall proceed to develop further my thought on the whole matter of the relation of the sexes to each other and to government. I confess that I have a philosophy of the past and a hope for the future that gives me much peace of mind and satisfaction amid the perplexing and sometimes rampant discussions which fill the land, and it would give me great pleasure to try my theories first upon you, before committing myself to their defence before other tri

bunals. Moreover, I am persuaded, contrary to the judgment of many earnest advocates of equal suffrage, that women are quite as much responsible for the present condition of affairs as men, and that they, as a body, will be the last to be convinced of their duty in the matter of good citizenship; so I am seriously anxious to make converts to my faith from the young mothers, rather than from any other class. I know, of course, that the power of regulating suffrage now lies wholly with men; that not a single vote can be given, save by them; but I know as well that the minds of all honest, earnest thinkers among them are turned to this subject, and that they are inclined to give it an impartial hearing; and I am convinced that the indifference, not to say opposition, of their wives, mothers, and sisters, stands in the way of their coming to a right solution of the problem before them, beyond anything or all things else.

I beg you, therefore, to give my argument so far a candid consideration, and let me hear from you in reply. I am always your affectionate

MOTHER.

MRS. FANNY VANE was a painter who deserved to be called an artist. Her pictures evinced more than talent-even genius. She was rapidly gaining distinction, and promised to have power enough to be benefited by popularity instead of being deteriorated by it. Fanny was the daughter of Dr. Freeman Ward, a physician in Northern New York, of marked characteristics and eminent ability. Her father's talents, in a great degree, she inherited, but the use to which she would apply them remained for a time a problem. Pretty and piquant, but wayward and capricious, frolicsome as a gipsey in many of her moods, and strangely gloomy and defiant in others, little Fanny Ward, as a child, was a mystery, to herself and others. From twelve to sixteen flirting was her principal occupation during the summer. In the winter, she devoured books, and developed her ardent energies as she best could. She read and studied with her brothers, visited the sick with her father, aided her sisters in their household duties-her mother she had lost in her infancy-and made lonely pilgrimages through the snowy mountains, holding for hours a mystic communion with nature. Her sturdy strength and resolution generally enabled her to achieve success in whatever she undertook.

At sixteen Fanny surprised her friends by marrying Mr. Henry Vane, a merchant from New York. In a worldly point of view, the match was excellent, but sympathetically it proved unfortunate. After a brief courtship, and without understanding any of the mysteries of her own nature, the young girl had united herself to a man with whom she was totally uncongenial. A strange effect was produced upon her by the false relation into which she had so rashly entered. She lost her peculiarities, and with them her individuality. Her spirits forsook her. She became

demure, quiet, formal, conventional. The wild flavor of her piquant individuality evaporated. She was like a flower whose odor has suddenly ceased to exhale, which continues to exist, but as the soulless image of itself.

She had been married about nine years, when Mr. Vane was called by business to New Orleans. Important speculations, in which he was engaged, failed disastrously. He lost his property, and at the same time was attacked by a fever, induced by the climate, which proved fatal. After a brief illness, he died. If, therefore, Fanny, at sixteen, had married from interested motives, she was justly rewarded. She had been compelled to endure nine years of a wasted life, and at their conclusion found awaiting her the same poverty which she had suffered so much to escape.

Poverty she no longer dreaded. From the profounder spiritual sorrows that it had been her lot to experience, she had learned one lesson: to smile at difficulties; to find that they may arouse and stimulate instead of deadening the energies and will. From the pale and lifeless image of herself that she had seemed, she suddenly blossomed into an earnest and enthusiastic woman and artist. When uncongenial natures are arbitrarily allied, the tyranny that is sometimes exerted by the one over the other-and, generally, by the inferior over the superior nature-is sometimes appalling. Fanny, for nine years, had been subjected to a sort of slavery, from which she did not escape until she had learned how to use her freedom. She recovered her gayety, her originality, her energy. Her soul was restored to her as if by magic, and she began the pursuit of her early aspirations precisely as if the dawn of her youth had not been separated from the bloom of her womanhood by a frightful chasm.

After several years, Mrs. Vane succeed

ed in achieving a success not only in art, but in happiness. She loved. The suspicion of calculation had rested upon her youth, and, probably, not without a cause. In strong natures it frequently happens that the judgment is developed at an earlier period than the imagination and affections. At sixteen, Fanny was ambitious and prudent. She had experienced the inconveniences of poverty in her father's household, and desired to escape them. She had desired to be an artist, and imagined that the advantages to be derived from wealth and position would aid her in carrying out her plans. She reflected deliberately upon the future, and, after mature consideration, had jilted a young admirer, whose devotion she might have returned if she had listened to the voice of her heart, and had married a man of wealth without appreciating the necessity of an ardent affection as the basis of such a union.

At twenty-eight Mrs. Vane was tender, impassioned, and ideal. At this period of her life she was utterly incapable of being influenced by an interested motive. She now rejected several wealthy suitors who were anxious to gain her favor, and engaged herself to a young artist to whom she had become deeply attached. After all, she was a fortunate woman. She was old enough to value happiness, and young enough to enjoy it. Youth casts away the most costly advantages in the sheerest blind, wilful ignorance-advantages for which the tears of a life cannot atone; and, too often, before lost opportunities can be regained, the hapless spendthrift can no longer avail himself of the blessings which he did not learn to appreciate until too late.

So Time pursued his course, at the same time robbing and restoring-enriching with priceless compensation the very heart that he had bereaved.

On a bright morning in the spring of 1866, Mrs. Vane was standing before a finely-carved, antique mirror, one of the ornaments of her picturesque studio. She was trying on several purchases that she had just been making, a pleasing

employment, suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. The artist turned from the mirror reluctantly, but when, on opening the door, she recognized the intruder, her face brightened, and she gave her visitor a warm welcome.

"Is it possible, dear Adèle ! Welcome a thousand times! I was just thinking of you, and wishing that you would call. I have something important to tell you."

Adèle Courtney, the young lady thus addressed, was Mrs. Vane's most intimate friend. She was a brilliant, "stylish-looking" girl, with a tall, graceful figure, dark hair and eyes, and a face full of sensibility and genius, and which, besides, was regularly beautiful. While her friend was speaking, she sank down upon a sofa, out of breath with climbing to the difficult eyrie.

"I am glad, in that case, that I obeyed my impulse and came," she answered. "I must have felt an intimation wafted from your mind to mine. But what is your news?"

"I have had a most singular adventure, and, what is of more importance, I have selected a subject for a new picture."

"And what is it?-Vivien, the serpent Vivien coiling upon Merlin's knee; her fair hands playing with the wintry icicles of his beard?"

"No! You are three days behind the time. Vivien has been laid upon the shelf for that period. Have you read the 'Lost Tales of Miletus'? "

The book had appeared only a few weeks before.

"No; I have not seen it."

"Then I must tell you the story of the 'Secret Way,' a pathetic old legend, to which the modern poet has given a most graceful embodiment."

Mrs. Vane related Lytton's graceful story with great dramatic intensity, and took up a book that was lying on a table by her side.

"That is the scene," she cried, with kindling countenance, "that I intend to illustrate-Argiope recognizing Zariades at the banquet. You can easily imagine it. The poor princess has re

ceived a goblet from her father's hand, which she is to present to the warrior whom she chooses for her bridegroom, as a sign of her preference. She stands pale and drooping, until urged by a high-priest, who attends upon her, to obedience. Then lifting her sad eyes, she vaguely gazes about her, and of course sees and recognizes the prince—

'Sudden those eyes took light, and joy, and soul, Sudden from neck to temples flushed the rose, And with quick-gliding steps

And the strange looks of one who walks in slumber,

She passed along the floor, and stooped above A form, that, as she neared, with arms outstretched,

On bended knees sank down

And took the wine-cup with a hand that trembled.

A form of youth-and nobly beautiful
As Dorian models for Ionian gods.

"Again!" it murmured low;

"O dream, at last! at last! How I have missed thee!"

'And she replied, "The gods are merciful, Keeping me true to thee when I despaired."' There, Adèle, I have shown you my picture," Mrs. Vane cried, throwing away the book, from which she had read the above stanzas, while her blue eyes began to flash in their deep caverns like quivering flames. "Ah! think what a scene! From the moment that I read the poem it has never ceased to hover before me day and night. Ah! that love-kindled princess, with the magical goblet in her hand and her youthful lover, a warrior and a king, kneeling at her feet, what a subject! It has the grand simplicity and breadth of one of the old Greek mythological themes, with the advantage of being new, or at least newly expressed, and inspired with a modern sentiment. And then think of the costumes! Think of those gorgeous Eastern dresses, with their rich colors, purple and gold, and lustrous creamy white. Color is my strong point; and I shall try and show in this picture what wonders an artist can achieve when he is allowed to follow the original bent of his genius. Never have I had an idea, for a picture, that pleased me so well. If I can only embody this poet's dream as I feel it, I VOL. II.-39

shall produce a work that will be a genuine inspiration. Yes! the youngest child, you know, is always the favorite; and so with the youngest fancy. I have a presentiment that this old legend will prove the foundation of my fame and fortune."

Mrs. Vane, eager and excited with her narrative, sprang up, and began to pace the room.

"I am sure you will succeed, and I congratulate you upon your having found a subject that suits you so well."

Adèle spoke in a low, measured tone, indicating not only sympathy, but repressed sadness. She sympathized with her friend's enthusiasm, but, at the same time, envied her happiness. She envied her the power of abandoning herself so freely to the inspiration of art, which so seldom entered into her life, and without which life appeared to her so poor and worthless.

"Time will prove," Mrs. Vane answered, in a more subdued manner. "But do not let us talk of it any more." Even now I tremble, lest my overweening confidence should be the precursor of disappointment. I shall do my best to realize my ideal; more I cannot do. And, in the meanwhile, you must hear my adventure."

"Gladly! What was it?"

"It is connected with my picture, or I should not consider it of so much importance. You will never guess it, and I will not tantalize you, therefore, by asking you to try. I have seen the prince."

"The prince! What prince?" "What prince, indeed? Prince Zariades!"

"Nonsense, Fanny! Tell me what you mean."

"I went out this morning to make some purchases; and, my shopping concluded, got into a stage to return to my studio, when whom should I see sitting opposite me but Prince Zariades! A

man, Adèle ! But such a man! Hyperion to a satyr to ordinary mortals! Never have I seen so handsome a human His face was purely, grandly You remember my friend, Mrs.

being! Greck.

S-, whom I have always considered so fine a specimen of Greek beauty. Prince Zariades was even more perfect. The type was underdrawn rather than exaggerated, and was the more effective upon that account. And what strength, what character, what manliness in his expression! No description can do justice to the personality of the man. He had character, moral force-qualities that I admire so much more than a merely brilliant intellect, an evanescent flame, amounting to little or nothing, if unsustained by the moral force of which it should be the instrument. Not that Prince Zariades was deficient in intellect. He may have been a second Socrates for aught that I know. I wish simply to express that a strong personality, character, manliness, struck me as his distinguishing traits. And his unusual beauty! He had one of those foreheads that indicate strength. What is it that gives certain brows such an expression of power in reserve? The sockets of his eyes were carved like those of a Greek statue. The lids had that divine droop that is only seen in the highest types of beauty. The eyes themselves were of a dim blue, the blue of a sleeping thunder-cloud. His throat was like a column; his mouth, nose, and chin were those of the Apollo; and as for his hair-can you imagine, Adèle, the color of his hair?"

"Undoubtedly that which the gods designed whatever that may have been."

"A bright, chestnut brown, the rarest of all colors, the most beautiful; and he wore it in short crisp curls. Just such covered the heads of the gods when they sat around their banqueting-tables in Olympus, and Hebe poured out their wine. Ah! those chestnut curls! They in themselves alone would have been enough to bewilder an ordinary brain; but what bewildered me was the strange impression that I was gazing upon the actual being whom I had been endeavoring to imagine. There was the face that had so painfully haunted me from the moment that I first conceived the idea of my picture. In the spirit world

I must have known Prince Zariades, but little did I imagine that my dream, as well as that of the heroine of the legend, would prove a reality. Ah! my prince! my prince! What do you think of him, Adèle ? "

"Without a dénouement, your story was not worth relating. How did it terminate?"

"In nothing! It is that which troubles me! I looked at Prince Zariades in despair. Monsieur, I thought, I would give a fortune, if I had it, for the privilege of sketching that handsome face of yours; how shall I make you acquainted with the fact? I thought of a thousand excuses for speaking to him, and asking his address; but there was some fatal objection to every scheme that occurred to me. I took out my card, and resolved to state my request plainly, in writing, and ask him to call at my studio; but my pencil refused to. frame a single sentence. Finally, my observation began to attract his attention, or I imagined so, and became embarrassed. Before I had recovered my self-possession, he stopped the stage, and got out. I let him slip from me, and he disappeared in the crowd."

"I think you were very foolish, that is, if you really wished him to sit to you."

"It was not the fear of disregarding conventional rules that prevented me from speaking, but the mere habit of yielding to them. Conventionality is a woman's inheritance, and she does not know how closely she is bound until a sudden emergency calls upon her to act. with the freedom and spontaneity of an independent being; and then her wits are sure to play her false. We have courage enough, heaven knows, to conquer kingdoms, but we cannot break a single link of the subtle, insidious, invisible chains, wound about us in our infancy, that have grown with our growth, and strengthened with our strength, until they seem to have become a portion of our very life. What miserable slaves we are! To gain the greatest name that life can offer, we cannot pass beyond the imaginary circle