A young lady, I mean one who has but recently thrown aside her dolls, is a
bashful blushing little puppet, who only acts, speaks, and moves as mama
directs. She is a statue of flesh and blood, not yet animated by the
Promethean fire--a chrysalis, which may one day become a beautiful
butterfly, fluttering on silken wing amidst a crowd of adorers; but she is
yet only a chrysalis, pale and cold, and wrapped up in a thousand
conventional restrictions, like a mummy in its swathes.
The _very_ young lady is usually prodigiously careful of her little self:
she regards men as her natural enemies. Poor innocent!--This absurdity is
the fault of her education. They have made her believe that love is the
most abominable, execrable, infernal thing in existence. They have taught
her to lie and to dissimulate her most innocent emotions. But the time is
not far distant when the natural impulses of her heart will break down the
barriers that hypocrisy has placed around her. Woman was formed to love:
she must obey the imperious law of her being, and will love the moment her
inspirations for the _belle passion_ become stronger than her reason. I
may add, also, that when a young lady discovers a tendency this way, it
may be safely conjectured the object on which she will bestow her favour
is not very distant.