can tell.  Indeed, Antiochus was such a favorite name with kings, that, without seeing the play,—­and I have not seen it,—­I cannot inform you which Antiochus we are talking about.  Possibly it was the Antiochus who went into a fever for the love of Stratonice; and if so, please to notice that this was the wicked Antiochus Soter, the son of Selencus, and the scapegrace who married his mother-in-law, by the advice of the family-doctor, while his fond father stood tearfully by and gave away the bride.  After such a scandalous piece of business, I shall have nothing more to do with the family, but shall gladly return to our talented friend, Mrs. Wiseman.  She brought out her work at the Theatre Royal in 1706, “with applause”; and the play, I am glad to inform you, brought in money, so that an enterprising young vintner, by the name of Holt, besought her hand, and won it.  With the profits of “Antiochus” they established a tavern in Westminster, and the charming Wiseman with her own hand drew pots of half-and-half, or mixed punch for the company.  I should very much like to see two-thirds of our many poet-esses doing the same thing.

But enough, probably too much, of this skimble-skamble!  If you will look into a copy of Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary, (Worcester’s edition,) you will find the names of nearly a thousand English authors cited in alphabetical order as authorities.  Of these it is safe to say that not more than one hundred are remembered by the general reader.  Such is Fame!  Such is the jade who leads us up hill and down, through jungles and morasses, into deep waters and into swamps, through thick weather and thin, under blue skies and brown ones, in heat and in cold, hungry and thirsty and ragged, and heart-sore and foot-sore, now hopeful and now hopeless, now striding and now stumbling, now exultant and now despairing, now singing, now sighing, and now swearing, up to her dilapidated old temple.  And when we get there, we find Dr. Beattie, in a Scotch wig, washing the face of young Edwin!  A man of your pounds would be a fool to undertake the journey; but if you will be such a fool, you must go without the company of

Your terrestrial friend,

PAUL POTTER.

* * * * *

“THE NEW LIFE” OF DANTE.

I.

“At that season,” says Boccaccio, in his Life of Dante, “when the sweetness of heaven reclothes the earth with its adornments, and makes it all smiling with flowers among the green leaves, it was the custom in our city for the men and for the ladies to celebrate festivals in their own streets in separate companies.  Wherefore it happened, that, among the rest, Folco Portinari, a man held in much honor in those times among the citizens, had collected his neighbors at a feast in his own house on the first of May.  Among them was the before-named Alighieri,—­and, as little boys are wont to follow their fathers, especially to festive places,