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: {498}

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."

[Footnote 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 {499} 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]

[Footnote 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 {500} 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.

[Footnote 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 {501} 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]

[Footnote 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, {502}

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 {503} 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: {504}

"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

{505} 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 {506} 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 {507} 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 {508} 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 {509} 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 {510} 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. {511} 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 {512} 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 {513} 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 {514} 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,

ANTHONY ABSOLUTE.

_Mr. Absolute:_

I am secretary to the "Society of Young Ladies for the suppression of

vulgar practices, and the promotion of elegance and gentility among

young men," and am directed by a resolution of the Society, at its

last meeting in Quality Hall, to convey to you the assurance of their

hearty good will and ready co-operation, in your philanthropic efforts

in the dancing reformation. Our society has long deplored the absence

of some efficient and active measures for the suppression of a

practice so derogatory to the dignified grandeur of the human form and

character, and congratulate themselves and their co-laborers in the

same cause, upon the highly important and gratifying results, which

your beneficent zeal and energy promise. They have ever since the

formation of their society, regarded the practice of dancing--of

waltzing particularly, and especially in private circles--as seriously

obstructive to that "_march_ of mind," which is elsewhere effecting

such important improvements in the domestic economy and wealth of

nations; and hail with delighted enthusiasm the dawn of a brighter and

better period, in our beloved country. An anti-dancing clause is found

in the constitution of our society. Our members have all abandoned the

custom very long ago; indeed, our president, among the oldest of our

number, being nearly sixty years of age, says, that at the last

dancing party she attended, she saw General Washington dance a minuet

with her aunt Fanny. There was, she says, so much stately grace in

that dance, that she would not object to seeing minuets danced always;

but nothing _else_. We all agree in unanimous condemnation of the

rapid, whirling, graceless waltzes, hops, gallops, and all those

Frenchified follies, which are now, alas! by the depraved taste of the

day, considered so fashionable.

Pray do not spare any pains to wipe off this dreadful stain upon our

domestic customs and manners, and let not dancing be any longer urged

against us as a national reproach. The next meeting of our society

will be held on the afternoon of this day week, when I am directed to

invite your attendance. Pray do not fail to come and give us your aid

in working the speedy extirmination of this great vice from among us.

And, in the meantime, wishing you perfect success in your virtuous

labors, I remain your friend, in the sympathy which unites the

advocates of a common cause.

CAROLINE CAMFIELD, _Secretary_.

{515}

_Mr. Absolute:_

Hearing of your intended efforts, by a series of essays, and by

forming societies throughout the country, to draw the public attention

to the demoralizing tendency and intrinsic ungentility of dancing, I

cannot forbear to wish you entire success, in a reformation fraught

with the best interests of society.

I am a young lady of respectable connexions, of some reading, more

property, and, unless my glass plays me false, of a person quite

agreeable. With youth and these advantages, one would think I could

get along very well among the patrons of dancing; but you must know I

never could dance _fashionably_, and as no body dances otherwise, the

consequence is, that I go to party after party, and never dance at

all. Pa sent me to the dancing school almost a whole quarter, but I

had hardly in that time learned more than the positions, when our

master dislocated his ankle joint in teaching one of the scholars (a

fat Dutch girl from the mountains,) the French gallopade, and since

then, we have never got another one in our neighborhood. How much more

sociable it is to pass the evening in agreeable conversation, in which

all can participate, than by dancing, to gratify one part of the

company at the expense of the other.

Lord Chesterfield, (whose letters I have sometimes read,) advises his

son never to play on any musical instrument. It is an accomplishment,

he says, of the necessitous or vulgar. If he wants to hear music, he

directs him to send for a professed performer, and pay him for his

services. Thus ought it be in regard to dancing. Confine it to the

circus or theatre, and society will not be annoyed by the practice.

Until this is done, rely upon it, Mr. Absolute, none of your disciples

will do more to drive it from the polished circles of domestic

society, than your obedient servant,

SALLY SOBERLY.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LION-IZING. A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

------------all people went

Upon their ten toes in wild wonderment.

_Bishop Hall's Satires_.

I am--that is to say, I _was_, a great man. But I am neither the

author of Junius, nor the man in the mask--for my name is Thomas

Smith, and I was born somewhere in the city of Fum-Fudge. The first

action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with both hands. My

mother saw this and called me a genius. My father wept for joy, and

bought me a treatise on Nosology. Before I was breeched I had not only

mastered the treatise, but had collected into a common-place book all

that is said on the subject, by Pliny, Aristotle, Alexander Ross,

Minutius Felix, Hermanus Pictorius, Del Rio, Villarêt, Bartholinus,

and Sir Thomas Browne.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to

understand, that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently big, he

might, by merely following it, arrive at a Lionship. But my attention

was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I took a dram or

two, and gave my proboscis a couple of pulls. When I came of age my

father sent for me to his study.

'My son'--said he--'what is the chief end of your existence?'

'Father'--I said--'it is the study of Nosology.'

'And what, Thomas'--he continued--'is Nosology?'

'Sir'--I replied--'it is the Science of Noses.'

'And can you tell me'--he asked--'what is the meaning of a nose?'

'A nose, my father'--said I--'has been variously defined, by about a

thousand different authors. It is now noon, or thereabouts. We shall

therefore have time enough to get through with them all by midnight.

To commence:--The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that

protuberance, that bump, that excrescence, that'----

'That will do Thomas'--said my father. 'I am positively thunderstruck

at the extent of your information--I am, upon my soul. Come here! (and

he took me by the arm.) Your education may be considered as finished,

and it is high time you should scuffle for yourself--so--so--so (here

he kicked me down stairs and out of the door,) so get out of my house,

and God bless you!'

As I felt within me the divine _afflatus_, I considered this accident

rather fortunate than otherwise, and determined to follow my nose. So

I gave it a pull or two, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology. All

Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

'Wonderful genius!'--said the Quarterly.

'Superb physiologist!'--said the New Monthly.

'Fine writer!'--said the Edinburg.

'Great man!'--said Blackwood.

'_Who_ can he be?'--said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

'_What_ can he be?'--said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

'_Where_ can he be?'--said little Miss Bas-Bleu.

But I paid them no manner of attention, and walked into the shop of an

artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-soul was sitting for her portrait. The

Marchioness of So-and-so was holding the Duchess's poodle. The Earl of

This-and-that was flirting with her salts, and His Royal Highness of

Touch-me-not was standing behind her chair. I merely walked towards

the artist, and held up my proboscis.

'O beautiful!'--sighed the Duchess of Bless-my-soul.

'O pretty!'--lisped the Marchioness of So-and-so.

'Horrible!'--groaned the Earl of This-and-that.

'Abominable!'--growled his Highness of Touch-me-not.

'What will you take for it?'--said the artist.

'A thousand pounds'--said I, sitting down.

'A thousand pounds?'--he inquired, turning the nose to the light.

'Precisely'--said I.

'Beautiful!'--said he, looking at the nose.

'A thousand pounds'--said I, twisting it to one side.

'Admirable!'--said he.

'A thousand pounds'--said I.

'You shall have them'-said he--'what a piece of Virtû!' So he paid me

the money, and made a sketch of my nose. I took rooms in Jermyn

street, sent his Majesty the ninety-ninth edition of the Nosology with

a portrait of the author, and his Royal Highness of Touch-me-not

invited me to dinner.

We were all Lions and _Recherchés_.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He said that the angels were

horses, cocks, and bulls--that {516} somebody in the sixth heaven had

seventy thousand heads and seventy thousand tongues--and that the

earth was held up by a sky-blue cow with four hundred horns.

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He said that all fools were

philosophers, and all philosophers were fools.

There was a writer on Ethics. He talked of Fire, Unity, and

Atoms--Bi-part, and Pre-existent soul--Affinity and Discord--Primitive

Intelligence and Homoomeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and

Arianus--Heresy and the Council of Nice--Consubstantialism, Homousios,

and Homouioisios.

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned Latour,

Markbrunnen and Mareschino--Muriton of red tongue, and Cauliflowers

with Velouté sauce--veal _à la_ St. Menehoult, Marinade _à la_ St.

Florentin, and orange jellies _en mosaiques_.

There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He spoke of Cimabue,

Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino--the gloom of Caravaggio--the amenity

of Albano--the golden glories of Titian--the frows of Rubens, and the

waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the great Geologist Feltzpar. He talked of Hornblende,

Mica-slate, Quartz, Schist, Schorl, and Pudding-stone.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He said that the

moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome, and

Artemis in Greece.

There was Delphinus Polyglot. He told us what had become of the

eighty-three lost tragedies of Æschylus--of the fifty-four orations of

Isæus--of the three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias--of the

hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus--of the eighth book of

the Conic Sections of Apollonius--of Pindar's Hymns and Dithyrambics,

and the five and forty Tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblichus,

Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus, Tyrius, and Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgot, Price,

Priestly, Condorcet, De Staël, and the "Ambitious Student in rather

ill health."

There was myself. I talked of Pictorius, Del Rio, Alexander Ross,

Minutius Felix, Bartholinus, Sir Thos. Browne, and the Science of

Noses.

'Marvellous clever man!'--said his Highness.

'Superb!'--said the guests: and the next morning her Grace of

Bless-my-soul paid me a visit.

'Will you go to Almacks, pretty creature?' she said.

'Certainly'--said I. 'Nose and all?'--she asked.

'Positively'--I replied.

'Here then is a card'--she said--'shall I say you will be there?'

'Dear Duchess! with all my heart.'

'Pshaw! no--but with all your nose?'

'Every bit of it, my life,'--said I. So I gave it a pull or two, and

found myself at Almacks. The rooms were crowded to suffocation.

'He is coming!'--said somebody on the stair case.

'He is coming!'--said somebody farther up.

'He is coming!'--said somebody farther still.

'He is come!'--said the Duchess--'he is come, the little love!' And

she caught me by both hands, and looked me in the nose.

'Ah joli!'--said Mademoiselle Pas Seul.

'Dios guarda!'--said Don Stiletto.

'Diavolo!'--said Count Capricornuto.

'Tousand Teufel!'--said Baron Bludenuff.

'Tweedle-dee--tweedle-dee--tweedle-dum!' said the orchestra.

'Ah joli!--Dios guarda!--Diavolo!--and Tousand Teufel!' repeated

Mademoiselle Pas Seul, Don Stiletto, Count Capricornuto, and Baron

Bludenuff. It was too bad--it was not to be borne. I grew angry.

'Sir!'--said I to the Baron--'you are a baboon.'

'Sir!'--replied he, after a pause,--'Donner and Blitzen!'

This was sufficient. The next morning I shot off his nose at six

o'clock, and then called upon my friends.

'Bête!'--said the first.

'Fool!'--said the second.

'Ninny!'--said the third.

'Dolt!'--said the fourth.

'Noodle!'--said the fifth.

'Ass!'--said the sixth.

'Be off!'--said the seventh.

At all this I felt mortified, and called upon my father.

'Father'--I said--'what is the chief end of my existence!'

'My son'--he replied--'it is still the study of Nosology. But in

hitting the Baron's nose you have overshot your mark. You have a fine

nose it is true, but then Bludenuff has none. You are d----d, and he

has become the Lion of the day. In Fum-Fudge great is a Lion with a

proboscis, but greater by far is a Lion with no proboscis at all.'

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. I.

What am I? how produced, and for what end?

Whence drew I being? to what period tend?

_Artbuthnot_.

My name is Lionel Granby. I was the second and youngest son of the

Honorable Edmund Granby, a gentleman distinguished for his polished

education and stately aristocracy. The earliest associations of my

eventful life, steal from memory more of joyousness than of pain; and

gathering in a gilded horizon of light around the darkness of my

destiny, they whisper a consolation which despair cannot efface, nor

misfortune obliterate.

Chalgrave, (an ominous name for a patrician family,) was the proud

mansion of my ancestors. It was a huge and gnarled pile of Dutch

brick, surrounded by a cumbrous wall of the same material. Situated on

the western side of Chesapeake Bay, it frowned with stubborn

misanthropy, on the mingled beauty which softened the silent

landscape. It stood alone in the silence of its grandeur,--cold,

fearful and noiseless. A broad and level plain swept round its base,

dotted into life with the cottages of my father's numerous slaves.

From them sprung the only voices which soothed the chilled solitude of

the scene. Here, at all times might be heard the merry laugh, the

jocund song, or the unalloyed mirth of alternate ease and idleness.

One of those noble and beautiful rivers, which dally, as if it scorned

to arise from an humble rivulet, with the bosom of the Chesapeake,

gushed up its full waters fresh as in the {517} morning of its

creation. Much rude and incongruous taste disfigured the interior of

Chalgrave. A dark and gloomy heaviness sate on the antique

wainscotting, the massy sofas, and the blackened windows. From the

dinner hall, the portraits of my ancestors looked down, as if in

contempt on the degeneracy of modern times. Here was a cavalier, with

flowing locks and iron-bound brow, who had lost his life in the

memorable field of Naseby. Opposite to him, was the stiff and rigid

portrait of a grave and thoughtful face. He was one of those

inflexible and independent lawyers, whose moral courage had labored in

the war of our revolution, and whose inflexible spirit had inspired

successful resistance. Mothers with children in their arms; infants

with toys, and belles with flowers and books, filled the wall alike

with vermillion and smiles.

The number _seven_ was curiously interwoven, in the circumstances of

my birth. I was born on the seventh day of the seventh month, at seven

o'clock, being the seventh of May. In our old family Bible, I find the

record of my birth in my father's hand writing, followed with this

fearful sentence. "Curse him not, oh God! with the ---- of our

family." Amid the desolations of despair--the anguish of broken

hearted affliction, and the contempt of the world, I turn to the

gentle and joyous hours of my childhood, even as the "hart which

panteth after the water brooks." My memory is my heart, and my

affections hourly trace themselves on its index. My mother's dark and

deep blue eye, even now beams over her wretched child, and I live

alone in the regenerative charity of this blessed passion.

I have a faint and indistinct recollection of my father's death and

burial. The solemn ceremony of his funeral, and the dull and harsh

sound of the earth as it touched his coffin, deeply affected my

youthful spirits. I cried bitterly in the arms of my old nurse, and

wondered at my mother's chilled and tearless eye. My father was dead!

He had been stern and imperious to me; and as my gratitude was no

reasoning power, I soon laughed brightly again in the serious and

melancholy face of my mother. My old nurse Ellen, had lived in the

Granby family for three successive generations, and was addressed by

the endearing epithet of "Mammy." Her grandson, a well formed and

athletic youth, named Scipio, four years older than myself, had been

given to me by my father, and I soon learned the deep and abiding

fidelity of his affection. He was my friend, companion and slave; and

I thank God! that the pride of dominion never insulted or degraded

him. In his obedience, he was dignified; and in his devotion, ardent,

generous and sincere. He taught me to ride the unbroken colt--to steer

the frail periogue, and to fish with success for the active boneta.

According to the custom in Virginia, he did no service but wait on his

young master. Thus separated from the great mass of my father's

slaves, he grew into manhood with a gentleness of character and a

dignity of address which would have honored the proudest gentleman in

the state.

My old uncle Charles, who was one of the happiest and most dignified

specimens of the "decayed gentleman," had found a resting place for

his adversity in the Chalgrave family. He had been a Colonel in the

militia; and having on one occasion, performed with his whole regiment

before an admiring _court yard_, the difficult and vexatious manoeuvre

of "the hollow square," he instantly resigned his commission; and

under the shade of his laurels, he lamented the decay of military

spirit, and the ignorance of the officers. The "hollow square," was

the first mathematical figure I learned. Every thing in nature was

pressed by my uncle into this fortified figure (as he called it,) of

fortification. The trees, the flowers, the grass plats, backgammon

men,--and the flies trained with honey, presented the solemn outline

of my uncle's pride and learning. His peculiarities were few, and

deeply tinctured with enthusiasm. As an antiquary alone, in the cause

of Virginian history, he was bigoted, obstinate and credulous; and,

considered as the first of books, "the Metamorphoses of Ovid, done

into English by Mr. George Sandys, the company's treasurer." He

contended that Clayton, the botanist, was greater in learning, than

Linnæus; and, told with much indignation, the minutiæ of Clayton's

quarrel with Gronovius, the Amsterdam printer. My uncle was

experienced in the diseases of dogs and horses, and perfectly familiar

with the technical jargon of the racing calendar. He had travelled in

Europe, but would never mention the incidents of his tour, except to

inform his auditory that the best saddles were made in London, and the

finest pointers were bred at Padua. Yet my uncle had learning, taste

and erudition, which he guarded, from every profane eye, with a

repulsive and dogged obstinacy; and the few flashes which occasionally

broke from him, glittered like the trembling rays which play around

the edge of some sombre cloud. As an admirer of the fair, he was

courteous, dreamy and fantastic, and would ever and anon, refer, for

an evidence of his family gallantry, to the speech of one Sir Danvers

Granby, who was a commissioner under Henry VIII, for dissolving the

nunneries. When the nuns were shivering in the rude gaze of the

populace, Sir Danvers, looked at them with tears in his eyes,

exclaiming, "God bless you! I could marry you all, if I did not adore

you!" This story my uncle told with a smile and a bow.