EPISTLE.

intermingled with the gay, flourishing, and lively youth: in the manner of a beautiful orange tree loaded with golden-yellow apples, brought to the final goal of their perfection and maturity, among the still-green ones, the flowers, and buds that are only beginning to sprout. And when one thins a high-timber forest, one does not raze it entirely, without at least leaving some balliveaux reserved trees left standing for future growth or markers in places to serve as a sign and remembrance. Now (one might allege on the other hand) is not a language well-cleared of all its old stumps and roots; pure, simple, united, and even, flowing its beautiful little path all at ease, more to be esteemed than a prideful, arrogant, and superb one, which raises its nose without purpose, jumps, gambols, and skirmishes like a matachin a sword-dancer in a grotesque or frantic performance? And a Roman Lady, wise and composed, modestly dressed in violet or black beneath her beautiful head-covering and linen; walking with a steady countenance; how much more lovable is she than a brazen courtesan, painted, adorned, affected, flowered in competition with some meadow in the month of May: her borrowed passefilons decorative hair-ribbons or lace, some fluttering in disorder and abandonment; others stretched, tyrannized, and tormented in ten thousand ways: with a foolish bearing, a wandering look: her neck sunk inside the rolls of her sleeves, which drown and overcome her cheeks: her bodice walled up in thick cardboard: her flank, her hip, and all the rest that drops below the waist, buried in a drum-skirt, similar to those one fights in at the barriers: shouldered and bosomed besides; her throat coated, whitened, and plastered with ceruse white lead pigment and sublimate mercury-based cosmetic: and finally raised on stilts rather than slippers or chappins high platform shoes? And so it is with languages. Yes; but even though it is not impossible to meet some middle-class woman* original: "bourgeoise";