formation respecting this personage, who has no slight claims upon their interest. She was the Lady Arabella Stuart, the cousin of the reigning monarch, and, as some persons deemed, having a better title to the throne than James 1. From her earliest years she had been an object of suspicion to the King. Upon her pretensions to the crown of England was founded the plot of Lord Cobham and Sir Walter Raleigh, which had been detected, and the inventor of which were put to death, banished, or ruined. Although she had no share in that imperfect and ill-conducted attempt at conspiracy, and was known besides to be of too gentle and amiable a disposition to harbour any ambitious notions, the nar row-minded monarch believed that her existence was full of peril to himself. With all the inclination to commit crimes, and to tolerate them in others, when it suited his purpose, he could not yet screw up his resolution to attempt her life; but, as a middle course, in which, while he provided for his own security, he cared not what sacrifice he might make of the happiness of others, he resolved that she should never marry, and that her claims, such as they were, should terminate with her existence.

There never yet was a king, however absolute his power, who could control the impulses of hearts. The sway of the universal and despetic passion baffles all the attempts which have been made, since the world began to control it. The lovely and sensitive Lady Arabella could not live long in a court without feeling and inspiring that passion. The gallant and accomplished William Seymour, the second son of the Earl of Beauchamp, and the worthy descendant of a long line of heroic ancestors, saw and loved her. He was at an age when manhood had tempered, but had not in the slightest degree quenched, the resolute fire of his youthful blood. To know that Danger lay in his path, while Love stood beyond as his reward, was to him only an additional incitement to persue it. He loved the Lady Arabella; he imparted to her his passion, and had the happiness soon to find that he was a successful wooer. She confessed that she returned his love with equal ardour; and, although they were compelled to keep their mutual flame a secret, this scarcely abated the felicity of a sentiment which ever loves shade, and is never made more delightful by becoming more noto

rious.

They were privately, and, as they hoped, secretly married; but the numerous spies which the king kept in his pay, soon discovered the union which they had not been able to prevent. The newly-wedded couple were arrested, and carried before the privy council, where, after an angry reprimand from the king, Mr. Seymour was committed to the Tower, there to remain during his majesty's pleasure; and the Lady Arabella, was delivered over to the custody of her aunt, the Countess of Shrewsbury, with a strict injunction that she was not to be permitted to leave her ladyship's house at Highgate.

The imprisonment to which Mr. Seymour had been sentenced, was at that time little less perilous than a sentence of death. Of many persons, some of high rank, and others, the humility of whose station precluded all inquiry respecting them, who had been committed to the Tower during the king's pleasure, few had ever quitted with life. Attempts at poison were so frequent, that the prisoners would seldom touch any

food that was prepared within the walls, or, indeed, any that was not brought to them from careful and trusty friends. In short, although there have been many periods of English history, at which open and sanguinary outrages have been committed by the authority of the monarch upon his subjects, there never occurred one until the reign of James 1, in which the most dark and treacherous crimes-such as are not usually held to be of English growth-were practised with the sanction and countenance of the crown.

Poor Lady Arabella had already passed a fortnight in all the terrors of uncertainty and suspense respecting the fate of her husband; and these terrors increased by her total inability to help his escape, or to provide for his safety in prison. She knew, however, that he had many and powerful friends; and she trusted that some good chance might preserve him, and that they might yet be happy. Her fears for her husband were diverted, but not diminished, by those which she now entertained on her owm part; for, at the period when this history begins, the countess had just received an order to hold her neice in readiness to depart for Durham on the fol lowing day, in the company of persous whom the king would commission for that purpose. This news had, as may be imagined, thrown her into great affliction; for she felt that, once in the power of the king's creatures, there was no unfair treatment that she might not have to dread; and the distance between Durham and her husband's prison, seemed to her to preclude the possibility of their being again joined. She had been talking on this subject to the old Countess, who, although affectionately attached to her kinswoman, was, besides, so loyal, and so fully impressed with the belief that because he was king he could do no wrong, that she gave Lady Arabella no other consolation than an exhortation to patience. The Lady Arabella saw that she had nothing to hope from the countess; and so fully convinced of this was she, that she abandoned the intention of beseeching the old lady to aid her escape to France, or elsewhere, where she might remain hidden until the king could be brought to confirm her marriage.

It was this conversation between the ladies that the old soldier's arrival had interrupted:

The word which he had whispered had been used as a signal between her husband and herself in all their secret interviews, and she therefore knew that the letter which had been put into her hand was from him. When she reached her chamber, the force of her emotions almost took from her the power of action. She sunk into a chair, and the letter lay for some moments on the table before her ere she could summon resolution to break the seal. At length, overcoming, by a violent effort, the sensations which almost paralysed her, she broke the seal, and learnt from the epistle intelligence which turned all her fears to joy-the intelligence that her husband had escaped from his imprisonment in the Tower.

She loved with all the intensity of a first passion, and it is the property of that sentiment to neutralize every selfish feeling. All remembrance of herself and of her own fate had been abandoned; but for that of her husband, and for the pe. il in which she, with too much reason, believed his life to be, she had been sick with apprehension. When she learnt that he was safe, she threw down the letter, and falling upon her knees,

poured forth an incoherent rhapsody of thanks to Heaven, for having granted the prayer she had hourly repeated. A flood of tears relieved her heart, which was ready to burst with its various emotions, and she soon regained composure enough to finish reading the letter, the sequel of which informed her of the particu lars of Mr. Seymour's escape.

Having procured, by the assistance of some kind friends, who had never relaxed in their attempts to pro. vide for his escape, the dress of a countryman, he had walked out of the Tower-gates behind a cart, which had come in loaded with billets for fuel. He wrote, besides, that he had since gained the coast, and had procured a vessel which would carry them to France, where they might live in obscre, but happy retirement. He recommended her to place implicit confidence in the bearer of the letter, who would furnish the means for her escape, and who, notwithstanding the meanness of his disguise, was a gentleman of good family, and Mr. Seymour's old comrade. His real appellation was Hugh Markham; and, although he had so successfully imitated the weakness of old age and the suffering of poverty, he was in fact neither old nor poor, but one who, to serve a friend in time of need, would have confronted the most terrific dangers.

He was one of those men who seem to be possessed with an innate love of wandering. Like all such persons, he was fond of enterprise; but it was only for the sake of the excitement which it afforded to his mental and physical energies. This had led him into fights and scrapes innumerable, and all those adventures which other men think misfortunes, but which were to him mere amusement. He was now about the age of eightand-thirty. He had served in several campaigns abroad, as well under the English banners as under the foreign potentates; and, although he had always distinguished himself by his valour and conduct, he could never be induced, by offers of promotion, or by the honours which had been conferred on him, to attach himself for a length of time to any particular interest. He had, however, never drawn his sword but in the cause of truth and liberty, so far as they could be discovered in the wars which then filled Europe; and, vagabond as he was, he was known to be as firm and as cautious, where those qualities were necessary for the success of the cause he had undertaken, as he was fickle or unsettled in moments of repose or idleness. The alacrity with which he had flown to Seymour's aid, as soon as he heard of his danger, had shown the fervor of his friendship, and he was luckily enabled to complete hist good offices by lending him a vessel. This was a ship which Markham had manned with a few English sailors, and in which he had been cruising the Mediterranean, solely for the amusement of encountering Turkish and Algerine ships, which he attacked and beat without mercy, whenever he could.

With the ardour of a young and loving girl, the Lady Arabella thought, upon reading her husband's letter, that all the obstacles which stood in the way of her happiness were at once removed. Her busy imagination pictured rapidly and glowingly the bliss she should enjoy with her Seymour, in some remote spot, where, forgetting, and forgotten by the world, they should live only for themselves. To quit the court, and all its splendours, would never have cost her a great sacrifice; but now that she loved, and that the opposition which

she had met with had roused all the energies of her pure mind, she could, without a moment's pause, have renounced all that the world contained for her love and for her lover. It, however, soon occurred to her that she had overlooked the difficulties which might attend her attempt at escape; and she then thought of the supposed old soldier, who was to aid and to accompany her. She had no secrets from her own servant, Bridget -a faithful girl, who had attended her from her child. hood. The Countess of Salisbury was, luckily, shut up in her oratory; and Bridget was therefore enabled, with little difficulty, to introduce the soldier to a small antechamber, adjoining the Lady Arabella's room.

The mendicant-or Markham, as he shall in future be called-advanced to the lady with an upright and quick gait, which little resembled the posture he had assumed in his character of a beggar.

Fair lady,' he said, we have no time to spend in ceremony; every thing depends upon the promptness with which we arrange for your escape. To-morrow, as I learn, it will be too late to attempt it.'

Oh, let us go instantly,' said Lady Arabella.

If we could do so with safety, it were well,' replied Markham; but we must use a little caution. In this packet,' he said, loosening his wallet from his shoulders, and throwing it on the ground, I have a perfect disguise for you when you retire for the night, instead of going to bed, dress yourself, and be in readiness to set off as soon as the time shall serve.'

'But where is my husband?' asked the lady.

I do not know exactly the spot, but he will be waiting our arrival: he knows our ship; and, although he dare not stay long in any one place, he will join us in the river; perhaps, even now, he is on board.'

And you,' said the Lady Arabella, who are you?' But the question is needless, for my husband says I may trust you.'

It is, nevertheless, fit that you should know, lady,' said Markham; and now I have before me as happy an opportunity of giving myself a good character as a man so much in need of one as I am could desire; but you shall have nothing save the truth. I am, madam, a very unlucky, but as far as I know myself, a tolerably honest fellow, who has been in scrapes of one sort or another from the hour in which I was born to the present time. I have been a wild youngster; I have been a hard-fighting soldier; and, latterly, I have been a sailor. There is now lying in the river as pretty a pinnace, manned by a dozen of as honest fellows, as your ladyship would desire to look upon; in which I mean to carry you and your husband into the port of Calais. Will. Seymour and I have been friends since we were boys; and when I heard of his being made a prisoner in the Tower, I hastened to London to rescue him. Happily I have succeeded in that, and as his letter has told you, he is free. The next concern is to carry you out of the durance in which I find you. Hitherto, all has gone on well, thanks to the credulity of the old countess, who believed a story which, if told by my poor father, had been near the truth, for it was to him that the Lord Mountchensy gave the ring. It would be unwise to prolong this conversation, lest any suspicions should arise which might be fatal to our plans. You must secure me a night's lodging, and leave the rest to our good stars and our own industry. Farewell, madam! keep up your courage, and show yourself in

spirit, as you are in all womanly beauty, the worthy bride of the gallant Seymour.' As he spoke, he kissed the lady's hand with a courtly air, and, having made a low bow, he resumed the hobbling gait of the lame soldier, and crawled out of the room.

With the assistance of Bridget, the Lady Arabella concealed the packet which Markham had left, and then went down stairs to join the countess.

She had no difficulty in persuading the old lady to order that her brother's ancient follower should be provided with a lodging. When the butler entered, and his lady had made known her pleasure on this head, the old servant, with a familiarity which his age and his long services allowed, expressed his satisfaction at her determination.

It would do your ladyship's heart good,' said he, to hear him tell the story of the battle of Zutphen. He has made all the sevants in the hall laugh and cry by turns, ever since he has been there, with the sad and merry tales he has been telling them.'

I am glad, good Ambrose,' said her ladyship, to hear they are amused.

Yes, and if it please your ladyship, he is, for a soldier, as sensible a man as ever I saw. He says that your ladyship's ale is better than any in all Flanders; and I warrant me I was proud to hear one who has travelled say so much.'

Ambrose's simplicity was always quite as amusing as his fidelity was praiseworthy; and the Lady Arabella, whose spirits were wonderfully raised by the intelligence she had received, feared she should laugh outright at this description of Mr. Markham, who, it seemed, was playing his part to admiratiou in the servants' hall. She therefore dismissed Ambrose, who was not sorry to join his agreeable companion.

I have been thinking, my love,' said the countess to Lady Arabella, of some means by which we may provide for this poor soldier. It is shocking to think that, at his time of life, he has not a place to put his head in.'

'I think, my lady,' said Bridget,' that he seems fond of a wandering life.'

'Yes child,' said her ladyship, but his age and infirmities will prevent his indulging that inclination much longer. I think of giving him the rooms over the stable; he will be of little use; but he may find a corner in the kitchen, where he may be protected from want; and, as he is already a favourite with the servants, there will be no difficulty about it.'

Well, my lady,' said Bridget, I think he is so much of a wanderer, that, if you were to give him a place to dwell in to-night, he would leave before the morning. Bridget, as she said this, looked archly at her mistress, who sat on thorns lest the countess's suspicions should be awakened.

The good old lady, however, dreamt of no imposi tion, and went on to answer Bridget. My good girl,' said she, if we let such doubts as you express stand in the way, we should never attempt to do a good office, lest it should be ungratefully received.'

And really,' said Lady Arabella, I have a much better opinion of the old soldier than Bridget seems to have adopted.'

The conversation was then turned to another subject; and, night having arrived, the whole household retired to bed, the supposed soldier being lodged, to his great

joy, in a sort of loft over the offices, and away from the house.

When the Lady Arabella got into her chamber, she put on with the aid of Bridget, the clothes which Mark. ham had brought; and in a short time her disguise was so completely effected, that, as far as merely external appearance was concerned, it would have been impossible to see through it.

Her long auburn ringlets were gathered up into a knot, and obscured under a great French periwig, the locks of which hung down upon her shoulders. She put on a man's doublet, with a broad lace collar, and a pair of large trunk hose, made in what was then thought the ultra style of dandyism, but which were admirably adapted for a lady's disguise, because they could contain the whole of her ordinary dress. A pair of russet boots, with red tops, were fastened by a strap to her hose; and a small rapier, buckled to her side, gave her the appearance of as arrant a young coxcomb as ever lounged in St. Paul's church-then the Bond Street, or rather, perhaps, the Burlington Arcade of the metropolis.

He

The clock had just struck three, when Bridget, who was on the watch, heard the noise of a small pebble striking against the casement. She looked out and saw Markham, who was so much altered that she could not have known him but by his voice, and because she was in a great measure prepared for the alteration. wore a plain riding dress, and he looked, as he was, a gentleman. The window was but a short distance from the ground; aud, by means of a garden-ladder, which Markham brought, the Lady Arabella safely descended, having bidden farewell to Bridget, whose cheerfulness was not proof against parting with her beloved mistress.

The day had scarcely dawned, but there was quite light enough for the fugitives to discern the road they had to take. Markham, in silence, and with the greatest caution, led the trembling Lady Arabella across the lawn; and, lifting her upon the garden wall, he leaped over it himself, and helped her down on the other side.

Now, courage, lady,' he said, and a brisk walk of a quarter of an hour will bring us to the spot where I have horses in waiting. I dared not suffer them to be led any nearer, lest they might excite suspicion.'

The lady felt weak and ill. She had not been to bed during the night, and the agitation of the preceding day had acted powerfully upon a frame not of the most robust description. She faltered, and, after several ineffectual efforts to proceed, was obliged to request Markham to stop. A few minutes' rest recovered her; and with the help of Markham, who almost carried her, they reached a small public house on the road to London, where he had a servant and horses.

The beasts were brought out immediately, and Lady Arabella's weakness was now so apparent, that it was with difficulty she could mount her horse. The hostler, who held the stirrup for her, declared he thought the young gentleman would never be able to reach London; and he was cracking some jokes, rather more coarse than new, about the effeminacy of the young men of the age, when a smart stroke from Markham's ridingwhip put a stop to his witticisms. The fellow rubbed his shoulders, but said nothing; for the noble which was tossed to him reconciled him to his disgrace, if

there was any, and the pain, of which there was not much.

The travellers proceeded, and the motion of riding soon brought the blood into Lady Arabella's cheeks. Markham was not wanting in endeavours to keep up her spirits, and he succeeded so well, that they reached Blackwall without any farther delay. Here Markham found his boat's crew waiting for him; and, without staying a mament, they put off for his pinnace, which had sailed down the river. They reached her just below Gravesend, and the Lady Arabella found the solae and reward of all her pain and anxiety, in the arms of her adoring husband, who was there waiting for her.

Their happiness at finding each other again, and in freedom, so engrossed their minds, that all apprehension of future danger was forgotten. Markham, whose generous temper made him keenly enjoy the happiness of those who were dear to him, was perfectly delighted at the success of his plan, and at the joy which he saw painted in the faces of his friends.

He knew that they had every thing to fear from a pursuit, and therefore gave orders for sailing without a moment's delay. The wind, however, was slack, and not very favourable. They crept slowly down the river, and on the following morning only found themselves entering the Channel. It was resolved to sail for Calais, and Markham had laid his course for that port, which he hoped to make in a few hours, when one of the men gave notice that an armed pinnace was gaining upon them. Markham knew very well, if they were taken, they should all be imprisoned. He feared that his friend might loose his head; and that he would be deprived, in any event, of his wife and his freedom, was quite certain. He therefore resolved to resist, in the best way he could, the attack; and to complete the escape, which he had hitherto managed so successfully, if it should be possible. He called Seymour upon deck; and the Lady Arabella, who apprehended some danger, came with him, resolved to brave every peril with her husband. The vessel in pursuit continued to gain upon them, and being now within reach of their guns, a shot was fired as a signal for Markham to bring to. He, however, stood on ; and, having made every preparation for the engagement, which he saw he could not avoid, he persuaded Lady Arabella to go below. She at length acceded to his and her husband's entreaties. Several other shots were now fired from the pursuers' vessel, and returned by Markham's crew, who were always more willing to fight (no matter in what cause) than to fly, and who, under his command, were almost sure to have their desires in this respect gratified. Still the ships neared, and at length they lay almost alongside of each other. The commander of the other vessel called out to Markham, and bade him strike, and deliver up the Lady Arabella Stuart and Mr. Seymour, if they were in his ship. To this Markham only replied with another broadside. He soon, however, discovered that there was little chance of escape, as the other vessel had, at least, four times the number of men that were on board his own ship, and a much greater weight of metal. But it was now too late to retreat; and, supported by Seymour, who was roused to desperation by the strait to which he was reduced, they fought with all that fury which the hopelessness of their situation inspired.

This could not last long; the greater part of the crew was soon killed, and not a man remained unwounded. The assailants poured in on all sides, while Markham and Seymour, back to back, repelled the numbers who attacked them, and remained bravely at bay. At length a shot from a pistol struck Seymour in the head, and he fell dead upon the deck. Markham, seeing his friend fall, collected, as it seemed, the whole of his force into one blow, and rushing at the fellow by whom the pistol had been fired, he cleft him nearly asunder. This was the last act of his life; half a dozen weapons were plunged into his body at the same instant, and he fell beside his friend, their hearts' blood flowing in a mingled stream,

Just at this moment a shriek, so loud and full of woe that it arrested the frightful and maddening strife that was raging around, burst upon the ears of the combatants. It proceeded from the Lady Arabella, whose anxiety for her husband's life had prevented her from remaining below, and who had reached the deck only in time to see him fall She rushed through the fighting crowd, who, astonished at her sudden appearance, made way for her, and threw herself upon Seymour's dead body, where nature, unable to endure the agony of that moment, sunk under it, and she fainted. such assistance as the captain of the king's vessel could bestow was given with the utmost promptitude and humanity; for, although he was one of those men who would do whatever was prescribed to him in the shape of duty, he was a well-disposed person, and felt bitterly for the sorrows of which he was unwittingly the instru

ment.

All

The fall of Markham of course put an end to the fight. The captain took possession of the pinnace, and steering, according to his instructions, for some obscure place, he landed at the Reculvers. The encroachments of the sea have nearly destroyed even the proof that this place once existed; but, at the time to which our history relates, it was a village inhabited by fishermen. He had the Lady Arabella, who still remained insensible, carried on shore; and, placing her under proper medical care, ordered her to be conveyed to London. He then fulfilled the remainder of his di rections, in which the probability of Seymour's being killed rather than his surrender had been anticipated, by causing the bodies of both the heroes to be buried in the humble churchyard of the village.

To avoid the odium which must necessarily attach to so cruel an instance of oppression, a report was industriously circulated that Mr. Seymour had got away by another ship, and had reached Calais in safety. This was universally believed; for the sailors on board the king's pinnace knew nothing of his person, and the few who remained of Markham's crew were never suffered. to go on shore.

The Lady Arabella was brought by slow journeys to London, and committed a prisoner to the Tower. The care of her medical attendants, and her youth, restored her to existence; but her reason had fled for ever. She lingered for some time in a state pitiable distraction, and at length ended her life of woe, not without well-grounded suspicion that it had been shortened. by poison.

The care which was taken to conceal all the facts of this sad history, will account for the obscurity which has always enveloped it, and which, perhaps, up to

the present moment, has prevented the proper exposi

tion of

A tale so tender and so true.'

THE YOUNG POET.

His face was wan and very pale,
And yet his large dark eye

Told of the mind that burned within
With thoughts that never die !

His spirit loved to look abroad :
To roam o'er earth and sea;

To trace the countless wonders there,
In all their mystery.

With noble thoughts his mind was filled; And with a hand of fire

He touched the sweetly sounding chords Of his beloved lyre.

Yet when did genius ever win

Its own right meed of praise ? And cold neglect and chilling scorn O'ershadowed his young days.

And she who was the light on earth
His fond heart worshipped,
Left him to mourn o'er broken vows,
And joys for ever fled.

Thus-all his treasured hopes o'erthrown, He left his native isle ;

And sought 'mid other climes and scenes His deep grief to beguile.

It would not be-it would not be,
His spirit could not bear

The thousand ills' that wound the soul
In this our world of care.

He calmly sank into the grave,
And dreamed no more of fame ;
Then soon the world bewailed his loss,
And lauded forth his name.

And the fair wreath awarded him
Of never fading bloom.

Which should have graced his noble brow,
Served but to deck his tomb!

HABITS OF THE ROMAN LADIES.

IT has been remarked, that " a fondness for adorning the person for the sake of obtaining admiration from men, is natural to women," Now, allowing this to be true, surely no one will condemn so laudable a desire of pleasing, on the part of the fair sex, whatever may be its ulterior object. The female mind, for the most part, has so few important considerations wherewith to occupy itself, and so few opportunities of publicly displaying its judgment and taste, except in matters of dress, that we cannot wonder at seeing so much attention paid to it, by women of every class; beside, when it is remembered that the amount expended by ladies in articles of dress and bijouterie, by far exceeds that spent by the "lords of creation" for the same purpose, a female fondness for fashion must always be considered as a

national blessing, and one of the many advantages de. rived from a splendid court. We would, however, by no means be understood as advocating that excessive love of dress which is indulged in by some, reckless of all consequences, and which would almost induce them, Tarpeia-like, to sacrifice their country for a bracelet. The opening remark was made on the Roman ladies some 2,000 years ago, and it is of their different dresses that we now propose to treat. These, in splendour, richness, and gracefulness, were not surpassed, even by those of the present day, if we may judge from the little insight afforded us by old Latin writers into the mys teries of a Roman lady's toilet.

The ladies of ancient Rome rose early, and imme diately enjoyed the luxury of the bath, which was some. times of perfumed water; they then underwent a process of polishing with pumice-stone, for the purpose of smoothing the skin, and after being anointed with rich perfumes, they threw around them a loose robe and retired to their dressing rooms, where they received morning visits from their friends, and discussed the merits of the last eloquent speech delivered in the senate, or the probable conqueror in the next gladiatorial combat. After the departure of their visiters commenced the business of the toilet, which occupied a considerable portion of time; the maids were summoned, to each of whom a different duty was assigned: some formed a kind of council, and only looked on to direct and assist the others by their advice and experience; one held the mirror before her mistress; while others there were to whom it was a Constant care,

sent.

The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare."

With the exception of the looking glass, the articles of the toilet were much the same as those in use at preThe glass, or, more properly speaking, mirror, was composed of a highly polished plate of metal,* generally silver, richly chased around the edges, and adorned with precious stones; this was not fixed in a frame, like the modern glass, but held by a slave. The combs were formed of ivory and rosewood. Curling tongs, bodkins, and hair pins were also known; the former was a simple bar of iron, heated in the fire, around which the hair was turned, in order to produce a curl; the two latter were made of gold and silver, and ornamented with pearls; it was probably with one of these bodkins that Cleopatra gave herself a deathwound, and not as is commonly supposed, with an adder.

The use of perfumes, cosmetics, and depilatories, prevailed to a great extent among the Romans; the first were obtained at a considerable expense from India, Greece, and Persia. There are still in existence a few recipes for making the cosmetics used two thousand years ago, and which will be found to have many ingredients in common with similar preparations of our own time. Ovid gives the following, and adds, that those who use it will possess a complexion smoother than the surface of their polished mirrors:-Take two pounds of Lybian barley, free from straw or chaff, and straw, and an equal quantity of the pea of the wild vetch; mix these with ten eggs; let it harden, and pound it; add two ounces of hartshorn, and a dozen

* Looking-glasses were known to the Romans, and obtained. from the Phoenicians; but they were not in general use.