rather than a woman, much less a suppliant woman.

Was she right?

The Greeks, investigating diligently the nature of our hearts, discovered vice to be so inherent in human beings, that neither strength united with will, nor laws, nor customs, nor religion itself, could overcome it; but with that wonderful talent which the heavens granted to them alone, they rendered vice amiable, and made it contribute to the good of the republic. Instead of awaiting what they could not prevent, they went to meet it, like Mithridates, who, having to drink poison, took away its power of doing him harm, by habituating himself to its use. They dared even more; they made the gods the accomplices of the errors of men; powerless to raise their dust to heaven, they brought heaven down to the dust, and the guilty became objects, not of hate but of compassion, for they had yielded to the omnipotent power of fate, to which even Jupiter was subject—fate which guides the willing and drags the reluctant.

This idea, extended to every action, they applied especially to the affairs of love. Anacreon, whose hair, so often crowned with leaves of the merry ivy and vine, was becoming grey, was seated one gloomy winter's night alone before the fire. Boreas raged over land and sea, and a hurricane of hailstones rattled upon the poet's house. He remembers no more the rays which the sun of spring sheds upon the flowers and the tresses of lovely women; nor the soft grass scarcely pressed by the flying feet of the dancers, nor the breezes pregnant with life, that seem to murmur in his ears, "love—love;" his thoughts turn upon the transitory nature of our lives here below; he sees life rolling on more swiftly than the wheels of the conqueror's car in the Olympic games, our days dissolving more speedily than the shadow on the wall; the roses of his fancy withered at the thought of death. Suddenly a knock is heard at the poet's door, accompanied by a tearful voice. How can the poet help feeling pity, since pity is one of the most harmonious chords of his heavenly lyre? Anacreon opens the door, and a child appears, wet with the rain and pale with sorrow: poor child! his fine hair hangs dripping round his cheeks, his lips are livid, his limbs stiffened with cold. "What evil fortune, my pretty child, forces thee to wander on such a night, sacred to the infernal deities?" And without awaiting a reply, he presses the ice from his hair, removes his dress, dries him, and revives him by the heat of the fire; nor is that enough, he puts the child's hands into his own breast to warm them gently with the mild heat of his own blood. When the color returns to his lip, and the tremulous light to his eyes, the child smilingly says: "Now let me see if the rain has spoiled my bow;" and fitting an arrow, he draws the string. Anacreon is suddenly wounded, before he can perceive that Love, mocking, has left his house. It was the vengeance of Apollo which caused Myrrha to burn with unholy passion for Cinyras; of Venus, which caused the love of Pasiphaë for the bull; of Phædra for Hippolytus; and the will of Juno and Minerva which caused the cruel affection of Medea for Jason. Few or no crimes were committed which were not attributed to the influence of some god; and in this way, tragedians, availing themselves of the universal faith in fate, represented upon the stage the horrible deeds that under different aspects would not have been tolerated. And there certainly lives, or rather there sometimes seems to live in us, something more powerful than ourselves; nor does our belief, generally so different from the doctrine of the ancients, entirely oppose it. Do we not believe that our first mother was tempted by the serpent? And since that time, the ears of women have been readily open to the flatteries of the tempter. Perhaps the tempter does not stand without, but within the woman, and dwells in her pure blood, in the fine texture of her veins, in the pores of her delicate skin, in her imaginative brain, and in her more imaginative heart: and when thus, the tempter appears strongest and most inevitable. But do women alone yield to the persuasions of a devil, that comes tempting them, now with hate, now with pleasure, now with love, now with the abundance of wealth, and (for we will not stop to enumerate them all) with as many passions as are powerful to stir the human heart? Alas! with few is there fortitude enough to withstand pleasure and gold, the most cruel of all the tyrants of our souls. Renowned heroes of ancient and modern history, men august and venerated, while life lasted, either resisted such passions, or too often yielded to them; and if repentance was raised to the dignity of a sacrament among us, it seems the most evident proof that God himself never expected that we should keep ourselves innocent; no, he did not expect it, since he commanded Simon Peter to forgive, not only seven times, but even seventy times seven.—Poor Isabella! Let him who is without sin first cast a stone at her....

Was she wrong?

The first draught never intoxicates, and whoever wishes, can put down the cup and say, "Enough!" For that Love, hardly born, shaking his head and his great bow, enthrones himself king of the spirit, and cries, "I will it, and I wish to reign alone,"—so sing the fanciful poets,—but this is not the truth. Love every moment makes his wings of sweet thoughts and ardent desires, and his darts grow harder, as the heart at which he aims becomes softened. Delia did not become blind merely by once looking at the sun; and whosoever wishes to escape the Sirens must imitate the example of Ulysses, and stop his ears with wax. We trust too much or too little to ourselves. When the flame of a glance, or the allurement of a voice fascinates us, and Providence with an innate conscience admonishes us, we take no heed of the warning, but say: "Not even this love shall trespass; when it would go beyond bounds, we shall be sufficient for the defence." When afterwards we feel it conquering, we defer the remedy from day to day; at last, overcome, we accuse the destiny which we have woven with our own hands. Thus, having the power, the will fails, and having the will, the power fails. We are caught in our own nets. Among the laws of fate, man can be subjected to those that are outside; the others that are within him have no power; the body can be subdued, not the soul. And if God gives us a mind able to use its power even against His immortal throne, why or how can we accuse Him, if, like cowards, we throw down the shield at the beginning of the battle, or if we refuse to use the sword which He has put into our hands? Querulous and unjust atoms, we wish the Creator to break through the eternal order of things, and to bend down every moment from the heavens to repair our faults, and to quiet the tempest of the heart which we have excited. He, the Creator, who whirls through infinite space the fragments of shattered orbs, and wakes in its dreadful sublimity the tempest of the ocean! Even guilt knows a kind of dignity; let us dare to possess it. Lucifer, exiled from celestial thrones, accused no one, nor did he reproach himself with his want of success; and Lucifer, in his dark grandeur, appears such, that although we cannot wish him a better destiny, yet we cannot abstain from cursing the ill-omened moment in which he drew down upon his head the wrath of God. But we are far inferior either in good or evil to angelic natures. In order to persuade ourselves that we are worth something, we presume to do ourselves the honor of believing that Satan has tempted us. If Satan could turn upon us his fiery glances, he would not tempt, but laugh at us. Can there be a worse tempter than our own evil inclinations, and the full power of our will in nursing and fostering them? I certainly do not wish to