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]
[Footnote 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.
This young lady formed the bold and daring project of visiting the
court of Russia for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her brother
Henri Ambos, who was exiled to Siberia. She actually visited St.
Petersburg alone,--obtained after a triumph over the most appalling
difficulties, the pardon of her brother from the Emperor
Nicholas,--and then under the impulse of those Divine feelings which
can exist in woman's heart alone, she determined herself to be the
bearer of the glad tidings which would restore a lost son to a broken
hearted mother, and an affectionate sister. And the reader can scarce
refrain from dropping a tear of sympathy, when she received for answer
to the pardon which she had delivered to the commandant of the
fortress, with a hand trembling with impatience, and joy almost too
great to be borne, "Henri Ambos _is dead!_"--In order to estimate the
heroism, the sublimity of such deeds, we must call to mind the
relative positions of the sexes in society; we must recollect the
weakness, the modesty, and above all the shrinking timidity of the
female, before we can estimate the depth of that feeling which can
conquer all the weaknesses of her nature, in the execution of her
benevolent purposes.
"Ye who shall marvel," (says Byron in his very interesting description
of the Maid of Saragossa,)
"Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face,
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase."
The sympathies, the feelings of woman on such occasions, impart a
courage and fortitude which seem to be almost the inspiration of
heaven itself; the rude uncourteous world, is awed into respect and
admiration by the forbidding dignity of her demeanor, and the fearless
determination with which she executes her resolves. When Mademoiselle
Ambos was asked if she had ever met with insult, she said she had
twice met "with wicked men"--but she felt no alarm, she knew how to
protect herself; and as she said this, (says Mrs. Jameson,) her
countenance assumed an expression which showed that it was not a mere
boast.
_Influence of Love_.
I come now to the consideration of the character of the sexes in
relation to a passion, which is one of the most universal, powerful
and interesting, implanted in the human breast--the passion of love. A
passion which has agitated alike, the philosopher and the poet, the
nobleman and the peasant; which in the language of the Edinburg
Review, "has filled the parsonage house with chubby children, and
beats in the breast of the Baptist, animates the Arminian, melts the
Unitarian maid, and stirs up the moody Methodist, to declare himself
the ready victim of human love." My limits will not of course allow me
to enter fully into a subject upon which so much has been written, and
so much more has been felt. The sexes throughout the whole animated
creation are determined towards each other by an instinct, and this is
animal love. Under its operation but little preference is shown for
individuals, except in those cases where the joint aid of male and
female is necessary to the rearing of the offspring. There nature,
ever consistent with herself, and with that harmonious design and
beautiful adaptation observed throughout the universe, has established
a temporary union among the sexes, similar to marriage in the human
family. But this connexion seems to be determined more by the
operation of mere instinct, than by reason, imagination, and the
association of ideas. With man, love is no doubt founded on animal
instinct; but then all the powers of the human mind, all the passions
of the heart, all the affections and emotions; in fine, the whole
moral and mental machinery of our nature are brought to bear on this
instinct, to foster or stifle, to develope or exterminate it. By means
of the mighty power of imagination, and the laws of association, such
a complicated and magnificent fabric is reared, as occasionally to
obscure and almost hide the instinct material which lies at the
bottom. It is under the influences of these higher and more exalted
powers of the mind, that this passion of our nature is directed
towards one object alone, and that all the world is so readily
forsaken for the possession of that one.
Most of our desires, although natural, are determined as to their
particular direction by the operation of circumstances--take for
example the desire for society. There is no doubt that this is a
natural instinctive desire; man is certainly a gregarious animal; he
delights in intercourse with fellow-man; solitude is at war with the
condition of his nature, and so strong is his desire for society, that
if man be deprived of intercourse with man, he will make companions of
brutes and reptiles themselves. Horses, dogs, cats, even spiders and
rats, have become his very dear associates in his solitary condition.
And yet, under the operation of reason, imagination, and the passions,
together with that endless variety of character which we find in the
human family, this desire is directed to particular persons and
particular circles. We may shun the society of A and B--we may court
that of C and D--and indeed, under the very severe pressure of
calamity, when all our hopes and our darling schemes of ambition and
aggrandizement are blasted forever, by the perfidious machinations and
wily projects of those very individuals whom we had fondly called our
friends, there is an almost irresistible tendency in the mind, at such
a melancholy crisis, to indulge the gloomy feeling of misanthropy, and
plunge into the depth of solitude, where we may escape the persecution
and treachery of a dissembling world. Thus do we find circumstances
controling, directing, and sometimes almost exterminating our natural
passions and propensities.
Love in the human family is eminently under the control of
circumstances. The original, natural passion implanted in the breast,
may be compared to the common quantities in algebra--it belongs to
all. Cupid cares not for creeds, nor occupations, nor professions; but
the development of the passion, under the guidance of reason,
association and imagination, assumes as many shapes as the
dispositions and intellects of the myriads who compose the human
family. In the civilized countries of Europe, and in our own, woman
has been liberated from that state of servitude and debasement, to
which either the condition of barbarism, or the laws of Mahommedanism
had too long confined her. The institution of chivalry, and the
diffusion of the humane spirit of christianity, have assigned her that
station in society which makes her in the social circle the equal of
man. She has been disenthralled from that jealousy which would quietly
immure her within the walls of the Seraglio, and which, in attempting
to preserve her chastity by constraint, prevents the development of
mind, extinguishes the vigor and intensity of the affections, and
really in the end, debauches the heart, whilst it guards the person.
Under a system of free and equal intercourse among the sexes, love
assumes a totally different form from that which exists in society
where woman is not looked on as the equal of man. In the former case,
she must be wooed and won; in the latter, she is bought and locked up.
In the former case, she is allowed the free employment of all her
faculties, and the full play of all her graces and accomplishments. In
the latter, becoming the slave of man, and losing all those higher
inducements to mental and moral excellence which freedom alone can
foster, she degenerates into a mere being of ignorance and sensuality,
going through the dull round of solely animal pleasures, unattended by
that grace and refinement which throw so bright a lustre around the
female character.
When freedom of intercourse exists among the sexes, what is called
courtship, becomes a longer and more assiduous task to the gentlemen,
than where such freedom does not exist. The heart of woman may be
likened to the besieged and fortified castle. It must be regularly
invested; slowly and cautiously, or boldly and daringly approached,
according to circumstances. The whole science of social tactics must
be studied, and a skilful application made to the heart which is to be
won. Under these circumstances, when all the affections of a man's
heart have really been concentrated upon one object, if he possess a
keen sensibility and a highly wrought imagination, the period of his
love and of his courtship, may be the most important of his whole
life: like the fabled wand of the magician, it may but wave over the
character, and change the whole inner man. Ardent and intense love is
certainly the master passion of our nature, whilst it exists; but like
all tyrants, it may reign but for a season; it is liable to
dethronement. Whilst, however, it is enthroned, it conquers every
other. Ambition, interest, patriotism, all have yielded during the
hour of its ascendancy. Whilst this passion endures, it clusters
around its object all the dearest associations and fondest
recollections of our life. It is the spirit which has only to move
over the chaos of our existence, and attract to itself all the
elements of our nature. It enters the heart, and makes us brood over
dreams of joy, and look with rapturous gaze and supplicating eye,
"To the bright form of our idolatrous worship,
Whose every gesture, motion, look or word--
Like wonder-working secret alchymy,
Changes each passing thought to visioned bliss."
It mixes itself with all our thoughts, our desires, our hopes and
actions. It is the realization of the fable of the fish, which
imparted its own beautiful color to every object that approached it.
How often when we have stood amid the lone majesty of nature's works,
"all heaven above" and earth beneath, with no eye gazing on us, save
that of him _who doeth his will and ruleth in the armies of heaven_,
have we felt this unseen spirit to move within us--to touch, as if
with magic hand, all the springs of our moral sensibility, and waken
up all the tender emotions of our soul. Even with the prayer which we
address to heaven from this great temple of nature we cannot refrain
from mingling the name of her whose beauty and loveliness have excited
within us the sympathetic emotions of virtue and piety. This passion
of love, when it is genuine, accompanies us wherever we go; it
associates the beloved object with all our plans and schemes of
ambition, and casts its own bright radiance over all the objects which
surround us:
"It breathes forth in the song of joyous birds--
In the violet hues of the broad laughing heavens--
In sunlight--in the beams of radiant stars--
In gush of waters--in the evening breeze,
Making its nest amidst the parting boughs
Of murmuring trees--and oh! the most of all
In _her_ sweet melting tones of tenderness,
The steadfast lustre of her gazing eye--
For all are nature's oracles, and teach
The heart to love."
Even the circle of friends by which we are surrounded, become
associated in our imagination with the sole object of our affections;
our tastes are often changed, our friendships altered, our very
opinions and inclinations are sometimes revolutionized by the potent
but silent sway of that being whose beauty and loveliness have placed
us under this mysterious spell. Love like this, terminating in
marriage, founded on reciprocity of affection, must be productive of
the most exquisite and refined happiness which the frail condition of
man will allow us in this world. It is such love as this which will
quickly bring two heterogeneous beings to harmonize in temper and
disposition. It is such as this which will tame down the ferocity of
the tiger and triumph over the savage spirit of the hyena. Under its
operation the corsair has been sometimes arrested in his bold career,
the robber has been reformed, and the arm of the bloodthirsty villain
has been withholden from an infliction of the deadly blow.
When, however, such love is unfortunate, and fails to win its object,
there comes perhaps one of the heaviest blows to which mortality is
subject; then does it become necessary to gather up the shattered
resources of mind and body to withstand the storm which is
overwhelming us with calamity. This is a period fraught with infinite
danger even to the character of man. At such a time we seem suddenly
arrested in our mid career by the cruel hand of misfortune. The
bright, the delusive prospects which we beheld reflected in the mirror
of hope, have suddenly disappeared from the mental vision. But a
little while ago and we were like him who had wandered into the
splendid repository of the works of art, illumined by the bright lamp
whose radiant light was beautifully reflected from the thousand
polished surfaces which glittered around; now we are like him in that
same mazy hall, with his lamp extinguished and total darkness around.
The very sun of our moral and social existence seems suddenly struck
from the heavens, and well may we in the agony of despair exclaim,
"how stale, flat, and unprofitable" is this world to us now. When we
wander abroad, how dismal is the prospect which lies before us. The
sun, and the moon with her nightly train, seem to have lost that
celestial spirit which a little while ago had made us gaze upon them
in silent and pensive bliss. Our homes, our firesides, our friends
have lost the charm which can neutralize woe; for a period the desire
for fame and honor is lost, and the voice of ambition is silenced
within.
"Look where he comes. In this embowered alcove
Stand close concealed and see a statue move;
Lips busy and eyes fixed, foot falling slow,
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below!
That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue
Could argue once, could jest or join the song--
Could give advice, could censure or commend,
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.
Now neither healthy wilds, nor scenes as fair
As ever recompensed the peasant's care,
Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming groves
And waft it to the mourner, as he roves,
Can call up life into his faded eye,--
That passes all he sees unheeded by."
This period of agony which I have just described has often infused the
gall of bitterness into the cup of life, turned benevolence into
misanthropy, soured the temper, and destroyed the tranquillity of
existence. When the shock has come after matrimonial engagement, which
has been ended by woman's caprice, or the wily artifices of the
mischief-making meddler, then the stroke is still more dreadful, and
productive of effects still more marked in the character of the man;
and oftentimes is the conduct of that being, who stands an anomaly in
the eyes of the world, to be traced back to this cause. We have seen
an individual mysteriously settle down in our vicinage, immure himself
in his solitary mansion, shrink from the gaze of the world as from the
dragon's visage, and live as though life were a burden which was to
him insupportable. Pry into his history, and you will find, when you
have traced it out, that it was the treachery of her upon whom he had
lavished all the affections of his soul, which separated him from his
original home and happiness. Look again--there is another being whose
brilliant, but meteor like career, alarms the selfish statesman and
puzzles the philosopher. To-day, listening senates are hanging on his
words, and electrified by the magic of his soul-stirring eloquence.
To-morrow, in the social circle, he displays those powers of
fascination and attraction which fix the gaze of all on the play of
his features, while the brilliancy of his fancy and the vivid
corruscations of his wit and intellect, are delighting all around with
his wonder-working speech.
At times he realizes the fable of Orpheus; he draws the very trees
after him, melts the hearts of stone that are around him, and makes
them forgive the wrongs which he has done--then his reason seems to be
dethroned, the very demon of malice enters his heart; his shafts of
calumny transfix alike friend and foe, and he traverses seas and
continents almost like the deluded victim of knight errantry, impelled
by a spirit which urges forward with irresistible impetuosity, whilst
it seems to have lost its destination. The world stands amazed whilst
this brilliant meteor is playing above the horizon. One ascribes his
course to the waywardness of nature, and calls him a _lusus naturæ_;
another traces his character to the diseases of the body; another
tells you he was ambitious, and that all his schemes of promotion and
self-aggrandizement were wrecked.
But go to him who has shared his confidence, and nursed him in the
hours of his misfortune--to him who can best tell you his history, and
he will tell you his was a heart with feelings as intense and pure, as
ever were given to the heart of man; he will tell you that that heart
poured forth the mighty stream of its affections upon another, and
that his love, great as it was, was returned by that being,--when the
spoiler came, and then came mystery, converting the very affections of
the heart into the scorpions of the furies, and the garden of Eden
into a place of torment, which deranged his faculties and destroyed
the equilibrium of his mind; and that thus all those fitful moods
which puzzle the world, may be traced back to disappointed love.
The effects which I have been describing as flowing from disappointed
love, are certainly of an extreme character, happening only in the
case of ardent temperaments, combined with a concurrence of
circumstances which generate intense and all absorbing affection for
the beloved object. In these cases, when all hope is entirely
eradicated, there is certainly a tendency to peevishness, fretfulness,
whim, suspicion and misanthropy; and against these consequences the
individual ought always to be on his guard. He should not charge to
the human race, or even to the whole sex, the vices which he thinks he
sees in a single individual. This is a case in which kind friends,
especially females, may do much to soothe and tranquillize the mind.
Women alone seem to have enough of that deep discernment, nice tact,
and generous sympathy, which can administer consolation to a wounded
heart and calm the irritated feelings of blasted hope. In the great
majority of cases however, the disappointed lover plunges into the
business and scenes of active life, forms new associations and
attachments, and quickly forgets his former love, without any
permanent effect being produced on the character by mere
disappointment. Man (says Dr. Cogan on the passions) rarely runs any
serious risk from disappointment in love. "If he have not speedy
recourse to the pistol or the rope, he will probably survive the
agonies under which the softer sex will gradually pine and die."
I will now examine briefly, a few of the effects produced on the
character of the male, during the period of courtship in society,
organized as it is in this country and Europe,--and certainly one of
the most marked effects, is the strengthening of vanity and the
weakening of pride. As it is the province of man to woo and to win,
his constant aim must be to render himself agreeable to the object of
his affections. To gain her esteem, her approbation, _her love_, is
the object of all his efforts. Now this is vanity. The proudest heart,
the soul of sternest stuff, by the operation of this all subduing
passion of love, is made to yield--to become a candidate for the
praise of her whose affections he so much covets. In this condition we
are all more or less like Petrarch, who declared that "she (Laura) was
the motive and object of all his studies--that he coveted glory only
as it might secure _her esteem_--that she alone had taught him to
desire life, and to lift his thoughts towards heaven." In his
"Conversations with St. Augustin," he even confesses that he was more
ardent in his desire for the _Laurel Crown_, on account of its
affinity to the name of Laura. Now, although this vanity seeks the
approbation directly of but one, yet as she is regulated by the
opinion of the world, we quickly find it necessary to gain the good
opinion and esteem of those around us, in order, by their means, to
win the approbation of the object of our affections. Hence, however
proud the man, love and courtship will in the civilized countries of
our globe soon infuse a degree of vanity, which will temper his
overweening pride and make him more social, more loquacious, more
attentive to all the little courtesies of life, and much more cheerful
than he was before. In all the Mahommedan countries, where woman is
bought and locked up, and the alternately sweet and painful
solicitudes of love and courtship are never known--how proud, how
taciturn, how forbidding, unsocial and grave, is the character of man!
In France, where the influence of women is very great, how entirely
opposite is his character; there, vanity is his predominant trait.
Montesquieu, in his "Lettres Persannes," makes Usbeck say to Ibben, in
a letter from Paris, on the characters of the French and Persians, "It
must be allowed that the seraglio is better adapted for health than
for pleasure. It is a dull uniform kind of life, where every thing
turns upon subjection and duty; their very pleasures are grave, and
their pastimes solemn; and they seldom taste them but as so many
tokens of authority and dependence. The men in Persia are not so gay
as the French; there is not that freedom of mind and that appearance
of content which I meet with here in persons of all ranks and estates.
It is still worse in Turkey, where there are families, in which from
father to son, not one of them ever laughed from the foundation of the
monarchy." Now these proud, taciturn, grave beings would at once be
changed, by giving full freedom to the females, and rendering it
necessary for each one to woo, to interest and to delight her whom he
would make his wife.
In fact, we have never learned so well to know the unappreciable, the
priceless value of a woman's heart, as when we have experienced the
pains and the pleasures, the doubts and hopes, pertaining to the
period of courtship. There have been instances of husbands losing all
affection for their wives in the quietude of their possession, but who
were suddenly roused to the most tormenting love, as soon as they saw
that their cold and brutal indifference had destroyed that affection
which they once possessed. Mrs. Jameson, in her very interesting
description of the beauties of Charles 2d, tells us that Lady
Chesterfield, the daughter of the Duke of Ormond, when first married
to Lord Chesterfield, received from him in return for her own pure,
warm and innocent affection, a negligent and frigid indifference,
which astonished, pained and humiliated her. Finding however that all
her tenderness was lavished in vain, mingled pique and disgust
succeeded to her first affection and admiration: and in this condition
she was suddenly taken by her husband to the Court of Charles the 2d,
where, from a neglected wife, living in privacy and even in poverty,
she suddenly became a reigning beauty. Lord Chesterfield, when he
found his charming wife universally admired, was one of the first to
sigh for her; and his passion rose to such a height, that casting
aside the fear of ridicule, he endeavored to convince her by the most
public attentions, that his feelings towards her were entirely
changed. And let the result be a warning to all negligent
husbands.--"Unfortunately," says Mrs. J., "it was now too late: the
heart he had wounded, chilled and rejected, either could not, or would
not be recalled; he found himself slighted in his turn, and treated
with the most provoking and the most determined coldness."
The author of the "Journal of a Nobleman at the Congress of Vienna,"
has given us a still more interesting and striking illustration of the
assertion which I have made, in the case of the Count and Countess of
Pletenburg, whom he saw in the gay circles of Vienna during the period
of the session of the Holy Alliance in that city. Pletenburg had
married, without much courtship or difficulty, a young and beautiful
woman, for the purpose of securing a fortune which had been left to
him, on the condition that he married before he was twenty-five. He
soon plunged into every kind of debauchery and dissipation, conceived
the greatest disgust for his lovely and loving wife of sixteen--left
her almost broken hearted, for the purpose of travelling in Europe,
returned after some years, saw her, and saw that she had ceased to
love him: then he loved in turn, and loved most violently and
hopelessly. He is thus described by the author of the Journal just
mentioned, who met with him at a party of the Countess Freck's in
Vienna. "The poor man has become an object of ridicule by the
servility of his devotion; always sighing, as at the age of eighteen,
and, as jealous as a sexagenarian, he never moves from her side. He is
ever taking up her gloves and her handkerchief, and pressing them to
his bosom in public. But all this tends only to increase the aversion
he has raised. Proscribed from the nuptial bed which he had so long
disdained, he complains of this rigor in prose, and laments his fate
in verse. In short, his enthusiasm has become so great, that if it
continues for any length of time, his intellect must become affected
by it." And thus is it that the disenthralment of woman will always
cause her to be more respected and loved, and by her influence on man
she will be sure to make him more agreeable, more social, less proud.
Besides this, virtuous love has a tendency to improve the morals of
man, to increase his sympathies and call into play all his most tender
feelings. This moral tendency of love in the male, arises partly from
imitation of the virtues and character of her whom we love; but mostly
from that exquisite, indescribable pleasure, which one in love feels,
from the performance of those acts of kindness and virtue which excite
the gratitude and esteem of the lady beloved. In this case his minute,
tender and ever anticipating attentions to the female, have an effect
on man similar to that which I have described as being produced on
woman by the relation of mother and child.
"How oft the thrillings of transported joy
Have stolen on the heart, with life's warm tide,
When _she_ has deigned with approbating smile
To pay the effort of the wish to please!
How oft with sorrow's keen corroding pang
We've seen displeasure cloud her beauteous face!
As when the sun, obscured, would teach the world
The value of his genial noontide smile."
I know of nothing so well calculated to soften the heart, to smooth
down the asperities of character, to excite all the kindly,
sympathetic and amiable feelings of our nature, as ardent affection
for a virtuous and pious female. Mr. Randolph in his letters to a
relation, has spoken with great force and propriety of this effect of
virtuous love.
So far, I have been describing the nature of man's love, and the
effects which it produces on his character. The love of woman however,
is much more interesting, and if not more ardent, it is perhaps more
devoted, more tender and more constant than that of man. "Man," says
Irving, "is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads
him forth into the bustle and struggle of the world. Love is but the
embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of
the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's
thoughts, and dominion over his fellow men. But a woman's whole life
is the history of the affections. The heart is her world; it is there
her ambition strives for empire--it is there her avarice seeks for
hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she
embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if
shipwrecked, her case is hopeless,--for it is a bankruptcy of the
heart." Madame de Stael tells us that love is but an episode in the
history of man's life, but it is the serious business of a woman's.
And a _man_, says Thomas, is more to a woman than a whole nation.
Under these circumstances, when a woman's affections have been won,
when, casting aside all passions, feelings, joys of earth, save for
one alone, she settles down,
"With wings all folded and with silent tongue"--
to brood over dreams of felicity to be enjoyed with _him_--how
overwhelming, how crushing must his treachery be, to her all confiding
heart. Her bygone dreams of deep enthralling bliss are all a mockery.
Her pride is wounded, her modesty is shocked. For a time she may still
affect gaiety; she may travel the routine of apparent pleasure; but
the worm is at the heart, and she sinks at last a martyr to her
affections. Where one man falls a victim to love, there are perhaps at
least ten women. No wonder then she should be more inveterate in her
antipathies and animosities when she has once been wronged--when once
deceived she rarely forgives.
Taught to conceal, the bursting heart desponds
Over its idol.
And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring,
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring,
Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet as real
Torture is theirs--what they inflict they feel.
But if the affections of a woman are once fixed on a man,--so
absorbing, so overwhelming do they become, that she will forgive the
stain which his conduct has inflicted on his own honor; she will
forgive him for her own ruin; she will pardon every thing in fine,
save the _loss of his love for her_. For this wrong, and for this
alone, will she conceive the most bitter and deadly hatred and
revenge. How admirably did Sir Walter Scott understand this trait in
woman's love. When in the heart of Mid Lothian, Effie Deans is visited
in prison by her sister, who makes mention of the being who had
disgraced and ruined her, but who nevertheless loved her and was
anxious to save her life, he makes Effie exclaim, in the overflowing
and forgiving fulness of her affection, "O Jeannie, if ye wad do good
to me at this moment, tell me every word that he said, and whether he
was sorry for poor Effie or no." A woman in this situation is
sometimes like Antigone in the Oedipus--she may become fond of the
_very misery_ which she feels for his sake.
The constraint which is put upon the passion of love in woman, nurses
and invigorates it. Fear and modesty mingle inquietude with her love,
and double its force. The confession of her affection is of itself a
mighty sacrifice; but a woman is then only the more tender for the
great sacrifice which she has made. The more the confession has cost
her, the more fondly does she love him to whom she has made it. "She
attaches herself," says Thomas, "by her sacrifices. Virtuous, she
enjoys her denials; guilty, she glories in the favors she bestows.
Women therefore, when love is a passion, are more constant than men;
but when it is only an appetite they are more libertine. For then they
feel no more of those anxieties, those struggles, and that sweet shame
which impressed the delicious sentiment so strongly on their hearts."
With what facility a Ninon de l'Enclos and a Catherine of Russia would
change their lovers, every body knows; theirs was more of an appetite
than of an affection and sentiment, and where this is the case,
woman's love is more fickle than man's; in every other instance it is
more constant and faithful.
I have thought proper, in this dissertation, to speak of the effects
produced upon the character of man during the period of courtship and
love; and we have seen that the effects in his case are decidedly
beneficial. I doubt whether the same may be asserted in all cases with
regard to woman. The time which a woman passes between the period of
her entrance into society and her marriage, is perhaps the most
important and the most perilous of her career. Having led a previous
life of retirement and comparative seclusion, unacquainted with the
wiles and stratagems of the world--endowed almost always with a vivid
imagination and warm feelings, she comes forth into society with
buoyant hopes and an animating gaiety, which throw a charm over the
whole face of nature, that conceals from view the snares and
deceptions of the world. She may then fall a sacrifice to some artful
deceiver, and suffer the pangs of disappointment, which I have just
been describing.[8] Or she may acquire a love of conquest in the wars
of Cupid--may become fascinated by the applauses and flattery of the
world, until nothing but the incense of adulation can satisfy her
perverted vanity. This period, is one, during which, a woman enjoys
more fame, more worldly glory, than during any other of her life. It
is not to be wondered at then, that she is so frequently seen
suppressing her feelings and smothering her affections, in order that
she may protract this period of her glory and reputation.[9] There is
nothing more seducing, more captivating to the vanity and imagination
of woman, than to see all hearts enchained, and rendering the willing
homage of love and admiration to her graces and accomplishments. But
she must beware, lest this delightful devotion implant in the heart a
lust for applause and notoriety, at the sacrifice of all the more
feminine and lovely virtues. And she must recollect too that the very
pain of disappointment, which she is obliged to inflict and to witness
from day to day, in her unfortunate lovers, is of itself calculated to
weaken and obtund her feelings and sympathies, and to generate
coldness and hardness of heart. Metaphysicians tell us that the active
feelings are strengthened, but the passive are weakened by too
frequent repetition--the frequent sight of beggary, of death, of pain
and misery of every description, when it is beyond our power to
administer relief, always tends to weaken our sympathy and harden the
heart. Now there can be no pain,--no anguish more exquisite, than that
which the disappointed lover feels in the melancholy hour of his
rejection; and the woman, who witnesses such scenes too frequently,
may at last lose the generous sympathies of her nature. Like the man
of deep feelings and keen sensibility, who the historian informs us,
was at first unwillingly dragged to the amphitheatre to witness the
horrid, the revolting combats of the gladiators, she may at last by
repetition so conquer the feelings of nature as even to experience a
savage delight in the pain and suffering of human sacrifice and human
woe.
[Footnote 8: "It is easier for an artful man who is not in love, (says
Addison) to persuade his mistress he has a passion for her, and to
succeed in his pursuit, than for one who loves with the greatest
violence. True love has ten thousand griefs, impatiences and
resentments, that render a man unamiable in the eyes of the person
whose affection he solicits: besides that, it sinks his figure, gives
him fears, apprehensions and poorness of spirit, and often makes him
appear ridiculous, where he has a mind to recommend himself."]
[Footnote 9: A lively French writer, says Mary Wolstoncraft, asks what
business women turned of forty can have in this world.]
Before leaving this topic, I beg leave to add one word of advice to
the gay and fascinating belle, who is moving forward in her victorious
career,--conquering all hearts before her,--until, like the Juan of
Moliere, she may wish for other worlds, not for purposes of conquest,
like Alexander, but to win the hearts of those that inhabit them. A
lady in this situation ought always to be mindful of the great
influence which she is exerting on those around her. Her lightest
words are treasured up with the fondest zeal, her very defects are
sometimes considered as surpassing beauties. A principle advocated by
her, no matter how erroneous,--a doctrine advanced, no matter how
false, is apt to make an impression, sometimes deep and indelible, on
the susceptible hearts of her admirers. She should ever recollect that
the cause of virtue and of piety is peculiarly hers; and when she is
walking the golden round of her pleasures, shedding her influence on
all who approach her, let her be conscious to herself of no word or
deed which can injure the sacred cause of morality and religion. We
all know the irresistible influence of association. A writer of
antiquity said he would rather believe drunkenness no vice, than that
Plato could have one. The stuttering of Aristotle and the wry neck of
Alexander were admired on the same principle: and Des Cartes, the
great philosopher, declared he had a partiality for persons who
squinted; and he says that in his endeavor to trace the cause of a
taste so whimsical, he at last recollected, that, when a boy, he had
been fond of a girl who had that blemish. I have rarely known a very
devoted lover who did not love all the peculiarities and even oddities
of his mistress. We are all like the Frenchman, whose mistress had a
_twisted nose_, of which the lover used to say, "C'est au moins la
plus belle irregularité du monde." Hence, for the very same reason
that Dr. Johnson remarks, "if there is any writer whose genius can
embellish impropriety, or whose authority can make error venerable,
_his_ works are the proper object of criticism,"--would I say, that if
there be any being whose opinions and actions form the
"Glass
Wherein the noble youths do dress themselves,"
let such beings remember the nature and responsibility of their
station, and manage well the _talents_ which are committed to their
charge. I shall for the present, pass over all consideration of the
married state, with the sole remark, that in all ages and countries
the women love more constantly and more devotedly in that state than
the men, possessing a more exclusive and more engrossing affection,
and that their errors and infidelity have generally been the result,
not the cause, of those of the men. Hence, the more attentive, the
more sedulously tender and kind the husband is, the more virtuous,
affectionate and faithful the wife becomes. All over the world, the
woman who marries from love, covets, beyond every thing else, the
entire affections of her husband. He is all in all to her,--and it
will be only his indifference and infidelity which will ever alienate
her affections; then, in the spirit of chagrin and mortification, may
she bewail her lot, in the language of Dryden:
"Cursed vassalage,
First idolized till love's hot fire be o'er,
Then slaves to those who courted us before."
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
DANCING, WALTZING, &c.
J'ai toujours cru que le _bon_ n'etait que le _beau_ mis en
action.--_Rousseau_.
Amid the various changes in the customs and fashions of society, the
abolition of old, and the introduction of new modes, which an age
prolific in intelligent and important improvement has effected, it is
matter of surprise, that some of the engines of reform, some of the
batteries of satire, have never been unmasked upon the crude and
barbarous fashion of dancing. Start not, gentle reader, when I say
_barbarous_ fashion, for such dancing unquestionably is. Its very
origin is barbarous. In a rude state, when the untutored savage is
agitated by any strong emotion, as joy, patriotism, admiration, &c.,
his first impulse is to caper and skip about like a grasshopper. Among
the records of the customs and manners of the most polished and
civilized nations of antiquity, we seek in vain for the importance and
admiration which attaches to this miscalled accomplishment at the
present day. The Romans, perhaps the most accomplished and polite of
the ancients, held the art in very low esteem. Indeed we find Cicero
striving with all the force of his matchless eloquence, to vindicate
his friend Muræna from the charge of being a dancer, preferred against
him by Cato. So conscious is he of the weight of the imputation, that
he makes it the subject of one branch of his defence, and, in a
digression, recounts the brilliant services and devoted patriotism of
his client's ancestors, to discountenance a charge affecting so
seriously, the value and dignity of his character.
"Tempestivi convivii, amæni loci,
Multarum deliciarum, comes est extrema saltatio."
The Greeks, we are told, held the art of dancing in higher estimation,
and it is said, considered graceful dancing one of the necessary
constituents to the character of an accomplished gentleman; but the
very word, and indeed the only one used by them to express the motion,
[Greek: orchêsis], signified _mimicry_; plainly intimating its
derivation from the buffoons and jesters of the stage, and
consequently it never could have had much popularity in their more
refined and elegant circles. As a religious rite it was in use, it
seems, among the ancient Jews, and in celebration of the worship of
the heathen deities of Greece and Rome, we find it only practised in
the orgies of Bacchus, a fact of itself sufficient to mark it as a
lewd, licentious and vulgar pastime. It was a favorite amusement of
the ancient Scythians, the Chinese, the Goths, the Vandals, the
Persians, and other barbarous nations of antiquity, and is yet in
practice among the modern French and Italians, who, first introducing
it in theatrical amusements, and then having carried the art to great
perfection, have now transplanted it to the fashionable circles of
domestic society. But it is rather in reference to its effects upon
the present constitution of society, and its awkward adaptation to the
chastened simplicity of the republican character, that I propose to
consider dancing, than in regard to its estimation among the ancients.
Excellence in _national_ dances, _as such_, may deservedly be ranked
among the highest efforts of skill and grace. We discover much
elegance, certainly, in the easy and graceful evolutions of the
Spanish waltz. There is a charming vivacity in the romping gaiety of
the French gallopade; and even the oriental mazourka, is not devoid of
a certain graceful beauty. But they derive their interest from the
national and historical associations connected with them. We see the
haughty Spaniard, proud indeed, but pliant, aptly pictured in the
mysterious intricacy of the mazy waltz. The lively _gallop_ presents
to our mind at once, the reckless _nonchalance_ and chivalrous gaiety
of the Frenchman; and thus these dances come to us as faithful types
of their national origin. But why may we not be content to witness
this delineation of national characteristics upon our theatrical
boards? Why should we take them from their appropriate sphere, and
introduce them to the frivolous and undignified imitation of the
polite and refined? I do not know a scene more faithfully descriptive
of rude, boisterous, and unbecoming merriment, than an American ball
room. Place your hands upon your ears, and look down the hall. You
will see the most unmeaning grimaces--the most ridiculous contortions
of body in one quarter--while another view presents to you the
unwelcome picture of man, lordly man, fallen from his high estate, and
going through the laborious operations of the dance, with the farcical
solemnity of a monk, or the clownish rapture of a mountebank. People
may say what they please, about those only opposing this capering
vice, who cannot dance themselves. They may tell us, that Lord Byron
wrote his fretful satire upon waltzing, because his lordship could not
participate in that fashionable dance, owing to his _club foot_. They
may preach, that the ignorant alone complain of those accomplishments
which they cannot attain themselves; that the dances in practice, from
time immemorial, among our ancestors, were equally objectionable as
those we now adopt and admire, which certain bold critics, going
beyond their province, dare to denounce as dangerous innovations,
savoring of foreign modes and manners, licentious and demoralizing.
All this will not do, Mr. Editor. Dancing is dangerous, and _the waltz
especially_: and a virtuous and intelligent community will unite, I
feel assured, to frown these vicious amusements out of society, and
consign them to the barbarous regions whence they were so irreverently
introduced among us.
This mania for dancing, waltzing, &c., is the bane of every social
circle. Do you go to pass the evening sociably with your friend, where
you have a vague instinctive idea you will meet the pretty creature
you passed in the street, on the Thursday previous--you will
enter--your fondest anticipations are realized--you draw your chair
towards her, and fall into a charming tete-a-tete, with the dear
object for whom you already conceive a nascent passion--who has made
you lose a whole week's sleep, break your mirror, tear your black silk
_bonnet de nuit_ into fragments, and kick your faithful _valet de
chambre_ down stairs, because your laundress has failed to impart the
due degree of rigidity to your collar linen. Now you promise yourself
a full indemnity for all the _contre-temps_ of the past week--you are
just arranging a most pleasant excursion with the lady the next
afternoon, when, alas! the vanity of human hopes! an impertinent
coxcomb, whose only merit consists in a well arranged dress and
capacious whiskers, demands the honor of the lady's hand for the next
waltz. Odious, detested waltz! You have too much taste to dance
yourself: your _inamorata_, however, must yield to the unrelenting
tyranny of fashion, and you are left in a posture of _amiable_
abstraction, musing on the provoking scene enacting before you. To sit
quietly and await the termination of the dance, might not be an
unattainable effort of patience; but to see her partner's place
supplied again and again--you take leave of hope and the company
together, and pass the next week to the manifest infringement of your
own peace of mind, and your aforesaid ill-fated valet's physical
comforts.
Now, Mr. Messenger, I take you to be a sensible and discreet man,
anxious for the purity of public taste, and ever vigilant to rid
society of all nuisances; I doubt not, therefore, that I shall find in
you, an able and willing coadjutor in the remedy I propose to apply,
for the extirpation of this unspeakable annoyance; and I hope the
undignified, graceless, dancing fraternity, aye, and _sisterhood_ too,
(for sorry am I to say, the ladies are the most _untiring_ patrons of
this capering vice,) will take the hint forthwith. I propose, through
the "Messenger," to give to the public the result of my best labors to
eradicate this odious practice from society. I know not if my efforts
will ever receive their deserved reward. The public is an ungrateful
master, and ever incredulous and uncourteous when you propose to
reform him. It is not, however, the part of a philanthropist and
reformer, to abate his efforts on that account. Immortality will be
the price of success, and posterity will pay it. Had Columbus
abandoned his attempts to explore the western main, because bigoted
and ignorant monarchs would not accept the world he offered them, we
might now have been the wretched subjects of some European despot
instead of the countrymen of Washington, under a government of equal
laws, and in a land of liberty.
On a visit a few evenings ago, to a maiden aunt, I was glad to find,
that among the ladies assembled on the occasion, the utmost unanimity
prevailed as to the importance and utility of the proposed reform.
Miss Betsy Bloomever declared it would be one of the most extensively
beneficial reformations which the world has witnessed, since the
proscription of hoops, stays, and stomachers. Miss Debby Creaktone
pronounced it a more important revolution than that achieved by
Signorina Garcia, in the musical style of the American vocalists; and
Miss Judith Knowell said, that in her estimation, (and she was a
Protestant Episcopalian, she added,) Luther's reformation would sink
to insignificance before it.
You can imagine my gratification, Mr. Messenger, at so numerous and so
respectable an accession to my opinions; a fact upon which I could not
forbear to felicitate myself, to Miss Sophronisba Grundy, adding, that
I was confident my exertions would now be duly appreciated by an
enlightened public, when it should be apprised, that I was aided in my
labors by ladies, from whose _age_ and _experience_, so much might be
expected, when----conceive my astonishment, the whole group rose upon
me, with unanimous rage; and declared it was a positive insult--
"Age and experience indeed! humph! Call me _old_ at thirty-five!"
screamed Miss Deborah.
"And _me_, at forty--only five years more!" shouted Miss Betsy.
"And _I_," said Miss Judith, scornfully, "that will let you know, Sir,
I shall not be thirty-five till the 29th day of June next."
"Impudence!" said Miss Primrose.
"Insult!" echoed Miss Grundy.
In short, I found it impossible, Mr. Messenger, to compose the
troubled elements, thus innocently put in motion, and was forced to
retire. All my attempts at expostulation and entreaty, being overborne
and silenced by the volume of voice and clamor sent after me--my aunt
even intimating to me, at the hall door, that I must not visit her
house, unless I could better estimate the _feelings_ of her friends,
who certainly had much cause to complain of my wanton outrage upon
them.
I was electrified--was astounded--and tossed on my pillow the whole
night, vainly laboring to unravel the inexplicable problem. That
ladies of such seeming propriety, should evince such passion at an
allusion to that to which I considered them _alone_ indebted, for any
consequence they might have in the world, was more than my philosophy
could estimate, or my ingenuity explain.
As some compensation, however, for the defection of these _young_
ladies with delicate _feelings_, I am rejoiced to find that the sex
can appreciate my exertions in the cause of elegance and refinement,
and are determined to aid me in my patriotic labors. Last evening the
penny post brought me the two following letters, on the subject of the
great reformation of manners in which we are engaged; and as they
strengthen my opinions with great force of argument, I am unwilling to
suppress them, and beg leave you will give them at once to the dear
public, whose welfare I have so much at heart. With the kind and very
welcome invitation contained in the first, I shall certainly comply,
and hope ere long, to give you the result of the deliberations of a
body, from whose wisdom, (I will not say _age_ or _experience_,) so
much may be justly expected; and in the mean while, I am very
faithfully, yours and the public's dear friend,