Chapter I: on "English Poetry," tracing as it does the rude and (6)

The vanity of woman, under proper regulation, makes her the most fascinating being in creation, when it is the virtuous, the intelligent, and the just, whose approbation she attempts to win, by the charms and graces of virtue, innocence, modesty, and accomplishment, where "she is the darling child of society, indulged not spoiled, presiding over its pleasures, preserving its refinements, taking nothing from its strength, adding much to its brilliancy, permitted the full exercise of all her faculties, and retaining the full endowment of all her graces."

And this same being, who, in her unmarried state, is the delight and charm of every circle in which she moves, may after marriage look to the esteem and approbation of him who has won her hand and heart, as the jewel of greatest price. His opinion may become to her what that of the world was before. His taste is the one which she may delight to please.

"She, if her lord but gaze with pride,
Wears what he loves, and thinks no gem denied;
And if, compliant with his wish, she roam,
To the gay tumults which endear her home,
'Mid brighter fashions, and that pomp of waste,
Which glittering fools misname, and call it taste;
Tho' not a gem her simple hair have crown'd,
While lavish diamonds fling their beams around,
Can smile serene, nor feel one envy burn,
And sleep without a sigh, on her return."[6]

[Footnote 6: _Paradise of Coquettes_, generally ascribed to the pen of the late Dr. Thomas Brown, the professor of moral and mental philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, of whom Mr. Dugald Stewart said, "in my opinion even Dr. Brown would have been a still better metaphysician, if he had not been a poet, and a still better poet if he had not been a metaphysician." I have no doubt of the truth of this remark, though we must acknowledge, that whether we examine his metaphysics or his poetry, we shall find that none has ever better understood the heart of a truly virtuous and constant female, or more highly appreciated it.]

Such a companion makes the home of her husband a paradise on earth, and the thought of him and his happiness, soon interweaves and intertwines itself with all her little schemes and projects, with all her desires and ambition, and her house becomes the true scene of domestic happiness and of the domestic virtues.

On the other hand, when vanity is excessive, or badly regulated, woman is too apt to substitute art for nature, and to attempt to impose upon the world by outward show and hollow pretensions; to manage and intrigue for the purpose of carrying her plans, and consummating her schemes; and when in danger of detection, she has recourse to evasions and devices, which in the end may produce the character of falsehood and hypocrisy.

"A person (says Adam Smith,) who has excessive vanity, in attempting to win the applause of those around him, is apt to fall into the practice of lying, but the lies are not of a black or very hurtful character to society; they are intended to deceive you, and make you think more of the person who tells them, and not to injure others; whereas a proud man but rarely lies, and when he does, it is apt to be a dark and malicious falsehood, which he tells; one intended for the injury of others, not for the exaltation of himself." It is badly regulated vanity, which produces that character for cunning, {502} which Rousseau considered one of the distinguishing characteristical traits in the female. He was so much impressed with the predominance of this trait in woman's character, that he was disposed to attribute it, (I think falsely,) rather to nature than to circumstances and education. He tells us of the following device, practiced by a girl of six years old, who had been strictly forbidden to ask for any thing at table. For the purpose of inducing her parents to help her to a dish which she had not tasted, she pointed her finger at the several dishes, saying, I have eaten of that, and of that, &c. until she came to the one of which she had not eaten, passing that by in silence. A cunning hint was thus given to the parents, without violation of their commands, that she would like to be helped to it. This little stratagem Rousseau thinks far beyond what a boy of the same age would have planned, and hence he comes to the conclusion, that "_La ruse est un talent naturel au sex_"--he thinks this a wise dispensation of nature, for, says he, "La femme a tout contre elle nos defauts, sa timidité, sa faiblesse; elle n'a pour elle que son art et sa beaute. N'est il pas juste qu'elle cultive l'un et l'autre?" When these devices and stratagems, which the softer sex practice for the attainment of their ends, become too apparent, they disgust; when well concealed, they frequently succeed: but honesty here, as every where, will prove to be the best policy; and I cannot agree with Rousseau, that generally they are advantageous to those who practice them: they always endanger more or less the character of the individual. In spite, however, of all our caution and advice on this subject, in the little concerns of life, and the petty tactics of the drawing and ball rooms, woman will always display more skill and cunning than man. These are the scenes with which she is more conversant, and which she studies far more deeply than he. A skilful tactician in the drawing room, may almost be compared to a general in the field. She notes, without being perceived, every movement, and by skilful evolutions she brings about that arrangement of parties which best suits her taste, and which seems to others, who have not the sagacity to see the game, the effect of magic, rather than of art. With man it is very different; concealment and stratagem in the little courtesies and plans of life, are never expected of him. The maxim of David Crockett, "go ahead," is the one on which he practices. As woman is the most skilful manager on these occasions, so is she the most sagacious observer, and she can sometimes greatly amuse us, by furnishing a key to the manoeuvring in the social and fashionable world.

_Mother and Child._

I now proceed more particularly to the consideration of the effects produced upon the female character, by that most interesting and tender tie, the relation of mother and child. We have already pointed out the reasons why the mother should be considered, as intended more particularly by nature, for the office of nursing, rearing, and tutoring the infant. Although the effects of this position, are first manifested upon mothers, yet, as they constitute so large and influential a portion of females, their character, whatever it may be, will quickly diffuse itself over the whole sex, and consequently we may predicate of the whole, to a certain extent at least, the properties and peculiarities of character, which flow from the relation of mother and child.

There can scarcely be conceived in the whole range of nature, a more tenderly interesting object, than the perfectly helpless and innocent babe. The writers on the sublime tell us, that that obscurity and indistinctness which prevents us from seeing the exact proportions of objects, is favorable to sublimity, by the increased play which it gives to the imagination. Now, what is there so well calculated to rouse the imagination and excite our anticipations, as the listless, inactive infant,--slumbering from the moment at which he takes his milky food to the moment at which he awakes to require it again? What is that infant to become? What is to be his destiny? What the rôle which he is to play in the great drama of life? He is now at the starting point; the future lies latent within him. He is to be nursed and taken by the hand, and led gently along the path of life, until the growth of body, and the developement of mental powers, shall enable him, unaided, to combat the difficulties and obstacles which beset him on his way.

Then, is he to select the part which he is to act? Is he to be the great warrior, "striding from victory to victory, and making his path a plane of continued elevation"--dethroning and unmaking princes, and grasping the destiny of empires in his single hand? Or is he, by overturning the fair fabric of his country's government, and wading through war, anarchy and blood, at last to triumph over the law and the constitution, and build up his own throne on the melancholy ruins of his country's liberty? Or will he be the philosopher of his age, taking

"His ardent flight
Through the blue infinite;"

numbering the planets, noting their complex but harmonious movements, and deducing the unerring laws by which they are governed? Or, by pouring truth after truth upon the world, is he to break up the prejudices and dissipate the errors which have before bound down the restless energies of the mind under the fatal spell of ignorance and superstition? Perhaps he is to be the genuine philanthropist, and like Howard, to travel from country to country, "not to survey the sumptuousness of palaces or the stateliness of temples; not to make accurate measurement of the remains of ancient grandeur; not to form a scale of the {503} curiosity of modern arts; nor to collect medals or to collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons--to plunge into the infection of hospitals--to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain--to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression and contempt--to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken--and compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries." Or is he to be the simple, but contented being, whose world is bounded by his visual horizon,--

"Who never had a dozen thoughts
In all his life; and never changed their course;
But told them o'er, each in its 'customed place,
From morn till night, from youth till hoary age,
And never had an unbelieving doubt;
But thought the visual line that girt him round
The world's extremes: and thought the silver moon
That nightly o'er him led her virgin host,
No broader than his father's shield."--

Well, this being who is now rocked in his cradle, with these germs infolded, but unperceived, in his heart and in his feeble intellect, although the most helpless and dependent of animated creation, commands the sympathies and love of those who were the authors of its being, and possesses already so great an influence, that he cannot in after life, "by the most imperious orders which he addresses to the most obsequious slaves, exercise an authority more commanding, than that which in the first hours of his life, when a few indistinct cries and tears were his only language, he exercised irresistibly over hearts of the very existence of which he was ignorant." But it is the mother that gave it birth, who feels the deepest sympathy with all its pains and wants, and carries in her heart, the most unbounded and unremitting affection for it. Man as I have before observed, has a ruder and a hardier nature than woman: the out of door world, with all its bustle and jostling, its difficulties, dangers, hardships and labors, is the theatre for his actions. He only enjoys the domestic scenes during the intervals of his labors, and then perhaps worn down by toil and fatigue, he dandles for a moment his smiling infant on his knee, and retires to rest, or to muse on the projects of his ambition, or to form schemes for the accumulation of wealth and the extension of his influence. And when he thinks of his child, he associates him with those schemes and projects with which he is to be connected in after life, and looks upon

"The bright glad creature springing in his path
But as the heir of his great name, the young
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!
This is man's love!"

The prayer which Homer puts into the mouth of Hector for his son Astyanax, at the parting with Andromache, most beautifully illustrates the nature of a father's love. "O Jupiter, and ye gods! grant that this my son may be like his father, a leader among the Trojans, brave in battle, and a brave king of Illion. And hereafter, may the people say of him as he comes from battle, he is far braver than his father, and may he bring back the bloody spoils, having slain his enemy, and please his mother's heart." A Brutus and a Titus Manlius, who would condemn their own sons to death for the satisfaction of public justice, may be found among fathers, but never among mothers. Agamemnon may consent to the sacrifice of Iphigenia, but Clytemnestra, although a woman of depravity, could not,--because she loved the daughter more than she loved Greece. Joy it is well known, may sometimes be so intense as to produce death. Listen to the three following cases of death from joy: they will illustrate the difference between the father's and mother's love. Pliny tells us, that Chilo the Spartan died upon hearing that his son had gained a prize at the Olympic games. Again--the three sons of Diagoras were crowned on the same day victors in the Olympic games, the one as a pugilist, the other as a wrestler, and the third, at the _pancration_, or game combined of wrestling and boxing; and Aulus Gellius tells us, that the father's joy was so great, that he expired in the arms of his sons in the presence of the assembled multitude, "ibi in stadio inspectante populo, in osculis atque in manibus filiorum animam efflavat." In both of these cases joy came from gratified ambition. Livy tells us of an aged mother, who, while she was plunged into the depths of distress from the news of her son's death in battle, died in his arms from the excess of joy, on his sudden, unexpected safe return; the mother loved her son, not for the lustre which he might shed on her name and family, but for himself, and well might she, for it is the lot of a mother to watch with unremitting care over her infant during the first years of its existence. She notices with a tender anxiety all its little movements, and administers to all its wants. She alone learns to

"Explore the thought, explain the asking eye;"

she alone learns to read all the emotions of its heart by gazing on the play of its features. To her the voice of laughter is as delightful and beautiful as the most ravishing music; and the tones and cries of sickness and distress, are as afflicting and melancholy, as the fall of stocks, revulsions of commerce, and the disasters of trade and business are to man.

Even in women of the most wicked character, those who are the very fiends of their sex, we sometimes see this maternal fondness bursting out, and demonstrating at once, the difference between the wickedness of man and that of woman. Mrs. Jameson admires very much those touches of Shakspeare's pencil, which mark in the midst of all her atrocities and dark crimes, the womanly character of Lady Macbeth. How beautiful is the recollection of a mother's love, even in this fiend: {504}

"I have given suck, and know how tender 'tis
To love the babe that milks me."

And again she shows the woman, when she exclaims:

"Had he not resembled my father as he slept,
I had done it"--

Well, then, are we prepared in the fifth act for the declaration of this monster of depravity, under the stings of a tormenting conscience, when she gazes on the hand that had done the deed and exclaims:

"All the perfumes of Arabia, will not sweeten this little hand."

But let us quit such specimens as these, and go back to our subject.

Who is there among us, who can look back to the period of his infant career, and not shed a tear of gratitude for a mother's love, and a mother's care? What heart does not heave with emotion at the recollection of the first years of our education, when day by day we were clasped in our mother's arms, and with the kiss of affection imprinted upon the brow, were charged to be good boys, and learn with cheerfulness the lesson that was assigned us. Black indeed must be that heart which can forget a mother's solicitude. The recollection of her advice and admonition has often saved the individual in the hour of temptation, and we can almost forgive Marmontel for his vices and his sins, while breathing the atmosphere of a profligate and abandoned court, when we peruse in his interesting memoirs the following paragraph, occasioned by the farewell which he took of his mother in declining health. "Yet a little while, and she will be no longer mine; this mother who from my birth has breathed only for me; this adored mother whose displeasure I feared as that of heaven, and if I dare say it, yet more than heaven itself. For I thought of her much oftener than of God, and when I had some temptation to subdue or some passion to repress, it was always my mother that I fancied present. What would she say, if she knew what passes in me? What would be her confusion? What would be her grief? Such were the reflections that I opposed to myself, and my reason then resumed its empire, seconded by nature, who always did what she pleased with my heart. Those who, like me, have known this tender filial love, need not be told what was the sadness and despondency of my soul." Montaigne in his singular, but highly amusing and ingenious essays, places Epaminondas of Thebes, among the _three men_ who were "more excellent than all the rest" of whom he had any knowledge; and the very first proof which he adduces of his excessive goodness is the declaration of Epaminondas, "that the greatest satisfaction he ever had in his whole life, was the pleasure he gave his father and mother by his victory at Leuctra."

The influence which a mother's care and a mother's love produces upon a girl, is much greater than that wrought on a boy. The girl is more constantly with her mother; she is taught to imitate and act like her; she is more constantly with the younger children of the family; her attentions, her kindnesses, her sympathies and her love, come in process of time to resemble those of the mother, much more than of the father. Hence it is fair to say, that all the effects wrought on the mother by the nursing, training, &c. of the infant, are produced in some degree on all her daughters.

Having thus pointed out the character of that love which a mother bears for her children, I will now proceed to show the effects which it produces on the character of the mother herself. Marmontel in his "_Lecons Sur la Morale_," pronounced "the heart of a good mother, to be the masterpiece of nature's works;" and Stewart, on the Active and Moral Powers, endorses the assertion,--and adds, "there is no form certainly, in which humanity appears so lovely, or presents so fair a copy of the Divine image after which it was made."

The tender offices of a mother, combined with that inferiority of strength which I have before noted, together with difference in physical organization, will no doubt contribute to increase the number and sensibility, if I may use the expression, of the chords of affection and sympathy. They will cultivate to a much greater extent, the finer and the lovelier feelings of our nature. They understand better and receive more readily those finer and more fugitive impressions which come under the description of sentiment. We become hackneyed by the rough and rude business of the world, our feelings become coarse and less delicate, and less minute. In consequence of their domestic life, "that reciprocation of social kindnesses which is only a recreation to men, is to women in some sense a business. It is their field duty, from which household cares are their repose. Men do not seek the intercourse of society as a friend to be cultivated, but merely throw themselves on its bosom to sleep." In the same manner, we shall find that woman possesses much more tact, and much nicer discernment of character than man. Perhaps in the rough storms of life, when the master passions are called into action, and mind is brought into conflict with mind, under the most powerful agitation, man then may be the best judge of character; for the tragedy has become too deep and dark for woman's penetration and experience. She is not so well acquainted with the deep feelings of the heart, when lashed into a tempest by the strife and conflicts of the political world. But of the fireside character, of those inequalities exhibited by the temper under all the manifold aggravations of social injury, she is decidedly the best judge, and knows best how to administer the proper remedies. Under the influence of sorrow and pain, we may often wear a countenance that will deceive man,--rarely one that will impose on woman, when she is interested in our fate. Every man will have {505} observed occasionally how quickly a woman discerns the wound which she has involuntarily inflicted upon his feelings, and how soon and how tenderly she will repair the mischief; making him by the manner of reparation, not only forgive the injury, but admire her more than ever. With man it is but too often very different, and he must be asked for explanation before he is aware of the injury.

Woman, in all conditions, is a better comforter and a better nurse than man. She reads in the countenance with more facility all our little wants, and is ever ready to administer to them. Her sympathy is more alive, and her familiarity with the distresses around, make her more humane and compassionate than man. Mercy and mildness have always been her attributes; and the horrors and barbarities of war were never moderated, until chivalry and religion brought forward the mighty influence of woman to suppress them.

The following most beautiful and just eulogy of one of the most distinguished travellers which the world has ever produced, written without any view to publication, is so apposite to the views which have just been presented, that I will give it entire from Sparks's Life of Ledyard, with the exception of portions already quoted. "I have observed among all nations (says Ledyard,) that wherever found, they (women,) are the same kind, civil, obliging, humane, tender beings. They do not hesitate like man to perform a hospitable or generous action; not haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, but full of courtesy, and fond of society; industrious, economical, ingenious, more liable to err than man, but in general, also more virtuous, and performing more good actions than he. I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship to a woman, whether civilized or savage, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man, it has often been otherwise. In wandering over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the wide spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so; and to add to this virtue so worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have been performed in so free and so kind a manner, that if I was dry, I drank the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate the coarse morsel with a double relish."[7]

[Footnote 7: The author of "Leaves from my Log Book," relates the following incident which occurred while he was passing through a village near Rochefort in France, as a prisoner under a military escort. It affords so fine an illustration of the truth of Ledyard's eulogy on the sex, that I am induced to insert it in a note.

"I had obtained a fresh supply of canvass for my feet, which were much blistered and extremely sore; but this was soon worn out, and I suffered dreadfully. About noon, we halted in the market place of a small town bearing every mark of antiquity, (I think it was Melle,) to rest and refresh. To escape the sun, I took my seat on an old tea chest, standing in front of a Huckster's shop, and removed my tattered moccasins. Whilst doing this, an elderly woman came out of the shop accompanied by a young girl very prettily dressed, and '_pauvre garcon! pauvre prisonier!_' were uttered by both. The girl with tears in her eyes looked at my lacerated feet, and then without saying a word returned to the house. In a few moments afterwards she reappeared, but her finery had been taken off, and she carried a large bowl of warm water in her hands. In a moment the bowl was placed before me. She motioned me to put in my feet, which I did, and down she went upon her knees and washed them in the most tender manner. Oh what luxury was that half hour! The elder female brought me food, while the younger having performed her office, wrapt up my feet in soft linen, and then fitted on a pair of her mother's shoes." Well then might this grateful writer exclaim, in conclusion of this little narrative,

"Hail! woman hail! last formed in Eden's bowers,
Midst humming streams, and fragrance breathing flowers:
Thou art 'mid light and gloom, through good and ill,
Creation's glory, man's chief blessing still.

Thou calm'st our thoughts, as Halcyons calm the sea,
Sooth'st in distress, when servile minions flee;
And oh! without thy sun bright smiles below,
Life were a night, and earth a waste of woe."

Far, indeed, might this poor prisoner have journeyed without meeting in our sex, with such a kind, tender being, as the fair Evlalie.]

Marmontel tells us that Madame de Tencin, one of the most distinguished and fashionable ladies at Paris, and one who possessed a deep and exquisite knowledge of men and women, advised him always to seek for friends among women, rather than among men. "For by means of women (said she,) you may do what you please with men; and these are either too dissipated or too much occupied with their own personal interest to attend to yours: whereas women think of your interest, be it only out of indolence. Mention this evening to a woman who is your friend, an affair that intimately concerns you; to-morrow at her spinning wheel, at her embroidery, you will find her occupied with you, torturing her fancy to invent some means of serving you. But be careful to be nothing more than the friend of her whom you think may be useful to you; for between lovers, where once there happens any cloud, dispute or rupture, all is lost. Be then assiduous to her, complaisant, gallant even, if you will, but nothing more. You understand me?"

So strongly does woman sympathize with the distress and suffering of those around her, that under peculiar circumstances, she sometimes is carried to perform acts of enterprise and heroism, which rival the achievements of the ages of chivalry. Under the impulse of highly excited feelings, she has sometimes forgotten her inferiority of strength, and the dangers to which she is exposed by collision with the rudeness and roughness of the out of door world. On such occasions, she has braved all the hardships and labors which have opposed her, has crossed mountains and rivers, and penetrated alone into Siberian deserts; or visited courts and camps, and importuned monarchs and generals, until she has accomplished her humane purposes. How interesting is Elizabeth to us, in the Exiles of Siberia, by Madame Cottin, when {506} she determines to go alone from the heart of the Siberian desert, to beg the Emperor for the liberty of her exiled father; and how much more deeply interested do we become in this tale when we know that it is not only founded on fact, but that the real dangers and difficulties which Elizabeth encountered, were of such a character as to make Madame Cottin suppose that they would not be believed, if faithfully narrated. The deep and thrilling interest excited by the character of Jeannie Deans, in the Heart of Mid Lothian, is due in a great measure to her magnanimous and heroic resolution, taken under the influence of sisterly love, to make a journey on foot, unprotected and alone, from her father's mansion near Edinburg, to London, for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her sister, and to the difficulties, dangers and hardships which she is represented as surmounting with unshaken fortitude. Mrs. Jameson in her Visits and Sketches, has given us a narrative of the adventures of Mademoiselle Ambos, equal to those of Elizabeth in the Exiles of Siberia, or to those of Jeannie Deans in the beautiful fiction of Sir Walter Scott.

This young lady formed the bold and daring project of visiting the court of Russia for the purpose of obtaining the pardon of her brother Henri Ambos, who was exiled to Siberia. She actually visited St. Petersburg alone,--obtained after a triumph over the most appalling difficulties, the pardon of her brother from the Emperor Nicholas,--and then under the impulse of those Divine feelings which can exist in woman's heart alone, she determined herself to be the bearer of the glad tidings which would restore a lost son to a broken hearted mother, and an affectionate sister. And the reader can scarce refrain from dropping a tear of sympathy, when she received for answer to the pardon which she had delivered to the commandant of the fortress, with a hand trembling with impatience, and joy almost too great to be borne, "Henri Ambos _is dead!_"--In order to estimate the heroism, the sublimity of such deeds, we must call to mind the relative positions of the sexes in society; we must recollect the weakness, the modesty, and above all the shrinking timidity of the female, before we can estimate the depth of that feeling which can conquer all the weaknesses of her nature, in the execution of her benevolent purposes.

"Ye who shall marvel," (says Byron in his very interesting description of the Maid of Saragossa,)

"Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal black veil,
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower,
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,
Her fairy form, with more than female grace,
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower
Beheld her smile in danger's Gorgon face,
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in glory's fearful chase."

The sympathies, the feelings of woman on such occasions, impart a courage and fortitude which seem to be almost the inspiration of heaven itself; the rude uncourteous world, is awed into respect and admiration by the forbidding dignity of her demeanor, and the fearless determination with which she executes her resolves. When Mademoiselle Ambos was asked if she had ever met with insult, she said she had twice met "with wicked men"--but she felt no alarm, she knew how to protect herself; and as she said this, (says Mrs. Jameson,) her countenance assumed an expression which showed that it was not a mere boast.

_Influence of Love_.

I come now to the consideration of the character of the sexes in relation to a passion, which is one of the most universal, powerful and interesting, implanted in the human breast--the passion of love. A passion which has agitated alike, the philosopher and the poet, the nobleman and the peasant; which in the language of the Edinburg Review, "has filled the parsonage house with chubby children, and beats in the breast of the Baptist, animates the Arminian, melts the Unitarian maid, and stirs up the moody Methodist, to declare himself the ready victim of human love." My limits will not of course allow me to enter fully into a subject upon which so much has been written, and so much more has been felt. The sexes throughout the whole animated creation are determined towards each other by an instinct, and this is animal love. Under its operation but little preference is shown for individuals, except in those cases where the joint aid of male and female is necessary to the rearing of the offspring. There nature, ever consistent with herself, and with that harmonious design and beautiful adaptation observed throughout the universe, has established a temporary union among the sexes, similar to marriage in the human family. But this connexion seems to be determined more by the operation of mere instinct, than by reason, imagination, and the association of ideas. With man, love is no doubt founded on animal instinct; but then all the powers of the human mind, all the passions of the heart, all the affections and emotions; in fine, the whole moral and mental machinery of our nature are brought to bear on this instinct, to foster or stifle, to develope or exterminate it. By means of the mighty power of imagination, and the laws of association, such a complicated and magnificent fabric is reared, as occasionally to obscure and almost hide the instinct material which lies at the bottom. It is under the influences of these higher and more exalted powers of the mind, that this passion of our nature is directed towards one object alone, and that all the world is so readily forsaken for the possession of that one.

Most of our desires, although natural, are determined as to their particular direction by the operation of circumstances--take for example the {507} desire for society. There is no doubt that this is a natural instinctive desire; man is certainly a gregarious animal; he delights in intercourse with fellow-man; solitude is at war with the condition of his nature, and so strong is his desire for society, that if man be deprived of intercourse with man, he will make companions of brutes and reptiles themselves. Horses, dogs, cats, even spiders and rats, have become his very dear associates in his solitary condition. And yet, under the operation of reason, imagination, and the passions, together with that endless variety of character which we find in the human family, this desire is directed to particular persons and particular circles. We may shun the society of A and B--we may court that of C and D--and indeed, under the very severe pressure of calamity, when all our hopes and our darling schemes of ambition and aggrandizement are blasted forever, by the perfidious machinations and wily projects of those very individuals whom we had fondly called our friends, there is an almost irresistible tendency in the mind, at such a melancholy crisis, to indulge the gloomy feeling of misanthropy, and plunge into the depth of solitude, where we may escape the persecution and treachery of a dissembling world. Thus do we find circumstances controling, directing, and sometimes almost exterminating our natural passions and propensities.

Love in the human family is eminently under the control of circumstances. The original, natural passion implanted in the breast, may be compared to the common quantities in algebra--it belongs to all. Cupid cares not for creeds, nor occupations, nor professions; but the development of the passion, under the guidance of reason, association and imagination, assumes as many shapes as the dispositions and intellects of the myriads who compose the human family. In the civilized countries of Europe, and in our own, woman has been liberated from that state of servitude and debasement, to which either the condition of barbarism, or the laws of Mahommedanism had too long confined her. The institution of chivalry, and the diffusion of the humane spirit of christianity, have assigned her that station in society which makes her in the social circle the equal of man. She has been disenthralled from that jealousy which would quietly immure her within the walls of the Seraglio, and which, in attempting to preserve her chastity by constraint, prevents the development of mind, extinguishes the vigor and intensity of the affections, and really in the end, debauches the heart, whilst it guards the person. Under a system of free and equal intercourse among the sexes, love assumes a totally different form from that which exists in society where woman is not looked on as the equal of man. In the former case, she must be wooed and won; in the latter, she is bought and locked up. In the former case, she is allowed the free employment of all her faculties, and the full play of all her graces and accomplishments. In the latter, becoming the slave of man, and losing all those higher inducements to mental and moral excellence which freedom alone can foster, she degenerates into a mere being of ignorance and sensuality, going through the dull round of solely animal pleasures, unattended by that grace and refinement which throw so bright a lustre around the female character.

When freedom of intercourse exists among the sexes, what is called courtship, becomes a longer and more assiduous task to the gentlemen, than where such freedom does not exist. The heart of woman may be likened to the besieged and fortified castle. It must be regularly invested; slowly and cautiously, or boldly and daringly approached, according to circumstances. The whole science of social tactics must be studied, and a skilful application made to the heart which is to be won. Under these circumstances, when all the affections of a man's heart have really been concentrated upon one object, if he possess a keen sensibility and a highly wrought imagination, the period of his love and of his courtship, may be the most important of his whole life: like the fabled wand of the magician, it may but wave over the character, and change the whole inner man. Ardent and intense love is certainly the master passion of our nature, whilst it exists; but like all tyrants, it may reign but for a season; it is liable to dethronement. Whilst, however, it is enthroned, it conquers every other. Ambition, interest, patriotism, all have yielded during the hour of its ascendancy. Whilst this passion endures, it clusters around its object all the dearest associations and fondest recollections of our life. It is the spirit which has only to move over the chaos of our existence, and attract to itself all the elements of our nature. It enters the heart, and makes us brood over dreams of joy, and look with rapturous gaze and supplicating eye,

"To the bright form of our idolatrous worship,
Whose every gesture, motion, look or word--
Like wonder-working secret alchymy,
Changes each passing thought to visioned bliss."

It mixes itself with all our thoughts, our desires, our hopes and actions. It is the realization of the fable of the fish, which imparted its own beautiful color to every object that approached it. How often when we have stood amid the lone majesty of nature's works, "all heaven above" and earth beneath, with no eye gazing on us, save that of him _who doeth his will and ruleth in the armies of heaven_, have we felt this unseen spirit to move within us--to touch, as if with magic hand, all the springs of our moral sensibility, and waken up all the tender emotions of our soul. Even with the prayer which we address to heaven from this great temple of nature we cannot refrain from {508} mingling the name of her whose beauty and loveliness have excited within us the sympathetic emotions of virtue and piety. This passion of love, when it is genuine, accompanies us wherever we go; it associates the beloved object with all our plans and schemes of ambition, and casts its own bright radiance over all the objects which surround us:

"It breathes forth in the song of joyous birds--
In the violet hues of the broad laughing heavens--
In sunlight--in the beams of radiant stars--
In gush of waters--in the evening breeze,
Making its nest amidst the parting boughs
Of murmuring trees--and oh! the most of all
In _her_ sweet melting tones of tenderness,
The steadfast lustre of her gazing eye--
For all are nature's oracles, and teach
The heart to love."

Even the circle of friends by which we are surrounded, become associated in our imagination with the sole object of our affections; our tastes are often changed, our friendships altered, our very opinions and inclinations are sometimes revolutionized by the potent but silent sway of that being whose beauty and loveliness have placed us under this mysterious spell. Love like this, terminating in marriage, founded on reciprocity of affection, must be productive of the most exquisite and refined happiness which the frail condition of man will allow us in this world. It is such love as this which will quickly bring two heterogeneous beings to harmonize in temper and disposition. It is such as this which will tame down the ferocity of the tiger and triumph over the savage spirit of the hyena. Under its operation the corsair has been sometimes arrested in his bold career, the robber has been reformed, and the arm of the bloodthirsty villain has been withholden from an infliction of the deadly blow.

When, however, such love is unfortunate, and fails to win its object, there comes perhaps one of the heaviest blows to which mortality is subject; then does it become necessary to gather up the shattered resources of mind and body to withstand the storm which is overwhelming us with calamity. This is a period fraught with infinite danger even to the character of man. At such a time we seem suddenly arrested in our mid career by the cruel hand of misfortune. The bright, the delusive prospects which we beheld reflected in the mirror of hope, have suddenly disappeared from the mental vision. But a little while ago and we were like him who had wandered into the splendid repository of the works of art, illumined by the bright lamp whose radiant light was beautifully reflected from the thousand polished surfaces which glittered around; now we are like him in that same mazy hall, with his lamp extinguished and total darkness around.

The very sun of our moral and social existence seems suddenly struck from the heavens, and well may we in the agony of despair exclaim, "how stale, flat, and unprofitable" is this world to us now. When we wander abroad, how dismal is the prospect which lies before us. The sun, and the moon with her nightly train, seem to have lost that celestial spirit which a little while ago had made us gaze upon them in silent and pensive bliss. Our homes, our firesides, our friends have lost the charm which can neutralize woe; for a period the desire for fame and honor is lost, and the voice of ambition is silenced within.

"Look where he comes. In this embowered alcove
Stand close concealed and see a statue move;
Lips busy and eyes fixed, foot falling slow,
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasped below!
That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue
Could argue once, could jest or join the song--
Could give advice, could censure or commend,
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend.
Now neither healthy wilds, nor scenes as fair
As ever recompensed the peasant's care,
Nor gales that catch the scent of blooming groves
And waft it to the mourner, as he roves,
Can call up life into his faded eye,--
That passes all he sees unheeded by."

This period of agony which I have just described has often infused the gall of bitterness into the cup of life, turned benevolence into misanthropy, soured the temper, and destroyed the tranquillity of existence. When the shock has come after matrimonial engagement, which has been ended by woman's caprice, or the wily artifices of the mischief-making meddler, then the stroke is still more dreadful, and productive of effects still more marked in the character of the man; and oftentimes is the conduct of that being, who stands an anomaly in the eyes of the world, to be traced back to this cause. We have seen an individual mysteriously settle down in our vicinage, immure himself in his solitary mansion, shrink from the gaze of the world as from the dragon's visage, and live as though life were a burden which was to him insupportable. Pry into his history, and you will find, when you have traced it out, that it was the treachery of her upon whom he had lavished all the affections of his soul, which separated him from his original home and happiness. Look again--there is another being whose brilliant, but meteor like career, alarms the selfish statesman and puzzles the philosopher. To-day, listening senates are hanging on his words, and electrified by the magic of his soul-stirring eloquence. To-morrow, in the social circle, he displays those powers of fascination and attraction which fix the gaze of all on the play of his features, while the brilliancy of his fancy and the vivid corruscations of his wit and intellect, are delighting all around with his wonder-working speech.

At times he realizes the fable of Orpheus; he draws the very trees after him, melts the hearts of stone that are around him, and makes them forgive the wrongs which he has done--then his {509} reason seems to be dethroned, the very demon of malice enters his heart; his shafts of calumny transfix alike friend and foe, and he traverses seas and continents almost like the deluded victim of knight errantry, impelled by a spirit which urges forward with irresistible impetuosity, whilst it seems to have lost its destination. The world stands amazed whilst this brilliant meteor is playing above the horizon. One ascribes his course to the waywardness of nature, and calls him a _lusus naturæ_; another traces his character to the diseases of the body; another tells you he was ambitious, and that all his schemes of promotion and self-aggrandizement were wrecked.

But go to him who has shared his confidence, and nursed him in the hours of his misfortune--to him who can best tell you his history, and he will tell you his was a heart with feelings as intense and pure, as ever were given to the heart of man; he will tell you that that heart poured forth the mighty stream of its affections upon another, and that his love, great as it was, was returned by that being,--when the spoiler came, and then came mystery, converting the very affections of the heart into the scorpions of the furies, and the garden of Eden into a place of torment, which deranged his faculties and destroyed the equilibrium of his mind; and that thus all those fitful moods which puzzle the world, may be traced back to disappointed love.

The effects which I have been describing as flowing from disappointed love, are certainly of an extreme character, happening only in the case of ardent temperaments, combined with a concurrence of circumstances which generate intense and all absorbing affection for the beloved object. In these cases, when all hope is entirely eradicated, there is certainly a tendency to peevishness, fretfulness, whim, suspicion and misanthropy; and against these consequences the individual ought always to be on his guard. He should not charge to the human race, or even to the whole sex, the vices which he thinks he sees in a single individual. This is a case in which kind friends, especially females, may do much to soothe and tranquillize the mind. Women alone seem to have enough of that deep discernment, nice tact, and generous sympathy, which can administer consolation to a wounded heart and calm the irritated feelings of blasted hope. In the great majority of cases however, the disappointed lover plunges into the business and scenes of active life, forms new associations and attachments, and quickly forgets his former love, without any permanent effect being produced on the character by mere disappointment. Man (says Dr. Cogan on the passions) rarely runs any serious risk from disappointment in love. "If he have not speedy recourse to the pistol or the rope, he will probably survive the agonies under which the softer sex will gradually pine and die."

I will now examine briefly, a few of the effects produced on the character of the male, during the period of courtship in society, organized as it is in this country and Europe,--and certainly one of the most marked effects, is the strengthening of vanity and the weakening of pride. As it is the province of man to woo and to win, his constant aim must be to render himself agreeable to the object of his affections. To gain her esteem, her approbation, _her love_, is the object of all his efforts. Now this is vanity. The proudest heart, the soul of sternest stuff, by the operation of this all subduing passion of love, is made to yield--to become a candidate for the praise of her whose affections he so much covets. In this condition we are all more or less like Petrarch, who declared that "she (Laura) was the motive and object of all his studies--that he coveted glory only as it might secure _her esteem_--that she alone had taught him to desire life, and to lift his thoughts towards heaven." In his "Conversations with St. Augustin," he even confesses that he was more ardent in his desire for the _Laurel Crown_, on account of its affinity to the name of Laura. Now, although this vanity seeks the approbation directly of but one, yet as she is regulated by the opinion of the world, we quickly find it necessary to gain the good opinion and esteem of those around us, in order, by their means, to win the approbation of the object of our affections. Hence, however proud the man, love and courtship will in the civilized countries of our globe soon infuse a degree of vanity, which will temper his overweening pride and make him more social, more loquacious, more attentive to all the little courtesies of life, and much more cheerful than he was before. In all the Mahommedan countries, where woman is bought and locked up, and the alternately sweet and painful solicitudes of love and courtship are never known--how proud, how taciturn, how forbidding, unsocial and grave, is the character of man! In France, where the influence of women is very great, how entirely opposite is his character; there, vanity is his predominant trait. Montesquieu, in his "Lettres Persannes," makes Usbeck say to Ibben, in a letter from Paris, on the characters of the French and Persians, "It must be allowed that the seraglio is better adapted for health than for pleasure. It is a dull uniform kind of life, where every thing turns upon subjection and duty; their very pleasures are grave, and their pastimes solemn; and they seldom taste them but as so many tokens of authority and dependence. The men in Persia are not so gay as the French; there is not that freedom of mind and that appearance of content which I meet with here in persons of all ranks and estates. It is still worse in Turkey, where there are families, in which from father to son, not one of them ever laughed from the foundation of the monarchy." Now these proud, taciturn, grave {510} beings would at once be changed, by giving full freedom to the females, and rendering it necessary for each one to woo, to interest and to delight her whom he would make his wife.