"Ask men's opinions, Scoto now can tell

How trade increases, and the world goes well;

Strike off his pension, by the setting sun,

And Britain, if not Europe, is undone."

So have I known ladies, from the defeat of their husbands at a county

election, to predict more disaster and calamity to the nation, than if

an army were on the frontier or a revolution threatened from within. I

have known brother arrayed against brother, and father against son in

politics, so decisively as to attempt to defeat each other's election;

but I do not know that I have ever yet seen a mother, sister, or wife,

whose politics were of that stern, unbending character which would

lead her to vote, if allowed, against a son, brother, or {680} husband

opposed to her in political sentiments. Their affections and

sympathies for those connected with them, are sure to triumph over the

general feelings of patriotism and justice.

Woman therefore cannot make a good politician, because she has too

much feeling, too much sympathy and kindness for her friends; her very

virtues lead to injustice. Let us take, on this subject, the testimony

of a lady who is well acquainted with the whole moral and mental

constitution of her sex. "I never heard," says Mrs. Jameson, "a woman

_talk_ politics, as it is termed, that I could not discern at once the

motive, the affection, the secret bias which swayed her opinions and

inspired her arguments. If it appeared to the Grecian sage so

'difficult for a man not to love himself, nor the things that belong

to him, but justice only,' how much more for a woman." Bulwer, too,

tells us that women always make prejudiced politicians in England. "No

one will assert," says he, "that these soft aspirants have any ardor

for the public--any sympathy with measures that are pure and

unselfish. No one will deny that they are first to laugh at principles

which, it is but just to say, the education we have given precludes

them from comprehending--and to excite the parental emotions of the

husband, by reminding him that the advancement of his sons requires

interest with the minister." Again, he says, "how often has the

worldly tenderness of the mother been the secret cause of the

tarnished character and venal vote of the husband; or to come to a

pettier source of emotion, how often has a wound or an artful

pampering to some feminine vanity, led to the renunciation of one

party, advocating honest measures, or the adherence to another

subsisting upon courtly intrigues." Doctor Johnson is reported by

Boswell to have said, that in these matters no woman stops short of

integrity.

Women, therefore, whose husbands are engaged in political life, ought

ever to recollect their foibles in this respect, and beware of

yielding too much to their sympathies and partialities, lest they ruin

the political reputation of their husbands, or alienate their

affections by too much tampering in matters which do not belong to

them. Madame Junot thinks that the constant interference of Josephine

in politics, her constant, ardent desire to serve her friends,

weakened very much the attachment of Napoleon for her. Nothing so much

tormented Charles II, as the constant intermeddling of his mistresses

in politics; and one reason of his very sincere attachment to Nell

Gwyn was, that she rarely gave herself any concern about the political

squabbles of the day. She never interfered, except on behalf of her

own children and one or two friends.

But although woman is much apter to err in politics than man, we must

ever bear in mind, as some mitigation and justification of her errors,

that they arise in a great measure from those kindly feelings, those

strong sympathies, those family endearments and social ties which,

whilst they mark her unfitness for the ruder arena of political life,

demonstrate unequivocally the goodness of her heart.

Even women of corrupt hearts do sometimes manifest strongly the most

amiable feelings and tender sympathies in their political intrigues;

take, for example, the Duchess de Longueville, that bold, arbitrary,

intriguing, profligate, vain, facetious heroine of the _Fronde_, who

is described as making rebels by her smiles--or if that were not

enough, she was not scrupulous; without principle and without shame,

nothing was too much! Now "think of this same woman," says a modern

writer, "protecting the virtuous philosopher Arnauld, when he was

denounced and condemned; and from motives which her worst enemies

could not malign, secreting him in her house, unknown even to her own

servants; preparing his food herself, watching for his safety, and at

length saving him. Her tenderness, her patience, her discretion, her

disinterested benevolence, not only defied danger, (that were little

to a woman of her temper) but endured a lengthened trial, all the

ennui caused by the necessity of keeping her house, continual

self-control, and the thousand small daily sacrifices which to a vain,

dissipated, proud, impatient woman, must have been hard to bear."

Again, let us look to the celebrated Duchess de Pompadour--the

corrupt, profligate, and intriguing mistress of that weak, effeminate,

heartless monarch, King Lewis XV, whose abandoned, lewd court, is so

well described as plunged in the sink of corruption and debauchery,

and dead to all shame of decency and morality. Even she is represented

by some of the wisest men of the day, as being exceedingly kind and

beneficent to her friends, or tender and sympathetic in the highest

degree towards misfortune of all kinds, when the parties concerned had

not in any manner wounded her feminine vanity or prejudices. How

interesting even does this woman become in that scene in which

Marmontel, pleading the claims of Boissy to a pension, so works on her

feelings by the recital of the galling poverty of Boissy, as to make

her exclaim, "Good God! you make me shudder. I'll go and recommend him

to the king." Marmontel was so much influenced by her kind attentions

to her personal friends, of whom he was one, that he every where

speaks of her in the most grateful terms as one not only willing to do

a kindness, but to do it in the most flattering, affectionate and

pleasing manner, frequently adding little injunctions or

recommendations, which communicated the highest pleasure whilst they

imposed no heavy obligation. For example, when he applied to the king,

through Mad. de P. for a favor relative to a work of his entitled the

"_Poetique_," he says, "I owe this testimony to the memory of this

beneficent woman, that at this simple and easy method of publicly

deciding the king in my favor, her beautiful countenance beamed with

joy. 'Most willingly,' said she, 'will I ask for you this favor of the

king, and it will be granted.' She obtained it without difficulty, and

in announcing it to me, 'You must give,' said she, 'all possible

solemnity to this presentation; and on the same day all the royal

family and all the ministers, must receive your work from your own

hand.'"

When, however, any prejudice exists in the mind of woman, from pique

at the conduct of a particular individual, or from any cause which

wounds her feminine vanity, you may in vain expect such kindness and

sympathy. All a woman's benevolence is dried up the moment the object

of it becomes _disagreeable_ to her. Madame de Pompadour disliked the

king of Prussia, and she could never be prevailed on to do anything

for d'Alembert, because he was a great admirer eulogist of that

celebrated monarch. Racine basked in the {681} royal sunshine of

courtly favor, while Madame de Maintenon was the ascendant at court.

He happened one day, in presence of the king and Madame de M. in one

of those fits of absence for which he was remarkable, to observe that

the theatre had fallen into disrepute, because the managers selected

plays of too inferior a character, such as those of Scarron, &c. Now

Scarron had been the husband of Maintenon, and from that day poor

Racine, the immortal tragedian of France, was never more invited into

the royal presence, or loaded with the royal favors.

Not only, however, does woman's feelings, sympathies, prejudices, &c.

make her an unsafe and most partial, and sometimes very unjust

politician, but her mind is rarely of that order, from reasons already

pointed out, which will enable her to take large, and comprehensive,

and unbiassed views of political subjects. Woman's individuality is

too strong for general principles and abstract considerations. She has

too much pleasure in the particulars and details around her, to

develope much of the higher and more comprehensive powers of

generalization. She judges of the great characters who are moving

forward the mighty drama of politics as she would judge of beaux in a

ball room, or friends and relatives in a parlor. Henrietta, queen of

Charles I, is an admirable specimen of female politicians. She viewed

the characters of great men with all the sensations of a woman.

"Describing the Earl of Strafford," says D'Israeli, in his Curiosities

of Literature, "to a confidential friend, and having observed that he

was a great man, she dwelt with far more interest on his _person_.

'Though not _handsome_,' said she, 'he was _agreeable_ enough, and he

had the finest _hands_ of any man in the world.'" The same author

tells us, that when "landing at Burlington Bay in Yorkshire, she

lodged on the quay; the parliament's admiral barbarously pointed his

cannon at the house; and several shot reaching it, her favorite Jermyn

requested her to fly; she safely reached a cavern in the fields, but,

recollecting that she had left a _lapdog asleep_ in its bed, she flew

back, and, amidst the cannon-shot returned with this other

_favorite_." Well might this have been termed a complete _woman's_

victory. With such feelings, and sympathies, and judgments as these,

however amiable and pure they may be, you can never expect to meet

with the comprehensive views and well arranged plans of the great

statesman: a Jermyn or a lapdog may disarrange or defeat them.

The peculiarities and minuteness of woman's speculations may be

observed on all subjects, even on the graver and more impressive topic

of religion. Although the celebrated Eloisa was deeply learned in all

the cumbrous learning of the schools and the fathers, yet when

speaking of the apostles, she seems to forget their religious

character in order that she might express her astonishment that "even

in the company of their master, they were so _rustic_ and _ill-bred_,

that regardless of _common decorum_, as they passed through cornfields

they plucked the ears and ate them like children. Nor did they _wash

their hands_ before they sat down to table." Pope, who in his Abelard

and Eloisa, has followed with wonderful exactness, the real history of

these two lovers, makes Eloisa, when speculating on the use of

letters, think of no advantage but those furnished to lovers.

"Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,

Some banished lover, or some captive maid."

This is truly characteristic of the woman, and it manifests an order

of mind admirably adapted to the circumscribed sphere in which nature

seems to have destined her to move. But it does not suit the wide

arena of the statesman. Go, for example, into the great deliberative

body of this country, and listen to the polemical combats of the minds

that are there brought together, and mark particularly the powerful

effusions of that individual with the master mind of this country--I

had like to have said of the age in which he lives--and you will be

amazed at the vast power of generalization and consequent condensation

which his capacious mind displays. Is it the complicate and difficult

subject of the banking system which has fallen under his review, then

observe how he passes by unheeded, the petty details and minute

histories of the little institutions around him which engage the

little minds of the body, and fixes his eagle gaze on the great and

prominent points of the subject; shows you that the _general_ nature

of man, and the _general_ nature of this institution, is the same at

Amsterdam, at Venice, at London, as at Philadelphia, Washington, or

Baltimore. He points out the great and general circumstances which

lead on to the corruption and final destruction of the system, and

shows you that the straining and breaking of our banks in by-gone

times, was not the result of chance and accident, but of causes as

fixed and unerring in their operation as the law of gravity or the

force of elasticity. Or is he on the great subject of the dangers to

be apprehended from irresponsible power in the hands of a dominant

majority, then observe how his mind ranges over the history of the

past, and culls from the page of Greece and Rome, and even from that

more sacred one of Israel's people, the great lessons which they

inculcate upon this point. He shows you that the contests of

patricians and plebeians, the forcible establishment of the power of

the tribunes in ancient Rome, and the division of a modern parliament

into the lords and commons, or the fearful disputes between the _tiers

état_ and the nobles and clergy in France, all prove the same great

truth and teach the same great lesson, _that every great interest to

be safe, must have the means of defending itself_. Such a mind as this

when it fails, fails (if I may use the language of the logician) from

not attending to specific and individual differences in the

application of general principles: it fails because while leaping from

the Appenines to the Alps, and from the Alps to the Pyrennees, it does

not perceive the rivulets, the flowers, the little hills and dales

which lie beneath. Such a mind is the very opposite of that of woman.

But it may be said there are women who have reigned with glory and

lustre, and merited well of their country and mankind. Christina, for

example, in Sweden, Isabella in Castile, and Elizabeth in England,

have merited the esteem of their age and posterity. The two Catharines

in Russia, and Maria Theresa, during the long wars about the pragmatic

sanction, have each manifested the abilities of statesmen. To this

however, I would remark in the first place, that we are concerned here

with general rules and not with particular exceptions. Now the general

rule is what I have stated; women make bad politicians, unsafe

depositaries of power, and most partial and unequal administrators of

{682} justice. In the second place, you will find that the weakness

and errors of the good female sovereigns have almost always arisen

from their feminine foibles or womanly judgments. Take, for example,

Queen Elizabeth, whom Mr. Hume has pronounced to have been perhaps the

greatest female sovereign who ever sat upon a throne. It was said of

her that her inclinations and the coquetries of her sex, stole beneath

the cares of her throne and the grandeur of her character. And it has

been said, with perhaps too much truth, that if Mary Queen of Scotland

had been less beautiful, Elizabeth had been less cruel; she always

believed too readily, that the mere power of pleasing implied genius.

The exaggerated but well-timed gallantries of Raleigh,[4] and the

personal beauty and accomplishments of the earl of Leicester, made the

fortunes of those individuals.

[Footnote 4: Raleigh threw a new plush cloak into the mud over which

the queen was passing; she stepped cautiously on it, and shot forth a

smile upon the young captain. This cunning gallantry introduced him to

the queen for the first time; his advancement was rapid, and the title

of captain was soon changed for that of Sir Walter.]

This celebrated queen has been described as passionately admiring

handsome persons, and he was already far advanced in her favor who

approached her with beauty and grace. It is said she had so

unconquerable an aversion to ugly and ill-made men, that she could not

endure their presence. Her aversion to boots was very marked, and

highly characteristic of the woman. I think it is Sir Walter Scott

who, in one of his romances, represents her as having had so much

aversion to the boots of the Duke of Suffolk, who was brought forward

by his party for the honor of knighthood, as to fly into a passion

about it, and for some time to refuse to knight him in such a

dress.[5] She is well known to have been a great coquette, giving all

her suitors some hopes of finally obtaining her hand. She had likewise

a most ardent desire to be thought beautiful. Raleigh was well aware

of this excessive vanity, and made it a means of securing her favor

and continuing in her good graces. Mr. Hume tells us that Sir Walter,

in a love-letter written to the queen when she was sixty years old,

after exhausting his poetic talent in exalting her charms and his

devotion, concludes by _comparing_ her to _Venus and Diana_. D'Israeli

says that Du Maurier, in his Memoirs, writes: "I heard from my father,

that having been sent to her, at every audience he had with her

Majesty, she pulled off her gloves more than a hundred times, to

_display her hands_, which were indeed beautiful and very white." And

he says, "She never forgave Buzenval for ridiculing her bad

pronunciation of the French language; and when Henry IV sent him over

on an embassy, she would not receive him. So nice was the irritable

vanity of this great queen, that she made her private injuries matters

of state." Well then has it been said, that "the toilet of Elizabeth

was indeed an altar of devotion, of which she was the idol, and all

her ministers were her votaries: it was the reign of coquetry, and the

golden age of millinery."

[Footnote 5: In the Memoirs of the Duchess d'Abrantes, it is stated

that Madame Permon, mother of the Duchess, had a very great aversion

to the boots of the Republican generals, particularly when wet and

passing through the process of drying.]

It is true, in spite of all these foibles and defects of character,

she made a great sovereign; but it is easy to mark throughout the

whole course of her administration, even in the graver matters of

legislation, the constantly modifying influence of feminine weakness.

It was Elizabeth who granted, more extensively than any other

sovereign, privileges and monopolies to her favorites, which is one of

the worst forms which the restrictive system can assume. In doing

this, she seems to have been anxious to solve the problem of doing

every thing for her friends and pretended admirers, without disturbing

her conscience by the infliction of too much injury on the body

politic. But experience has shown that she most wofully failed by her

plan in the solution of the problem, and took by these monopolies and

privileges even a great deal more out of the pockets of the people,

than could ever come into those of her favorites and flatterers. Even

the celebrated laws of this reign in regard to the paupers of England,

in my opinion, mark the overweening humanity of the woman, combined

with a deficiency of that power of generalization, which can alone

enable us to arrive at just conclusions on so delicate and complicated

a subject. When she ordered the overseers of the poor to see that

every individual in the kingdom should be well fed, clothed and

employed, the order, although a humane one, was certainly

impracticable. Mr. Malthus asserts, that when king Canute seated

himself on the sea shore, and ordered the rising tide not to approach

his royal feet, he was not guilty of more vanity than this celebrated

order of Elizabeth displayed; but there was certainly humanity in the

intention.

In addition to the preceding remarks upon the incapacity of woman in

general for the able discharge of political duties, we may observe

that she is more disposed to despotism while in power than man. This

may be ascribed to greater physical weakness, and consequent

dependence in general. When, therefore, she wields the sceptre, she is

constantly disposed to manifest her power--to let the world see she is

really a ruler. She makes a show of her authority, precisely for the

same reason that a newly created nobleman is more tenacious of his

title than an old one, or a legitimate monarch less suspicious on the

throne than a usurper. Thomas says that great men are more carried to

that species of despotism which arises from lofty ideas; and women

above the ordinary class, to the despotism which proceeds from

passion. The last is rather a sally of the heart than the effect of

system. The despotism of woman however, very rarely, except when

stimulated by violent love and jealousy, leads on to cruelty; they

have too much feeling, sympathy and kindness to be cruel. Their

despotism arises rather from caprice, and a desire to promote the

interest of friends and flatterers, than from any regular system of

ambition and vice. Give them unlimited sway, and you rarely find them

exercising that merciless tyranny which delights in blood. Their

sensibility rarely forsakes them, even on the throne. Deny them power,

and they make monarchs as jealous and suspicious as rival beauties in

a ball room. There never was on the throne of England a more

determined stickler for prerogative than Queen Elizabeth. She was

exceedingly jealous of the powers of her parliament; and up to the

very last hour of her long life, a shuddering came over her whenever

she thought of a successor to the throne. {683} Yet Elizabeth was far

from beings as cruel as many of the male sovereigns who have sat on

the English throne.

The passion of love, however, is the most dangerous one in the breast

of the female sovereign. As I have already observed, it is the

strongest of our nature whilst it lasts, even in the breast of man;

but with woman, it is not only the strongest, but like Aaron's rod, it

swallows up all the rest. Elizabeth's lovers were her dependents, and

she was withal a woman of strong masculine mind, cultivated by an

education of the most classical and severe character, yet we have seen

the mighty influence which even her lovers exerted over her, in spite

of all her caution.

Mary, the sister of Elizabeth, the bigoted Catholic, is a melancholy

instance of the influence of even unrequited love, upon the politics

of a female sovereign. While married to Philip of Spain, England was

very little more than a Spanish province. Perhaps it was the example

of Mary which in a great measure deterred Elizabeth from ever

marrying, although repeatedly pressed to it by the Parliament. The

caricature gotten up during the reign of Queen Mary is an admirable

burlesque of the errors and weaknesses of female rule. It represented

her Majesty "naked, meager, withered and wrinkled, with every

aggravated circumstance of deformity which could disgrace a female

figure, seated in a regal chair; a crown on her head, surrounded with

the letters M. R. A. accompanied with Maria Regina Angliæ in smaller

letters! A number of Spaniards were sucking her to the skin and bone,

and a specification was added of the money, rings, jewels, and other

presents with which she had secretly gratified her husband Philip."

To see what woman may be capable of doing under the influence of the

passion of love accompanied by jealousy, let us at once recur to a

state of semi-barbarism, where but little restraint is imposed on the

feelings and passions, and where nature consequently manifests itself

in all its most horrid deformities without wearing the mask which

civilized manners and an enlightened and moral public opinion, aided

by the printing press have imposed even upon the most hardy and most

wicked in the polished countries of Europe. Among the Memoirs of

Celebrated Women by Madame Junot, we find that of Zingha, a great

African princess who ruled in her dominions with absolute sway. In the

contemplation of her character we are fully disposed to acquiesce in

the truth of Shakspeare's assertion, that "proper deformity shows not

in the fiend so horrid as in woman." This princess was a perfect

tigress when for a moment her argus-eyed jealousy conceived the least

interruption to her amours, from the beauty, or the affections, or the

accomplishments of another. We are told that "a young girl who waited

on her had the misfortune to be attached to a man upon whom the queen

had herself cast an eye of affection. Having discovered that the

feeling was mutual between the youthful lovers, Zingha had them

brought before her; and giving her poniard to the young man, ordered

him to plunge it into the bosom of his mistress, to open her bosom and

eat her heart! The moment he had obeyed this cruel order she turned to

the wretched man, who perhaps expected his pardon, and looked at him

as if to confirm this expectation. But she ordered his head to be

severed from his body, and it fell upon the mutilated corpse of his

mistress." On another occasion she had spared a particular female from

among those doomed to destruction, when perceiving a paramour looking

with tenderness upon her, she immediately recalled her executioner,

and coldly said, "take this woman also and throw her into the grave

with her companion." Such is the influence of the passion of love and

jealousy upon the female mind even in _Negro land_, and well may we

join Madame Junot in the remark, that "this memoir (of Zingha) which

is strictly true may lead to much reflection in those who so bitterly

attack the whites for their treatment of negro slaves. The latter in

our colonies have _never yet undergone such degradation_."[6]

[Footnote 6: "Add to this the horrible superstitions of the Giagas,"

says the same writer, "and our colonial slaves must have little to

regret in their native country."]

A woman in love, whilst she is willing to sacrifice all for the object

beloved, may occasionally demand all. She is very apt to be too

capricious for wise and prosperous government. A little experiment in

love matters might occasionally be of more moment to her, than the

regulation of trade, the modification of the corn laws, or the raising

or lowering of the taxes. We all know that woman is sometimes

extremely capricious and even despotic in the wars of Cupid. She does

sometimes make most fearful exactions merely to manifest her power, or

to confirm her faith in the fidelity and devotedness of her lover. Now

all this will do well enough in private life, because it chequers the

path of love with the powerfully exciting alternations of hope and

disappointment, and throws around the object of our affections all

those attractions, and all that more ethereal and imaginative

loveliness, which the extreme difficulty of attainment ever generates

in the mind. Although the lover may sometimes groan under such a

despotism, and even attempt to renounce it,[7] yet the public sustains

no injury. But when this capricious lover is a queen upon the throne,

or an ambitious aspirant for political power, then the consequences

may be truly disastrous. Rousseau tells us upon the authority of

Brantome, that during the reign of Francis I, a young girl had a lover

who was a great _babbler_. So capricious was she, and so fond of the

exercise of power, that she ordered him to keep an absolute and

profound silence, as the condition of her love, until she might

release his tongue. He actually remained silent two years, when every

body believed him dumb. Then one day in the presence of a large

assembly, she boasted that by _one word_ she could restore speech to

the _dumb_. She looked him in the face and said, "_parlez!_"

"_speak!_" when the man began to speak again! Now in this case no one

suffered but the poor man, and he had no doubt hours of ecstatic

felicity in her occasional kindness, and sympathy, and love, for so

much devotion. He gloried in the chains which he wore: he might be a

little restive at times, under the caprice and whim of his {684}

mistress, but was no doubt in all his difficulties ever ready to apply

to her the language of one of Martial's Epigrams on the whimsical

waywardness of a friend,

"Difficilis, facilis, jucundus, acerbus es idem

Nec tecum possum vivere, nec sine te."

but when such love or caprice as this reaches the throne, the people

pay for the folly. _Delirant reges plectuntur Achivi._

[Footnote 7: We are informed that during the age of chivalry, a lady

and her lover knight, at the Court of Vienna, were looking over a

palisade at a very ferocious lion, when the lady designedly let fall

her glove within the enclosure, and asked the knight to pick it up for

her. Without hesitation he leaped the enclosure, threw a cloak at the

lion, which diverted his attention for a moment, and escaped unhurt

with the glove, and then in presence of the whole court renounced the

lady and her love forever, because she had imposed so cruel and

dangerous a test of his affections.]

The poor Dutch saw but little sport or justice in those harassing

campaigns of Lewis XIV in Holland, undertaken principally to please

and amuse his mistresses, and exalt himself in their estimation as a

military chieftain. The English too saw nothing but degradation and

misfortune while Mademoiselle Queraille, the celebrated Duchess of

Portsmouth, was the favorite mistress of Charles, and by her

predilections for France, and influence on Charles, made him the

subservient tool of Lewis XIV, and England but a province to France.

And the ill-fated Protestants of the same country had before but too

mournfully lamented at the stake that England's Queen was the wife of

the most sullen, dark, and ferocious bigot of his age.

But I have said enough, I hope, to show that the field of politics

does not furnish the proper theatre for woman's glory and fame. It is

strewed with too many brambles and thorns for her delicate and timid

nature. It presents too many temptations to wander from the path of

justice and equity, to be resisted by the modest gentleness and the

unresisting pliancy of her sympathetic and humane temperament. Let her

not then be over-ambitious in politics, lest she be brought to realize

at last the maxim which is but too true--"Corruptio optimi pessima

est." Let her ever remember that she who has the ornament of a meek

and quiet spirit, as Gisborne has well observed, enjoys a decoration

superior to all the glories of the peerage. Not only, however, has the

custom of the world generally excluded woman from political stations,

but she has been excluded likewise from the right of suffrage or of

voting. Her condition in society, her physical organization, the

bearing and nursing of children, her delicacy, modesty, weakness and

dependency on man, all concur to make such exclusion proper.[8] The

_utilitarians_ say, that no evil can result to the fair sex from this

exclusion, because their interests are involved in the interests of

the males, and consequently the former cannot be oppressed by the

latter. Thus they say almost every woman has a husband, a brother, or

a father, all of whom are interested in her welfare. She need not

consequently fear an invasion of her rights, for those in power are

interested in defending them. To a certain extent this assertion is

true. But the condition of woman in past ages, and in the eastern

nations, shows most conclusively that she may be oppressed by the

stronger sex, and that her interests therefore have not been so

completely involved in those of man as to make oppression

impracticable. Well then, under these circumstances, does it behoove

man, in the possession of _all_ the political power, to guard against

its abuse--to remember that the frailer and weaker member of our race

is placed necessarily under his protection, and lies at his

mercy--that humanity, magnanimity, and even self-interest, alike

require that her rights should be guarded, and her condition

ameliorated--that she who is the delight and ornament of society, the

Corinthian capital of our race, should not be permitted to pine under

neglect and oppression, but should be conducted tenderly to that

exalted eminence whence she may diffuse her benign influence over all

the ramifications of social intercourse. And the more I have been

enabled to read the page of history have I become convinced, that the

continued amelioration of woman's condition is one of the most

unerring symptoms of the continuing prosperity and civilization of the

world.

[Footnote 8: I do not then agree entirely with Talleyrand in the

assertion that, "to see one half of the human race excluded by the

other from all participation of government, is a political phenomenon

that, according to abstract principles, it is impossible to explain."]

But although I would say that woman is not fitted to take the lead in

politics, or to vote at elections, yet would I recommend to all men in

political life, or in any other situation, generally to consult female

friends before they act in any very important matters. Their opinions

and counsels are rarely to be despised, even in politics. The

politician ought always to be possessed of their views, though he

should not be implicitly governed by them. There is a chain of

connection running through and binding together all the events of this

world, moral, social, religious, and political. The mind of man, to

act with perfect wisdom in any department, must survey all the causes

and events, both great and small, which may have a bearing either

direct or remote on the issue at which he aims. Now, although man may

be able to generalize more extensively, and take a wider and more

comprehensive view of the events which are passing around him, yet

that very generalization and comprehension of mind, do often make him

overlook those little causes, those secret motives, those nice and

evanescent springs of action, which are frequently the real causes of

the greatest events transpiring in the political drama. "It was not

from a massive bar of iron, but from a small and tiny needle," as my

lord Bacon observes, "that we discovered the great mysteries of

nature." And thus it frequently happens, that by looking attentively

at apparently unimportant passions or small events, we are enabled to

arrive at the true causes of individual and even national

distinctions. It is in this latter department of knowledge that the

sagacity of woman is infinitely beyond that of man. She divines more

certainly than he all those secret motives of the heart, and detects

more readily those delicate, invisible springs of action which so

frequently control the course of events. She is more thoroughly

acquainted with the nature and character of that mighty influence

which woman exerts over man in every condition of life in which he may

be placed, and therefore her advice is never to be neglected. In

reading the history of any epoch, I always consider my reading as

incomplete until I can peruse the histories and the memoirs written by

females. They are almost sure to fill the chasms left by the writers

of our sex. They frequently enter some of the _penetralia_ of the mind

and heart which are inaccessible to man; they perceive the vibration

of certain chords invisible to our duller optics. Their views may

often be partial, prejudiced, and incomplete, yet when taken in

connexion with the more enlarged and philosophical accounts of other

writers, they enable the future historian to form a more perfect, more

consistent, and more philosophical picture of the whole.

{685} Historians have sometimes puzzled their brains to assign a

philosophical cause for this or that course of conduct of a great

statesman, when a woman would have told you at once that it originated

from some little family feud, or perhaps from an ardent attachment to

some sweet, coy, unobtrusive, timid creature, the bare mention of

whose name on the page of history would crimson her cheeks with the

deep blush of modesty. The historian may be puzzled to account for the

sudden and injudicious march of Mareschal Villars, at the head of the

grand army of France, towards Brussels. Reader, the true cause was

that he was anxious to see his wife, who was staying in a small town

on the road to Brussels.[9] It has been said that the course which

Cicero pursued towards the conspirators in Rome, resulted principally

from the instigation of Terentia, who had her private reasons for

hating them. And the hatred of the great orator for Clodius the

Demagogue was likewise inspired principally by his wife Terentia, on

account of her jealousy of Clodia, the sister of Clodius, who had been

anxious to marry Cicero. Now in regard to all those more impalpable

and delicate causes which take their origin in the heart, the

affections, the social relations, woman is much more sagacious than

man; she sees them when they escape his vision; and consequently her

penetration may enable her to make discoveries or applications which

man would never have thought of. Hence, I repeat again, the counsel of

woman ought ever to be taken before we enter upon important events.

Dufresnay has shown that many conspiracies even have failed because

not confided to woman. And many a man who has kept his transactions

secret from his wife, has rued the consequences. Rousseau tells us

that while travelling through Switzerland he frequently found the

views and advice of _Therese_ of the utmost importance; sometimes

rescuing him from the great difficulties that surrounded him, and

which could not have been so well overcome without her. And yet he

tells us that she was not a well educated woman. The fact is, woman

excels man, as has been well observed, in attaining her _present_

purposes; her invention is prompt, her boldness happy, and her

execution facile.

[Footnote 9: This celebrated general of Louis XIV, according to St.

Simon, often turned his army aside from the great object which he had

in view, from some such causes as these.]

Even the warnings and cautions of women, for which no good reason can

be assigned, ought not always to be disregarded. They are frequently

inferences drawn from that nice discernment and tact so characteristic

of the sex amid the little incidents of life, or from their capability

of reading the varying features of the human countenance, or marking

more distinctly the altered shades of manner, even when individuals

are attempting to wear the mask of deception and hypocrisy. Cæsar's

wife, we are told, implored him not to go to the Senate Chamber of

Rome on the fatal day of the Ides of March; and although she could

give no better reasons for her solicitude than dreams, visions, and

strange feelings, yet it is more than probable that these were

produced by the acute, the penetrating, microscopic observation of a

woman's mind upon the events and characters which surrounded her in

Rome. Brutus, Cassius, Dolabella, &c. might conceal their purposes

during their daily intercourse, from him who had led the armies of

Rome to victory in Gaul, and Britain, and Illirium, and had, by the

majesty and force of his own mind, overturned the liberties of his

country, and grasped in his single hand the sceptre of the world, but,

in all probability, they were unable to wear that countenance and

assume those manners which would impose upon the more minute

discernment of Cæsar's wife, amid the troubles, solicitudes, and

suspicions, incident to a season of revolution. Pontius Pilate would

have released the Saviour of the world, and quieted a troubled

conscience, if he had given heed to the solemn warning of his wife, to

have nothing to do with that just man, (Jesus.) Yet she could give no

better reason for her warning, than that she had suffered many things

that day in a dream, because of him.

_Conversation--Epistolary Writing._

I come now to the consideration of the relative merits of the sexes,

in that most pleasing attitude in which we generally find them

indulging familiar converse in the social circle. And here, I think,

we shall be forced to assign the palm to the fair sex. The social

talents of woman all over the world, where her education is not too

much neglected, are superior to those of man. Her conversation we

generally find more varied, more natural, more allied with the

interesting incidents and events of life than that of man. She is a

nicer, and more acute observer of what is passing around her. She

treasures up more interesting details and occurrences; she is much

better acquainted with that most interesting of all subjects, the play

of the social and amorous affections; and she studies the most

pleasing and fascinating manner of communicating her thoughts to

others; hence she becomes the ornament and the boast of the social

circle.

Some persons may imagine the conversational power to bear some

proportion to the general strength of the intellect, and that, as man

cultivates the higher powers of the mind more thoroughly than woman,

he must therefore excel her in the social circle. This, however, is

very far from being true. The beauty of conversation depends on two

things: 1st. On the character of the facts, anecdotes, knowledge, &c.

which form the staple of what is said. 2d. On the manner and style of

communicating them. Now I conceive that the subjects most generally

pleasing in promiscuous society, are not those of a deeply

philosophical or abstract character, not those which require the

greatest stretch of intellect to comprehend, but those subjects

generally which have reference to the ordinary occurrences and

transactions of life; those in which all are interested, and which all

can comprehend: those, in fine, which concern ourselves _immediately_

and particularly. Grave disquisitions and lectures on abstract

subjects, are out of place in the drawing room; those who indulge much

in them may be called learned, but they are generally considered

intolerable _prosers_. The divine who is always talking to us about

_grace_ and its operation on the heart, the lawyer who is lavish of

his profound learning on contingent remainders and executory devises,

or the physician who tries to instruct us in the mysteries of animal

life, by recounting theory after theory upon the subject, are ever

looked upon as great bores in the social circle. Not only, however, is

the character of the subject of importance in conversation, but there

must be variety. No matter how important {686} and interesting the

topic, the patience of a company will soon be worn out by even an

intelligent and fluent man who will discourse of nothing else. The

most insufferable of all bores, says the author of Vivian Grey, is the

man whose mind is engrossed with one single subject, who thinks of no

other, and of course talks of no other.

So far as the subject matter, or _materiel_ of conversation is

concerned, let us enter a little into the _metaphysics_ of the

subject, and see, upon philosophical principles, how woman becomes

superior to man in this respect.

The principle of association, or of suggestion as it is termed by the

more recent writers on the philosophy of the human mind, is the great

and controlling law of the mental frame; it is that principle which

enables us to supply all our wants, to adapt means to ends, to call up

the knowledge of the past, to look into the undeveloped events of the

future. It is this associating faculty which may be looked upon as

truly the master workman of the mind. Its agency is requisite in the

action of all our mental powers, and consequently in pointing out the

intellectual differences between the sexes, it is proper never to lose

sight of so important a modifier of mental character. Metaphysicians

tell us that there are three principles or laws, according to which

the association of ideas operates. 1st. Resemblance. 2d. Contiguity in

time or place. And 3d. Contrast. Now if we examine into these three

divisions, we shall find each one susceptible of a subdivision into

two classes, marked and distinct. Thus 1st. There may be resemblance

in the objects themselves. Or 2d. In the effects or emotions which

they excite. For example, I see a man--he is like, in face and

feature, to one I knew well in France--I think immediately of the

Frenchman: here is resemblance in objects themselves. I see a violent

hurricane--it reminds me of the desolating ravages of a Zenghis Khan,

or Tamerlane: here is resemblance in the effects, and not in the

objects themselves. I hear the cooing of the dove, and I think of the

gentleness and innocence of the child. I hear a man reviling and

blaspheming his God, and I think of midnight darkness: here is

similarity in the emotions excited by the objects. A corresponding

division may be made of contrast. Thus I see a dwarf, and he calls

instantly to my mind the largest man I ever saw: this is contrast in

the objects. I see a raging, destructive lion, and think immediately

of the meek and humble Saviour of the world: here is contrast in the

effects. I see the white and tender lily on the drooping stalk, and I

think of the fiendish passions of a Macbeth or a Richard: here is

contrast in the emotions excited by the objects. Lastly, contiguity in

time and place may be divided into casual and fixed; thus I see a man

today whom I saw yesterday in company with another: I instantly think

of that other. I hear the last _eclipse_ mentioned, I think of the

place I was in at that time, the company I was with, the anecdotes

told, &c. In the first instance we have casual contiguity in place,

and in the second in place and time both. I see the moon on the

meridian, and think of the tides in our rivers. I see a magnet, and I

think of its attraction for iron; here is necessary contiguity in

time, and in the last instance in place too. Upon this last species of

contiguity is dependent that most important of all relations, the

relation of cause and effect, and of premises and conclusions.

In unison with the division here made of the associating principles,

it is easy to explain the character of three distinct orders of mind,

which will of course appear widely different in the conversational

displays of the social circle. There is, first, the _common mind_,

associating its ideas together by palpable resemblance or contrast

among them, and by the mere casual and loose contiguity in time and

place. Secondly, _the poetical or sentimental mind_, associating

principally by resemblance or contrast in the effects produced by

objects or the emotions which they excite. And thirdly, the

_philosophical mind_, associating principally by necessary contiguity

in time and place, by cause and effect, premises and conclusions.

Such a mind as the first, is most impressed with the details and

occurrences around. It never ascends to the original contemplation of

ideas and thoughts which belong to the region of philosophy and

poetry. It may, it is true, recollect sometimes, distant and beautiful

analogies, or even philosophical associations, but it is purely

because it has heard these things spoken of by others, and not from

original conception. Such a mind has no creative power of its own; as

it receives so does it pour forth, without alteration. It has been

well compared to the cistern into which water is poured; you have

nothing to do but turn the cock and out it comes (as one of our

newspaper editors recently observed, in relation to a different

subject,) "water, dirt, sticks, bugs, pine tags and all!" Such a mind

has no _productive power_ whatever. In this flood of details, you see

no connecting principle like cause and effect, premises and

conclusions, &c.--but this thing is remembered because it is like

that. This fact is now related because it was spoken at the same time

with that, or in the same place. Such an individual as this has, as

Diderot expresses it, "une tête meublée d'un grand nombre de choses

disparates," which he says resembles a library with mismatched books,

or a German compilation garnished, without reason and without taste,

with Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, and Latin.

Such individuals as these are more pleasing and amusing to us in

conversation, when the mind is not otherwise engaged, than most of us

are willing to allow. They spread before us a promiscuous feast of

neighborhood news, and like Mathews the comedian, although there be

but one speaker, they give you the _sayings_, the _conjectures_, the

_shrugs_, and the _winks_ of all the parties concerned, and thus give

to their communications quite a dramatic effect. Barbers, midwives,

seamstresses, hostesses, &c. cultivate this kind of association to the

greatest pitch of perfection. Their professions may be said to demand

it.

Such individuals, when called into court to give testimony, are

sometimes exceedingly amusing, from the pertinacity with which they

detail all, even the most minute circumstances, and when interrupted

because of the irrelevancy or illegality of their testimony, they are

very apt to begin again at the very beginning of their narrative. In

the minuteness of their remembrances they are like Mrs. Quickly in the

play, when she wishes to make Falstaff remember the time when he

promised to marry her.[10] The _Cicerone_ of Italy have generally

memories of the same description.

[Footnote 10: This has generally been adduced by the metaphysicians

since the time of Lord Kames, as an exemplification of this minute

memory, and it illustrates so well the remarks which I have been

making above, that I cannot forbear to add it in a foot note.

_Falstaff_. What is the gross sum that I owe thee?

_Hostess_. Marry, if thou wast an honest man, thyself and thy money

too. Thou didst swear to me on a parcel gilt goblet, sitting in my

Dolphin Chamber, at the round table, by a sea coal fire, on Wednesday

in Whitsun week, when the prince broke thy head for likening him to a

singing man of Windsor, thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing

thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny

it? Did not good wife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and

call me gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar; telling

us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat

some; whereby I told thee they were ill for a green wound. And didst

not thou when she was gone down stairs desire me to be no more

familiarity with such poor people, saying that ere long they should

call me Madame! and didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch thee

thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book oath, deny it if thou

canst.--_Sec. Part, Hen. 4, Act 2d. Scene 2_.]

{687} Individuals of this character are the little chroniclers of the

day. They are the little historians of the little events transpiring

around them. They form a sort of cement for society--they furnish a

species of connecting link between the past and the present. They

embalm for a few years the memory of those who would otherwise have

passed away and been forgotten. The smallest and greatest of the human

race love fame. The temple at Ephesus was burnt down for fame, and it

is the character which I have just been describing that gives a little

fame to classes that would never have been heard of, and in old age

such a being can tell the young around him of the deeds and

achievements of their sires and grandsires and great grandsires. Such

individuals as these are remarkable for very exact memories, and as

they are never persons of much comprehension of mind, it has been

generally imagined that good memories are rarely accompanied with good

understandings. Hence the couplet of Pope,

"When in the mind the Memory prevails,

The more solid power of the understanding fails."

This however is but one form which the memory assumes, and

consequently we must draw no enlarged inferences from it. Women have

generally much more of this memory than men. The sphere in which they

move, the occupations in which they are engaged, the lesser necessity

on their part for original thought and action of mind, all tend to

produce this character.

The second class of mind, according to the division made above, is the

poetic or sentimental--that species of mind which associates by the

more distant analogies and resemblances, or contrast in objects, in

their effects, or in the emotions which they excite. Imagination is

the essence of such a mind as this. It enables us to see resemblances

and contrasts where others see none. "How many are there," says Doct.

Brown, "who have seen an old oak, half leafless amid the younger trees

of the forest, and who are capable of remembering it when they think

of the forest itself, or of events that happened there! But it is to

the mind of Lucan that it rises _by analogy_, to the conception of a

veteran chief:

'Stat magni nominis umbra

Qualis frugifero quercus sublimis in agro.'"

What a scene for the enjoyment of love and friendship--what a group of

delightful and beautiful images has Virgil brought together in two

lines of his Eclogues!

"Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata Lycori,

Hic nemus: hic ipso tecum consumerer oevo."

Many have seen a starling in a cage, but it is a Sterne who in

imagination sees a captive in his dungeon, half wasted away with long

expectation and confinement. Pale and feverish, the western breeze for

thirty years had not fanned his blood. He sees him sitting upon the

ground in the farthest corner, on a little straw, alternately his

chair and bed, with a little calendar of small sticks, and etching

with a rusty nail another day of misery to add to the heap.

When this species of association is dwelt on too much the individual

is characterized by a sort of sickly, morbid sentimentality, which is

both highly unnatural, and very disagreeable. He is ever trying to

display the effects of what Mary Woolstonecraft calls a "pumped up

passion." Those writers whom Dr. Smith in his Theory of Moral

Sentiments calls whining philosophers, possess minds of this order.

They can never see happiness in one part of the world but to reflect

on the misery which is experienced in another. Is our country at

peace, happy and prosperous, than rejoice not at it, for there are

millions of human beings suffering in China, Japan, Hindostan, and

Bengal. Thompson's writings are deeply imbued with this whining

philosophy, and so perhaps are Cowper's, as was to be expected from

the state of his mind.

It is, however, the association by distant resemblances in objects, by

analogies in effects and in emotions which furnishes the mind with

perhaps the most interesting materials for social converse. Such a

mind is what the world calls _brilliant_. We soon tire of it, however,

if it does not occasionally relax, and give us a few of those details

and minutiæ, which belong to the mind of the first order in our

division. As was said of the poetry of Thomas Moore, we do not like

always to feed upon the _whip syllabubs_ we soon become hungry for

_bread and meat_.

Such a mind as the one I have just been describing, has rarely a very

accurate or exact memory. The imagination is too active for the

fidelity of the memory. Pope has well asserted, that

"Where beams of warm imagination play,

The memory's soft figures melt away."

Men possessing such minds as these rarely make good historians or

profound philosophers. They neither narrate with fidelity, nor can

they philosophize with ability. Their imagination gilds and varnishes

the knowledge they have accumulated. Events, as Boswell expresses it,

_grow mellow_ in their memories.[11] But for this very reason do they

become exceedingly brilliant in conversation, when they have the power

of communicating their ideas well. Mr. Stewart tells as that Boswell

himself was a striking exemplification of his own remark, "for his

stories," says Mr. S. "which I have often listened to with delight,

seldom failed to _improve_ wonderfully in such a keeping as _his_

memory afforded. They were much more amusing than even his printed

anecdotes; the latter were deprived of every chance of this sort of

_improvement_, by the scrupulous fidelity with which (probably from a

secret distrust of the accuracy {688} of his recollection) he was

accustomed to record every conversation which he thought interesting,

a few hours after it took place."

[Footnote 11: "I have often experienced," says Boswell in his tour

through the Hebrides with Dr. Johnson, "that scenes through which a

man has past _improves by lying in the memory: they grow mellow_."]

With regard to the order of mind which we have just been considering,

it may be said that although a few men may cultivate it to a much

higher pitch of perfection than it is generally found to exist among

women, yet taking the sexes together, it is rather a characteristic of

the weaker sex, at least in as much as the associations are dependent

on similarity or contrast in emotions. Women, taking the whole sex

together, have undoubtedly more imagination than men, especially

inrelation to what I would term the sentimental and romantic portions

of our nature. They have nicer discernment and tact, more feeling,

sympathy, emotion and curiosity of all descriptions, and so far as

these furnish materials for association, they are superior to our sex.

Now these are precisely the materials which are most interesting when

properly clothed in the fascinating unaffected phraseology of a well

educated lady. Moreover, although men may perhaps display more

originality generally in the species of association falling under our

second division, yet I apprehend for that very reason they have less

variety, and, as we shall soon see, less quickness and ease in calling

up their associations.

The third class of minds, according to our arrangements is the

_philosophical_ mind--that which associates principally by the

relation of _necessary_ contiguity in time and place, by cause and

effect, premises and conclusions. This is undoubtedly the mind of the

first quality, and much the rarest in the human family. Knowledge,

however, which is acquired by associations of this character, is too

abstruse and unintelligible to the great mass of mankind to be

interesting in the social circle, and persons who have this order of

mind rarely have the other two in any perfection, and consequently

their conversation is not of that attractive character which pleases

by its ease, grace, and variety. Individuals of this character very

rarely display a good memory for mere words and details. Their

knowledge is arranged under certain general principles, and when they

wish to arrive at the detail, they are obliged to reason down from the

principle to the fact which is arranged under it. Such a mind has

rather a knowledge of general principles, than of particular facts and

incidents. General abstract subjects rarely produce much impression on

the mind of the mass. This is one reason why divines, who have the

most grand and sublime theme to descant on, nevertheless often fail to

produce much effect on their audiences. Their subject, although grand,

is yet a general one. The vices against which they preach are the

vices of the human race. The awful judgment of which they speak, is a

judgment to come at some indefinite time hereafter. Mankind to be

moved and interested must be addressed specially and personally. You

must not come before them clothed in abstractions and generalizations.

Look to that celebrated sermon of Massillon, pronounced by Voltaire in

his article on Eloquence, in the _Encydopedie Francaise_, to be one of

the most eloquent effusions of modern times, and examine particularly

that portion which had so startling an effect on the audience as to

make them spring simultaneously from their seats, and you will see

that it was just at that moment that the eloquent divine dropped all

his abstractions and generalities and applied his subject to those

very persons who were listening to him. "Je m'arrête _à vous_, mes

freres, qui êtes _ici_ assemblées. Je ne parle plus du reste des

hommes," &c. And again, "Je suppose que c'est _ici_ votre derniere

heure, et la fin de l'univers; que les cieux vont s'ouvrir sur vos

têtes--Jesus Christe paraitre dans sa gloire au milieu de _ce

temple_," &c.

It is useless to say that men much oftener have minds of the third

class in our arrangement than women; not because there is any natural

difference between the sexes in this particular, but because ours is

placed in a situation requiring the cultivation of this species of

mind more than the other. Our professions and occupations exert, if I

may say so, a more effectual demand for the development of this order

of intellect, than those of woman. Men in their passage through life,

are obliged to examine into the _necessary_ connection between events;

they must adapt means to ends; they must attain their purposes by well

arranged plans, according to the relation of cause and effect. Woman,

on the contrary, from the nature of the sphere in which she moves, and

the character of the occupations in which she is engaged, is more

conversant with objects than with their _necessary_ connections and

relations. She is not obliged to arrange so many concatenated plans;

her mind is more alive to the perception of the objects around her,

and less to the _causæ rerum_. Her feelings and sympathies are most

exquisite, but she attends less to their relations and dependences.

She is in fine a creature of emotion rather than of philosophy.

It is for this reason that women rarely make good metaphysicians,

although their feelings and sympathies are of the most exquisite

character. Yet they are not in the habit of reflecting upon

them--arranging them into classes, according to their necessary

connections, and thence deducing the general principles and laws of

the mind. Mr. Stewart says that the taste for the philosophy of the

human mind is rarer among the sex, than even for pure mathematics. He

seems to think that there are but two names in the whole catalogue of

female authors, at all celebrated for deep metaphysical research--Miss

Edgeworth and Madame de Stael; and he deems it not unfortunate for the

world that the former was early diverted from such unattractive

speculations, to that more brilliant career of literature which she

has pursued with so unrivalled a reputation.[12]

[Footnote 12: In regard to Madame de Stael, it is proper to remark,

that although certainly an able metaphysician--perhaps the very ablest

that has ever appeared of her sex--yet you see throughout her writings

the character of the woman. Her isolated aphorisms and maxims are most

splendid; but when you come to examine any one of her productions as a

whole, you see the want of system and complete connection between the

parts. Her descriptions of our emotions and feelings are almost

unrivalled for pathos and beauty; but when she would put together the

different parts of the mind, and sketch out a heroine or a hero--a

_Corinne_ or her _lover_--she presents incongruous beings such as

nature never produces. Her mind, after all, was but the mind of a

woman--a mind that could furnish the very best materials in the world

for a philosopher to weave into his systems--a mind too susceptible of

emotion to philosophize on abstract principles--a mind that relied on

feeling, rather than reason, to guide it to truth. In her work on the

French Revolution, though certainly very able, you see how her mind is

warped by her affection for her father, (M. Necker.) You see how her

conceptions of the Revolution as a whole, are biassed and prejudiced

by too intense a consideration of the scenes and events transpiring

immediately around her, and concerning her family. Goethe seems to

think that Madame de Stael had no idea what duty meant, so completely

was she a creature of feeling.]

{689} Having described three distinct and separate orders of mind,

remarkable for different kinds of associations, and all widely

differing in the possession of that information suited to social

converse, I come now to compare the sexes together, in relation to the

second point essential to conversation, the power of communicating our

knowledge pleasantly and attractively to others. He undoubtedly is the

most pleasing companion in the social circle whose mind is of that

capacious, well stored kind that is capable of ranging at will through

the various classes of associations just pointed out, giving you at

one time connections and relations of abstract principles, or

philosophical deductions--at another, of analogies between objects,

effects, and emotions--and at another, interesting and circumstantial

details of the common events of every day life. "Conversation," says a

modern writer, "may be compared to a lyre with seven

chords--philosophy, art, poetry, politics, love, scandal, and the

weather. There are some professors who, like Paganini, 'can discourse

most eloquent music' upon one string only, and some who can grasp the

whole instrument, and with a master's hand, sound it from the top to

the bottom of its compass." Such individuals as these are very rare.

Perhaps Dr. Johnson,[13] McIntosh and Coleridge might be cited as

specimens in England, and Schlegel in Germany. Individuals of this

character are very rare, because in the first place, there are very

few whose minds are capable of ranging through the whole extent of

knowledge; and secondly, it does by no means follow, that those

possessing the information, might be able to communicate it to others

with that brilliancy of diction, and judgment in the selection of

matter and its quantity, which will insure complete success in the

social circle.

[Footnote 13: Johnson's style in conversation must have been too

grandiloquent and studied, to have admitted of that variety and ease

so necessary to the social circle.]

I will make a few promiscuous remarks on these two points. Men of

deeply philosophic minds, are almost sure, from the character of their

speculations, to glide imperceptibly into habits of abstraction, and

to withdraw their attention from the scenes and occurrences

transpiring around them, to the contemplation of that world of thought

in which they dwell. Their thoughts are not the thoughts of other men;

the world in which they live is not the world of others. A Newton,

while wrapt in these philosophic visions, can sit for hours in the

cold, half dressed, eyes fixed, unconscious of all around him; he can

forget to dine; he can, in fine, forget himself, his friends, and the

world in which he lives. An Adam Smith, while studying the great laws

which regulate the accumulation, distribution, and consumption of

wealth, can so far forget himself and the world, as to mimic with his

cane, a soldier, who presents arms to him through respect, and march

after him when he moves off; he can be present when toasts are drunk,

and know nothing of what is passing.[14] Minds of this order are

almost sure to neglect associations of a lighter character. They fail

to acquire that species of information which is most pleasing in

conversation. And, moreover, they are apt to have what are called

_slow_ memories; they cannot call up their knowledge quick, and utter

it with volubility. The process by which they hive their wisdom is

slow and tedious, depending on patient thought, and persevering

reflection. Such a mind has been compared, in the social circle, to a

ship of the line run a ground in a creek. It is too massive and

ponderous for the element and space in which it floats. It is said

that Newton was rather slow and dull in conversation even upon

philosophical subjects. Many an individual in Europe, of far inferior

genius, was more brilliant in conversation than himself, even upon his

own discoveries. Descartes, whose mind was of the first order, was

silent in mixed company. It was said that he received his intellectual

wealth from nature in _solid bars_, not in _current coin_.[15] Men

like these are better pleased with the contemplation of the solid

wealth in their possession, than with the means of making it glitter

and attract the gaze of the world. They value ideas more than

words--knowledge more than the _media_ of communication. They think it

better, as Spurzheim on Education says, to have two ideas with one

mode of expressing them, than one idea with two modes of expression.

Such men as these then are apt, unless stimulated by very peculiar

circumstances, to be deficient, first, in that variety requisite for

agreeable conversation, and secondly, in the style and power of

communicating their ideas to others.

[Footnote 14: It is said that Dr. Smith was one day present, when the

toast to "absent friends" was drank by the company. A friend who sat

by the Doctor, told him that he had just been toasted, whereupon he

thanked the company for the honor, and apologised for his absence of

mind, very much of course to the amusement of his friends so well

aware of his habits of abstraction.]

[Footnote 15: The character of Oliver Cromwell in this respect is well

known. He did not, during his whole parliamentary career, make one

single lucid, perspicuous speech. In fact, his speaking was almost

unintelligible; and yet his course of conduct, although that of an

usurper and tyrant, marks most generally, clearness of judgment, and

great decision of character. Of course I am not here considering his

moral character, which was detestable.]

Again, men of poetic or miscellaneous minds, possessing that varied

store of knowledge and thought so well calculated to form the staple

of conversation, may nevertheless, from various causes, be unable to

make any display in the social circle. They may write beautifully

whilst they converse badly. Addison's dulness in company is well

known. Peter Corneille, who has been called the Shakspeare of France,

it is said, did not _speak_ correctly that language of which he was so

perfect a master in his composition. His answer to his friends, when

laughing at his spoken language was, "_I am not the less Peter

Corneille!_" Virgil is said to have been dull in the social circle. La

Fontaine, whose writing was the very model of poetry, was coarse,

heavy, and stupid in conversation. Chaucer's silence was said to be

much more agreeable than his talking. And Dryden says of himself, "My

conversation is slow and dull, my humor saturnine and reserved." Thus

do we find that it is not only necessary that the mind should be

stored with pleasing and varied knowledge, in order that we may

converse well; but we must have besides the power of communicating

that knowledge agreeably to others--a power which is by no means

universally coupled with the knowledge.

Let us then for a moment examine into the character of woman in this

respect. We have already seen that she has more of the _proper

materiel_ for conversation than {690} man. If then her power and

manner of communicating be better, she may certainly be pronounced his

superior in the social circle. In the first place I would remark, that

she has in general much less professional bias than man. When men

arrive at the age of maturity, they generally engage in some one

profession or occupation, which employs most of their time and

exertion. Their intellectual characters are, to a very great degree,

modelled by their employments. Hence an inaptitude to acquire what

does not belong to one's business--an indocility upon all subjects not

strictly professional. I recollect once to have been a member of a

country debating society, in which we had divines, lawyers, doctors,

farmers, schoolmasters, &c., and upon all topics discussed, it was

easy to determine at once the profession of the speaker. You saw

immediately the professional bias and the professional language and

knowledge. Woman is in general, except so far as affected by her

husband, free from this influence, which is so unfavorable to that

varied and brilliant conversation suited to promiscuous society.

Again, the social circle is the field in which woman wins her

trophies, displays her accomplishments, and achieves her conquests.

The art of pleasing by conversation is all and all to her. The power

of colloquial display is her greatest accomplishment--her most

irresistible weapon. Hence, while man in general aims to make himself

plain and perspicuous, woman endeavors not only to be understood, but

to delight and fascinate the hearer at the same time by her style and

manner. "Man in conversation," says Rousseau, "has need of

knowledge--woman of taste." We are instructed profoundly in a _few

things_ by the conversation of an intelligent man. The conversation of

woman embraces _many things_, and though we may not be profoundly

instructed in any, yet we have a living and moving panoramic view

presented to the mind, which sooths and charms it by the beauty,

variety, and brilliancy of the parts. Rousseau was so struck with the

differences between the sexes in conversation, that he seems (I think

erroneously) to imagine a natural difference in this respect between

them. "Women," says he, "have a more flexible tongue: they speak

sooner, more easily, and more agreeably than men. They are accused of

speaking more. That is just as it should be; this should be considered

an ornament of the sex, and not a reproach. Their mouth and eyes have

the same activity, and for the same reason."

The occupations of women are generally of such a character as to allow

full scope for their conversational talents, while their work is

advancing. Knitting, sewing, &c. invite to a free use of the tongue,

while the occupations of men will generally allow of no such

indulgence. Moreover, the business of woman is oftener social; it can

be carried on in society; whereas that of man cannot, being generally

much more solitary. This difference in the occupations of the two,

produces a much greater effect on the social differences between the

sexes than most persons are aware of. Lastly, the greater _docility_

of woman, her greater susceptibility to impression, have a tendency to

generate more conversational talent than is developed in man. Woman,

as we have frequently remarked, is made physically weaker than man;

she is, therefore, dependent on him, and looks up to him as a

protector. Man is the governing member of the human family all over

the world. Woman submits to his guidance and direction. She adapts

herself to him, and endeavors to conform to his nature. Hence a quiet

submissiveness on the part of the weaker sex to control and dictation,

even when very intelligent, and able to act for themselves. I have

known intelligent women look up to their husbands for direction in

most matters, and with pleasure submit to their will, when it was

evident to the whole world that they were vastly superior in

intellectual endowments to those whose dictation and direction they

thus seemed to court. All a woman's ambition is for the promotion of

her husband. Her own elevation is generally a secondary matter,

because always derived from his. Shakspeare makes even the fiendish

acts of Lady Macbeth, to proceed from a desire to elevate her own

husband rather than herself. This condition of woman makes her more

docile and susceptible of impression. Her nature becomes more pliant

and flexible. At one period of her life she may be the wife of a

divine, at another of a lawyer, and at a third of a physician: and she

can quickly conform to these different natures with which she has to

deal. Her docility is far superior to that of man. Mr. Stewart thinks

that women learn languages even with greater quickness, and pronounce

them much better than men. He says Fox spoke French better than any

Englishman of his acquaintance, but he knew many females who spoke it

better than he.

Now this greater docility and susceptibility of impression, while it

admirably adapts the weaker to the stronger sex, at the same time

improves greatly the conversational powers of woman. She is alive to

all that is passing around; she sees what our duller eyes fail to

behold. She thus gathers more, and details it more vividly and

impressively. While we are gathering general and stale news, she

collects that which is more special and impressive. Every one who has

ever been in the habit of paying what are called morning visits, with

intelligent ladies, must have remarked the great difference between

the sexes in this respect.

Before leaving the subject of conversation, I shall take leave to make

a few remarks on the practice so prevalent among the married and

elderly gentlemen, of separating themselves from the rest of the

company at dinner parties and evening gatherings, to talk among

themselves on those topics more congenial to their feelings and

business. Such an abstraction as this leaves the young to themselves,

and frees them from a restraint which may sometimes be irksome, but is

almost always salutary. The elderly portion are in the habit of

excusing themselves, by saying the conversation of the young is too

frivolous for their attention; that their tastes have changed, and

they take now no pleasure in the gaieties, pastimes, and frivolities

of youth. But they should recollect that this division is calculated

to produce that very frivolity of which they complain. Separate the

old and intelligent from the young and thoughtless, and you

immediately give a loose to all the wild, buoyant feelings of youth.

Lycurgus could never have succeeded in Sparta in enforcing so

completely his celebrated system of laws, but for the public tables,

which brought the old and young, intelligent and simple together. The

young learned modesty in the presence of the old, and the ignorant

imbibed wisdom from the instruction of the intelligent. If our most

intelligent {691} men would always mingle in the social circle, they

would elevate the character of the topics discussed, while they would

stimulate the young to more thought and intellectual exertion. The

young would be improved by the instruction they would receive, and the

laudable ambition that would be exerted by the example of the old and

intelligent; and the latter would be compensated by the great

improvement which social intercourse produces on all our finer

feelings, tastes, and emotions, by the cultivation of talents which

would otherwise become dormant and useless, and the consequent opening

of new sources of enjoyment. But duty to the rising

generation--particularly to that portion for whom we feel the warmest

solicitude, because the weaker and more dependent--absolutely demands

this intercourse. It would elevate the intellectual character of the

sex, and thereby improve the general condition of society. Our wives

and daughters would become fit companions for intelligent husbands,

and the social circle would lose its unmeaning conversation and

reckless frivolity in the presence of age and intelligence.

The social circles of France are greatly improved by the free and

unrestrained intercourse of all ages together. There is no man in

Paris, it matters not what is his standing or intelligence, but has

social ambition; he aims at distinction in conversation, at reputation

in the social circle, no less than he does at winning trophies in the

field, or fame in the senate chamber. The consequence is, that,

frivolous as we consider that people as a nation, they far excel us in

the social circle, both in the dignity of the topics discussed, and

the ability displayed by both sexes, especially by the females, in

conversation. Women who enjoy the society and conversation of the

wittiest and greatest men of their country will themselves become

witty and clever. "I was talking," says Bulwer in his France, "one

evening with the master of the house where I had been dining, on some

subject of trade and politics, which I engaged in unwillingly in the

idea that it was not very likely to interest the lady. I was soon

rather astonished, I confess, to find her enter into conversation with

a knowledge of detail and a right perception of general principles

which I did not expect. 'How do you think,' said she, when I afterward

expressed my surprise, 'that I could meet my husband every evening at

dinner, if I were not able to talk on the topics on which he has been

employed in the morning.'" Let us then at least imitate the French in

this particular, certain that it will in the process of time be

productive of the most marked and happy result.

For the same reason that woman surpasses man in conversation, she is

superior to him in epistolary composition. Her letters are generally

more varied, more lively and impressive, more replete with interesting

facts and details, than those of our sex. A gentleman, in writing a

mere letter of friendship, is engaged in a business which rather

breaks in on his habits, and interrupts for a time the accustomed

routine of his thoughts and tastes. He is very apt to run off upon the

general news of the day, and commence prosing upon some subject which

we would find perhaps infinitely better handled in the public prints

than in his letter. He has no variety; he forgets to tell us of our

friends, and of what they are doing and saying. He forgets that we

have hearts, and thinks only of our heads. He omits to mention

trifles, because he considers them "light as air," when some of these

trifles might touch a chord that would vibrate to the heart, and fill

the soul with joy and gratitude. When Mr. Dacre writes to the Duke of

Fitzjames, in the Young Duke, and says in conclusion, "_Mary_ desires

me to present her regards to you"--this was worth all the letter

besides to the young duke; 'twas this he read over and over again, and

forgot his estates and his debts, while his heart was reeling with

gratitude for just this little kindness from _her_ whom he loved so

devotedly. With woman, letter writing is in complete unison with her

condition in society. The details of most interest to her

correspondents are precisely those with which she is most conversant.

She presents no mutilated picture; she gives that which delights. She

is apt to know, too, the little Goshen of our hearts, and to pay all

due attention to it. And she is sure to tell, as if by accident,

precisely the _sweetest_ things in the world to _us_. She writes with

ease, variety, and interest--because she pursues the course of the

celebrated Madame de Sévigné, (who has never perhaps had an equal in

our sex for epistolary composition.) "Il faut un peu entre bons amis,"

says Madame de S. "laisser trotter les plumes comme elles veulent, la

mienne a toujours la bride sur le cou."

I had intended, before concluding my remarks on the intellectual

differences of the sexes, to offer some considerations in favor of

improving the system of female education; but my number has already

expanded to a size greatly beyond my anticipations when I commenced

it. This subject I must therefore postpone for the present, and resume

it in my next, if my time and occupations will permit me.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO F----.

And could'st thou F---- then believe

That I had thought thy guileless heart

Would prompt thee meanly to deceive,

And stoop to play a treacherous part?

No, lady no!--I saw thee move,

Artless in unsuspecting youth;

That heart I saw had learn'd to love

The hallowed sanctity of _truth_.

Could F----'s throbbing bosom beat

Victims on victims to ensnare:

Point to the lovers at her feet,

And proudly count the captives there?

No, lady no! to honor true,

Thou would'st not--could'st not thus appear--

Triumphs like these would seem to you,

Too dearly purchased to be dear.

These, these are arts alone allied

To spirits yet akin to earth;

The generous soul with nobler pride

Spurns the poor trick, and trusts to worth.

Yes, lady yes! such worth as thine,

Which kindred worth and genius rules,

To baser spirits may resign

The mad idolatry of fools.

H.

{692}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MARY.

_Tune_.--Gramachree.

The vernal month comes on with flowers

To deck the plains around,

No more the frown of winter lowers,

Or chills the fertile ground.

The snow-white lily, nature's pride,

Now blooms in every vale,

The rose breathes fragrance far and wide,

And perfumes every gale.

The vocal thrush pours forth her note

To hail the gladsome morn,

And every warbler strains his throat,

From garden, brake, and thorn.

Come then, dear Mary, let us fly

To join the impassioned lay,

And pluck each flower whose modest eye

Just opens into day.

And whilst we view the sweetest charms

That grace the new born year,

I'll fold thee gently in my arms,

And crush each budding care.

I'll say the blush upon thy cheek

Outvies the rose's hue,

The lily blooming o'er the vale,

No purer is than you.

But soon kind nature's sweetest flowers

Will wither and decay,

And that bright glow which decks thy cheek,

Like them will fade away:

But let not this alarm thy peace,

Nor tremble at thy doom,

For though the flush of youth will cease,

Thy soul shall ever bloom.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SONG.

I will twine me a wreath of life's withering flowers,

And bind with their brightness this aching heart,

And wear a smile through the long, long hours,

As if in their gladness I bore a part.

I will seek mid the gay and festive throng,

To check each thought of the love I cherished,

And playfully murmur his favorite song,

As if not a tone of its sweetness had perished.

Tho' the flowers of feeling are fallen and faded,

Yet the fragrance of memory may still remain:--

And the heart by their withered leaves o'ershaded,

May hide the wound though it nurse the pain.

And if ever we meet upon earth again,

He shall not know it by word or by token:

For the eye shall still sparkle, though only with pain,

And the lip wear a smile, while the heart may be broken.

MORNA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMEMBER ME, LOVE.

By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.

When afar thou art roaming love,

In sunny climes where maidens' eyes

Beam bright as their own glowing skies,

Where lofty domes and scented bowers

Gleam with the golden orange flowers;

And many a column and fallen fane

Tell of Italia's buried fame:

Oh! then remember me, love!

When woo'd by the proud and gay, love,

And mirthful smiles and voices sweet,

As angel's lutes united meet

Thy eager ear, thy raptured glance,

As they pass thee by in the joyous dance,

Ah pause and think of the _lonely_ one,

Whose bosom throbs for _thee_ alone:

Oh! then remember me, love!

Fame's glittering wreath allures thee, love;

Ah, when thou bindest it round thy brow,

And heartless crowds around thee bow;

When stern ambition's meed is won,

Ah, think of her who urged thee on

To climb the proudest height of fame,

And carve thyself a deathless name:

Oh! then remember me, love!

And should grief or death assail me, love,

While thou art o'er the dark blue wave,

And carest not to soothe or save,

My latest sigh shall be breathed for thee,

On my fading lips thy name shall be,

And my dying words shall be a prayer

To heaven that thou mayest love me there:

Oh! then remember me, love!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO SARAH.

When melancholy and alone,

I sit on some moss-covered stone

Beside a murm'ring stream;

I think I hear thy voice's sound

In every tuneful thing around,

Oh! what a pleasant dream.

The silvery streamlet gurgling on,

The mock-bird chirping on the thorn,

Remind me, love, of thee.

They seem to whisper thoughts of love,

As thou didst when the stars above

Witnessed thy vows to me;--

The gentle zephyr floating by,

In chorus to my pensive sigh,

Recalls the hour of bliss,

When from thy balmy lips I drew

Fragrance as sweet as Hermia's dew,

And left the first fond kiss.

In such an hour, when are forgot,

The world, its cares, and my own lot,

Thou seemest then to be,

A gentle guardian spirit given

To guide my wandering thoughts to heaven,

If they should stray from thee.

SYLVIO.

{693}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BON-BON--A TALE.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

"Notre Gulliver"--dit le Lord Bolingbroke--"a de telles

fables."--_Voltaire_.

That Pierre Bon-Bon was a Restaurateur of uncommon qualifications, no

man who, during the reign of ----, frequented the little Câfé in the

Cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at

liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree,

skilled in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more

especially undeniable. His _Patés à la fois_ were beyond doubt

immaculate--but what pen can do justice to his essays _sur la

Nature_--his thoughts _sur l'Ame_--his observations _sur l'Esprit_? If

his _omelettes_--if his _fricandeaux_ were inestimable, what

_literateur_ of that day would not have given twice as much for an

'_Idée de Bon-Bon_' as for all the trash of all the '_Idées_' of all

the rest of the _savants_? Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no

other man had ransacked--had read more than any other would have

entertained a notion of reading--had understood more than any other

would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although,

while he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen, to

assert "that his _dicta_ evinced neither the purity of the Academy,

nor the depth of the Lyceum"--although, mark me, his doctrines were by

no means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that

they were difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of

their entire self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them

abstruse. It is to Bon-Bon--but let this go no farther--it is to

Bon-Bon that Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The

former was not indeed a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an

Aristotelian--nor did he, like the modern Leibnitz, waste those

precious hours which might be employed in the invention of a

_fricassée_, or, _facili gradu_, the analysis of a sensation, in

frivolous attempts at reconciling the obstinate oils and waters of

ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was Ionic. Bon-Bon was equally

Italic. He reasoned _a priori_. He reasoned also _a posteriori_. His

ideas were innate--or otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizond.

He believed in Bossarion. Bon-Bon was emphatically a--Bon-Bonist.

I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of Restaurateur. I

would not however have any friend of mine imagine that in fulfilling

his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper

estimation of their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was

impossible to say in which branch of his duplicate profession he took

the greater pride. In his opinion the powers of the mind held intimate

connection with the capabilities of the stomach. By this I do not mean

to insinuate a charge of gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge

to the prejudice of the metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his

failings--and what great man has not a thousand?--if Pierre Bon-Bon, I

say, had his failings, they were failings of very little

importance--faults indeed which in other tempers have often been

looked upon rather in the light of virtues. As regards one of these

foibles I should not have mentioned it in this history but for the

remarkable prominency--the extreme _alto relievo_ in which it jutted

out from the plane of his general disposition. Bon-Bon could never let

slip an opportunity of making a bargain.

Not that Bon-Bon was avaricious--no. It was by no means necessary to

the satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his

own proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected--a trade of

any kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances, a triumphant

smile was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance,

and a knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.

At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as

the one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At

the epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity _not_ attracted

observation, there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon

reported that upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was

wont to differ widely from the downright grin with which that

Restaurateur would laugh at his own jokes, or welcome an acquaintance.

Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature--stories were told of

perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at leisure--and

instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague longings,

and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil for

wise purposes of his own.

The philosopher had other weaknesses--but they are scarcely worthy of

our serious examination. For example, there are few men of

extraordinary profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for

the bottle. Whether this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a

valid proof of such profundity, it is impossible to say. Bon-Bon, as

far as I can learn, did not think the subject adapted to minute

investigation--nor do I. Yet in the indulgence of a propensity so

truly classical, it is not to be supposed that the _Restaurateur_

would lose sight of that intuitive discrimination which was wont to

characterize, at one and the same time, his _Essais_ and his

_Omelettes_. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to

Homer. He would sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but

unravel an argument over Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a

torrent of Chambertin. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had its

allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Côtes du

Rhone. Well had it been if the same quick sense of propriety had

attended him in the peddling propensity to which I have formerly

alluded--but this was by no means the case. Indeed, to say the truth,

_that_ trait of mind in the philosophic Bon-Bon _did_ begin at length

to assume a character of strange intensity and mysticism, and, however

singular it may seem, appeared deeply tinctured with the grotesque

_diablerie_ of his favorite German studies.

To enter the little _Café_ in the _Cul de Sac_ Le Febvre was, at the

period of our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon

was a man of genius. There was not a _sous-cuisinier_ in Rouen, who

could not have told you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat

knew it, and forbore to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of

genius. His large water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the

approach of his master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a

sanctity of deportment, a debasement of the ears, and a dropping of

the lower jaw not altogether unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true

that much of this habitual respect might have been attributed to the

personal {694} appearance of the metaphysician. A distinguished

exterior will, I am constrained to say, have its weight even with a

beast; and I am willing to allow much in the outward man of the

_Restaurateur_ calculated to impress the imagination of the quadruped.

There is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the little

great--if I may be permitted so equivocal an expression--which mere

physical bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in

creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if

his head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the

rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly

bordering upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have

seen a type of his acquirements--in its immensity a fitting habitation

for his immortal soul.

I might here--if it so pleased me--dilate upon the matter of

habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external

metaphysician. I might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short,

combed smoothly over his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped

white flannel cap and tassels--that his pea-green jerkin was not after

the fashion of those worn by the common class of _Restaurateurs_ at

that day--that the sleeves were something fuller than the reigning

costume permitted--that the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that

barbarous period, with cloth of the same quality and color as the

garment, but faced in a more fanciful manner with the particolored

velvet of Genoa--that his slippers were of a bright purple, curiously

filagreed, and might have been manufactured in Japan, but for the

exquisite pointing of the toes, and the brilliant tints of the binding

and embroidery--that his breeches were of the yellow satin-like

material called _aimable_--that his sky-blue cloak resembling in form

a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all over with crimson

devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a mist of the

morning--and that his _tout ensemble_ gave rise to the remarkable

words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, "that it was

difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,

or the rather a very Paradise of perfection."

I have said that "to enter the _Café_ in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre

was to enter the sanctum of a man of genius"--but then it was only the

man of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A

sign consisting of a vast folio swung before the entrance. On one side

of the volume was painted a bottle--on the reverse a _Paté_. On the

back were visible in large letters the words _Æuvres de Bon-Bon_. Thus

was delicately shadowed forth the two-fold occupation of the

proprietor.

Upon stepping over the threshold the whole interior of the building

presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room of antique

construction was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the _Café_

in the _Cul-de-Sac_ Le Febvre. In a corner of the apartment stood the

bed of the metaphysician. An array of curtains, together with a canopy

_à la Gréque_ gave it an air at once classic and comfortable. In the

corner diagonally opposite appeared, in direct and friendly communion,

the properties of the kitchen and the _bibliothéque_. A dish of

polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here lay an oven-full of

the latest ethics--there a kettle of duodecimo _melanges_. Volumes of

German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron--a toasting fork

might be discovered by the side of Eusebius--Plato reclined at his

ease in the frying pan--and cotemporary manuscripts were filed away

upon the spit.

In other respects the _Café_ de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little

from the _Cafés_ of the period. A gigantic fire-place yawned opposite

the door. On the right of the fire-place an open cupboard displayed a

formidable array of labelled bottles. There Mousseux, Chambertin, St.

George, Richbourg, Bordeaux, Margaux, Haubrion, Leonville, Medoc,

Sauterne, Bârac, Preignac, Grave, Lafitte, and St. Peray contended

with many other names of lesser celebrity for the honor of being

quaffed. From the ceiling, suspended by a chain of very long slender

links, swung a fantastic iron lamp, throwing a hazy light over the

room, and relieving in some measure the placidity of the scene.

It was here, about twelve o'clock one night, during the severe winter

of ----, that Pierre Bon-Bon, after having listened for some time to

the comments of his neighbors upon his singular propensity--that

Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked

the door upon them with a _sacre Dieu_, and betook himself in no very

pacific mood to the comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a

fire of blazing faggots.

It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or

twice during a century. The snow drifted down bodily in enormous

masses, and the _Café_ de Bon-Bon tottered to its very centre, with

the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall, and

pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of

the philosopher's bed, and disorganized the economy of his Paté-pans

and papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the

fury of the tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound

from its stanchions of solid oak.

I have said that it was in no very placid temper the metaphysician

drew up his chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many

circumstances of a perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to

disturb the serenity of his meditations. In attempting _Des Æufs à la

Princesse_ he had unfortunately perpetrated an _Omelette à la

Reine_--the discovery of a principle in Ethics had been frustrated by

the overturning of a stew--and last, not least, he had been thwarted

in one of those admirable bargains which he at all times took such

especial delight in bringing to a successful termination. But in the

chafing of his mind at these unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not

fail to be mingled a degree of that nervous anxiety which the fury of

a boisterous night is so well calculated to produce. Whistling to his

more immediate vicinity the large black water-dog we have spoken of

before, and settling himself uneasily in his chair, he could not help

casting a wary and unquiet eye towards those distant recesses of the

apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the red fire-light itself

could more than partially succeed in overcoming.

Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps

unintelligible to himself, Bon-Bon drew closer to his seat a small

table covered with books and papers, and soon became absorbed in the

task of retouching a voluminous manuscript, intended for publication

on the morrow.

{695} "I am in no hurry, Monsieur Bon-Bon"--whispered a whining voice

in the apartment.

"The devil!"--ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning

the table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.

"Very true"--calmly replied the voice.

"Very true!--what is very true?--how came you here?"--vociferated the

metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at

full length upon the bed.

"I was saying"--said the intruder, without attending to Bon-Bon's

interrogatories--"I was saying that I am not at all pushed for

time--that the business upon which I took the liberty of calling is of

no pressing importance--in short that I can very well wait until you

have finished your Exposition."

"My Exposition!--there now!--how do _you_ know--how came _you_ to

understand that I was writing an Exposition?--good God!"

"Hush!"--replied the figure in a shrill under tone; and arising

quickly from the bed he made a single step towards our hero, while the

iron lamp overhead swung convulsively back from his approach.

The philosopher's amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the

stranger's dress and appearance. The outlines of a figure, exceedingly

lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely

distinct by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to

the skin, but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century

ago. These garments had evidently been intended _a priori_ for a much

shorter person than their present owner. His ankles and wrists were

left naked for several inches. In his shoes, however, a pair of very

brilliant buckles gave the lie to the extreme poverty implied by the

other portions of his dress. His head was bare, and entirely bald,

with the exception of the hinder part, from which depended a _queue_

of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles, with side glasses,

protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and at the same

time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color or their

conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a

shirt; but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme

precision around the throat, and the ends hanging down formally side

by side, gave, although I dare say unintentionally, the idea of an

ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and

demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature.

Over his left ear he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an

instrument resembling the _stylus_ of the ancients. In a breast-pocket

of his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with

clasps of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned

outwardly from the person as to discover the words "_Rituel

Catholique_" in white letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy

was interestingly saturnine--even cadaverously pale. The forehead was

lofty and deeply furrowed with the ridges of contemplation. The

corners of the mouth were drawn down into an expression of the most

submissive humility. There was also a clasping of the hands, as he

stepped towards our hero--a deep sigh--and altogether a look of such

utter sanctity as could not have failed to be unequivocally

prepossessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the countenance of the

metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory survey of his

visiter's person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and conducted

him to a seat.

There would however be a radical error in attributing this

instantaneous transition of feeling in the philosopher to any one of

those causes which might naturally be supposed to have had an

influence. Indeed Pierre Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to

understand of his disposition, was of all men the least likely to be

imposed upon by any speciousness of exterior deportment. It was

impossible that so accurate an observer of men and things should have

failed to discover, upon the moment, the real character of the

personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To say no more,

the conformation of his visiter's feet was sufficiently

remarkable--there was a tremulous swelling in the hinder part of his

breeches--and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact.

Judge then with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself

thrown thus at once into the society of a--of a person for whom he had

at all times entertained such unqualified respect. He was, however,

too much of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his

suspicions, or rather--I should say--his certainty in regard to the

true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all conscious

of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed, but by leading his

guest into conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas which

might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication, enlighten

the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself--ideas which,

I should have added, his visiter's great age, and well known

proficiency in the science of Morals might very well have enabled him

to afford.

Actuated by these enlightened views our hero bade the gentleman sit

down, while he himself took occasion to throw some faggots upon the

fire, and place upon the now re-established table some bottles of the

powerful _Vin de Mousseux_. Having quickly completed these operations,

he drew his chair _vis a vis_ to his companion's, and waited until he

should open the conversation. But plans even the most skilfully

matured are often thwarted in the outset of their application, and the

_Restaurateur_ found himself entirely _nonplused_ by the very first

words of his visiter's speech.

"I see you know me, Bon-Bon,"--said he:--"ha! ha! ha!--he! he!

he!--hi! hi! hi!--ho! ho! ho!--hu! hu! hu!"--and the devil, dropping

at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a

mouth from ear to ear so as to display a set of jagged, and fang-like

teeth, and throwing back his head, laughed long, loud, wickedly, and

uproariously, while the black dog crouching down upon his haunches

joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a

tangent stood up on end and shrieked in the farthest corner of the

apartment.

Not so the philosopher: he was too much a man of the world either to

laugh like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation

of the cat. It must be confessed, however, that he felt a little

astonishment to see the white letters which formed the words "_Rituel

Catholique_" on the book in his guest's pocket momentarily changing

both their color and their import, and in a few seconds in place of

the original title, the words _Regitre des Condamnés_ blaze forth in

characters of red. This startling circumstance, when Bon-Bon replied

to {696} his visiter's remark, imparted to his manner an air of

embarrassment which might not probably have otherwise been observable.

"Why, sir,"--said the philosopher--"why, sir, to speak sincerely--I

believe you _are_--upon my word--the d----dest--that is to say I

think--I imagine--I _have_ some faint--some _very_ faint idea--of the

remarkable honor----"

"Oh!--ah!--yes!--very well!"--interrupted his majesty--"say no more--I

see how it is." And hereupon, taking off his green spectacles, he

wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat, and deposited

them in his pocket.

If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his

amazement was now increased to an intolerable degree by the spectacle

which here presented itself to view. In raising his eyes, with a

strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain the color of his guest's, he

found them by no means black, as he had anticipated--nor gray, as

might have been imagined--nor yet hazel nor blue--nor indeed yellow,

nor red--nor purple--nor white--nor green--nor any other color in the

heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the

earth. In short Pierre Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his majesty

had no eyes whatsoever, but could discover no indications of their

having existed at any previous period, for the space where eyes should

naturally have been, was, I am constrained to say, simply a dead level

of cadaverous flesh.

It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some

inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and to his

surprise the reply of his majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and

satisfactory.

"Eyes!--my dear Bon-Bon, eyes! did you say?--oh! ah! I perceive. The

ridiculous prints, eh? which are in circulation, have given you a

false idea of my personal appearance. Eyes!!--true. Eyes, Pierre

Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place--_that_, you would say,

is the head--right--the head of a worm. To _you_ likewise these optics

are indispensable--yet I will convince you that my vision is more

penetrating than your own. There is a cat, I see, in the corner--a

pretty cat!--look at her!--observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you

behold the thoughts--the thoughts, I say--the ideas--the

reflections--engendering in her pericranium?

"There it is now!--you do not. She is thinking we admire the

profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most

distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superfluous

of metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind: but to one

of my profession the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance,

liable at any time to be put out by a toasting iron or a pitchfork. To

you, I allow, these optics are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to

use them well--_my_ vision is the soul."

Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and

pouring out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without

scruple, and make himself perfectly at home.

"A clever book that of yours, Pierre"--resumed his majesty, tapping

our friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter set down his

glass after a thorough compliance with this injunction.

"A clever book that of yours, upon my honor. It's a work after my own

heart. Your arrangement of matter, I think, however, might be

improved, and many of your notions remind me of Aristotle. That

philosopher was one of my most intimate acquaintances. I liked him as

much for his terrible ill temper, as for his happy knack at making a

blunder. There is only one solid truth in all that he has written, and

for that I gave him the hint out of pure compassion for his absurdity.

I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well know to what divine moral

truth I am alluding."

"Cannot say that I----"

"Indeed!--why I told Aristotle that by sneezing men expelled

superfluous ideas through the proboscis."

"Which is--hiccup!--undoubtedly the case"--said the metaphysician,

while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux, and

offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.

"There was Plato too"--continued his majesty, modestly declining the

snuff-box and the compliment--"there was Plato, too, for whom I, at

one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato,

Bon-Bon?--ah! no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one

day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I

bade him write down that '_o nous estin augos_.' He said that he would

do so, and went home, while I stepped over to the Pyramids. But my

conscience smote me for the lie, and, hastening back to Athens, I

arrived behind the philosopher's chair as he was inditing the

'_augos_.' Giving the gamma a fillip with my finger I turned it upside

down. So the sentence now reads '_o nous estin aulos_,' and is, you

perceive, the fundamental doctrine of his metaphysics."

"Were you ever at Rome?"--asked the _Restaurateur_ as he finished his

second bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of

Vin de Chambertin.

"But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon--but once. There was a time"--said the

devil, as if reciting some passage from a book--"'there was an anarchy

of five years during which the republic, bereft of all its officers,

had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people, and these were

not legally vested with any degree of executive power'--at that time,

Monsieur Bon-Bon--at that time _only_ I was in Rome, and I have no

earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy."[1]

[Footnote 1: Ils ecrivalent sur la Philosophie (_Cicero_, _Lucretius_,

_Seneca_) mais c'etait la Philosophie Grécque.--_Condorcet_.]

"What do you think of Epicurus?--what do you think

of--hiccup!--Epicurus?"

"What do I think of _whom_?"--said the devil in astonishment--"you

cannot surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of

Epicurus! Do you mean me, sir?--_I_ am Epicurus. I am the same

philosopher who wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated

by Diogenes Laertes."

"That's a lie!"--said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a

little into his head.

"Very well!--very well, sir!--very well indeed, sir"--said his

majesty.

"That's a lie!"--repeated the Restaurateur dogmatically--"that's

a--hiccup!--lie!"

"Well, well! have it your own way"--said the devil pacifically: and

Bon-Bon, having beaten his majesty at an argument, thought it his duty

to conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.

{697} "As I was saying"--resumed the visiter--"as I was observing a

little while ago, there are some very _outré_ notions in that book of

yours, Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that

humbug about the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?"

"The--hiccup!--soul"--replied the metaphysician, referring to his MS.

"is undoubtedly"--

"No, sir!"

"Indubitably"--

"No, sir!"

"Indisputably"--

"No, sir!"

"Evidently"--

"No, sir!"

"Incontrovertibly"--

"No, sir!"

"Hiccup!"--

"No, sir!"

"And beyond all question a"--

"No, sir! the soul is no such thing." (Here the philosopher finished

his third bottle of Chambertin.)

"Then--hic-cup!--pray--sir--what--what is it?"

"That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon," replied his

majesty, musingly. "I have tasted--that is to say I have known some

very bad souls, and some too--pretty good ones." Here the devil licked

his lips, and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume

in his pocket, was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.

His majesty continued.

"There was the soul of

Cratinus--passable:--Aristophanes--racy:--Plato--exquisite:--not

_your_ Plato, but Plato the comic poet: your Plato would have turned

the stomach of Cerberus--faugh! Then let me see! there were Noevius,

and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then there were Lucilius,

and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintius Flaccus--dear Quinty! as I called

him when he sung a _seculare_ for my amusement, while I toasted him in

pure good humor on a fork. But they want _flavor_ these Romans. One

fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will _keep_, which

cannot be said of a Quirite. Let us taste your Sauterne."

Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to the _nil admirari_, and

endeavored to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however,

conscious of a strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail.

Of this, although extremely indecent in his majesty, the philosopher

took no notice--simply kicking the black water dog and requesting him

to be quiet. The visiter continued.

"I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle--you know I am

fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso,

to my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong

twang of Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus--and

Titus Livy was positively Polybius and none other."

"Hic--cup!"--here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded.