It seems to me clear that neither our literary women nor any others of their sex have any need to be ashamed of their birthdays, or to forego the dignity which is their rightful honor in age. In nature the period of blossom seems a time so beautiful that we think nothing can ever equal it, until we reach the period of fruitage; and so it should be with human life. Madame de Gentlis, after a brilliant and stormy youth, reread, when seventy years old, all the classics of Louis XIV.'s time, in order to preserve her literary style; she died at eighty-four, and the edition of her works published just before her death comprised just eighty-four volumes-one for every year. It is half a century since her death, and it is said that at least twenty of her books are still popular in France. This is to make the fruitage of a life better than the flower, and so is such a beautiful old age as that of Lucretia Mott or Lydia Maria Child. It is the fashion to
