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is not an accomplishment in the mind of a female more enchanting, nor one which adds more dignity and grace to her person, than constancy. Whatever share of beauty she may be possessed of, whether she may have the tinge of Hebe on her cheeks, vying in colour with the damask rose, and breath as fragrant—and the graceful and elegant gait of an Ariel—still, unless she is endowed with this characteristic of a virtuous and ingenuous mind, all her personal charms will fade away, through neglect, like decaying fruit in autumn. The whole list of female virtues are in their kind essential to the felicity of man; but there is such beauty and grandeur of sentiment displayed in the exercise of constancy, that it has been justly esteemed by the dramatic poets as the chief excellence of their heroines. It nerves the arm of the warrior when absent from the dear object of his devoted attachment, when he reflects, that his confidence in her regard was never misplaced; but yet, amidst the dangers of his profession, he sighs for his abode of domestic happiness, where the breath of calumny never entered, and where the wily and lustful seducer, if he dared to put his foot, shrunk back aghast with shame and confusion, like Satan when he first beheld the primitive innocence and concord between Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. It adds a zest to the toils of the peasant, and his heart expands with joy and gratitude when he returns in the evening to his ivy-mantled cottage, and finds his wife assiduously engaged in the household duties of his family. And it soothes the mind of the lunatic during the lucid intervals of the aberration of his intellects, and tends more than anything else to restore him to reason. In fact, there is no calamity that is incident to man, but that female constancy will assuage. Whether in sickness or health, in prosperity or poverty, in mirth or sadness, (vicissitudes which form the common lot of mankind in their pilgrimage through this life;) the loveliness of this inestimable blessing will shine forth, like the sun on a misty morning, and preserve the even temperature of the mind. To the youthful lover it is the polar star that guides him from the shoals and quicksands of vice, among which his wayward fancy and inexperience are too apt to lead him. But in the matrimonial state, the pleasures arising from the exercise of this virtue are manifold, as it sheds a galaxy of splendour around the social hemisphere; for it is such a divine perfection, that Solomon has wisely observed, that

      "A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband."

      A husband so blessed in marriage, might exclaim with the lover in one of Terence's comedies, "I protest solemnly that I will never forsake her; no, not if I was sure to contract the enmity of mankind by this resolution. Her I made the object of my wishes, and have obtained her; our dispositions suit; and I will shake hands with them that would sow dissension betwixt us; for death, and only death, shall take her from me."

      The eulogies of the poets in regard to this amiable trait in the female character, are sublime and beautiful; but none, I think, have surpassed in vivid fancy and depth of feeling, that of Lord Byron, in his elegant poem of the Corsair. The following passage describing the grief of Medora on the departure of Conrad, the pirate, is sketched with the pencil of a poet who was transcendently gifted with a knowledge of the inmost recesses of the human heart:—

      "And is he gone,"—on sudden solitude

      How oft that fearful question will intrude?

      "'Twas but an instant past—and here he stood!

      And now"—without the portal's porch she rush'd,

      And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd;

      Big, bright, and fast, unknown to her they fell.

      But still her lips refus'd to send—"Farewell!"

      "He's gone!"—against her heart that hand is driven,

      Convuls'd and quick—then gently rais'd to heav'n;

      She look'd and saw the heaving of the main:

      The white sail set—she dared not look again;

      But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate—

      "It is no dream—and I am desolate!"

CANTO I.

      The description of Conrad's return from his piratical cruise, the agony of his mind when he finds that his lovely Medora had fallen a sacrifice to her affectionate regard for him, and his sudden departure in a boat, through despair, is equally grand and powerful, and exhibits a fine specimen of the influence of female constancy even on the mind of a man like Conrad, who, from the nature of his pursuits, was inured to the infliction of wrongs on his fellow-creatures.

      The anecdote of the behaviour of Arria towards her husband, Pætus, related by Pliny, is one of the greatest instances of constancy and magnanimity of mind to be met with in history. Pætus was imprisoned, and condemned to die, for joining in a conspiracy against the Emperor, Claudius. Arria, having provided herself with a dagger, one day observed a more than usual gloom on the countenance of Pætus, when judging that death by the executioner might be more terrible to him than the field of glory, and perhaps, too, sensible that it was for her sake he wished to live, she drew the dagger from her side, and stabbed herself before his eyes. Then instantly plucking the weapon from her breast, she presented it to her husband, saying, "My Pætus, it is not painful!" Read this, ye votaries of voluptuousness. Reflect upon the fine moral lesson of conjugal virtue that is conveyed in this domestic tragedy, ye brutal contemners of female chastity, and of every virtue that emits a ray of glory around the social circle of matrimonial happiness! Take into your serious consideration this direful but noble proof of constancy, ye giddy and thoughtless worshippers at the shrine of beauty, and know, that a virtuous disposition is the brightest ornament of the female sex.

      There is another instance of constancy of mind, under oppression, in Otway's tragedy of Venice Preserved, in a dialogue between Jaffier and Belvidera, where the former questions her with great tenderness of feeling in regard to her future line of conduct in the gloomy prospect of his adverse fortune. She replies to him with great animation and pathos:

      "Oh, I will love thee, ev'n in madness love thee,

      Tho' my distracted senses should forsake me!

      Tho' the bare earth be all our resting place,

      Its roots our food, some cliff our habitation,

      I'll make this arm a pillow for thy head,

      And as thou sighing ly'st, and swell'd with sorrow,

      Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love

      Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest."

      This is a true and beautiful picture of constancy of mind, under those rude blasts of adversity, which too frequently nip the growth of affection. The only alternative against a decay of passion on such occasions, is a sufficient portion of virtue, strong and well-grounded love, and constancy of mind as firm as the rock. In short, without constancy, there can be neither love, friendship, nor virtue, in the world.

J.P

      CAVE AT BLACKHEATH

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

      Allow me to hand you an account of a very curious cavern at Blackheath, fortuitously discovered in the year 1780, and which will form, I have no doubt, a pleasing addition to the valued communication of your correspondent Halbert H., in the 348th Number of the MIRROR, and prove interesting to the greater portion of your numerous readers. It is situated on the hill, (on the left hand side from London,) and is a very spacious vaulted cavern, hewn through a solid chalk-stone rock, one hundred feet below the surface. The Saxons, on their entrance into Kent, upwards of 1,300 years ago, excavated several of these retreats; and during the discord, horrid murders, and sanguinary conflicts with the native Britons, for nearly five hundred years, used these underground recesses, not only as safe receptacles for their persons, but also secure depositaries for their wealth and plunder. After these times, history informs us the caves were frequently resorted to, and occupied by the disloyal and unprincipled rebels, headed by Jack Cade, in the reign of Henry VI., about A.D. 1400, who infested Blackheath and its neighbourhood, (as also mentioned by your correspondent;) since then by several banditti, called Levellers, in the rebellious times of Oliver Cromwell. The cave consists of three rooms, which are dry, and illuminated; in one of which, at the end of the principal entrance, is a well of soft, pure, and

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