There was a ball at the Old Raleigh during the Christmas holydays, to

which the city as well as its vicinity sent a numerous representation

of those soft, fragile and dove-like females, who, springing like so

many Venus' from the bosom of the sea, claim their home only in the

tranquil and affectionate hearths of tide-water Virginia. Like the

mocking bird, their dwelling place is amid the ripple of the murmuring

tide, while their song is the melody which thrills into life the

fearful and eternal solitude of the pine forests. When I entered the

room, the dance was exultingly triumphant, and each mazy figure was

softened into intense interest by that joyousness of mirth which takes

its pride of place only from early hearts and youthful hopes. One girl

instantly arrested my attention; and the long, deep and ardent gaze

which I directed towards her, mantled her cheek with a deep and

struggling blush, giving that delicate tint which, like the fabled

rose, twines itself around, only to bloom over the pallid countenance

of disease. She was pale, attenuated and fragile, with that dewy-like

softness which is stolen from the couch of sickness, and that tranquil

firmness which shows both a capability of happiness, and a peaceful

resignation at the want of it. Her form was full of grace and

symmetrical beauty, and her eye, like a glow-worm, lit up the saddened

paleness of her face. How wonderful is the contagion of friendship!

How curious are the hallowed sympathies of love! Unseen though

felt--unknown though experienced, they breathe that pathos of

congeniality, which in exciting attachment, confirms constancy, and

which ever leaves us to wonder not so much at their commencement as at

their continuance. I do not know that my appearance was calculated to

impress the heart of the fair girl who trembled under my searching

gaze; but her blush truly responded to the passion, poetry and

sympathy which my eyes discoursed, and I soon found that the shadowy

gloom of my countenance had arrested her kindness and excited her

curiosity. I was soon formally introduced, though in the confusion of

the moment I did not hear her name; and on her complaint of fatigue, I

led her to a retired seat, and in a short time we were fairly launched

into that great sea of conversation, the mental difference of the

sexes--a subject on which man ever shows his ill-nature, and woman her

superiority. I found her mind opening like the flowers of the

wilderness in richness, variety and freshness, and her wit leaping and

gambolling like an uncaged bird. I poured out all the long-hived

treasures of my erudition, disclosed the whole extent of my learning,

and disported all the little elegancies and graces of my nature. I

could tell her no secret of taste, or display no gem of literature,

with which she was not familiar; and looking up in her tranquil and

placid face, I took no note of time, or of the whispers of the crowd,

which had declared me "a case."

Towards the conclusion of the ball, a gentleman taking advantage of a

pause in our conversation, addressed her by the name of Miss Pilton.

Good God! how that word rang and tingled through the deepest recesses

of my heart, and how quickly did my hate leap up to it as a fortuitous

gift for its demoniac revenge.

"Are you the sister," I inquired, "of Mr. Henry Pilton, now at William

and Mary?"

"I am his only sister," was her reply. "You certainly know him, and if

you do not, you must seek his acquaintance. I will tell him that I am

about to make you my friend, and he will love you for my sake."

"I do know him," I answered; "he is studious and intelligent, and

possesses the esteem and confidence of all the professors."

She rewarded this constrained, though frank avowal, with a smile--and

in the rapture of her joy, she betrayed all that confidence which her

brother's pride had deposited in her bosom, and told with enthusiasm

the little history of his ambition, his fears, and his hopes. He

boldly anticipated every honor within the compass of society; and that

proud determination to be great, which invigorated his youthful

ambition, added a deeper hue of malignity to the venom of my hate.

"He hardly gives me time," she said, "to love him; for gazing like the

eagle on the sun, he never looks down on the insipid dulness of earth.

I do not admire students, Mr. Granby; they are cold and selfish, and

though they gain our flattery, they rarely win our hearts."

I construed this remark, though made at the expense of her brother, as

a compliment to myself, and soon gained her smiles, by many sarcasms

which I levelled at pedants, scholars and students. Without professing

flattery, I pleased her by a ready acquiescence of sentiment and

opinion; and anticipating her pride of sex and her tenderness of

heart, I lauded in the richest language of quotation, woman's love,

and woman's constancy. The artlessness of her character, and the

simplicity of her nature, could not hide from my vanity the favorable

impression I had made on her heart. I looked on my victim with some

emotions of pity, and paused for a moment under the goading sting of

conscience; yet the fiend-like passion which rioted on my life, told

me that the ruin of her peace, and the destruction of her happiness,

would be the proudest victory which my hate could achieve.

Leaving her for a few moments, I looked around at the mirthful throng

which filled the room, and sauntered to the _bar_, which was a point

where conversation converged its focus. About a table prodigally

ornamented with decanters and glasses, were collected numerous groups

of young men, who were all talking at the same time on beauty,

horseracing, politics and duelling. Here and there a solitary tobacco

chewer might be seen, stealing to some fire place or window, and

enjoying in mute rapture, the filth, excitement and grossness of his

depraved appetite. Two or three youthful legislators from the

adjoining counties, were flaunting their maiden honors in the broad

light of political vanity--while four elderly gentlemen, in

embroidered waistcoats and fair-top boots, were eloquently deprecating

the onward march of democracy, which made the legislature a mob of

demagogues, and the ball room a collection of fine clothes and

vulgarity. This was my uncle's favorite theme, and from the folly of

such croaking aristocracy, common sense and not education had

delivered me. An aged negro, the "harmonious Phillips" of the country,

dressed in the ample costume of the old school, with a powdered head,

a large knob of watch seals, and a silver ship in his bosom,

controlled with fierce tyranny his partners of the bow, fife and {663}

triangle. Bowing almost to the floor, he would ever and anon cry out

in a magisterial tone, _cross over_--_forward_--_turn your

partners_--_done_, and catching the inspiration of catgut and rosin,

his ivory teeth were displayed like the keys of a piano-forte, while

his broad face fairly laughed itself into ecstasy.

At the conclusion of the ball, I became the solitary escort of Miss

Pilton. The moon was shining coldly and brightly over the world; and

when I was about to leave my fair charge, looking up she exclaimed,

"How beautiful!--how melancholy!--it makes me almost a poetess. What a

contrast to the busy crowd we have just left; oh! that human life was

as cloudless, and human love as pure!"

There was no affectation in this rhapsody--no girlish sentiment in the

display; for nature called forth the gushing softness of her heart,

and I quickly took advantage of this moment of philosophic

romance.--Where is the lover who has not found the moon his silent yet

most impassioned advocate, and who, when gazing on its mellow light,

has not caught that saddened sympathy which brightens every dark spot

in the horizon of the heart.

"Yes," I replied, "it is the same cloud-wrapt sphere which has always

looked down on the little drama of human folly, unmoved amid the

desolations of death and the fall of empires, forever whispering love,

and exalting the best affections of our nature. Marriages must be made

in _heaven_--and this pale messenger, in expanding the heart, almost

persuades me that it is commissioned to teach love and awaken

affection."

Ere she could reply, I placed a leaf of evergreen in her hand, and

uttered enough of love to call a burning blush to her cheek. I

lingered for a few moments at the door, and on leaving the scene, I

turned around to gaze on the being who was thus insensibly falling

into the toils of my duplicity. I saw her place in her bosom the

treacherous emblem which I had given her; and as the silvery light of

the moon trembled over her marbled brow and placid countenance, I

almost believed that its rays had claimed that spot, as the only

tranquil home in the wide world on which they might kiss themselves

into slumber.

THETA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER SEVENTEENTH.

The Garden of Plants--The Camel Leopard--The Library, Museum, and

Cabinet of Anatomy--Manufactory of Gobelin Tapestry.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Sister:_--

I do not wonder that you are surprised at my not having yet described

to you the "Royal Garden of Plants." The fact is, we have been thrice

disappointed in our arrangements to go there, but at last have

accomplished our project, and devoted both Tuesday and Wednesday to

the investigation of this famed spot, and we have seen nothing in

Paris that has interested us more. It is of great extent, and affords

the visiter as much information as amusement. It was founded by Jean

de Brosses, the physician of Louis XIII, and much improved by the

exertions of Buffon the naturalist. It contains various enclosures,

some of which are appropriated to botany, and display every plant,

flower and shrub, native and foreign, that can be made to grow there.

Each is labelled, and bears its botanical name; and there are spacious

hot-houses for such as require shelter and extreme care. We remarked

here some fine specimens of the bread tree and sugar cane. Other

enclosures are filled with all sorts of culinary vegetables. There are

besides, nurseries of fruit trees and samples of different kinds of

fences, hedges and ditches, and of various soils and manures. The

enclosures are separated by wide gravel walks,

"Bounded by trees, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whispering lovers made."

In the centre of the garden is an artificial hill, crowned with a

temple, from which you enjoy a view of the city, and may aid your

sight with a spy glass, by paying a trifle to a man who owns it and

generally sits there, for the purpose of hiring it, and indicating to

strangers the names of the public edifices visible in the perspective.

On the way to the temple, you pass under a huge and towering cedar of

Lebanon, which De Jussieu the botanist planted more than eighty years

ago. This superb tree was considerably injured during the revolution;

and had it not been for the remonstrances and influence of Humboldt

the traveller, the whole garden would probably be now in a ruinous

condition--for when the allies were in Paris, it was owing to his

exertions that the Prussians were prevented encamping there.

The menagerie exhibits the greatest variety of animals. The ferocious

are kept in iron cages; those that are gentle, in enclosures and

habitations suitable to their propensities and natures, and

embellished with such trees and shrubs as are found in their native

climes. Goats for instance, are furnished with artificial acclivities

for climbing, and bears with dens and rugged posts. The populace often

throw biscuits and fruit to the bears, in order to witness their

endeavors to catch them; but this is dangerous diversion, for in doing

this, a boy was not sufficiently alert in his movements, and ere he

withdrew his arm, had it severely lacerated by the eager animal. On

another occasion, a careless nurse, while amusing herself in a similar

manner, let a child fall in, which was instantly devoured! Among the

gentlest and most curious of the quadrupeds, is the giraff, or camel

leopard, which was brought from Africa about two years ago, and threw

all Paris into commotion. Thousands visited him daily, and belts,

reticules, gloves, kerchiefs, and even cakes and blanc mangés were

decorated with his image. It is said that he possesses both sagacity

and sensibility, to prove which the following anecdote is related of

him. As his keepers were bringing him to Paris, they were joined by a

man on horseback, who continued to bear them company for several

miles, until he came to another road. The giraff, which had manifested

great delight when the traveller first appeared, then evinced deep

distress, and even shed tears! Upon inquiry, it was found that the

traveller's horse and the giraff were from the same part of Africa,

and probably old acquaintances. This is a marvellous story, I must

confess; nevertheless, many persons believe it. I will now tell you

another less incredible, and which shews to what perfection the flower

makers here carry their art. The giraff is very fond of rose leaves;

and not long since, seeing a bunch of artificial roses in a lady's

bonnet, and thinking them natural, he seized hold of them, and {664}

pulled with such force, that he soon had possession of hat and all. It

must have been a ludicrous scene. He is so delicate, that strict

attention is obliged to be paid to his food and lodging. The first

consists of _delicate_ vegetables, and the heat of the last is

regulated by a thermometer; and his African attendant sleeps near to

guard him and supply his wants. Leaving the quadrupeds, we proceeded

to look at the birds, which are also admirably arranged. The water

fowls have their pools and lakes--the ostrich its sands, and so on.

I have now detailed what we saw on Tuesday. On Wednesday we returned

to the garden, and examined the Library, the Museum of Natural

History, and the Cabinet of Comparative Anatomy, where, for the first

time in my life, I beheld the human form, divested of its skin and

flesh, and changed to a machine of dried bones and sinews, and

bloodless veins! The sight made me shudder, and I felt relieved when

we came away.

Not far from the Garden of Plants, at the corner of the Rue

Mouffetarde, is the celebrated manufactory of Gobelin Tapestry, which

derives its name from a dyer who first owned the establishment, and

employed himself in coloring worsteds. Colbert, the patriotic champion

of the arts and sciences, during his ministry, occasioned the rise and

perfection of it in the following manner. He engaged workmen to weave

tapestry in imitation of that of Flanders. The attempt succeeded, and

such has been the proficiency of those who have since carried on the

work, that their productions are now equal to any others of the kind.

You may imagine what care and expense is required in the business,

when I inform you that a single piece of tapestry frequently demands

two years labor to finish it, and has cost almost three hundred pounds

sterling!

The clock is striking two, and I must prepare for a ride in the Bois

de Boulogne. It being a delightful afternoon, we shall no doubt find

it alive with carriages, pedestrians and equestrians. Those who repair

there in coaches, usually drive to a pleasant spot, and then descend

to walk to and fro in the shade, for air and exercise, until the

approach of the dinner hour, or some other engagement calls them

elsewhere. Farewell.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER EIGHTEENTH.

Ceremony of taking the Veil--Palace of the Warm Baths, a Roman Ruin.

PARIS, ----.

Oh! Jane, how we wished for you yesterday! Early in the morning we

received a note from Madame F---- saying, that if the ladies of our

party would like to witness the ceremony of "taking the veil," and

would repair to her house by nine o'clock, she would accompany them to

a neighboring convent where it was to be performed about the hour of

ten. The Abbess being her friend and cousin, she had obtained her

consent to our attending on the occasion in case we wished it. We

_wished_ it, you may be sure, and her kindness was eagerly and

thankfully accepted. On reaching the convent its portal was opened by

two of the sisterhood, who greeted Madame F---- very cordially, made

their curtsies to us, and then conducted us to the gallery of a small

chapel, the main body of which was filled with nuns clad in black, and

seated on rows of benches each side of the aisle. In the centre of it,

upon a damask chair, sat a young lady richly dressed. She wore a

yellow silk frock trimmed with lace, white satin shoes, long white kid

gloves, and ornaments of pearl. A wreath of orange blossoms mingled

and contrasted with her dark hair, and were partly concealed by a

flowing veil. Madame F---- related her history, and to our surprise we

learned she was an English girl who had been placed in the convent at

an early age to be educated. As might have been expected, associating

so constantly and closely with Catholics from childhood, she became

one herself; and when her parents came over to France for the purpose

of carrying her home, they found her resolved on becoming a nun.

Having tried in vain to dissuade her from it, they at length yielded

to her entreaties, and were even present when she took the vows; and

as they did not appear distressed on the occasion, I suppose they had

finally become reconciled to their bereavement. I wonder they did not

_compel_ her to relinquish her determination. But to proceed to the

ceremony. Long prayers were said, incense scattered, and a fine hymn

chanted--the novice kneeling down before a table covered with a

crimson cloth, and reclining her head upon it, in humble submission to

that Divine Power to whom she was dedicating her heart and days! When

the music ceased the Abbess advanced, and taking her hand, led her out

through a side door; and while they were absent, a nun distributed

among the sisterhood a number of large wax candles, which she

afterwards illumined. The Abbess now re-entered with her charge, and

prayers and incense were again offered, a second hymn sung, and the

novice had her hair, or a portion of it, cut off; she then prostrated

herself before the altar, and a black pall was cast over her, to

signify she was dead to the world. On rising, she retired a second

time with the Superior, and in a few minutes re-appeared, clad in the

habiliments of the cloister, and went round the chapel to receive the

kiss of congratulation and welcome from each of the community; after

which the lights were extinguished, and every one departed, leaving

her to solitude, meditation and prayer, until the vesper bell should

tell the hour for rejoining her. How awful I felt while a spectator of

the solemn scene; and how strange, is it not? that reflecting beings

who know the fickleness of human nature--that "nature's mighty law is

change," can venture thus to bind themselves for life to stay in one

limited space, and pursue one unvaried mode of existence! I hope and

think I love religion truly; but I am sure if I were a _saint_ upon

earth, I should never hide my light in a monastery. I ought to

mention, that except the father and brothers of the new nun, no

gentlemen were admitted to the ceremony; and I ought also to state

that she was very pretty. Leonora says that notwithstanding the scene

and place, she was constantly imagining the interference of some brave

youth, to save the fair creature from her fate, by rushing in and

bearing her off by force; but alas! the age of chivalry is long past,

and now-a-days a _hero_ in _love_ would be thought a prodigy and hard

to find, unless perhaps, he was sought for is a certain old fashioned

fabric in the vicinity of Morven Lodge. _There_, peradventure, such an

_odd personage might be discovered_.

From the convent we drove to what is called the {665} "Palace of the

Warm Baths." This is a relic of Roman antiquity. In it, the Roman

emperors, and after their dominion ceased in France, the French

monarchs, used to reside. Its foundation is attributed to Julian the

Apostate. The sole remaining apartments consist of an extensive and

lofty hall, and some cells beneath it. The hall is lighted by an

immense arched window, and its vaulted roof for several ages supported

a garden. By this we may judge how firmly and strongly the Romans used

to build. I cannot, for lack of space, express to you the kind

messages with which I am charged. Suffice it to know, we all love you

dearly.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER NINETEENTH.

Visit to Versailles--The Little Trianon--The Grand Trianon--Church of

St. Louis, and Monument of the Duke de Berri--Mendon--Chalk

Quarries--Tortoni's--Wandering Musicians--An Evening at Count

Ségur's--Children's Fancy Ball.

PARIS, ----.

_My dear Sister:_--

I have really a great mind to give you a _scolding_, instead of a

_description_, for your perusal. What are you all about at the Lodge,

that you have not written to us for this fortnight. Papa and Mamma are

quite out of patience with you, and desire me to request you will

answer this the moment it reaches you. Indeed I hope you _will_, for

they are evidently uneasy in consequence of your long silence.

Now let me tell you of our visit to Versailles. We spent Friday there,

and carrying with us a cold dinner, partook of it under the trees near

the Petit Trianon, having gained a keen appetite by first walking over

the immense palace and its garden; of the splendors of both you are

well aware. We were not much pleased with our rustic mode of eating on

the grass, the premises of the table cloth being frequently invaded by

insects. Like dancing on the turf, such arrangements are pleasanter in

description than in reality. The Petit Trianon was the favorite

residence of Marie Antoinette, and there she passed a great deal of

her time, free from the bustle and formality of the court, and devoted

to rural occupations. The place still exhibits evidences of her taste

and innocent amusements. The grounds are diversified with grottos,

cottages, temples, mimic rivers and cascades. Then there is a

beautiful little music room, a labyrinth, a dairy, and a lake. The

palace is a tasteful edifice, and a part of the furniture is the same

that was used by the decapitated queen.

The Grand Trianon, another palace situated in the park of Versailles,

is superior to this in elegance and embellishments, but not half so

interesting. The parterre behind the mansion, teems with Flora's

choicest gifts, and reminded me of the saying, that "Versailles was

the garden of waters; Marly the garden of trees; but Trianon that of

flowers." In the orangery at Versailles we were shown an orange tree

which is computed to be three hundred years old! It is denominated

"The Old Bourbon," and has been the property of several kings of that

race. Its trunk and foliage are remarkably thick. The garden and park

are five miles in circumference; and only think of these and the

magnificent structure overlooking them, being completed in seven

years! But perhaps did we know the number of workmen employed upon

them during that period, the fact would not seem so amazing.

We rode through the wide streets of the town, visited the Church of

St. Louis, where a simple monument is erected in honor of the Duke de

Berri, and then turned our course homewards, stopping for an hour at

Mendon, a royal chateau that Napoleon fitted up elegantly for his son;

it is now unoccupied, though I believe the Duke de C---- sometimes

spends a few weeks there. A noble avenue leads to the house, and from

the terrace in front of it the prospect is very fine. As we traversed

the grounds, guided by an old soldier, we were quite diverted at the

astonishment he expressed, on discovering from an observation of

Leonora's that she and her family were Americans. "Mais comme vous

êtes blondes!" cried he, "et j'ai toujours en tendu dire que les

habitans d'Amerique étaient rouges ou noirs!"[1]

[Footnote 1: But how fair you are! and I have always heard that the

inhabitants of America are _red_ or _black_.]

At the foot of the hill of Mendon, near the banks of the Seine, are

large quarries of chalk, that we were told merited our attention; but

it was too late to profit by the information, and we hastened on to

Paris.

After resting ourselves and drinking tea, we sallied forth again, and

strolled on the Boulevard as far as Tortoni's, to eat ices. He is

master of a grand caffé, and famous for his ices and déjeunés à la

fourchette. His establishment is splendidly illuminated every night,

and so thronged with customers, that it is often difficult to procure

a seat. Some prefer regaling themselves before the door in their

carriages; and there is generally a range of stylish equipages in

front of the house, filled with lords and ladies, and beaux and

belles, partaking of the cooling luxuries of iced lemonade and creams,

and listening to the bands of ambulatory musicians, that here are

always to be found and heard, wherever there is a crowd. They select

the popular airs of the theatres and those of the first composers of

the day, which are as familiar to the common people as they are to

amateurs.

We recently spent another delightful evening at Count Ségur's. We

found him, as usual, surrounded by the learned and refined; and he met

us with his accustomed smile of benevolence and bonhomie. There was a

lively young relative of his present, and when most of his visiters

had departed, she insisted on his joining her and myself in playing

"l'Empereur est Mort," &c., and with the utmost amiability he complied

with her wishes. The play of l'Empereur is similar to that termed the

"Princess Huncamunca."

While we were at the Count's, Mr. and Mrs. Danville attended a levee

at the Hotel Marine, and the girls accompanied a young friend of

Marcella's, (a Miss Y---- from Soissons) to a fancy ball given by the

children of Madame Clément's seminary. Miss Y---- being a pupil, had

the privilege of inviting two acquaintances, and chose Marcella and

Leonora as her guests. They were highly entertained. All the scholars

wore costumes, and several supported the characters they assumed with

proper spirit. There was a little round, rosy faced girl, of five

years old, decked as a Cupid. She was entwined with a silken drapery,

thickly studded with golden stars; sandals laced on her feet, {666}

and a quiver slung over her plump and naked little shoulders! In her

right hand she held a gilt bow, and her curls were confined by a

glittering bandeau. They danced until ten o'clock, and as none of the

masculine gender were admitted, the elder Misses played the part of

beaux. I should have liked to join in the frolic, I confess, though

not upon condition of foregoing the pleasure we had at No. 13, Rue

Duphot, Count Ségur's residence.

Papa has presented me a beautiful watch, and intends purchasing

another for you. With tender regards to aunt M---- and Albert, I

remain your attached sister

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER TWENTIETH.

Mechanical Theatre--The Boulevards--the derivation of the term.

PARIS, ----.

"Joy! joy!" cried I, on looking out of the window yesterday, and

spying Arnaud returning from the post office with a letter, which,

according to our wishes, proved to be from our naughty Jane. Arrant

scribbler that I am, I hasten to answer it, though you must feel you

do not deserve to be replied to so speedily. However, as this is the

first time you have been negligent, we ought not to be relentless--so

here is my _hand_ in token of forgiveness and good will; but beware of

repeating the offence.

Having finished my lecture, and knowing you are fond of listening to

adventures, I will now recount a droll one that happened to us last

evening. At sunset we were walking on the Boulevard du Temple, which

abounds in every variety of the lower order of amusements, when

suddenly a violent shower began to fall, and of course every body to

scamper to some shelter. _We_ took refuge in the portico of an

illuminated building, entitled in large transparent letters over the

door, "Theàtre Mecanique," and finally determined to enter and witness

the acting within. We accordingly purchased tickets of the woman

employed to sell them, and following her up a narrow flight of stairs,

were ushered into a confined gallery, overlooking a dirty pit, the

highest grade of whose occupants seemed to be that of a cobbler. Four

tallow candles lighted the orchestra, where _two hard_ plying fiddlers

performed their tasks. We began to think we might be in "Alsatia!" and

then the actors and actresses! what were they? Why, a set of clumsy

wooden figures that tottered in and out, and were suspended by cords

so coarse, as to be visible even amidst the gloom that surrounded

them. A ventriloquist made these puppets appear very loquacious; and

whenever they stopped to make a speech it was quite ludicrous, for

they vacillated to and fro like the pendulum of a clock, for more than

a minute. We would have rejoiced to get out, but the rain still

poured, and we were compelled to remain. After the piece was

concluded, and the fiddlers had put up their instruments, and were

puffing out and pocketing the bits of candles, and we were reluctantly

preparing to issue forth into the storm, up came the above mentioned

vender of billets, (who it seems was manager likewise,) and calling to

the musicians to resume their operations, begged us to be re-seated,

in order to see the first act repeated, which we had lost by arriving

too late. We availed ourselves of her politeness and _honesty_, but

could scarcely refrain from laughing as we did so--and fortunately,

during the half hour that succeeded, the weather cleared, and we were

thus enabled to get home without the dreaded wetting; but the

Boulevards not being paved, the walking was exceedingly muddy, and it

was so long ere we reached a stand of carriages, that when we did, we

thought it more prudent to continue our route on foot, than to risk

sitting in our wet shoes.

As you may not know what is meant by the "_Boulevards_," I will tell

you. They are wide roads, or streets, edged with spreading umbrageous

elms, and formerly _bounded_ the city, but now, from its increase in

size, they are _within_ it. Their appellation of "Boulevards" is

derived from "bouler sur le vert," to "bowl upon the green"--being

once covered with turf, and the frequent scene of playing at bowls.

Here, nightly, the citizens forget the cares and labors of the day,

and resign themselves to pleasure and mirth. Rows of chairs, owned and

placed there by poor persons, may be hired for two sous a piece.

Adieu.

LEONTINE.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BURNING OF THE RICHMOND THEATRE.

The following lines are from the pen of a venerable lady of Virginia,

widow of one of the patriots of the revolution. They were written in

1812, shortly after the conflagration, and are now for the first time

published.

What is this world? thy school, oh misery!

Our only lesson is to learn to suffer,

And they who know not _that_ were born for nothing.

[_Young's Night Thoughts_.

Whence the wild wail of agonizing woe

That heaves each breast, and bids each eye o'erflow?

Ah, me! amid the all involving gloom

That wrapt the victims of terrific doom,

While _palsied fancy_ casts an anguish'd glance,

What _phrenzied_ spectres to my view advance!

Appalled nature shrinks--my harrowed soul

Dares not the direful scene of death unrol;

Yet o'er the friends she loved the muse would mourn,

And weep for others' sorrows and her own;

To their sad obsequies would _grateful_ pay

The heartfelt tribute of a mourning lay.

And lo! through the dark horrors of the night,

What form revered now rushes on my sight!

Ye blasting flames, oh spare the cheek of age!

Ah, heaven! they with redoubled fury rage!

Yet undismay'd she view'd the fiery flood,

Resign'd amid the desolation stood--

To God alone address'd her feeble cry,

Oh! save my child, and willingly I die!

Approving heaven propitious heard her prayer,

To bliss receiv'd her, and preserv'd her care.

Oh, long lov'd friend! oh, much lamented Page!

How did thy goodness every heart engage--

How oft for _me_ thy generous tears have flow'd,

What kind attention still thy love bestow'd;

When sickness mourn'd or sorrow heav'd a sigh,

Thy useful aid benignant still was nigh;

The best of neighbors, and the truest friend,

O'er thy sad urn disconsolate we bend. {667}

Heardst thou that shriek? the accent of despair!

The mother's deep felt agony was there:

My only hope, Louisa, art thou gone?

Is thy pure spirit to thy Maker flown?

Oh! take me too! the mourner frantic cries,

When such friends part _'tis the survivor_ dies!

She was my all--so gentle, good, and kind;

Then she is blest, and be thy heart resign'd!

And see, of sympathy, alas! the theme,

In woes experience'd, and in griefs supreme!

Yon aged matron now to view appears,

One thought alone her anguish'd bosom cheers;

For while on vacancy she bends her eye,

She sees her children angels in the sky!

Juliana! Edwin! beauteous Mary too!

To yon bright realm from earthly suffering flew;

Well tried in fortune's ever changing scene,

A mourner now with calm resigned mien,

Who bears a name to every patriot dear,

Nelson! who long Virginia shall revere,

Ah, see! submissive to the direful stroke,

No murmurs from her pallid lips have broke;

Though lov'd Maria, long her age's stay,

Whose duteous care watch'd o'er her setting day,

The awful mandate bade, alas, depart!

"Lean not on earth--'twill pierce thee to the heart;"

Yet must our sorrows stain the mournful bier,

When virtue lost demand the flowing tear!

And youthful Mary shares Maria's fate,

Her gentle cousin and endearing mate;

For hand in hand they mount the ethereal way,

To brighter regions and unclouded day.

Great God! whose fiat gives the general doom,

Speaks into life, or lays within the tomb,

Oh! teach our hearts submissive to resign;

Thy will be done--be much obedience mine.

And lo! advancing from the deepest shade,

A generous youth sustains a sainted maid;

Down his pale cheeks the gushing tears o'erflow,

And fancy's ear attends the plaint of woe.

Oh, much lov'd Conyers! lov'd so long in vain,

Could but my death thy fleeting soul retain,

Far happier I, than doom'd, alas! to prove

The bitter pangs of unrequited love;

My constant heart disdains on earth to stay,

While thou art borne to native realms away--

Nor at my hapless fate can I repine,

Since bless'd in death to call thee ever mine!

Oh, gallant youth! Oh, all accomplish'd maid!

At your sad shrine shall votive rites be paid;

There oft at eve shall pensive lovers stray,

And future Petrarchs pour the plaintive lay;

For, ah! behold a faithful wedded pair,

Blest _too_ in death, an equal fate to share!

In their sad breasts no _selfish_ fears arise,

_Each_ for the other _feels_--_each_ in the _other dies!_

Yon man of woes, oh! mark his furrowed cheek;

What deep-drawn sighs his misery bespeak:

'Tis Gallego! Each bosom comfort flown,

In the dark vale of years he walks alone.

And now amid the victim train appears

A friend of worth, approv'd through twenty years;

Just, wise, and good, true to his country's cause,

He from opposing parties gain'd applause:

From life and usefulness forever torn,

Virginia long for Venable shall mourn;

And for her chief, lamented Smith, shall share

His orphan's grief, his wretched widow's care.

Nutall--a man obscure, of humble name,

Virtuous, industrious, tho' unknown to fame,

Escap'd in safety--heard his wife's sad cries!

"Safe tho' we are, alas! my daughter dies!"

He heard, nor paus'd, but dar'd again the fire,

Resolv'd to save or in the attempt expire;

Oh! noble daring--worthy to succeed--

But Heaven forbade, yet bless'd the generous deed:

The daughter lives--the father's toils are o'er--

Where sorrow, pain and want, can wound no more;

In the bright glow of youthful beauties bloom,

Ill-fated Anna sinks beneath the gloom:

Her lovely orphan--yet too young to know

Her cruel loss or the extent of woe--

In deepest grief while all around her mourn,

Still piteous cries, "When will Mamma return!"

What tender cries, what anguish'd moans prevail,

How many orphans join the plaintive wail!

For Gibson, Heron, Greenhow, Gerardin,

And Wilson, borne from the heart-rending scene!

While frantic husbands, mothers, widows rave,

O'er the _vast urn_ the _all-containing grave!_

But ah! my muse the death-fraught theme forbear,

Nor longer tread the abyss of wild despair;

I sink with life's distracting cares oppress'd,

And fain with those would share eternal rest;

Yet impious, let me not presume to scan--

Great God--thy ways mysterious all to man!

But while for mercy humbly I implore,

"Rejoice with trembling," and resign'd adore.

M. L. P.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

I'll neither call thee beautiful

Nor say that thou art fair;

I will not praise thy witching eye,

Nor compliment thy hair;

I'll speak not of the roses sweet,

That blush upon thy cheek,

Nor of the tresses richly hung

About thy snowy neck.

For thou wouldst deem it flattery,

Altho' it would not be,

And flattery would never do

To win a smile from thee;

And surely I would proudly win,

Without the help of guile,

A look that would be mellowed

By the magic of thy smile.

JACK TELL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

GIRL OF BEAUTY.

Girl of Beauty! can you tell,

Gazing in the crystal well,

Who it is that madly dreams

Of thine eye's bewildering beams?

Girl of Beauty! is the bird,

In the spring, with pleasure heard,

When the melody of song {668}

Leaps the listening boughs among?

If the birds delight the grove,

Can I hear thee, and not love?

Girl of Beauty! does the Bee

Love the rose's purity?

Does the Miser love his dross?

Does the Christian love his cross?

Then _I love thee_, gentle girl,

Dearer than the crown of earl.

Girl of Beauty! does the sky

Seem all beauteous to thine eye,

When the stars with silver rays

Brightly beam before thy gaze?

Thou art dearer far to me,

Than the stars _can be_ to thee.

Girl of Beauty! does the tar

Love to dream of scenes afar,

When the mildly sighing gale

Fills the proudly swelling sail?

Then I love to dream of thee,

And thy sweet simplicity.

Girl of Beauty! does the boy

Kiss his sister's cheek with joy

When they meet in after years,

Having parted once in tears?

May you kiss your brother soon--

Ere the rounding of the moon.

JACK TELL.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE RECLAIMED.

It was a bright and beautiful summer evening. All nature seemed to

speak the language of peace and joy; the birds warbled in the groves,

the gentle breezes sported among the lofty trees, and all objects wore

the soothing aspect of that benevolent spirit who had spread them

before the eye of man. While indulging the pleasing sensations which

scenes like this never fail to inspire, my attention was directed to

an elegant mansion situated on the opposite hill, and my companion

asked whether I had ever heard the history of its present inmates. To

my reply in the negative, he remarked, that being personally

acquainted with the family, and knowing their history, he would relate

it, aware of the deep interest I felt in every thing which bore any

relation to the subject, to which the narrative will afford a

sufficient clue.

In the summer of 1824, Mrs. Loraine removed to this neighborhood with

two children, a son and a daughter; the former twelve, the latter ten

years of age. Her husband alike distinguished for talents and humanity

in his medical profession as well as social relations, had died during

the previous autumn in New Orleans, where he had removed shortly after

his marriage with Miss Allen, who was adorned with the virtues and

graces which are requisite to make the amiable wife, the prudent

mother, and valuable friend. Deeply affected at the loss of a husband

tenderly and deservedly beloved, and being herself a native of

Virginia, and having relations in this county she resolved to remove

to her native spot; preferring the retirement of the country to the

gaieties of a city, not only on her own account, but also on that of

her children. A young lady who had been for several years the

instructress of her two children, agreed to accompany her and continue

their education till such time as it might seem advisable to employ

more extended means of instruction for one or both. In Miss Medway

were happily blended a strong and energetic mind, a correct judgment

and taste, affectionate heart, polished manners, and an education

liberal and elegant. Born to high expectations, reared in the lap of

wealth and indulgence, _loving_ and _beloved_, a cruel tide of

misfortune deprived her of all, and threw her at the age of nineteen,

poor and dependant, on a cold and unfeeling world. But why descend to

particulars which intercept the thread of our narrative? Of her much

remains to be told, which you yet will hear, but for the present let

it suffice to say, that in this state of sorrow Dr. Loraine became her

friend and bountiful benefactor. At this retired and beautiful spot,

the minds of William and Lavinia were not only expanded by the

faithful care of their mother and tutoress in literature, but in the

richer and far more valuable lessons of virtue, which were daily

enforced by precept and example. Six years rolled round, and found

little change in the domestic circle. William was now eighteen, and

his mother determined to enter him the ensuing session at the college

of ----, in order to prepare him for the study of that profession in

which his father had excelled, and for which he seemed peculiarly

adapted by the tender benevolence of his heart, and the discriminating

powers of his mind. In William Loraine were strangely blended the

softness and gentleness of woman, with the noble firmness and

independence of man. Beloved by all who knew him, and reared up in the

precincts of his mother's influence, it was not unreasonable to

believe that he had grown sufficiently strong in the theory and

practice of virtue, to stand uncontaminated, among the vices and

follies of a collegiate life. But alas! how often is the morning which

dawned in cloudless beauty soon succeeded by storm and tempest; and

the bud which promised beauty and fragrance, withered ere it expands

to maturity: and how often, thus linger on the bright visions of fancy

and hope, while before us lie the sad realities of life.

With many tears, and tender caresses, and regrets, William left his

peaceful happy home, to mix with strangers in a distant state. Deeply

did he feel the trial, and while his mother's tender and ardent

benediction and admonitions sounded in his ear, the tear of love and

promised obedience trickled down his manly cheek. Soon after his

introduction to the beings with whom he was to associate, he resolved

to watch for awhile the conduct of all the students, and choose for

his friend that youth whose feelings and conduct most nearly accorded

with his own views and intentions. Nor did he wait long ere he found

an object to love and confide in. There is in the heart of all a

desire for friendship which nothing can satisfy but the belief that it

is possessed. Various are the properties which may lead to a selection

of the object in different minds, but congeniality in some respects is

almost indispensable to the formation of friendship. James Drayton, of

South Carolina, seemed to the confiding heart of William, the very

being he had sought. In James Drayton was presented a union of the

most opposite traits of character, {669} yet so blended as to almost

add effect and interest to each other. Singularly handsome, of

polished and elegant manners--of a gay disposition, but a deeply

reserved and shrewd mind--generous to a fault, and possessing every

facility for the gratification of every wish--ardent but injudicious

in attachments, and above all of a memory which required no exertion

to make a conspicuous figure in his studies, he was at once beloved,

envied, flattered, and caressed. In such a being the innocent heart of

William confided, and to imitate him and gain his affection,

constituted his great delight. Nor were his affections unreturned.

Drayton loved him with a passion at once impetuous and sincere.

Pleasures were but half enjoyed when William Loraine was not a

participant, while his presence rendered pleasant scenes otherwise

unpleasing. Twelve months rolled round and found their hearts fondly

united, not only by scenes of profitable research and benevolent acts,

but also by the baneful yet fascinating pleasures of wildness and

dissipation. The regular examination which as usual concluded the

collegiate year, was to them a time of real and almost unalloyed

pleasure. Distinguished in their various studies, and improved by

their teachers for moral deportment and dutiful demeanor, generally

beloved by their companions, few youths seemed to enjoy a more

enviable lot. It was determined that James should accompany William to

Virginia, to spend the vacation at Roseville, with his friends and

relations. Accordingly the day after the close of their examination,

they took seats in the stage, and in about eight days arrived at the

lovely spot. In silence we pass the meeting scene, and all the usual

events which mark such periods, the welcome given the friend of their

William, and the joy felt by all who knew the amiable inmates, at

again seeing him among his friends. Time had dealt bountifully with

Lavinia, and to the eye of her brother, every day had added to her

charms, since they parted.

James saw her with admiration and delight. True she was young, being

little over sixteen, but to the playful innocence of the child, was

added the grace and dignity of manners, befitting the woman. She was

not strictly beautiful, yet a spell seemed thrown around her, that

insensibly drew the hearts of all who lingered in her presence. Tall

and elegantly formed, her dark brown hair hung in natural ringlets on

her white neck, the rose and lily mingled their choicest tints on her

cheek, while her full dark eye spoke the strong and polished mind, the

soft and innocent heart that illuminated it. Her features were not

what the connoisseur would term unexceptionable, while the less

critical observer would almost declare them perfect. Such was the

_person_ of Lavinia: but who can paint the endowments of her heart and

mind? the casket was indeed pleasingly garnished, but the jewel within

was of transcendent brightness. To the enthusiastic mind of Drayton,

she was a being of unearthly mould; and while he almost gave to her

his adoration, it was blended with a serious awe. In Lavinia Loraine

he beheld a christian, and while he loved the woman he feared to

approach what he deemed the saint. We have said Drayton was wild and

dissipated: but it was not that grosser kind of dissipation which is

visible and disliked by all. He loved the social card table and

glass--the night spent in folly and mirth--but morning found him in

the path of the gentleman, pure in honor, and unstained in truth.

William too loved the pleasures of his friend, and though he dipped

deep in the gilded pool that allured him to its banks, he found it

bitterness in the end. His mother's tender admonitions sounded in his

ears--his sister's kind counsels, and the earnest appeals of his

beloved friend Miss Medway, turned every cup to gall. Yet still he

went on, and vainly hoped to find a solace in the thought, that to

them he was a moral and religious youth. Two months flew on rapid

wing, and the two young men were again to return to the college.

With many swelling emotions William left the maternal roof, and with

many tender regrets bade adieu to the friends who had welcomed him to

their mansion. But James felt what his proud soul could not own even

to itself. He felt he left his heart with one who gave only friendship

in return; whom he must honor and adore, feeling he could never be

beloved, and for once the thought of his unworthiness of such a being

darted with painful sensations through his heart. He knew he was not

what the pure and pious mind of Lavinia would choose for a companion,

and feeling his inferiority he had not dared to breathe his flame.

Sadly he entered the halls he lately left, the gayest of the

gay--coldly he received the greetings of his collegiates, and with

loathing opened the learned volume it was his duty to explore. Even to

William he was altered. He avoided his presence as though it conjured

up some phantom to torment. Grieved at this change, William sought

some means to draw from him the cause of his altered appearance and

manner, but sought in vain. Six months at length passed by, and he

gradually began to assume his former self. Again William was his

favorite companion, and again they mingled in the same seductive joys.

Gradually intemperance was seizing upon them, and in like manner they

were becoming dead to the ennobling feelings of the heart.

The next vacation came. They still wore a mask that few could

penetrate: again honors were awarded them, and William was now to

accompany his friend to South Carolina. James welcomed him with feasts

and revelry: his parents poured out the richest allurements to joy and

indulgence. He seemed to be in Elysian fields, and almost forgot the

quiet and rational delights of his own home. Splendid profusion marked

the whole domain, while races, balls, and the like amusements filled

up every hour.

Yet even here could _James_ find room for ennui. He would sometimes

stroll away from all, and seem lost in a deep and painful reverie. He

appeared to enjoy few of the objects around them, and although he

loved his parents, he avoided their presence, as though he dreaded to

meet their scrutiny. With pleasure he welcomed the day that he was to

be again seated among his books and papers--not that he delighted in

their pages, but they drew his mind from other thoughts.

In six months the two young men were to complete their course, and

James resolved then to visit Roseville again, and see the object of

his ardent love. Their course is finished--they went together--and

once more the heart of Drayton felt a gleam of joy. He saw Lavinia

more beautiful than ever, and fondly fancied she was less indifferent;

but he was still unhappy--he felt that he had been unworthy of

her--that he had been seducing {670} the heart of her brother from the

path of piety she trod--and that he was endeavoring, by deep

dissimulation, to win a being free from guile, and who knew vice but

to detest it. Lavinia saw her William changed. She heard the unguarded

expressions of profanity that sometimes escaped his lips; she saw him

disposed to leave the family hearth, and go she knew not whither--yet

feared to ask; she saw the smile of contempt that curled his lip when

religion was the theme of conversation; nor could she fail to see that

the society of his family was a painful restraint.

Young Drayton, deeply skilled in dissimulation, had as yet retained

the esteem of Mrs. Loraine and Miss Medway, while the heart of Lavinia

had owned his fascinating power. He saw he was not to her an object of

indifference. The glowing cheek and downcast eye, when _he_ approached

her, he could not fail to understand. Six weeks he remained at

Roseville, ere he dared to breath to Lavinia the love that glowed in

his bosom. One lovely evening, after a long conflict between

inclination, hope and fear, he determined to pour out his heart, and

hear from her own lips that doom which would either seal his weal or

woe. According to his determination, he proposed a walk on the banks

of the river, to which she reluctantly acceded. He then informed her

of the ardor of his affection, and urged his suit with such address,

that the heart of Lavinia almost resisted the voice of prudence and

duty. But the conflict was to be but short, as the impetuous youth

would hear of no postponement. Lavinia discarded him; but not without

candidly acknowledging, that his want of true morality, proper

sobriety and religion, (facts long suspected, but recently ascertained

beyond a doubt,) had induced her to relinquish the hand of the only

man she had ever loved. In vain he attempted to shake her resolution;

and the next morning's sun rose not, till he was far from the hitherto

happy Roseville.

When Lavinia arose, she was handed the following note:

"_Lavinia!_--A fond, a long, an eternal adieu. I leave you, and with

you, all I ever valued or loved. I go where none will know my sorrow

or my shame. Lost to all that made my life desirable, I go--where--it

matters not what I may become. May you be happy, if the thoughts of my

misery will allow it. _You_ deserve it--_you_ are virtuous; but as for

me, I am only left to drink _that cup_ of misery which a life of

dissipation never fails to prepare for its votaries. Your brother's

principles I have corrupted; and, wretch that I was, who have madly

sought to unite an angel to a demon. Oh! Lavinia, I deserved you not.

You are born to bless, and to be blessed--and I, alas! to curse, and

to be cursed. _Farewell_--again _farewell!_--but know, that while life

and memory last, you will be dear to the heart of the wretched

JAMES DRAYTON."

The heart of Lavinia bled over every line of that impassioned note.

She saw her brother changed from what he once had been--her mother's

cheek pallid--and the fond friend and instructress of her youth

sharing the sorrows of all.

Four years rolling round, brought to her many admirers--but to her

they talked of love in vain. William had married a lovely, wealthy

girl--but was bowing her happy spirit by his folly and extravagance.

Her mother was gradually sinking; and but for the stay of religion,

_she_ too would have sunk under the pressure of her sorrows--but he

whose promises she trusted, never forsook those who lean on his

almighty arm. Renowned for piety and benevolence, beloved, admired,

she moved around the circle of her acquaintance like a spirit of light

and peace. But her youthful attachment haunted her riper years--of

James no tidings had been heard--vain had proved her numerous

endeavors to learn his fate. She was one day alone, when a young man

of fine appearance knocked at the door. She arose and admitted him,

when he asked if she had ever known a Mr. Drayton. To her reply in the

affirmative, he arose and presented her the following letter, which

she no sooner took, than bowing, he wished her a happy evening, and

withdrew. Hastily she broke the seal, and read as follows:

"Will Lavinia now remember him whom once she knew, and who gave to her

the only sincere portion of his nature which he possessed? Does she

remember him whose follies and vices removed him from her and

happiness? Yes, she cannot have forgotten the once wretched, but now

comparatively happy Drayton. But you shall know what I owe you, and

though I may be disregarded, you will joy that you have saved a being

from misery and disgrace. But to my narrative.

"The day I left you, I resolved to join some lawless band, and strike

your heart with sorrow by your hearing of my crimes. But the thought

of your piety and virtue, were like a mountain between me and crime. I

went from place to place, but found no peace. Home I dreaded to

approach; but after three months of wandering, determined again to

behold my parents, and fix on some course of conduct. I went--my

father was on his death-bed. His illness was augmented by anxiety for

my return, as he had not heard from me since I left Roseville. I

received his dying blessing; and in less than two months my mother lay

beside him. Watching and grief had been too much, and perhaps the

folly of her son added another mortal wound. I was now left sole

master of about fifty thousand dollars, and with it a heart almost

lost to virtue. I sold out my lands, &c., vested nearly all the amount

in stock, and embarked for the Indies, determined to see my native

land no more. Tossed on the wide ocean, I was surrounded by ten

thousand dangers, more lawless in feeling than the billows around,

beneath, above me. I cared for nothing--regarded nothing--and often

hoped to find a watery grave. A storm arose--we were shipwrecked--and

the near approach of death brought with it the instinctive love of

life. A vessel bound to England spied out the wreck; a few only had

clung to its ruins. I was taken on board, and after a voyage of a few

days was landed at Liverpool. I was then an altered man; five days of

hunger, cold and suffering had brought me to reason. I had thought of

what had caused all the woes I then endured. I thought of Roseville,

and of you--of my native land, and all it once contained; _they_ were,

I felt, lost to me, and I sunk into despair. On board the English

vessel I had found a pious Quaker and his family. I now longed again

to behold them. Having sought them in vain in Liverpool, I advertised

for tidings of them; and hearing they {671} were in London, I went

thither and found them. They received me like a child, and to them I

related my history and my misery. They pointed out to me the only

means of present and future happiness. I thought of you, Lavinia, and

of your frequent, modest and affectionate exhortations to your brother

and myself, to seek the pearl of matchless price. I resolved to strive

to win the smile of heaven, and to give up all on earth.

"America I never expected again to behold, but the joys of religion to

seek till life was o'er. Yes, often in the anguish of despair, I

recollected some passage you had marked in the Bible I took as I left

the house at Roseville for the last time. It lay on your work-table; I

knew you loved it--I took it to give you a pang. I read it to

cavil--to disbelieve. I was tempted to burn it; but it had been yours,

and I could not give it up. In the horrors of the storm, I kept it

near my heart. It raised my hopes--for I felt that though I had

despised its truths, _they_ were still immutable. Even now I have

it--dear, precious volume. But I have wandered from my narrative.

"After many months of struggling--sometimes for truth, then to forget

it--I at length gave up all as lost, and in anguish sought my friend.

He bade me look to him who alone could save. I looked with faith--I

seized the promises--I was blessed. Yes, Lavinia, I felt what was

worth a world. I immediately resolved to engage in business, and not

return to America, till I had tested the truth of my present feelings.

I entered into a life of activity. I read and grew in knowledge, and I

trust in grace. I thought of you, but feared to trust my heart. You

had been, and might be again its idol. I resolved to tear it from the

throne I had vowed to give to God. But I could not forget. Three years

had at length rolled round since we had parted. You were, I doubted

not, another's. But for me, I could not love again. I consulted my

friend, who had returned to America, as to what course I should take.

He advised me to return. Of my fortune I had not heard; but I was able

to defray the expenses of my voyage. I left London; four months ago I

landed in New York. From thence I went to Philadelphia--remained a

month with the Quakers--thence to South Carolina, and was joyfully

received by all except the 'nearest of kin.' Of you I could hear

nothing. William I heard was married, and wild enough. I sent my

friend Mr. Alston to Virginia. He heard you were single--saw you at

church--heard the whole history of your family. He wrote me; I came to

----. He is the bearer of this. I there await an answer, saying

whether or not you will again behold your ever faithful

J. DRAYTON."

Immediately after she concluded this interesting epistle, she poured

out her heart in praise to God for preserving and reclaiming him for

whom she had so often wept and prayed, and whom she had loved with

unaltered fervor. She then hastened to communicate the glad tidings to

her mother and Miss Medway, and to despatch a servant to the village

to bring to Roseville the still dear Drayton. He came. Again he beheld

the being he so long had loved. Again he saw William, and exercised

his former influence--but in a holier channel. You can imagine the

scene--the mutual relations--the ensuing courtship, and the result.

Yes, my friend, Lavinia is the wife of Drayton. His large fortune is

now useful in acts of pious benevolence and zeal. His fine talents are

employed in dispensing good; his fascinating manners in winning others

to admire that which made him what he is. William Loraine is snatched

from ruin. His amiable mother is again blessed with duteous and

devoted children. And whence the mighty change? In this simple

narrative stands forth in glowing colors the truth of that maxim, that

the influence of the female sex is great, when enlisted either on the

side of virtue or of vice. Had Lavinia been less prudent and pious,

how great would have been the contrast; and amidst all the blessings

that have attended her through life, none diffuse such thrills of

rapture through her grateful, peaceful heart, as when reflecting on

the history of him, to whom is not inaptly applied the title of "The

Reclaimed."

The evening was far spent. My friend and myself bade each other adieu,

to return to our respective homes--but not without his promising at

some future day to inform me of the history of that young lady, to

whose eventful life he had briefly hinted. Ruminating on the moral of

the narrative, I could but deplore that the fair sex of our state did

not more nearly resemble Lavinia--refuse to unite their destinies with

the slaves of dissipated pleasure, and thereby reclaim from vice

thousands of her victims.

PAULINA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THIS OCEAN.

I've stood and watch'd the inconstant Ocean's wave,

Till it within my mind has grown to life,

And when the hoarse, loud storm did wildly rave,

I've loved the dashing, boisterous, foaming strife;

And when the angry tempest died away,

I've gazed upon its bright unruffled breast,

Till my responsive soul in quiet lay,

Just like the scene it view'd--so calm--so blest.

Wide Ocean! I have mark'd thy silvery sheen,

And when the dark cloud frown'd upon thy face,

I've felt my soul expanding with the scene,

And glowing with thy bright enchanting grace;

But when I think that thy proud billows heave

Between ten thousand hearts that once have twined,

And still to their lost friends would fondly cleave,

A pensive sadness steals upon my mind.

'Tis hard that in our pilgrimage below,

In all the storms and trials of the heart,

A friend, the only balm to sooth our woe,

That from that friend we should be forced to part,

Proud Ocean, thou hast borne a brother o'er

Thy heaving bosom to another strand;

Tho' not unfriended was the distant shore,

Still, still, it was a strange and foreign land.

My brother--if my heart could but disclose

Its warmest wish, it is with thee to be.

My brother--if the fondest feeling glows

Within my bosom, it still points to thee.

My brother--does thy heart in transport hear

The name of friends, of country, and of home?

My brother--does thy soul these things revere,

As once in early days untaught to roam?

My brother--does a hope thy breast inflame,

To clasp those dear loved objects to thy heart?

I fear the charm has faded from their name,

The bliss forgot, that it could once impart:

No, no--upon thy heart are deep portray'd

The home, the friends that thou hast left behind;

'Tis not in time's destructive power to fade

Those generous feelings from a noble mind.

J. M. C. D.

{672}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

DISSERTATION

On the Characteristic Differences between the Sexes, and on the

Position and Influence of Woman in Society.

No. III.

_Resignation--Fortitude_.

In my first number I described woman as modest and timid, and man as

bold and courageous, and endeavored to explain the causes of this

characteristic difference between them. In the same number, however, I

showed that so strong are the humane feelings of woman, so powerful

are her kindly sympathies, that under peculiar circumstances she will

sometimes conquer all the weaknesses of her nature, triumph over all

opposing obstacles, and finally carry consolation and relief to man,

when overwhelmed by misfortunes of so appalling a character as even to

intimidate the hardier sex, and keep them at a distance. In my last I

pointed out the religious differences between the sexes together with

their causes, and the subject naturally invites me to compare them

together in relation to their _fortitude and resignation_ under

calamities and misfortunes.

I think there can be no doubt that woman is generally more resigned

than man under any very severe infliction which cannot be avoided. Her

calm resignation under the severest strokes of fortune, has been the

theme of eulogy for the poet, and the puzzle for the philosopher, from

the earliest times to the present. She who in her "hours of ease" is

so timid, so shrinking, so fearful of even a shadow, has always been

found in the dark hour of adversity to bear up with more fortitude and

resignation against the tide of woe than man. This character belongs

to woman even in the most savage state. She supports, in that state,

misfortunes both physical and moral with more resignation than man.

Ask, says Gisborne in his "Duties of Woman," among barbarians in the

ancient and the modern world who is the best daughter and wife, and

the answer is "she who bears with superior perseverance the

vicissitudes of the seasons, the fervor of the sun, the dews of

night." In fine, she who is most resigned and meek under the heavy and

intolerable burthen which is ever placed upon her.

Physicians tell us that woman supports sickness, pain and suffering,

much better than man. We are told that in the great earthquake in

Calabria, in 1783, which destroyed 40,000 persons, there was a very

noted difference between the men and women in regard to their

resignation. The very bodies of the sexes dug from the ruins marked

the difference in this respect between them--those of the women

exhibited calmness and resignation in the hour of death--their arms

were generally found hanging by their sides, or calmly folded over

their breasts; all struggle seemed to have ceased before death, and

they quietly submitted to their fate. Not so with the men. Their

bodies when dug from the ruins exhibited a mortal struggle to the

last--a leg thrust out here, an arm protruded there, and the whole

body thrown into an agonizing contortion, but too clearly marked the

fearful conflict which endured till the moment of dissolution, and the

great reluctance with which they let go their hold on life.

Let us then inquire into the causes of this difference between the

sexes, and we shall find them to spring out of circumstances already

pointed out and explained. I shall therefore be very brief on this

point.

I have already said that woman is physically weaker and consequently

less capable of laborious and constant exertion than man. The latter,

therefore, occupies the front station, whilst the former takes

possession of the back ground in the picture of human society. The

former is more self reliant, more bold, more confident and active--the

latter more modest, more timid, more dependent and passive. Man

depends on his activity, his energy and his strength, for the mastery

of all around him. Woman depends on her modesty, grace, beauty, in

fine upon her fascinations to command those energies which she finds

not within herself. _Activity_ is eminently the character of the one,

_passivity_ of the other. Now I have already pointed out the effect of

this dependence of woman on her feelings of devotion and religion. A

similar effect is produced on her resignation when visited by some

remediless calamity. Her weakness and dependence, at an early period

of her life admonish her of the hopelessness of all conflicts with the

mightier powers around her. When visited by any great misfortune,

therefore, whether the work of nature or of man, she is more resigned

and patient under her suffering, whilst man in the vain confidence of

his powers is disposed to battle and struggle with fate even to the

last.

Her religion, her superior devotional feelings, have likewise a mighty

influence in the production of that calm resignation which woman so

often exhibits amid the storms and calamities of this world. She has a

more abiding and implicit faith in the protection of heaven--her

trust, her reliance is greater; and whether she be overtaken by

calamity upon the land, or on the sea, she at once throws herself into

the arms of the divinity and quietly awaits the result. Man is like

the mariner aboard the ship--he must be always on the alert--he must

trim the sails, watch the midnight blast, and steer the ship on her

way over the rolling billows. Woman is like the passenger in the

vessel. She is carried forward by powers that are not hers, by

energies that she is unable to control. When then the tempest comes,

and the sea is lashed into the mountain wave--while every sailor is on

the deck at his post, battling against the storm, she is calm and

quiet within--she knows full well that all her efforts will be in

vain--she therefore looks to heaven for aid and protection: she trusts

in God whose arm alone is mighty, and able to save, and in the full

devotion of a confiding and trusting heart, she can truly exclaim:

"Secure I rest upon the wave

For thou, my God, hast power to save,

I know thou wilt not slight my call,

For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall;

And calm and peaceful is my sleep,

Rock'd in the cradle of the deep."[1]

There is certainly nothing which contrasts so beautifully with the

restless activity and feverish impatience of man, as the calm and

subdued countenance of woman in the hour of resignation, amid the

stern powers that are at work around her. How beautiful, how

transcendently lovely does the Thekla of Schiller's {673} Wallenstein

appear in the camp surrounded by soldiers encased in iron. I borrow

from the graphic pen of M. B. Constant. "Sa voix si douce au travers

le bruit des armes, sa form delicate au milieu des hommes tout

couverts de fer, la pureté de son âme opposée a leurs calculs avides,

son calm celeste qui contraste avec leurs agitations, remplissent le

spectateur d'une emotion constante et melancholique, telle que ne la

fait ressentir nulle tragedie ordinaire."

[Footnote 1: These beautiful lines are taken from the Ocean Hymn,

published in the 10th number of the Messenger, from the pen of Mrs.

Emma Willard.]

Again, I have already explained how it happens that woman is capable

of suffering more than man in silence, without wearing even such an

aspect of countenance as may betray the internal agony. For the same

reason, of course, she has more resignation and fortitude.

Lastly, her physical organization renders her much more liable than

man to constitutional derangements, to periodical sickness, and

physical infirmities of all descriptions. Disease gradually inures the

mind to resignation and patience, and at last teaches us to bear with

fortitude all the ills we have. "We seldom," says Bulwer, "find men of

great animal health and power, possessed of much delicacy of mind.

That impetuous and reckless buoyancy of spirit which mostly

accompanies a hardy and iron frame, is not made to enter into the

infirmities of others;" and he might well have added, is not made to

bear its own infirmities and calamities with resignation and

fortitude, when at last overtaken by them. It is well, perhaps, in the

order of nature, that we should be afflicted sometimes. It improves

all our sensibilities, and strengthens our patience and resignation,

to have our thoughts occasionally directed to

"The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave,

The deep damp vault, the darkness, and the worm."

"Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco," is the noble motto which

disease and infirmity have written on the heart of many a female.

Having thus cursorily pointed out the causes of the superiority of

woman in regard to the resignation and fortitude with which she bears

misfortune, I cannot refrain from indulgence in a few remarks on the

admirable adaptation of the sexes to each other in this particular.

There is nothing more grateful to the feeling of piety, than to be

able to trace out in the works of nature, such adaptations as not only

mark the intelligence and unity of divinity, but proclaim in language

as clear as revelation itself, his unbounded benevolence and goodness.

It is this superior resignation and fortitude of woman, which so well

befits her to be the comfort and support of man in the hour of

remediless misfortune. Man is necessarily an active, restless,

energetic, impatient being. This character is generated by the

functions which he has to discharge in this world. He must not too

soon retire from the conflict. He must not bear too calmly and

quietly, the misfortunes and ills of this life. He must arouse

himself, and be in action. He must oppose and conquer all the

obstacles around him. In the beautiful language of one of the

ancients, "he must remember that nature has not intended him for a

lowspirited or ignoble being, but brought him into life in the midst

of this vast universe, as before a multitude assembled at some heroic

solemnity, that he might be a spectator of all her magnificence, and a

candidate for the high prize of glory." Under these circumstances

resignation and patience could not, perhaps ought not to have been

prominent traits in his character. Woman, however, moves in a

different sphere, and acquires, of course, a different character. Her

resignation and fortitude not only supports herself but man likewise,

amid the calamities of the world. "As the vine," says Irving, "which

has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by

it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifled by the

thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up

its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by providence, that

woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier

hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden

calamity, winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature,

tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken

heart."

It is in the conjugal state where all the kind and humane attributes

of woman are augmented and softened by the mighty influence of human

love, that we most frequently behold her supporting and cheering her

partner, when visited by the rough blasts of adversity; and sometimes,

when all hope on this side the grave has fled, when his doom is fixed,

and disease or the execution of the law is quickly to hurry him into

another world, we find woman still his dearest solace, sometimes

encouraging him by examples which mark so much devotion, so much

self-sacrifice, as frequently to rise into the region of the moral

sublime. It is well known that the stoic religion of the ancients

justified suicide, when the individual, after a due consideration of

all the circumstances, came to the conclusion that he had fulfilled

all his more glorious destinies on earth. Hence it was frequently

considered a duty incumbent on man to put an end to his existence,

when calamity and misfortune seemed to mark him out as a nuisance on

earth. Hence, too, according to Dr. Smith, this religion may be

considered as "the noblest death-song ever sung by man." We must go

back then, to antiquity, when this religion was prevalent, and of

course when suicide was justified, to see what woman is capable of

doing to console or encourage her husband in the midst of his

calamities.

Pliny the younger, tells us of a neighbor, in the humbler walks of

life, who was visited by a loathsome, painful disease, of an incurable

character. Himself and wife came to the conclusion that it would be

better for him to end his existence; and in order that she might

encourage him to execute this resolve, she determined to die with him.

The death which she chose, was truly characteristic of that devoted

affection which she had so constantly felt for him whilst alive. She

was bound in his arms, and in this condition they precipitated

themselves from a window into the sea beneath. Montaigne seems to have

been particularly struck with this act of heroism on the part of a

female who was of an humble and obscure family, and remarks, that

"even amongst that condition of people, it is no very new thing to see

some examples of uncommon good nature."

----"Extrema per illos

Justitia excedens terris vestigia facit."

Seneca, the philosopher and tutor of Nero, was condemned to death by

his pupil, in the decline of life, after having married Pompeia

Paulina, a young and noble Roman lady, who loved and was loved

devotedly by him. She too, in the plenitude of her grief and

affection, nobly determined to die with her husband, and {674} thus to

encourage him by her example, quietly but firmly to bear the last

struggle of humanity. She, however, was saved, after having opened her

veins, by the emissaries of Nero, who feared the effect which this act

of self-immolation might produce on the excitable populace of Rome.

Plutarch, in one of his most interesting Dialogues, makes Daphneus

assert that there is something divine in the love of woman, and

compares it to the sun that animates all nature. He places the

greatest felicity in conjugal love, and gives us as an

exemplification, the very interesting tale of the adventures of

Eppopina, which passed before the eyes of Plutarch, as he was at that

time living in the house of Vespasian. Sabinus, the husband of

Eppopina, being vanquished by the troops of the Emperor Vespasian,

concealed himself in a deep cavern between Franche Compté and

Champagne. The unbounded affection of Eppopina and her untiring

researches, soon enabled her to find the hiding place of him who

commanded all the affections of her heart. She determined to be the

consoler and the comforter of her husband, who was buried from the

world. She accordingly shut herself up with him, attended on him in

that dark cavern for many years, and bore children whilst there; and

all this she encountered for his sake. When brought before Vespasian,

who was astonished at her heroism and fortitude, she said to him, "I

have lived more happily under ground, than thou in the light of the

sun, and in the enjoyment of power."

But one of the most celebrated examples on record, of the ardent

desire of woman to console and encourage her husband in the dismal

hour of despair, is furnished by Arria, the wife of Cecina Pætus. This

Pætus, after the defeat by the troops of the Emperor Claudius of the

army of Scribonianus, whose party he had espoused, was condemned to

death by the same emperor. It was the custom under the emperors, to

leave condemned individuals to terminate their existence themselves,

provided they could have the resolution to do it. Pætus wavered and

hesitated. The dreadful struggle which it cost him, made a deeper

impression upon the devoted and tender heart of Arria than even the

sentence of death had inflicted. After caressing and encouraging him

by the most tender offices to nerve himself to the act, she took the

poniard which he wore by his side, and exclaiming, "Pætus, do thus!"

she plunged it into her own bosom; then drawing it from the reeking

wound, she presented the dagger to her husband "with this noble,

generous, and immortal saying:" _Pæte non dolet!_ "Pætus, it is not

painful!"[2]

[Footnote 2: This death has afforded Martial the subject of one of his

most elegant epigrams, which has been thus rendered:

"When to her husband Arria gave the sword,

Which from her chaste, her bleeding breast she drew,

She said, 'My Pætus, this I do not feel;

But, oh! the wound that must be made by you!'

She could no more--but on her Pætus still,

She fix'd her feeble, her expiring eyes;

And when she saw him raise the pointed steel,

She sunk--and seem'd to say, 'Now Arria dies!'"]

Such instances as these we do not find in modern times, because the

introduction of a more humane and rational religion, together with

juster and more philosophical notions upon the subject of morality,

have taught us that under no circumstances short of _absolute

necessity_, can suicide be justified. But we are not to infer that

woman is not as kind, as tender now as in the days of antiquity, when

her religious creed did not forbid suicide. What, for example, can

show more kind solicitude, more tender anxiety about the last moments

of a condemned husband, than the letter written by Lady Jane Grey to

her husband Lord Guilford Dudley, a short time previous to his

execution, when she herself at the same time was lying under a

sentence of condemnation. "Do not let us meet, Guilford," she says,

"we must see each other no more, until we are united in a better

world. We must forget our joys so sweet, our loves so tender and so

happy. You must now devote yourself to none but serious thoughts. No

more love, no more happiness here upon earth! We must now think of

nothing but death! Remember, my Guilford, that the people are waiting

for you, to see how a man can die. Show no weakness as you approach

the scaffold; your fortitude would be overcome perhaps, were you to

see me. You could not quit your poor Jane without tears; and tears and

weakness must be left to us women. Adieu, my Guilford adieu! be a

man--be firm at the last hour--let me be proud of you." Well then

might Guilford die like a hero, when he had such a wife to encourage

and be proud of him. And who was this tender, kind, consoling wife, in

the hour of death? Her political history is known to all. Almost

forced for a moment to wear the crown of England, she incurred the

guilt of treason, was condemned to death at the very time when she

forgets herself in trying to impart resignation and fortitude to her

husband, and was executed a few days afterwards. She is described as

having been lovely beyond measure. Her features were beautifully

regular, and her large and mild eyes were the reflection of a pure and

virtuous soul, peaceful and unambitious. Yet even she could forget

blood and royalty, and all the weakness of her own nature, and the

terrors of her own execution, to impart moral courage and resignation

to a husband about to die.

Many most affecting instances of the same kind might be cited from the

French revolution; but my limits will permit me to adduce no more. I

hope then, all my readers are ready to acknowledge the justice of the

celebrated eulogy which the Duke de Lioncourt passed upon the merits

of woman in this particular--a eulogy whose justice and truth his

condition and career in life, seem to have well befitted his head to

comprehend and his heart to feel. "Their friendship," says he, "is

inviolable, their fidelity unshaken, their courage invincible. They

are intimidated by no difficulty, and bid defiance to dangers. Amiable

woman! while man desponds, she animates him with new hopes. When he is

sick, she ministers unto him; when in distress, she comforts him, bids

him live, and makes him in love with himself. And well can she sooth

and comfort him: she is all patience, she is all fortitude. The

endearments of her smiles, the melting accents of her voice, and her

bewitching softness, beguile him of his sorrows, and make his prison a

palace." Enough has been said to prove the admirable adaptation of the

sexes to each other in the particular under discussion, and to show

what a kind ministering angel woman can become in the dark hour of

adversity.

It has been truly remarked, that when a married man falls into

adversity, he is more apt to retrieve his {675} situation in the world

than a single one, "because his spirits are soothed and relieved by

domestic endearments, and his self-respect is kept alive by finding

that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still

a little world of love at home of which he is the monarch." He can

truly say, "if I am unacceptable to all the world beside, there is one

whom I entirely love, that will receive me with joy and transport, and

think herself obliged to double her kindness and caresses of me, from

the gloom with which she sees me overcast. I need not dissemble the

sorrow of my heart to be agreeable there; that very sorrow quickens

her affection." Let every husband then remember this, and never keep

from his wife his misfortunes, no matter how heartrending they may be.

Woman is always full of resources on these occasions, and will ever

submit with cheerfulness to every privation, which her altered

circumstances may demand. There is many a husband who has never known

the true character and value of his wife, until he has seen her

resignation, fortitude, and almost angelic cheerfulness under the dark

clouds of misfortune. It is then "she openeth her mouth in wisdom; and

in her tongue is the law of kindness." Then may the husband well

acknowledge that he has found a truly virtuous woman, and her price to

him at least, is far above all rubies. One of the most beautiful tales

of Washington Irving, is that which is entitled "The Wife," and owes

its great merit to the singular beauty with which he describes the

fortitude and encouraging cheerfulness of a young wife whose husband

is ruined. Women even who have been reckless and dissipated, and have

ruined their husbands by their extravagance, have frequently reformed

in adversity, and become the stay and solace of their husbands when

stript of all their possessions. It is then we may truly say of the

reformed woman in the language of holy writ, "she looketh well to the

ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness." Even

Bulwer, in his England and the English, makes his fictitious Mrs.

Thurston, after ruining her husband by her extravagance, occasioned by

vanity and ambition, consent with cheerfulness to assume the coarser

and more homely garments of penury, and forget her own proud self in

the desire to console and comfort her ruined husband. And Miss

Edgeworth too, in that beautiful romance, "The Absentee," after

misfortune had visited the Clonbronny family, makes the vain and

haughty Lady Clonbronny, who was so desirous to reside in London, and

whose very heart and soul yearned after the society of the fashionable

circles of that great metropolis, consent to return to her deserted

castle in Ireland, on the _reasonable condition_ that she might never

be mortified with the sight of the old _yellow damask curtains_ which

hung in the windows of the hall. Well then may we truly say of woman

what Cicero so beautifully asserted of the genuine friend. She doubles

our enjoyments by the pleasures which they afford her, and she halves

our sorrows by the comforts, and consolations, and sympathies which

_she_ affords us.

"'Tis woman's smiles that lull our cares to rest;

Dear woman's charms that give to life its zest:

'Tis woman's hand that smooths affliction's bed,

Wipes the cold sweat, and stays the sinking head."

_Intellectual Differences between the Sexes_.

I shall now proceed to the consideration of the differences between

the sexes in regard to their intellectual powers; and here we shall

find differences of the most marked and important character, which

perhaps have more puzzled the philosophers, and given rise to more

speculation, sophism and false reasoning, than any others observable

between the sexes. At one time a spirit of gallantry and blind

devotion, at another time of revenge and jealousy, has mixed itself

more or less with the spirit of speculation upon this subject, and of

course warped and biassed the conclusions of authors. Hobbes, in his

writings, has asserted that if the interests or passions of men, could

ever be steadily opposed to the mathematical axiom that the whole is

equal to all the parts, its truth would quickly be denied and boldly

reasoned against. It stands because neither interest nor feeling is

opposed to it. Out feelings are more or less to be guarded against in

all our moral speculations, but particularly in discussions relative

to the comparative merits of the sexes.

Shortly after the revival of letters, when the institution of chivalry

was still in successful operation, there seemed to be a combination

among the literati in Europe, to place woman in every respect above

man. The celebrated Boccaccio, the most beautiful writer, one of the

most devoted lovers, and perhaps the greatest favorite of his time

with women, led on the van of this band of gallant authors. In his

work "On Illustrious Women," he runs through the whole circle of

history and fable. He ransacks the Grecian, Roman and sacred

histories, and brings together Cleopatra and Lucretia, Flora and

Portia, Semiramis and Sappho, Athalia and Dido, &c.--and lavishes out

his sweetest praises on charming woman. We are not to wonder then at

his popularity and authority among the women of his age, when we

remember his devotion and his eulogy. His harangue against the

marriage of christian widows, did not however share the same

popularity with those to whom it was addressed, although backed by

quotations and ingenious explanations thereof, from the apostle Paul.

Boccaccio was followed by a host of imitators, singing the praises of

the sex. Throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the tide of

discussion, if I may be allowed the expression, ran almost wholly on

the side of the females. Love, polytheism, christianity, and the

worship of the saints, were strongly blended by the over-zealous

gallantry of the times, into one incongruous heterogeneous compound,

calculated to excite the smile of the philosopher, and the frown of

the theologian. Ruscelli, for example, one of the most celebrated

writers of his day, maintains the decided superiority of woman over

man. "But the effect of his reasoning," says a modern writer, "is

destroyed by the confused impression which is made on the mind of the

reader by the mixture of divinity and platonism; by blending through

the whole the name of God and woman; by placing Moses by the side of

Petrarch and of Dante; and by giving in the same page, and even in the

same period, quotations from Boccaccio and St. Augustine, from Homer

and from St. John." "This however," says the same writer, "must

necessarily be found in a country where we often meet with the ruins

of a temple of Jupiter in the neighborhood of a church, a statue of

St. Peter upon a column of Trajan, and a Madonna beside an Apollo."

{676} Throughout the whole of this period it seems to have been

ungallant in the highest degree in an author not to place woman

decidedly above man in every particular. Even in intellectual power

she was considered as superior; and in perusing the voluminous proofs

which were so industriously, and sometimes so ingeniously brought

forward to prove it, we find ourselves as bewildered as the _femme de

chambre_ of Molière, under the learned remarks of the doctor upon the

death of the coachman. The poor woman at last exclaims, "Le Medecin

peut dire ce qu'il veut, mais le cocher est mort." Whatever may have

been written or said in praise of the intellectual powers of woman

during the very gallant period of the fifteenth and sixteenth

centuries, it is now a conceded point, that under the actual

constitution of society, and with the superior education of our sex,

the intellectual endowments and developments of man are generally

found superior to those of woman at the age of maturity. In fact, the

remark is susceptible of the greatest possible extension. Among all

the barbarous nations--among the half civilized, as well as among the

refined and polished, we find the intellectual powers of man every

where and in every age superior to those of woman.[3]

[Footnote 3: I do not mean to assert here that woman has been found

inferior to man in _every_ department or modification of the

intellect; for in some kinds of intelligence she always has been, as

we shall soon see, man's superior;--but my meaning is, that in the

higher department of the intellectual powers, and in the general range

of the mind, man is superior to woman.]

It is fable alone which tells us of whole nations of Amazons. There is

no well authenticated history of any people where the women have taken

the lead, and governed the men by their superior intellectual

endowments. Of course, as already remarked, individual exceptions

prove nothing. We are here concerned with masses of individuals; and

from the foundation of the world to the present time, we find that man

has been uniformly the commander in the field; he has formed the

material of the armies; he has led them to battle, won the victories

and achieved the conquest. He has directed at the council board; his

eloquence has been most powerfully felt in the senate and the popular

assembly; he has established and pulled down dynasties--built up and

overthrown empires, and achieved the mighty and convulsive revolutions

of the nations of the earth. All the great, and learned, and lucrative

occupations of life are filled by him. 'Tis he who studies the

wondrous mechanism of our frame, the nature and character of our

diseases and physical infirmities, and applies the healing balm to the

suffering individual stretched on the couch of pain and sickness. 'Tis

he who made the law--who studies its complicate details, its massive

literature and profound reasoning, and traces out the chain of system

and order, which like the delicate thread of the labyrinth, runs

through the whole range of its subtleties and sinuosities. 'Tis he who

has studied most profoundly and elaborately the record of man's fall

and redemption. 'Twas he who conducted the children of Israel, under

the guidance of heaven, out of Egypt, through the wilderness, into the

promised land of Canaan. 'Twas a man who first preached the new gospel

of Christ at Jerusalem, before the assembled nation, on the great day

of Pentecost. It is man upon whom devolves the sacred functions of

preaching and spreading the gospel through the world. It is

"He that negotiates between God and man,

As God's ambassador, the grand concerns

Of judgment and of mercy."

It is he whose sublime and warning eloquence is heard from the pulpit,

arousing and awakening the apathy of the listless, and stimulating the

ardor of the pious. 'Tis man who carries forward, by his restless

energies, all the complicate business of that great commerce, which

binds together by the indissoluble ties of interest, all the nations

of the earth. 'Tis he who creates the stocks, charters companies of

enterprise, and works by his skill the mighty machinery of capital and

trade. And if we look to the rich and varied fields of literature and

science, we shall find his footstep every where, and see that his

labors have reared the choicest fruit, and produced the most stately

and enduring trees. We cannot then for a moment question his past and

present intellectual superiority in society.

But whence arises this actual superiority? Is it the result of nature?

or is it the result of education in that enlarged sense which I have

already explained in my first number? Is the capacity of man naturally

greater than that of woman? or are they born with equal natural

endowments in this respect? and are the great differences which we

observe in the full maturity of age, generated by the different

circumstances under which they act, and the different positions which

they occupy in society? I have already said that we have no data by

which this question can be positively and satisfactorily settled; that

long before the child arrives at that age at which we are able to

detect the development of the intellectual powers, his education both

physical and moral, has already advanced to such an extent as to

render all our deductions from mere experiment and observation

entirely fallacious. I am inclined however to the belief, that there

is _no natural_ difference between the intellectual powers of man and

woman, and that the differences observable between them in this

respect at mature age, are wholly the result of education, physical

and moral. At all events, I think I shall be able to show that the

difference in education is fully sufficient to explain these

differences, without looking to any other causes.

First then, we find that the education which boys receive from

teachers, is much more scientific and complete than that of the girls.

The latter are sent to school but a few years, and those during the

earlier period of their lives, before the development of the reasoning

powers. What they learn at school, therefore, must be acquired by the

exercise of memory alone, and not by the employment of the far higher

powers of judgment, reason and reflection. These latter powers are not

generally developed before the age of seventeen or eighteen, and in

some cases still later. It is for this reason we so often find the

mature man failing to fulfil the promise of his youth. In the early

part of our lives we learn principally by memory, and the boy with the

most ready memory therefore, is he who treasures up the knowledge

generally acquired in youth with most facility. He, therefore, is apt

to pass for the brightest genius. But it may happen that this bright

youth may never develope to any extent the reasoning powers; and if

so, he will rarely go much {677} beyond the mere smartness and

quickness of youth. Memory will ever be his principal and greatest

faculty, and with it alone he can never travel out of the common

routine of knowledge, or disenthral himself from the dominion of mere

precedent and example. On the other hand, we frequently see the dull

boy developing at the age of maturity a large share of the reasoning

power, and infinitely surpassing, in stretch of mind and depth of

research, the individual who far outstripped him in his boyhood. Every

man can readily call to mind illustrations of the remarks here made.

Newton never exhibited any very great range of faculty till he

commenced the study of the mathematics; and Dean Swift, the great wit

and philosopher, is said to have been rather a dull boy.

Now then, just at the period when the reasoning faculties are about

developing themselves--when a new intellectual apparatus is just

coming into play, by which we are capable of achieving at school, in

one or two years, more than we have done by all our past labors--the

girl is taken from her studies, enters into society, plunges into all

the scenes of gaiety and fashion, and is frequently married before

that age at which the boy is sent to college. It is impossible then,

under the prevalence of such a system as this, to give an education at

all scientific to the female. Her mind at school is not sufficiently

developed to receive such an education. You frequently find our female

teachers professing to teach the higher branches of science, such as

chemistry, natural philosophy, moral and mental philosophy, and

political economy. I do not pretend to call in question the capacity

of such teachers, or their ability to teach what they profess to do;

but I do assert that most of our young ladies are not competent at the

time they are sent to school to acquire such knowledge. They skip, at

so early a period of life, as lightly and fantastically over the

buried treasures of science, as they would over the floor of the ball

room. I have never known an individual, no matter how apparently

bright his intellect--no matter how much Latin and Greek, and Grammar

and English he had studied, who was capable, at the age of sixteen, of

mastering the abstruse principles of the philosophy of the human mind.

Such a science as this absolutely requires a development of the higher

powers of the mind, before it can be studied with any degree of

success; and that development very rarely takes place before the age

of seventeen, no matter how stimulating may have been the previous

education of the youth.

But again: not only is the female stopped in her studies at a time of

life when she is becoming most capable of acquiring knowledge, but,

even whilst at school, her studies are of a lighter character,

contributing more to _accomplishment and grace_, but far less to

intellectual vigor than those of the boy. Much of her time is consumed

in music, painting, needle work, &c. while the boy is laboring over

his Greek and Latin. I do not pretend to condemn this difference in

education. It arises principally from the opposite position of the two

sexes in society, as we shall soon see. But I would like to see a

classical education become more fashionable among the ladies than it

has heretofore been. I would not insist upon such studies at a later

period of life, when the mind might be capable of mastering those of a

higher and more useful order; but between the ages of ten and fifteen,

there is nothing with which I am acquainted that can be so

advantageously studied as the Latin and Greek. "The grammatical

education," it has been justly observed by D. Stewart, "which boys

receive while learning Latin, by teaching them experimentally the aid

which the memory derives from general rules, prepares them for

acquiring habits of generalization when they afterwards enter on their

philosophical studies." I am happy to find the great authority of Mr.

Stewart to be decidedly in favor of giving to females a classical

education. In a foot note of Vol. III of Philosophy of the Human Mind,

he says: "Latin, I observe with pleasure, is now beginning to enter

more into the system of female education, and nothing could have so

long delayed so obvious an improvement, but those exceptionable

passages with which the Latin classics abound, and from which it is

devoutly to be wished that the common school books were carefully

purged, in editions fitted for the perusal of youth of both sexes."

Not only, however, are boys confined to studies which invigorate and

discipline the mind more thoroughly than those of the girls, but they

are much more stimulated and encouraged by parents, guardians, and

friends, to persevere in the arduous, and at first excessively

disagreeable career of study and literary labor. Whilst the father is

perfectly contented with the most superficial knowledge--with the

little music, and the few graces and accomplishments which his

daughter acquires at a boarding school--he watches narrowly the

progress of his son. He stimulates him by every means to assiduity and

exertion. He impresses upon his mind the important truth, that his

standing, his career in after life, his ultimate success, all may

depend upon these his preparatory exertions. It is to be expected,

under this unequal system of stimulation, that the efforts of the boys

will generally be greater than those of the girls.

Those who have not reflected much upon this subject, can form no

adequate conception of the vast influence exerted over the minds of

students by that discipline which depends upon a well directed system

of opinion and encouragement, entirely extraneous to the school or the

academy. Those who have attempted to teach the children of savages in

New Zealand and New Holland, in the isles of the Pacific, or on our

own continent, have all borne witness to the truth of this remark. For

example, a teacher in New Zealand tells us that the first day his

scholars met they were exceedingly anxious to learn; it was a new

thing: they, and their parents too, expected some sudden, mysterious

kind of benefit which was to result from this system, requiring no

great lapse of time, or exertion on the part of the children. In a day

or two the confinement and tedium of school hours became intolerable;

the children became lazy in spite of all the efforts of the teacher.

Parents knew not the advantages of an education, and consequently did

not enforce the regular attendance of the pupils, nor stimulate them

to exertion; and for this reason the school soon became a total

failure.

From all these causes combined, we are not to wonder that the

education of a boy up to the age of seventeen or eighteen, is of a

more invigorating character than that of the girl. At this age the

girl is taken {678} home to be _turned out_, as it is termed, and the

boy is sent, when the parent's circumstances will admit it, to

college. The college education, therefore, of the young men, may be

considered as a clear superaddition to that which young ladies

receive. It is the college education which is decidedly the most

efficacious, when properly conducted, in nurturing and developing the

higher powers of the mind. The lecturers in well endowed institutions,

are generally men of superior attainments and intellectual powers. The

division of mental labor, in consequence of the number of professors,

renders each one more perfect in his department. The library and

apparatus are great advantages not possessed at common schools. Well

delivered lectures too, upon the text of some good author, though they

may not impart a greater fund of positive information than might be

acquired by reading, yet they deeply interest the attention, and

stimulate the exertions of the student; they awaken a spirit of

inquiry and research; they teach him to examine and sift all he

peruses with a skeptical mind. They break the charm which is created

by mere precedent and written authority, and furnish, if I may so

express myself, the leading strings by which we are gently led forth

to more hardy and manly explorations in the field of science and

literature. All these are advantages _exclusively_ enjoyed by our

young men, and hence, so far as the school education of the sexes is

concerned, there is no question that men have decidedly the advantage

over women.

This then must certainly be looked upon as one of the most powerfully

operating causes of the intellectual differences between the sexes.

But it is only a proximate cause, and the question immediately

presents itself, how has it happened that the young men have been so

much more universally and deeply educated in all ages and countries?

And here we are led to a consideration of the effects of that more

enlarged and general education which arises from physical and moral

causes, independently of mere teachers. I have already explained the

causes which assign to woman the domestic sphere, and all the

occupations pertaining to it, and to man the out of door world with

all the business, occupations, and cares pertaining to its management.

These separate, distinct, and widely different spheres in which the

two sexes move, as we have already observed, generate characters

distinctly marked and widely different. And it is not to be wondered

at that these characters, so totally different, belonging to persons

moving in different spheres, should require different kinds and

degrees of intellectual powers. Woman is domestic in her habits, she

requires therefore a knowledge of all those minutiæ--all those details

which can best befit her for her domestic occupations. She is more

concerned with the individual than with the multitude. She feels more

deeply interested in a mere family, than in a whole nation. Hence she

studies individual character, individual disposition, and the motives

by which individuals are governed, more than she does the general

traits of the multitude, the distinctive character of nations, or the

great and general principles by which they are governed. Woman is the

delight and ornament of the social circle. She therefore aims to

acquire that knowledge, and become possessed of those graces and

accomplishments which may cause her to be admired by all while she is

walking the golden round of her pleasures and duties; her object is

rather to please and fascinate the imagination than to instruct the

understanding. She is more humane, more tender, sympathetic, and moral

than man, and, consequently, she is more interested in the study of

the feelings and the passions than in that of the understanding and

the intellectual powers. In general she is more eager for the perusal

of all that addresses itself to the fancy and the feelings, such as

novels, romances, and poems, than for the study of philosophy and

science. In fine she is much more literary than scientific.

_Abstraction and Generalization_.

We can now easily account for that great difference which we observe

in the intellectual powers of the sexes, dependent on habits of

abstraction and generalization. Undoubtedly one of the greatest and

most useful powers of the human mind, is that by which we are enabled

to classify and generalize our ideas--that power which enables us,

from the observance of multitudes of facts and details, to seize on

those which possess a resemblance, to arrange them together under

genera and species, and thus to arrive at general principles or facts

applicable to thousands of cases which may occur in our passage

through life. It is this power of abstraction and generalization which

may be truly said to give to our reasoning faculties the wings of the

eagle. We are enabled thereby to soar to a height, and command an

extension of prospect which cannot be reached by those who do not

cultivate this power. It is the great labor saving machinery in the

economy of the human mind, and belongs in all its perfection only to a

few gifted and educated minds, capable of rising to an altitude far,

very far beyond the common intellectual level. According to the degree

in which this noble faculty is possessed, the metaphysicians have made

a division of the human race, very unequal as to numbers, into _men of

general principles_ or _philosophers_, and _men of detail_. The former

possessing minds inured to habits of abstraction and generalization,

the latter more conversant with mere individuals and individual

character, with the details and minutiæ of common life, and therefore

better suited to the ordinary routine of every day duties in the

common transactions of the world. But if I may borrow the sentiment of

Mr. Burke, when the path is broken up, the high waters out, and the

file affords no precedent, then men who possess minds of comprehension

and generalization, are required to lead the way through the chaos of

difficulties and dangers which surround them.

When we compare the sexes together in this particular, we see that man

has generally, and _necessarily_ must have, from the very nature and

requisitions of that extended sphere in which he moves, a greater

share of this power of abstraction and generalization than is commonly

found developed in the female mind. The confined sphere in which woman

moves, requires, as I have already observed, close attention to all

the details and minutiæ of the little events daily and hourly

transpiring around her. Instead of studying the general traits of

character which belong alike to the whole human family, she studies

most deeply the individual characters of those who compose her

household, and her circle of friends and relatives. Her mind becomes

one of detail and minute observation, rather than of {679} abstraction

and generalization. The intellectual eye of woman is like the pleasing

microscope; it detects little objects, and movements, and motives,

upon the theatre of life, which wholly escape the duller but more

comprehensive vision of our sex. Man, in the wider sphere in which he

moves, deals not so much with the individual as with masses of

individuals. Take for example the statesman. Is he a legislator? Then

he must make laws not only for the few individuals with whom he has

been raised, but for the whole nation. In doing this he is obliged to

discard the mere individual from his mind, and look to the population

in the aggregate. He must abstract himself from the consideration of

the minutiæ, the little details and peculiar circumstances which

operate _exclusively_ on his own little narrow neighborhood, and

attend to those general circumstances which affect alike the condition

of the whole body politic. His intellectual vision should not be too

microscopic. He must look to generals rather than particulars. The

minute vision of the fly would perhaps best survey the little specks

and blemishes that may exist on the vast and mighty fabric of St.

Peter's church, but it requires the more comprehensive vision of a man

to survey the whole building at a glance. In like manner the honest,

high minded, intellectual statesman looks to the good of the

whole--discards the more petty consideration of self and friends. In

contemplating the compound fabric of mind, law, and human rights, if

he survey mere individual peculiarities with too intense a vision he

will never be able to form in the mind one comprehensive, connected

whole with the position and relation of all the prominent and distinct

parts fully exhibited and well defined. Now there are few women who

can wholly abstract themselves from the influence of those peculiar

circumstances which operate exclusively on the circle in which they

move. The circle they live in, conceals from them the rest of the

world. The general remark made on this subject by Madame de Stael in

her _Corinne_, is particularly applicable to woman. "The smallest

body," says she, "placed near your eye, hides from it the body of the

sun; and it is the same with the little _coterie_ in which you live.

Neither the voice of Europe nor of posterity can make you insensible

to the noise of your neighbor's family; and therefore whoever would

live happily, and give scope to his genius, must first of all choose

carefully the atmosphere by which he is to be surrounded."

_Politics and Patriotism_.

We can now easily explain why woman has, in general, less patriotism,

and is more unfitted for the field of politics than man. The very

intensity of her domestic and social virtues makes her less patriotic

than man. The ardor with which she loves her husband, her children,

her intimate friends and associates, concentrates the mind within the

little circle by which she is surrounded, and clips the wings of that

more expanded but less ardent love which embraces whole states and

nations. Her _individuality_ is much too strong for the feeling of

patriotism. She is, in this respect, like the knight of the twelfth

and thirteenth centuries, who coveted individual honor and glory

alone. He lived only for his mistress, his God, and himself, and did

not like to share his glories and his honors with an army, a nation,

or mankind. Hallam, in his "Middle Ages," has pronounced the Achilles

of Homer to be the most beautiful picture that ever was portrayed of

this character (of chivalry). And strange as it may appear, the

political character of woman in general, bears a very close and

striking analogy to that of Achilles; who has been pronounced by

competent judges, to be the most terrific human personage ever

portrayed in prose or poetry. In search of individual glory and renown

Achilles consents to join the allied army of Greece, with his

myrmidons, in the siege of Troy. He receives an insult from Agamemnon,

the chief of the Grecian forces, who determines to take from him a

captive female slave. Instantly he resolves on revenge; his patriotism

yields to his intense feeling of individuality, and he sullenly

withdraws his troops from the field of battle, remains unmoved while

the Trojans are gaining victory after victory, until they begin to

burn the ships; then the security of himself and his particular

friends required that he should drive back the Trojan army.

Reluctantly he consents that Patroclus might lead forth the myrmidons

to battle, but with strict injunction to retire from the field the

moment the Trojans were beaten from the ships. Patroclus goes forth

and is slain by Hector, the great rival of Achilles in war. Then is

the wrath and jealousy of Achilles raised against the Trojan hero who

has slain Patroclus, for whom his bosom throbbed with the intensest

friendship. He now arms himself for the fight, and consents to go

forth to battle; not for any love he has for Greece, not for any

hatred which he bears to the Trojan state, but because he loved

Patroclus and his own glory, and hated Hector, who had wreathed his

brow with the laurel won by the death of his dearest friend.

Such is the patriotism of woman. Her husband and children are more to

her than her country. You never hear of woman consenting to sacrifice

her son for the country's welfare; the reverse is much apter to be the

result. She would sooner sacrifice the welfare of the nation, for the

promotion and happiness of her family. In the various political

contests of our country, it has sometimes been my lot to be present

when ladies have received intelligence of the defeat of brothers,

husbands, &c. in their political aspirations. Such defeats I have

generally found to disgust them at once with the whole subject of

politics, and almost instantly to extinguish the little patriotism

which their political hopes had kindled. It is well known that

misfortune of all kinds has a most wonderful influence in darkening

the picture which the imagination sketches of the future. Pope has

admirably hit off this feature of the mind in his allusion to the

pensioner who suddenly has his pension stopped.