ficiency) to assist in subduing the passions, or in resisting their baleful influence, is not the sole subject of reflection furnished in this case: the inevitable misery occasioned by every illegitimate liaison, however free from actual guilt it may be, offers another and more striking one. The dread of her husband's becoming aware of the censure her friendship with Voltaire had drawn on her, and the dishonour it reflected on him, filled her with alarm; and yet she had not courage or rectitude enough to break the bonds that united her to Voltaire, when an opportunity was afforded her; and thought only of having him restored to her, even while conscious that his return to Cirey would occasion still greater scandal, and subject her husband's character to the most injurious imputations.

The Marquise du Châtelet was a proud and imperious woman. How then must she have writhed under the infliction of the severe strictures she had entailed on herself, and the consciousness of the deception she was practising on her husband, who though a weak, was not a dishonourable man, as is best proved by the fear she entertained of certain reports reaching his ears! Yes, this friendship, whether innocent or culpable, formed the misery of her life; and the fame she had won by her acquirements only served to draw still more attention to the stain

that shadowed it. In another of her letters, in 1735, she writes:

for having enabled me to prevent it. He did not make any stay at Brussels, and I am well pleased that he did not; Rousseau was there; and beside, he is too well known. He goes straight to Amsterdam to overlook the edition of his works. I heard from him from Antwerp, dated the 20th; he was going to embark on the canal. I hope he has now arrived. Caution him, I pray you, to conceal himself carefully: he appeared resolved to do so. By this he will avoid all the comments that would be made by his stay in Holland, especially as he announced that he was going to Prussia; which would give the appearance of some hidden design, or that he was escaping."

In the same letter, Mdme. du Châtelet says:—

"Permit me to make a reflection to you on the conduct which the minister holds towards him," and gained by alarming him every day, and by forcing which appears very strange to me; for what can be him to leave his country? While in it, he will be obliged to be prudent; who can oblige him to this, if he lost the hope of returning? The project enter tained of writing to M. du Châtelet was against me, and not against him. It was to give him a hint, and to effect my misfortune. The Keeper of the Seals knows the bonds that bind us; he knows that the desire of living with me will restrain him. What pleasure can he find in filling our lives with

bitterness?"

"He has sent me, in a letter of the 8th, a copy of a letter to the Prince Royal, discreet in all other respects; but here is what I find in it :

"I shall have the boldness to send your Royal Highness a manuscript which I should never dare to show any one who had not a mind as free from prejudice as yours is, and to a Prince who, among all homages, merits that of an unlimited confidence.'

Many are the passages in the letters of the Marquise du Châtelet which prove what little confidence she felt in the prudence of Voltaire. "Your letters bring peace and consolation to my How often does she entreat the Count d'Arsoul, and I swear to you that I am in great want of gental to urge him to be prudent, even while she both. You have received a letter from me, by the was herself committing the utmost indiscretion last post, in which I told you of my project with re-in revealing the secret of her heart, and admitgard to the Bailli de Froulay. I hope you have ting that this secret was known to the Keeper approved it, for I think it very necessary; as I of the Seals! In another letter she writes:→ always fear that they do not believe the departure of M. de Voltaire, and that in the month of January they may speak against him to M. du Châtelet, whose departure I will postpone until I am assured of the contrary: in short, I will wait for your answer to decide me. Tell M. de Voltaire that his journey must not be too long, and don't fear that it will be too short. He will have much to do where he goes, and I repeat to you it will not do to let him remain too long. He will certainly finish his Philosophy (of Newton) before he works at anything else; but to finish is to print it, for it is completed. He will also send it to Paris. Thus there will be nothing to reproach him for; but perhaps in his travelling-carriage he may compose a tragedy; he had commenced one, of which I saw the plot. You know that with him one work does not exclude others; he will correct all his works. Advise him to be prudent in this edition; for the peace of his life will depend on it. I would fain that the present misfortune might at least ensure our happiness for ever; and this cannot be, unless the Bailli will not speak. We should have a company of assurance to sleep in quiet. But how far are we from this state! Every step he takes places a world between him and me. I have received a letter from him, from Brussels. If his health resists so many torments it will be very fortunate. He tells me that he is very weak, and greatly harassed. What a season, and what a journey! But everything is better than the letter to M. du Châtelet; and I cannot cease to thank you

"They," refers always to her family or their agents.

"I know this MS.; it is a metaphysical one of a nature to cause its author to be burned, and is a book a thousand times more dangerous, and assuredly more punishable than 'The Pucelle.' Judge, then, if I did not tremble. I have not yet got over my astonishment, and, I confess also, my anger. I have written him a furious letter; but it will be so long on the road that the MS. may have been sent away before it arrives, or at least he may try to make me think so; for he is sometimes obstinate, and that demon of a reputation (which I find misunderstood) never quits him. I own to you that I could not help shuddering at my fate, when I saw

*Voltaire.

Marquise du Châtelet; and Voltaire sent it to her
This metaphysical work was dedicated to the
with the following lines, of which we give only a
prose translation:-

"The author of this metaphysical work,
Which is to be placed at your feet,
Deserves to be cooked on the public place,
But he can only burn for you."

*

caused a misunderstanding between her and me; but she maintains always, in the most positive tone, as does also M. de Richelieu, that they have the promise of the Keeper of the Seals that he will never do anything against M. de Voltaire without informing them of it previously; and that on this we may sleep in peace. I know not what to be lieve; but that which is sure is, that this promise is the only thing that I have asked them for, ever since I have inhabited Cirey, and that they never told me that they had it until the last fifteen days. Tell me what you think: apparently, to write to M. du Châtelet formed no part of the bargain.*. If my letters have been intercepted, it is as well to tell you that a large packet of very important letters ought to have reached you on Sunday, the 20th, by the coach of Bar-sur-Aube, in a small box under the glass men, and that I expected that your answer would return by the same means on Saturday the 26th.

"Have you received a roe deer,t which perhaps has arrived putrid? Adieu; write to me, your letters are the consolation of my soul; they have failed me for fifteen days: render them to me, and grant me your pity and your friendship. The man who will deliver you this letter will remain at Paris."

In February, 1735, and while Voltaire was still in Holland, the Marquise du Châtelet writes to the Count d'Argental, relative to the return of Rousseau to France-a letter that shows her and Voltaire in a very unfavourable point of view, by betraying their intense hatred to JeanJacques:

how little I could reckon on the tranquillity of my life: I shall pass it in combating against him for, himself without saving him, in trembling for him, or in shuddering for his faults or for his absence. But this is my destiny, and it is still dearer to me than the happiest. You must aid me to ward off this stroke, if indeed it can be warded off; you must be well aware that his imprudence will destroy him sooner or later. The Prince Royal will guard his secret no better than he keeps it himself, and sooner or later it will transpire. In addition, the MS. will pass through the hands of the King of Prussia, and of his ministers, before it reaches the Prince; as you may believe all packets for him are opened by his father, and also by M. de la Chétardié, who, however idle in other things, has been instructed to discover all that passes between the Prince Royal and Voltaire. In short, if it were only for the inconsiderateness and indiscretion of such conduct as to confide to a Prince only twenty-four years of age, whose heart or whose mind is not yet formed, whom an illness may render devout, whom he does not really know, the secret of his life, of his tranquillity, and that of those who have attached their lives to his; in truth, he should not have done it. If a friend of twenty years' standing asked him for this MS., he ought to have refused him; and he sends it to an unknown and a Prince! Why let his tranquillity depend on another, and without any necessity for so doing, solely for the gratification of a stupid vanity (I cannot alter the true name), to show to a person who is no judge a work in which he will see only the imprudence? He who confides so lightly his secret merits to be betrayed: but me, what have I done to him, that he should make the happiness of my life "I am," says the lady, "I confess to you, in depend on the Prince Royal? I confess to you, despair, at the return of that old serpent Rousseau. that I am out of all patience; you may well see it, It appears to me that it is the ministers who should and I don't believe you can blame me. I feel that be angry, for this will do them more harm than to when that fault shall be committed, that if it our friend: nevertheless I horridly fear the effect required to give my life to repair it, I must give it; which this may produce on him; he will be in the but I cannot see without a bitter grief, that a creature greatest grief. I have seen him made ill by having so amiable in every point, will render himself un- read his approaching return announced in a public happy by his unnecessary imprudence, for which paper (I doubt that he will return); and I have there is no excuse. What you can do, and I pray heard him say a thousand times that he would quit you to do, is to write to him that you know that the France the day that Rousseau entered it. Do not King of Prussia opens all the letters of his son; that doubt that this news will excite his indignation to M. de la Chétardié watches all that concerns him in the last degree, and one cannot blame him. I hope Prussia, and that he cannot be too careful about he will not let it break loose; and yet I fear still everything he sends and everything he writes to the more the chagrin it will cause him, than the public Prince Royal; and that this is an advice you be-proofs he may give of it. You must own that here lieve it your duty to give him. But don't enter into is an unfortunate creature, and unjustly so. any details, for he would never pardon me this doubt not, any more than I do, that it is through letter if he knew of it; and yet this stroke must be animosity against our friend that the Keeper of tho warded off, or he must be given up for ever. Ma- Seals has allowed the old scoundrel to return. It dame de Richelieu has not spoken to the Keeper of is, I confess, like tearing off one's nose to vex one's the Seals, and I am glad of it, for he might have face; but this will not the less throw into despair the most honest and unfortunate man in the world. He will never, after so marked a proof of animosity, come back here; and I who am so accustomed to sacrifice my happiness to his tastes, and to the justice

Ambassador of France in Prussia.

† The Marquise du Châtelet seems to have adopted all Voltaire's prejudices against devout people, as if devotion would not operate to prevent the betrayal of confidence, instead of prompting it.

It appears that the Marquise du Châtelet, notwithstanding all the professions of affection lavished on her by Voltaire, was well aware that he was more influenced by his vanity and obstinacy than by his regard for her, when she asserts that he would never pardon her for the letter written expressly to save him from the probable consequences of his own imprudence.

You

of his resentment, am as indignant as he is, I swear to you; and all honourable persons ought to be. Iam glad that he is in exile while Rousseau returns: the

* It is shown that the Keeper of the Seals, M. de Chauvelier, had threatened to write to M. du Châtelet, that the liaison of Voltaire with the Marquise du Châtelet compromised the honour of his house.

The gift, at a moment of such agitation, make" one smile.

*This hatred on the part of Voltaire and the Marquise du Châtelet to Rousseau, shows how little their angry passions were influenced by the philo-third, which he often forgot during his life, are his sophy they professed,

MANTIS SPECTRE-WALKING-STICKS AND LEAVES,

burthen of a lugubrious song, "Coorumpun coom agwun;" or, Coorumpun kills all the goats. After this exploit, he declared, the insects

The Mantis religiosa is found in the south of France, and in Italy; in the former of which it is called the Prie Dieu, because, when lying in wait for its prey, it raises its two forelegs and brings them together, as if in the act of prayer, which in fact is the attitude which makes them ready to fall upon their food in a moment. The Turks think they do this in imitation of their attitude of prayer, and are not without a superstitious fear of them. In Syria they are called the Jew's Camel, and wherever they are found, there seems to be some legend attached to them; for even the Hottentots hold them in veneration. Many call them soothsayers, and insect-plagues are foretold when they frequent a house, which, in fact, is only the instinct with which they await an abundance of food, which they know by their own faculties is about to arrive. They are extremely voracious, and if two are enclosed together in one small space, with out a supply of food, they attack each other, and the conqueror eats its adversary. Their eggs are collected into a sort of gelatinous case, which gets hard by exposure to the air. It is divided into separate cells, in each of which is an egg, and all are deposited at one time.

We called the attention of our readers to the order Orthoptera, in our last paper on insects, but confined ourselves to only a few examples, It may therefore be desirable to extend our re-feasted on the bodies, marks to some which are more strange in their habits, and play a still more singular part in the insect world. Foremost of these is the Mantis tribe, whose two forelegs are converted into claws, for the purpose of seizing their prey, which is always carnivorous. Their body is long and narrow, and the forepart so much extended, as to look like a long neck; and they have a singular power of turning their heads round, and looking fixedly at any object which attracts them. They have three eyes, set in their triangular head, and the antennæ are inserted between them. They are often of a light green colour, but frequently rose colour and pale brown. They inhabit warm and temperate climates, living among foliage or herbage, but occasionally venturing into the dwellings of man. One frequented a house of ours, five degrees north of the equator; which every afternoon, about four o'clock, issued from a crevice above one of the windows; whence coming we never could ascertain. It descended always on the left side, traversed the wall below, and disappeared in a small hole near the floor. No doubt it was in search of food: but our wonder was excited that, during its peregrinations, it was itself never converted into food by some Spectre insects-so called from their very powerful enemy, for there were many lurking in singular forms-compose another family in the every direction. Attracted by the daily appear- order to which the Mantis belongs; and their ance of this pretty creature, we arrested its pro- inert habits cause them to be compared to gress by offering it some dead ants, which it sloths among quadrupeds; for they crawl slowly quickly devoured, and then some bread, which among the young shoots, which they devour, it refused, and went on its way. The next af- and occasionally remain perfectly without moveternoon it appeared to pause, as if in expecta- ment for some time. They are frequently called tion of something, and we again gave it insect-walking-sticks, walking-leaves, &c., and often food. From that moment our friendship with the Mantis was established; it daily awaited us in the same spot, and at last suffered itself to be taken into the middle of our hand to be fed, when it would turn round its head, and look up in our faces with an air of confidence and innocence which was very interesting, and very much delighted a young child then among us. One of our native servants caught us in the act of caressing it one day, and he eagerly besought us not to touch it again, saying that it was a very dangerous creature, full of magic, and would make bad fetish for us and the child. To enforce his advice, he told us that, under the name of Coorumpun (the signification of which word he could not explain) the creature killed all the goats which it could approach, by sitting before them, fixing its eyes upon theirs when they were feeding, and, swinging itself from side to side, so fascinate them, that they dropped down in a fit and died; and concluding his account by repeating, in a monotonous tone, the

appear like a small, dead branch, with dry, lateral twigs proceeding from it, thereby exemplifying its name, for it has the look of a spectral twig. It is very fragile, as in fact they all are; and if they are left with access to a leg or jerked off by accident, they make a point of eating it; and if the insect be not too old, it will be reproduced. The wings of others are very short, and laid along the body, looking, as the insect crawls along, exactly like a small accumulation of brown, withered leaves; while others, again, are bright in colour, and resemble recent foliage. Their chief hope of escape from their enemies lies in this close resemblance to the substances on which they feed and live, Their larvæ are like little pieces of dried twigs, and their eggs have all the appearance of seeds, Most of the "walking-leaves come from the East Indies, the East Indian Archipelago, South America, and that land of strange forms, Australia,

THE LATE WIFE'S SISTER.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Perhaps I might call my story with great propriety, "Some Passages in the Life of Charles Molesworth," for as I only enjoyed the pleasure of his society at distant intervals, I cannot undertake to give a consecutive account of his proceedings. Do not let my readers suppose that I am going to divide these " passages" according to the fashion of a domestic melo-drama, where the hero appears in youthful bloom during the first act, ripens into middle-aged maturity in the second, and subsides into "second childishness and mere oblivion" in the third. No, Charles Molesworth was a young man when I first knew him, and time had not blanched a single hair in his head when I took leave of him, that is, I mean, when I took leave of him in the sense of winding up his affairs as the hero of my story. But before I enter into any further particulars respecting Molesworth, I must beg to give a brief account of another of my intimate friends. My earliest and favourite companion was the son of an eminent merchant, of the name of Gilmour. He had one sister-a beautiful girl, who was also likely to have a great fortune; for the wealthy merchant repudiated the idea of "making a son," and always declared his intention of dividing his property equally between his two children. I did not, however, fall in love with Harriet Gilmour, and it is fortunate that I did not, for it appeared that her affections had been long engaged by a young man, a relation of her own (but alas! a poor relation), who had been admitted as a great favour to the privilege of occupying a stool and sitting at a desk in her father's counting-house. When the elopement of young Gilmour and his beautiful cousin took place, the rage of the disappointed father exceeded all bounds of justifiable impetuosity, and he not only declared, but solemnly vowed that she should never have a place in his house during his life, or in his will at his death! Now, had I reason to be proud of my friend. Gilmour, although he knew that he must benefit by his sister's disgrace, earnestly exerted himself in her behalf, and besought his father to pardon her, so frequently, and so forcibly, that it required a threat of being disinherited in his own person to silence him. The imprudent couple went abroad, where I have reason to think my friend often remitted sums of money to them. Two great events took place in the next year. Gilmour married an amiable girl, a school-friend of his sister's, and the hard-hearted father died, leaving a will behind him, in which he bequeathed his whole property to his son, but on the condition that he never allowed his sister to be a sharer in it. Poor Harriet! she did not long live to require it; her husband's death

happened soon after that of her father, and she wrote to her brother that she was dangerously ill at a little hotel in a small town in Italy. Gilmour and his kind-hearted wife lost no time in hastening to her; she lingered for a few weeks, when they received her last sigh. Gilmour did not, however, quit Italy for several months, owing to the precarious state of health of his wife, but after her confinement she appeared greatly recruited; they returned to England, and never again left it. For my own part, I must plead guilty to a great love of foreign countries. I labour under the double disadvantage of having fastidious tastes, and nothing to do; and so I seek health and amusement abroad, having provided myself with a great stock of playful anathemas against my own climate, from the Frenchman's daring assertion, that "three hot days and a thunder-storm make an English summer!" to Lord Byron's more delicately subtle sarcasm

"I like the weather when it is not rainy,

That is-I like two months of every year!" I lived mostly in France and Germany; my visits to England were few, and my stay there was short. I had the pleasure of finding my friend Gilmour always happy and prosperous; he seemed to verify Mrs. Thrale's account of Dobson

"His friends not false, his wife no shrew, Many his gains, his children few, He passed his hours in peace." Sorrow came at length in the shape of the death of his wife; but he received consolation in his two charming daughters; and when, three years after he had written me word of Mrs. Gilmour's decease, I visited England, I found him in excellent spirits, preparing for the wedding of his eldest daughter, Marguerite. The bride-elect was then nineteen years of age, her sister Julia three years younger; they were both charming in person, and amiable in temper; they mucli resembled each other, and also their father, he was a remarkably handsome man, and each of them was his "softened image." I had some difficulty in imagining that my friend could have found a son-in-law worthy of such a prize as the lovely Marguerite; but when I was introduced to Molesworth (you see I have come to my hero at last), I was perfectly satisfied; he was in every respect suitable to Marguerite; he had, like myself, an independent fortune, but he had not, like myself, "a truant disposition;" he had purchased a house in the neighbourhood of Gilmour's, and the young wife would only be separated by a single street from the home of her