CONTENTS OF VOLUME I, NUMBER 9 (continued 3)

LEONTINE.

LETTER FOURTEENTH.

Soirée at General Lafayette's—Benjamin Constant—Messrs. Perrier, Laffitte and Ternaux, &c.—"Conservatory of Arts and Trades"—Diorama—Georama—Neorama—"Royal Printing Office"—Manufactory of Plate Glass—Hospital of the Quinze Vingts—Castle of Vincennes—Fountain of the Elephant—Franconi's Circus—The Duchess of Berri's children.

PARIS, ——.

Dear Jane:

Another busy week of pleasure and amusement has glided by since you have heard from us, and two evenings of it have been spent at two delightful soirées. The first at Madame de N——'s, the second at the gallant old General Lafayette's, in the rue d'Anjou; where he has a suite of small and neat apartments illuminated for the reception of his expected guests on every Tuesday evening. We made our debut there about 9 o'clock and found them crowded. Among the throng were many celebrated and interesting personages, for the worthy and enlightened of all nations seem ever ready to do homage to the virtuous patriarch of Lagrange. At his soirées the greatest ease prevails—the refreshments are simple and plentiful, and in compliment to the Americans and English, tea is always served, a custom not practised among the French. We again saw Sir Charles and Lady Morgan and Mrs. Opie, with whom by the bye we have exchanged visits. Then there was the orator Benjamin Constant, a pale, thin man, with light blue eyes and snowy hair, looking as if he were far on his passage to the next world. He was environed by a crowd of gentlemen, to whom he was speaking very earnestly with a great deal of gesture. Not far from him we observed other stars of the Chamber of Deputies, and these were Messieurs Casimir Perrier, Laffitte and Ternaux, whose countenances bespeak their noble minds. Monsieur Ternaux has introduced here and carries on the manufacture of cashmere shawls, and they not only equal those of India in tints and texture, but surpass them in the beauty and richness of the borders. To him also is attributed the discovery of the art of stamping patterns in relief on cloth table covers, &c. In the next room, we saw Mr. Cooper, the American novelist, and his lady—the two Miss P——'s, cousins of Lord Byron and Mr. and Mrs. ——. She is the daughter of Gen. Bertrand, and a beautiful creature she is. The lovely countess d'A—— was sitting near her. She is the sister of Madame George Lafayette, and is an intelligent and fascinating woman. She called here yesterday with Madame Lasteyrie and her daughters.

It is now time to speak of some of the curiosities of Paris to which we have recently been devoting our mornings. I believe the "conservatory of arts and trades" stands first on the list. It is also termed the "museum of industry," and is a collection of all sorts of machines and models, patterns and specimens of things that French genius and labor have produced; for the government obliges every Frenchman to deposit here a sample or model of whatever he improves or invents, and to accompany it with an account of its manufacture or construction. Besides several halls exhibiting machines and models, there are others filled with specimens of porcelain, glass, stone ware, lace, silks, ribbons, tapestry, colored and stamped paper, scissors, knives, fans, watches, clocks, lamps and a thousand other articles. One of the halls contains a number of miniature buildings, representing sundry manufactories. They are open in front, and display in different apartments the various processes of each business and the implements required in it, not omitting the most trifling tool. Another hall contains a library of 10,000 volumes, written in almost every language, and treating on subjects connected with the purport of the establishment—and professors of geometry and natural philosophy give lectures there to such pupils as are recommended by the minister of the interior. Would it not be shameful if the French nation did not rapidly progress in the arts and sciences, when the government is so liberal in encouraging them, by affording those persons who possess talents every advantage gratuitously, so that the poor may rise as well as the rich, if blessed with abilities? Among the patterns of tapestry is one concerning which a droll story is related, viz. that Vaucanson, a skilful mechanic, being offended with the inhabitants of Lyons for undervaluing some looms he had invented, tied an ass to one of them and made him execute the piece of embroidery from which this specimen was cut, and which excelled any they had ever done.

We have also visited the Diorama, the Georama and the Neorama, the royal printing office, the manufactory of plate glass and the hospital of the "Quinze Vingts." A diorama you have seen. A georama is a panoramic representation of the earth with its divisions of land and water; the spectator standing in the centre. A neorama is a painting so ingeniously designed and arranged, as to produce the illusion of your being within whatever building it represents. The one we saw is a picture of the interior of St. Peter's at Rome, and Mr. Dorval who has been there says it is an exact copy. The royal printing office is an establishment of great magnitude. There is a vast collection of types and several hundred presses. We were informed that Pope Pius VII visited this office during his sojourn in Paris, and that while he was there the Lord's prayer was printed in no less than 150 languages and presented to him. At the plate glass manufactory we beheld mirrors of wonderful magnitude. The plates are cast at Cherbourg and at St. Gobin, (a castle in the department of Aisne) and sent here to be quick-silvered and polished. Eight hundred workmen are constantly employed in the business. The French are indebted to the great Colbert for this establishment; prior to its foundation plate glass could only be had by sending for it to Venice. Having satisfied our curiosity here, we proceeded to the hospital of the "Quinze Vingts," founded by St. Louis in 1220 for the maintenance of 300 blind—a larger number is now admitted. It was customary in the age of St. Louis to count by twenties, and there being 15 twenties in 300 this institution derived its appellation from having that number of pensioners. We were pleased with the neatness and comfort that reigned, and arrived there just in time to hear a class of the blind sing and play; for those who evince a talent for music are instructed in it. The women were the vocalists and the men performed on various instruments. Even the leader was sightless! They kept time very well and we enjoyed their concert exceedingly, though the distorted faces some made while singing were horrible. They are taught a variety of trades, and not only reading but the art of printing, and we saw a man arrange the types and print several words with both skill and quickness. The types were extremely large and made of wood, and no ink was used in the operation, but the letters pressed on the paper, so as to leave the traces of them perceptible to the slightest touch.

On Wednesday we went to the castle of Vincennes, a gothic fortress, about three miles from the city. It contains the state prisons and an armory. A note to the commandant, from Mr. Warden, the American Ex-Consul and a kind friend of the Danvilles, gained us admission, and we spent two hours in examining the castle within whose gloomy turrets, nobles and monarchs have sighed in captivity. The celebrated Mirabeau was a prisoner there during four years, and there wrote his letters between Gabriel and Sophie. The duke d'Enghien was shot in a moat of this castle—the spot where the execution took place is designated by a willow tree and a black column, bearing this inscription, "Here he fell." In the chapel is a handsome mausoleum enclosing his ashes. Returning from Vincennes we stopped on the Place de la Bastille (once occupied by that terrific building) to view the model of the fountain of the Elephant. It is of plaster, and 72 feet high! A tower on the animal's back is to serve as a reservoir for the water which is to flow from the proboscis, and one of the legs is to contain the stair case leading to the tower. The whole mass is to be of bronze, but it is doubtful if this grand fountain will ever be made; it was one of Napoleon's gigantic designs, which adversity and death prevented his accomplishing. Last night we witnessed the wonder of an Elephant acting a part in a play at the Cirque Olympique, a theatre of the same description as that of Astley's in London. The house was crowded almost to suffocation, and the docile and astonishing creature excited universal admiration by her performance. She is called "Mam'selle Dyjeck," is a native of the island of Ceylon, and was purchased from some Indian jugglers by Monsieur Huguet her present owner. She is so attached to him that she shews evident distress if he is long absent from her, and extreme delight when he returns. If he be fatigued or indisposed, it is said that she even undresses him, puts him to bed and watches by him while he rests. Travellers I know are expected to exaggerate, but I assure you I am not availing myself of the privilege in the present instance. The play was entitled "l'Elephant du roi de Siam," and was written expressly to exhibit the address and sagacity of M'lle Dyjeck, who really acted throughout as if she were a human being. At the close of the performance the audience vociferated for her re-appearance, and after a few moments elapsed the curtain was raised and the royal lady came forth proudly tossing her trunk. She advanced to the edge of the stage and made three courtesies, retreating all the while, and looking round on the spectators as she rose, until she had sufficiently receded, she walked off amidst a roar of applause. It was quite an inspiring scene. The Duchess of Berri and her suite were present.

Apropos—Madame F. lately gave us a most interesting account of her Highness' children, the little Duke of Bordeaux and M'lle Louise. She says they are both remarkably amiable and le petit Duc holds a levee daily, is dressed en militaire and assumes all the airs of a grown gentleman. He is so proud of his sword, that the severest penalty his tutor can inflict, when he misbehaves, is to deprive him of it. He is a pretty boy—we have often met him taking an airing in his coach and four, surrounded by gens d'armes, for the Bourbons are so unpopular that for fear of his sharing the fate of his father, he is always strongly guarded whenever he appears in public. He pays dearly for his lineage, poor little fellow! and I never see him without thinking sorrowfully of the probability of his perishing by the ruthless hand of an assassin. But mercy! what a packet. Have patience dearest! with your

LEONTINE.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

In recollection of Thomas H. White, who died at Richmond, Va. October 7, 1832, aged 19 years.

Was it a dream? It has pass'd away As vanish dreams at the rising day,— That graceful form, from the Saco's side, That loved the leap of its dashing tide, And watched full long, in the mild Moon's ray, The rainbow tints of the rising spray. Fair was that form; and the feature's glow, True to the pulse of the Heart's warm flow, Heighten'd at thought of those friends afar, Who the aspect watched of his rising star; With fervent prayer that that star might shed Benignant influence upon his head. With heart as joyous, and foot as light As the wild young roe, he scaled the height— The crystal sought in its mountain-bed, And the fragrant wild flowers gathered; Nature he loved in her freakish mood— And sought her, deep in her solitude. * * * * * He is not now where the rapids play, Or moonlight tinctures the rising spray; Nor like the roe on the craggy height, With heart as gay, and a foot as light;— Did he hear the howl of the frost-god nigh, And fly like the Birds to his native sky? His native sky?—Ah! it brightly glows— It cheers the bird and it scents the rose; It wakes all nature to songs of joy— But it smiles all vainly on thee, sweet Boy! They laid, who loved thee, all lone and deep, On the James' green shore, in thy last, long sleep! Yes! 'twas a dream of Life's dreamy day! Beautiful, fleeting, and vain as they! Dreams of the heart, the mind, the eye, Belov'd, how dearly!—how soon to fly! They fade, they vanish, e'er dawns the morrow, And the heart is left to its night of sorrow.

ELIZA.

Saco, Maine.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SPRING.¹

Not since the world's first blushing Spring Hath warmer, truer offering Than mine, by minstrel, muse, or maid, Been on thy rose-wreathed altar laid. May-flower, the first in Flora's band, I've snatch'd from thy half-open'd hand, And help'd the little Daisy shake From her bright head the light snow-flake; I've watch'd thee while thy crayon spread The first tint on the Violet's head, And wrapt with pleasure, scan'd the grace Thy light touch threw o'er Nature's face— But more I love thee for thy promise bright, That Man shall spring, revived from Death's cold, wintry night.

ELIZA.

Saco, Maine.

¹ On the warm banks of the James, this Apostrophe to Spring may probably appear altogether too late for the season, but on the banks of the Saco, where a good fire is still necessary to comfort, and the May-flower, the most daring of our wild flowers, is just putting forth its blossom in token of approaching Spring, it is quite early enough.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SPRING.

Rude Winter's surly storms are gone— Spring, in her joy, is passing on: Beneath her light and magic tread, Each flow'ret lifts its gentle head: Streamlets, so long in fetters bound, Leap with a glad, reviving sound: Valleys and hills, so long unseen, Glow with a rich and silv'ry green: The Robin's wild and thrilling note, The silence of the grove, has broke: The Bee, for months, in bondage held, Wakes her hum in the wonted field: The Horse and Ox their stalls forsake, In leaping streams, their thirst to slake;— To seek, on mountain-side and plain, The feast, that Nature spreads again. Nymph, with the sweetly-laughing eye! Where dost thou dwell, when o'er the sky, The murky storms of Winter scowl, And through the leafless valleys howl;— That thou, the moment they are gone, Doth, lovely still, come tripping on? Go on, upon thy blooming way! I know thou wilt not, canst not, stay; But oft, as on your course you wind, Oh! cast a "ling'ring look behind!"

ROY.

Lovingston, April 1, 1835.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A. L. B.

Author of "Trust Not," in the Messenger for February.

Scorn not the love of the gentle one! Turn not away from the heart's devotion! Still to its shrine may'st thou be won, And thy bosom be stirr'd with its gentle emotion. Spurn not that treasure! its worth is untold; Bright gems are hid in its deep recesses;— Fear not that her bosom shall grow cold, When the light is gone from her wavy tresses. There's a fountain of feeling pure and bright, Which the glance of her eye is so gently revealing; Like the twilight dawn of the Summer's light, On the longing sight of the weary stealing. Trust to the love thou hast falsely disdain'd, So shall the trusted deceive thee never; Forget the scorn thou hast falsely claim'd, And the star of thy breast shall be bright forever. Then come to "the hall of wine and song," Where the spirit of beauty reposes, And truth shall be crown'd by the shining throng, With a garland of myrtle and roses!

S. W. W.

Raleigh, N. C.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SPRING.

To see thy tiny songsters rear With wondrous skill, their home of love; And hear each praise the other's care In songs, that might be breathed above. To watch the modest flowret's growth, The spotless type of love on earth Which nightly droops, as though 'twere loath To quit the breast that gave it birth; Or lay me down beside some brook, Where I may muse the livelong day, And drop my oft neglected book, To dream of others far away. Such is the joy, the quiet bliss, Of holding converse sweet with thee, And wooing, still, thy favoring kiss Midst nature's wilds, in fancy free. But I must bide within my room, Content to breathe, alone, thy air, And feel that it is double gloom, Because thou art so lovely, there.

A PRISONER.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MR. T. W. WHITE.

Dear Sir:—You have been so kind as to solicit something from my pen for your interesting periodical. With great pleasure I transmit the enclosed sheets, in the hope that you may find them suitable to the Messenger.

The subject I consider as particularly congenial with this delightful season, which has been truly said to constitute the "great jubilee of nature;" awakening our sympathy with young life, and drawing our attention to the promise and hazards of the vegetable creation, amid the cheerful labors of agriculture.

Nunc omnis ager, nunc omnis parturit arbos; Nunc frondent sylvæ, nunc formosissimus annus.

But I am sure that my subject has an interest, independent of the delightful associations of the season at which I write, and that most of your readers will be ever ready to exclaim in the gallant strain of the sweet Irish Bard,

Oh woman! whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue! Whether sunn'd in the tropics, or chill'd at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too!

What I have written in this first number of my Dissertation, has reference principally to what may be termed the sentimental portion of our nature. I must therefore beg of your readers, to suspend all judgment as to the partiality or impartiality of the execution, until I have drawn the whole picture. I am yet to compare the sexes together, in relation to the intellectual powers.

I am, sir, with high respect, Your obedient servant, Z. X. W.

May 12, 1835.

DISSERTATION

On the Characteristic Differences between the Sexes, and on the Position and Influence of Woman in Society.

NO. I.

When we survey with a philosophic eye the varied and complicated works of nature, there is nothing upon which the mind rests with more pleasure, than the contemplation of the harmony, the order, and the unity of design, manifested throughout. The physical philosopher points to the centripetal and centrifugal forces, to the annual and diurnal revolutions of the earth, to the periodical return of the seasons, the regular succession of day and night, to the laws of cohesion and repulsion, and shows with pride the wondrous harmony which exists in all the departments of the physical world, all working and conspiring to one great end. The political economist delights to look to the nations of the earth, composed of vast multitudes of individuals; to scan the great variety of occupations which the endless division of labor has generated, and to see how the almost countless millions of inhabitants, although each one is busily and selfishly engaged in the pursuit only of his own little narrow schemes, are nevertheless, when we embrace the grand whole, working, in as perfect harmony and accord, as if the spirit of unbounded wisdom and universal philanthropy guided every head and touched every heart.—While to the common observer, the great volume of the human mind is uninteresting, with its pages confused and scattered like the sybil leaves of antiquity, it becomes to the metaphysician who can arrange and interpret it, a source of knowledge, of pleasure, and of gratitude. He beholds the nice lineaments of feelings and passions—observes the operations of our various intellectual powers and faculties. He sees a beautiful harmony and unity of design in the whole Ideal Republic; and finds with wonder and astonishment, that all our passions, instincts and faculties are so nicely arranged in relation to each other, that, like the bodies in our planetary system, not one could be struck from existence without endangering the harmony of the whole. Thus shall we find, look where we will, through the wide range of nature's works, part corresponding to part, power to power, mind to mind, and to matter too; and the whole moving forward with that beautiful harmonious action, which at once demonstrates the illimitable wisdom of the designer,—his benevolence and his consistency. Among all these beautiful adaptations in the universe, there is not one perhaps, which presents itself to the mind under a more engaging, a more interesting aspect, than the relations of the sexes. To increase and multiply, seems to be the great law of animated creation; and the attractions by which the sexes are brought together for the fulfilment of this universal law, are so many, so complicate, and yet so beautiful and delightful, while shedding their benign influence over the rugged journey through life, that it is impossible to contemplate them, without an immediate acknowledgment of their sublime harmony, and of the benevolent design of him who ordered and established them. My mind of late has been more than usually engaged in the contemplation of this subject; and to amuse my leisure hours, I have determined to throw together, however loosely, some thoughts on the constitutional differences between the sexes—to point out the effects which those differences have produced upon their moral, social and political characters—to show that the position of woman in society is not an accidental one, but results from the law of nature; and that the benign and powerful influence which she exerts over the destiny of man, is due principally to that very state of things which woman is so apt to condemn. From this investigation, we cannot fail to see that a constant amelioration in her condition is calculated to enlarge and diversify the pleasures of the whole human family, while it urges forward with irresistible power, the march of civilization.

Whether there be any original natural differences between the sexes, in a moral and intellectual point of view, is a question extremely difficult to determine. Education has commenced, long before children have arrived at that age and growth of intellect, which will enable them to manifest with certainty their passions, propensities, tastes, and mental powers. The wide intellectual and moral differences existing among individuals similarly situated and similarly educated, lead us to conclude that they have different original capacities and dispositions. But so different is the education of the sexes—so different is their position in society, that we cannot say with certainty, whether their moral and intellectual differences are due wholly to education, or partly to nature. The discussion of this question I shall waive, as not being of much importance to the view which I propose to take of the subject, and shall proceed to show how the education of the two sexes is calculated to produce the differences which we observe among them, and how their relative positions in society are the results of the force of circumstances, and not of accident, as some have most ingeniously contended; and this I hope to be enabled to show, even upon the supposition of perfect intellectual equality between the sexes at birth.

Before entering upon this subject, it is proper to state, that I use the word education in its most extended sense,—to mean not only the moral and intellectual discipline which we derive from our parents and teachers, but to include the influence of physical organization, of the physical circumstances by which we are surrounded, of opinion—in fine, all those influences which are extraneous to the mind itself, but capable of forming and directing it. There is both a physical and moral education, to which we are constantly subjected, from birth to manhood, entirely independent of professed teachers, which perhaps exercises the greatest sway in the formation of our characters. Most persons are apt to forget, in the calculation of character, the effect of physical circumstances; but these must never be lost sight of. Physics govern morals, to a certain extent, all over the world. It is impossible to withdraw ourselves wholly from the influence of physical causes. In the beautiful language of Mr. Allison, "Wander where we will, trees wave, rivers flow, mountains ascend, clouds darken, or winds animate the face of heaven; and over the whole scenery, the sun sheds the cheerfulness of his morning, the splendor of his noonday, or the tenderness of his evening light;—there is not one of these features of scenery, which is not fitted to waken us to moral emotion; to lead us, when once the key of our imagination is struck, to trains of fascinating and endless imagery; and in the indulgence of them, to make our bosoms either glow with conceptions of mental excellence, or melt in the dreams of moral good. Even upon the man of the most uncultivated taste, the scenes of nature have some inexplicable charm: there is not a chord perhaps of the human heart, which may not be awakened by their influence." Again, let us wander where we will, and in vain shall we attempt to escape the moral influences which are exerted around us. Opinions, manners, customs, fashions, &c. exercise a silent, but potent sway, from which none can hope to be exempt. We sometimes indulge the wish of flying from our native land, to escape these influences in a foreign clime. How vain the wish! Go where we will, the mighty spell is still laid over us—the enchantment is still unbroken—and as long as man's nature remains unchanged, so long must he be subject to the guidance and direction of that mighty physical and moral machinery, which if ever at work around him, silently developing and forming his character. These causes, in their all pervading influences, may almost be considered as emblematical of the omnipresence of the Divinity. In our remarks then, upon the distinctive characteristics of the sexes, it is proper to commence first with the operation of physical causes; and among these, without doubt the difference of physical organization exercises the most powerful influence—perhaps so powerful as to be itself sufficient to account for all the characteristic differences between man and woman. Of course, the remarks which follow, apply to the entire sexes, and not to individual cases; for the individual female will frequently be found to have all the masculine traits of character more perfectly developed than the individual man. Few men, for example, can be compared with an Edgeworth or De Stael in point of intellect—and few have shown more persevering courage and masculine heroism, than Queen Margaret of England, or Joan d'Arc of France; but these are specimens from which we can draw no just conclusions concerning the entire sex.

Physical Differences between the Sexes, and their Immediate Effects.

What then is the difference in physical organization? "Woman," says Voltaire, "is in general less strong than man; smaller and less capable of lasting labor. Her blood is more aqueous; her flesh less firm; her hair longer; her limbs more rounded; her arms less muscular; her mouth smaller; her hips more prominent, and her abdomen larger. These physical points distinguish woman all over the earth, and of all races, from Lapland unto the coast of Guinea, and from America to China."¹ The physiologists all agree in the main points of difference here asserted. They say that woman differs from man in the whole of her lower stature—in the delicacy of her organization—in the predominance of her lymphatic and cellular system, which softens down the projections of the muscles, and gives to all her limbs those rounded and graceful forms, of which we see in the Venus de Medicis the inimitable model. "In woman, sensibility is also more exquisite; and, with less strength, her mobility is greater. The female skeleton even, is easily distinguished from that of the male, by striking differences. The asperities of the bones are less prominent; the clavicle is less curved; the chest shorter, but more expanded; the sternum shorter, but wider; the pelvis more capacious,"² &c. Comparing the sexes together then, all over the world, man appears to be decidedly the stronger and better formed for war, for hard and persevering labor; woman for retirement, for the mild and less laborious occupations. The camp, the field, the woods, and the sea seem to be the natural theatres for the display of man's powers. Woman fills with peculiar grace, all the domestic occupations and sedentary employments. In fact, the same amount of exercise is not necessary to the preservation of her health, as for that of man. Hence she is more naturally sedentary and quiet, and perhaps less industrious. Her labor, in a purely politico-economical light, is universally considered less valuable. The severer labors of cutting, mauling, ditching, carpentry, masonry, &c. are performed by men. The management of children, sewing, knitting, washing, &c. are performed most frequently by women. The working in lace, Rousseau considered an occupation particularly suited to a delicate modest female. He never could exercise the slightest patience towards men tailors. The needle and sword ought not to be managed by the same hands. In his Emile, he says, "If I were sovereign, I would not permit sewing and the occupations of the needle to any but women and lame men."

¹ See Phil. Dic. Vol. 6, Art. Woman.

² Richerand's Physiology. Chapman and Goodman's Edition: p. 381.

Occupation produces a mighty influence on character. Women in all countries will talk about their dresses and domestic matters: Men talk of war, politics, horse-racing, field sports, and the labors of the farm. At a very early period of life, we find the boy delighting in his top, his bow and arrows, and his mimic wagon or cart. The girl finds most pleasure in dolls, in pretty dresses and glittering toys, which amuse her without much exertion on her part. "With what a languid yawn," says Mary Woolstoncraft in her Rights of Woman, "have I seen an admirable poem thrown down, that a man of true taste returns to again and again with rapture; and whilst melody has almost suspended respiration, a lady has asked me where I bought my gown." And whilst the men converse about business, politics or literature, "how naturally," says Swift, "do women apply their hands to each other's lappets and ruffles." The learned lady whom I have just referred to, might have saved herself a great deal of vexation and pretended mortification, if she had only reflected, that difference in occupation between the sexes is due principally to difference in physical organization; and that the conversation of men and women will always run more or less upon their occupations. Our very dreams are but too frequently dictated by the occupations which engage us. Queen Mab gallops

"Through lover's brains, and then they dream of love; On courtier's knees, that dream on court'sies straight; O'er lawyer's fingers, who straight dream on fees. And sometimes comes she with a tithe pig's tail, Tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep— Then dreams he of another benefice: Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats; Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades; Of healths five fathoms deep: and then anon Drums in his ear—at which he starts and wakes; And being thus frighten'd, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again."

Relative Position of the Sexes in Society.

The relative position of the sexes in the social and political world, may certainly be looked upon as the result of organization. The greater physical strength of man, enables him to occupy the foreground in the picture. He leaves the domestic scenes; he plunges into the turmoil and bustle of an active, selfish world; in his journey through life, he has to encounter innumerable difficulties, hardships and labors which constantly beset him. His mind must be nerved against them. Hence courage and boldness are his attributes. It is his province, undismayed, to stand against the rude shocks of the world; to meet with a lion's heart, the dangers which threaten him. He is the shield of woman, destined by nature to guard and protect her. Her inferior strength and sedentary habits confine her within the domestic circle; she is kept aloof from the bustle and storm of active life; she is not familiarized to the out of door dangers and hardships of a cold and scuffling world: timidity and modesty are her attributes. In the great strife which is constantly going forward around her, there are powers engaged which her inferior physical strength prevents her from encountering. She must rely upon the strength of others; man must be engaged in her cause. How is he to be drawn over to her side? Not by menace—not by force; for weakness cannot, by such means, be expected to triumph over might. No! It must be by conformity to that character which circumstances demand for the sphere in which she moves; by the exhibition of those qualities which delight and fascinate—which are calculated to win over to her side the proud lord of creation, and to make him an humble suppliant at her shrine. Grace, modesty and loveliness are the charms which constitute her power. By these, she creates the magic spell that subdues to her will the more mighty physical powers by which she is surrounded. Her attributes are rather of a passive than active character. Her power is more emblematical of that of divinity: it subdues without an effort, and almost creates by mere volition;—whilst man must wind his way through the difficult and intricate mazes of philosophy; with pain and toil, tracing effects to their causes, and unravelling the deep mysteries of nature—storing his mind with useful knowledge, and exercising, training and perfecting his intellectual powers, whilst he cultivates his strength and hardens and matures his courage; all with a view of enabling him to assert his rights, and exercise a greater sway over those around him. Woman we behold dependant and weak; but out of that very weakness and dependance springs an irresistible power. She may pursue her studies too—not however with a view of triumphing in the senate chamber—not with a view to forensic display—not with a view of leading armies to combat, or of enabling her to bring into more formidable action the physical power which nature has conferred on her. No! It is but the better to perfect all those feminine graces, all those fascinating attributes, which render her the centre of attraction, and which delight and charm all those who breathe the atmosphere in which she moves; and, in the language of Mr. Burke, would make ten thousand swords leap from their scabbards to avenge the insult that might be offered to her. By her very meekness and beauty does she subdue all around her. The Grecian poet of old has told us where her power lies.

"To woman what does nature give? Beauty she gives instead of darts; Beauty instead of shields imparts: Nor can the fire nor sword oppose The fair, victorious where she goes."

We must recollect, however, that it is beauty of mind, of grace, of accomplishment; and not beauty of person alone, which constitutes her power. When the beautiful mother of mankind is described by the matchless poet, he mentions not one purely physical trait of beauty.

"Grace was in all her steps; heaven in her eye: In all her gestures dignity and love."

When Juno too, tries the old and successful cheat of love with her imperial husband, the poet of antiquity makes her borrow the beauties of mind, rather than those of body.

"The gentle vow, the gay desire, The kind deceit, the still reviving fire; Persuasive speech, and more persuasive sighs, Silence that spoke, and eloquence of eyes."

Even Waller, the sycophantic poet of a corrupt and profligate court, pays all due homage to the beauty of mind.

"Oh, my lovely foe, Tell me where thy strength doth lie— Where the power that charms me so: In thy soul, or in thine eye."

As woman then cannot conquer by physical strength, she must depend upon other attributes of a more passive quality. The following little anecdote well illustrates the characteristic differences between the sexes in this respect. I was once giving a handsome and accomplished lady a description of the Menagerie Royal at Paris, and was describing the apartment of a large ferocious lion that had been brought from Africa. The apartment was double, with a partition wall between the chambers. Whilst the lion would be in one chamber eating, it was the custom of the keeper to go into the other for the purpose of cleaning it out, taking care to shut the door between them. One day he neglected this; and the lion leaving the meat which he had been devouring, suddenly entered the room, advanced to the man, who backed against the wall, then leaped upon his breast, and looked him steadily in the face. Just at this point, I paused and asked the lady, for she seemed agitated, what she would have done in a similar crisis. Her answer was characteristic indeed: I would have kissed him! Now I assert that there is not a man in the wide world who would have ever thought of appeasing the wrath of the monarch of the forest by a kiss. His power does not depend on a kiss. From him it is not sufficiently appreciated to make it coveted by others, and therefore a source of his power. But with woman it is far otherwise; it is one of her most potent means—a sort of reserve, not to be resorted to but under the pressure of necessity. Had you addressed the same question to man, he would have told you, that he would have stood quiet and firm, (as did the individual just mentioned,) till assistance could be brought; or he would have summoned up all his courage and all his strength for one desperate effort, and attempted to hurl the lion from him; but never would he have thought of purchasing his life by giving him a kiss. This is one of woman's resources in the hour of peril, and woman alone would ever have thought of it.

In that darkest and most dismal hour of Josephine's life, when the dread secret of the divorce was first hinted to her by that great but wily and unprincipled statesman Fouche, how does she act? In all the agony and concentrated grief which preys upon her heart, she seeks in his chamber the solitary chieftain, whose martial prowess had shaken all the thrones of Europe, and filled the world with a fame which eclipsed that of the Cæsars and Alexanders—she seats herself in his lap—she strokes back the hair from his forehead: in the mild and faltering tone of injured honor, she asks him if it be so? He answers no! And with beauty, grace and tears supplicating, who could have answered otherwise! Then imprinting a kiss upon his brow, she asks the dismission of Fouche as an earnest of his attachment. This was denied her; and at that moment despair seized upon her heart. She knew her power was gone—the charm was broken—the spell was dissolved. Ambition triumphed over love. But the Colossus of Europe could have told you, that the melancholy triumph of that moment, had cost him more than the conquest of kingdoms and the dethronement of monarchs; or he could have told you afterwards, that when he for the first time beheld the barren rock of St. Helena, with that countenance unmoved and unchanged, which so astonished those who observed it,—the internal struggle by which he chained down the conflicting emotions of his soul, was not to be compared with that which could firmly resist the request of a beloved but injured wife in tears.

Points of Honor in the Sexes.

So far, I have been considering the effects of mere inferiority of strength in the female. But independently of this, there is another portion of her organization, attended with consequences no less marked on the whole character. I allude of course to the great law of nature, which imposes upon her the burden of gestation—of nursing and of training the rising population of the world. That woman is destined to the office of nursing and rearing her children, the arrangement of nature evidently demonstrates. It is she alone whom nature provides with the food adapted to the support of the fragile constitution of the newly born babe. She has known and felt all the solicitude, anxiety and pain pertaining to its existence. It is a law of our nature, to love that with most ardor, which has cost us most pain and most anxiety in the attainment. For this reason perhaps, it may be that even at birth, a mother's love for her babe is more intense than that of the father; and hence an additional reason of a moral character, why the office of tutoring and nursing should devolve more particularly on her. Let us now proceed, for a moment, to trace the consequences of this position of woman. It is evident that its tendency must be, to narrow the circle in which she moves; a considerable portion of her life must be spent in the nursery and the sick room. Here, at once, would be presented an insurmountable barrier against that ambition which would lead her into the field, into politics, or any of the regular professions. She never could compete with man. In fact, to succeed at all, she would be obliged to desert the station and defeat the ends for which nature intended her. A physician, a lawyer, or statesman, who should be obliged to attend to the suckling, clothing, and the thousand little wants of a helpless babe, would be distanced in the race by him, who with any thing like equal power of intellect, was unimpeded in his career by any of those embarrassing obstacles.

This organization of woman now under consideration, renders circumspection and virtue more absolutely indispensable to her than to man. Guilt and infidelity are much more certainly detected in her case than in his, and are attended with much more lamentable consequences. Her whole moral character is formed in some measure in view of this state of things: chastity and virtue become her points of honor; modesty becomes her most pleasing and necessary attribute.

"That chastity of look which seems to hang A veil of purest light o'er all her beauties, And by forbidding, most inflames desire,"

may truly be said to constitute one of her greatest and most indispensable ornaments. The great point of honor in man, is undoubtedly courage; and in woman, chastity and virtue. "In books of chivalry, (says Addison, in one of the Nos. of the Spectator,) where the point of honor is strained to madness, the whole story runs on chastity and courage. The damsel is mounted on a white palfrey, as an emblem of her innocence; and to avoid scandal, must have a dwarf for her page. She is not to think of a man until some misfortune has brought a knight errant to her relief. The knight falls in love, and did not gratitude restrain her from murdering her deliverer, would die at her feet by her disdain. However, he must waste many years in the desert, before her virginity can think of a surrender. The knight goes off—attacks every thing he meets that is bigger and stronger than himself—seeks all opportunities of being knocked on the head—and after seven years' rambling, returns to his mistress, whose chastity in the mean time has been attacked by giants and tyrants, and undergone as many trials as her lover's valor." The following inscription on a monument erected in Westminster Abbey, to the Duke and Duchess of New Castle, particularly pleased Mr. Addison, as illustrative of the difference in the points of honor between the sexes. "Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester; a noble family—for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous." Voltaire in his Philosophical Dictionary remarks, that all animals, if they could talk, would tell you they considered the female, each one of its own species, as the most beautiful creature in the world. The remark is a philosophical one; and will no doubt apply with great force to man, especially in a civilized condition. All our writers on taste, rank woman in point of beauty at the head of creation; and make her the most beautiful of her sex, whose beauty is combined with virtue and loveliness, and fortified by modesty. How beautifully has Barrett described the superior excellence of the female character in the following lines:

"To guard that virtue, to supply the place Of courage, wanting in her gentle race— Lo, modesty was given; mysterious spell, Whose blush can shame, whose panic can repel. Strong, by the very weakness it betrays, It sheds a mist before our fiery gaze: The panting apprehension, quick to feel The shrinking grace, that fain would grace conceal, The beautiful rebuke that looks surprise— The gentle vengeance of averted eyes;— These are its arms, and these supreme prevail; Love pauses—Vice retracts his glozing tale."

We are now prepared to see at once, the foundation of that difference observable among the sexes all over the world, in all ages, in relation to the conduct which they observe towards each other. Man makes all the advances towards the weaker sex. He is the wooer, and woman the wooed, in every age and country: whilst she is coy and retiring, and blushes deeply at the very idea of her preferences and attachments for the opposite sex being even suspected, man acknowledges with candor his devotion to woman; seeks her society every where; confesses his enthusiastic delight at the charms of her conversation, and glories in the performance of those civilities and gallantries, which the laws of social intercourse have always demanded at his hands. The desires and inclinations of man, are open and confessed; those of woman, kept doubtful and secret. "Man (says Rousseau,) depends on woman on account of his desires; woman on man both on account of desires and necessities." The difference, however, is that the former are avowed, the latter concealed.³ The charms and fascination of woman, are so contrived as to hide all art itself, and to appear entirely aimless. Yet in this very circumstance frequently rests the great power of her attractions.

"Unaiming charms with edge resistless fall, And she who means no mischief does it all."

³ Broussais, the materialist, supposes a difference in this respect between the sexes, founded on differences in irritation and animal sensibility, and this is the reason why "she is contented to win him [man] by gestures and speech, but never does she undertake to subdue him by force." Whether this be the fact, must be decided by physiologists. To those who wish to examine this subject, I can only refer them to Broussais's Physiology, ch. 13, sec 2.

It is easy to deduce from the foregoing, that what is called character or reputation, in the eyes of the world, is infinitely more necessary to woman than to man: her virtue is the true sensitive plant, which is blighted even by the breath of suspicion. Cæsar would not have a wife upon whom suspicion fell, even though convinced of her innocence. Man may, by reformation, regain a lost character, but woman rarely can. Man may, and often ought to rise superior to the opinion of the world; woman never can. Hence the bold assertion of Rousseau, in his Emile: "L'opinion est le tombeau de la virtue parmi les hommes et son trône parmi les femmes." Under these circumstances, does not the guilt of the individual, who undermines or asperses the female character, become a thousand times more atrocious? In regard to woman, Madame de Stael observes, in her work on literature, that "to defend themselves is an additional disadvantage; to justify themselves a new alarm. They are conscious of a purity and delicacy in their nature, which the notice even of the public will tarnish." And those who suppose themselves clothed in panoply complete, because of their superior talents, she likens to "Erminia in her coat of mail:" the warriors perceive the helmet, the lance, and the dazzling plume; they expect to meet with equal force; they begin the onset with violence, and the first wound cuts to the heart. Well then does it behoove every man of honor and chivalry to guard against the injury of a being so defenceless, and to contribute all in his power, to the elevation and amelioration of her position, if it be only as compensation for the many disadvantages to which she is subjected, in comparison with man. I have thus endeavored to trace out the causes which produce the modesty, gentleness and virtue, which certainly characterize the female sex.

Upon the same principles we may explain that extraordinary command over her feelings, which is certainly another of the characteristics of woman. She cannot give utterance to her passions and emotions like man. She is not to seek, but to be sought. She is not to woo, but to be wooed. She is thus frequently required to suppress the most violent feelings; to put a curb on her most ardent desires, and at the same time to wear that face of contentment and ease which may impose upon an inquisitive and scrutinizing world. How often do we see in the gay circles of fashion and of folly, that while apparent joy it beaming from the countenance, a secret grief is preying on the heart, and working the soul into an agony. We are told by Plutarch, that the institutions of Lycurgus had so disciplined the Spartans in the art of enduring pain without complaint, that a boy permitted a stolen fox to eat down to his bowels, without complaining or exhibiting his sufferings in his countenance. The education and position of woman, produces an influence in this respect similar to that produced by Spartan legislation. She can suffer much, and she can suffer long, in silence, without complaint. How admirably has Shakspeare described this trait of character, in the description of Viola, in the 12th Night: though so often quoted, I cannot forego the pleasure of repeating it:

"She never told her love, But let concealment like a worm in the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief."

All persons placed in situations requiring great self command, by constantly curbing the passions and allaying the rising emotions, arrive at last at that self control, that perfect apparent mental equilibrium which appears so wonderfully difficult to the ordinary spectator. This is often most strikingly exemplified in statesmen, diplomatists and gamblers, and sometimes in mercantile men. The great reserve of Washington on state affairs, is well known: Davilla, the historian, praises the deep dissimulation of Catherine de Medicis. Lord Clarendon, and Locke, have spoken with commendations of the same traits in the characters of the Earls of Bristol and Shaftsbury; whilst Cicero even, has bestowed his eulogy on the same qualities, and points to the characters of Homer's Ulysses, Themistocles the Athenian, Lysander the Spartan, and to Marcus Crassus of Rome, for examples. Talleyrand, the great diplomatic wonder of the nineteenth century, it is said, possesses this "talent pour le silence," on state affairs, in a most extraordinary degree. With such a being, every thing becomes a matter of calculation, down even to the responses to the ordinary questions of "how do you do?" and "how have you been?" Such a man may truly be said to carry his heart in his head, as was said of Mr. Pitt the younger.⁴

⁴ Bulwer, in his France, pp. 107 and 8, has given us the following little anecdotes illustrative of this trait of character; and the first admirably exhibits the opinion which that deep searching and wily politician entertained of the candor of statesmen. "But why is not M. de S. here?" said M. de Talleyrand. "M. de S. est malade," said an acquaintance. "Ha! ha!" replies the old statesman, shaking his head, "M. de S. est malade! mais qu'est ce donc qu'il gagne à être malade!" Again, "which do you like best, M. de Talleyrand," said a lady, "Madame de —— or myself?" The reply was not so decisive as the fair and accomplished questioner expected. "But now," said she, "suppose we were both to fall into the sea, which should you first try to save?" "Oh! Madame," said the Prince, "I should be quite certain that you could swim." After these, we may well believe the late response which he is said to have made to his physician, who asked him some questions about Spain. "Doctor," said he, "you must have remarked, that I never give an opinion, except upon subjects which I do not understand. I am happy to talk about physic."

Upon the same principles we can explain a seeming moral paradox, in the fact, that phlegmatic men, when once suddenly excited, become perfectly ungovernable; exhibiting follies and extravagances, beyond those we see manifested by men of great imagination and warm feelings. Very phlegmatic persons, when suddenly in love, are sometimes to be ranked among the most amusing and laughable objects in nature: with them a new feeling has just been called, for the first time, into action: it entirely unhinges and deranges the whole internal man: it is a new power, which, for a moment, subjects every thing to its capricious dominion, and the man becomes instantly like Ahmed, the pilgrim of love, so beautifully described in the tales of the Alhambra, mounted upon the suddenly disenchanted steed, clad in the magic armor, and overturning, without the possibility of managing himself or steed, both friend and foe.

It has generally been supposed, that sudden love is a symptom of much imagination, and excitable feelings: this is not always true; it may sometimes be a proof of the reverse. Very cold phlegmatic men, may frequently be suddenly roused and enamoured, because they have no control over the little imagination and feeling which they possess, when once that little has been roused. One of the most phlegmatic men I ever knew, married in less than three months after the death of a wife, whom he had loved while alive, as much as such a nature was capable of loving; and an affectionate squeeze of the hand, and a more than usually tender tone of voice, were the simple means by which this sudden flame was kindled.

The remarks made above, are susceptible of extensive generalization. Mr. Stuart says, in the third volume of his Elements of the Philosophy of Mind, "In one of our most celebrated universities, which has long enjoyed the proud distinction of being the principal seat of mathematical learning in this Island, I have been assured, that if at any time a spirit of fanaticism has infected (as will occasionally happen in all numerous societies,) a few of the unsounder limbs of that learned body, the contagion has invariably spread much more widely among the mathematicians, than among the men of erudition. Even the strong head of Waering, undoubtedly one of the ablest analysts that England has produced, was not proof against the malady; and he seems at last (as I am told by the late Dr. Watson, Bishop of Landaff,) to have sunk into a deep religious melancholy, approaching to insanity. When Whitefield first visited Scotland, and produced, by his powerful though unpolished eloquence, such marvellous effects on the minds of his hearers, Dr. Simpson, the celebrated professor of mathematics at Glasgow, had the curiosity to attend one of his sermons in the fields, but could never be persuaded, by all the entreaties of his friends, to hear another. He had probably felt his imagination excited in an unpleasant degree, and with his usual good sense resolved not to subject himself to the danger of a second experiment." Now it is well known, that mathematical studies exercise the imagination less perhaps than any other whatever; and the powerful influence spoken of by Mr. Stewart, was no doubt owing to the fact, that the individuals in question, had no control over the imagination; when once excited, they had never learned to manage and restrain it. Upon the same principles we can explain the wonderful control which the coquette ultimately acquires over all her feelings. The general opinion is, that coquettes are cold and feelingless, and have always been so, and that all their demonstrations of emotion, are the result of hypocrisy. This may sometimes be the case, but not always. Persons of this description, may even have intense feelings; but from constantly watching, restraining and curbing them, after they have been called into action, they acquire perfect mastery over them. In some cases, the feelings may be so chained down by habit, as almost to be destroyed; in fact, this is generally the case with coquettes, and when they do marry, it is frequently more from policy than love. Ambition and vanity, in their case, triumph eventually over love and feeling; and the love of riches, standing, pomp, and show, determines their choice.⁵ There is one species of coquetry for which I have much compassion and sympathy; it is where the affections of a lady have really been won by an individual, whom prudence and the advice of friends, will forever prevent her from marrying. In this case it sometimes happens, that tenderness on her part, and a desire to avoid wounding his feelings, may cause her to excite hopes which are never to be realized. In this case, he may drink too deeply of what Shakspeare calls

"The honey'd music of her words;"

and at last will awaken to a disappointment, whose melancholy influence I shall describe, when I come to speak of the effects of love on the sexes. Perhaps in a case like this, prompt decision, and the concealment of every thing like tenderness, may be the stern mandate of reason and prudence; but we must recollect that it is not that of feeling and sympathy; and we often, in our passage through life, meet with cases of this kind, when too loose a rein is given to the feelings upon Sterne's principle, that it is not always agreeable to be fighting the d——l.

⁵ Sometimes coquettes appear to love after marriage more intensely than others: in most cases I am disposed to doubt the reality of the affection. Sometimes they have remained single until the decline of their charms, the advance of age, and an unfavorable public opinion, have destroyed their reign. This condition is almost insupportable, and marriage becomes an asylum for their refuge. In this case the coquette is in love with marriage, rather because of the insupportable ills which she has escaped, than of the love which she bears her husband. In other cases, after marriage, want of something to engage her attention, and exercise her powers of pleasing; of something that may amuse and excite her; in fine, as Mademoiselle de L'Enclos, who will readily be acknowledged first rate authority on this subject, expresses it, "La necessité d'avoir quelque gallantrie," may induce her to lavish upon her husband, all those attentions, finesses, and displays of feeling, which she before bestowed upon the world at large. In this case, she makes her husband the very personification of the gallantries of the world, and proceeds to play out the game with him, which she had before been carrying on with the dashing beaux of the fashionable world. Lastly, in some cases, mere vanity itself may be sufficient, by its intense action, to make the coquette wear in her countenance, and manifest by her actions, that love which she feels not in her heart. I do not think then the coquette will often make a fit companion for the man of delicate sensibility and all searching penetration. He should seek for some sensitive, deep feeling heart, which can return him back a full measure of the love of which his own fond, devoted heart is so lavish. True and genuine affection cannot long be deceived: it has too many nice and exquisitely delicate chords, to be played upon with success by the coarse fingers of hypocrisy.

A gentleman, for similar reasons, often indulges sentiments of love towards her whom he knows that circumstances will never permit to be his. I have seen many cases of most tender attachment, of this kind. Travellers in foreign countries, and persons in lower stations of life, suddenly brought into contact with the upper, furnish the most frequent illustrations.

Pride and Vanity.

We are now prepared to compare the sexes together, as to two most important traits in character—pride and vanity; and before entering upon this investigation, it is proper to premise, that I use these words in their technical philosophical meaning: Pride to mean that quality which makes us set a high value on ourselves, independently of the esteem of the world—and vanity, to be that which makes us desire the esteem of others, and value ourselves accordingly.

False pride is the valuing ourselves for properties which are really contemptible, or not praiseworthy; and false vanity is the desire of the esteem of those whose opinions we should disregard, either because of the inferiority of their judgments, or because of the insignificance of the merit, for which we claim their approbation. The meaning which I have here given to false pride and vanity, is what is generally attached in ordinary parlance to the simple terms pride and vanity.

Now, according to the definition given above, it follows, that these two qualities belong, in some proportions, to all the members of the human family. Man is evidently made by his maker, a being of relations and dependencies: coming into the world in the most helpless and dependent condition, the preservation of his life, and the training of infancy, demand the continued assistance of others: those who are around him, give him his daily food, and teach him his daily lessons: their esteem and love is the reward of his little virtues and merits: their censures and frowns his punishments. As he grows to manhood, and his mind expands, his relations with the world become more numerous, and more extensive, and he ultimately seeks the applause and esteem, not only of the little family circle in which he was reared, but of his neighborhood, of his State; then, if his ambition be great, of mankind, and of the generations that are to follow. Thus the desire of the applause of the world, and the dread of its censure, becomes one of the most powerful motives to action, in the breast of man—this is vanity.

But at the same time, there is that within us, which produces happiness from the reflection, that we have done our duty, and that our conduct is praiseworthy, whether we have the esteem of the world or not. We value ourselves for what we consider our real intrinsic merits, and not for the applause of the world—and this is pride.

As thus explained, it is very evident that these two great principles, pride and vanity, must have almost omnipotent sway in the formation of character. Chenevix, in his work on national character, and Adam Smith in his theory of moral sentiments, make the whole human character to hinge on these two qualities. When pride is excessive, you have for the most part a haughty isolated independent taciturn being, who, wrapt up in himself, and his own ideal perfections, despises the opinions of those around him, and treats the world with austerity and scorn. His social defects are bluntness, rudeness, and a want of sympathy and compassion. But then he is a being who is firm and steady in his character, and unwavering in his resolves. He may be relied on, if you can ever win him to your side. When vanity is excessive, you have a being the very reverse of the one just described. He is social, loquacious, polite and attentive to all around him. He has no fixed character or opinion of his own: the opinion of the world is the looking glass in which he daily dresses himself. Affectation and disingenuousness are his social defects. Win him to your side to-day, and to-morrow when he finds the other the most popular, he will desert you without hesitation. He is a treacherous friend. When these two qualities are properly combined, you have the perfect character.

Now it is easy to see, from what has already been said, that of the two sexes man is the prouder, and woman the vainer. The greater physical strength of man, the occupations in which he is engaged, his self dependence and self sufficiency, make him generally more proud and less vain than woman, who being weaker than man, and more dependent on others, is obliged to seek their esteem and applause, in order that through their attachment and love, she may exercise a power which she finds not within herself. The desire to please is undoubtedly the ruling passion in the female heart. As I have before observed, her virtue is a much more sensitive and tender plant, than that of man: it can much more easily be tarnished, by the breath of public opinion; and when her reputation is once lost, it can never be regained. Hence the good opinion of the world is all in all to her. She endeavors to secure it by every means. She is generally more gay and cheerful, more loquacious and polite, infinitely more amiable and agreeable in the social circle, and she trifles with more grace and elegance. For the same reason she adorns and perfects her beauty more, and endeavors to heighten and polish her natural endowments by the aid of artificial ornaments. "I have observed, (says Ledyard,) among all nations, that the women ornament themselves more than the men; that they are ever inclined to be gay, cheerful, timorous and modest." They are more observant of fashions and of etiquette, and, as we shall presently see, they have more tact, more nice discrimination of feeling and discernment of character than men have. Women are precisely what the men make them, all over the world. Addison says, "that had women determined their own point of honor, it is probable that wit or good nature would have carried it against chastity;" but our sex have preferred the latter, and woman has conformed to the decision.

The vanity of woman, under proper regulation, makes her the most fascinating being in creation, when it is the virtuous, the intelligent, and the just, whose approbation she attempts to win, by the charms and graces of virtue, innocence, modesty, and accomplishment, where "she is the darling child of society, indulged not spoiled, presiding over its pleasures, preserving its refinements, taking nothing from its strength, adding much to its brilliancy, permitted the full exercise of all her faculties, and retaining the full endowment of all her graces."

And this same being, who, in her unmarried state, is the delight and charm of every circle in which she moves, may after marriage look to the esteem and approbation of him who has won her hand and heart, as the jewel of greatest price. His opinion may become to her what that of the world was before. His taste is the one which she may delight to please.

"She, if her lord but gaze with pride, Wears what he loves, and thinks no gem denied; And if, compliant with his wish, she roam, To the gay tumults which endear her home, 'Mid brighter fashions, and that pomp of waste, Which glittering fools misname, and call it taste; Tho' not a gem her simple hair have crown'd, While lavish diamonds fling their beams around, Can smile serene, nor feel one envy burn, And sleep without a sigh, on her return."⁶

⁶ Paradise of Coquettes, generally ascribed to the pen of the late Dr. Thomas Brown, the professor of moral and mental philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, of whom Mr. Dugald Stewart said, "in my opinion even Dr. Brown would have been a still better metaphysician, if he had not been a poet, and a still better poet if he had not been a metaphysician." I have no doubt of the truth of this remark, though we must acknowledge, that whether we examine his metaphysics or his poetry, we shall find that none has ever better understood the heart of a truly virtuous and constant female, or more highly appreciated it.

Such a companion makes the home of her husband a paradise on earth, and the thought of him and his happiness, soon interweaves and intertwines itself with all her little schemes and projects, with all her desires and ambition, and her house becomes the true scene of domestic happiness and of the domestic virtues.

On the other hand, when vanity is excessive, or badly regulated, woman is too apt to substitute art for nature, and to attempt to impose upon the world by outward show and hollow pretensions; to manage and intrigue for the purpose of carrying her plans, and consummating her schemes; and when in danger of detection, she has recourse to evasions and devices, which in the end may produce the character of falsehood and hypocrisy.

"A person (says Adam Smith,) who has excessive vanity, in attempting to win the applause of those around him, is apt to fall into the practice of lying, but the lies are not of a black or very hurtful character to society; they are intended to deceive you, and make you think more of the person who tells them, and not to injure others; whereas a proud man but rarely lies, and when he does, it is apt to be a dark and malicious falsehood, which he tells; one intended for the injury of others, not for the exaltation of himself." It is badly regulated vanity, which produces that character for cunning, which Rousseau considered one of the distinguishing characteristical traits in the female. He was so much impressed with the predominance of this trait in woman's character, that he was disposed to attribute it, (I think falsely,) rather to nature than to circumstances and education. He tells us of the following device, practiced by a girl of six years old, who had been strictly forbidden to ask for any thing at table. For the purpose of inducing her parents to help her to a dish which she had not tasted, she pointed her finger at the several dishes, saying, I have eaten of that, and of that, &c. until she came to the one of which she had not eaten, passing that by in silence. A cunning hint was thus given to the parents, without violation of their commands, that she would like to be helped to it. This little stratagem Rousseau thinks far beyond what a boy of the same age would have planned, and hence he comes to the conclusion, that "La ruse est un talent naturel au sex"—he thinks this a wise dispensation of nature, for, says he, "La femme a tout contre elle nos defauts, sa timidité, sa faiblesse; elle n'a pour elle que son art et sa beaute. N'est il pas juste qu'elle cultive l'un et l'autre?" When these devices and stratagems, which the softer sex practice for the attainment of their ends, become too apparent, they disgust; when well concealed, they frequently succeed: but honesty here, as every where, will prove to be the best policy; and I cannot agree with Rousseau, that generally they are advantageous to those who practice them: they always endanger more or less the character of the individual. In spite, however, of all our caution and advice on this subject, in the little concerns of life, and the petty tactics of the drawing and ball rooms, woman will always display more skill and cunning than man. These are the scenes with which she is more conversant, and which she studies far more deeply than he. A skilful tactician in the drawing room, may almost be compared to a general in the field. She notes, without being perceived, every movement, and by skilful evolutions she brings about that arrangement of parties which best suits her taste, and which seems to others, who have not the sagacity to see the game, the effect of magic, rather than of art. With man it is very different; concealment and stratagem in the little courtesies and plans of life, are never expected of him. The maxim of David Crockett, "go ahead," is the one on which he practices. As woman is the most skilful manager on these occasions, so is she the most sagacious observer, and she can sometimes greatly amuse us, by furnishing a key to the manoeuvring in the social and fashionable world.

Mother and Child.

I now proceed more particularly to the consideration of the effects produced upon the female character, by that most interesting and tender tie, the relation of mother and child. We have already pointed out the reasons why the mother should be considered, as intended more particularly by nature, for the office of nursing, rearing, and tutoring the infant. Although the effects of this position, are first manifested upon mothers, yet, as they constitute so large and influential a portion of females, their character, whatever it may be, will quickly diffuse itself over the whole sex, and consequently we may predicate of the whole, to a certain extent at least, the properties and peculiarities of character, which flow from the relation of mother and child.

There can scarcely be conceived in the whole range of nature, a more tenderly interesting object, than the perfectly helpless and innocent babe. The writers on the sublime tell us, that that obscurity and indistinctness which prevents us from seeing the exact proportions of objects, is favorable to sublimity, by the increased play which it gives to the imagination. Now, what is there so well calculated to rouse the imagination and excite our anticipations, as the listless, inactive infant,—slumbering from the moment at which he takes his milky food to the moment at which he awakes to require it again? What is that infant to become? What is to be his destiny? What the rôle which he is to play in the great drama of life? He is now at the starting point; the future lies latent within him. He is to be nursed and taken by the hand, and led gently along the path of life, until the growth of body, and the developement of mental powers, shall enable him, unaided, to combat the difficulties and obstacles which beset him on his way.

Then, is he to select the part which he is to act? Is he to be the great warrior, "striding from victory to victory, and making his path a plane of continued elevation"—dethroning and unmaking princes, and grasping the destiny of empires in his single hand? Or is he, by overturning the fair fabric of his country's government, and wading through war, anarchy and blood, at last to triumph over the law and the constitution, and build up his own throne on the melancholy ruins of his country's liberty? Or will he be the philosopher of his age, taking

"His ardent flight Through the blue infinite;"

numbering the planets, noting their complex but harmonious movements, and deducing the unerring laws by which they are governed? Or, by pouring truth after truth upon the world, is he to break up the prejudices and dissipate the errors which have before bound down the restless energies of the mind under the fatal spell of ignorance and superstition? Perhaps he is to be the genuine philanthropist, and like Howard, to travel from country to country, "not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces or the stateliness of temples; not to make accurate measurement of the remains of ancient grandeur; not to form a scale of the curiosity of modern arts; nor to collect medals or to collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons—to plunge into the infection of hospitals—to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain—to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression and contempt—to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken—and compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries." Or is he to be the simple, but contented being, whose world is bounded by his visual horizon,—

"Who never had a dozen thoughts In all his life; and never changed their course; But told them o'er, each in its 'customed place, From morn till night, from youth till hoary age, And never had an unbelieving doubt; But thought the visual line that girt him round The world's extremes: and thought the silver moon That nightly o'er him led her virgin host, No broader than his father's shield."—

Well, this being who is now rocked in his cradle, with these germs infolded, but unperceived, in his heart and in his feeble intellect, although the most helpless and dependent of animated creation, commands the sympathies and love of those who were the authors of its being, and possesses already so great an influence, that he cannot in after life, "by the most imperious orders which he addresses to the most obsequious slaves, exercise an authority more commanding, than that which in the first hours of his life, when a few indistinct cries and tears were his only language, he exercised irresistibly over hearts of the very existence of which he was ignorant." But it is the mother that gave it birth, who feels the deepest sympathy with all its pains and wants, and carries in her heart, the most unbounded and unremitting affection for it. Man as I have before observed, has a ruder and a hardier nature than woman: the out of door world, with all its bustle and jostling, its difficulties, dangers, hardships and labors, is the theatre for his actions. He only enjoys the domestic scenes during the intervals of his labors, and then perhaps worn down by toil and fatigue, he dandles for a moment his smiling infant on his knee, and retires to rest, or to muse on the projects of his ambition, or to form schemes for the accumulation of wealth and the extension of his influence. And when he thinks of his child, he associates him with those schemes and projects with which he is to be connected in after life, and looks upon

"The bright glad creature springing in his path But as the heir of his great name, the young And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love! This is man's love!"

The prayer which Homer puts into the mouth of Hector for his son Astyanax, at the parting with Andromache, most beautifully illustrates the nature of a father's love. "O Jupiter, and ye gods! grant that this my son may be like his father, a leader among the Trojans, brave in battle, and a brave king of Illion. And hereafter, may the people say of him as he comes from battle, he is far braver than his father, and may he bring back the bloody spoils, having slain his enemy, and please his mother's heart." A Brutus and a Titus Manlius, who would condemn their own sons to death for the satisfaction of public justice, may be found among fathers, but never among mothers. Agamemnon may consent to the sacrifice of Iphigenia, but Clytemnestra, although a woman of depravity, could not,—because she loved the daughter more than she loved Greece. Joy it is well known, may sometimes be so intense as to produce death. Listen to the three following cases of death from joy: they will illustrate the difference between the father's and mother's love. Pliny tells us, that Chilo the Spartan died upon hearing that his son had gained a prize at the Olympic games. Again—the three sons of Diagoras were crowned on the same day victors in the Olympic games, the one as a pugilist, the other as a wrestler, and the third, at the pancration, or game combined of wrestling and boxing; and Aulus Gellius tells us, that the father's joy was so great, that he expired in the arms of his sons in the presence of the assembled multitude, "ibi in stadio inspectante populo, in osculis atque in manibus filiorum animam efflavat." In both of these cases joy came from gratified ambition. Livy tells us of an aged mother, who, while she was plunged into the depths of distress from the news of her son's death in battle, died in his arms from the excess of joy, on his sudden, unexpected safe return; the mother loved her son, not for the lustre which he might shed on her name and family, but for himself, and well might she, for it is the lot of a mother to watch with unremitting care over her infant during the first years of its existence. She notices with a tender anxiety all its little movements, and administers to all its wants. She alone learns to

"Explore the thought, explain the asking eye;"

she alone learns to read all the emotions of its heart by gazing on the play of its features. To her the voice of laughter is as delightful and beautiful as the most ravishing music; and the tones and cries of sickness and distress, are as afflicting and melancholy, as the fall of stocks, revulsions of commerce, and the disasters of trade and business are to man.

Even in women of the most wicked character, those who are the very fiends of their sex, we sometimes see this maternal fondness bursting out, and demonstrating at once, the difference between the wickedness of man and that of woman. Mrs. Jameson admires very much those touches of Shakspeare's pencil, which mark in the midst of all her atrocities and dark crimes, the womanly character of Lady Macbeth. How beautiful is the recollection of a mother's love, even in this fiend:

"I have given suck, and know how tender 'tis To love the babe that milks me."

And again she shows the woman, when she exclaims:

"Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done it"—

Well, then, are we prepared in the fifth act for the declaration of this monster of depravity, under the stings of a tormenting conscience, when she gazes on the hand that had done the deed and exclaims:

"All the perfumes of Arabia, will not sweeten this little hand."

But let us quit such specimens as these, and go back to our subject.

Who is there among us, who can look back to the period of his infant career, and not shed a tear of gratitude for a mother's love, and a mother's care? What heart does not heave with emotion at the recollection of the first years of our education, when day by day we were clasped in our mother's arms, and with the kiss of affection imprinted upon the brow, were charged to be good boys, and learn with cheerfulness the lesson that was assigned us. Black indeed must be that heart which can forget a mother's solicitude. The recollection of her advice and admonition has often saved the individual in the hour of temptation, and we can almost forgive Marmontel for his vices and his sins, while breathing the atmosphere of a profligate and abandoned court, when we peruse in his interesting memoirs the following paragraph, occasioned by the farewell which he took of his mother in declining health. "Yet a little while, and she will be no longer mine; this mother who from my birth has breathed only for me; this adored mother whose displeasure I feared as that of heaven, and if I dare say it, yet more than heaven itself. For I thought of her much oftener than of God, and when I had some temptation to subdue or some passion to repress, it was always my mother that I fancied present. What would she say, if she knew what passes in me? What would be her confusion? What would be her grief? Such were the reflections that I opposed to myself, and my reason then resumed its empire, seconded by nature, who always did what she pleased with my heart. Those who, like me, have known this tender filial love, need not be told what was the sadness and despondency of my soul." Montaigne in his singular, but highly amusing and ingenious essays, places Epaminondas of Thebes, among the three men who were "more excellent than all the rest" of whom he had any knowledge; and the very first proof which he adduces of his excessive goodness is the declaration of Epaminondas, "that the greatest satisfaction he ever had in his whole life, was the pleasure he gave his father and mother by his victory at Leuctra."

The influence which a mother's care and a mother's love produces upon a girl, is much greater than that wrought on a boy. The girl is more constantly with her mother; she is taught to imitate and act like her; she is more constantly with the younger children of the family; her attentions, her kindnesses, her sympathies and her love, come in process of time to resemble those of the mother, much more than of the father. Hence it is fair to say, that all the effects wrought on the mother by the nursing, training, &c. of the infant, are produced in some degree on all her daughters.

Having thus pointed out the character of that love which a mother bears for her children, I will now proceed to show the effects which it produces on the character of the mother herself. Marmontel in his "Lecons Sur la Morale," pronounced "the heart of a good mother, to be the masterpiece of nature's works;" and Stewart, on the Active and Moral Powers, endorses the assertion,—and adds, "there is no form certainly, in which humanity appears so lovely, or presents so fair a copy of the Divine image after which it was made."

The tender offices of a mother, combined with that inferiority of strength which I have before noted, together with difference in physical organization, will no doubt contribute to increase the number and sensibility, if I may use the expression, of the chords of affection and sympathy. They will cultivate to a much greater extent, the finer and the lovelier feelings of our nature. They understand better and receive more readily those finer and more fugitive impressions which come under the description of sentiment. We become hackneyed by the rough and rude business of the world, our feelings become coarse and less delicate, and less minute. In consequence of their domestic life, "that reciprocation of social kindnesses which is only a recreation to men, is to women in some sense a business. It is their field duty, from which household cares are their repose. Men do not seek the intercourse of society as a friend to be cultivated, but merely throw themselves on its bosom to sleep." In the same manner, we shall find that woman possesses much more tact, and much nicer discernment of character than man. Perhaps in the rough storms of life, when the master passions are called into action, and mind is brought into conflict with mind, under the most powerful agitation, man then may be the best judge of character; for the tragedy has become too deep and dark for woman's penetration and experience. She is not so well acquainted with the deep feelings of the heart, when lashed into a tempest by the strife and conflicts of the political world. But of the fireside character, of those inequalities exhibited by the temper under all the manifold aggravations of social injury, she is decidedly the best judge, and knows best how to administer the proper remedies. Under the influence of sorrow and pain, we may often wear a countenance that will deceive man,—rarely one that will impose on woman, when she is interested in our fate. Every man will have observed occasionally how quickly a woman discerns the wound which she has involuntarily inflicted upon his feelings, and how soon and how tenderly she will repair the mischief; making him by the manner of reparation, not only forgive the injury, but admire her more than ever. With man it is but too often very different, and he must be asked for explanation before he is aware of the injury.

Woman, in all conditions, is a better comforter and a better nurse than man. She reads in the countenance with more facility all our little wants, and is ever ready to administer to them. Her sympathy is more alive, and her familiarity with the distresses around, make her more humane and compassionate than man. Mercy and mildness have always been her attributes; and the horrors and barbarities of war were never moderated, until chivalry and religion brought forward the mighty influence of woman to suppress them.

The following most beautiful and just eulogy of one of the most distinguished travellers which the world has ever produced, written without any view to publication, is so apposite to the views which have just been presented, that I will give it entire from Sparks's Life of Ledyard, with the exception of portions already quoted. "I have observed among all nations (says Ledyard,) that wherever found, they (women,) are the same kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender beings. They do not hesitate like man to perform a hospitable or generous action; not haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, but full of courtesy, and fond of society; industrious, economical, ingenious, more liable to err than man, but in general, also more virtuous, and performing more good actions than he. I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship to a woman, whether civilized or savage, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man, it has often been otherwise. In wandering over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the wide spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so; and to add to this virtue so worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have been performed in so free and so kind a manner, that if I was dry, I drank the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate the coarse morsel with a double relish."⁷

⁷ The author of "Leaves from my Log Book," relates the following incident which occurred while he was passing through a village near Rochefort in France, as a prisoner under a military escort. It affords so fine an illustration of the truth of Ledyard's eulogy on the sex, that I am induced to insert it in a note.

"I had obtained a fresh supply of canvass for my feet, which were much blistered and extremely sore; but this was soon worn out, and I suffered dreadfully. About noon, we halted in the market place of a small town bearing every mark of antiquity, (I think it was Melle,) to rest and refresh. To escape the sun, I took my seat on an old tea chest, standing in front of a Huckster's shop, and removed my tattered moccasins. Whilst doing this, an elderly woman came out of the shop accompanied by a young girl very prettily dressed, and 'pauvre garcon! pauvre prisonier!' were uttered by both. The girl with tears in her eyes looked at my lacerated feet, and then without saying a word returned to the house. In a few moments afterwards she reappeared, but her finery had been taken off, and she carried a large bowl of warm water in her hands. In a moment the bowl was placed before me. She motioned me to put in my feet, which I did, and down she went upon her knees and washed them in the most tender manner. Oh what luxury was that half hour! The elder female brought me food, while the younger having performed her office, wrapt up my feet in soft linen, and then fitted on a pair of her mother's shoes." Well then might this grateful writer exclaim, in conclusion of this little narrative,

"Hail! woman hail! last formed in Eden's bowers, Midst humming streams, and fragrance breathing flowers: Thou art 'mid light and gloom, through good and ill, Creation's glory, man's chief blessing still. Thou calm'st our thoughts, as Halcyons calm the sea, Sooth'st in distress, when servile minions flee; And oh! without thy sun bright smiles below, Life were a night, and earth a waste of woe."

Far, indeed, might this poor prisoner have journeyed without meeting in our sex, with such a kind, tender being, as the fair Evlalie.

Marmontel tells us that Madame de Tencin, one of the most distinguished and fashionable ladies at Paris, and one who possessed a deep and exquisite knowledge of men and women, advised him always to seek for friends among women, rather than among men. "For by means of women (said she,) you may do what you please with men; and these are either too dissipated or too much occupied with their own personal interest to attend to yours: whereas women think of your interest, be it only out of indolence. Mention this evening to a woman who is your friend, an affair that intimately concerns you; to-morrow at her spinning wheel, at her embroidery, you will find her occupied with you, torturing her fancy to invent some means of serving you. But be careful to be nothing more than the friend of her whom you think may be useful to you; for between lovers, where once there happens any cloud, dispute or rupture, all is lost. Be then assiduous to her, complaisant, gallant even, if you will, but nothing more. You understand me?"

So strongly does woman sympathize with the distress and suffering of those around her, that under peculiar circumstances, she sometimes is carried to perform acts of enterprise and heroism, which rival the achievements of the ages of chivalry. Under the impulse of highly excited feelings, she has sometimes forgotten her inferiority of strength, and the dangers to which she is exposed by collision with the rudeness and roughness of the out of door world. On such occasions, she has braved all the hardships and labors which have opposed her, has crossed mountains and rivers, and penetrated alone into Siberian deserts; or visited courts and camps, and importuned monarchs and generals, until she has accomplished her humane purposes. How interesting is Elizabeth to us, in the Exiles of Siberia, by Madame Cottin, when she determines to go alone from the heart of the Siberian desert, to beg the Emperor for the liberty of her exiled father; and how much more deeply interested do we become in this tale when we know that it is not only founded on fact, but that the real dangers and difficulties which Elizabeth encountered, were of such a character as to make Madame Cottin suppose that they would not be believed, if faithfully narrated. The deep and thrilling interest excited by the character of Jeannie Deans, in the Heart of Mid Lothian, is due in a great measure to her magnanimous and heroic resolution, taken under the influence of sisterly love, to make a journey on foot, unprotected and alone, from her father's mansion near Edinburg, to London, for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her sister, and to the difficulties, dangers and hardships which she is represented as surmounting with unshaken fortitude. Mrs. Jameson in her Visits and Sketches, has given us a narrative of the adventures of Mademoiselle Ambos, equal to those of Elizabeth in the Exiles of Siberia, or to those of Jeannie Deans in the beautiful fiction of Sir Walter Scott.