ne.
So much for Medea and her list; had she lived in modern times it might
have been longer; but she was of too bold a spirit to enter into minutiae.
Hers, too, are the wrongs of married life. Nor on this point the wise son
of Sophroniscus makes the man the sufferer. "Neither," he says, "can he
who marries a wife tell if he shall have cause to rejoice thereat." He had
most probably at that moment Xantippe in his eye. You remember how
pleasantly Addison, in the _Spectator_, tells the story of a colony of
women, who, disgusted with their wrongs, had separated themselves from the
men, and set up a government of their own. That there was a fierce war
between them and the men--that there was a truce to bury the dead on
either side--that the prudent male general contrived that the truce should
be prolonged; and during the truce both armies had friendly
intercourse--on some pretence or other the truce was still lengthened,
till there was not one woman in a condition, or with an inclination, to
take up her wrongs--not one woman was any longer a fighting man--they saw
their errors--they did not, as the fable says we all do, cast the burden
of their own faults behind them, but bravely carried them before
them--made peace, and were righted.

We would not, Eusebius, have all their wrongs righted--so lovely is the
moral beauty of their wonderful patience in enduring them. What--if they
were in a condition to legislate and impose upon us some of their burdens,
or divide them with us? What man of your acquaintance could turn
dry-nurse--tend even his own babes twelve hours out of the twenty-four?

A pretty head-nurse would my Eusebius make in an orphan asylum. I should
like to see you with twins in your arms, both crying into your sensitive
ears, and you utterly ignorant of their wants and language. And I do think
your condition will be almost as bad, if you publish your catalogue of
wrongs in your own name. By all means preserve an incognito. You will be
besieged with wrongs--will be the only "Defender of the Faithful"--not
knight-_errant_, for you may stay at home, and all will come to you for
redress. You will be like the author, or rather translator, of the Arabian
Tales, whose window was nightly assailed, and slumber broken in upon, by
successive troops of children, crying "Monsieur Galland if you are not
asleep, get up--come and tell us one of those pretty stories." Keep your
secret. Now, the mention of the Arabian Tales reminds